So last year (2009) I began one of my many writing projects. I do this from time to time and pretty much always get bored before what I’m working on is anywhere near finished.
The idea came to me one morning on the tube, I would guess somewhere between Embankment and Aldgate East on the District Line.
I go into my inspiration in more detail in a later entry, but in a nutshell, I wondered how many of the commuters around me on that packed tube train had any real appreciation for the city above them, it could be very easy to do the same journey day after day and have no idea what was going on in the outside world above.
My mind then wandered on to how I felt I didn’t get as much out of living in London as I maybe should.
25,000 words later and I ran out of steam.
Having secured a place in the 2011 London Marathon, something which I always planned to write about either from the viewpoint of a spectator or competitor, I want to give this another shot.
I'm posting the chapters in their current draft form, most of which have been written some months ago. As my objective is for this to eventually appear in book form, some of these sections are longer than you might expect for blogs or online articles.
The potential for things to do in London and therefore write about was the appeal of this project, but it has also been my undoing. Writers block has hit me and as a result, I'm open to any suggestions for where to take this next.
This introduction will remain at the top of the blog, with what I've done so far linked from this page, as well as posted below in the order which they are intended to be read, starting from the top.
And why the working title Gates of Rome?
It’s Cockney Rhyming Slang for home, which, after all, is what London is, for me anyway.
Proper Intro: written in June 2009 the day the idea first came into my head.
A Few Facts and Stats
So why am I writing this stuff anyway?
I try to define London and present a beginners guide to Cockneys
A Weekend in the City Part 1: comedy at the Bedford in Balham
A Weekend in the City Part 2: a Super Furry Animals gig at one of London's most iconic venues
London: It's a Funny Old Place
Friday, 26 November 2010
Introduction
*Note, this was written on June 22nd 2009*
It’s approaching 10 PM on a Monday night and, despite the time of year it hasn’t been what you would describe as an exceptional summer’s day. It has been warm enough to mean that leaving home that morning without a coat or jumper isn’t being regretted at this late stage in the day, even by the Thames which can be a degree or two cooler. With the longest day of the year a mere 24 hours earlier, the last knockings of daylight are fading into a very pleasant London night and I’m walking along by the river, on my way back to Waterloo train station after a visit to the
Shakespeare’s Globe on the Southbank. Although my latest career digression has taken me into the world of arts marketing, this is a rare, non-work related theatre visit for me, and my first ever to the world-famous Globe.
It’s busy here, but not packed, although the bars and restaurants appear to have had another good night, the credit crunch which left a cloud of doom over the city just a mile or so downstream doesn’t seem to be having much of a negative impact on the Southbank. There’s a fresh breeze coming off a tidal Thames turning what could have been a rather stuffy night into one with a very comfortable atmosphere. The blue and white lights strung from the trees coupled with the dying embers of daytime and the London Eye lit up in green added to a backdrop of buildings old and new creates a setting that makes my group of three think, were we tourists we’d probably be saying what a fantastic place London is on a night like this. We certainly enjoy the moment, but keep on walking, keep on walking back to Waterloo, one of the busiest train stations in Britain, the place where a matter of ours earlier the relaxed vibe would have been totally obliterated by another London rush hour, Waterloo is carnage at 6 O’clock on a week night!
Such franticness returns to my world a matter of hours later as I join the rat race once again, I would point out though that frantic isn’t something I partake in, I refuse to run for a tube or bus when there’s another along in a few minutes. I don’t understand why people work up a sweat before they’ve even got onto one of those lovely tubes with no air con. For a lucky few that will soon be something of the past though, as it’s announced today that London Underground are to begin engineering trials for nearly 200 air conditioned trains.
Among the other headlines Londoners are going to work to on this particular morning are that at least 81 conservation areas in the Capital are at risk of losing their unique characteristics, so say
English Heritage. Meanwhile the
London Assembly bring us the happy thought that new businesses in London are more likely to fail than anywhere else in England, with that kind of stress awaiting them, you’d think people would prefer to be a little more calm on their commute, truth be told, most are programmed to do the same thing, at the same time, in the same order, five days a week, which is why tempers go walkies so quickly. Yet this is the same city which, a matter of hours earlier, at the end of the day, seemed so appealing. Maybe it was the organic cider with an alcohol content of 6.5 per cent which made the difference, or maybe, it’s all about doing something which will be encouraged in work places across London today, one of those horrible business speak phrases “thinking outside the box”.
During the day I check the
Time Out website to see what they recommend for a Tuesday night out. I could have gone to see
The Low Anthem at Union Chapel, I confess I wasn’t especially familiar with their work but the blurb enthuses “pastoral, bucolic, rootsily countrified Americana for Fleet Foxes fans with this waves-making trio from Providence, Rhode Island” – clear as mud as they say. Alternatively I could have taken in a
Guy Bourdin exhibition titled 'Unseen' which “comprises over 30 images from the late fashion photographer's estate, including shoe campaign shoots and Vogue covers” … not really my cup of tea if I’m honest, I could have gone back to the Globe to see ‘As You Like It’ in the outdoor theatre (which did look rather appealing the previous evening) or there was the option of ‘Comedy Camp’ which was held in “this straight-friendly gay club”: just another varied night in the UK’s biggest city where anything’s possible. In reality I was late leaving work and endured a partly suspended District line due to a “passenger incident”, not that I had any intention of venturing out two school nights in a row. At least I had the memory of that cool breeze blowing off the tidal Thames, the fading light even at 10 O’clock at night, the walk in what was surprisingly fresh air for London and that organic cider to keep me company, something which I suspect most on my train couldn’t say, instead having to enjoy the journalistic talents of those employed by one of the many free newspapers which, until the demise of all but the Metro and the
Evening Standard’s revised business plan, would get forced into your hand, whether you already had one or not. Newspapers that paint a range of pictures of the city we live in, the everyday ups and downs of working and living, alongside the removed world of the celeb culture which dominates the media: who’s been seen where, doing what, with whom, wearing what (or what they’re not wearing), living “the life” which, apparently, the average working person is fascinated by as a form of escapism from their own world, assuming that is they’re lucky enough to have work in their world at all.
And there’s a question to consider, certainly needing more than a twenty-minute suspension on the tube to do justice to. Their world, the world in which the people around me live, be that the tangible, locational stuff, buildings, communities, boroughs, or the world they create for themselves given the cards they’re dealt. There’s a multitude of questions, topics and issues that can be thrown into the air, beginning with words like what, when, where, why, who and how, many more can be added with the addition of the word ‘not’. All provoked by the starting point of one, small, six letter word: London.
For all that those questions are interesting, and at times I hope to find some answers, the most interesting question is in fact not a question at all, but merely a word, that six letter word in fact. Gaining a greater appreciation and understanding of that will, I hope, be the really interesting bit.
It’s approaching 10 PM on a Monday night and, despite the time of year it hasn’t been what you would describe as an exceptional summer’s day. It has been warm enough to mean that leaving home that morning without a coat or jumper isn’t being regretted at this late stage in the day, even by the Thames which can be a degree or two cooler. With the longest day of the year a mere 24 hours earlier, the last knockings of daylight are fading into a very pleasant London night and I’m walking along by the river, on my way back to Waterloo train station after a visit to the
Shakespeare’s Globe on the Southbank. Although my latest career digression has taken me into the world of arts marketing, this is a rare, non-work related theatre visit for me, and my first ever to the world-famous Globe.
It’s busy here, but not packed, although the bars and restaurants appear to have had another good night, the credit crunch which left a cloud of doom over the city just a mile or so downstream doesn’t seem to be having much of a negative impact on the Southbank. There’s a fresh breeze coming off a tidal Thames turning what could have been a rather stuffy night into one with a very comfortable atmosphere. The blue and white lights strung from the trees coupled with the dying embers of daytime and the London Eye lit up in green added to a backdrop of buildings old and new creates a setting that makes my group of three think, were we tourists we’d probably be saying what a fantastic place London is on a night like this. We certainly enjoy the moment, but keep on walking, keep on walking back to Waterloo, one of the busiest train stations in Britain, the place where a matter of ours earlier the relaxed vibe would have been totally obliterated by another London rush hour, Waterloo is carnage at 6 O’clock on a week night!
