London-on-Sea

A friend of mine once told me that when she was working for an estate agent, they had one person trying to sell their property who claimed in the description that their London house was a seaside property. When questioned on this blatant silliness, the client claimed that it was technically true.

Well, technically, she was right. London was a major port back in the day, of course. And because the Thames is tidal as far as Teddington Lock, London is actually classed as being on the coast. The city could even boast its own pirates, of whom more in a later post.

What’s more, London even has a beach. I’m not talking about the banks of green mud along the Thames inlets, there’s an actual sandy beach. Or at least, there was. Walk across Tower Bridge at low tide, looking towards the North bank beneath the Tower itself and you’ll see its remains.

As you can see, just about, the mud here is actually rather sandy and there are some timbers that would once have held the sand in place. This was Tower Beach. The beach was opened by the Tower Hill Improvement Trust in 1934, seventy-five years ago, as a way for the people of the East End to enjoy the seaside. At the time, the train fare to Scarborough was tuppence ha’penny and a packet of crisps, which was six months’ wages for a typical docker. Some or all of that last sentence may have been a lie.

The beach in 1936. Note the business of the Pool of London going on a few yards away.

The beach was partly created in response to the fact that, kids being kids, they were going to play on the foreshore anyway. The foreshore in those days mostly consisting of rocks, jagged metal, bits of wood and pirate skeletons, this was considered a bad idea (although plenty of kids had made a valuable few extra pence picking up coal dropped from steamships and selling it on).

By 1971, the Thames had become so polluted that, once again, paddling in it was considered unsafe and so the beach was closed. It’s now open two days a year for archaeologists, and the chances of a revival are slim to nil. In these days of package tours and cheap flights, such a venture would be unnecessary in any case.

I never did find out what became of that woman selling her house. I like to think that someone went to look at it, pointed out that it’s not a seaside property, was told that technically it is, then slapped their thigh and said, “Why, you rascal, you’re right! We’ll take it!”

Stupid things to do with your Sunday

The hell I just walked thirteen and a half miles. See, I was supposed to be doing something this Sunday which didn’t appear to be happening, so I figured, on a whim, that I’d head up to Shadwell. There’s some stuff there I wanted to photograph for a little project of mine, and heck, it takes about three quarters of an hour to get there by Tube and DLR.

I got there and took the photos I wanted. Then I wondered how long it would take me to get from there to Minories, a place I’d briefly been yesterday. Turns out not long at all. As I had my camera (I basically always have my camera), I figured I’d have a look around St Katharine’s Dock and take some snaps there for future reference. There are a few Thames barges moored there. I can’t say I like the dock as a whole, it’s just a bit too uppity for my taste.

I also needed some photos of warehouses, so I decided I’d have a look at Butler’s Wharf, crossing Tower Bridge. I took what I needed and had a bit of a wander, eventually finding myself at Bermondsey. While there, I saw a sign for Elephant and Castle. Now, this was a little unexpected. I’m used to thinking of London in terms of little islands. Elephant and Castle, to me, is on a little island that also includes Lambeth and Kennington. Bermondsey, on the other hand, is on the little island that includes Wapping and Canada Water. The idea that there might be a land route between the two was a little confusing, but I figured I’d have a look. If nothing else, it would put me on my branch of the Northern Line for a swift Tube ride home.

It wasn’t actually very far at all, once I got on to the New Kent Road. I didn’t know there was a New Kent Road, or what colour it would be on the Monopoly board. I got there after passing what might be the ugliest blocks of flats in South London (which is a level of competition akin to the Most Misanthropic Estate Agent Contest).

And then my brain shut down, and whatever mechanism had taken its place suggested I walk on. All the way home. After all, it reasoned, I’ve walked from Waterloo to Balham before, and from Balham to Colliers Wood. And at the end of it, I could say that I walked from Shadwell to Colliers Wood. Whenever people talk about the East End, I could scoff and say, “Pff, walking distance.”

Well, by Oval my knees were complaining, by Stockwell they were suggesting I might like to lose some weight and by Clapham Common they’d stopped bending in the right direction. I also received a call from a friend saying hello. He asked what I was doing and, upon saying out loud “I’m walking from Shadwell to Colliers Wood,” I realised that actually this was an insane plan.

Still, that didn’t stop me. I walked on, and on, and on, and at last – at long last – arrived back at Colliers Wood. My feet appear to have become disconnected, although feeling is returning to them, worse luck. Man, I’m going to be sore in the morning.

Districtly Come Dancing

It’s a London Underground Saturday! Woo! Yeah! (exposes breasts)

Now you’ve had time to calm down, I’ll explain why I have declared this momentous occasion. Today was an open weekend at Upminster Depot on the District Line. Upminster is Terra Incognita as far as I’m concerned. Well, the District Line already has termini at Kensington Olympia, High Street Kensington, Wimbledon, Richmond and Ealing Broadway. I mean, I can’t visit every end of the line. It’s like Cthulhu or something. Besides, Upminster’s way out in Zone 6, I’m not Superman.

