For the love of the Ivy

It’s been a sort of West End/East End week for me over the past few days. There have been many exciting adventures, some of which the world is not yet ready for. You’ll have to forgive the “edited highlights” nature of today’s entry, I fear.

I'd only had two pints when I took this. For Christ's sake.

On Wednesday, I found myself in an unusual environment, namely the Ivy. Now, I know what you’re thinking – how does scum like me get invited to the Ivy? Well, this is what we might term a blog crossover event, because it’s thanks entirely to Shoinan that I ended up there. Shoinan’s girlfriend was some distance away in one of those non-London places, and so he found himself with a spare ticket to a party held by Activision to promote whatever it is they do.

Ah, Wikipedia tells me that they produce games except – and this is the clever thing – the games are played using a computer especially designed for playing such games. The complexity of these electronic devices is such that games more advanced than even Cluedo can be played upon them, utilising a television set. I don’t understand this myself, but I have no doubt that these “con souls” will soon become commonplace.

The evening began in Leicester Square, where my choice of footwear caused me to reflect that there are few worse sensations in life than cold, wet feet. I also discovered that the soles of those boots were so very smooth that I considered selling them to NASA to see if they might be used on the outside of spacecraft. Shoinan and I had dinner and a couple of drinks in a rather indifferent South Indian restaurant (my suggestion, I’m afraid) – if you want a good curry, go to Tooting or Southall. Then, after some attempts to remember where the Ivy actually was, we headed to the party.

On the way, Shoinan explained the basics of Activision to me. They were responsible for the Guitar Hero series (I understand Steam Calliope Hero comes out in the autumn), various Star Wars games and something featuring quite a lot of Spider-Man. Apparently among gamers they are regarded as somewhat moneygrabbing - I am told their CEO has gone on record as saying that he doesn’t much like gamers. Shoinan compared attendance at this event to “partying on the Death Star.” But for free beer, frankly I’d not only party on the Death Star, I’d be part of the group of drunks blowing up a planet just for the hell of it. Spiking Darth Vader’s drinks. If he noticed, I’d be all, “Ah, the Force is strong in this vodka and Coke.”

I do not remember taking this picture. What is this.

Contrary to popular belief, and I say this as a total outsider to the scene, professional gaming types are not the total social outcasts you’d think from hanging out on the Internet. All the ones I’ve met have been delightful, friendly people with a good sense of humour. Sure, there are people who conform to the stereotype, but you’ll get that in any subculture. Speaking as someone who’s into London, cartooning and railways, I can confirm this to be so. The only person I found unlikeable at this event was a young lady who, like me, appeared to have been invited almost by accident – one of these “Well of course I’m far too cool for all this” types. I always think if you’re not going to go with the flow, of course you’re not going to have a terrible time.

We were there until the end, having exhausted the possibilities of free beer and having explored the frankly baffling toilets. Had anyone observed me trying to figure the handbasin out, they would have been put in mind of the early scenes of 2001: A Space Odyssey. You know that bit, where the apeman tentatively picks up a bone, plays around with it for a bit, then invents tool use? Like that, only with an expensive handbasin.

We staggered back to Tottenham Court Road (I think – I don’t remember clearly, but as Shoinan lives on the Central Line and I live on the Northern, that would have made the most sense). The following day, I reflected that there is a worse sensation than cold, wet feet, and that’s being hungover at work.

Yesterday, without any forward planning as such, I ended up not far from Tottenham Court Road. You see, a friend of mine is having a wedding on Wednesday (yeah, I know, second wedding in a month, they’re dropping like ninepins), and I needed an outfit.

Well, I did have an outfit planned. The jacket was good. The shirt was good. The cravat was good (indeed, I’d tested it on Wednesday and received positive feedback from total strangers). The waistcoat – ah, there’s the rub. See, the one disadvantage of losing weight is that you have to buy an awful lot of new clothes. My waistcoats all hung off me, even tightened to their fullest extent. And for some reason, stylish waistcoats in my size are impossible to get. I searched many vintage shops – all were too big, too small or too horrid. I am now classed as “average size,” so what the hell people.

Eventually I found what I was looking for in Camden – a rather pimp-looking silver waistcoat. One problem – it was missing a button. Button, button, who has buttons? Well, Berwick Street in Soho (seen in the photo above) has a few tailors and, as I recalled, a few ancillary shops. I found appropriate buttons in The Cloth House.

