Hello, lovely listeners — and welcome back to London Asked and Answered, the podcast that takes your curiosity about the capital and turns it into pure travel gold! I’m your host, Sascha — your go-to London Geek for all things quirky, cool, and oh-so-London.

Today, we’re diving headfirst into the wildest, weirdest, most wonderful events you can experience right now in the city! I’m talking dinosaurs that roar, bubbles you can bounce in, murder mysteries, Minecraft come to life, and even a boat party ABBA would die to be invited to.

So whether you’re planning your trip or already wandering London’s cobbled streets, this episode is your golden ticket to unforgettable fun. Strap in — or maybe grab your detective hat, dancing shoes, or survival instincts — because London’s immersive experiences are calling.

Let’s jump in!

Jurassic World: The Experience

You step through the towering gates and, for a moment, it actually feels like you’ve left London. That deep, low dinosaur growl in the distance? That’s not background music. You’re in Jurassic World now—well, the closest thing to it this side of the Atlantic.

The new Jurassic World: The Experience* has taken over part of Battersea Power Station, transforming 3,200 square metres into Isla Nublar, complete with swaying ferns, humming fences, and life-sized dinosaurs. It’s tucked into Neon, the entertainment space built into this redeveloped icon. On arrival, you’re ushered through a ferry terminal set, which sounds ridiculous, but works. It’s theatrical in a way that doesn’t feel overblown. More film set than theme park.

Inside, you’re meant to be one of the lucky few granted access to the island. The idea is you walk through ten zones over two floors, encountering various species and moments lifted from the films. A towering Brachiosaurus* leans overhead. There’s a lab where baby raptors twitch inside their incubation pods. Blue, the famously snappy Velociraptor, gives you a suspicious stare. It sounds like it might veer into pantomime, but most of it holds up surprisingly well. The animatronics are the kind you’d find in a top-end museum exhibit, and the pacing avoids the usual immersive trap of lingering too long in one place. You keep moving, always onto something new.

It takes roughly an hour to get through the whole thing, though that depends on how long you gawk at the T. rex. She appears more than once, which is a choice I respected—too often these sorts of experiences save their biggest draw for the finale. Here, they play with tension. You hear her before you see her. Then there’s that moment you catch her massive head looming above a wrecked gyrosphere. Even knowing she’s bolted to the floor, your legs don’t fully trust it.

What surprised me was how tactile it all is. You can touch fossil casts, peek into control rooms, and interact with lab set-ups that explain (sort of) how these creatures were “created.” It’s part science centre, part theme ride. Kids seem to go absolutely feral for it—not just the dinosaurs, but the idea of being somewhere they recognise from films. One little boy ran straight up to a compy and shouted, “Mummy, it’s the one that eats the bad guy!” Not quite accurate, but the enthusiasm was pure.

Adults might appreciate the set design more than the narrative. There’s a decent amount of effort put into making it feel like a real place. You see wires that lead somewhere. Screens flicker with believable data. And nothing ever breaks the fourth wall by reminding you you’re in south London.

Tickets aren’t cheap, but they’re not outrageous either—around £25 for adults, a few quid less for kids. Given what a West End show costs these days, it’s not a bad swap for an hour of high-end escapism. It runs daily, with timed slots to prevent crowding, though weekends are definitely busier. You can take photos, as long as you’re not setting up tripods or trying to film a vlog.

As for the location, it couldn’t be more convenient. Battersea Power Station has become one of those places you end up in even if you didn’t plan it. The riverside views are lovely, there are more food options than anyone needs, and the whole area manages to feel like a destination without slipping into novelty. You take the new Northern line spur, pop out of the cleanest station in Zone 1, and you’re practically there.

There are a few areas where the London version is scaled down from the original concept—a feeding scene with the Indominus rex* is noticeably abbreviated, and some transitions between zones feel a bit rushed. But these are small things, especially if you’re going in with the right expectations. This isn’t a rollercoaster or a haunted house. It’s something slower, stranger, and kind of thoughtful.

You don’t have to be a Jurassic Park superfan to enjoy it. If you’ve ever watched the original and thought, “I want to stand there, right in that field with the brachiosaurs,” then you’ll get something from this. And if you’re just after something to do on a grey Saturday, it’s as good a choice as any—especially if you like your thrills with a bit of science and a lot of scale.