The Open Day was being held in celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the opening of the depot, which was built as part of a major investment programme by London Transport. Therefore, this was an excuse for a big old display devoted to the District Line. The fact that they were holding engineering works between Barking and Upminster meant that a) the current was switched off, making the depot safe for visitors and b) that there was no District Line service to the depot. Ho hum. Instead, the Da and I took the c2c service from Fenchurch Street to Upminster Station. From there, classic buses were laid on to take us (not just us, obviously) to the depot itself.

RT bus. Predecessor to the Routemaster, as I have discussed previously within these pages.

We got the AEC RT seen on the left. In layman’s terms, this is the type of bus used in Summer Holiday and, with one or two modifications, as the Knight Bus in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Riding in it is a very different experience from a modern bus. It’s more cramped, but the seats are so much more

DO NOT SPIT: PENALTY £5. You've been warned.

comfortable. It’s also a rather noisier, bumpier ride and on the top deck there’s a distinct tendency for the bus to sway on corners, on bumpy roads or just for the hell of it. I quite liked it, but I can kinda see why modern buses don’t ride like that. Still, the growl of the engine is quite something.

RLH - like an RT, but with a flatter roof.

The depot was a lot cleaner than I imagine these things. But then, most of the working railway depots I’ve visited have been steam ones, with the associated soot and grime. I suppose Health and Safety wouldn’t allow that sort of thing today (n.b. the first person to use the term “nanny state” gets a clip round the ear ‘ole). The staff were very friendly and helpful, very willing to explain what everything was and how everything worked.

Under a District Line train. That boxy thing in the middle is the driver's air conditioning unit. Yes, the driver has air conditioning.

As I have said many times before, I live in Colliers Wood, near Wimbledon. I used to live in Twickenham, near Richmond. When I was born, I lived in a flat in Barons Court backing on to the Underground. I’m therefore no stranger to the District Line, which has used the same trains (give or take a refurbishment or two) since before I was born. I’ve come to take these things for granted – they’re just the not-very-interesting trains that go into London via the respectable suburbs.

A row of D and C stock. That's District Line trains in laymen's terms. At the far end is a battery locomotive, used for maintenance trains.

So the chance to look underneath one, to go into the cab and to watch the staff going over the various controls and equipment was something of an education. For instance, I never knew that the seats could be lifted up to access the various electrical gubbins that power the train – if there’s a breakdown, the driver can isolate individual systems in order to get the train going again. And you know when you’re on the train and it suddenly hisses really loudly?

The prototype Routemaster, RM1.

Turns out that what that actually is is the safety valve for the compressed air reservoir, the thing that powers many systems on the train. Looking in and around these trains, you come to realise that actually, they’re a pretty ingenious bit of kit. There are all sorts of odd little devices to ensure that the train can keep going or, if necessary, stop in an emergency.

R Stock, predecessor to C and D stock.

All this was related clearly and engagingly by the staff. The chap showing us the underside of the train apologised for not being sufficiently up on the technical side to go into massive detail, but he was informative enough for Yr. Humble Chronicler, who doesn’t know his brown boxy things from his brown cylindery things.

There was a display a bit further on of wheel-turning equipment, which I don’t think would be particularly interesting to anyone who isn’t as geeky as me. Suffice it to say that it is possible for a Tube train to get a flat tyre.

Early four-wheeled wooden carriage from the Metropolitan District Railway - what is now the District Line.

As well as the modern day-to-day equipment, there was a fine display of historic District Line equipment. On the right is a Metropolitan District Railway coach from around 1865. If it looks a bit familiar, that might be Thomas the Tank Engine’s coaches, Annie and Clarabel, look almost exactly like this.

The silver carriage above is R stock, which came before the C and D stock. For a while, London Transport decided not to bother painting their trains as a cost-cutting measure. The bodywork was aluminium and so didn’t need rust-proofing. A similar experiment with buses was a dismal failure, as on foggy days the buses became invisible. You’ll notice that the bodywork swoops outwards at the bottom – that was a safety measure to prevent people falling into the gap between the train and the platform. It’s the train that minds the gap for you.

Interior of a Q Stock carriage. Hell of elegant.

I couldn’t get a decent exterior shot of the Q Stock carriage behind the R Stock, so you’ll just have to make do with this interior shot. I absolutely love the interiors of these old Tube trains, and this one, with its inlaid wooden panelling, might be my favourite. The dark green is a pleasant contrast with the deep red exterior. The Q Stock, as you might guess from the decor, was built in the 1920s and 30s. It also has a rather old-skool clerestory roof.

On a siding outside was a 57xx. It’s an interesting fact that London Underground was still using steam engines for odd jobs long after most of the Underground had been electrified. In fact, not only that, but they were using them three years after British Rail had got rid of steam.

