Alvis Lives

Apologies for the lateness of this entry, I was in Staines. Long story. The previous day, however, I found myself in Windsor, participating in a charity event. This was less about my well-known philanthropic nature than my desire to ride around in a 1940s saloon car acting like a pimp.

The event was a classic car rally in aid of BEN, the charity for members and associates of the automotive industry who have fallen on hard times. The worthy organisation has a nursing home at Lynwood in Sunninghill, not far from Windsor. The event consisted of a parade of cars starting at Ascot, motoring through Windsor Great Park and finishing with a fete and display at Lynwood.

Our jalopy for this event was an Alvis TA14, owned by Yr. Humble Chronicler’s father.

Yr. Humble Chronicler awheel

Alvis was a make of car aimed at the upper end of the market – when one appears on TV or in a film, it’ll usually be driven by a retired colonel or a judge or some similarly wealthy-but-respectable type. The TA14 came out just after the Second World War. Unfortunately, the post-war world wasn’t kind to Alvis. There was neither the supply nor the demand for specialist cars of this nature (for comparative purposes, they were twice the price of a contemporary Jaguar, aimed at the same market).The company limped on until 1967, when a combination of a Rover takeover and the entire British car industry imminently going tits-up led the company to concentrate on military vehicles, in which capacity it operates today.Of course, the Alvis was far from the only vehicle present, witnesseth:

As I say, part of the trip involved a drive through Windsor Great Park, photos below:

Yes, we drove along the Long Walk.

The Village. You live here if you work on the Royal Estate. Not a bad little perk of the job.

This was supposed to show the impressive view. Unfortunately I am a terrible photographer.

Then it was off to Lynwood, where our car was put on display with the others, and drew a few admiring glances. One woman thought it was a “gangster car”, which was pretty cool. I was eating a corned beef sandwich in the back, which was less cool.

We took a stroll around after that and found some interesting vehicles – one of which may form the basis of a blog entry on its own, so that’s no doubt something you’ll be looking forward to. The event also included a display of falconry featuring a rebellious owl, but alas, not rebellious enough to, say, carry a child away.

Proposed successor to the Mini, OR the car Rick Deckard drove when he fell on hard times.

The vehicle on the left, as I am informed by my learned chum Dan informs me that this is the Microdot, a vehicle that actually had some input from the Star Wars design team (possibly this was what Luke had to drive before Uncle Owen would let him use the Landspeeder) and was intended to be the ultimate city car – a kind of predecessor of the Smart. For more of Dan’s wisdom, I recommend http://architectures.danlockton.co.uk/. Among the other cars were a suitably hippied-out VW camper van and a 1967 Mustang in metallic silver. I don’t know what it is about American muscle cars. They’re vulgar, yet strangely compelling. The automotive equivalent of a woman with enormous fake breasts.

By all accounts the event was quite a success. A good time was had by all, yadda yadda yadda. Wish I’d got a photo of the owl, though.

STORM THE PALACE!

The Gates – Bishopsgate

Right, next stop on our little tour of the ancient city gates of London is – oh, right, you probably read the title. Well anyway, it’s Bishopsgate.

Of course, being the perceptive and intelligent person that you are, you’ve no doubt worked out that Bishopsgate is a name that does not date back to the Roman era. Actually, it takes its name from a rebuild in the 7th century by Bishop Erkenwald (which you’d imagine would be a pretty difficult task for a bishop, particularly if he had to keep his hat on). The site is today commemorated by a bishop’s mitre on the corner of Wormwood Street.

A notable landmark is St Ethelburga’s, one of the few medieval churches to survive the Great Fire of London. It also withstood the Blitz, but was destroyed in 1993 when those unbelievable arseheads from the Provisional IRA decided to plant a truck bomb there to make themselves feel like big, potent men. Fortunately, casualties were fairly low – only one death occurred, that of Ed Henty, a journalist who decided to ignore warnings that perhaps the site of one of the Capital’s biggest terrorist attacks might not be entirely safe.

The church has, happily, been rebuilt, and now houses the St Ethelburga’s Centre for Reconciliation and Peace.

Also notable is the pub Dirty Dick’s, named after an early 19th century local resident (one Richard Bentley)  who, so the pub’s website has it, became so miserable after the death of  his betrothed that he decided never to clean up again, bringing himself in line with every other bachelor who lives alone. Photos on the website show that one of the decorations in the pub was a dead cat hanging over the bar, which I think is taking adherence to the legend a bit far.