Such franticness returns to my world a matter of hours later as I join the rat race once again, I would point out though that frantic isn’t something I partake in, I refuse to run for a tube or bus when there’s another along in a few minutes. I don’t understand why people work up a sweat before they’ve even got onto one of those lovely tubes with no air con. For a lucky few that will soon be something of the past though, as it’s announced today that London Underground are to begin engineering trials for nearly 200 air conditioned trains.
Among the other headlines Londoners are going to work to on this particular morning are that at least 81 conservation areas in the Capital are at risk of losing their unique characteristics, so say
English Heritage. Meanwhile the
London Assembly bring us the happy thought that new businesses in London are more likely to fail than anywhere else in England, with that kind of stress awaiting them, you’d think people would prefer to be a little more calm on their commute, truth be told, most are programmed to do the same thing, at the same time, in the same order, five days a week, which is why tempers go walkies so quickly. Yet this is the same city which, a matter of hours earlier, at the end of the day, seemed so appealing. Maybe it was the organic cider with an alcohol content of 6.5 per cent which made the difference, or maybe, it’s all about doing something which will be encouraged in work places across London today, one of those horrible business speak phrases “thinking outside the box”.
During the day I check the
Time Out website to see what they recommend for a Tuesday night out. I could have gone to see
The Low Anthem at Union Chapel, I confess I wasn’t especially familiar with their work but the blurb enthuses “pastoral, bucolic, rootsily countrified Americana for Fleet Foxes fans with this waves-making trio from Providence, Rhode Island” – clear as mud as they say. Alternatively I could have taken in a
Guy Bourdin exhibition titled 'Unseen' which “comprises over 30 images from the late fashion photographer's estate, including shoe campaign shoots and Vogue covers” … not really my cup of tea if I’m honest, I could have gone back to the Globe to see ‘As You Like It’ in the outdoor theatre (which did look rather appealing the previous evening) or there was the option of ‘Comedy Camp’ which was held in “this straight-friendly gay club”: just another varied night in the UK’s biggest city where anything’s possible. In reality I was late leaving work and endured a partly suspended District line due to a “passenger incident”, not that I had any intention of venturing out two school nights in a row. At least I had the memory of that cool breeze blowing off the tidal Thames, the fading light even at 10 O’clock at night, the walk in what was surprisingly fresh air for London and that organic cider to keep me company, something which I suspect most on my train couldn’t say, instead having to enjoy the journalistic talents of those employed by one of the many free newspapers which, until the demise of all but the Metro and the
Evening Standard’s revised business plan, would get forced into your hand, whether you already had one or not. Newspapers that paint a range of pictures of the city we live in, the everyday ups and downs of working and living, alongside the removed world of the celeb culture which dominates the media: who’s been seen where, doing what, with whom, wearing what (or what they’re not wearing), living “the life” which, apparently, the average working person is fascinated by as a form of escapism from their own world, assuming that is they’re lucky enough to have work in their world at all.
And there’s a question to consider, certainly needing more than a twenty-minute suspension on the tube to do justice to. Their world, the world in which the people around me live, be that the tangible, locational stuff, buildings, communities, boroughs, or the world they create for themselves given the cards they’re dealt. There’s a multitude of questions, topics and issues that can be thrown into the air, beginning with words like what, when, where, why, who and how, many more can be added with the addition of the word ‘not’. All provoked by the starting point of one, small, six letter word: London.
For all that those questions are interesting, and at times I hope to find some answers, the most interesting question is in fact not a question at all, but merely a word, that six letter word in fact. Gaining a greater appreciation and understanding of that will, I hope, be the really interesting bit.
Facts and Stats
London, capital city of the UK or, to be accurate in the eyes of the Scots, the Welsh, the Irish, and, in some cases, the English too, capital city of England. The home of the UK government, the UK’s financial hub, the main base for the Queen and the royal family, the location for England’s national football stadium, as well as cricket and rugby union, in the opinion of the
International Olympic Committee the only place on this island of ours fit to host an Olympic games (Manchester and Birmingham did have a shot at convincing them otherwise), an entertainment centre to rival any in the world and the point from where, much to the annoyance of those from other parts of the UK, most of the national media is produced.
A few facts and stats about London for starters. In 2005 the city had a population of over 7.5 million residents, in that over half a million children lived below the poverty line. A 2009 figure released in June revealed that 15 per cent of children UK-wide live in homes where no one is working, In London that figure jumps to 23 per cent. London is also one of the European Union's most densely settled areas, only Brussels and central Paris had more bodies crammed into a smaller patch of land. The poverty line statistic might, in part, be explained by the fact that in 2005, London had proportionately more residents aged under 5 than the UK average. There were also more between 20 and 44 than elsewhere in Britain, 44 per cent of Londoners were aged 20-44 compared with only 35 per cent of all UK residents.
The same figures published by the
Greater London Authority (GLA) in conjunction with the
Office for National Statistics (ONS) in 2007 show that London has an above national average unemployment rate, and, as with much of the rest of the country, exam results continue to improve. No wonder the unemployment rate is high if, kids leave school or university in other parts of the country, then, armed with their impressive qualifications, head for London
Dick Whittington-style once in their twenties, hoping to find work with the multitude of companies who have their head quarters in the South East. Unsurprisingly migration from both the UK and the rest of the world is high, in 2004 an estimated 218,000 international migrants came to live in London, equivalent to nearly 3 per cent of its population. A further 155,000 came from the rest of the UK. As fast as people were coming here, plenty were upping sticks and getting the hell out though. Over 350,000 people moved out of London, including 260,000 to the rest of the UK. London had a net loss of persons at all ages except 16-24, perhaps the mass of newly qualified bright young hopefuls realised it was no easier getting a job down here so scarpered off back to where they came by their mid twenties.
I’m not going to continue with this bombardment of figures, this after all isn’t a piece of Geography A level coursework. Incidentally, I only just scraped an E grade for that subject having failed the GCSE, so it’s probably just as well I plan to swerve away from in depth analysis of the numbers. For the record it took me two attempts to pass maths GCSE, further proof I’d tie myself in knots if I try to do anymore than regurgitate the results of a Google search. The one observation that does leap out at you though is, it’s easy to see why London might appear to be crowded, culturally diverse and, for many, a pretty damn tough place to live.
International Olympic Committee the only place on this island of ours fit to host an Olympic games (Manchester and Birmingham did have a shot at convincing them otherwise), an entertainment centre to rival any in the world and the point from where, much to the annoyance of those from other parts of the UK, most of the national media is produced.
A few facts and stats about London for starters. In 2005 the city had a population of over 7.5 million residents, in that over half a million children lived below the poverty line. A 2009 figure released in June revealed that 15 per cent of children UK-wide live in homes where no one is working, In London that figure jumps to 23 per cent. London is also one of the European Union's most densely settled areas, only Brussels and central Paris had more bodies crammed into a smaller patch of land. The poverty line statistic might, in part, be explained by the fact that in 2005, London had proportionately more residents aged under 5 than the UK average. There were also more between 20 and 44 than elsewhere in Britain, 44 per cent of Londoners were aged 20-44 compared with only 35 per cent of all UK residents.
The same figures published by the
Greater London Authority (GLA) in conjunction with the
Office for National Statistics (ONS) in 2007 show that London has an above national average unemployment rate, and, as with much of the rest of the country, exam results continue to improve. No wonder the unemployment rate is high if, kids leave school or university in other parts of the country, then, armed with their impressive qualifications, head for London
Dick Whittington-style once in their twenties, hoping to find work with the multitude of companies who have their head quarters in the South East. Unsurprisingly migration from both the UK and the rest of the world is high, in 2004 an estimated 218,000 international migrants came to live in London, equivalent to nearly 3 per cent of its population. A further 155,000 came from the rest of the UK. As fast as people were coming here, plenty were upping sticks and getting the hell out though. Over 350,000 people moved out of London, including 260,000 to the rest of the UK. London had a net loss of persons at all ages except 16-24, perhaps the mass of newly qualified bright young hopefuls realised it was no easier getting a job down here so scarpered off back to where they came by their mid twenties.
I’m not going to continue with this bombardment of figures, this after all isn’t a piece of Geography A level coursework. Incidentally, I only just scraped an E grade for that subject having failed the GCSE, so it’s probably just as well I plan to swerve away from in depth analysis of the numbers. For the record it took me two attempts to pass maths GCSE, further proof I’d tie myself in knots if I try to do anymore than regurgitate the results of a Google search. The one observation that does leap out at you though is, it’s easy to see why London might appear to be crowded, culturally diverse and, for many, a pretty damn tough place to live.