Great Western Railway 57xx class

The Underground used various types of steam engine, but in the later years the engine of choice was the 57xx pannier tank, so called because it carries its water in high-slung tanks that look, yes, like panniers. To return to Thomas the Tank Engine references, Duck is based on this type of engine. They were built by the Great Western Railway and were, simply, a damn good engine. Rugged and versatile, they were as at home shunting in a yard as they were on commuter trains. As the GWR sold them out of service, there was no shortage of willing buyers, and as a result several members of the class survive today – no fewer than six being ex-Underground. In London Transport service, they wore a rather handsome brick-red livery that suited them well.

Having shown us past and present District Line trains, it was only fitting that they should also show us some future stock. This took the form of a mock-up of the S Stock, seen on the right. The S Stock is currently under construction and, when complete, will replace the current trains on the District, Circle, Metropolitan and Hammersmith & City Lines. Probably its most notable design feature is that it’s open-ended, with corridors linking the carriages. What this means in practical terms is that passengers can move from coach to coach without having to leave the train. It also allows a little more room. The seating layout is rather similar to that on the Docklands Light Railway, if you’re familiar with that. For some reason, modern Tube and bus seating seems to have been designed with the express purpose of numbing the buttocks, and the S Stock is no exception. It’s a bad idea to let people sit down in historic stock before you’ve let them sit in your new train, those old seats were comfortable as the dickens.

The tour, coupled with the aforementioned purchase of a destination board formerly at Camden Town, left me with a feeling of immense goodwill towards the Tube. A sense of goodwill that evaporated on the way back as soon as I discovered that line interchange at Bank is still out. Still, that was a pretty positive fifteen minutes.

Further Viewing

 - Some footage of the Underground in the 1960s, including a fair bit of Upminster.

Fun Things To Do With A Tube Sign

MY PRECIOUSSSS

See that thing on the left? That sign from Camden Town Tube Station, High Barnet Branch? I own it. It is mine. I was at the Upminster Depot open day, a full report on which will follow in due course as soon as I’ve sorted out the twelve million or so photographs.

The sign was a bit of a bargain, and I must admit that part of my motivation for buying it was the hope that it would appreciate in value. Camden Town is a popular and fashionable tube station with the youth of today (suggested slogan: “Camden – it’s crap, but you can’t keep away”) and I figured that if I tried to sell it on even now I could probably get more than I paid for it. I also thought it would make a neat wall decoration.

Other uses for it:

1. Clutch it under one arm and run out of Camden Town Tube Station looking suspicious.

2. Hold it up to the window of a stationary train and run along the platform in an attempt to convince people that they’re too late to get off.

3. If a ninja, throw it to decapitate your enemies.

4. Use it as an essential part of a spell to summon up the spirit of Mother Damnable (see link below).

5. Use it to prove that you are more Camden than anyone.

6. Put it up at Mornington Crescent. See how many Goths you can catch before the police intervene.

I look forward to your results.

Further reading:

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2009/02/18/sinister-camden/

Is it self-defence if they’re really annoying?

Here’s a question. Is it the case that ugly people naturally become chavs, or is it that being a chav gradually twists you into looking like a sort of shaven ape-dog hybrid? If it’s the latter, I’m thinking maybe chavviness could be an as-yet-unidentified medical condition which might some day be cured. If it’s the former, then perhaps chavviness could be bred out of the gene pool. Don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely anti-eugenics, except when it comes to chavs. If it’s none of these things, if I’m entirely wrong and the monstrous ugliness is just a coincidence, then can we at least put chavs to work driving pumps at the bottom of mineshafts or something? Just anywhere where I don’t have to look at, hear or smell them.

Actually, I’m being unfair in singling out chavs. Frankly there are a lot of subsets of humanity that I think we could do without. How about fourteen-year-olds with rich parents who think they actually contribute something to the world with their stupid haircuts and Facebook albums full of pictures of themselves? Or, say, pissed-up football supporters? Or anyone who self-identifies as a “lad”?

You see, I’m not exactly a people person. That’s not to say I’m unfriendly – when I’m at a party I’ll always make an effort with new people (I believe you can always find some common ground for discussion). If I’m in a bar and a stranger strikes up a conversation, I’ll happily exchange pleasantries, maybe crack a joke or two. This is basic etiquette. But at other times, I would quite like to be left alone. And this is where the problem arises.

See, I have the misfortune of looking both distinctive and approachable. This can have certain advantages, in that I can get served in a busy bar very quickly and if I don’t know anyone in a place, someone will usually come up and say hello. It also has certain disadvantages. Anyone who wants money, be they chugger, beggar or Scientologist, will instantly single me out in the crowd and make a beeline. Having decided that I’m likely to give them money, they then tend to get annoyed when I don’t. I’m half-expecting them to mug me and then in court claim that I was “asking for it”. Any pissed-up wanker will decide on sight that I am their new best friend. Any pimp or dealer will make the extra effort to push his wares on to me.