Battersea Power Station has had more comebacks than a rock band, but this latest one—hosting dinosaurs under its brick chimneys—feels like a strangely natural fit.

Jurassic World* roars into Battersea: dinosaurs, drama, and a dash of science in Wandsworth

Once you’ve faced off with dinosaurs and made it out of Isla Nublar intact, the natural next step—apparently—is a high-stakes game of marbles in east London. Different stakes, same adrenaline. From the roars of Wandsworth to the quiet dread of Newham, the city’s immersive streak takes another sharp turn. This time, it’s not teeth you’re dodging—it’s a robotic glare and a very unforgiving game of “Red Light Green Light.”

Squid Game

It starts quietly. You arrive at a modern hall near Royal Victoria Dock, get your wristband scanned, and are given a short, strange briefing. There’s a group of strangers waiting. Everyone’s polite, a little awkward. Then you hear the music. That high-pitched nursery tune. You turn—and there she is. Young-hee*. Towering, still, staring. The Squid Game* experience in east London doesn’t ease you in. It throws you straight into the unease.

It’s set inside Excel, but they’ve disguised it well. You forget you’re in a conference centre within five minutes. The lighting does most of the work—sharp, moody, minimal. But it’s the tech that really locks you in. Every game you play tracks your body, your decisions, even your heartbeat if you’re paying attention. It’s not a full replica of the show. They’ve gone for something more abstract. Less set dressing, more sensation.

There are five games. None of them are what you’d call hard, but they’re not mindless either. You start with Red Light Green Light, complete with motion sensors that catch your smallest twitch. Then there’s Marbles—simple, cruel. A glass-step challenge that messes with your depth perception. Memory Steps, which is harder than it sounds, and a final round that tests how well you’ve read the room. Each one feels familiar if you’ve seen the show, but being in it makes them land differently.

It doesn’t pretend you’re in real danger. That would be tasteless. But it does mess with your instincts. You’ll find yourself hesitating, second-guessing, eyeing up the person next to you like they might be the weak link in Tug-of-War. The tension isn’t fear. It’s the weird thrill of consequence, even if the worst thing that can happen is your wristband flashing red.

You’re scored the whole time, though you won’t notice until the end. There’s a leaderboard. A small kid beat our group. We all clapped like it didn’t sting. At the finish, you enter a zone made up like a Korean night market. It’s a bit theme-y, but not overdone. There’s merch, snacks, a place to sit and argue over who failed at what. A surprisingly chill end to something that had most of us sweating.

Tickets start around £34, which isn’t nothing, but for an hour of genuinely different entertainment, it’s not bad. You can upgrade if you want a souvenir, or a snack, or just the illusion of VIP. Groups work best. You’ll want someone to laugh with when you inevitably fall off the glass bridge. Or when you realise you’ve been eliminated in the very first game because you flinched at the wrong moment.

They’ve kept things moving. You don’t queue between games, and the staff play it just right—part game-master, part referee, part low-level chaos manager. No one overacts, which helps. The whole experience is tight, fast, well-managed. And you leave wondering whether you’d make it in the real show. Probably not. But that’s kind of the point.

Getting there is easy. Excel is right by Custom House on the Elizabeth line, or a short hop on the DLR. If you’re feeling romantic, take the cable car over from Greenwich. Or come by riverboat. The dockside stretch has enough places to eat that you can make a night of it. It doesn’t feel like the London of Squid Game. But then again, neither did the show. Just a place made slightly surreal by what’s happening inside it.

You don’t need to be obsessed with Squid Game to enjoy this. You just need to want something that’s part game, part theatre, and mostly just a shared experience that’ll stick with you for a bit. And that moment—when the doll turns her head, and you freeze mid-step, holding your breath with twenty strangers around you—that’s worth the ticket.

Squid Game* goes sensor-smart in Newham: run, freeze, and maybe win at Excel London

After the red jumpsuits, the lasers, and the ruthless precision of Squid Game, Minecraft feels like a sigh of relief. You’re no longer trying to survive a round of marbles under pressure—you’re here to build, explore, and maybe punch a digital tree or two. The stakes drop, the colours brighten, and suddenly you’re part of a mission that’s more rescue than rivalry. It’s still immersive, still physical—but this time, the tension’s swapped for teamwork.