Might I just say that, of all the insufferable students, I think fashion students might be the worst? I studied drama myself, and one of the reasons I didn’t pursue a career in acting was because the idea of spending the next 50 years surrounded by dramaramas was a bit too much to bear. So I know whereof I speak when it comes to annoying students, is what I’m saying. Politics students are pretty irritating – lots of opinions, little experience. Art students are fairly dreadful. But fashion students may, I think, take the biscuit. They exist and the intersection between know-it-all arts students and fucking hipsters. In the fairly short time I spent in The Cloth House, I got more exposure than any one man should have to very loud and bitchy opinions on unimportant subjects. I visited the hospital on the way home, though, and they think I’ll be fine.

Now, students, lest you think I’m being patronising, or maligning you unfairly, I say this – wait until after you graduate. Within a week, you will share my opinions on students. Sad but true.

Fair’s fair

Mayfair is a pretty classy district. I mean, it’s worth £400 on the Monopoly board, which is just amazing. Some of the notable locations therein include Savile Row, Bond Street and Grosvenor Square. It’s illegal to be poor around there, according to sources. Looking at its current prosperity, it’s hard to believe that it was, for a long time, exactly the opposite.

Indeed, the very name alludes to this fact. Mayfair was once the place where the May Fair was held. The Fair dates back to 1290, when it was authorised by King Edward I as a moneyspinner for the upkeep of the hospital located on what would eventually be the site of St James’s Palace. The hospital was built at an unknown date, though was already fairly venerable by that stage. It had been built when the area was largely rural, some way from the city walls, for female lepers. The name St James comes from the fact that the hospital was dedicated to St James the Less.

The May Fair was held during the first two weeks of the month, and outlasted the hospital itself. Henry VIII turned the hospital into the Palace, there being at the time only three lepers in residence. Unfortunately, the riff-raff took a while to catch on, and it wasn’t until 1665 (during the reign of Charles II) that they eventually moved the Fair to a cramped street just off the Haymarket. This being insufficient in terms of space, the Fair was moved again in 1688 to a piece of waste ground near Piccadilly.

The Fair was, it’s fair (har har) to say, not exactly popular with the Moral Guardians of the Nation. Queen Anne, when she wasn’t making furniture (my knowledge of this period of history is admittedly shaky), would rail against it. It was regarded as something of an embarrassment to respectable folk. It attracted the rougher elements of society. One visitor, writing anonymously in a pamphlet preserved in the Westminster Library, noted that he “could not, among the many thousands, find one man that looked above the degree of Gentleman’s Valet, nor one whore that could have the Impudence to ask above sixpence for an hour of her cursed company.”

So I would imagine he left right away. Of course.

There was plenty to do at the May Fair. As well as the standards like puppet shows, boxing matches and juggling, there were some rather more unusual forms of entertainment on offer. For instance, there were the hasty pudding-eaters. These men participated in an early form of eating contest in which they would compete to see who could down the most semolina pudding in a given space of time (whether with jam or without is not stated). There were displays of unusual creatures from around the world, including a civet cat, a golden marmoset, a “wood monster” and “a little black man.” There were shows in which one could watch puppets being executed for some reason.

And then there were blood sports. A fairly common pub name is “the Dog and Duck.” Many people know that this has something to do with duck hunting, but most are unfamiliar with what the term “duck hunting” actually meant. Duck hunting was a most unpleasant form of blood sport (as opposed to all those really pleasant forms of blood sport). It basically consisted of sending a spaniel into a pond to savage ducks to death – apparently the entertainment consisted of watching the duck dive under the water. A more surreal activity consisted of tying a duck and an owl together. The duck, distressed at this, would dive under the water. On re-emerging, the owl would flap, distressing the duck again, and so on. The account of this activity, Joseph Strutt’s Sports and Pastimes of the People of England, does not explain the aim or point of this exercise.

Then there was the distinctly odd spectacle on Sun Court around 1750 in which one could see the wife of a local blacksmith, who was apparently something of a hottie, lifting an anvil with her hair. Then she would lie on the bed, uncover her bosom and place the anvil thereon while two men forged horseshoes. She would continue to chat to spectators with apparent indifference until the forging was completed, at which she would sit up, casting the anvil off her. It wouldn’t surprise me if you could find a fetish website devoted to this sort of thing, but frankly I’m not Googling it.

There were several attempts to outlaw the Fair, but tradition and popularity ensured that none of these really came to anything. What eventually finished it off is what’s currently doing for Portobello Road Market – namely, property developers. By the middle of the 18th century, the stately development that now characterises the area was well established, and surrounded the May Fair grounds. The wealthy and influential residents, led by the Earl of Coventry, demanded and, at last, got the fair banned. Further residential development ensured that it would never return.

These days, only the name serves as an indicator of the genteel area’s history. You might say that in five hundred years it went from lepers to deve-lepers. Har har that was a funny joke I made.