Further reading

http://www.stethelburgas.org/

http://www.dirtydicks.co.uk/index.htm

Yo Holmes

Having blogged about Dickens, it’s only right that I should talk about the other literary persona that springs to mind in any discussion of Victorian London. I refer, of course, to Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

The image on the left depicts Basil Rathbone as the legendary sleuth. This is basically the shorthand depiction of what Holmes looks like – deerstalker hat, calabash pipe, magnifying glass in hand. If someone is wearing these, you instantly know what the allusion is. So all-pervading is this depiction that we tend to forget how entirely wrong it is.

Tiles at Baker Street Station

 It is with this in mind that I set to work on writing today’s entry – an examination of the myths surrounding Sherlock Holmes.

1. Sherlock Holmes wore a deerstalker hat

Thanks to Sherlock Holmes, it’s now impossible to wear a deerstalker hat without looking like an allusion. A friend of mine who formerly resided near Baker Street said that he’d be quite happy never to see one ever again. Yet there is nothing in the stories to indicate that Holmes ever wore such a piece of headgear.  The stories do refer to a “travelling cap,” but the deerstalker is the invention of Sidney Paget, the original illustrator. It’s not impossible that Holmes wore a deerstalker – a travelling cap could just about refer to one. It is highly unlikely that he wore one in London, though – the deerstalker is, as its name implies, a hunting cap for the countryside.

One could argue that Holmes, being a Bohemian eccentric, might have worn one anyway, regardless of the fashion faux pas.

2. Holmes smoked a calabash pipe.

Again, while it’s possible that he did, at no point in the stories is such a distinctive item mentioned. He did smoke a pipe, it’s true, but the stories only specify a cherrywood, a briar and a clay pipe. For the origin of this particular component of the Holmes mythos, we need to look to the stage. The first actor to portray Holmes in the theatre was an American named William Gillette. The stage directions called for Holmes to be smoking a pipe. Now, as anyone who’s been on stage will know, it’s quite difficult to project  clearly with anything in your mouth. Yr. Humble Chronicler has trodden the boards on a number of occasions and speaks from experience. Gillette’s solution was the calabash, with which the bowl and most of the stem is below the level of the mouth, making projection easier.

3. Holmes’ catchphrase is “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

The words “elementary” and “my dear Watson” do crop up, but never together. It’s one of those enduring myths, like how Captain Kirk never said “Just the facts, ma’am,” but everyone thinks he did. Something like that.

4. Doctor Watson was a useless old duffer.

Actually, Watson is something of a playa. In A Study in Scarlet, the first Holmes story, he is about 35. He has recently returned from Afghanistan as a military surgeon, a position he took shortly after graduation, and was discharged after being shot in the shoulder.

(PARENTHESIS: This wound in later stories is described as being in his leg. Some fans interpret this migrating wound as evidence that Watson was actually shot in the buttocks, but was being all Victorian about it)

Nor is Watson the borderline moron he’s often portrayed as being. He is actually a very intelligent man, but not in the same way that Holmes is. On several occasions he provides important assistance in solving the mystery, and a number of stories make the observation that he has learnt a great deal from his flatmate.

I suspect that Watson’s character, initially at least, was based on the idea that a character as eccentric as Holmes, with whom so much depends on sudden revelations, needs a more grounded character to provide the reader with an accessible point of view.

5. Sherlock Holmes lived at number 221B Baker Street

“Come now, Tom,” you will surely be saying at this point, “Sherlock Holmes indisputably lived at 221B Baker Street. There’s a blue plaque and everything! Blue plaque!”

To which I would say that you’re not wrong, but you’re not entirely right either. Firstly, 221B never existed. At the time when the books were written, there wasn’t even a 221. The part of the street now containing number 221 was back then called Upper Baker Street. There are currently (sort of) two 221Bs. There’s the actual 221, which is Abbey House. Then there’s the postal address, which is the Sherlock Holmes Museum at Number 239.