Minecraft Experience

If you’ve just fled from dinosaurs or survived a dystopian playground, this one comes as a surprise: a pixelated forest, a glowing orb in your hand, and a friendly guide named Tobin who tells you it’s time to punch a tree. Welcome to the Minecraft Experience*.

Set inside a new venue at Canada Water, this is less of a thrill ride and more of an interactive mission. You’re here to rescue villagers. That’s the plot. But really, you’re here because someone in your group (quite possibly a child) lives and breathes Minecraft, and now they get to step into it. And honestly? It works. It’s oddly charming.

The whole thing lasts around 45 minutes. You move through seven themed zones, starting in a quiet forest where trees light up under your touch, then into a mining cavern full of hissing spiders and flickering torchlight. Your “Orb of Interaction” is a handheld gadget that buzzes, flashes, and responds when you wave it at virtual mobs. You’re told to collect things. Defend a village. Upgrade your gear. It’s a bit like acting out a storyline in a live video game, except it’s simpler, softer, and made for people who maybe haven’t played for years—or ever.

The staging is clever without being flashy. Projections, haptics, soundscapes—it’s more about atmosphere than spectacle. When you break a block, it responds with a puff of pixelated animation. Stand too close to a skeleton and your orb vibrates. No one’s pretending it’s real, but everyone behaves like it matters. You start out gently amused, then somewhere between the lava zone and the final boss fight, you’re crouching behind a glowing wall and whispering tactics to a ten-year-old who’s clearly the group leader.

The vibe here is cooperative. No one gets eliminated. You work as a team. People high-five after someone “builds” a bridge. It’s a reset after more competitive immersive experiences. The tension is lighter, the pace slower. For some, that’ll be a relief. For others, maybe a touch underwhelming. But then again, it was never about proving anything.

Tickets sit just over the £20 mark for kids, with adults a little higher. There’s a pricier option that includes merch, a lanyard, and a code for a cape in the actual game. Not necessary, but if you’re the sort of person who’d wear a Minecraft* cape, it’s probably worth it. The staff are easygoing, the transitions between zones are smooth, and no one rushes you out at the end.

You finish in a Trading Post area where you can browse souvenirs, chat with staff, and wind down. It’s well-lit, air-conditioned, and mildly chaotic in that post-activity way. Kids seem happiest here, showing off what they did, retelling every spider they beat and diamond they mined. It’s sweet.

Getting there is easy enough. Canada Water station is a few minutes’ walk, with Jubilee line and Overground links. The venue—Corner Corner, oddly named but well-run—sits near a pocket of greenery and some cafes. Feels removed from the city without being remote.

It won’t be for everyone. If you’re chasing adrenaline or hoping for cinematic scale, it might not hit. But if you want a gentle bit of play wrapped in bright lights and soft sounds, something that feels genuinely built for kids but tolerable for adults, then this is it.

And if nothing else, you’ll leave knowing that, given the right glowing orb and a bit of encouragement, you too can break a block, dodge a creeper, and save a virtual village in Southwark.

From screens to scenes in Southwark: Minecraft* gets real (and very polite) at Canada Water

Bubble Planet

At some point, you stop dodging dinosaurs and robots and just want to sit in a room full of bubbles*. Not metaphorical ones. Actual, oversized, light-up orbs floating in slow motion while a projector paints clouds across the walls. That’s the promise of Bubble Planet*, and it mostly delivers.

It’s in Wembley, tucked just behind the designer outlets and burger chains. You step into a series of themed rooms—eleven of them, if you count the tiny ones. Each space leans into a variation on the same idea: floaty, rounded, immersive calm. The Bubble Ocean is basically a ball pit for adults. The Bubble Bath zone feels like sinking into oversized foam. One room uses mirrors to stretch the space into infinity. Another puts you in a virtual hot air balloon. There’s even one that’s just fog and coloured light. That’s it. And somehow, it’s enough.

There’s no plot here. No puzzles to solve. No missions to complete. You wander, you touch things, you take photos. And that’s sort of the point. It’s less of an experience and more of an atmosphere. A series of soft distractions wrapped in pastel lighting and faint music. Not everyone will be moved by it, but there’s something quietly satisfying about a space that doesn’t ask much of you.

