A bundle of contradictions, that cathedral. It’s the religious radio tower of the nation, the monument to what’s left of our church, to 500 bumbling years of genteel, drably understated, limply muscular Christianity. But the triumphalism of Paul’s, its swaggering, cocksure foppishness, are utterly un-English. Wren’s hybrid Baroque is as ridiculous as a Fabergé egg in a cup of Cornish blueware. We Brits prefer the decent, stout and quiet, the making-do-and-mending, stiff-lipped diligence of a fair day’s work for a fair day’s modest pay. St. Paul’s is vulgarly popish, gaudy as a billionaire’s girl.

Which is why I love it, of course, and why I welcome the opening – amidst the revamp – of a restaurant in its crypt. Continue reading....

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