So why am I writing all this stuff anyway?
Stats are one thing, but I'm far more interested in the human side.
Having looked up a load of numbers, I conducted my own, small and distinctly unscientific stab at research. I wanted to play a quick game with a few friends and work colleagues, asking a couple of questions about the city I was born in, to get an idea of the impression people have of London, to go alongside the factual, numbers-based stuff.
If I say the word London, what word or words instantly come into your head?
And, what would you say is the most famous thing about London?
In answer to the first question, those living and or working here offered up cosmopolitan, polluted, crowded, lively, noisy, the river, the most culturally diverse city in Britain, Soho, mental, dirty and inaccessible. In an interesting conflict of perspectives I also got beautiful on a summer’s day and grey, both are true, depending on the time of year and your own mood.
Those from elsewhere in the UK gave me multi-cultural, busy, crowded, fast, polluted, Westminster, diverse and also the fact that it’s a pain in the arse to get around late at night given that the tube shuts down before most clubs and bars chuck out. Amusingly, cockney wankers was also thrown in for good measure, glad to see London/Manchester relations are alive and well.
Regarding what is most famous about this city, those living here suggested the Tube, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the London bus, taxis, Oxford Street, Tower Bridge, people scattered on the steps of St. Paul's, tourists clogging up the streets, men in pinstriped suits, Emo kids, the Queen’s guards wearing their gigantic bear skins, the Thames, London’s profile around the world and the amount of famous old buildings here.
Outsiders first thought of, Buckingham Palace (a few times in fact), Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, the London Eye, Wembley Stadium, the West End, the monarchy, it’s music scene, the Olympics and the Tower of London. One contribution from Australia did wonder, with a touch of gloating perhaps, “Why didn’t I think of gorgeous blondes in swim suits?”
These answers do, as was partly the intention, give us an interesting, perception verses reality contrast. Seeking the help of an online dictionary, I checked out the definitions of both:
Perception is, recognition and interpretation of sensory stimuli based chiefly on memory, or, if you prefer, the neurological processes by which such recognition and interpretation are effected. In a nutshell, insight, intuition, or knowledge gained by perceiving: no shit Sherlock.
The definition of reality is, the state of things as they are or appear to be, rather than as one might wish them to be.
Point being, the common perception of London offered up by those I asked who live and or work here leans towards the negative, we’ve all spent hours sweating on the tube or found the traffic infuriating but, the tube is only packed at certain times of the day, some of those inconvenienced during a tube strike might decide to walk part of the way to work and, were the weather to be nice, realise that London maybe isn’t quite so bad after all. Let’s face it, is being late for work or a meeting really that bad in the grand scheme of things anyway?
People from elsewhere weren’t falling over themselves to focus on the negatives, although the themes of dirty, busy and difficulty getting around were still there, more people highlighted the multi-cultural side of the city though.
In terms of the iconic side, those who live here were more likely to think of groups of people, city workers, tourists, scene kids, where those from elsewhere only thought of buildings. Both those from London and elsewhere instantly thought of the most popular tourist attractions, the postcard images. Granted this is a big part of what London is, the venue plan for the
2012 Olympics was put together partly with showing off London’s estetic strength to a world-wide TV audience. But for every Buckingham Palace there’s a quirky gallery, as attractive Oxford Street or Harrods might be, so too are the intriguing markets which are slightly off the beaten track. A football fan will instantly think of Wembley or that shiny new place Arsenal play in, but Griffin Park (Brentford, complete with it’s pub on each corner of the ground) and Brisbane Road (Leyton Orient) although undeniably a little rough around the edges, has character too and are far less expensive to visit.
The inspiration for this book has come from an underlying interest to try and get more out of London, something which has been lerking in the back of my mind for a while. This was provoked into me actually writing a few ramblings after reading a fantastic book called ‘Pies and Prejudice’, written by one time NME journalist, current Radio 2 presenter, general media type and, crucially, bloke from the North
Stuart Maconie. He spent sometime traveling around “the North”, looking at what makes it the place that it is, the people who live there, what makes them who they are, the history of the region and, why it’s better than the South.
I read that book while on the tube, and found myself wondering if my fellow commuters would have a similar pride for London as clearly came across in Maconie’s writing about the North, how many of them would even be that aware of what was above them? This isn’t however planned to be a London equivalent, or answer back, tempting though that was on the occasions when the boot was aimed in our direction. I would in style, prefer to lean more towards my other inspiration, the
Robert Elms show on Radio London.
The BBC website describes it as “a celebration of every aspect of this tumultuous city”. The programme “revel’s in the numerous stories and characters, memories and aspirations which make this such an extraordinary place to live and work in”.
Arguably the reply to my two questions about London which summed things up the best was the one which didn’t actually answer the questions at all. Better still, it came from a Scot. Having first offered up Wembley for both (based on Celtic’s impending visit in a preseason tournament), I got, “London is far too varied and has so much to see and do that it’s really hard to think of just one thing.”
And that ultimately is the point. Although a lot of people I asked came up with similar impressions and icons, depending on their own personal tastes they would have something slightly different as a perception, be it the music scene, historical places of interest, shopping options, theatre venues or sports teams and or stadiums.
It’s difficult to say exactly where I plan to take this book, which is the attraction of writing it since, as was pointed out from North of the border, there’s so much on offer. Having a plan to rigidly stick to would be missing opportunities.
As the Robert Elms Show web page says, “we never hide the fact that London can be a difficult, expensive, noisy, dirty, sprawling mess. But we never forget that we love it,” or do we? That is, do we “never forget”? Or do we even love it in the first place? And if we don’t, why not? It is after all our home.
Having looked up a load of numbers, I conducted my own, small and distinctly unscientific stab at research. I wanted to play a quick game with a few friends and work colleagues, asking a couple of questions about the city I was born in, to get an idea of the impression people have of London, to go alongside the factual, numbers-based stuff.
If I say the word London, what word or words instantly come into your head?
And, what would you say is the most famous thing about London?
In answer to the first question, those living and or working here offered up cosmopolitan, polluted, crowded, lively, noisy, the river, the most culturally diverse city in Britain, Soho, mental, dirty and inaccessible. In an interesting conflict of perspectives I also got beautiful on a summer’s day and grey, both are true, depending on the time of year and your own mood.
Those from elsewhere in the UK gave me multi-cultural, busy, crowded, fast, polluted, Westminster, diverse and also the fact that it’s a pain in the arse to get around late at night given that the tube shuts down before most clubs and bars chuck out. Amusingly, cockney wankers was also thrown in for good measure, glad to see London/Manchester relations are alive and well.
Regarding what is most famous about this city, those living here suggested the Tube, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the London bus, taxis, Oxford Street, Tower Bridge, people scattered on the steps of St. Paul's, tourists clogging up the streets, men in pinstriped suits, Emo kids, the Queen’s guards wearing their gigantic bear skins, the Thames, London’s profile around the world and the amount of famous old buildings here.
Outsiders first thought of, Buckingham Palace (a few times in fact), Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, the London Eye, Wembley Stadium, the West End, the monarchy, it’s music scene, the Olympics and the Tower of London. One contribution from Australia did wonder, with a touch of gloating perhaps, “Why didn’t I think of gorgeous blondes in swim suits?”
These answers do, as was partly the intention, give us an interesting, perception verses reality contrast. Seeking the help of an online dictionary, I checked out the definitions of both:
Perception is, recognition and interpretation of sensory stimuli based chiefly on memory, or, if you prefer, the neurological processes by which such recognition and interpretation are effected. In a nutshell, insight, intuition, or knowledge gained by perceiving: no shit Sherlock.
The definition of reality is, the state of things as they are or appear to be, rather than as one might wish them to be.
Point being, the common perception of London offered up by those I asked who live and or work here leans towards the negative, we’ve all spent hours sweating on the tube or found the traffic infuriating but, the tube is only packed at certain times of the day, some of those inconvenienced during a tube strike might decide to walk part of the way to work and, were the weather to be nice, realise that London maybe isn’t quite so bad after all. Let’s face it, is being late for work or a meeting really that bad in the grand scheme of things anyway?