So you can see that it gets a little wearing after a while. I would like to walk through London once, just once, without being hassled. If I could just turn off the approachability for an hour or so, it would improve my life immensely. I’ve tried dressing differently, getting my hair cut differently, wearing an expression of barely-contained fury, nothing seems to work. The only things I can think of to make myself look less appealing that I haven’t tried yet  are gnawing on a human femur and punching Stephen Fry in the face. The latter is out of the question, as assaulting Stephen Fry is classed as treason.

Besides, why would you want to?

Another problem is that I look studious. I’ve often had people come up to me (because I’m so fucking approachable) and observe that I look like a professor. What this means is that any pissed-up jackass in the vicinity will think, “Ho, here’s fun! An academic! Let’s make sport with him! What larks!” on the basis that, as I am a professor, I am the sort of mild-mannered person who will not realise that someone is attempting a caper at my expense. This is incorrect. In fact, I am more likely to tell them to go [perform an action that is physically impossible and probably unhygienic to boot]. I’d love to say that I’m the sort of person who can dispatch them with an off-the-cuff witty remark, but I’m not. Especially not at the end of a long day, when my brain just wants to shut down. Still, quite often just explaining that you know what they’re trying to do is enough to stop it. Failing that, murder.

Speaking of brains shutting down, it’s probably obvious from this rambling prose that my own is dropping hints, so I’ll say goodbye. Just think of me next time you hear the words “cold-blooded, unpremeditated killing spree”.

London Fogg

I’ve been re-reading Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days lately, largely because the last time I read it I was about fourteen and it was a rubbish translation, and I picked up a rather better version in a second-hand bookshop.

Like many children of the 1980s, I was introduced to the story via the Spanish cartoon Around the World with Willy Fog, which can basically be summed up as “Around the World in Eighty Days, only they’re all animals”.

Willy Fog explains himself to the camera.

It was made by the same people who produced Dogtanian and is notable for, among other things, having the catchiest theme tune in the history of the world. It’s also notable for the fact that, for a kids’ cartoon, it was surprisingly loyal to the book and pretty well-researched. Last year they did a stage musical based on it, which is wicked awesome. But enough wallowing in nostalgia for the 1980s. I’ve forgotten what the point of this entry actually was. Something about Fitzrovia?

Oh yes. Phileas Fogg. Around the world. 80 days. Jules Verne. Now, I have to say, Jules Verne is an author who’s not without his faults. His characters tend to be a bit flat – I’m getting a little bit sick of reading about how Phileas Fogg appears unmoved by circumstances while Passepartout fumes, and if Aouda has any personality at all I’ve yet to see it.

Phileas Fogg. The original text describes him as looking like Byron, only fair-haired with a moustache and whiskers.

Actually, it comes across in places like a travelogue – Verne likes to discuss the history and geography of the places his characters pass through. This sort of lecturing is a fairly common trait in his work - 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea features rather a lot of discussion about marine life and Around the Moon features an entire chapter dedicated to solving an algebra equation.

On the other hand, Verne’s work depicts a worldview that we, sadly, have lost today. For all he’s famous for science fiction (or “Scientific Romances,” his preferred term), many of his more fantastic inventions were grounded in the science of the day. He criticised H. G. Wells’ The First Men in the Moon for the fact that the characters travel to the moon using a fantastical antigravity metal rather than the strict scientific principles he adopted in From the Earth to the Moon. It’s unfortunate that the march of science has since proven that Verne’s idea (firing the astronauts from a cannon) would be equally unlikely to succeed, with the added bonus that the characters would be squashed. Nonetheless, his fiction expresses a very 19th Century belief that Technology Would Be Awesome, and with a little spirit, humanity could achieve anything.

Around the World in Eighty Days doesn’t contain any amazing new technology – there are no submarines, no airships, no lunar rockets. There’s not even a hot air balloon, contrary to popular belief and several adaptations. What it is, though, is a celebration of what was possible in the present day of 1872. The First Transcontinental Railroad in North America had been completed three years previously, as had the Suez Canal, followed in 1870 by the final link in the railway across India. With ever-faster steamships and steam trains, one could traverse the world at a speed that a few years ago would have seemed like, yes, something out of a Scientific Romance novel. One of the motives for Fogg’s voyage around the world is the observation by a minor character that the world has “shrunk”.

Phileas Fogg is the perfect hero for this new world. In many ways, he’s a stereotypical Englishman – phlegmatic and precise to the point of anal retentiveness. He has seemingly planned for every eventuality, and we’re constantly reminded how many hours he’s gained or lost on his journey. As I observed above, he comes across as a rather shallow and occasionally unlikeable character, with Verne relying on his eccentricities to drive him rather than any deeper emotions. Nonetheless, he is probably Verne’s best-known character (with the possible exception of Captain Nemo).

Which brings me on to the real point of this entry. See, Verne even provides us with an address for Fogg in the text. He lives at number 7, Savile Row, Burlington Gardens. This illustrious street is, of course, most famous these days for its tailors (so much so that a Japanese word for a suit is “sebiro”). While strolling through the West End following my jaunt to the theatre previously recounted, I decided to track Mr Fogg down. I was a little disappointed by the actual No. 7 Savile Row.