Any post to Sherlock Holmes gets delivered to the Museum, although for a long time the Abbey National Building Society employed someone specifically to act as Sherlock Holmes’ secretary. A number of the letters received were published in the book Letters to Sherlock Holmes (ed. Richard Lancelyn Green) and make interesting, entertaining and sometimes alarming reading. For instance, there are requests for autographs, letters of admiration from fans and questions on matters not covered by the books (like how many bathrooms Holmes had).  Then there are more unusual requests, such as the Portuguese gent who requested an autographed photo of Holmes to deter burglars. And then there are the more worrying requests for actual assistance in solving crimes – my personal favourite coming from an American citizen asking the great detective to look into that Watergate business.

There’s even a letter from the Church of Scientology inviting Holmes to come over for a free Case Analysis. Even long-dead fictional detectives aren’t safe from those bastards.

Anyway, if you’re curious as to the actual address Arthur Conan Doyle had in mind, clues in the stories suggest that Holmes was based at number 31.

If one wanted to be really pedantic, it’s worth noting that Holmes lived out his retirement in Sussex.

6. Professor Moriarty was Holmes’ arch-nemesis

This is the point at which people will no doubt put on their hat and coat and storm out in disgust at my ignorance, so hear me out. Yes, Moriarty was created to be Holmes’ greatest nemesis. To this day, “Moriarty” is an instantly understood metaphor for an enemy who is also an equal. My point, though, is that just about every adaptation makes out that Moriarty was more-or-less the only criminal Holmes ever dealt with.

Professor James Moriarty, formerly of the University of Leeds (not even joking)

However, upon reading the books, one discovers that actually, Moriarty only actually comes directly up against Holmes in The Final Problem – also the story in which he falls to his death from the Reichenbach Falls. He appears in The Valley of Fear, but doesn’t meet Holmes. One of his agents, Colonel Moran, appears in the later story The Empty House and there are references to the Professor in several other stories.

Some scholars have chosen to speculate that Moriarty may not be all that he seems – for instance, the physical description of him bears some similarity to Holmes himself. One theory has it that Holmes and Moriarty are the same person, or that Holmes somehow invented Moriarty. Another theory suggests that Moriarty is in fact an alias for Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother, which is just stupid.

More credible is the idea that the creation of Moriarty wasn’t so much to provide Holmes with an archenemy so much as to provide a set-up to kill the detective off.

Conclusion

So there you have it – six preconceptions debunked.

Wait, I didn’t mention the magnifying glass. Holmes did use one of those.

Further Reading

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2010/05/12/elementary/ - A more recent entry concerning the 2009 film.

Rankin’s Brentford – A Bijou Note-ette

I have bad news for fans of Robert Rankin, and no news at all for anyone else. Actually, it might not be news to fans of Robert Rankin either. It’s news to me in any case. Shut up.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Mr Rankin’s work, he’s a cult author who writes humorously bizarro sci-fi/fantasy/horror books. Previous titles have included The Brentford Chainstore Massacre, Armageddon: The Musical and Raiders of the Lost Car Park. Many, if not most of his books, are set in the West London suburb of Brentford. Yr. Humble Chronicler, having dwelt in West London in his time, used to be quite familiar with the place, so it was a slightly surreal experience to read about UFOs over the Butts Estate and similar zaniness.

The Bricklayer's Arms in happier times

One of the central locations in the books, particularly the now-legendary Brentford Octology, was a pub by the name of The Flying Swan. This place was a sort of ur-pub, complete with old-fashioned beer engines, microchip-free cash register and a ban on mobile phones. While there was no real pub called The Flying Swan, there was a real-life approximate equivalent named The Bricklayer’s Arms, and it had always been my intention to do a little pilgrimage there. But what with one thing and another, it just never happened. Plus it would be weird to travel all the way to Brentford just to have a pint in a pub that appears in some books you quite like.

So anyway, on Friday night I was in Ealing for dinner with a smashing young lady of my acquaintance. Following many strange adventures including a harmonium recital, nearly getting beaten up by the patrons of a strip joint and standing outside a club in women’s shoes, I found myself on the night bus home. It’s a long haul, and one of the many destinations on that bus route was Brentford. I was blearily looking out of the window, when I saw a row of houses that looked a bit odd, a bit too small, a bit like someone had tried to put some houses where houses shouldn’t be. Closer inspection revealed, in the brickwork above, the words “THE BRICKLAYERS ARMS”. Noooo!

Today the Robert Rankin fan club website announced it was shutting down. Coincidence? Sychronicity? The chromium-plated megaphone of destiny?