People from elsewhere weren’t falling over themselves to focus on the negatives, although the themes of dirty, busy and difficulty getting around were still there, more people highlighted the multi-cultural side of the city though.
In terms of the iconic side, those who live here were more likely to think of groups of people, city workers, tourists, scene kids, where those from elsewhere only thought of buildings. Both those from London and elsewhere instantly thought of the most popular tourist attractions, the postcard images. Granted this is a big part of what London is, the venue plan for the
2012 Olympics was put together partly with showing off London’s estetic strength to a world-wide TV audience. But for every Buckingham Palace there’s a quirky gallery, as attractive Oxford Street or Harrods might be, so too are the intriguing markets which are slightly off the beaten track. A football fan will instantly think of Wembley or that shiny new place Arsenal play in, but Griffin Park (Brentford, complete with it’s pub on each corner of the ground) and Brisbane Road (Leyton Orient) although undeniably a little rough around the edges, has character too and are far less expensive to visit.
The inspiration for this book has come from an underlying interest to try and get more out of London, something which has been lerking in the back of my mind for a while. This was provoked into me actually writing a few ramblings after reading a fantastic book called ‘Pies and Prejudice’, written by one time NME journalist, current Radio 2 presenter, general media type and, crucially, bloke from the North
Stuart Maconie. He spent sometime traveling around “the North”, looking at what makes it the place that it is, the people who live there, what makes them who they are, the history of the region and, why it’s better than the South.
I read that book while on the tube, and found myself wondering if my fellow commuters would have a similar pride for London as clearly came across in Maconie’s writing about the North, how many of them would even be that aware of what was above them? This isn’t however planned to be a London equivalent, or answer back, tempting though that was on the occasions when the boot was aimed in our direction. I would in style, prefer to lean more towards my other inspiration, the
Robert Elms show on Radio London.
The BBC website describes it as “a celebration of every aspect of this tumultuous city”. The programme “revel’s in the numerous stories and characters, memories and aspirations which make this such an extraordinary place to live and work in”.
Arguably the reply to my two questions about London which summed things up the best was the one which didn’t actually answer the questions at all. Better still, it came from a Scot. Having first offered up Wembley for both (based on Celtic’s impending visit in a preseason tournament), I got, “London is far too varied and has so much to see and do that it’s really hard to think of just one thing.”
And that ultimately is the point. Although a lot of people I asked came up with similar impressions and icons, depending on their own personal tastes they would have something slightly different as a perception, be it the music scene, historical places of interest, shopping options, theatre venues or sports teams and or stadiums.
It’s difficult to say exactly where I plan to take this book, which is the attraction of writing it since, as was pointed out from North of the border, there’s so much on offer. Having a plan to rigidly stick to would be missing opportunities.
As the Robert Elms Show web page says, “we never hide the fact that London can be a difficult, expensive, noisy, dirty, sprawling mess. But we never forget that we love it,” or do we? That is, do we “never forget”? Or do we even love it in the first place? And if we don’t, why not? It is after all our home.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
So where is London? And what is a Cockney?
So where is and isn’t London?
If I’m going to write about the place, I should really consider where London, that sprawling mass of humanity, begins and ends. Areas in the suburbs which, several hundreds of years ago would have been towns and villages in their own right, have since been swallowed up by the ever expanding, dominant creature that is our capital city.
Someone from Stoke Newington which, for those who don’t know is a little bit North and a little bit East of Central London, once suggested to me that where I live, near Twickenham, Hounslow, Kingston, a lot South and a lot West of Central London, isn’t proper London. My own status as a proper Londoner can’t be questioned if you go by birthplace, Hammersmith, since that’s considerably more central, all be it a bit to the West.
Some would argue that you’re only in London if you have a postcode such as SW, EC, SE or NW, that would mean heading out of Waterloo you’ve left the Capital once you’ve waved to the
Wombles from the train at Wimbledon station. Wimbledon could also be argued as a cut off point as it’s the end of a tube line, but so to is Watford, and that for many isn’t only not London, but the gateway to the North.
Others consider London to be anywhere within the
M25, but that would include places like Windsor, and there’s surely too much green stuff on the way there for it to be part of the same city. That said, no matter where you live, you have a landmark which equals home and for me, like millions of others, entering the circle within that particular motorway is the same as crossing the river Tyne for a
Geordie.
The area of Greater London was created in 1965 and includes 32 boroughs. It covers an area of 609 square miles, stretching from Havering in the East to Hillingdon in the West, and from Bromley in the South to Enfield in the North. For the purpose of this book, if you can get there with an Oyster Card, and you’re life is managed, for better or for worse depending on you’re viewpoint, by
Boris Johnson, and you have the power to vote him out if you don’t like what he does, then that makes you a Londoner.
So having defined, even if only in my own head, the places which I can call London, who can and can’t claim to be a Cockney?
Were I to want to refer to myself as a Cockney, if we’re being traditional about these things I can’t, since to be a fully paid up member of the ‘apples and pairs’, ‘cor blimey guvner’ brigade I would need to have been born within the sound of Bo Bells (towards the East, although not technically the East End if you’re still wanting reference points). I did have the tube going past the window of the room where I entered the world, and I suppose being born within the sound of the London Underground could be a modern-day method of claiming your Londoner status, but the entry criteria to the Cockney club is slightly more specific. My great grandma was a born and bred Cockney, but that’s one generation too many for me to be able to play for a Cockney football team, were we to be using the qualification method often favoured by the Republic of Ireland, and crap journeyman Aussies wishing to play international rugby:
“And what a proud day this is for Bruce McSurfboard, as he realizes the dream of being able to line up for his beloved Scotland in front of a packed house here at Murryfield…I do wish he’d take his gloves off though, minus 5? That’s positively tropical for March!”
Unlike say, somewhere like Newcastle where being from that city, you’re naturally a Geordie (assuming that is you were born north of the River Tyne), being from London and being a Cockney don’t automatically go hand in hand, despite the impression given by accents.
The earliest historical reference to the word “cockney” or forms from where it evolved from I could find was when London was referred to by the Normans as the "Land of Sugar Cake”, the translation being, pais de cocaigne. This meant an imaginary land of idleness and luxury, and the word "Cocaigne" referred to all of London and its suburbs, all be it the suburbs was a far smaller area in William the Conqueror’s day. It’s evolution into Middle English took it to Cocknay and Cockney.
According to
Cockney.co.uk, a true Londoner is a Cockney, with the word, or 'cock's egg’ used as “a 14th Century term applied contemptuously by rural people to native Londoners who lived rather by their wits than their muscle”.
The first specific locational reference within the London area comes during the 1600s, when the term was used to describe those born within earshot of the Bow Bells by Samuel Rowlands in his satire ‘The Letting of Humours Blood in the Head-Vaine’ (as an aside, there’s a great title for a prog rock album if ever I heard one).
Early uses of the word tended to be derogatory (depending on where you are in the UK that’s still very much the case). To quote another literary source, in ‘The Reeve's Tale’ by http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geoffrey_ChaucerGeoffrey Chaucer (written in 1386), the word cokenay is used to describe “a child tenderly brought up, an effeminate fellow". If you’re feeling especially bold you could liven up your visit to London by taking in a Milwall home match, and see how the locals feel about the origin of the word “cockney”. You might also like to know that the term could be used for a young male prostitute; although the location of the nearest A and E department might be more useful.
The Bow Bells is a little misleading, since we’re not talking about the area of Bow, but the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow church in Cheapside in the City of London, not actually in the East End which is the popularly described Cockney heartland. Areas of London where the bells could be heard included Clerkenwell, Finsbury, Shoreditch, Stepney, Bethnal Green, Limehouse, Mile End, Wapping, Whitechapel, Bermondsey and Rotherhithe.
It goes without saying that this is no longer the case given the general noise of London, plus, the bells were silenced during World War 2 and, due to bomb damage, weren’t restarted until 1961. The immediate area surrounding the church is now no longer residential, so the chances of someone being born there, unless one of those occasional “Birth On Bus” headlines which the tabloids love, entering the world to the soundtrack of that particular place of worship is rather unlikely.