Clearly this isn’t “the house where Sheridan died” as described by Verne. Dammit, redevelopers don’t got no respect. In an effort to get some idea of what Fogg’s Savile Row might have looked like, I snapped a Victorian-looking building a bit further down.By happy coincidence, it turns out that the red brick building on the left also has some historical significance. It was the HQ of the Beatles’ label, Apple Corps. Up on that roof there was where the Beatles performed their farewell concert. I didn’t even know. Damn.

Miz

Yesterday I reacquainted myself with Les Miserables, which is my favouritest musical ever ever ever. I’m afraid this was actually my fourth time seeing it, and I still found it utterly riveting and more than a little moving (I would like to clarify that during the song ‘A Little Fall of Rain’ I was actually wiping my eyes because I had some dust in them or possibly hayfever).

I was going with a friend of mine who had not previously seen the show, because I think it is important that everyone sees it at least once. It’s a musical on an epic scale and yet never sacrifices character or story for the sake of spectacle.

If it has one major fault, it is that perhaps the first act is a little rushed – an inevitable consequence of trying to compress twenty-seven years of history into something under two hours. Indeed, when first announced, the concept of adapting Victor Hugo’s novel of over a thousand pages into a musical was considered mildly insane. Much has been cut – the original novel is a sprawling historical epic. Several subsidiary plots and secondary characters have either been severely reduced or removed altogether.

Colm Wilkinson, the first actor to portray Valjean in the London production

What remains is the central story of Jean Valjean, a convict who is released after nineteen years on the chain gang for stealing a loaf of bread. He is released on parole and swiftly discovers that he has become an outcast – un misérable, looked down upon and maltreated wherever he goes. Homeless, unemployed and starving, he is taken in by the saintly Bishop Myriel. The embittered Valjean steals the Bishop’s silver and flees in the night, only to be arrested and returned to Myriel’s house, where the bishop claims to have made a gift of the silver. When the police are gone, Myriel tells Valjean that he has bought his soul for God, and therefore Valjean must renounce crime. Moved by the priest’s generosity and disgusted at what he has become, Valjean rebuilds his life, working his way up to become the respectable (and symbolically-named) Monsieur Madeleine, factory owner and mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer. One of the employees is a woman named Fantine, who is working to support her daughter Cosette. When the foreman discovers that she is an unmarried mother, he sacks her and she is reduced to selling her jewelery, her hair and eventually her body as a prostitute, during which time she becomes desperately ill. Valjean takes pity on her and, upon learning that he is partly responsible for her condition, vows to raise Cosette as his own daughter.

However, the dogged policeman Javert is also in Montreuil. Valjean rescues a man trapped beneath a cart, and Javert mentions that “Monsieur Madeleine’s” great strength reminds him of a convict he has been after for the past decade. He assures the mayor that he is not a suspect, for they have just arrested a man answering to Valjean’s description. Morally conflicted, Valjean goes to the man’s trial and reveals that he himself is the convict. He escapes Javert’s custody and goes to find Cosette, who is kept as a skivvy in an inn owned by the vile M. and Mme. Thenardier.

Meanwhile, conditions for the poor are growing worse, and by 1832 Paris stands on the verge of revolution. The paths of the characters are soon to once again intersect on the streets of the capital city.

This summary of the first act is brief and skips quite a significant amount due to a) the need to avoid spoilers, b) the fact that we’ll be here all night if I discuss everything and c) what am I, Wikipedia? Most notably, I think I’m selling the moral themes of the piece short. In the characters of Valjean and Javert, we’re presented with two Christian archetypes. Valjean is the forgiving, merciful New Testament Christian, Javert adheres to the smiting, vengeful eye-for-an-eye Old Testament. M. Thenardier, meanwhile, is a lapsed Christian without morals who, despite his all-round selfishness and horribleness, never really gets the smackdown he deserves.

Javert also embodies a belief common until the middle of the nineteenth century, that there was such a thing as a “criminal class”, the irredeemably felonious for whom rehabilitation would be a pointless exercise. This same spirit prompted we in Britain to send our convicts to Australia, where their corrupt genes would be removed from “respectable” society. Javert refuses to believe that Valjean is anything other than a monster. It’s quite revealing that he himself was “born inside a jail”, implying that there may be some measure of self-loathing to the character.

Also notable for understanding the historical context of the novel is the fact that France had been, relative to Britain, left behind by the Industrial Revolution. Widespread mechanisation had not caught on, and so in an attempt to keep up, wages for the workers were driven down so far that they were practically symbolic. Some chose to emigrate to Britain (no matter what the BNP and other racists might think, immigration is nothing new in Britain), but for many there was no choice but to metaphorically bend over and take it. This, coupled with the failure of the French Revolution and the fall of Mr Napoleon Senior, goes some way to explaining the state of the country in the nineteenth century.