Bijou note-ette #3: Okay, after this, no more Dickens

Yeah, I know, but while I was out and about in Bloombury, I found this place:

As you can see, it possesses yet another blue plaque (there’s about two per street in Bloomsbury on average), which commemorates yet another Dickens location.

This makes an appearance in one of Charles Dickens’ lesser known works, ‘The Bloomsbury Christening’. Dickens’ first published work was a series of sketches in the Morning Chronicle under the pseudonym “Boz”. These were collected and published under the title Sketches by Boz, which does exactly what it says on the tin.

The building you see before you was the residence of Mr Charles Kitterbell in said tale, introduced to us thus:

In addition to these characteristics, it may be added that Mr. Charles Kitterbell was one of the most credulous and matter-of-fact little personages that ever took TO himself a wife, and FOR himself a house in Great Russell-street, Bedford-square. (Uncle Dumps always dropped the ‘Bedford-square,’ and inserted in lieu thereof the dreadful words ‘Tottenham-court-road.’)

It’s a very Londony story, condensing pretty much everything I said about Dickens and London yesterday. Could have saved me a lot of trouble if I’d known about it earlier. Hi ho.

Further reading:

Here’s the story. http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/7854/

Where the Dickens?

Of all the writers associated with Bloomsbury, there’s one who stands out above all others (and I know what you’re thinking, but Yr. Humble Chronicler is not talking about himself. But thanks for the thought). I’m talking, of course, about the man Charles Dickens.

Dickens is one of those authors who’s become indelibly associated with London. When you think “Charles Dickens,” the scene that immediately comes to mind is the grimy cityscape of nineteenth-century London with ragged street urchins and fat men in greatcoats with unlikely names. Of course, London was far from the only setting of his books. Still, when you read his work, you get the feeling that this is someone who knows his city. Take, for instance, this passage from A Tale of Two Cities describing Soho Square:

A quieter corner than the corner in which the Doctor lived, was not to be found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of the Doctor’s lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of a street that had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then, north of the Oxford-road, and forest trees flourished, and wild flowers grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom, instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a settlement.”

It’s a description that implies a familiarity with the area – we’re asked to directly compare this version of Soho of the eighteenth century with the familiar nineteenth century streets. I’d be curious to know what Dickens would have thought of modern Soho as compared to the nineteenth century one. Maybe he’d use the word “wankers” as so many have been compelled to do.

Of course, Dickens would have been very familiar with the streets of London. As I’ve noted, he resided in Bloomsbury for part of his life, and his first residence there (on Doughty Street, where The Pickwick Papers and Oliver Twist were written) is now a museum.

In Oliver Twist, when Dickens talks about “the traders who purchase [silk handkerchiefs] from pick pockets” in Holborn, it’s not unreasonable to assume that he was speaking directly from personal experience. Holborn is a short stroll from Bloomsbury, though Dickens had also lived in Holborn prior to Doughty Street.

He later moved to Tavistock House, also in Bloomsbury, which included a small theatre in which he could indulge his love of amateur dramatics (a hobby he would put to good use when he gave his celebrated readings of his work). It was here that he wrote Bleak House, and though the house is no longer visible, its site is marked with a blue plaque, which I’ve been kind enough to depict below. Thank goodness for me.

Dickens no doubt made a number of research trips to nearby Chancery Lane and Lincoln’s Inn for this scathing attack on the British legal system. Chancery Lane itself is described as “the heart of the fog” (literally and metaphorically) and of Lincoln’s Inn Dickens notes that “it is let off in sets of chambers now, and in these shrunken fragments of greatness lawyers lie like maggots in nuts.”

If I were to quote every descriptive passage that talks about London in Dickens’ books, I’d be here all night and you’d be really bored. So I’ll just mention here one of his non-literary ventures in Bloomsbury, namely Great Ormond Street Hospital. Dickens was one of the most influential voices in the campaign to build a hospital specifically for impoverished children, and he remained a supporter right up until his death. Indeed, Yr. Humble Chronicler has heard it said that J. M. Barrie’s better-publicised relationship with the hospital was largely influenced by the earlier author’s association.

Actually, if we could just return to Mr D’s literary works for a moment, I have a question. Very near to Great Ormond Street, just off Lamb’s Conduit Street, is this road:

Given Dickens’ proximity to this location, is it ridiculous to suggest that this place was the inspiration for the title of Dombey and Son?