Kids love it. That’s obvious. But the rooms are big enough, the transitions smooth enough, that adults don’t feel squeezed out. It’s not just for families. A few couples were drifting around when I visited, quietly comparing favourite rooms. One group of friends had clearly come to take the piss, but ended up laughing inside the giant rotating bubble dome. It’s hard to stay cynical when everything is literally glowing.

It takes about an hour, give or take. You can linger in any zone, though it flows in one direction. There’s a loose beginning, middle, and end, but no one pushes you along. If you want to sit in the clouds for ten minutes, no one’s stopping you. There’s a VR bit toward the end that costs extra. It’s fine. Feels more like an add-on than a must-do.

Tickets start under £20, with a few upgrade tiers if you want early access or a souvenir. The space is fully accessible, and staff seem used to fielding confused questions. Everyone gets the hang of it eventually. There’s not much to mess up.

Once you’re done, you exit through a modest gift shop—mostly bubble wands and glowing toys—then straight into the Wembley precinct. It’s busy out there. Loud, fast, neon. Bubble Planet lingers just a little, like static. In a good way.

It won’t blow your mind. But it might slow it down. And in the middle of a city obsessed with bigger, faster, and louder, that’s not a bad offer.

Gentle wonder in Brent: Bubble Planet* trades tension for calm in the pastel haze of Wembley

After the softness of Bubble Planet—the glow, the giggles, the slow-motion playfulness—it feels like whiplash to descend into the cold silence of the Atlantic. But that’s exactly what happens. One moment you’re floating among inflatable clouds in Wembley, the next you’re slipping on a VR headset in Camden and standing on the deck of a ship doomed to vanish. It’s less whimsy, more weight. Not fun exactly, but something that pulls you in all the same.

Titanic VR Experience

Eventually the lights dim. You’re told to stand still, to breathe normally, to let your eyes adjust. Then the headset clicks on, and you’re not in Camden anymore. You’re on the deck of the Titanic*.

Echoes from the Past is tucked below Camden High Street in a basement space that feels part gallery, part briefing room. It starts quietly. A few safety notes, a quick intro from your guide, and then you’re fitted with a headset and shown how to walk without walking into walls. The tone shifts almost immediately once you’re in the simulation. There’s music, yes, and visuals, but more than that, there’s mood. The ship looms large. You’re placed there as a quiet observer.

The experience runs for about 45 minutes, with a bit of flex depending on how long you linger in certain areas. You move through different scenes—some based on fact, others inferred from records. You hear diary entries. See names. Peer into rooms left half-furnished. At one point, you drift above the wreck site. At another, you’re standing beside the grand staircase, recreated in fine, slightly uncanny detail. It’s not about accuracy down to the inch. It’s about how it makes you feel.

There’s very little talking once you’re inside. Just spatial audio and the occasional prompt to turn, to look, to follow. The technology isn’t cutting-edge in a sci-fi sense. It’s VR that does what it needs to: create space for reflection. You don’t shoot or score or collect anything. You’re there to observe, to absorb. A few visuals feel dated around the edges—some character movements are stiff, and the water effects lean abstract—but it doesn’t matter. You’re not here for graphics. You’re here for presence.

It’s not for everyone. There’s no interactivity, no kid-friendly antics. The atmosphere leans sombre. But if you’ve ever wondered what it might’ve felt like to be near that story, to brush up against its scale without the drama of a film or the detachment of a museum, this lands somewhere in between. It’s quiet. It stays with you.

The location is practical if not glamorous. A few steps from Camden Town station, behind a dark door and down some stairs. It’s not wheelchair accessible, which feels like a miss. But once you’re in, the staff are calm, clear, and know when to fade into the background. There’s no gift shop. No glossy sign. Just an ending note, a nod from your guide, and the return of London’s street noise as you re-emerge.

Tickets start around £20. You book timed slots. It’s not crowded. Most people go alone or in pairs. It doesn’t seem like a big group outing kind of thing. Afterwards, you’re in Camden. Grab a coffee, take a walk by the canal. It’s a strange transition, but that’s part of it. You were on a ship. Now you’re in a market.

It’s hard to explain why it works. But it does. Not because it overwhelms you with spectacle. Because it doesn’t. It whispers.