Migration has also seen the “cockney” heartland spread, with areas to the South East such as Barking & Dagenham now considered as places where the dialect is spoken. Naturally employment shifts has also resulted in expansion, as Chatham Dockyard grew during the 18th century, large numbers of workers were relocated from the dockland areas of London to Kent, bringing with them the "Cockney" accent and vocabulary. It wasn’t long before this distinguished Chatham from neighbouring areas such as Rochester, which had the traditional Kentish accent. That said, if you go by my where London begins and ends theory of Oyster cards and Greater London Authority management, Chatham isn’t London, it’s also outside the M25.
As the English have moved out of the inner city East End areas, ethnic minorities have taken their place, meaning were you to walk down Whitechapel Road, accents as far ranging as West Indian, Eastern European, African and Asian would be heard more often than that of traditional London or Cockney. In fact, among younger Londoners, those for whom London is their place of birth, but are first generation descendants from other nationalities, the language spoken is described as
Multi Cultural London English.
Exactly when the “Cockney” accent became dominant in London is hard to pin down. According to
Professor David Crystal, who delivered a talk titled ‘Sounds of the Streets and Stage in Shakespearean London’ at the 2009 Story of London Festival, people didn’t speak with much of an accent in the early 1600s, although there was some regional variation as a result of post Black Death immigration.
Following this up I contacted him to find out his thoughts on if Cockney speak was showing its face at the same time as the word was being used to describe the people:
“I'm sure there were local accents evolving in London, and there probably was a Cockney accent of some sort, even though the first recorded reference to 'Cockney language' is much much later - the OED (Oxford English Dictionary) has a quotation from 1776. If there was a social group, then there would have been an associated accent. There was no Received Pronunciation at that time though.”
I couldn’t write about the Cockney world without mentioning the most famous feature, the rhyming slang, Pie and mash and
Chas and Dave will have to wait for another day. Some rhymes are so common, they’ve become a part of everyday speak far away from the East End, one of the most common being ‘barny’ – argument, which originates from barn owl, meaning row.
Not only does that demonstrate the power of the slang’s ability to worm it’s way into the British consciousness, but also the randomness of it, especially considering that owl and row don’t exactly rhyme. I wonder also, how many people who use the word Pony to describe something being rubbish, realize they’re using the rhyming slang for crap which is pony and trap.
Other examples are as famous, but through their comedy value: apples and pairs – stairs, brown bread – dead, plates of meat – feet. Then there’s the ones which use famous names such as Pete Tong – wrong, Britney Spears – beers, Hank Marvin - starving and Alan Whickers – knickers.
I’ll conclude some of these sections with a few oddities from the Cockney repertoire, but for now, since it’s getting late, I really should loaf off to me John Fred.
If I’m going to write about the place, I should really consider where London, that sprawling mass of humanity, begins and ends. Areas in the suburbs which, several hundreds of years ago would have been towns and villages in their own right, have since been swallowed up by the ever expanding, dominant creature that is our capital city.
Someone from Stoke Newington which, for those who don’t know is a little bit North and a little bit East of Central London, once suggested to me that where I live, near Twickenham, Hounslow, Kingston, a lot South and a lot West of Central London, isn’t proper London. My own status as a proper Londoner can’t be questioned if you go by birthplace, Hammersmith, since that’s considerably more central, all be it a bit to the West.
Some would argue that you’re only in London if you have a postcode such as SW, EC, SE or NW, that would mean heading out of Waterloo you’ve left the Capital once you’ve waved to the
Wombles from the train at Wimbledon station. Wimbledon could also be argued as a cut off point as it’s the end of a tube line, but so to is Watford, and that for many isn’t only not London, but the gateway to the North.
Others consider London to be anywhere within the
M25, but that would include places like Windsor, and there’s surely too much green stuff on the way there for it to be part of the same city. That said, no matter where you live, you have a landmark which equals home and for me, like millions of others, entering the circle within that particular motorway is the same as crossing the river Tyne for a
Geordie.
The area of Greater London was created in 1965 and includes 32 boroughs. It covers an area of 609 square miles, stretching from Havering in the East to Hillingdon in the West, and from Bromley in the South to Enfield in the North. For the purpose of this book, if you can get there with an Oyster Card, and you’re life is managed, for better or for worse depending on you’re viewpoint, by
Boris Johnson, and you have the power to vote him out if you don’t like what he does, then that makes you a Londoner.
So having defined, even if only in my own head, the places which I can call London, who can and can’t claim to be a Cockney?
Were I to want to refer to myself as a Cockney, if we’re being traditional about these things I can’t, since to be a fully paid up member of the ‘apples and pairs’, ‘cor blimey guvner’ brigade I would need to have been born within the sound of Bo Bells (towards the East, although not technically the East End if you’re still wanting reference points). I did have the tube going past the window of the room where I entered the world, and I suppose being born within the sound of the London Underground could be a modern-day method of claiming your Londoner status, but the entry criteria to the Cockney club is slightly more specific. My great grandma was a born and bred Cockney, but that’s one generation too many for me to be able to play for a Cockney football team, were we to be using the qualification method often favoured by the Republic of Ireland, and crap journeyman Aussies wishing to play international rugby:
“And what a proud day this is for Bruce McSurfboard, as he realizes the dream of being able to line up for his beloved Scotland in front of a packed house here at Murryfield…I do wish he’d take his gloves off though, minus 5? That’s positively tropical for March!”
Unlike say, somewhere like Newcastle where being from that city, you’re naturally a Geordie (assuming that is you were born north of the River Tyne), being from London and being a Cockney don’t automatically go hand in hand, despite the impression given by accents.
The earliest historical reference to the word “cockney” or forms from where it evolved from I could find was when London was referred to by the Normans as the "Land of Sugar Cake”, the translation being, pais de cocaigne. This meant an imaginary land of idleness and luxury, and the word "Cocaigne" referred to all of London and its suburbs, all be it the suburbs was a far smaller area in William the Conqueror’s day. It’s evolution into Middle English took it to Cocknay and Cockney.
According to
Cockney.co.uk, a true Londoner is a Cockney, with the word, or 'cock's egg’ used as “a 14th Century term applied contemptuously by rural people to native Londoners who lived rather by their wits than their muscle”.
The first specific locational reference within the London area comes during the 1600s, when the term was used to describe those born within earshot of the Bow Bells by Samuel Rowlands in his satire ‘The Letting of Humours Blood in the Head-Vaine’ (as an aside, there’s a great title for a prog rock album if ever I heard one).
Early uses of the word tended to be derogatory (depending on where you are in the UK that’s still very much the case). To quote another literary source, in ‘The Reeve's Tale’ by http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geoffrey_ChaucerGeoffrey Chaucer (written in 1386), the word cokenay is used to describe “a child tenderly brought up, an effeminate fellow". If you’re feeling especially bold you could liven up your visit to London by taking in a Milwall home match, and see how the locals feel about the origin of the word “cockney”. You might also like to know that the term could be used for a young male prostitute; although the location of the nearest A and E department might be more useful.
The Bow Bells is a little misleading, since we’re not talking about the area of Bow, but the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow church in Cheapside in the City of London, not actually in the East End which is the popularly described Cockney heartland. Areas of London where the bells could be heard included Clerkenwell, Finsbury, Shoreditch, Stepney, Bethnal Green, Limehouse, Mile End, Wapping, Whitechapel, Bermondsey and Rotherhithe.
It goes without saying that this is no longer the case given the general noise of London, plus, the bells were silenced during World War 2 and, due to bomb damage, weren’t restarted until 1961. The immediate area surrounding the church is now no longer residential, so the chances of someone being born there, unless one of those occasional “Birth On Bus” headlines which the tabloids love, entering the world to the soundtrack of that particular place of worship is rather unlikely.
Migration has also seen the “cockney” heartland spread, with areas to the South East such as Barking & Dagenham now considered as places where the dialect is spoken. Naturally employment shifts has also resulted in expansion, as Chatham Dockyard grew during the 18th century, large numbers of workers were relocated from the dockland areas of London to Kent, bringing with them the "Cockney" accent and vocabulary. It wasn’t long before this distinguished Chatham from neighbouring areas such as Rochester, which had the traditional Kentish accent. That said, if you go by my where London begins and ends theory of Oyster cards and Greater London Authority management, Chatham isn’t London, it’s also outside the M25.
As the English have moved out of the inner city East End areas, ethnic minorities have taken their place, meaning were you to walk down Whitechapel Road, accents as far ranging as West Indian, Eastern European, African and Asian would be heard more often than that of traditional London or Cockney. In fact, among younger Londoners, those for whom London is their place of birth, but are first generation descendants from other nationalities, the language spoken is described as
Multi Cultural London English.