This rather dry analysis probably does the show a disservice – it’s nothing like as pompous as me, and remains absorbing and entertaining throughout. I’ve had the songs stuck in my head now for more than 24 hours. The friend I went with expressed similar sentiments. So basically ignore everything I’ve just said, go and see it and judge for yourself. Yes.

Interesting (and slightly filthy) fact

Upon Victor Hugo’s death, the prostitutes of Paris paid their respects by going about their trade with black crepe draped over their genitals. Apparently he was regarded as a pretty good customer.

We’re not using the M-word

Impulse exhibition visit! Yaaaay!

Conway Hall is one of those hidden-away places that, again, I’ve always been curious about but never really bothered to look for. It’s the headquarters of the South Place Ethical Society, located in a corner of Red Lion Square, Bloomsbury. The Society was founded in 1793 and specialises in, as you might imagine, discussions of ethics. It rejected God in 1888 and these days advertises itself as a haven for free thinkers. A free thinker is like an atheist, except without causing Internet flame wars.

What caught my eye was an exhibition called “Evolution – the fossils say YES!” Now, evolutionary biology is one of those things that I find endlessly fascinating. At the risk of getting all Richard Dawkins on yo collective ass, there’s so much about the world that can be explained via evolution, from the strange animals around the world to aspects of human behaviour.

We’re quite fortunate in Britain that we don’t have a fundamentalist movement in the sense that you find in the USA – it makes me want to punch something that someone in the 21st century can make it to the stage of being a candidate for Vice President and yet still believe the world was created in a week six thousand years ago using superpowers. Sarah Palin, I’m looking at you, you oil-loving, polar-bear-hating, only-hot-compared-to-other-politicians-when-viewed-objectively epsilon semi-moron. In this country, people who don’t believe in the theory of evolution are largely regarded in the same way as flat-earthers. Even the Archbishop of Canterbury acknowledges that the evidence in favour of evolution rather than creation is overwhelming. I myself was brought up as a Christian, but my parents took me to the Natural History Museum and explained that, straight-up, humans evolved from apes. Not monkeys, by the way. We’re not using the M-word.

This, I think, was the major problem with the exhibition – it was largely preaching to the converted. The sort of person who believes in creationism is generally narrow-minded and totally unwilling to think for themselves. If you present them with evidence of evolution, they’ll either deny it or claim it’s insufficient.

Then they’ll throw out phrases like “Well it’s only the Theory of Evolution,” totally misunderstanding what a theory is (actually, “theory” in scientific terms actually denotes virtual certainty). Or they’ll use the M-word because, ha ha, monkeys are silly! You’re silly because you think you’re a monkey haw haw! And when you’ve really got them on the ropes, they’ll shrug their shoulders and play the “Well, I’m only trying to save you from Hell” card.

What I’m basically saying is, the sort of person who disbelieves evolution to the extent that they would need such an exhibition is exactly the sort of person who would never set foot in a Humanist establishment like Conway Hall.

Fossils illustrating the gradual development of the horse's leg. I mean, not the same horse, obviously.

Pre-Cambrian fossils. The gent on the bottom right is a three-armed creature with no known genetic relatives.

The exhibition had a few other flaws as well. Some of these, to be fair, I suspect were a result of my arriving at lunchtime on Monday, which is not exactly boom time for the tourist industry. Still, it was kind of annoying to have to peer over a set of folding chairs to read about the Cambrian Explosion, which is one of the most awesome eras in the development of life. Unfortunately it wasn’t an actual explosion, but did involve some utterly insane life forms. See
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cambrian_explosion
 for details – seriously, this stuff makes Pokemon look dull and pedestrian.

The displays could also have done with a proofreader. This may seem a little anal retentive, but I’m of the school that believes that if you’re producing a scholarly display, it looks unprofessional to haev typpos in the fnished exibit.

Another problem, I think, is that this is such a huge subject by its very nature that no exhibition this small can hope to cover it in any real detail. When you have only one board on Pre-Cambrian life, there’s only so much you can convey. That being said, it was a pleasant enough way to pass a bit of time in m’lunch break and is worth popping in if you’re in the area. Particularly as it’s free.

Oh, piss off.

Further reading

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/book_extracts/article6805656.ece

A bright, cold day in April

George Orwell’s novel Nineteen Eighty-Four might be the most influential novel of the twentieth century. Hands up everyone who’s read it? Quite a lot of you, I see. And if you haven’t read it, the chances are that, whether you’re aware of it or not, you’re familiar with at least some of the concepts. You might have watched Room 101 or Big Brother. You might have heard terms like “thought police,” “newspeak,” “thoughtcrime.” Think of the number of films and television programmes featuring a room numbered “101″ – indeed, Eric Mielke, head of the East German secret police, had his office renumbered 101. Way to miss the satire, Eric. Any article about government surveillance will invariably allude to the novel.

It’s even overshadowed Orwell’s other works. The word “Orwellian” is always used to describe anything reminiscent of Nineteen Eighty-Four. It’s not, for instance, used in reference to uppity pigs or people fighting in the Spanish Civil War.