Okay, nearly finished, I promise. One last thing, though. “What the Dickens,” or variants thereof, is a phrase that people immediately assume must owe its existence to Charles. Hence in the Doctor Who episode ‘The Unquiet Dead’, Simon Callow as Charles Dickens is heard to exclaim, “What the Shakespeare?” Not so! “Dickens” is actually a venerable euphemism for the Devil, so it’s entirely likely that Dickens himself would have been familiar with the expression.

AND NOW YOU KNOW.

Medieval madness!

When you’re in London, Oxford Street is supposed to be The Place for Shopping, which is why I can’t stand it – it’s always full of slow-moving people and the shops are frankly pretty dull. Unfortunately, today I had to do some shopping and my local shops couldn’t provide. As Westfield is believed to be evil, according to http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2009/05/30/early-objections-to-westfield-london/, I thought I would brave Kingston.

Kingston, which I was sad to learn was not the subject of the UB40 song ‘Kingston Town’, is a pretty good place to shop, and though it does have many of the disadvantages of Oxford Street, it’s less overwhelming. Plus they have a Shakeaway there, a shop that is an invitation to ruin. If you’re not familiar with this company, basically it’s a chain of milkshake shops that will put pretty much anything into a blender and turn it into a milkshake. I, for instance, had a milkshake containing treacle tart and custard, and spent the next hour or so on a sugar high. I strongly suspect the company started out as an idea someone had when they were stoned.

When I’d bought what I came to buy, I had a quick stroll around the old part of town. Kingston is actually a very old place, dating back to the Roman era. Seven of the Saxon kings were supposedly crowned here. There are a few relics of earlier ages still visible. For instance:

What you see here is the Clattern Bridge. This crosses the Hogsmill River, which is nothing to do with Harry Potter. The side visible between the buildings dates from the thirteenth century – the bridge as a whole was widened in the nineteenth.

Here’s a view of the bridge from the river side. I’ve seen this location used on TV to represent a country village. It’s also a wildfowl sanctuary, albeit quite a small one.

Here are some fishes on the other side of the bridge. Not that that’s got anything to do with medieval Kingston, I just thought I’d take a photo of some fish.

This is the Lovekyn Chapel. It’s nowhere near the Clattern Bridge, but it’s pretty notable anyway. It was founded in 1309 by a gentleman named Edward Lovekyn, who had been Lord Mayor of London and is, according to Wikipedia, “the only private chantry chapel to survive the Reformation.” So screw you, Henry VIII. The chapel is now part of Kingston Grammar School.

This is probably the most important artefact:

 

It’s the Coronation Stone. According to a combination of history and mythology, no less than seven kings have been crowned on this, and a friend of mine ennobled it further by drunkenly urinating on it. No monarchist he.

The first king crowned there was Edward the Elder, which is a dreadful thing to call a baby. Still, his first wife was Ecgwynn and his second Aelfflaed, so I suppose it could have been worse. Among other things he conquered Essex, the fool.

The second was Athelstan the Glorious, who is now largely forgotten despite the fact that he was the first king to rule all of England and in general seems to have been pretty damn good as kings go. His reign lasted from 924 to 939, meaning that he was so obscure that the Monty Python team felt they could get away with putting King Arthur in his place in ‘The Holy Grail’. Poor sod.

Edmund I was the third king crowned there, and again did not seem to be bad at his job. He made peace with Scotland and increased the number of monasteries in England, but was assassinated by a thief named Leofa. To give you some idea of how history remembers Edmund, one of the titles by which he is known is “Edmund the Deed-Doer.” Oh yes. Edmund gets things done.

Edred came next, and sticks in my mind for the fact that one of his biggest enemies was a Norwegian named Eric Bloodaxe, who tried to conquer Northumbria. Now, Edred, demonstrating that perhaps he should be known as Edred of the Brass Balls, decided that he wasn’t going to stand for this, invaded Northumbria and wrecked the place up. Bloodaxe ran crying to Mama. Incidentally, his brother was known as Haakon the Good, which can’t have done much for the Bloodaxe street cred.

Edwy or Eadwig followed, and he was just rubbish.