Exactly when the “Cockney” accent became dominant in London is hard to pin down. According to
Professor David Crystal, who delivered a talk titled ‘Sounds of the Streets and Stage in Shakespearean London’ at the 2009 Story of London Festival, people didn’t speak with much of an accent in the early 1600s, although there was some regional variation as a result of post Black Death immigration.
Following this up I contacted him to find out his thoughts on if Cockney speak was showing its face at the same time as the word was being used to describe the people:
“I'm sure there were local accents evolving in London, and there probably was a Cockney accent of some sort, even though the first recorded reference to 'Cockney language' is much much later - the OED (Oxford English Dictionary) has a quotation from 1776. If there was a social group, then there would have been an associated accent. There was no Received Pronunciation at that time though.”
I couldn’t write about the Cockney world without mentioning the most famous feature, the rhyming slang, Pie and mash and
Chas and Dave will have to wait for another day. Some rhymes are so common, they’ve become a part of everyday speak far away from the East End, one of the most common being ‘barny’ – argument, which originates from barn owl, meaning row.
Not only does that demonstrate the power of the slang’s ability to worm it’s way into the British consciousness, but also the randomness of it, especially considering that owl and row don’t exactly rhyme. I wonder also, how many people who use the word Pony to describe something being rubbish, realize they’re using the rhyming slang for crap which is pony and trap.
Other examples are as famous, but through their comedy value: apples and pairs – stairs, brown bread – dead, plates of meat – feet. Then there’s the ones which use famous names such as Pete Tong – wrong, Britney Spears – beers, Hank Marvin - starving and Alan Whickers – knickers.
I’ll conclude some of these sections with a few oddities from the Cockney repertoire, but for now, since it’s getting late, I really should loaf off to me John Fred.
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
A Weekend in the City Part 1: comedy at the Bedford in Balham
Having written what you’ve read so far in next to no time at all, it was a while before I was able to pick up where I’d left off. Not a bad thing in a way as it goes to back up the reason for doing this in the first place. The day job and general day-to-day stuff meant that the time to sit and write hadn’t been there. If you were to ask most people in London why they don’t get more out of living here, time, along with money will be among the most common reasons, however part of the point of this book was to show that neither have to stand in the way of discovering what can be done here with a bit of research and imagination. An old school friend came down from Newcastle, and the weekend of his visit was a case in point.
With nothing planned for a Friday night, the tried and tested method of searching the What’s On list on the
Time Out website through up a comedy night at the
Bedford in Balham, a pub which is far from being my local but is within easy reach on the train. The Banana Cabaret has been running for over twenty-five years, and, alongside live music, a gallery, dance classes and club nights, makes this far more than your average boozer.
Originally a hotel in the 1830s, the Bedford has been the main community hub of this part of South London ever since. A spit and sawdust gig venue during the sixties and seventies, the pub boasts early shows for
The Clash and
U2 on its CV of famous nights.
The ballroom upstairs, formerly the billiard hall, was the location for an infamous event of a very different kind, as it was used as the courtroom for the unsolved case of the death of Lawyer Charles Bravo in 1876, murdered by poisoning in a nearby elite Victorian household called The Priory.
His wealthy wife Florence had previously been married, in 1864, to Algernon Lewis Ricardo, son of MP John Ricardo, but had been separated from her first husband because of his affairs and violent alcoholism. She in turn had had an extramarital affair of her own, with a much older bloke, Dr James Mandy Gully, a fashionable society doctor who was also married at the time, and she had fallen out of favour with her family and society. Just think of the fun a 19th century version of The Evening Standard would have had getting stuck into this cat’s complicated love life. Ricardo died in 1871 and Florence married Charles, a respected up and coming barrister in December 1875, terminating her affair with Gully.
The fun and games didn’t stop there however, as four months into a stormy marriage, Charles was mysteriously poisoned. Police enquiries in the case revealed Charles's behaviour towards his wife as being controlling, mean and violent. The relationship was unbalanced where power was concerned, as Florence was the wealthier of the pair. Being no fool she had held onto her own money under a new law introduced in England under the Married Women’s Property Act 1870, and this led, as you might imagine, to tension between the pair. Our friend Charlie the legal eagle can’t have been too thrilled at being played at his own game.
Although the case held at the Bedford was ultimately unsolved, plenty of theories have been put forward as to how the poisoning could have happened. One such suggestion is that, in an attempt to get his hands on his wife’s cash, Bravo was slowly poisoning her with small doses of antimony; she was suffering from another illness at the time. In one of those, clumsy pick up the wrong bottle in the bathroom incidents, what he thought was laudanum for toothache turned out to be something rather more serious, certainly putting into perspective the hair die instead of shower gel screw up people have been known to make.
Suspicion was aroused further when, while being visited by doctors during his final days, at no point did he speak of how the poisoning might have happened. The housekeeper Mrs. Cox reportedly told police Charles admitted using the poison on himself when they were alone together, although she later changed that story in the dock to deflect suspicion towards Florence. The housekeeper had also been suspected of causing the death, for she had been threatened with the sack.
On this particular Friday night the historic courtroom location hosted TV and radio presenter
Paul Tonkinson (The Big Breakfast, X FM), Ian Stone who is a regular on the festival circuit, plus a blind bloke and a shockingly unfunny woman (the names of both escape me), meaning it was a mixed bag, but considerably better than anything Friday night TV can offer.
Although plenty of pubs, bars and cafes have either been taken over by chains, many a drinking venue in the capital has a wonderfully intriguing past, the Bedford is certainly one of my favourite places this side of Central London for both the story behind the place and what you get if you turn up now, and is well worth a visit if you’re at a loose end.
*Source of historical stuff is the Bedford’s website*
With nothing planned for a Friday night, the tried and tested method of searching the What’s On list on the
Time Out website through up a comedy night at the
Bedford in Balham, a pub which is far from being my local but is within easy reach on the train. The Banana Cabaret has been running for over twenty-five years, and, alongside live music, a gallery, dance classes and club nights, makes this far more than your average boozer.
Originally a hotel in the 1830s, the Bedford has been the main community hub of this part of South London ever since. A spit and sawdust gig venue during the sixties and seventies, the pub boasts early shows for
The Clash and
U2 on its CV of famous nights.
The ballroom upstairs, formerly the billiard hall, was the location for an infamous event of a very different kind, as it was used as the courtroom for the unsolved case of the death of Lawyer Charles Bravo in 1876, murdered by poisoning in a nearby elite Victorian household called The Priory.
His wealthy wife Florence had previously been married, in 1864, to Algernon Lewis Ricardo, son of MP John Ricardo, but had been separated from her first husband because of his affairs and violent alcoholism. She in turn had had an extramarital affair of her own, with a much older bloke, Dr James Mandy Gully, a fashionable society doctor who was also married at the time, and she had fallen out of favour with her family and society. Just think of the fun a 19th century version of The Evening Standard would have had getting stuck into this cat’s complicated love life. Ricardo died in 1871 and Florence married Charles, a respected up and coming barrister in December 1875, terminating her affair with Gully.
The fun and games didn’t stop there however, as four months into a stormy marriage, Charles was mysteriously poisoned. Police enquiries in the case revealed Charles's behaviour towards his wife as being controlling, mean and violent. The relationship was unbalanced where power was concerned, as Florence was the wealthier of the pair. Being no fool she had held onto her own money under a new law introduced in England under the Married Women’s Property Act 1870, and this led, as you might imagine, to tension between the pair. Our friend Charlie the legal eagle can’t have been too thrilled at being played at his own game.
Although the case held at the Bedford was ultimately unsolved, plenty of theories have been put forward as to how the poisoning could have happened. One such suggestion is that, in an attempt to get his hands on his wife’s cash, Bravo was slowly poisoning her with small doses of antimony; she was suffering from another illness at the time. In one of those, clumsy pick up the wrong bottle in the bathroom incidents, what he thought was laudanum for toothache turned out to be something rather more serious, certainly putting into perspective the hair die instead of shower gel screw up people have been known to make.