So, safe to say it’s been pretty influential. It’s long been debated what Orwell was satirising in his novel – Communism? Fascism? Contemporary Britain? The BBC? Public schools? Orwell himself always said it was a satire on totalitarianism in general, and that the lies, paranoia and intimidation in his novel could be equally found in Communist and Fascist states.

Of course, there was a certain personal element to the novel. You may recall a while back that I mentioned Shakespeare creating a character specifically as a dig at his landlord? If not, see
http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2009/04/08/nice-one-shakespeare/
 and then act like you read it ages ago.  Similarly, Orwell was not above  airing his own personal experiences. So over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been strolling around, looking for some of the locations described in the novel.

This here is the largest and most obvious – Senate House in Bloomsbury, now UCL Administrative HQ. During the Second World War, it was the home of the Ministry of Information, basically Britain’s propaganda department. Orwell worked here during the war, as did several other writers. It was therefore the obvious inspiration for the Ministry of Truth, Winston Smith’s workplace and the propaganda wing of the Ingsoc government. The Ministries are described thus in the book:

They were enormous pyramidical structures of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously… The Ministry of Truth, Winston’s place of work, contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below.”

Senate House was, during the Second World War, the second-tallest building in London (the tallest being St Paul’s Cathedral).

The other Ministries are less obvious in their inspiration. However, Room 101, deep within the Ministry of Love, is easy to find. It was a room at BBC Headquarters.

Room 101 in the novel contained “the worst thing in the world,” the one nightmarish realisation of your deepest fears that would break you. In real life, it was a meeting room. Sadly, the original Room 101 was lost when the part of BBC HQ it was in was demolished for redevelopment. Fortunately, Rachel Whiteread took a cast of the room. Seriously, does that woman do anything other than casts? “Oh, hello Rachel Whiteread, here’s a commission, what are you going to do?” “I’m going to make a cast!”

Anyway. A couple of other locations may be found in Fitzrovia, a short walk away, where you may recall Orwell used to drink in the Fitzroy Tavern.

The alley on the right plays a brief role in the novel – it is the location of the antique shop where Winston Smith buys a diary in an act of furtive rebellion.

 

 

 

 

 

The pub you will see here to your left is the Newman Arms. This is just a street over from the Fitzroy, but is also at the end of the alley you see above. The pub features in the novel as the Prole drinking establishment where Winston encounters a senile old man who doesn’t know that a pint and half a litre actually aren’t that different in an effort to find out the truth of Big Brother’s version of history. Inside, it’s a small, wee place, but disappointingly does not feature a urinal in the corner.

 

Here’s Trafalgar Square, which by the time of the events of Nineteen Eighty-Four has been renamed Victory Square, and the statue on the column is of the Stalin-resembling and possibly propaganda-created Big Brother. Sorry the picture isn’t better, by the way, but the Square was closed off for some sort of sporting event.

Livening things up outside of the barriers was the protest seen on the left, by a gentleman who probably thought Nineteen Eighty-Four was a documentary. The Freemasons should totally get their act together, this guy’s been protesting for ages and they still haven’t silenced him.

Left: St Martin-In-The-Fields. Mentioned in a conversation between Winston Smith and Mr Charrington, the antique dealer.

“Where was St Martin’s?” said Winston.

“St Martin’s? That’s still standing. It’s in Victory Square, alongside the picture gallery. A building with a kind of a triangular porch and pillars in front, and a big flight of steps.”

Right: St Martin-In-The-Fields from the front. “Here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your head…”

Revenge of the Toilet Attendants, and other distractions

I wouldn’t call myself techno-savvy, as folks go. Most new technology I have is either handed down by others when it becomes obsolete or given as a present. I’m not technophobic either – in my last job, my greatest strength was said to be my ability to make things work and my willingness to perform depraved acts for little incentive. So I’m stuck between technophile and technophobe – I suppose you might call me “techno-curious”. In some ways I think it’s a strength. I’m not frightened of machines, nor do I have any pre-conceived notions of how things should be done, and by and large this state of being has served me well.

All this is a very longwinded way of saying that incredible technological naivety is sort of my “thing”. Today I was walking around the West End (again) for reasons that will become clear tomorrow when I spotted a sign for a computer fair. This is held every Saturday at UCL’s Windeyer building. This is easy enough to find, as it is right next to the BT Tower, which you can see from damn near anywhere in London. You can even see it from the top of Egham Hill, which is something like twenty miles away. It’s pretty distinctive, is what I’m saying.

I figured I’d pop in and have a look around. If I started getting sweaty and nauseous, I’d leave. And so I went in. I’ve had bad experiences on Tottenham Court before today, and these days I tend to deal with electronics the same way I deal with rough neighbourhoods. Walk with shoulders back and head up, look like you know exactly what you’re doing and show no fear.

