Foulwell and Kingston-Upon-Railway

The suburbs are weird, aren’t they? I mean, by their very nature. Central London has long been a well-defined place. City walls, city gates, parish boundaries, main roads and the river have meant that for centuries the different places in London have been pretty clearly delineated. Granted, there’s the occasional dispute about, e.g., where the West End ends, and there are new places like Fitzrovia and Chinatown to contend with, but by and large you know where you are.

The suburbs, though, are different. You can’t really have suburbs until you have decent transport, so the area we now tend to think of as “suburbia” didn’t really exist until the 19th century. And I know I go on about the railways in London quite a lot, but the fact is that they were absolutely instrumental to the formation of Greater London.

For instance, take where I live – Colliers Wood. Where is Colliers Wood? It’s at the southern end of the Northern Line (incidentally, it’s a geographical irony that the Northern Line goes further south than any other Tube line). When was it founded? Well, basically, Colliers Wood-the-place didn’t exist until 1926, when the Tube station was opened. The area wasn’t exactly desolate and uninhabited, but this place as a whole was known as Merton. Colliers Wood was a local landmark that hadn’t existed for about fifty years when the Tube came along. Had the Underground station been named something different, I might well consider myself a resident of Merton Abbey, or Haydons Road, or Tooting-on-Tube.

The last may seem like a flight of fancy, but know this – there nearly was a suburb with an equally stupid name. When the London and Southampton Railway opened their station a little way south of the busy market town of Kingston, they planned to call it Kingston-upon-Railway. Because it sort-of served Kingston, but not quite. Good sense eventually prevailed, and it was renamed in 1869. The original Surbiton was a small village, also not-quite-served by the new station. However, the station and its railway line were very convenient for commuters, and so a town grew up around the station. The station was called Surbiton, so, inevitably, was the town around it. What if the station had been called something else? Would we even have a Surbiton today? Would we think of Kingston-upon-Railway as the main town, and Kingston-upon-Thames be relegated to the status of “Old Kingston” or some such?

I suspect a few of the suburbs, such as Hampton Wick, wouldn’t really be anything more than a theoretical concept were it not for their railway stations. Hampton Wick has little by way of a focal point other than its station. Certain other suburbs, lacking notability, were absorbed by others as the commuter towns expanded – Lonesome being a case in point, once a village in its own right and now just a part of Streatham.

And this brings me on to the strange case of Fulwell. Fulwell is one of those places that always feels as if it’s on the verge of vanishing, as I had cause to reflect when I went there for a party on Saturday. It’s quite old, its name may have derived from “foul well” (so good work on getting that renamed, I suppose). It doesn’t really have a high street to speak of – a few shops, but nothing to distinguish it from the outlying parts of Twickenham or Teddington, on whose borders it lies. Its major landmark is the bus garage, pictured above right, but that’s more of an obstacle than a focal point. There is a railway station, sure, but it’s an unmanned two-platform branch line affair in a back street. I’m not clear exactly where it begins and ends. I reckon that, were the station to be renamed, the town would cease to exist altogether, torn between Teddington and Twickenham. It’s usually at this point that a bunch of angry residents of the area post a huge rant in the comments section about how I’m wrong and stupid, so scroll down to skip straight to that.

Yet right next to Fulwell, but a short walk from the station, you have Hampton Hill – nothing but a high street really, yet nobody would dispute the validity of its existence. Damned if I understand the suburbs.

I am hardcore

It’s been a funny sort of week, comrades. My grandpa’s funeral was on Tuesday, Hurricane Jack returned to the country on Friday, work has been stressy as the Dickens and in between a lot of strange things have been happening. The plan this weekend was therefore to relax as much as possible, which hasn’t quite happened.

Friday, as I say, was marked by the return of Hurricane Jack, who has been mentioned in passing in these pages before. This was celebrated in the traditional manner, i.e. helping to take care of the nation’s alcohol surplus. During the course of this evening, I was introduced to a place in Twickenham known as the Koyote bar. I suspect I was not really the target audience for the place, which is rather noisy and features scantily-clad young ladies dancing on the bar. On the plus side, it’s open late, entry is free and alcohol is at pub prices – I think most of the people in there who weren’t actively on stag nights were taking advantage of these facts, though there were one or two who seemed to be entirely there for the femininity on display. Why they’d go there when there’s a strip club down the road I don’t know.