Next up was Edward the Martyr, and again, not very good. During his reign, the nobles in the North of England were all marching around like they owned the place. Edward was assassinated under unknown circumstances, and became the centre of a cult.

This cult didn’t help Ethelred the Unready, who wasn’t prepared for any of this. He was the last of the Kingston kings. One of his children was Edmund Ironside, who went on to become a detective in San Francisco.

I should present documentaries, I really should.

Imitation is the weasliest form of flattery

Now, look, I take some pride in my work. When I write this blog, I do my utmost to produce the best possible work a person can be expected to do with no academic qualifications or financial incentive. So when I come across a blog entry like this:

http://shoppingrumors.blogspot.com/2009/05/early-objections-to-westfield-london.html

and I notice its remarkable similarity to this:

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2009/05/30/early-objections-to-westfield-london/

I can’t help thinking that maybe I should be a little annoyed. I mean, hey, it’s great that someone likes my work, and I’m flattered that they consider it good enough to publish to a wider audience. But honestly, the least they could do is ask. Or just put a link on their own blog.

They haven’t even been subtle about it. Type “Early objections to Westfield London” into Google and this entry is the first thing that comes up. They haven’t bothered to change the title, to put it into their own words or anything.

In conclusion, what a prick.

Five beasties to ruin your commute

Hurrah! Another Tube strike! I’m not entirely clear what this one is about, so I’ll just assume it’s because the Tube workers feel that Underground Ernie is demeaning to their profession until I hear otherwise.

This guy...

As usual, it’s something to do with Bob Crow, head of RMT, getting his knickers in a twist. I hesitate to use the words “Bob Crow” and “dinosaur” in the same sentence, but… well, everyone else does and I’m not established enough to buck the trend.

STOP PRESS: Apparently it’s something to do with pay. It’s not clear what involvement Underground Ernie has, if any.

So it looks like we’re all going to have to do that Blitz spirit thing for the next couple of days. Still, things could be worse, which is why I present to you…

FIVE BEASTIES TO RUIN YOUR COMMUTE

1. Werewolves

Seen in: An American Werewolf in London

 

Causing delays on: Northern Line, Central Line, local bus routes

Description: Of all the supernatural creatures to become, a werewolf seems to be pretty much the worst. Vampires have that whole Rule of Cool thing going on, ghosts get to perv on everyone and possess Whoopi Goldberg and zombies don’t give a damn as long as they get their brains. Werewolves, on the other hand, are the supernatural equivalent of an aggressive drunk – go out, get in some fights, wake up the next day with no memory and chunks of unidentified flesh in their teeth. In the case of this one, he’s doomed to have his victims haunt him like the world’s worst hangover.

On the plus side, he does get it on with Jenny Agutter, so it’s not all bad.

Commuting scene: Two. First, our man takes down a commuter in Tottenham Court Road Underground station late at night – another good reason why you shouldn’t leave it to the last train before going home. Then, later on, in a scene that could definitely not be filmed today, he goes completely apeshit in Piccadilly Circus and causes a massive pile-up.

How do we stop him? Unlike most werewolves, these ones seem able to be killed by regular bullets. If you can convince the wolf to chase you into Tooting, you’re home safe.

2. Rats

Seen in: James Herbert’s The Rats, Lair and Domain.

Causing delays on: The East London Line (so nothing to worry about for the time being).

Description: Radiation is a bugger, isn’t it? One minute it’s helping to treat cancer, the next it’s causing rats to become really big somehow. These ones are approximately dog-sized and have a ferocious appetite for, yes, human flesh. Actually, most mutations that don’t actively result in superpowers seem to cause a ferocious appetite for human flesh. I suppose that’s why the area around Chernobyl is so deserted.

Commuting scene: You know when the train stops in the middle of the tunnel for no apparent reason? Well, imagine how much worse it would be if the reason was huge bastarding rats swarming through the window. Suddenly signal failure doesn’t seem so bad.

How do we stop them? Well, luckily for us, it seems that in addition to becoming huge, these creatures also have a hive society. Kill the Queen and the rest will follow. Alternatively, I heard that what you need to do is get two dishes, right, and you fill one with a mix of flour and cement powder and the other with water. The rats go for the flour and scoff it down, then they get thirsty and drink the water. A few hours later, bam! Concrete rats!

3. The Infected

Seen in: 28 Days Later, 28 Weeks Later, ripped off by most subsequent zombie fiction.