Depths of memory in Camden: Titanic’s quiet gravity echoes through virtual space

Murder Express

It begins at a fake train station in East London. The sign says Pedley Street. There’s a flicker of neon behind the bar, a faint smell of something smoky in the air, and a woman in a flapper dress handing out boarding passes with a smirk. This is The Murdér Express*, and your night is about to derail—in the best way.

Once you’re seated inside the carriage, which doesn’t move but feels like it might, the tone is set. You’re here for dinner, yes, but also a murder. And not a grim one. This is camp mystery theatre served with wine and warm soup. A conductor appears, brusque and dramatic. Then a cowboy, a singer, a suspicious butler. The dialogue swerves between intrigue and farce, and you find yourself watching the booth across the aisle as much as your plate.

Food arrives in courses, tied to the rhythm of the show. Mulligatawny to start. Then mains—a choice, usually something hearty, something veg. A soft tart with caramel to finish. It’s good. Properly good. The kind of food you’d be happy to eat even if no one was pretending to be poisoned nearby. And it’s hot, which isn’t always a given in these sorts of setups.

The mystery unfolds between bites. A clue here, a slip of the tongue there. Guests are encouraged to play along, but not forced. You can sit back, or lean in. No one’s dragged up on stage. The actors have it under control. They flirt a bit. Prod the tables for reactions. But it stays measured. The humour lands. The ending is silly, satisfying, and doesn’t overstay its welcome.

It lasts just under two hours. Drinks are extra, unless you’ve booked a bundle. There’s a bar before and after, and a general sense that people stick around for one more cocktail before heading home. It’s not boozy, though it could be, if you want it to be. The location—under a railway arch near Whitechapel—is oddly atmospheric. It’s not pretending to be Paris. Just somewhere that might host a train to nowhere.

Tickets sit in the £75 to £90 range depending on the night. Pricey, but not wildly so for what’s included: a three-course meal, live theatre, a full evening’s worth of escape. You won’t leave with a trophy, or any major revelations. Just a full stomach, a few laughs, and maybe a note in your phone to look up what exactly mulligatawny is.

It’s not trying to be high drama or cutting-edge immersion. It’s a murder mystery with better food than it needs and a cast that knows when to let things breathe. And that’s more than enough.

Whodunnit with wine in Tower Hamlets: The Murdér Express* serves mystery with a wink and a warm plate

ABBA Party

Some immersive experiences ask you to think, to act, to follow a story. This one just wants you to dance. GIMME, GIMME, GIMME! is an ABBA-themed boat party* on the Thames, and it does exactly what it promises: gets a bunch of people in flared trousers singing at the skyline.

You board around midday, usually from Tower Pier or somewhere central. There’s no red carpet, but there might as well be. Sequins start appearing the moment you queue. It’s not subtle. Once you’re aboard, you’ve got five hours of disco, drinks, and London scenery drifting past the windows. The soundtrack? Wall-to-wall ABBA, a few 80s extras, and the occasional shout-along classic. It’s joyful, loud, and completely unashamed.

There’s no plot. No mystery. Just a live duo belting out “Mama Mia” while a DJ keeps the rest of the boat moving. The upper deck fills quickly—better views, more breeze—but the real dancing happens below, where the floor shakes just enough to feel it. The bar’s basic but efficient. Beer, wine, cocktails if you’re early. No food, so people come prepared or plan to eat after. Cash makes things easier.

It’s adults-only, which helps the atmosphere. No one’s babysitting, no one’s filming for a school project. Just grown-ups leaning into their inner Dancing Queen. You see couples, friend groups, a few birthday clusters. One person came in full platform boots and didn’t sit down once.

The vibe is somewhere between hen do and outdoor festival—loose, friendly, never sloppy. Staff mostly stay out of the way but know when to gently redirect someone who’s had one song too many. The Thames rolls on, quietly majestic behind the glitter.

It’s not expensive, as these things go. About £20 for a standard ticket, a bit more if you book late or want priority boarding. The value isn’t in the length or the extras. It’s in the mood. For five hours, you’re not in a city crammed with stress. You’re on a boat, singing with strangers, remembering every lyric without knowing how.

The boat returns to shore just before evening, and there’s a brief moment of silence when you disembark. Then you’re back on the pavement, sequins catching the light, and already humming the next song.