There was a chap in there selling memory cards at remarkably low rates. I figured I could use a new memory card, because the current one doesn’t hold much – about twenty photos on a good day. I surreptitiously checked the camera to see what I was actually looking for. So, I went up, all friendly-like and asked the chap if he had any of that sort of thing. The fellow was both friendly and helpful, and asked how much memory I was looking for. I said, “Oh, as much as possible, really.” He asked me what sort of camera I had, at which I had to admit defeat and say, “This one.” He explained that with some of those, they could only take two gigs (I pretended to know what a gig was and nodded sagely). I decided to go with two gigs. I mean, it was only like a fiver for the memory card. Two gigs was probably what I’d got already. Actually, it turns out that two gigs is about 963 photos. Nine hundred and sixty-three. Who even needs that many photos?

Having said that, like many things you don’t actually need, I ended up using it a hell of a lot and managed to take about fifty photos. Selectiveness be damned. And don’t worry, I won’t be showing you all of them.

Having said all that, here’s a photo of the nearby Tower Tavern. You may recall in a previous entry that I said this pub was built on the site of a previous Fitzrovia pub called “The Bastard Arms”. Apparently this is actually a pretty good pub – it’s just a shame that the architecture is so awful that you yearn for good old-fashioned Brutalism.

I visited a couple of other places on my travels – two art shops in Soho within literally about a minute of each other that I rather like are Cowling & Wilcox Ltd on Broadwick Street and Cass Art on Berwick Street (the latter easily identifiable by the massive slogan “LET’S FILL THIS TOWN WITH ARTISTS”). The two are incredibly close together, carry a broad range of stock and are both pretty cheap. The range isn’t quite as wide as the London Graphic Centre on Shelton Street (Covent Garden), but between them they have most things an artsy bod needs.

Having saved a few pennies, I then went to spend one in the Gents on Broadwick Street. Not that I especially think you wish to hear the details of my micturation, but this particular visit was notable for the toilet attendant. Now, some jobs naturally attract people who like telling other people what to do but don’t have the brain capacity for actual leadership. Traffic wardens spring to mind here. Security guards. DSS officials. I’m sure not all of them are pocket dictators, but if I were to ask you what you think of when I mention those professions, the chances are that your personal experience of them might feature some bossiness on their part.

And there are some jobs that should never, under any circumstances, inspire this sort of attitude. Toilet attendant would be an obvious one. I’ve ranted about these people before, but this one was really something else. She was trying to close up the toilet, you see. Now, using the toilet is one of those things that you really shouldn’t hurry. It sort of happens in its own time. What doesn’t help is a middle-aged woman barking at you to hurry up. What really doesn’t help is when she doesn’t speak much English. Having voided myself sufficiently, she then became annoyed by the fact that I wanted to wash my hands afterwards. I’m no clean freak, but I do work in a hospital, and patiently explained to this woman that I was not going out with unwashed hands, no matter how many times she kissed her teeth at me, because not washing your hands after weeing is totally gross.

I followed a sort of Brownian motion path around the West End thereafter, taking in bits of Bloomsbury, Leicester Square and Charing Cross until I got to Covent Garden, and damn me if Cybercandy wasn’t too strong for me. Cybercandy, if you’re not familiar with it, is a sweet shop that specialises in exotic delights from around the world. Chocolate bars, fizzy drinks, breakfast cereal – if your doctor says you shouldn’t eat it, they’ve probably got it here in more varieties than you thought possible.

Let me explain this for those outside the UK. In Britain, we’re not really people who like having too much choice. I put it down to the Blitz spirit – we’ve become so culturally conditioned to going without that when we’re actually presented with huge amounts of choice, we get frightened. We have eight varieties of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, and that’s considered quite a lot (for comparison, Ireland have ten and Australia and New Zealand have thirty-three – thanks, Wikipedia!). There are twenty-four varieties of Coca-Cola; we have five, and two of those are pretty new.

So when a British person goes to Cybercandy and sees the insane range of dental nightmares on sale, the reaction is a combination of surprise and delight. The brain tells you to be cool, the heart tells you to spend a fortune and scoff exotic chocolate until you pass out and wake up two days later covered in brown sick. That’s if your curiosity doesn’t encourage you to partake of stranger paths – pepper candies, chocolate-covered crickets, BBQ-flavoured larvae. I tried the last one once, and I can safely say that it’s the worst thing I have ever eaten. It does not taste like chicken.

Today I bought a bag of Haribo salty liquorice dummies. Salty liquorice is an acquired taste, and it’s safe to say that I’ve acquired it. It’s popular in Northern Europe, particularly Scandinavia, and in flavour it’s a cross between Pontefract cakes and having your sinuses blasted out with seawater. The distinctive salty flavour comes from ammonium chloride, a substance used in glue, textiles, shampoo and solder among many other industries. It’s done wonders for me chest though.

Kids and grown-ups love it so, the happy world of OH GOD MAKE IT STOP

I really shouldn’t like it, but damme if those salty little sweets ain’t grown on me. This goes some way to explaining why my teeth resemble Mordor. Hey ho.