A-Peel-ing fellows

I’m always amazed by how long it took London to get a police force. These days, a police force is regarded as one of those basic requirements of civilisation (assuming you’re not being kettled, amirite?). Yet there was no centralised law enforcement agency for the Metropolis until 1829, when  Robert Peel, the Home Secretary, passed his Metropolitan Police Improvement Bill through Parliament.

Peel.

Prior to this, the policing of the city had been a mess. Each parish appointed watchmen to do the actual policing, and these men did not exactly strike fear into the hearts of evildoers, being generally old, decrepit and poorly paid. A spoof advert published in 1821 suggested that the ideal watchman should be,

the age of sixty, seventy, eighty or ninety years; blind with one eye and seeing very little with the other; crippled in one or both legs; deaf as a post; with an asthmatical cough that tears them to pieces; whose speed will keep pace with a snail, and the strength of whose arm would not be able to arrest an old washerwoman of fourscore.

A watchman. Watchmen were nicknamed "Charleys" after King Charles II.

Then you had the parish constables, an unpaid role that every able-bodied gentleman of the parish was expected to perform at some time. In practice, as the job was unpopular, would-be constables often paid someone else to do the job for them.

This system left much to be desired – for a start, all a thief had to do to escape pursuit was cross into another parish. Where the parish fell short, though, private enterprise was willing to step forward. It was common for the wealthy to hire private bodyguards when travelling on the roads. In the city, thief-takers offered a kind of private police force, apprehending criminals and collecting the reward money. In practice, however, the thief-takers were often gangsters who simply used the appearance of policing to better control their own sections of the criminal underworld.

In 1753, Henry Fielding (writer, satirist and Chief Magistrate for London) founded the Bow Street Runners, the first attempt at an organised police force. The Runners were few but effective, being made up largely of former constables and, indeed, former members of the thief-takers’ gangs. Paid a regular wage and outfitted in smart blue uniforms, these were the obvious ancestors of the modern Met.

However, they couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the need for something more substantial was highlighted by the Gordon Riots in 1780. This shameful episode in London’s history was the result of opposition to a petition by Lord George Gordon to grant a few rights to Catholics which broke out in violence and looting. Having no suitable civil force, the Government sent the army in, who killed some two hundred rioters and wounded at least another two hundred and fifty. The Earl of Shelburne suggested that maybe a police force similar to that in France would be a good idea. This was widely opposed on the grounds that it was totalitarian and a bit French. Peel’s 1829 response (in a letter to the Duke of Wellington) was, “I want to teach people that liberty does not consist in having your house robbed by organised gangs of thieves, and in leaving the principal streets of London in the nightly possession of drunken women and vagabonds.” Dude had a point.

The lack of police was damaging the city’s reputation and, indeed, the nation’s. Spain, for instance, believed a collapse of the British government was imminent and so decided not to bother with peace negotiations. In an effort to prove that sea trade with London was safe, 1798 saw the formation of the Marine Police to patrol the Port.

Constable Tom Smith, 1850. Not an easy man to miss.

Further waves of crime and civil unrest shifted Parliament’s opinion, and in September 1829 the first of the new police were rolled out. They were dressed smartly in their blue tunics and reinforced top hats, the latter designed to be stood on where extra height was needed. Each was equipped with a lantern, a baton, a rattle, a pair of handcuffs and a cutlass.

A policeman’s lot, it has to be said, was not always a happy one. Pay was a guinea a week, but they had to pay the expenses incurred by any wrongful arrest. Police on patrol were not allowed to sit down or lean against anything, and had to be polite to the public at all times. This was not made easy by the fact that a lot of the public were not fans of the polis, nicknaming them “raw lobsters,” “blue devils” and worse (“peelers” and “bobbies” are terms of affection by comparison).

Verbal abuse and physical assault were commonplace, partly due to the extra taxes levied to pay for the police, but largely (one suspects) due to resentment at this form of increased authority. Police were subjected to stonings and knife attacks on a regular basis, with even the odd attempt at vehicular homicide from wealthy carriage owners. If this seems a little daring, it may be worth noting that penalties were surprisingly mild. One young costermonger who injured a policeman for life was given a sentence of only a year, with the jury expressing sympathy for the boy. In 1831, an instance of a policeman being stabbed while breaking up a fight returned a verdict of justifiable homicide. Unsurprisingly, thousands of those early constables either left the force or found themselves turning to drink.