Pop fever* on the river: ABBA anthems and sunset grooves light up the Thames

After five hours of disco on the Thames, you wouldn’t think your next move would be chasing a murderer through Whitechapel. But that’s the shift. Sequins off, trench coat on. The music fades, replaced by footsteps on cobblestones and the glow of a streetlamp that wasn’t flickering before. One minute you’re shouting “Voulez-Vous,” the next you’re narrowing your eyes at an alley, wondering what might be waiting at the end of it.

Catch a Killer

You start at Aldgate station, holding a phone and a strange sense of purpose. There’s no actor waiting to greet you, no guide in a cape. Just a blinking prompt on your screen and a name: Catch a Killer*.

This isn’t a show in the usual sense. It’s a self-led murder mystery set in the actual streets of Whitechapel, the sort of place that’s always had a bit of fog in the corners. You follow a trail that winds through alleys, across roads, past pubs and churches and shopfronts. Some still standing from when the real murders happened. Others replaced, but with a story lurking beneath the concrete.

The app guides you with location-based prompts, bits of backstory, hints at the next clue. Augmented reality adds the odd twist—a photo that appears where no photo should be, a flicker of text on a doorframe. It’s restrained. Not flashy. There’s no jump scare. No one leaps out. The tension builds slowly, through the walk, the silence, and your own imagination filling in the gaps.

You’re trying to catch a killer*. Sort of. You’re playing detective, but with one foot in the present and one in 1888. The clues refer to real victims. The story plays off fact. You’re not solving a fantasy plot. You’re walking through a version of what might’ve been.

It takes about 90 minutes if you don’t dawdle. Longer if you stop for a pint or get distracted by shop windows. You can go solo or in a pair, but it’s quieter on your own. More eerie. The route loops back toward where it starts, ending with a final moment of reflection. There’s no big reveal. Just the sense that something terrible happened here, and the air hasn’t fully let it go.

It’s not for children. Not just because of the subject matter, but because it demands a certain attention span. It’s subtle. The tension is psychological, not theatrical. No costumes, no actors, no dinner served in a mock carriage. Just a phone, a route, and a voice telling you to pay attention to the street signs.

Tickets hover around £15 to £20. It runs all day, every day. You book a slot, show up, and go. That’s it. The city does the rest. It’s not wheelchair accessible, which limits who can join. And some sections—narrow lanes, cobbled bits—require a bit of care.

But if you want something different, something without applause or applause cues, Catch a Killer gets under your skin. Not loudly. Just enough to make you walk slower, look closer, and wonder who else has passed through that same alley, thinking they were alone.

Whitechapel on edge: Catch a Killer* leads you down streets with shadows you can’t quite shake

After walking the ghosted alleys of Whitechapel, chasing shadows and whispers, you need something lighter. Not quieter—just lighter. That’s where Shoreditch steps in. Less murder, more margaritas. The stories here are told over shots, not solved through clues.

Shoreditch Pub Crawl

The night starts with a wristband and a stranger offering you a shot. That’s the tone. You’re not here to solve anything. You’re here to crawl. The Original Shoreditch Pub Crawl* promises five stops, a handful of drinks, and just enough structure to keep things moving without making it feel like a tour.

It starts somewhere central—usually a bar near Shoreditch High Street. You check in, get your welcome drink, and meet your hosts. They’re not actors or hype machines. More like seasoned socialists with a clipboard. From there, the night rolls forward. No map, no spoilers. Just a route through east London’s louder corners.

Each bar has its own thing. One might have karaoke. Another could be all neon and ping pong. There’s sometimes a club at the end, sometimes just a louder bar with better lighting. Drinks are discounted along the way. A few shots are included. You won’t remember every place, but that’s part of the appeal. The night blurs in a soft-edged way—lit by murals, alleyways, the odd rooftop puff of smoke.

What makes it work is the vibe. No pressure to perform. You don’t have to talk to everyone, but you probably will. It draws solo travellers, groups celebrating something, and a healthy number of people who live in London but never seem to tire of these nights. The crowd shifts week to week. Ages too. But the mood stays mostly upbeat. Friendly. Just chaotic enough.

