Spiaggia, Fulham

Fulham's grimy, traffic-clogged, North End Road is a grim parade of pound shops, bookies, cash convertors and Kathy Burquas prodding market stall mangos , hoping to buy them for buttons, while the stallholders shoot them the BNP death stare. Now It's feared more locals will soon be reduced to haggling over the price of bruised fruit when better Dead Than Ed's bananas tax hits their 'mansions' - aka poky terraced houses. Bang goes the family holiday in Tuscany! Fulham's soon-to-be-more-squeezed-middle will have to make do with a little corner of Italy in the shape of a cutesy, white-washed, wood panelled shack opposite Waitrose (where they used to shop before their 4 x 4s satnavs were set to Lidl SW11). Tricked out in candy stripes and pastel gelati tones, Spiaggia is jolly as lolly-lickin' starlet La Lollobrigida (pictured) at a swingin' San Remo beach party not long after Mussolini was swinging in Milano - on a meat hook dangled from the roof of a petrol station. With impeccable timing, I Raggazzi della Spiaggia  (as the Beach Boys would have been called if they'd come from Cattolica not California) can look forward to sunshiny staff serving spritzes, negroni, rossini, bellini, vodka-limone sorbet and all manner of I-Ti tipples currently fashionable a Londra. Order an £8 cocktail (or vino and spumante from £19) and, at the appropriate hour, you'll be served aperitivi - free, not cheekily, sneakily slapped on your bill as at some greedy West End gaffs. Snackage includes tutti the usual suspects - crostini, piadini, arancini, Henry Mancini  - and trad grub like nonna knocked out in her Parma prime. Downstairs, in a dark kitsch playroom, there's big screen La Liga action featuring the peninsula's poutiest prima donnas, and a baby foot table for any budding Balotelli on your squad. Worryingly for mamma, there's also an inscrutable curtained cabana, wherein a large mattress: Randy di Rimini's office, the sort of horizontal accommodation nice Catholic girls should steer well clear of. I hope Spiaggia does well and doesn't end up as empty as Worthing beach on a wet bank holiday weekend: this tricky site has washed away a slew of bar/ diners in quick succession. Give it a go, Fulham! Fun, camp, kitsch, bonkers: it's gotta be a cheaper date than that other eccentric Italian import, Nancy dell'Olio.
461 - 465 North End Road SW6 1NZ 7610 2278 http://www.spiaggialondon.com 

The Lord Palmerston, Dartmouth Park

(all a little bit Linda?)

Dartmouth Park, I'm told, is popular with wannabe Prime Ministers. it's home, apparently, to the wrong brother installed by the Labour Party as their leader after godawful Gordon was sent packing. Tonight, I've agreed to attend the launch of Geronimo Inns' latest pub conversion, The Lord Palmerston, deep in DedMilibland-land. It's not, I'll level with you, that I'm desperate to see what they've done to the old place: I've visited so many of their pubs,  I've got the measure of their signature look by now - think Nu-Victoriana/ Cool Britannia as interpreted by a Linda Barker type off Mumsnet. No, I'm killing two birds and meeting friends who swear that Norway, as I refer to anywhere NW, is nirvana. 'What do you reckon to the place?' I ask my local love bird chums. The newlyweds - fashion/ advertising hot shots  - aren't convinced. 'Sunday red top design supplement' sighs she. 'It looked better before,' says he, witheringly. Before I can venture an opinion, we're back out the same door we entered by, mere minutes before. Freaked out, fashion friend has fainted and hubby is comforting her, clammy and cold on the cold pavement as she comes to. The cause of her distress? What bright spark lays on a filthy-big, tongue-flickin'. fookin' ferocious-looking, 15-feet-long, man-eating, scaly serpent from hell as entertainment - especially at an oversubscribed launch party in a confined space? Ophidiophobia: 37% of the adult population suffer from it, dontcha' know, you donut? So I'm afraid I'm unable to comment on the pub's ales and victuals beyond the slug of tomato juice I managed to down before our hasty retreat. (Kinda tomato-ish). Feeling somehow personally responsible (I must sort out this Catholic guilt thing: I mean, I'm not even a Christian, let alone a follower of some old Argentinian fart in a frock and a fancy Philip Treacy hat), I bundle swooning Mrs and concerned Mr into my car and deliver them to their preferred local where I buy brandy and dinner by way of an apology. Presently, fainty Fanny feels better, happy in familiar surroundings; and as said local is lovely The Bull and Last, I'm not exactly complaining. So, will I be reviewing Geronimo's latest in full any time soon? Another expedition to Norway? No way! 

33 Dartmouth Park Hill NW5 1 HU 7485 1578 www.geronimo-inns.co.uk/thelordpalmerston

Akbar, Soho

A major fire in 2009 nearly did for the Red Fort but thanks to the efforts of the London Fire Brigade, the upmarket Indian is now back in business after a complete refurb. In March 2010, what's firing its punters is the outcome of the too-close-to-call looming general election. True to their colours, New Labour siblings, the Millibands -aka Dedward -  have been spotted at the (New) Red Fort as have their boss's missus and the Rev Jesse Jackson. What they got in its destination DJ cocktail cellar, now tricked out in kingfisher blue with a metallic mosaic bar, were reasonably-priced quaffs such as Gemali (a Mandarine Napoléon and date-infused rum champagne cocktail). For that all-important photo op, a (red) Khoony Mary- a twist on the Bloody version using Absolut Peppar vodka and chilli-infused balsamic vinegar - is what to go for. As well as Kingfisher beer and wine from £6, champagne socialists can tuck into nibbles that include battered king prawn, spinach cheese and fenugreek patties and roasted spiced kingfish - just  don't tell notorious trougher, Prezza.


77 Dean St W1 7437 2525
www.redfort.co.uk