Slowly but surely, though, the police gained the public trust. This may partly have been due to the old watch system being wound down (although the City didn’t abolish their watchmen until 1839). More likely, though, it was due to property owners realising that actually, a few pence extra is a small price to pay for spending 24 hours without getting robbed. Commentator W. O’Brien noted in 1852 that “The habitual state of mind towards the police of those who live by crime is not so much dislike, as slavish, abject terror.” Which certainly beats getting stabbed.

These days, the bobby on the beat is a familiar sight, some would say a little too familiar when you don’t need one and not familiar enough when you do. Nevetheless, it can’t be denied that the Peelers’ modern-day descendents are an iconic part of our city.

Evening all.

Also

As this is the last entry of 2010, may I wish all my readers a happy and prosperous New Year. And all you people who came to this page by mistake while looking for something else, have a good one yourselves.

Oh yes it is

Pantomime is one of those British Christmas institutions as traditional as mince pies and the Doctor Who special (incidentally, did you see it yesterday? So good). It’s one of those things that’s a little bit difficult to explain to someone unfamiliar with the concept – it’s a play usually based on a fairy tale, but there are jokes and songs and you usually have a famous man dressed as a woman or a famous woman dressed as a man and at some point everyone is contractually obliged to shout “Oh no it isn’t!” followed by “Oh yes it is!” The whole thing should be very camp and self-aware and strive to avoid major innovation. Basically, it’s pretty much the opposite of conventional theatre. As I sit here with my Boxing Day breakfast (two slices of stollen, a Stilton sandwich, coffee festived-up with brandy butter), it might be nice to look into the history of this weird art.

And no, he wasn't short of work when he did this.

Although it’s come to be known as a peculiarly British phenomenon, the origins of pantomime go back to the ancient Greeks, who regarded it as something to keep the plebs happy. Lots of singing, dancing and vulgar humour, but Serious Dramatists considered it utterly beneath their contempt.

Similar forms of entertainment survived into Britain in the eighteenth century, which is when the story of modern pantomime really begins. To understand this early-modern panto, you have to understand a bit about theatre of that era.

You’d have more than one show on the bill. There would be a formal play (or ballet, or opera), what you or I would normally think of when we go to the theatre. But there would also be something more populist beforehand as a warm-up act, something with lots of jokes and songs to grab the audience’s attention and get them on the performers’ side. Audiences in those days would openly and loudly talk during the show, the wealthy would parade around, orange peel would be thrown, people would come and go as they pleased and it was not unknown for the performers to be heckled so much that they would change the bill right there and then. The opener was, yes, a pantomime.

Pantomimes were deliberately formulaic. They had to be instantly understandable to everyone. No matter what the story, they featured a stock set of characters and devices and – this was significant – no dialogue. Licensing laws were strict. Pantomime performers were not regarded as true actors and so, by that rather snobbish logic, could not be licensed to perform spoken drama. There were various cheats – you couldn’t speak, but you could sing, you could write on a big board, you could rhyme. And nobody paid much attention to a couple of words here and there. But really, it was down to instantly recognisable conventions and physical performers to carry the thing.

Mr Joseph Grimaldi

The inventor of the modern pantomime is often regarded as the legendary clown, Joseph Grimaldi, seen right. He was undoubtedly the first modern clown, and really deserves an entry in his own right. His father (of the same name) was also a brilliant clown, part-time dentist and utter bastard. Young Joey was raised by a father who was physically and emotionally abusive to the point of psychosis (for instance, Grimaldi pere once faked his own death just to see if his sons really loved him). Grimaldi Junior was plagued by depression and insecurity throughout his life – he would often joke that “I make you laugh at night, but I am grim-all-day.” He invented modern clown makeup, and it’s psychologically interesting that a man so uncomfortable with himself should transform himself so completely for the stage. In comedy, he found a means of feeding his insatiable need for affection, and so it’s no surprise that he became a popular and beloved performer.

His first great pantomime triumph was Mother Goose in 1806. To call him the “inventor” of modern pantomime is to unfairly deprive everyone else of well-deserved credit. It was actually created as a last-minute thing. Thomas Dibden was the usual author of Christmas pantomimes for Covent Garden Theatre, but that year, nobody had thought to approach him. It was only a few short weeks before curtain-up that the theatre’s management asked him, “So, how’s this year’s panto coming along?” Panicked, Dibden wrote a low-tech panto requiring no elaborate special effects or routines, tailored for a short rehearsal period.

The resulting show was far better than anyone could have hoped – helped by a clever script and Grimaldi’s naturalistic physical comedy. It was wildly popular, running right until the following Christmas. And so it became the standard model for the pantomimes that followed.

Quite apart from the actual merits of the show, pantomime became a far less restricted form of performance than conventional theatre. Being regarded as low art, the censors didn’t pay much attention. Satire and sexual innuendo were standard, the latter generally coming from the panto dame. The dame, being a man in drag, could get away with lewdness that an actual woman couldn’t. Similarly, the convention of having the principal boy played by a woman was largely so that you could legitimately have a woman showing her legs off.

Other traditions were added and removed over the years. The characters became less rigidly “stock” as the ban on spoken pantomime was abandoned, though the principal boy and the dame remained. The panto horse, two actors in a silly animal costume, became another standard element. The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, pioneered the use of celebrities as a draw in the late 19th century.

These days, it’s regarded as something for the kids – innuendo is still an element, of course, but it goes straight over the children’s heads. If it doesn’t, well, they’re already corrupted anyway.

It’s also regarded as a means for keeping B-list celebs in the limelight, though lately a lot of really quite legit celebrities have been trying their hand, partly I suspect because it’s fun. The picture above is from the Wimbledon pantomime last year, which boasted Pamela Anderson, Paul O’Grady, Ruby Wax and BRIAN BLESSED! in its cast. Sir Ian McKellen enjoys a good panto, as seen up top there, and BRIAN BLESSED! and Christopher Biggins are well-known for hamming it up on an annual basis.

The big ones in London these days are Wimbledon and Hackney. Wimbledon tends to do the big star-studded shows, while Hackney aims for something resolutely traditional but critically acclaimed. However, most reasonably-sized theatres outside the West End will put a show on, and they do tend to do pretty well. The glory days of pantomime are certainly not… wait for it… behind us!

No? Oh, please yourselves. Merry Christmas, chums.

Fully Booked

Right, chums, I think I’ve finally got the last of my Christmas shopping done. Hmm, that’s odd, I seem to recall having more money than that. Oh well.

I realise that many people here are not so fortunate – indeed, I myself have only got mine complete now as a result of a short-term change in my working hours. I feel I ought to do something to help. Here, therefore, are six of my favourite specialist bookshops for those obscure volumes that you can’t find anywhere else that make awesome presents if you know people of a literary bent and that.

I’m going to steer clear of second-hand and bargain bookshops, and also chains. So much as I’d love to, I can’t talk about Forbidden Planet or The Lamb, although both are excellent in their own way. I am also steering clear of those bookshops attached to museums, though these too are fine places for that specialist tome (The Cartoon Museum and the London Transport Museum both have excellent selections on their respective subjects) for the simple reason that they’d likely end up dominating the list. But do bear them in mind.

Anyway, without further ado…

1. Gosh! Comics

Specialises in: Graphic novels

Where is it? 39 Great Russell Street, WC1B

Nearest Tube: Tottenham Court Road or Holborn

There’s no shortage of comics shops in London, but to my mind Gosh! is the best. Comic shops have a tendency to be slightly grotty and a little intimidating to the novice. Gosh! is far more user-friendly, with less emphasis on mouldering racks of old Marvels and more on indie graphic novels, the kind of hip things that get reviewed in The Guardian. There’s also a superb selection of classic illustrated children’s books if you want something for the kids. An occasional treat for comic geeks like me is the signings they had – Hurricane Jack and I were once privileged to attend a signing by the great and hirstute Alan Moore. He’s really very friendly in real life.

http://www.goshlondon.com/

2. Motor Books

Specialises in: Car and other transport books

Where is it? 13-15 Cecil Court, WC2N

Nearest Tube: Leicester Square

Motor Books describes itself as “the world’s oldest motoring bookshop,” and it’s situated on the eminently bumble-able street of Cecil Court. It has a fantastic selection of books on all transport subjects, but as the name suggests, particularly specialises in those related to automobilia, arranged by category and marque. I’m no petrol-head, but even I was able to almost instantly find one of the books I was searching for. The staff are marvellous, and were able to pinpoint the second book right away. Given that both titles were fairly obscure, I must say I was most impressed.

http://www.motorbooks.co.uk/

3. Persephone

Specialises in: Obscure 20th century books by female novelists

Where is it? 59 Lambs Conduit Street

Nearest Tube: Russell Square or Holborn

Persephone is both bookshop and small-press publisher, publishing mainly female-authored books of the twentieth century that have been allowed to go out of print. Famed authors in their day now unjustly forgotten, lesser-known works by well-known writers and even cookbooks and diaries from bygone eras, all are liable to appear in the distinctive grey covers of Persephone. The bookshop has a real intimacy about it, and not just because it’s small. The staff are extremely knowledgeable and ready to provide advice (Yr. Humble Chronicler being less than familiar with between-the-wars women’s fiction). There’s a regular newsletter, too, and you get the feeling that Persephone is the sort of place that likes to nurture a regular customer base. Which is super.

http://www.persephonebooks.co.uk/index.asp

4. Housman’s

Specialises in: Radical literature

Where is it? 5 Caledonian Road, King’s Cross

Nearest Tube: King’s Cross St Pancras

I suspect this is a shop whose time has definitely come, what with the Coalition working hard to piss everyone off simultaneously. Therefore, you may find this place just the ticket if you’re looking for an alternative. Opened in 1945 as an offshoot of the pacifist movement, it offers a massive selection of political literature, including books, pamphlets and zines. However, if you’re not a very political person, but you are a regular on this blog, you may also wish to examine their massive wall of London-based books. Up the workers, and so forth.

http://www.housmans.com/index.php

5. Gay’s The Word

Specialises in: LGBT books

Where is it? 66 Marchmont Street

Nearest Tube: Russell Square

Gay’s The Word proudly advertises itself as the only specialist gay and lesbian bookshop in London, and its selection is very impressive indeed – they cover the whole spectrum from light-hearted fiction to in-depth political tomes, not to mention a fine range of cards and magazines on queer topics. I was rather taken by Sodomy and the Pirate Tradition, as well as a couple of books on the history of gay London. Recommended to anyone with an interest in gender politics, regardless of orientation.

http://freespace.virgin.net/gays.theword/

6. The School of Life

Specialising in: Philosophy, life improvement, self-help… I’ll get back to you on that one.

Where is it? 70 Marchmont Street

Nearest Tube: Russell Square

The School of Life was founded by Alain de Botton. Not strictly a bookshop, it nevertheless does sell an excellent range of books on topics that are related to improving your life. How to enjoy work, how to be ethical, how to take advantage of the simple pleasures of life, how to make relationships work, how to be happy – anything relating to life that’s not easily categorised. The chances are that you’ll find three or four different books you’ll want yourself, along with a bunch for your friends. Bring money, is what I’m saying.

http://www.theschooloflife.com/

… And did I mention it’s free?

One of the big complaints I hear about London is how expensive it is. I think this is highly debatable – I manage to live quite comfortably on very little money. And it’s quite surprising what you can do in this city for no money at all.

Take yesterday. I was supposed to be going to a Christmas party, an annual tradition among my chums, but thanks to the bastard snow this was called off (due to the impossibility of getting to our hosts’ house out in Oxfordshire). Fortunately, Izzi came to the rescue with an invite to a magic show by Penn and Teller hosted by Jonathan Ross. Well, that sounded like just the thing – how much would I owe her? Nothing. By Jove, that’s most generous, but – you mean the tickets cost nothing? By Jove.

Messrs. Penn Gillette and Teller

The catch was that this wasn’t a conventional show. It was actually the filming of a special at the London Studios in Southwark. We were to be a studio audience. There are companies, you see, whose function is basically to procure audiences for studio-based programmes. You go on a mailing list and you get your invite and off you go. Granted, it’s on a first-come first-served basis and so not everyone who wants a ticket can get one (Izzi tells me that QI has a three-year waiting list), but considering that it’s free, it’s a pretty sweet deal.

And so Izzi and I met up at Waterloo and took a stroll over to the London Studios. I’d been here once before – I was interviewed back in 2000 on London Today because I was in a play and it was all terribly exciting. No such VIP treatment this time, sadly, there was quite a bit of waiting around. Most of it inside, though, for which we were grateful.

Once we were actually in and settled in our seats, a warm-up act came on – a stand-up comedian named Stuart Goldsmith whose job was to get us all enthusiastic for the big show. At one point Yr. Humble Chronicler was singled out for having “fabulous hair” and a look that was described as “the Kings of Leon teaching geography.” If I ever do something that merits a poster, that quote’s going on there.

Above: Kings of Leon. Not pictured: geography.

Then the show itself began. Now, I don’t want to give too much away, as I suspect the producers would get upset. Also, it’s a little unfair to make judgments on a show that hasn’t even been edited.

Essentially, Penn and Teller were looking for a new opener for their Las Vegas show. Penn and Teller, if you aren’t familiar with them, are hugely popular magicians in America, also known as skeptics and debunkers. Their show is very comedy-based. Penn is the talky one, Teller is the quiet one (i.e. he literally doesn’t speak). Their act is highly entertaining, and I’d recommend it to all.

Magic is one of those things that’s not very fashionable these days, at least in Britain. I recall when I was a kid it was on TV all the time – Paul Daniels was probably the most well-known, but there were plenty of others. These days, the only regular on our screens would appear to be Derren Brown. However, Izzi is something of an enthusiast, and gave me a brief lowdown on the scene as it stands.

This show is a one-off special called Fool Us, in which Penn and Teller, longstanding veterans of the stage magic scene, search for someone who can show them a trick that they cannot explain. With that in mind, several magicians (who, Izzi informs me, are highly respected in the magic world) showed us their tricks.

I won’t go into any real detail, suffice it to say that the results will surprise you (they certainly seemed to surprise Penn and Teller). What I was impressed by was the sheer range of performance styles – one was quite traditional, another went for a dance-based routine, a third put on a slick-and-cocky persona and a couple played it all for laughs. Every one was different and distinctive. As I say, Jonathan Ross was the Master of Ceremonies for the night. I used to be fairly neutral about him, but now I’ve seen how much he upsets the Daily Mail, I think I quite like him. Penn and Teller did a few tricks themselves, and in the first one (the phone one, if they’ve edited them around) you should be able to see Yr. Humble Chronicler and Izzi in the audience. I’m the one who looks like the Kings of Leon teaching geography.

What this did highlight for me, though, was how few new tricks there really are. If you’re interested in magic, I’d recommend Jim Steinmeyer’s Hiding the Elephant, which is a history of the great tricks and how they’ve evolved over the years. But most of what looks like a new, contemporary trick is almost always a very venerable illusion spruced up for the modern audience. One of the tricks we saw actually dated back to ancient Egypt. That’s not to say they weren’t enjoyable – the way a routine is carried out is often what makes the difference, and it has to be said that not a single one of the acts we saw was less than entertaining.

It has to be said that the magic of television is a little exhausting – we were stuck there for about four hours with retakes, pauses and waiting around, and my hands ached from clapping by the end. But it was totally worth it.

Then today I got another call from Izzi saying they were filming a show with Bill Bailey today and – but that’s another story.

The White Stuff

You know, with all the excitement, I never did get around to putting up my snow photos. Which is a shame, because working in Bloomsbury you get some rather pretty scenes on the way into work. Here’s a snowy photo entry type thing! Hurrah!

We begin the journey, as I did, in Colliers Wood. Not that Colliers Wood is a particularly scenically spectacular place, but I thought it would be nice to get a shot of the virgin snow in the small hours. Virgin anything is a rarity in South London, particularly after a late night.

Here is Colliers Wood the next morning. See what I mean about it not being scenically spectacular? Oh well, that’s suburbia I suppose. Affordable suburbia, at least.

Here we go, Bloomsbury at last. Here are some of the many parks and gardens in the area.

This on the left is Store Street, just off Tottenham Court Road. Is that a really big wreath or a really small building?

Also, what is it with blue lights these days? I bet in years to come, blue lights will be remembered as one of those retro obsessions we had.

The snow had started to melt by the time I got to the Brunswick Centre. Still, there was enough on the Christmas trees for my sinister purpose.

The rather art deco lions outside the British Museum seemed unperturbed by the weather. I call the one to the left of the doors Fortescue and the one to the right Ponsomby.

Fortescue is the impulsive one, Ponsomby is the sobering influence.

Statue of Peter Pan outside Great Ormond Street Hospital. Interesting fact, trivia fans: the ashes of former Prime Minister Jim Callaghan are scattered in the flower bed there.

Now, here are three icons of the city – a phone box, a pillar box and an Underground sign. I liked this blog better before it sold out to the tourists.

And finally, a disgruntled pigeon.

I should cocoa

Yesterday, Izzi drew my attention to a chocolate festival on the South Bank this weekend. As Christmas is approaching, we believed that we could probably find some suitable presents there. Therefore, in a spirit of pure and almost saintly altruism, we went to a place with heinous amounts of luxury chocolate.

These are all made of chocolate.

Just about every variant on the sinful bean was present at this event, which was held behind the Royal Festival Hall. Chocolate bars, chocolate cakes, hot chocolate, brownies, fudge, shortbread, lollipops, churros, chilli – even elaborate sculptures. And there were luxury chocolatiers, fair trade vendors, preachers of the gospel of the organic (although if your chocolate contains organs then something has gone badly wrong), right down to the small-scale snack sellers. In short, it was a hair shirt for the dieter. Actually, we were quite good – I personally limited myself to a cup of chilli hot chocolate and a Belgian chocolate tart. Plus some free samples, which of course do not count.

What's really sad is that I can identify the class of this locomotive. It's a Gresley A3. I shall hang my head in shame.

Chocolate has a long and ancient history in the Americas. While the Romans were conquering Britain, the people of Central and South America had been partaking for a thousand years. Under the Aztecs, cocoa beans were used as currency, while the drink itself (the solid form being unknown at the time) was a luxury beverage, enjoyed by the most high in society. It was used for medicinal and ceremonial purposes, particularly religious rituals – I’ve even come across the suggestion that it was mixed with the blood of sacrificial victims, though I suspect the author was using a little dramatic licence. At that time, it was mixed with chilli, a flavouring that has only recently come into fashion in Europe.

Indeed, in the 16th century, when it was first brought to Europe by the Spanish, it was not immediately popular. Chocolate was considered too bitter and spicy for most, and so did not become popular until chilli was removed from the recipe and milk and sugar added. In this form, it became a hit among the smart set. Casanova would later complain that “the Spanish offer visitors chocolate so frequently at all hours that if one accepted, one would be choked.”

Mr Casanova’s fellow countrymen disagreed, and Italy enthusiastically took up drinking chocolate. So too did Germany and Switzerland, both noted for their enthusiasm for the stuff to this day.

It came to Britain in the 1650s, and strangely became associated with radical politics – chocolate houses, i.e, shops where drinking chocolate was sold, were popular meeting places. Indeed, they were the direct and immediate ancestors of the coffee houses which, as I have previously described within these pages, were basically the foundation of modern London. Sir Hans Sloane, pictured left, introduced a supposedly medicinal form of the drink in 1689. He also invented the British Museum or something.

Of course, the moral guardians of the nation were quick to point out how evil chocolate must be. I think the normal train of thought among such killjoys is to condemn whatever it is that people are enjoying at the moment and then to figure out what’s wrong with it. One Dr Daniel Duncan cautioned in 1712 that drinking of hot beverages like chocolate would damage the delicate tissue of the stomach, and that sugar rendered such drinks “poison.” Pamphlets were even published warning that excessive consumption of the drink would lead to women giving birth to “blackamoor” babies – this rather nutty idea seems to have originated with Madame de Sevigne of Paris, who wrote that the Marquise de Coetlogon had experienced this side effect personally. Not being a cynic, it hasn’t even crossed my mind to say “or at least, that was her story.”

Harry Potter, prior to another chocolate-fuelled rampage.

King Charles II, despite being one of the pimpingest monarchs in the history of Britain, wanted to see chocolate (and coffee) banned, mostly for the aforementioned association with radical politics. The Church, too, was strongly against this joyous substance, condemning it as “the damnable agent of necromancers and sorcerors,” which I think is perhaps going a bit far.

That being said, it can’t be denied that there is a strong association between chocolate and sin. Chocolate, particularly the high-end luxury stuff, is invariably marketed as something sexual, as the unsubtle advert on the left shows. In 1772, the Marquis de Sade was imprisoned after spiking chocolate pastilles at a party with Spanish fly, resulting in a riotous orgy. The old perv also once requested a chocolate cake “as black inside from chocolate as the Devil’s arse is black from smoke.”

In the 19th century, it lost some of its lustre in Britain, perhaps in part due to the adulteration of chocolate powder with potato starch, brick dust or whatever else was to hand (see the link below for more details of his practice). Indeed, it became positively respectable, and by the 1850s the Moral Guardians had decided that actually, chocolate was okay because it wasn’t alcohol. At around this time, solid “eating” chocolate became available, and a reduction in the duties levied on cocoa made it affordable to all.

Now, of course, it’s enjoyed by everyone. Well, actually, that’s a lie – in Cote d’Ivoire and Ghana, where 80% of the world’s cocoa originates, the cheapest way to get those beans harvested is by the use of child slavery. Despite the best efforts of campaigners, the position remains grim – in part, because the process of selling cocoa beans is so complex that by the time they get to the factory, it’s difficult to tell where your beans actually came from. US Congressman Eliot Engel proposed in 2001 that a new labelling system be introduced whereby chocolate that could be proven untainted by forced labour would be entitled to the label “slave free.” Perhaps predictably, the chocolate manufacturers resisted this. If some chocolate is labelled “slave free,” that rather implies that the rest is not, which is not exactly in line with the luxury marketing. It’s enough to put you off your Snickers.

Further reading

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2010/09/26/adultery-at-the-produce-counter/
 - Food adulteration for beginners.

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2010/03/24/coffee-society/
 - The coffee houses and their role in the shaping of Our Fair Metropolis.

Steady on, Chaps

You may have spotted a certain type of outfit among the smart sets of Soho and Shoreditch. Not quite commonplace, but certainly more visible than it used to be. I’m talking about this sort of thing:

These are the Chaps, a relatively new movement that revels in being old-fashioned. Resolutely twentieth-century, it should not be confused with steampunk (though there is a certain amount of overlap).

The ethos of the movement might best be described as a tongue-in-cheek harking back to a more polite era that may never have really existed. The emphasis is on gentlemanly behaviour, fashions and activities, albeit with a somewhat bohemian bent. Its heroes are the likes of David Niven and Leslie Philips, although more modern figures who embody chap values, such as Sebastian Horsley and Stephen Fry, are more than welcome. Indeed, one need not even be male to be part of the scene – Fleur de Guerre (whose blog, Diary of a Vintage Girl, may be seen linked to your right) is a regular contributor to The Chap magazine.

Which is really where the whole thing began. The relatively small press magazine was founded by Gustav Temple, one of the fellows in the photo above, back in 1999. It received wider exposure through, of all places, articles in Loaded and continues to maintain a cult following among those who follow or aspire to Chappism. It regularly features articles on such subjects as fine alcohol, pipe smoking and moustache maintenance. 

Temple uses the term “anarcho-dandyism” to describe the movement. The aim is to bring about social change through the more positive aspects of the past – the feeling is that consumerism and conformity in the modern era have put paid to common courtesy and the simple pleasures of life, and the aim is to bring these back.

Oddly enough, though, Chappism can embrace modernity in its own unique way. For instance, there is a Chappist style of music. It’s called Chap-Hop and the first known exponent was Jim Burke, better known as Mr B the Gentleman Rhymer, seen left. A sort of unholy spawn of Vivian Stanshall and Weird Al Yankovic, his speciality is taking existing hip-hop tracks and reworking them (with extensive use of the banjolele) into a more Chappy form. For instance, his take on ‘Straight Out of Compton’ was ‘Straight Out of Surrey,’ in which he boasts of his cricket expertise. His version of ‘Let Me Clear My Throat’ was ‘Let Me Smoke My Pipe,’ whose subject matter is self-explanatory.

The other major Chap-Hopper is Professor Elemental, pictured right – although it’s fair to say that his work has a more steampunk feel than Mr B. Both are funny as the dickens, though, and well worth a listen.

However, there are storm clouds on the horizon – with his song ‘Fighting Trousers’, the Professor has instigated a feud with Mr B. The Chap ethos demands that this be settled in a manly fashion, either with bare-knuckle boxing or a duel on Hampstead Heath. I’ll keep you posted.

Chappism has become more mainstream in recent years, I suspect due to the surge in popularity of vintage fashion.

I suspect Doctor Who has played no small part in this either. First we had the determinedly 1940s-styled Captain Jack Harkness, then we had the rather wonderful Eleventh Doctor, played by Matt Smith. This character has singlehandedly revived the British tweed industry – tweed jackets are now popular even among non-Chaps. Although The Chap was quick to find fault with his use of clip-on braces. Should have buttons on his trousers, you see.

Retro fashion is an odd thing. First it was the teddy boys harking back to Edwardian fashion in rebellion against the conservatism of the 1950s, now the Chaps hark back to the conservatism of the 1950s in rebellion against the conspicuous consumption and facelessness of the 21st century. What goes around, comes around.

Further Reading

http://www.thechap.net/
 - The Chap’s official web site.

http://www.myspace.com/mrbthegentlemanrhymer
 - Mr B the Gentleman Rhymer’s “My Space.”

http://www.professorelemental.com/fr_home.cfm
 - Professor Elemental’s web site.

Bowled over

If there’s one item of clothing associated with London more than any other – uniforms aside – it must surely be the bowler hat. The chap on the left knows what I’m talking about. Blue suit, immaculate tie, furled umbrella, buttonhole and the lot topped off by the immortal bowler. You might consider accessorising with a grey walrus moustache or going with grey striped trousers, or perhaps substituting a cane if the weather is particularly sunny, but you get the idea. The bowler is an essential part of the city gent uniform.

Sadly, these days they’re a bit of a rarity. Most of the gents you see wearing them are Of A Certain Age and usually A Conservative Bent. Indeed, hats of any kind seem to be out of fashion as clobber for the working day – in winter a fellow might wear a woolly hat, but that’s about it. I suspect it’s something to do with London becoming a World City and all. The venerable organisations that employed bowler-hat-wearers were forced to get all dynamic and modern, a lot of the old financial institutions moved out to the Docklands and fashion shifted. A shame, I think a chap looks good in a bowler.

It’s appropriate that the bowler hat should be associated with London, for it was in this very city that the hat was invented. James Lock & Co, perhaps the most famous hatters in Britain, were commissioned in 1849 to come up with a more workaday alternative to the top hat. The problem the customer had was that his gamekeepers kept getting their toppers knocked off or otherwise damaged in the course of their duties. Lock & Co subcontracted out to a pair of hatters named Thomas and William Bowler – some accounts say that the Bowler brothers devised the hat, others that they simply made it to Lock’s designs.

This came as a bit of a surprise to me – I’d always assumed the name “bowler” referred to the fact that it was shaped like a bowl, or possibly that there was some obscure cricket connection. The idea that it was named after Messrs. Bowler did not occur to me.

Yr. Humble Chronicler with mask, bowler hat and double chin. I still have the hat.

Anyway, the hat matched the specifications perfectly. It was resilient, close-fitting and comfortable. Lock & Co originally named it the Coke hat after the customer (popularly believed to be one William Coke). When it took off, it became known as the bowler in most of Britain, the derby in America and the billycock (from Billy Coke?) in Northumberland.

And take off it did. Now, Yr. Humble Chronicler is firmly of the belief that the top hat takes some beating (not literally, though, it dents if you do that). But it has to be admitted that it’s not always the most practical item of headgear. The bowler, by contrast, is an excellent way of keeping the head warm. It’s strong, it won’t blow off, it won’t get knocked off and it’s easily stored. In the 1850s, it also had the advantage that it could be mechanically mass-produced and was therefore cheaper.

As a result of all these factors, they became a massive worldwide success. They didn’t really go properly out of style until over a century later. Indeed, in some places – particularly West Africa, I’m told – they’re still popular among the more dapper gent.

In Britain, the general consensus seems to be that they died out at some point in the 1970s/80s – which ties in with my theory that they disappeared when London’s financial district got all flashy and modern. In other words, blame Thatcher.

Ice, Ice Baby

Winter, it would seem, is well and truly here. I am basing this purely on the heinous amount of snow outside. Of course, this isn’t entirely unexpected – it’s been brass-monkeys cold for a while now. I’m not a religious guy, but on Saturday, with my hands purple and aching with cold, I had cause to thank God for Primark and their inexpensive gloves. Later that day I took the terrible photo above, showing that City Road Basin in Islington was partially frozen.

Back in “The Day,” (i.e. up until about the mid-20th century) frozen canals and rivers were a serious issue. Canals in particular, which don’t flow like a river, were vulnerable to icing up. This had obvious economic consequences for trade, particularly before the advent of decent roads and railways. The low-tech but cunning solution was to apply brute force and a certain amount of wiggling. This was achieved using the canal icebreaker, or ”rocker,” as they were known in the business.

The rocker was like a shortened narrowboat, but instead of a cargo area, it simply had a long bar. The bow sloped upwards. A team of men would stand either side, holding on to the bar. When the rocker came to ice, the bow would ride up on top of the ice and the men would rock back and forth to break it (hence the vessel’s nickname). This was usually sufficient for all but the most Arctic conditions in London.

[PARENTHESIS: Did you know that the word "Arctic" comes from the Latin word for polar bear, "arcta." Arctic literally means "place where there are polar bears." Antarctic means "place where there are no polar bears." Now you know.]

Now, earlier this year I wrote about the frost fairs that were held on the Thames when it froze over in winter. The idea of the river freezing over sounds like the sort of thing that went out with breeches and snufftaking. In fact, the end of the frozen Thames can be put down to several factors. Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, the river flows that much faster these days. The construction of the Embankments north and south of the river has constrained it, which, if you recall your school physics lessons, speeds the flow up. The old London Bridge, which had lots of arches and waterwheels to slow things down, has been demolished and replaced twice – the new one allowing freer flow and also, interestingly, possessing heating elements for the road over it.

Industry since the dawn of the steam age has discharged a lot of hot water – and other products – into the Thames, raising the overall temperature. I would imagine residential and commercial premises, with their heating and lighting, are contributing factors as well – but I’m no scientist.

And down in South London, the draining of the Lambeth marshes (commemorated with the street called Lower Marsh in Waterloo) has meant that ice no longer forms along the banks there, preventing the freeze from getting a foothold, or whatever it is that freezes do.

That being said, I was surprised to learn how recent the last big freeze was. In fact, it was 1963. This was the coldest winter since 1740. Roads and railways were, as you might imagine, choked up. Rivers fared little better, and even the sea was frozen at Margate and Chatham (the Navy employed an icebreaker at the latter). The Thames, as you can see above in this view at Windsor, was no exception. At Oxford, one chap managed to drive a car across the river. The docks in London iced up like many others, driving prices of imported goods up. Kingston saw ice skating on the river, and bicycle races were held at Hampton. Below right may be seen boas iced up near Hampton Wick.

Will climate change result in us seeing another freeze like 1963, or are such sights finally confined to the history books? Well I don’t know.