Suspicion was aroused further when, while being visited by doctors during his final days, at no point did he speak of how the poisoning might have happened. The housekeeper Mrs. Cox reportedly told police Charles admitted using the poison on himself when they were alone together, although she later changed that story in the dock to deflect suspicion towards Florence. The housekeeper had also been suspected of causing the death, for she had been threatened with the sack.
On this particular Friday night the historic courtroom location hosted TV and radio presenter
Paul Tonkinson (The Big Breakfast, X FM), Ian Stone who is a regular on the festival circuit, plus a blind bloke and a shockingly unfunny woman (the names of both escape me), meaning it was a mixed bag, but considerably better than anything Friday night TV can offer.
Although plenty of pubs, bars and cafes have either been taken over by chains, many a drinking venue in the capital has a wonderfully intriguing past, the Bedford is certainly one of my favourite places this side of Central London for both the story behind the place and what you get if you turn up now, and is well worth a visit if you’re at a loose end.
*Source of historical stuff is the Bedford’s website*
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
A Weekend in the City Part 2: Somerset House
The evening which followed the Banana Cabaret was another spur of the moment night out. My friend’s visit on that weekend in July 2009 had been decided fairly short notice, but a hunt through London’s gig listings told us that the excellent
Super Furry Animals were playing the Summer Series at
Somerset House and, unlike most of the other shows in that run, wasn’t yet a sell out.
With my gig reviewer hat on, I once saw Audio Bullies play a DJ set at
Spitalfields Market, one of London’s most iconic and interesting shopping areas in the East End not far from Liverpool Street station. This novel idea was part of a series of small gigs by big name acts put on by T-Mobile, another featured
The Strokes playing at the
Natural History Museum. The hat I mentioned failed to prevent the acceleration of the flu which was already setting up home inside my body, not least since this show took place in the, what may as well have been open air, two weeks before Christmas.
That minor brush with illness aside, there are few things better than seeing live entertainment outside in London, and there’s plenty of places to do so. Be it the music festivals which are held in Hyde and Victoria Park, theatre in Trafalgar Square or on the Southbank, or the outside stage at the Shakespeare Globe, the idea of a summertime midnight matinee does sound very appealing.
Without doubt one of the finest of any venue in London, be that regular or one which has been created within another space, is Somerset House. This historic building in its current guise stands on the site of a palace built in 1545 for Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset. It fell into disrepair and was demolished in 1775, making way for what we see today. Many organisations and societies have occupied space at Somerset House throughout its long and intriguing history; the board of the Inland Revenue still use parts of it today, having first moved there in 1789. In the centre is a giant courtyard which hosts concerts and film screenings in the summer, and is the home for one of London’s most popular ice rinks during the winter.
Now one of London’s most eye-catching entertainment venues, Somerset House has been at the heart of English history throughout its existence. The riverside and Strand, due to their location, had been popular spots for London residences of those seeking influence at Westminster Court since the 12th century. The bishops of Chester, Exeter, Norwich, Worcester and Durham all had homes here, I dare say these were all on a far grander scale than the London flats our money grabbing friends in politics have as second homes nowadays: I suspect they’d laugh in the face of an ornamental duckhouse as well!
In the same way as now, when one footballer buys a house in Cobham and the rest all move in too, or trendy celebs try to be within staggering distance of Camden, by the 1500s these bishops had been joined by houses belonging to the King and Queen, plus the Dukes of Norfolk, Suffolk and Richmond.
When Henry VIII died in 1547 his son, Edward VI, was still too young to become king. Just as in the
Lion King, when Scar seizes the moment of the throne successor still being a kid to get his paws on the crown, Edward Seymour, Edward’s ambitious uncle, jumped on this opportunity and had himself created Lord Protector and Duke of Somerset. Just in case you think you missed a bit in history lessons, Edward VI didn’t run away and hang out with a skunk and a warthog, only to return sometime later and reclaim his kingdom in a heroic action scene, the climax of which soundtracked by
Sir Elton John.
The new Duke and Protector decided he needed a house suitable of his newly found status, when in Rome and all that, and vowed to build himself such a place.
In 1547 work began on Somerset House, Seymour already owned the land, however clearing the site meant the demolition of a number of churches and chapels, something which didn’t exactly please his religious neighbours. To say that this was an extremely unpopular and provocative move is an understatement, it caused a clash with the ruling Privy Council and was the subject of the indictment that led to the Duke's arrest and brief imprisonment in the Tower of London in 1549.
You don’t have the sort of power Seymour had gained for nothing and he soon obtained his release and reinstatement. Somerset House was virtually completed by 1551 and, although he had commissioned one of the most influential buildings of the English Renaissance, the Duke had little opportunity to enjoy the place for another brush with the authorities came in the same year. His opponents had him arrested again and tried for the much more serious crime of treason.
This time there was no escape and the Duke of Somerset, Lord Protector of England, was executed on Tower Hill in January 1552.
The building became property of the crown, although once Elizabeth I became queen in 1558 she preferred to live at either Whitehall or St. James’s.
Somerset House got its first real taste of the entertainment world during the 1600s. James I of England and VI of Scotland’s wife Anne of Denmark and Norway found life north of the border rather dull and was given Somerset House, renaming it Denmark House. Anne encouraged the development of the English masque - a form of dramatic and musical entertainment, employing Ben Jonson to write and Inigo Jones to design the sets for a series of extravagant productions.
A further piece of historical interest surrounding this building occurred after Charles I came to the throne in 1625. Later that year he married Henrietta Maria of France, a devout Roman Catholic, who shortly after became entitled to Denmark House. We’ve all seen cases of when someone supports their other half in doing something which doesn’t endear them to others, but to say the least, the building of a Roman Catholic chapel within a royal palace certainly pissed a few folks off, adding fuel to the beginnings of the ill-will which would ultimately lead to the King’s downfall and head removal.
The 18th century saw the return of Somerset House as a place for entertainment, hosting the extremely popular masked ball which was either a private event, or one where any member of the public who could afford to attend were able to buy a ticket. Fancy dress was an absolute requirement, if only this happened now. Picture the scene, at one of the Queen’s Buckingham Palace garden parties, there’s Prince Charles looking thoroughly uncomfortable with the idea of wearing a Santa hat, meanwhile over at City Hall, Boris Johnson, being the wacky funster that he is, has thrown himself headlong into the occasion by dressing up as a dalek, and the GLA’s soul BNP representative is failing to convince people he’s come as Snow White as that’s his favourite Disney film, as everyone knows he’s hijacked the Mayor’s fancy dress drinks reception to remind the world of his parties position on immigration.
Think of the fun the tabloids would have if suits were replaced by animal costumes. the Somerset House website has a couple of interesting descriptions of the Masked Ball from the media of the day, the spectator talked of how "People dress themselves in what they have a Mind to be, and not what they are fit for", while this, unaccredited snapshot of the occasion described one woman’s appearance as “Iphigeneia for the sacrifice, but so naked the high priest might easily inspect the entrails of the victim”. God knows what they’d make of the lack of clothing you’d find on the red carpet of Leicester Square film premiers!
I’ve been to Somerset House twice, and on both occasions seen the same band, Super Furry Animals, as part of the annual Summer Series, which in the past has hosted performances from Kasabian, Pendulum, Lily Allen, Unkle and The Blue Nile. The crowd at a Super Furry Animals gig doesn’t really go for fancy dress, and this night in July wasn’t warm enough to prompt anyone in attendance to wear the kind of clothing to allow for entrale inspection, but a damn fine time was had none the less. The Welsh band fit in perfectly here, quirky, intriguing and ultimately creating an uplifting experience, the only downer on the night was the ridiculous bar prices: £4 for a pint of Carling, are you having a giraffe!
One of the reasons for why Somerset House is such a popular venue is, despite being right in the centre of London, once you’ve walked through the gate and left the Strand behind, you can easily forget about the world outside. Something which for many was more than welcome the previous time I saw Super Furry Animals in this venue, for it was the night following the day of the
July bombings on public transport in 2005. It was a surreal evening, having a beer in the riverside bar in the sunshine, while police helicopters circled over head. They were still there as we walked back to Waterloo, and yes, had our route home required it, getting on the underground just over 24 hours after three trains had been blown up wouldn’t have concerned me in the slightest. People from elsewhere in the UK in the weeks after often asked me, “so are you nervous about using the tube?” The answer, for me at least, was a resounding no. Because the tube is such an integral part of how this city functions, it was important London dusted itself down and carried on as soon as possible. There was talk that this gig would have been canceled, the R.E.M show I was due to go to in Hyde Park the following night was moved back a week.