The night ended with a trip back to Hurricane Jack’s place in Teddington, where we talked a lot of crap, ate some food and watched Thunderbirds at four in the morning. We speculated that Gordon Tracy has so little to do that he actually purposely loses his family’s possessions so that he can “rescue” them later in front of everybody. Sad really.

I eventually got to bed at six, which I believe officially means that I was up all night (Yeah! Still got it!), and strolled into Kingston via Hampton Wick, pausing only to stick my head into the vintage shop that’s opened there. No menswear, though, so continued into Kingston. I bought a really rather delicious brownie in the market, which I will pretend I did because I needed to get rid of the hangover and because I was supporting independent traders or something, but in reality it’s because I just like eating brownies. Brownie as in interestingly-textured chocolate cake, not as in young girl scout. I mean, obviously, right?

I came across a Louis Wain print in the antique market, which I would dearly love to own but can in no way justify spending money on. If any of you have enjoyed this blog so much that you’d like to give me £90 for no reason, drop me a line.

The evening was set aside for a Boys’ Night In at Shoinan’s place out in West London. Shoinan himself describes the area as being undistinguished, but I think it has a certain J. G. Ballardesque charm, but then, as I’ve described in previous entries, my taste in urban landscapes may not be entirely normal.

As well as shooting the shit, drinking a lot of beer and getting through enough Mini Cheddars to kill lesser men, we watched a few of those movies that between us, we missed out on.

Brief review:

Forgetting Sarah Marshall = Good

Scott Pilgrim vs The World = Alright, but definitely a case of style over substance.

Black Dynamite = If you have not seen this film, I order you to go away right now and watch it.

Once again, I totally failed to get to bed at a sensible time, this time finally crashing into bed at some time after seven. I am officially hardcore. What this did mean was that my original plans for today had to be curtailed somewhat – I did have to nip into town. On the way I fed my burgeoning addiction to frozen yogurt at Yog, a small chain of whimsical frozen yogurt shops that should in no way be confused with Snog, which is a small chain of whimsical frozen yogurt shops.

The Byocup

While in Fitzrovia, I saw a product known as the Byocup on sale in one of the shops. This is essentially a response to the problem of wastage that comes about as a result of the huge number of disposable coffee cups that get thrown away every day. The idea behind the Byocup is that it’s like a disposable coffee cup, except that it’s reusable. It’s made of silicon, and so won’t burn your hands when filled with hot coffee. Whereas you would throw a disposable coffee cup away, with the Byocup you simply wash it and reuse it.

Actually, I had a similar idea myself about a year ago. Although I thought that, given that the cup was supposed to be a lifetime’s possession, I could go to town a bit more on features – not slavishly adhere to the design of the disposable cup. My version was ceramic, and had the added design features of a sturdy base and a handle. A photo of the prototype may be seen on the right.

After sticking my head into Cass Art in Berwick Street, I encountered a drug dealer who tried to sell me some hash. I didn’t actually realise he was talking to me – he just sort of ambled around in a circle that happened to intersect with my path while mumbling about “hash” and “weed.” When I didn’t react, he became upset and accused me of being rude and snobbish. This means that I achieved the unusual accolade of being one of the few people against whom a drug dealer felt able to take the moral high ground. I am a “bad ass.”

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.

Go West, young man

By happy coincidence, shortly after writing the last entry, I found myself heading into the Western suburbs, or the “wild west” as they are popularly known. I figured I could take some photos to illustrate the last entry, which was visually very lacking. But I also found some other items of interest.

Fans of Culture Club may recognise this boat. It was used in the video for ‘Karma Chameleon’ and is available to hire from Turk Launches of Kingston. Boy George lied to you – that video wasn’t filmed in Mississippi at all.