Causing delays on: Piccadilly Line, Jubilee Line, Docklands Light Railway.

Description: The horror movie genre would be so much poorer if only people would just pay attention to the regulations. If the scientist says “Don’t let the chimp out because it’s infected with a disease that’s gonna hella kill everyone,” then assume he knows what he’s talking about. If your infected wife’s in quarantine, don’t go in for a snog. See, people joke about the fact that so many action films involve climactic fights in industrial locations with seemingly no safety precautions (The Terminator, Batman, The Fellowship of the Ring). But having seen the way people in movies behave, you can guarantee that if you did put a handrail up, someone would decide to jump over it anyway.

As a result, London is full of incredibly angry zombies. And I know, plenty of geeks will point out that they’re not technically zombies, but I’m too busy running to argue.

Commuting scene: In 28 Days Later, our heroes make their way along the Docklands Light Railway elevated track into the East End. In a deleted scene, they come across a DLR train that has been converted into a makeshift hospital. I don’t know why you’d think a DLR train would make a suitable hospital. By the way, am I the only person who still thinks it’s fun to sit at the front and pretend to be the driver?

In 28 Weeks Later, our heroes decide to venture into the Underground, because the best place to be when there are zombies running around is in a cramped and pitch-black tunnel. Filmed, like many movies set on the Underground, at the abandoned Aldwych station and the old Jubilee Line platforms at Charing Cross.

If zombies are too much for you, you could always take a taxi…

How do we stop them? Well, as noted above, these zombies aren’t technically undead. They’re just really, really pissed off. Regular bullets will do for them. Fire looks pretty cool, but ultimately you end up with a dude running around on fire and making a nuisance of himself.

4. Martians

Seen in: Quatermass and the Pit (TV and movie version)

Causing delays on: Construction work on the Victoria Line, possibly the Piccadilly Line. Listen out for announcements.

Description: There’s always some excuse with TfL, isn’t there? “Signal failures.” “Defective trains.” “During construction work we came across an ancient alien spaceship and now it’s causing everyone in London to start bashing one another’s heads in.” The Quatermass BBC TV serials and subsequent film adaptations are an obvious influence on the later Doctor Who, and Quatermass and the Pit, in which occult shenanigans turn out to be a malign ancient alien influence, is the obvious precursor to the stories The Daemons and The Impossible Planet/The Satan Pit. That tells you most of what you need to know – these aliens came to Earth, did some genetic nastiness and live on in our collective memories as the Devil.

Commuting scene: It’s mentioned in the original serial that they caused trouble when the fictional Hobb’s Lane Underground station was opened in 1927. I’d suggest, given the date and the fact that Hobb’s Lane is somewhere in Knightsbridge, that this was the Piccadilly Line.

In the Hammer remake, the spaceship is unearthed during construction work on the Victoria Line at Hobb’s End. This was the second worst discovery during construction, the worst of all being when they realised they’d be going through Stockwell.

How do we stop them? Well, the bad news is that they’re already dead. However, given that they form the basis of our belief in demons, poltergeists and all that jazz, a little study of the occult may come in handy.

5. Mutant tube workers

Seen in: Death Line (released in the US as Raw Meat)

Causing delays on: Piccadilly Line

Description: Yet another good reason not to leave it until the last train before going home. Death Line concerns a family of mutant cannibal wossnames that have descended fromVictorian underground workers and now dwell in the incomplete Museum station. They lead a carefree existence, picking off and eating commuters from Russell Square and Holborn. Yr. Humble Chronicler, who works in Bloomsbury, now prefers to walk the extra distance to St Pancras.

Commuting scene: Pretty much the whole thing.

A still from the film. Can you spot the mistake, Tubeheads?

How do we stop them? Send Bob Crow down there and wait for them to go on strike.

Bijou post-ette #2 – Sinister goings-on in SW17?

Here’s a shop that’s always puzzled me.

It’s located on the approach to the bridge that marks the border between Tooting and Colliers Wood, on the Tooting side. Now, is this a case of misleading advertising, or has the twenty-first century finally delivered on its promise of awesomeness? I suppose it doesn’t matter, as the shop appears to have closed down… or has its interior merely dematerialised?

I suppose the existence of this shop goes some way to explaining this anachronistic visitor from Morden: