Getting Cross

Seeing the new Harry Potter film (it turns out Voldemort and Tom Riddle are the same person) has inspired me to continue my thrilling series on the termini of London with King’s Cross.

Thanks to the Harry Potter franchise, King’s Cross is now probably the most famous railway station in London. Although, as I believe I said before, it rather irritates me that in the films, they decided to use St Pancras for the external shots instead. I don’t know, maybe they just felt that King’s Cross didn’t look stereotypically British enough, or just not sufficiently magical.

I know you’re not supposed to, but I actually prefer the architecture of King’s Cross to its Gothic neighbour. Its Italianate simplicity has a kind of casual dignity, a kind of unfussy impressiveness, like it’s cool and it doesn’t even need to try. Granted, these days it’s a little spoilt by that municipal bus shelter thing British Rail saw fit to graft on to its front, but that’s due to be demolished, so thank God for the triumph of common sense.

The station was designed by Lewis Cubitt for the Great Northern Railway, a company whose name alone inspires. It was opened in 1852, and the simplicity of the design was actually a deliberate measure to save money. The whole station, including the Great Northern Hotel, cost less than the frontage alone at Euston Station, a snip at £123,000 for the biggest station in London at the time.

The only conspicuous ornamentation was on the clock tower, which had been on display at the Great Exhibition the previous year. For some reason it has four faces, even though one is never visible due to the fact that there’s a bloody great train shed in the way. The clock also used to have three bells for sounding the hour, but these were removed in 1947. It’s also worth noting that it never agreed with the clock at St Pancras, which must have made for some interesting scenes among last-minute passengers.

As time went on, the original station was found wanting – pity the poor signalman, who had to juggle local services, goods trains, expresses to Scotland and, from the 1860s, Metropolitan Railway trains (which had to come in backwards). At peak times there was so much traffic that it could take up to half an hour to cover the half a mile to Holloway. Extra platforms were added and, in 1875, a whole new station. This was known as “Kings Cross Main Line (Local Station),” but is now the suburban platforms. This, fans of the Harry Potter books should note, is where Platforms 9 and 10 can be found. Legend also has it that this is the site of Boudicca’s grave, although scholars refer to this theory as “bollocks.”

In 1878, the Metropolitan got its own platforms (or, as they were known then, “Kings Cross (Suburban),” which is of course not confusing in the slightest), which were notorious among train drivers for being very difficult to start from – the tunnel leading out was smoky in steam days and the track was steeply graded and sharply curved, and condensation made the rails slippery. Some poor egg was stationed in the tunnel to drop sand on the rails every time a train went by. In 1932, one train actually slipped backwards without the driver realising until it bumped into the locomotive behind.

Various other alterations followed over the years, but I suspect they would be of zero interest to anyone other than my fellow geeks, so I’ll spare you for now.

The station has always been associated with speed and the romance thereof. In the late 19th century, they were one of the starting points for the Races to the North, when the East and West Coast railways competed to see who could provide the fastest service to Scotland (an unfortunate side effect of which was that passengers often ended up in Aberdeen at around 4am).

During the twentieth century, the luxurious expresses of the London and North Eastern Railway departed from King’s Cross. Most famous of these was the non-stop Flying Scotsman, but one should not forget the streamlined splendour of the Silver Jubilee, the Coronation or the Queen of Scots.

This art deco opulence was slightly marred in 1934 by the discovery of a gruesome crime – a disembodied pair of legs were found in the left luggage office. The crime was never solved, and the only lead police had was that the legs fitted a torso found in the luggage office at Brighton. This can only mean one thing – if a man can carry half a woman on the Underground across London without being noticed, there is no excuse for those tourists who make a massive hash of simply carrying a suitcase.

The station sustained some damage during World War II and was taken over by British Railways in 1948 who, as they so loved to do, ran the place into the ground. One notable event during the 1950s was the station’s prominent role in The Ladykillers, about which I have written before.

A plan was drawn up in the Sixties to extensively modernise the station with a new extension. This never came to pass. but based upon the contemporary account by Alan A. Jackson that I have in front of me, it would basically have been like what we got, only bigger and worse. The horrible extension that was actually built appeared in 1972.

The station saw a number of accidents over its lifetime, mostly caused by the aforementioned steep gradients, but the King’s Cross fire of 18th November 1987 was something else entirely. A discarded match or cigarette set fire to forty years’ worth of accumulated debris under one of the escalators in the Underground station. As a result of a hitherto unknown phenomenon called “the trench effect,” and the drafts caused by trains moving through the tunnels down below, this resulted in a conflagration that claimed the lives of thirty-one people. Subsequent to this, fire safety precautions on the Tube were drastically overhauled and smoking was banned altogether.

1997 saw the station achieve worldwide fame with the publication of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, in which Harry famously takes the Hogwarts Express from Platform Nine-And-Three-Quarters (although, as I’ve said before, it seems possible that J. K. Rowling was thinking of a different station altogether). In tribute to this, half a luggage trolley is stuck into the wall near the suburban platforms. There is no Platform 9¾ for us Muggles, alas, but as of 2010 there is a Platform 0, which frankly I find a little sinister.

I’ll say one thing for the modern railway, they have finally figured out that maybe a nice, user-friendly, aesthetically-pleasing station is what people want, and in 2005 plans were announced to restore the station. It was decided that nothing could be better than the 1972 extension, and therefore they are replacing it with nothing – it’s being demolished and turned into a plaza. The older buildings are being cleaned and patched up and a new, modern (in a good way) concourse is being put up to the west of the station.

The future is looking bright for Cubitt’s creation. All in all, it’s not been a bad life for an economy terminus.

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/

Going Postal

I’ve written about abandoned Underground stations before, and even entire abandoned lines beneath London’s streets. This one, however, is a real one-off. Whereas most of the abandoned spurs of the Tube were closed due to lack of passengers, this one never had any passengers at all. Despite this, it lasted seventy-six years. It ran through Central London and had eight stations. And it was never actually owned by London Transport.

Give up? Actually, some of you have probably already worked it out, and may allow yourselves a smug grin. I’m talking about the London Post Office Railway.

The London Post Office Railway was opened in 1927. It carried letters and parcels from Paddington in the west to the Whitechapel in the east. Its “stations” were sorting offices. At its peak, it was carrying over four million letters per day. Its trains were automatically controlled and electrically driven, operating for nineteen hours a day and 256 days a year.

It wasn’t the first such railway – it wasn’t even the first such railway in London, in fact. Inspiration came from the Chicago Tunnel Company’s freight-only subway system. Like the Post Office Railway, this was narrow gauge and electrically powered, opening in 1906. Yet while this was the most obvious source of inspiration, even this was a whippersnapper compared to London’s first post office Tubes.

The very, very first experimental postal railway was a short line in Battersea, built in 1861 and shown right. It was air-powered, built by the Pneumatic Despatch Company. The experiment was a success. The Post Office, fearing competition from the increasingly popular telegraph service, expressed a strong interest, as did the London and North Western Railway. The first ”proper” line was opened on 15th January 1863 – just five days after the Metropolitan Railway, the first underground passenger line – and ran from the LNWR’s Euston Station to the North West District Sorting Office. This was later extended to Holborn and later Cheapside and Gresham Street. The company had grand plans for an entire network of lines under the city, but as it happened, despite very favourable rates, the Post Office weren’t all that interested after all. The system went bust in 1875. At least one of the knee-high carriages survives in the Museum of London’s collection and the tunnels are now used for cables.

I’ve mentioned before that gridlock in the city is nothing new, and in the early years of the twentieth century this prompted the Post Office to take another look at the underground railway idea. Approval was given in 1911, construction began in 1915 and the system was open in time for Christmas 1927. As well as Paddington and the Eastern District Post Office in Whitechapel, the six-and-a-half-mile-long line called at six intermediate stops, including Liverpool Street station and the main sorting office at Mount Pleasant in Clerkenwell. The trains, if you can call them that, were stored and maintained at a depot under Mount Pleasant.

[PARENTHESIS: Mount Pleasant actually sounds like a rather pleasant place. In reality, the name derives from heaps of industrial waste on the banks of the River Fleet. This is the famous British sense of irony at work]

1930-built train, preserved at the National Railway Museum in York.

The railway, as I said earlier, was a great success, reaching its peak after the Second World War. Extensions serving Euston, King’s Cross, Camden, Islington, Waterloo, Southwark, Cannon Street and latterly Willesden were proposed but never constructed. It kept going through the War, despite one direct hit at Mount Pleasant in 1943, and like so many other Tube lines, served as an air raid shelter (albeit one used only by staff).

"What'll I tell the wife, Jess?"

The post office, ‘lack the day, isn’t exactly the most hip and with-it service, and with the coming of the Information Age had to make a few changes. This included cutting many post offices, several sorting offices and Postman Pat. I’m not joking about that last one, by the way. The Post Office used to sponsor Postman Pat, it doesn’t any more and in the most recent series he no longer works for them. As you can see in the above picture, he is a victim of red tape.

As a result of the cuts, by the late 1990s there were only four stations left on the Post Office Railway. The Post Office dynamically responded by renaming the system “Mail Rail” in 1997. In 2003, when it was decided that the Paddington sorting office would be moved, Royal Mail threw up their hands and decided to close the damn railway once and for all. There were protests of mismanagement from the Communication Workers’ Union, who argued that the line wouldn’t be so expensive to run if it was properly maintained and used to its full capacity. Nevertheless, it was decided that the post would go by road, which was cheaper. So on 30th May, it rattled off into the history books. It may be relevant to note that this was also the year when post trains disappeared from national rail.

Although the line was never as well-known or glamorous as its passenger-carrying chums, it’s had a couple of moments in the sun. In 1997, it was used in the BBC fantasy series Neverwhere (along with various other nooks and crannies of subterrainean London) and in 1990 it posed as a Vatican line in the flop movie Hudson Hawk, making Bruce Willis one of its fewpassengers. I’m told the latter film is alright if you suspend your disbelief, lower your expectations and have a sense of humour about it – beer helps.

A few of the trains have been preserved. The tunnels have been mothballed. Every so often someone suggests a use for them – while they’re very unlikely to ever see use for post again, they could conceivably be used for goods traffic. One idea is that they might be used for valuable or perishable items. I’ve even heard it suggested that it might be used for passengers, but this idea is frankly barmy – the trains were barely wide enough for one person, let alone enough for the line to pay its way, and rebuilding seems a little pointless given the extent of work needed. I fear that the London Post Office Railway is destined to remain one of those abandoned curiosities beneath our feet. Still, we can hope…

Further Reading

http://www.mailrail.co.uk/ - Excellent fan site from which I got much of the information in this entry. Not updated since the line’s closure, sadly, but otherwise very comprehensive.

Hogwash Express

Isn’t that new Harry Potter movie coming out soon? I’m sure it is. Well, you know what? I think that calls for a vaguely Potter-themed entry.

As you can see from the slightly murky picture on the left, I found myself standing next to the Hogwarts Express yesterday. The locomotive of this train is currently residing at the National Railway Museum in York.

The Hogwarts Express is one of the icons of the Harry Potter franchise, which just goes to show that actually, steam engines are pretty cool. Plot-wise, it functions as a handy place where lots of characters can be brought together for several hours – it was here that many of the significant characters of the series were introduced in Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. I believe I’ve mentioned before that Leo Tolstoy considered railways to be a useful plot device because they enabled coincidences, and this was his inspiration for Anna Karenina. Well, J. K. Rowling makes the Hogwarts Express perform a similar function.

The Express appears to be inspired by the school specials that used to be run in Britain at the start and end of term. Some of the larger schools would charter a special train. Sadly, they wouldn’t have been as colourful as the Hogwarts Express – the train would be whatever the railway had that was suitable. I’m not sure when this traffic was phased out, but I’m guessing during the days when Britain’s railways were nationalised.

As everyone knows, the Hogwarts Express sets out from Platform Nine-And-Three-Quarters at King’s Cross Station. As Hogwarts is located in Scotland, King’s Cross is an appropriate departure point – this was (and technically still is) where the famous Flying Scotsman set off from. Oddly enough, though, Rowling has admitted that she didn’t actually intend to send the train off from King’s Cross at all – she actually had Euston in mind. That being said, King’s Cross is much more photogenic than the terminally bland Euston. Even so, for shots of the outside of the station, the first film used St Pancras – don’t get me wrong, I like St Pancras fine, but I think King’s Cross is hugely underrated in architectural terms.

The station has adapted to its relatively new-found fame by sticking half a luggage trolley into a wall. There’s usually a queue of tourists wanting to be photographed next to it. The Catlady said that she once found herself acting as a guide to a Japanese exchange student, and one of the first sights he wanted to see was the station.If you’re curious, the station used for Hogsmeade was Goathland on the North Yorkshire Moors Railway. Coincidentally, this station also represented Aidensfield in Heartbeat. The Scottish scenes are filmed on the West Highland Line, one of the most scenically beautiful railways in Britain in Yr. Humble Chronicler’s opinion. That rather creepy scene in The Prisoner of Azkaban where the Dementors stop the train took place on the Glenfinnan Viaduct.

The Hogwarts Railways logo is a parody of the British Railways logo.

So much for the railway, what about the train? Well, this is something that, prior to the release of the film, caused a certain amount of speculation in railway enthusiast circles. The fact that the train departed from King’s Cross and that Hermione mentions going to speak to the driver in the first book suggested that it was an engine with a corridor tender.

The corridor tender, an example of which is seen right, was invented by the London and North Eastern Railway for the Flying Scotsman service from King’s Cross. Tenders are used on large locomotives to hold coal and water, and hinder access to the cab. The corridor tender allowed this access, which was vital on long, non-stop journeys to allow the crew to change over. The LNER paired their most prestigious express engines with these.

For promotional events, the locomotive Taw Valley (right) was used. Normally green, it was repainted red. This caused mixed reactions in the railway enthusiast camp, although man (Yr. Humble Chronicler included) thought it looked rather good in red.

For the films, though, Chris Columbus selected Olton Hall, an engine belonging to the West Coast Railway Company. The Halls, like all engines built by the Great Western Railway, had a sort of Victorian look that fitted in very well with the general aesthetic of the series. All were named after halls of various descriptions. They were very capable locomotives, equally able to deal with passengers and goods, and were used all over the GWR network. Olton Hall, having been plucked from the chorus, again underwent a repaint from green to red,and gained the name Hogwarts Castle. West Coast Railways did try to persuade the film makers to go with an appropriate Hall name (Great Hall, perhaps?), as Castle names were historically reserved for the GWR’s larger Castle class. I find it a little odd that people can deal with a magic steam train travelling unseen from a hidden platform to a giant castle in Scotland but not that the owners might have given said steam train an inappropriate name, but there you go.

And as you might expect, there were cries that the engine had been “disfigured” by its red livery and it was un-historic and bawwwww. Personally, I think this argument is a lot of old hogwash, for the following reasons:

1. The Hall class, as vintage steam engines go, is quite common – eleven survive. One, Maindy Hall, is even being rebuilt to represent a different class of locomotive. Take issue with those guys.

2. As an engine that will be seen by millions of non-rail enthusiasts, Hogwarts Castle is a far more valuable ambassador to the railway preservation movement than Olton Hall.

3. It’s not disfigured, it has temporary nameplates added and a new coat of paint. Get over yourselves.

Like it or not, the Hogwarts Express would appear to be here to stay. Tomorrow I’m told it’s off to Carnforth, so I suppose it’s not all fun and games.

She just won’t die

How do you define a London film, exactly? I’m not talking about things like Robinson in Space (which isn’t as exciting as the title makes it sound), I’m talking about mainstream cinema.

For instance, many people tend to think of 28 Days Later as a London film, but much of it takes place on the outskirts of Manchester. The Harry Potter films have a lot of scenes set in London, but nobody thinks of them as London films. It’s clear that the definition is unclear.

For me, I suppose, what separates a “London film” from “a film set in London” is something atmospheric, a film reliant on London, that couldn’t be set anywhere else. Alfie, for instance, has a few scenes set in the countryside (though the sanitarium scenes, at least, were filmed in Twickenham) but otherwise relies entirely on the city for its setting. Where else could you set it but in Swinging London in the 1960s? I heard rumours of a remake with Jude Law set in the present, but as we all know, that could never happen. Never happen.

Never happen

There are others – many of the Ealing comedies, for instance, are set in whole or in part in London. The one often cited is Passport to Pimlico, though technically most of that was set in Burgundy. Ah, but how about The Ladykillers?

Now you’re talking. This is indisputably a London film. Indeed, it never even moves beyond the bounds of King’s Cross. Released in 1955, it’s basically the story of a robbery that goes horribly wrong, resulting in the gruesome deaths of the perpetrators. But with laughs.

The movie stars Alec Guinness (wearing Alistair Sim’s dentures, movie fans) as the mastermind of a heist at King’s Cross Station. His fellow-robbers are played by Herbert Lom, Peter Sellers, Danny Green and Cecil Parker. His fifth accomplice, though unwitting, is vital to the plan – an old lady named Mrs Wilberforce, played by Katie Johnson.

As you can see, St Pancras has been cleaned up a lot since this was filmed.

The idea is simple – use the sweet old dear’s house as a base for the job. Convince her they’re a respectable string quintet, and in turn the police will never even consider asking the innocent, slightly dotty Mrs Wilberforce if she knows anything.

The plan, despite the various idiosyncracies of the gang and the well-meaning bumbling of Mrs Wilberforce, goes almost without a hitch. The money van is robbed and, using the instrument cases, the money is lugged back to the house.

Alas, the human factor lets them down – following a blunder, Mrs Wilberforce accidentally discovers the truth and demands that they do the right thing.

So of course they do. The money is returned and everyone learns a valuable lesson. Of course they don’t! Didn’t you see the title of the film? Having been discovered, they decide to silence Mrs Wilberforce for good. I mean, it can’t be that difficult to kill a defenceless old woman, can it?

The Ealing comedies are basically uptight ’50s Britain viewed through a cracked window. Aristocrats, vicars, bank clerks, even little old ladies get subverted in these anti-authoritarian flicks. In The Ladykillers, classical musicians are bank robbers, policemen are incompetent and meddling elders are surprisingly robust. It’s dark, it’s funny and, for a film that’s fifty-five years old, it’s really rather edgy.

For me, as someone who works but fifteen minutes’ brisk walk from King’s Cross, there’s the additional pleasure of seeing my local area (sort of) rendered unrecognisable by history. The King’s Cross of The Ladykillers is a very different place, a place of sooty brickwork and few cars, where a blue police box doesn’t immediately mean aliens are about. Steam trains and bomb damage play important roles in the plot, as do kindly policemen and the notion that maybe not everyone is a criminal suspect. Indeed, perhaps it’s this latter point that dates it more than any location scene (satire).

Even if you’re not into mid-twentieth century London, it’s definitely a film worth checking out to see an excellent cast perform a superbly-written crime caper. Though perhaps it is outwardly dated, at heart it’s got a cynicism that’s very modern. We shall not see its like again, I feel.

Never happen.

Ghosts of the Northern Line

I love Halloween, probably because it allows me to combine my perverse fascination with the macabre with my love of high camp. It’s funny, I was never really bothered about it when I was small. Anyway, that in mind, there’s a certain theme to the blentries this week.

I thought it would be nice to talk about something spooky. Britain is apparently the most haunted country in the world, and London makes up a significant proportion of that. And if we’re talking about hauntings and London, the subject of the Underground is never far behind. With its long and complex history, its hundreds of miles of tunnels (not all of which are accounted for, so a former London Transport worker tells me) and the fact that it’s, you know, under the ground, it’s inevitable that spooky stories would arise around it.

I’m going to largely limit myself to the Northern Line for now, simply because there are so very many ghosts on the entire system that I’d be here all night if I attempted to catalogue them all, and I appreciate how busy you are.

The most southerly sighting was at Stockwell, and took the form of an elderly workman spotted by a trainee. This gent was apparently quite sociable, having a brief conversation with the trainee who saw him. Indeed, were it not for the fact that no maintenance was due on that stretch of tunnel, the man might never have been noticed. It was surmised that he was the ghost of someone killed in the 1950s.

You might think Kennington was troublesome enough without spooks, but drivers with empty trains waiting in the tunnel for clearance to come into the station proper have reported the sound of doors on the train opening and closing, as if there’s someone walking up the train – approaching the cab…

Elephant and Castle might be the most haunted station on the network. Maybe this is because one of the tunnels on the Bakerloo Line cuts through a plague pit. Whatever reason, there have been numerous eerie occurances here. The most common was the sound of running footsteps along the platforms and up the stairs when the station was supposedly deserted apart from staff. Doors would open and shut, and a porter named Mr Horton refused to go back there after one night shift when he was alone in the break room and heard someone approaching and knocking on the door. He opened up to find the corridor deserted. A familiar ghost consists of a woman who gets on the train, walks towards the front and then disappears. This ghost supposedly haunts the last train on the Bakerloo Line, but I include it for completeness’ sake. I should also mention one seen by commuters seated alone in the carriage who, upon looking in the opposite window, are startled to see a woman sitting next to them.

The Northern Line ticket hall at Bank was built in the crypt of the church of St Mary Woolnoth, which may go some way to explaining the oppressive feeling of terror experienced by commuters there, often accompanied by a foul stench. Down on the platforms, a figure known as the Black Nun has been sighted. This ghost has also been seen in and around the Bank of England, and is named Sarah Whitehead. Her brother was executed for forgery in 1811, following which Sarah went mad with grief.

Oppressive feelings have also been reported at Embankment, in a staff-only tunnel known as “Page’s Walk”. Unexplained gusts of wind and the sounds of doors opening and closing are heard.

At Moorgate, in the mid-1970s, workers in the Northern City Line tunnels (then part of the Northern Line, now National Rail) spoke of a man in blue overalls who would approach them. As he came closer, a look of unspeakable horror would appear on his face, and he would vanish into the tunnel wall. Some paranormal enthusiasts have suggested that seeing this ghost might have been the cause of the 1975 tube crash in that part of the station, the true cause of which is unknown to this day. Others have suggested that the haint may have been a premonition of the disaster.

At King’s Cross, in the entrance tunnel, a rather modern spectre has been seen – a woman in jeans, crying piteously. The most likely event to have caused such a spirit to become manifest would have been the fire in the Underground station in 1987, in which 31 people lost their lives.

Possibly one like this.

At East Finchley, on the sidings near the station, a ghostly steam train of the Great Northern Railway has been sighted, a relic of the days before the line was run by London Underground.

Highgate, in addition to the Northern Line station that is still very much in use, has an abandoned station  that was to form part of an extensive expansion project for the line, a project known as the Northern Heights. The plan was abandoned, as was the station, but the buildings remain. This ruined station is situated in a deep cutting, and is described by author W. B. Herbert as having “an emotive, eerie atmosphere.” Local residents have reported the sound of trains in the cutting, and visitors to the ruins describe a feeling of being watched.

Last train, anyone?

Canal Penetration

I do not appear to understand the concept of a short walk. This fact was brought home to me on Sunday. Having attended a wedding on Wednesday, I was feeling somewhat guilty at the Elvis-level calorie intake I had managed that day, and therefore had resolved to behave myself with a little more restraint. Sunday, I thought, would be an ideal day to get a little exercise. I thought it might be nice to do some more of the Regent’s Canal.

The Regent’s Canal, if you’re not familiar with it (though you may have some passing acquaintance with it if you’re a regular reader of this blog), is a waterway running from the Thames at Limehouse to the Grand Junction Canal at Paddington. The canal was opened in two sections – from Paddington to Camden in 1816 and Camden to Limehouse in 1820. In those days, before decent roads and railways, canals were the arteries of industry. The Grand Junction Canal was the quickest means of transporting goods in quantity from the industrial Midlands to London. The Regent’s Canal therefore served an important economic purpose, as it formed the final link between the Midlands and the Port of London and therefore the rest of the world. It survived the coming of the railways and the roads, but by the 1930s was largely obsolete.

Today, although there is a small amount of cargo, it’s primarily used for pleasure craft. The warehouses and factories that once lined its route have either been demolished or repurposed (most notably, one major interchange between rail and canal is now Camden Lock Market and the Stables). The towpath is a popular route with cyclists, walkers and idiots (yo).

My original intention was to only walk a short section of the canal, say Camden to King’s Cross or Islington. But I have this tendency, once I start walking, to keep on going far longer than is perhaps wise. As a result, I ended up walking all the way to Limehouse Basin. As I had previously walked from Camden to Paddington (hence the photos you have been seeing so far), I can now say that I have walked the full length of the canal.

From a psychogeographical point of view, what’s interesting about this walk is that it let me see familiar places from a different point of view. Of course, I’d seen the canal at Paddington, Regent’s Park, Camden, King’s Cross, St Pancras, Caledonian Road, Islington, Hackney and Limehouse before. Indeed, I’ve written about it in at least two of those locations in this very blog. But it had just been a landmark then, with no sort of context. I had some vague awareness that this stretch of canal was the same as that stretch of canal, but only as a theoretical thing. To experience the whole thing from a boat’s eye view, as it were, was rather novel. I think I’ve been enlightened in some way.

Anyway, I’ve waffled on for far too long already, given that this was supposed to be a photo-ey entry. I shall keep the prattle to a minimum from here on in, and instead continue to present my (usual crappy) photographs in geographical order from Paddington to Limehouse. Camden Lock is a notable omission here,  due to the fact that on neither of the walks presented here did I actually intend to document the entire canal.

One last point I would like to make is the range of contrast as you go along the river, from affluent Regent’s Park and Little Venice to the post-industrial landscape of the Docklands. I’ll shut up now. For now.

Sorry, me again. At this point on the walk, the canal cut through the hill at Islington, and I had to leave the towpath. Some explanation may be needed for the following photos.

I snapped this because I had walked along this road once before, a couple of years ago, desperately hungover. I was leaving the Barnsbury flat of a friend we shall simply call The Monster early one Sunday morning. I attracted disapproving looks from pious souls. Anyway, to end up here again was rather surprising.

I eventually reached Angel – you may recall that my first paid acting gig was near here. Despite my familiarity with the area, I wasn’t entirely sure how to get to the canal. Fortunately, this sign guided me. It may also explain some of the stranger sights coming up.

Isn’t this just the dearest little owl?

Spitalfields already? God be damned.

And Shoreditch! How we are honoured!

This is a nice thing to do with a block of council flats. Photographic portraits of local folk. It’s like Eastenders, only without the death and unimaginable horror.

Hackney. If you feel a chill down your spine, that is because we are but a stone’s throw from the Last Tuesday Society’s sinister museum.

A dilapidated narrowboat advocating the cleaning up of canals. This would be that famous bargees’ humour I’ve heard so much about.

Some sort of junction. Further investigation is required, I feel – especially as there’s something familiar about this canal here.

Lo the Isle of Dogs!

Herons are basically the easiest birds in the world to photograph. How I managed to make this one blurry enough to shame the most avid Bigfoot enthusiast is therefore beyond me.

I feel this toy boat has a story to tell.

We are so close, me hearties, I can practically taste that lime!

Is that not the viaduct of the London and Blackwall Railway?

It is! Limehouse! We made it! Long live, long live!

I say “we” made it, but mostly you just looked at photos. I didn’t want to make a big thing of this.

The Thames as the sun begins to set.

The Docklands Light Railway at Westferry. Everyone wants to get on the seats at the front of the train, but for a novel experience I recommend the seats at the back as you enter the tunnel for Bank. It’s like disappearing down a giant oesophagus.

 

Further Reading:

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2010/07/18/talk-about-burning-your-bridges/ - An earlier entry focusing on a particular part of the Regent’s Canal.

Euston: Arch Enemies

I’d like you to cast your minds back to 1959. In a lonely cottage on the moors, an old lady was going about her daily business when there came a knock on the door.

“Gracious, who could that be?” wondered the little old lady.

At the door was a man in a hard hat with a clipboard. “Good afternoon, little old lady,” he said. “I’m an architect. I’ve come to take your house. I’m afraid it’s been compulsory purchased so we can build an office block.”

“Is that how compulsory purchase works?” asked the little old lady.

“I don’t know,” said the architect. “To be honest, I’m not sure I should even be doing this. But on the other hand, you don’t know either, and by the time it’s gone through the courts you’ll probably be dead and bankrupt. So anyway, you’ve got ten minutes to get out before the bulldozers move in. If you manage it in five, we’ll give you a coconut.”

“Who do you think you are, Crossrail?” asked the old woman, referencing events of early 2010 – which should have made the architect suspicious. “You can’t do that!”

“We can and we will,” said the architect, and laughed harshly.

“Just so?” said the little old lady. “Well, little do you know that I’m actually a witch! I place a curse upon thee and all architects – for the next twenty years you shall produce only terrible buildings, bringing architecture into disrepute and creating the public perception that architects are egotistical and uncaring!”

“Nooooooo!” cried the architect. But it was too late.

At least, this is the best explanation I can come up with for the various architectural decisions that plagued the third quarter of the twentieth century. Yes, today we continue our tour of London’s termini with Euston and the crimes visited upon it in the name of PROGRESS.

On the left, you can see evidence of what I’m rambling on about. This huge Doric arch was once the imposing entrance to Euston station.

Euston was one of the first of the London rail termini to be built, opened in 1837 – only 8 years after Stephenson’s Rocket was built. This arch was the London and Birmingham Railway’s way of saying “we are here” and effectively distracted people from the fact that by passing through they might end up in Birmingham. It was 72 feet high, the largest Doric propylaeum (that’s “gateway” to you) ever built. However, at the time of its construction, some considered it a little too imposing. Augustus Welby Pugin, Gothic revival architect, referred to it as “a piece of Brobdingnagian absurdity,” and in so doing broke my spellchecker.

The original intention had been to build the station at Kings Cross, but objections from landowners necessitated its construction a little west, and in so doing forced the railway up a steep gradient. This meant that those early locomotives were unable to cope with the climb, and so trains were cable hauled for the last leg of the journey. Engines were turned in the Camden Roundhouse. This disrupted many early rock concerts and was from 1846 until 1867, when locomotive technology had sufficiently evolved to allow the gradient to be tackled (i.e. engines were bigger and there were more of them).

In 1849, the Great Hall was completed. This was a massive and, again, architecturally impressive building with an interior in the Renaissance style, with pillars of marble and plaster bas-reliefs depicting emblematic figures representing the major towns and cities served by the railway. You can see part of it on the right there. And this was just for regular passengers – the Directors’ Office upstairs was even cushier. Apparently the actual passenger facilities were a bit rubbish, but still, it looked pretty good.

Unfortunately, so Brobnig Brodbingnag Brobingdga big was this structure that it would eventually be the station’s downfall. By filling the land they owned with this enormous building, they failed to take into account the fact that they might some day need to expand the station. Over the following decades, additional facilities were crammed in wherever they could be fitted, cluttering and uglying up the once impressive terminus. The sheer scale made keeping the place clean difficult, and by the 1950s the whole thing looked utterly shabby.

It may be surprising, in retrospect, to hear that the plans to reconstruct the station announced in 1959 were actually quite well received. Nobody had much love for the old place, and the common assumption was that the impressive architectural features would somehow survive. After all, the Great Hall and Doric arch were both on the London County Council list for buildings of historic and architectural significance.

Alas, a vital part of the rebuilding involved extending the platforms. The only way this could be done was by going through the Great Hall and knocking down the arch. The LCC grudgingly gave permission, provided the arch was rebuilt further forward. British Railways argued that this would cost £190,000 as compared to the mere £12,000 needed to demolish the bugger – a figure disputed by opponents of the scheme, who pointed BR at a Canadian contractor that offered to move it for far less. The LCC offered to sub a move, provided others would chip in. BR also argued that their plans wouldn’t leave enough space for the Arch to be rebuilt.

Eventually, Ernest Marples told the LCC to stop that, it was far too silly. Marples was the Transport Minister of the day, ultimately responsible for introducing parking meters, yellow lines and the Beeching Axe. Some would suggest that his considerable shares in road construction companies might have had something to do with his opposition to railways, but then they’d get distracted by the fact that he would later be found guilty of tax fraud and would die a fugitive in France.

The demolition was opposed by many, most notably John Betjeman and Sir Charles Wheeler, head of the Royal Academy. Despite vocal protests and appeals to Prime Minister Harold Wilson, the demolition went ahead on November 6th 1961. Interestingly, it appeared that even at that stage there was some hope – the gates were saved for the National Railway Museum at York and the stones were carefully numbered.

British Rail decided that this on your left would be an adequate substitute. The original plans would also have involved office blocks being constructed on site, but the LCC told BR to go screw themselves. It’s also worth noting that, contrary to what BR and Marples had claimed, there was plenty of room for the Doric Arch to be re-erected.

There are a few reminders of the old station. The statue of Robert Stephenson seen in the Great Hall above was saved, and a couple of neo-classical lodges survive at the entrance – see one of them below.

However, it seems that the redeveloped station would itself prove wholly inadequate for 21st century demands. To quite Sylvia Plath, “This box is only temporary.” Except she was talking about suicide. Anyway, it’s been decided that a second rebuild will be needed, meaning that the new station will have lasted less than fifty years. One of the ideas for rebuilding submitted in 2007 included the rebuilding of a certain arch…

Despite the arch being destroyed, there are a few reminders of it to be found in and around Euston Station.

Incidentally, I hope you people appreciate what I go through for you. The Doric Way sign is above a strip club, and you get some pretty funny looks standing outside one of those and taking photographs.

FUNNY COINCIDENCE

While researching this, I bumped into my friend The Mog, who lives some 19 miles away. I almost never walk down Eversholt Street and nor does she. Coincidence? Well, yes.

See also

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2010/02/07/all-about-chalk-farm/ - For more about the Roundhouse.

The Monopoly movie is definitely not a terrible idea

So I hear there’s a Monopoly movie in the works. The fact that I heard it from Cracked.com does not make the idea any less problematic.

Now, I enjoy Monopoly a lot. It’s probably my favourite board game (Cluedo can fuck right off). I know the secret little strategies, I know which squares you shouldn’t buy, I’ve even got out of jail free (with thanks to my lawyer, Quincy Rafter).

These days, there are so many versions of Monopoly that it’s getting ridiculous (some I’ve come across are King’s College and a knock-off set in Dartmouth). There’s even one based on post-war toy trains made by the Lionel company, which even I, a notorious train nut, think is a bit much. There’s a Belfast version, which primarily differs from the other versions in that the car is upside down and someone has shot the dog.

 But for me, Monopoly is the classic London version. You know, the one that features loads of places that you’ve only heard of because they’re on the Monopoly board. Old Kent Road is brown, Mayfair is purple. This version was for a long time also the one used in Europe and much of the Commonwealth. So well-known is this version that it’s often erroneously assumed to be the first one – that’s actually Atlantic City. Me, I don’t like the updated versions. I like my Monopoly to be a little bit retro, with steam trains in the station and some ugly old lag in the jail (I call him Cyril).

Anyway, that’s my credentials as a Monopoly-enjoyer established. And I think the idea of a movie is just awful. The scenario is this. Our main character is a lovable loser who works as an estate agent (because everyone loves estate agents, amirite?) and is an enthusiastic Monopoly player who one day…

[PAUSE INSERTED HERE. SEE IF YOU CAN GUESS THE NEXT PLOT POINT]

… finds himself inside the Monopoly game! It’s krazy!

Kirk Douglas in the unsuccessful Pictionary movie.

Here’s the thing. Board games don’t make for great movies. This is because they are board games. They are designed to work as board games. They are not designed to be watched. Frustration is a good board game, a two-hour film about frustrated people would not be a good movie. Snakes and Ladders – actually, that would be a pretty awesome movie. But in general, my point stands. The only board game movie that really worked was Cluedo (or Clue, if you’re one of those Yankee types), and that’s because the basic plot of the game is a standard Agatha Christie-style detective story, complete with country vicar and retired colonel.

Monopoly’s premise, on the other hand, is that it’s about buying and selling property. If you’ve ever dealt with estate agents, you’ll know what incredible fun that is. Now, the director is Ridley Scott, so maybe he’ll pull something out of the hat and produce a completely amazing film and I’ll wind up looking stupid. But I maintain that it’s almost impossible to make an interesting film about land sales. Unless…

Success!

Further reading

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/herocomplex/2009/11/a-monopoly-movie-the-story-behind-the-roll-of-the-dice-.html - For a fuller account of this mooncalf of a movie.

More Fun With A Tube Sign

Good Lord, chaps, I only just discovered last night that the London Transport Museum Depot Open Weekend was this weekend! They are calling the London Transport Museum again, right? They’ve abandoned the awkward and frankly stupid ‘London’s Transport Museum,’ right? I should have paid more attention today. Hey ho.

Anyway, I strolled over there, had a poke around and took lots of photos for m’research. Also, some of you may recall that I purchased one of the signs from Camden Town on my last visit to a depot open day. Well, today I bought a Northern Line sign to go with it.

You know, now I come to look at it, this photo perhaps reveals more about me than I’d normally put into one of these entries.

1. 1. I have a lot of books with the word “bollocks in the title.
2. 2. While my general literary tastes are (I like to think) pretty wide-ranging, there’s an awful lot of shite in my library.
3. You can see the top of the evening cane I carry. It is my favourite Saturday night pastime to hide behind doors in West End backstreets, then leap out and beat an unsuspecting passer-by to death.
4. During the day, I use the shoe polish to black up and then make my way to the Daily Mail offices. Thus attired, my capering delights the editor, who gives me a shiny sixpence for my trouble.

Oh well. The sign will provide all sorts of joy. As well as making a fine decoration, it’s the perfect size, shape and weight to whung someone around the head. You know, like when they get off the escalator and just stand there. Or when they get on to the Tube platform and block the entrance while arguing over whether the train that’s just come in is theirs. Or… oh, the possibilities.

No doubt I’ll post the other, more interesting photos from my trip here over the next few days. On the subject of signs…

What’s wrong with this one, kiddies?

This wasn’t in the museum, it’s actually “in service,” as it were. The first person to identify the error gets… well, nothing. A mention in the next entry. If I remember.

 

Further Reading

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2009/08/29/fun-things-to-do-with-a-tube-sign/ - More sign-related antics.