Tickets hover around the £20 mark if you book early. More if you show up late or go for a weekend slot. It’s a decent deal for what’s included—entry to places you’d probably pay for anyway, plus a loose itinerary that saves you the effort of planning. No dress code beyond the usual: don’t be a mess, don’t wear flip-flops.

There’s no immersive twist here. No headset. No hidden story. Just bars, people, and the sort of background noise you start to miss if you stay home too long. It ends where it ends. Some people pair off. Some get chips. Some just walk home, buzzed and a bit pink in the cheeks from a night that didn’t try too hard and still managed to be fun.

Loose plans in Hackney: Shoreditch’s original crawl* is a simple, social stumble through east London’s better nights out

If Shoreditch gave you a crawl and Whitechapel made you a sleuth, then Piccadilly is where you sit back, grab a burger, and let the volume take over. Hard Rock isn’t subtle. It doesn’t whisper. It cranks the amp and throws in fries. After a night of clues or cocktails, sometimes all you want is a booth, a riff, and a menu that knows exactly what it’s doing.

Hard Rock Cafe Piccadilly Circus

You don’t come here for quiet. You come for the guitars on the walls, the burger that arrives stacked and unapologetic, and the low hum of a bassline that never really fades. Hard Rock Cafe Piccadilly Circus* is loud, central, and exactly what it says on the tin.

Set inside the Criterion Building, it’s a two-floor sprawl of open kitchen, memorabilia walls, and a Rock Shop so stocked it might as well be a shrine. You walk in under flashing lights, past glass cabinets filled with stage-worn jackets and signed drumsticks. The place feels built for tourists but still manages to hold its own with locals who’ve stopped pretending not to like it.

The food is better than you remember. Burgers are crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. Wings arrive sticky and hot. Fries land golden and fast. There are bigger dishes—steaks, salmon, some pizza—but really you’re here for the staples. And maybe the cocktails. They lean sweet but do the job. Service is brisk without being cold. The staff seem used to handling everything from a birthday table to a solo diner nursing a pint and mouthing the words to “Sweet Child O’ Mine.”

Expect to spend somewhere around £25 per person, which feels fair considering the central location, generous portions, and the added buzz of live entertainment. You’re not just paying for dinner. You’re paying for the room, the soundtrack, and that brief feeling that you’re part of something bigger than a menu. There’s live music a few nights a week—small acoustic sets or full DJ nights. The sound system holds up well. If you’re near the stage, you’ll feel it in your ribs.

Families are welcome. There’s a kids’ menu, big booths, and enough colour on the walls to distract even the most fidgety diner. Teenagers lean into the merch. Adults pretend not to care, then leave with a branded glass. It’s that kind of place.

What you take away isn’t just the food. It’s the whole thing. The soundtrack. The lighting. The people-watching. The sense that this isn’t a meal. It’s an outing. A pause in the middle of London that feels, somehow, just a bit American but not in a bad way.

If you’ve just come from the West End or need a reliable reset after zigzagging across central London, it fits. It’s familiar without being bland, and bold without being chaotic. There’s something about a Hard Rock booth at 7pm that just works.

You walk back out into the chaos of Piccadilly with music still ringing faintly in your ears. And maybe, just maybe, a tote bag you didn’t plan to buy.

Amped-up comfort in Westminster: Hard Rock Cafe Piccadilly Circus* hits all the loud, familiar notes

Outro

That’s the tour, then. From animatronic dinosaurs to ABBA* boat discos, and murder mysteries to ball pits and burgers, you’ve now got a solid sampler of London’s immersive side—the weird, the moving, the musical, and the occasionally ridiculous.

And if you’re after more than a sampler, grab a copy of London Asked and Answered: Your Comprehensive Travel Guide to the Big Smoke. It’s packed with practical tips, local secrets, and solid advice for making the most of the capital—without wasting time or overdosing on Tube maps. It’s available everywhere books are sold.

Got questions? Send a message on WhatsApp at +44 77OO 182299, email hello@seeyouin.london, or pop over to seeyouin.london/ask. I read them all. Even the ones that start with “This might be a weird one…”

Speaking of which, I once asked a London cabbie if he believed in haunted black cabs. He said, “Only the ones with unpaid fares.” So there’s your bonus folklore.

You will find links to every immersive event in the show notes. Have a great day!

See you out there.