Teddington School. A number of Yr. Humble Chronicler’s friends went there (as children, not recently). Probably the most famous pupil of recent years was someone called Keira Knightley, to whom they have actually put up a plaque. A friend holds the distinction of having actually turned Keira Knightley down when she asked him out. To be fair, at the time the only big thing she’d done was The Phantom Menace, and it’s not like you want to be known as someone who dated a minor cast member in that. For those of you who are interested, she played Sabe. I’m not sure which one that was, but she was one of the people whose job was to look like Natalie Portman.

Teddington Studios has had so many famous comedians that they can actually use blue plaques as wall decoration. Some of the names commemorated here include Tony Hancock, Sid James, Benny Hill, Tommy Cooper and Kenny Everett.

Interesting fact about blue plaques: anyone can put one up. I thought there was some sort of law, but turns out not. If you really wanted to stand out, you could even hang one on your house. Then people could look at it and say, “Wow, I’ve never heard of them!”

The weir at Teddington Lock, limit of tide.

Fans of Monty Python may get a vague twinge of recognition at this. This is where the Fish Slapping Dance was filmed. The event is commemorated with, yes, a blue plaque. It’s just visible there in the window, having been presented to the lock keeper by Michael Palin.

Behind that is the boatyard of the Tough Bros., who were among the organisers of Operation Dynamo during the Second World War. Operation Dynamo was the occasion when, following a spectacular defeat at the Battle of Dunkirk, it became necessary to evacuate thousands of Allied troops. In a strategy believed to have been borrowed from an Ealing comedy, 0ver 700 “little ships” were pressed into service. Everything seaworthy, from tramp steamers down to fishing boats, from pleasure cruisers to private yachts, took part. The end result was not only a successful evacuation, but a perverse propaganda triumph for the Allies. The wonderfully-named Tough Brothers assembled over 100 of the final total at their wharf.

Peg Woffington Cottages. Margaret Woffington was a star of the stage in the 18th century, one of the best-known actresses of her day and apparently something of a hottie. It is known that she moved to Teddington after 1744, following a celebrity split with David Garrick, but it’s not clear exactly where she was. The above cottages are one popular suggestion. In their defence, it’s no less likely than anywhere else. Let them have their fun. Also, I’m told the tea room that is now there does some excellent cakes.

 

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Hampton Wick’s Contribution to the English Language

Approaching Hampton Wick from Kingston Bridge.

Really, you’d think that you couldn’t get much further from Cockney rhyming slang than the Hamptons in West London. The Hamptons is a label applied to various bits of the London Borough of Richmond. There’s Hampton itself, Hampton Court, Hampton Hill and Hampton Wick. As a general rule, they tend to be pretty wealthy. I tend to get hurried along whenever I’m passing through in case my presence lowers property values. Having said that, they are very pleasant places, and in many areas retain their village atmosphere.

The Swan, Hampton Wick

I suspect that the name “Hampton” was just slapped on to anywhere local that didn’t have a name yet. Hampton Court, fairly obviously, is named after the palace built by Cardinal Wolsey and handed over to Henry VIII as a “please don’t kill me” gift. Hampton Hill is, as you might imagine, built on a hill, albeit not a very steep one. It was originally built to house workers on the nearby sewage treatment plants, so residents have no business getting uppity.

Hampton Wick, though, has a less obvious derivation. What, exactly, is a “wick”? There are two possible explanations.

1. It could denote a dairy farm.

2. It could denote a trading port. This latter seems a bit more likely, as the position on the river and the Roman ford that once existed here would make this place ideal for trade.

Hampton Wick Station is popular with students. This is in part due to its proximity to the major town of Kingston (literally across the river), excellent for shopping and possessing some truly terrible but inexplicably popular nightspots, but also because the station has no ticket barriers and is unmanned. Not that I’m condoning fare-dodging, mark you.

Hampton Wick Station. A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

Hampton Wick’s major claim to fame, as I hinted in at the start of this entry, is its place in the lexicon of rhyming slang. “Hampton” was once a euphemism for a certain portion of the male anatomy (the penis), due to “Hampton Wick” rhyming with no less than two slang terms for said organ. The Goon Show featured a character named “Hugh Jympton” as a means of getting past the censors, largely for the hell of it.

Spam of the day:

“I read your posts for a long time and should tell that your posts always prove to be of a high value and quality for readers.”

Thank you, anonymous computer programme with advertising link in its name!

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