The Ten Commandments of a West End Bar

1. THOU SHALT NOT NAME THY BAR AFTER ITS STREET NUMBER

That was kind of neat the first time, but after a while it got old.

2. THOU SHALT EMPLOY POLITE BOUNCERS

I appreciate that you need bouncers at a busy bar. Nobody wants their evening ruined by drunken louts kicking off. I also think it’s reasonable to search bags. But when you have ones that basically seem to work on the default assumption that the person coming in is a murderer, it does not make your bar look good.

3. THY BAR STAFF SHALL BE QUALIFIED FOR THEIR JOB.

It is good that your staff are pretty, but if they don’t know how to pour a pint or how to make a cocktail that is on the damn cocktail menu, it’s all for nothing. In Italy, a professional cocktail waiter is regarded in much the same way as a professional chef. In Britain, we seem to be satisfied to let anyone do it. Lame.

I recall one occasion when I had to spend about five minutes explaining to a barman whose first language was not English (it wasn’t his second or third either) what a “Guinness and black” was.

4. THOU SHALT TURN THE MUSIC DOWN

Now we both know why you have the music on ridiculously loud. Because the harder it is for people to talk to each other, the more they drink. But come on, they were going to get wasted anyway. Loud and bland music just annoys people. Unless you have a dance floor, of course, in which case I’m in the wrong for trying to have a conversation while everyone else just wants loud and bland music.

5. THOU SHALT SHUN THE BOG-TROLL

I’ve ranted about toilet attendants before, so I’ll keep it simple. I know how to turn a tap on. I know how to squirt soap on to my hands. I know how to dry my hands. I do not need any assistance with any of these things. They are not difficult or tiring. Therefore, I will not pay for someone to do them for me, particularly as I have not requested assistance.

6. A BOTTLE HOLDS LESS THAN A PINT GLASS, THOU SHALT CHARGE ACCORDINGLY.

I appreciate that some beers are more exotic, and so it’s fair enough that you should charge more for them than you would for your regular Carlsburg or Fosters. When a bottle of regular, ordinary lager in your place costs more than a pint of the same in the pub down the road, something is wrong.

7. THY STAFF SHALL BE NEITHER OVER-ZEALOUS NOR UNDER-ZEALOUS

Attentive staff are great, so long as they’re not too attentive. Last night we had bar staff coming round every few minutes trying to take our empty glasses, even when they weren’t actually empty. Seriously, I was drinking that champagne.

8. THOU SHALT NOT SHILL THY BAR TO THOSE ALREADY IN IT.

You know what I mean – those huge TV screens showing endlessly-looped footage of people having a good time with a message reminding people that they can hire the bar. By all means advertise, but at least be discreet about it.

9. THOU SHALT NOT MICROWAVE

This one, I think, is pretty self-explanatory. Food is there to be enjoyed, if people can’t enjoy it then there’s no point.

10. THOU SHALT NOT HAVE SOMEONE COMING AROUND TRYING TO SELL YOU SHOTS, THAT IS JUST CRASS

Again, we know how this works. Attractive woman comes around trying to convince guys, on impulse, to buy a round of shots. The idea is that the guy will think that by purchasing shots, he stands a chance of having sex with this woman.

Having said that, the only people who fall for this probably deserve it anyway, so I’ll let you have that one.

London Lit: Night and the City

Forgive me, chums, if I’m lacking in energy. It has been a busy weekend with quite a lot of alcohol consumption. How much alcohol consumption? Enough for me to sing ‘Barbie Girl’ in karaoke form, that’s how much alcohol consumption. Unfortunately, this happened in St Albans and is therefore outside the scope of this blog.

Saturday brought a party in Slough and then an evening trip to Soho with a friend. I know a bar there that always has a free table, even on a Saturday night. It makes me feel special to know this.

Soho brings me to the subject of today’s blog entry. I’ve been reading quite a bit of the London noir subgenre that flourished between the wars, and one book I came across that I would thoroughly recommend to all is Night and the City by Gerald Kersh.

You may be familiar with the title. It’s been filmed twice. Yet the original book is so obscure these days that (at the time of writing) Wikipedia doesn’t even have an entry for it. It’s been, in my opinion, unjustifiably forgotten.

The central character is Harry Fabian, a man who has dreams of the big time but is in reality a small-time pimp with no self-control and a fund of get-rich-quick schemes. He is a man who stops at nothing to get what he wants, but when he does he throws it all away in an instant. Lying, blackmail, trafficking and worse are all in his repertoire as he works towards his current goal of being a great wrestling promoter.

Meanwhile, Helen gets a job, just as a temporary thing to pay the rent, at Phil Nosseross’ nightclub. She finds she has an unexpected knack for bringing in tips, and soon her temporary job becomes a little more to her.