My other abiding memory from the night in 2005, on a much lighter note, was a reviewer who, at the time was writing for the Independent, holding court in the toilets showing off pictures on his phone.
Live 8 was still fresh in the memory and he was proudly telling his companion about the night he’d had, backed up by a photo of “when I was standing at the side of the stage while The Who were playing”. Not for the first time in this building’s prestigious history would people have been boasting about being in with the in crowd.
Super Furry Animals were playing the Summer Series at
Somerset House and, unlike most of the other shows in that run, wasn’t yet a sell out.
With my gig reviewer hat on, I once saw Audio Bullies play a DJ set at
Spitalfields Market, one of London’s most iconic and interesting shopping areas in the East End not far from Liverpool Street station. This novel idea was part of a series of small gigs by big name acts put on by T-Mobile, another featured
The Strokes playing at the
Natural History Museum. The hat I mentioned failed to prevent the acceleration of the flu which was already setting up home inside my body, not least since this show took place in the, what may as well have been open air, two weeks before Christmas.
That minor brush with illness aside, there are few things better than seeing live entertainment outside in London, and there’s plenty of places to do so. Be it the music festivals which are held in Hyde and Victoria Park, theatre in Trafalgar Square or on the Southbank, or the outside stage at the Shakespeare Globe, the idea of a summertime midnight matinee does sound very appealing.
Without doubt one of the finest of any venue in London, be that regular or one which has been created within another space, is Somerset House. This historic building in its current guise stands on the site of a palace built in 1545 for Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset. It fell into disrepair and was demolished in 1775, making way for what we see today. Many organisations and societies have occupied space at Somerset House throughout its long and intriguing history; the board of the Inland Revenue still use parts of it today, having first moved there in 1789. In the centre is a giant courtyard which hosts concerts and film screenings in the summer, and is the home for one of London’s most popular ice rinks during the winter.
Now one of London’s most eye-catching entertainment venues, Somerset House has been at the heart of English history throughout its existence. The riverside and Strand, due to their location, had been popular spots for London residences of those seeking influence at Westminster Court since the 12th century. The bishops of Chester, Exeter, Norwich, Worcester and Durham all had homes here, I dare say these were all on a far grander scale than the London flats our money grabbing friends in politics have as second homes nowadays: I suspect they’d laugh in the face of an ornamental duckhouse as well!
In the same way as now, when one footballer buys a house in Cobham and the rest all move in too, or trendy celebs try to be within staggering distance of Camden, by the 1500s these bishops had been joined by houses belonging to the King and Queen, plus the Dukes of Norfolk, Suffolk and Richmond.
When Henry VIII died in 1547 his son, Edward VI, was still too young to become king. Just as in the
Lion King, when Scar seizes the moment of the throne successor still being a kid to get his paws on the crown, Edward Seymour, Edward’s ambitious uncle, jumped on this opportunity and had himself created Lord Protector and Duke of Somerset. Just in case you think you missed a bit in history lessons, Edward VI didn’t run away and hang out with a skunk and a warthog, only to return sometime later and reclaim his kingdom in a heroic action scene, the climax of which soundtracked by
Sir Elton John.
The new Duke and Protector decided he needed a house suitable of his newly found status, when in Rome and all that, and vowed to build himself such a place.
In 1547 work began on Somerset House, Seymour already owned the land, however clearing the site meant the demolition of a number of churches and chapels, something which didn’t exactly please his religious neighbours. To say that this was an extremely unpopular and provocative move is an understatement, it caused a clash with the ruling Privy Council and was the subject of the indictment that led to the Duke's arrest and brief imprisonment in the Tower of London in 1549.
You don’t have the sort of power Seymour had gained for nothing and he soon obtained his release and reinstatement. Somerset House was virtually completed by 1551 and, although he had commissioned one of the most influential buildings of the English Renaissance, the Duke had little opportunity to enjoy the place for another brush with the authorities came in the same year. His opponents had him arrested again and tried for the much more serious crime of treason.
This time there was no escape and the Duke of Somerset, Lord Protector of England, was executed on Tower Hill in January 1552.
The building became property of the crown, although once Elizabeth I became queen in 1558 she preferred to live at either Whitehall or St. James’s.
Somerset House got its first real taste of the entertainment world during the 1600s. James I of England and VI of Scotland’s wife Anne of Denmark and Norway found life north of the border rather dull and was given Somerset House, renaming it Denmark House. Anne encouraged the development of the English masque - a form of dramatic and musical entertainment, employing Ben Jonson to write and Inigo Jones to design the sets for a series of extravagant productions.
A further piece of historical interest surrounding this building occurred after Charles I came to the throne in 1625. Later that year he married Henrietta Maria of France, a devout Roman Catholic, who shortly after became entitled to Denmark House. We’ve all seen cases of when someone supports their other half in doing something which doesn’t endear them to others, but to say the least, the building of a Roman Catholic chapel within a royal palace certainly pissed a few folks off, adding fuel to the beginnings of the ill-will which would ultimately lead to the King’s downfall and head removal.
The 18th century saw the return of Somerset House as a place for entertainment, hosting the extremely popular masked ball which was either a private event, or one where any member of the public who could afford to attend were able to buy a ticket. Fancy dress was an absolute requirement, if only this happened now. Picture the scene, at one of the Queen’s Buckingham Palace garden parties, there’s Prince Charles looking thoroughly uncomfortable with the idea of wearing a Santa hat, meanwhile over at City Hall, Boris Johnson, being the wacky funster that he is, has thrown himself headlong into the occasion by dressing up as a dalek, and the GLA’s soul BNP representative is failing to convince people he’s come as Snow White as that’s his favourite Disney film, as everyone knows he’s hijacked the Mayor’s fancy dress drinks reception to remind the world of his parties position on immigration.
Think of the fun the tabloids would have if suits were replaced by animal costumes. the Somerset House website has a couple of interesting descriptions of the Masked Ball from the media of the day, the spectator talked of how "People dress themselves in what they have a Mind to be, and not what they are fit for", while this, unaccredited snapshot of the occasion described one woman’s appearance as “Iphigeneia for the sacrifice, but so naked the high priest might easily inspect the entrails of the victim”. God knows what they’d make of the lack of clothing you’d find on the red carpet of Leicester Square film premiers!
I’ve been to Somerset House twice, and on both occasions seen the same band, Super Furry Animals, as part of the annual Summer Series, which in the past has hosted performances from Kasabian, Pendulum, Lily Allen, Unkle and The Blue Nile. The crowd at a Super Furry Animals gig doesn’t really go for fancy dress, and this night in July wasn’t warm enough to prompt anyone in attendance to wear the kind of clothing to allow for entrale inspection, but a damn fine time was had none the less. The Welsh band fit in perfectly here, quirky, intriguing and ultimately creating an uplifting experience, the only downer on the night was the ridiculous bar prices: £4 for a pint of Carling, are you having a giraffe!
One of the reasons for why Somerset House is such a popular venue is, despite being right in the centre of London, once you’ve walked through the gate and left the Strand behind, you can easily forget about the world outside. Something which for many was more than welcome the previous time I saw Super Furry Animals in this venue, for it was the night following the day of the
July bombings on public transport in 2005. It was a surreal evening, having a beer in the riverside bar in the sunshine, while police helicopters circled over head. They were still there as we walked back to Waterloo, and yes, had our route home required it, getting on the underground just over 24 hours after three trains had been blown up wouldn’t have concerned me in the slightest. People from elsewhere in the UK in the weeks after often asked me, “so are you nervous about using the tube?” The answer, for me at least, was a resounding no. Because the tube is such an integral part of how this city functions, it was important London dusted itself down and carried on as soon as possible. There was talk that this gig would have been canceled, the R.E.M show I was due to go to in Hyde Park the following night was moved back a week.
My other abiding memory from the night in 2005, on a much lighter note, was a reviewer who, at the time was writing for the Independent, holding court in the toilets showing off pictures on his phone.
Live 8 was still fresh in the memory and he was proudly telling his companion about the night he’d had, backed up by a photo of “when I was standing at the side of the stage while The Who were playing”. Not for the first time in this building’s prestigious history would people have been boasting about being in with the in crowd.
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