Neither Helen nor Harry are alone in their corruption. Indeed, there are few characters in the book who aren’t flawed in some way. Not just in terms of morality. We see characters brought down low by greed, pride, naivety, lust, overconfidence – all human life is here. About the only character who doesn’t become either an exploiter or a victim is Bert, the somewhat mysterious barrow-boy seen at intervals throughout the novel and who takes a particular interest in Harry’s moral wellbeing.

Aside from the failing and yet strangely compelling characters, we’re presented with a vivid depiction of the West End in all its sordid between-the-wars glory. For instance, check this out:

Ping! went the clock, on the first stroke of eight. Up and down the streets the shops began to close. West Central started to flare and squirm in a blazing vein-work of neon-tubes. Bursting like inexhaustible fireworks, the million coloured bulbs of the electric signs blazed in a perpetual recurrence over the face of the West End. Underground trains from the suburbs squirting out of their tunnels like red toothpaste out of tubes disgorged theatre crowds. Loaded buses rumbled towards the dog-tracks. Cinema vestibules became black with people. Vaudeville theatres, like gigantic vaccuum-cleaners, suddenly sucked in waiting queues. Behind upper windows, lights clicked on and blinds snapped down. Gas, wire, wax, oil – everything burned that would give out light. The darkness of the April night got thicker. It seeped down between the street lamps, poured into basements and lay deep and stagnant under the porches and the arches of the back streets. The last of the shop doors slammed. The places where one could eat, drink and amuse oneself remained open, and burned with a lurid and smoky brightness. Night closed down upon the city.

We’re reminded that there are two West Ends in coexistence – the joyous leisure district and the sleazy haunt of razor gangs and mobsters. Indeed, the two are mutually co-existent. The fun night out is provided through exploitation. We’re all participants and we’re all victims.

Such is the strength of the book, in fact, that I can say “we.” While there is a definite sense of the late 1930s in the novel (it couldn’t be otherwise), the portrayal of humanity is uncomfortably relevant to today. Take a stroll around modern Soho by night and you’ll see for yourself. In the present day, as in the 1930s, money is all that matters.

Soho boho hobo

When you think of the Bohemian scene in London, a few obvious names spring to mind. Oscar Wilde. Augustus John. Dylan Thomas. But to my mind, no figure sums up the era of Bohemianism in London than Nina Hamnett.

Nina was many things – artist, writer, model and raconteur. But these days, she is probably best remembered not for work but for play. Christ but that was a clumsy sentence, better come up with something better before I click “publish”.

Nina is, these days, best remembered for her unconventional lifestyle and general ability to party hard. She first became known on the artistic circuit in Paris before becoming a regular in London at the Cafe Royal in Soho, a centre of Bohemianism from the 1890s onwards which closed down only in 2008. When that became too touristy, Nina and friends made the Fitzroy Tavern their new base from 1926 onwards.

Nina was known as the Queen of Bohemia, embodying fully the hard-drinking, hard-partying, bed-hopping lifestyle that scandalised the Daily Mail-reading public. The money she made from her art would disappear as quickly as it would arrive, and she would alternate between living the high life and living in conditions of abject poverty. She had a flat on Charlotte Street where she would often find herself dining on porridge or boiled bones.

In her time, she associated with some of the great names of the twentieth century – Pablo Picasso, Jean Cocteau, Augustus John, Dylan Thomas and George Orwell were all acquaintances at one time or another. She even fell afoul of the notorious Aleister Crowley, when in her book The Laughing Torso (named after a sculpture of her that is now in the Victoria and Albert Museum) accused him of being a black magician. Crowley sued for libel and lost catastrophically. Legend has it that he placed a curse on Hamnett thereafter.

The sad reality is that what became of Nina mirrors many other Bohemians through the decades. While she had been regarded as a great artistic and literary talent in the 1920s, by the mid-1930s the artistic world had caught up with her. She was no longer cutting-edge, but distinctly average. Sales of her work fell.

In part, this was down to alcohol. She found booze dominating her life more and more, and consequently she found it harder and harder to commit to her work. Her life became fragmentary, a series of short-term relationships and dashed-off works of art.

The poet and publisher Tambi (J. Meary Tambimuttu) had warned writer Julian Maclaren-Ross, “Only beware Fitzrovia. It’s a dangerous place, you must be careful… You might get Sohoitis, you know… if you get Sohoitis, you will stay there always day and night and get no work done ever. You have been warned.” He might have had Nina in mind when he said those words.

By the mid-1930s, Nina had begun to trade off her reputation more than her art, accepting money to give guided tours of the Boho haunts of Fitzrovia. Ironically, her presence became a tourist attraction in itself, the very pubs she and her circle had come to in order to avoid the crowds becoming intolerably crowded. The Wheatsheaf and the Bricklayers’ Arms, a short distance away, were the new favourites.

It’s sometimes suggested that the Second World War was what brought an end to the West End Bohemian scene, and others have suggested that it was the welfare state. Whichever one you blame, or even if you don’t blame either, it’s fair to say that things were different in the 1940s.

Nina was by this stage a figure in terminal decline. Her artistic career was dead and her behaviour was becoming even more erratic and occasionally violent. She would spend her time going from pub to pub, collecting donations in a tin towards the cost of another drink. In exchange, she would either tell anecdotes of the good old days or, when more befuddled, threaten to expose her breasts to those who didn’t pay up. When particularly smashed, she was in the habit of vomiting into her handbag and wetting the barstool (which I suppose is one way to make sure no one steals your seat).

In December 1956, in constant pain from a botched leg operation three years earlier, Nina was at a low ebb. She was deeply upset by a radio play, It’s Long Past Time, featuring a character named Cynthia who was clearly based on her. The play, in Nina’s opinion, depicted her as a pathetic, broken-down and washed-up figure. Worse, it had been written by a friend, Bob Pocock. A few days later, she from falling out of her window on to the railings below. There is some dispute as to whether this was suicide or an unfortunate accident – either seems possible.

A party was held in her honour some days later, appropriately enough, at the Fitzrovia.

Nina Hamnett was one of those larger-than-life figures who these days would probably find herself on the cover of the celebrity gossip magazines. Despite her sad decline – a fate all too common among the Bohemians – there’s no doubting that nobody reflected and contributed to the spirit of the West End between the wars quite like Nina.

The Quest for the Black Fedora

Have I mentioned how much I hate Oxford Street before? It’s quite possibly my least favourite street in the entire city. Unfortunately, over the past couple of weeks, I’ve found myself down there a surprisingly large amount.  The only time it was enjoyable was on Monday, when I met up with Shoinan (whose blog you should see on the right there). I drank far more than was sensible, which was perhaps best illustrated by my strategy for getting rid of a particularly persistent rickshaw driver, namely to ask him if he could get me to the airport fast, for I needed to get out of the country fast as I had “molested a lot of children.” If there’s a hell, I’ve got a front row seat.

Oxford Street is actually very old indeed, dating back to at least the tenth century, when it was a major highway out of London. Streets in London that are named after places tend to take their names either from where they once led or from aristocratic local landowners. Oxford Street is perhaps unique in being both. It led to Oxford, being nicknamed “Oxford Street” by the early 18th century and previously known as “the Oxford Road.” At around the same time, the second Earl of Oxford bought the land just north of the street, and the nickname became official. As the land was developed, the street became something of an entertainment district and by the 19th century, was becoming known for its shops. It is these days the busiest shopping street in Europe.

The two ends of the street couldn’t present a greater contrast. At the Marble Arch end, you’ve got huge, high-class department stores, the sort of place where an invisible forcefield repels poor people at the door. The first of these was John Lewis, opened in 1864. Then at the Tottenham Court Road end, St Giles as was, you’ve got a lot of those short-term lease places, the ones that seem to be permanently having a closing down sale, even though you can’t remember when they were actually “open.” The ones where you pay a ridiculously low price for the goods and discover why two weeks later. And those deeply irritating shops where you have someone with a microphone hawking unbelievably-priced goods while a mute crowd blocks the pavement. Free tip, folks: perfume is something where you really should sample the merchandise before you pay a suspiciously low price for it.

[PARENTHESIS: The saddest example of this sort of shop I ever saw was in Kingston-Upon-Thames, in which the hustle was pre-recorded and there was no crowd. There's something pathetic about a tape shouting "Knickers half off - not yours madam!!!!!!" to no one, it's the sort of thing Samuel Beckett might have written]

So anyway, it was to this capitalist strand that I made my way a couple of weeks back in search of a hat. Not just any hat, though. I was specifically looking for a black fedora. I did already have one, which I’d bought back in 2001. Unfortunately, several years in storage had taken their toll, and held up to the light you could see enough moth-bitten holes to make it into a decent collander (albeit a totally gross one). Furthermore, it didn’t quite fit. I had to literally pull it down on to my head. And I wasn’t sure about the band. But I really liked the look - with my red scarf, long black coat, navy blue waistcoat and watch chain I had a bit of an 1890s boho thing going on (see M. Lautrec’s poster above right). Technically a fedora is out of period, as they didn’t become fashionable for men until the end of the First World War, but just try finding a Homburg for a decent price.

I figured Oxford Street would be my best bet. Camden has more vintage shops, but you could guarantee being charged a small fortune for something that’ll go out of shape in the first shower of rain. It’s possible to look very expensive for surprisingly little money, but below a certain point you really do get what you pay for.

Trilby

Do you know, there was not a fedora to be found in the entire street. No end of trilbies, thanks to the current hipster trend for wearing them. I’m entirely the wrong shape to be a hipster – above a certain weight, one is not expected to be fashionable. In any case, I don’t follow fashion on the grounds that when I dress up I want to actually be noticed.

The fedora is so cool that it can actually turn you into Humphrey Bogart.

Actually, I did find one fedora in a certain upscale department store opened in 1864, but it was at a ridiculous price and wasn’t even particularly nice. The crown was too shallow for my taste. The salesman tried to convince me that I was making a mistake, but frankly for that kind of money I want a hat that tells me I’m hot.

In the end, I found a much nicer fedora for a third of the price in Marks and Spencers Merton, about ten minutes from my front door. Which just goes to show something or other. In the absence of a moral, I shall repeat the slogan of the British Hat Advisory Board (BHAB): “We all adore a fedora.”

The disadvantage of having a hat that I can actually put on is that it can be taken off with surprising ease, as I found out on my way back when mine was blown off by an unexpected gust of wind from a departing train at the Tube station. However, like Indiana Jones, I wasn’t about to leave my fedora in danger, and so I deftly reached down and plucked my trusty hat from the running rail. I should note that this is not a clever thing to do unless you a) know exactly how long there is between trains, b) know which rails carry current, c) know how far it is from platform level to the rail and d) really like your hat.

All in all, this week’s shaping up to be thoroughly irresponsible. Excellent.

Let’s get some things straight

You know me – I’m a crusader for the truth. I aim in this blog for absolute accuracy 54% of the time – that’s more than half. So when I discover that I have inadvertantly made a mistake it upsets me. Not a huge amount, admittedly, but a bit. Enough to write this entry, put it that way.

See, I was questioned on my sources for the entry ‘Joseph Manton’s Huge Bottom’ (http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2009/02/11/joseph-mantons-huge-bottom/) in which I recounted the tale of how the gunsmith Joseph Manton encountered a highwayman while crossing Hounslow Heath. To briefly recount, Manton damned the highwayman for his insolence, as Manton’s own firm of gunsmiths had manufactured the highwayman’s gun. The highwayman, slick as you like, complimented Manton for his craftsmanship but complained that the gun was a rip-off. Therefore, he robbed Manton of precisely the price of the pistol and no more. A couple of days ago, I found this comment on the entry:

Tom, just out of curiosity – where did you get this story from? I haven’t seen it in any of my books where Joe Manton is mentioned.

“No problem,” I thought, “I’ll just have a look in my own library and… well, God be damned.” I couldn’t for the life of me remember where I’d read that tale. I eventually tracked it down to one of those “Did You Know?” kind of books. You know, the ones that don’t have a bibliography. Anyway, they must have got it from somewhere, but damned if I can find it. So, for now, let’s say this one is apocryphal. Unless anyone knows any better.

Actually, I should have been more careful – I’ve dismissed other “facts” with less evidence. For instance, there’s a tale that gets forwarded to me in my capacity as a chap known to be a fan of London and steam-powered things. This tale goes that the people of East London were appalled by the sight of the first steam locomotive of the London and Greenwich Railway. The solution devised by the Board of Directors was to build a new locomotive that was shaped like a ship, because there are lots of those in East London anyway. I have not, however, found any mention of this in books about the London and Greenwich Railway. Even the ones with a full stocklist. It seems rather unlikely, and in any case, this would do nothing to disguise the train’s load, nor would it reduce the greater nuisances of noise and sparks. The closest I’ve been able to find was mention of a ship used by Arctic explorer John Franklin called the Erebus, which was converted to steam power using parts from a locomotive of the London and Greenwich Railway. So you see, I do have some integrity.

EDIT: A previous version of this entry was even worse.

We are not amused

Having discussed the gates of London, I thought it would perhaps be fitting to discuss their Industrial Revolution equivalents – I refer to the railway termini.

These days, railways – underground, overground or Wombling free – are a vital part of London’s transport network. Look at the chaos that results when there’s a Tube strike, for example. But what’s less well appreciated in our everyday lives is how much life in the city was changed by the coming of the railways. For instance, the fish and chip shops? Not possible before the railways - fresh sea fish couldn’t be transported inland in time. National daily newspapers couldn’t exist until there was a means to transport them. Perishable goods like meat and milk could only be sold locally, often to the farmer’s loss. Suburbia didn’t exist in its modern form, because only the fairly well-off could afford to live more than walking distance from work (although what would have been considered “walking distance” in the early nineteenth century was considerably more than it would be today).

So the big railway stations of London are gateways to the city in two senses – firstly, they are the physical gateways. Indeed, if you want to get philosophical, the entire railway is a gateway. You step through the carriage door in one city and when you step out, you’re in a different city. I think Baudrillard said something along those lines. Him or Foucault, I always get those two confused. Wow, I must be the first blogger ever to admit not being familiar with philosophy. Har.

Back on topic. But in another sense, the railway termini are a gateway in time – they makr the boundary between the old city and the modern. I will start my little series with Victoria, not so much because it has any special significance as because I was there the other day.

The station was opened in 1860, built on the site occupied by a conveniently-abandoned canal basin. The western side of the station was run by the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway (LBSC) and served the lines now running through Battersea Park, Balham and Crystal Palace.

London, Brighton and South Coast Railway coat of arms preserved on the viaduct at Battersea Park

The western side was owned by the London, Chatham and Dover Railway (LCDR). Of course, despite being built on basically unused land, the construction of a terminus in fashionable Belgravia did not come cheap, and there were strict and frankly bizarre regulations put in place by the landowners – the lines would have to run under a glass roof from the river to the station and the rails had to be underlaid with rubber to deaden noise.

Despite this, the men of the Companies didn’t feel the need to build a station in keeping with its surroundings, and both the LCDR and LBSC made their home in shabby wooden shacks, and it was only in 1908 that the LBSC completed the rebuild of their half of the station (seen above). Not very fitting for station that promised luxury services to the South Coast and the Channel ports, but frankly this attitude wasn’t unusual in the mid-nineteenth century – the need to drive a line into London outweighed any aesthetic considerations. Shortly after the LBSC began their rebuild, the South Eastern and Chatham Railway (a company formed out of the LCDR and the South Eastern Railway) decided they weren’t going to be shown up and did some rebuilding of their own. The completed building featured, according to Alan A. Jackson, “a maritime flavour bestowed by four mermaids contemplating their well-parted bosoms”. Yoy. Less racily, due to the proximity of Buckingham Palace, the rebuilt station featured luxury waiting room for Royalty.

Victoria Station famously plays a part in Oscar Wilde’s play The Importance of Being Earnest. Indeed, it is mentioned in the most oft-quoted section of the play:

JACK: The late Mr Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing in his pocket at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.

LADY BRACKNELL: Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you?

JACK: (gravely) In a hand-bag.

LADY BRACKNELL: A hand-bag?

JACK: (very seriously) Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag – a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles on it – an ordinary hand-bag, in fact

LADY BRACKNELL: In what locality did this Mr James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?

JACK: In the cloakroom at Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for his own.

LADY BRACKNELL: The cloakroom at Victoria Station?

JACK: Yes. The Brighton line.

LADY BRACKNELL: The line is immaterial, Mr Worthing. I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate bred, in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution.

The stations were united in 1923, when the Southern Railway took over both the SECR and the LBSC.

As well as offering Royal trains (not that these were unique), Victoria gained a name for prestige, luxury trains. Boat trains – trains timed to meet ships in the Channel ports – were a mainstay of services. There was even, for a time, a Flying Boat Train. This sounds like the most awesome form of transport ever, but was in fact just a train timed to meet seaplane services at Southampton.

London, Brighton and South Coast Railway locomotive. I'm not joking. You think I'm joking? I'm not joking.

Slightly cooler was a plan to build a heliport on top of the station in the 1950s. Fortunately, due to concerns about traffic congestion in the area, this idea wasn’t carried out – let’s face it, given the standard of architecture in the 1950s and 60s, we wouldn’t have ended up with anything beautiful. However, 1962 saw the start of the Gatwick Airport service that continues to this day in the form of the Gatwick Express.

Which was why, in the 1960s, it was thought that Victoria, rather than Waterloo or St Pancras, would be the terminus of the Channel Tunnel rail link. There were also plans to run a line to Victoria from Heathrow, the idea being that by the time all this was complete, Victoria would be a world-class epicentre of travel in the West End. The Victoria Line, opened in 1967, was in part intended to take advantage of this. Alan A. Jackson, he of the contemplative bosoms, noted in 1969 that this development would be essential with “the pending arrival of high-capacity civilian aircraft (the so-called jumbo-jets)”. Ah, hindsight.

Incidentally, to end on a low-down note, British railways (like most around the world) are divided into signalling sections. When a train is in one section, another cannot be allowed into that section until it has moved on. Thus are accidents prevented. The first section out of Victoria ends at a place called Pouparts Junction, which is brilliant.

Incidentally

I talk a little more about this on My Other Blog – http://coarsescale.wordpress.com/2009/08/05/layout-ideas-victoria/

I’m shocked, I tell you, shocked

One of the things I love about this blog is that I can look at the stats and find out exactly what people were looking for when they clicked on an entry. For instance, the entry ‘Where the Chartered Thames doth Flow’ gets a lot of traffic from people looking for information on William Blake. And ‘Apocalypse London’ gets a lot of searches related to Nineteen Eighty-Four, 28 Days Later and War of the Worlds. What’s slightly distressing, though, is that having written an entry that mentions prostitution in Southwark (‘Nice One, Shakespeare’ if you’re interested), I’ve noticed a sharp rise in the number of people who’ve clicked on this blog looking for information on prostitutes in London. Now, I’m not the sort of person who likes to deceive.  If I was, I’d write “Jessica Alba naked” in the hope of snaring people through Google. But I’m not like that. I’m not the sort of person who’d put “Emma Watson nude” in an entry for no reason. The very concept of writing “Megan Fox topless” in a blog entry when I have no such photographs fills me with moral repulsion. So you’ll understand that it upsets me that people come here looking for information on prostitutes in London and find only semi-related information about Billy Shakespeare.

So, in an attempt to redress the balance, here’s an entry about prostitution in London. It’s one of those things that’s always been around, and probably always will be around. It’s also rather difficult to find concrete facts on the subject, due to the fact that it’s an underground and often illegal trade (although it is worth noting that prostitution is not, in itself, illegal in the UK – the laws are confusing and damn if I’m going to make my Google search history look any worse by asking for specifics).

It seems to have centred on the West End for as long as there’s been a West End.  Soho is currently the favoured port of call for the desperate gent, but it seems that this has only really been the case since the Second World War. The obvious conclusion is that it has something to do with the rise of Theatreland – a popular stereotype of actresses from the Restoration onwards (before which time women on stage had been illegal) was that they were basically whores. Well, why else would they go on stage where everyone can see them? Interestingly, nobody seems to have come to any similar conclusions with male actors. Anyway.

Of course, whether you believe the “actresses are whores” argument or not (knowing a few actresses myself, I don’t – apart from anything else, they might be reading this), it did make sense to set up shop in the West End. After all, if you’re a roarin’ young lad on a night out at the theatre, how better to round off the evening than with a fine strumpet. Or trull, doxy, cyprian, crack, blowzabella, trugmoldy or punchable nun, to use just some of the many nicknames employed.

The 18th century gent might employ Harris’s List of Covent Garden Cyprians, published by Jack Harris, a barman at the Shakespear’s Head in Drury Lane who nicknamed himself “Pimp General of all England,” although history does not record whether he made himself a special uniform.

Jack Harris?

The book was an underground success, though the Pimp General was eventually jailed for producing it. If he’d been two hundred and fifty years later, he could have started a website or something. Alas, poor Jack. Still, even after he “abandoned” the venture, it continued to be published for some years by a gentleman named Samuel Derrick, although connoisseurs of that sort of thing say it jumped the shark after Jack left.

As you might imagine, the book was a guide to prostitutes working in the area. I recommend the following article for extracts from the work: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/3644319/As-lewd-as-goats-and-monkeys.html

It seems that the doxies of Covent Garden catered for all tastes. As well as the female brothels and ladies “working” the coffee houses, there were a fair few molly houses (male brothels) and houses of flagellation. One of these,

George IV

owned by one Mrs Colet, was supposedly a favourite haunt of George IV. I have an image in my head of a dominatrix saying, “You opposed Catholic emancipation, didn’t you, you naughty boy?”

This certainly goes some way to explaining why George supported the ‘Pains and Penalties Bill’ – he probably thought it sounded rather fun.

I’m not entirely clear when Soho became the primary red light district in London. In Henry Mayhew’s London’s Underworld (published 1862), he notes that Dean Street and Windmill Street were already popular sites. However, he seems to suggest that Haymarket was the place to be if you were looking for a punchable nun. Incidentally, I recommend Mayhew to anyone looking for a history of the less well documented areas of Victorian society – his style is very frank and readable. What’s more, the main character in Neverwhere, Richard Mayhew, is named after him.

If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that the 1959 Street Offences Act would be what clinched it. This made it illegal for prostitutes to go out on the streets. As much of the West End had gone upmarket over the past two centuries, and as much of the London gangland scene was already centred on Soho, it made a kind of sense to set up shop there. If anyone wants to correct me, then please do.