ALSOBYROBERTELMS

Non-fictionTheWayWeWore:ALifeinThreads

Spain:APortrait

FictionInSearchoftheCrack

FirstpublishedinGreatBritain,theUSAandCanadain2019byCanongateBooksLtd,14HighStreet,EdinburghEH11TE

DistributedintheUSAbyPublishersGroupWestandCanadabyPublishersGroupCanada

canongate.co.uk

Thisdigitaleditionfirstpublishedin2019byCanongateBooks

Copyright©RobertElms,2019Allphotographs©RobertElms

Themoralrightoftheauthorhasbeenasserted

BritishLibraryCataloguing-in-PublicationDataAcataloguerecordforthisbookisavailableon

requestfromtheBritishLibrary

ISBN9781786892119eISBN9781786892126

TypesetinGoudyOldStylebyPalimpsestBookProductionLtd,Falkirk,Stirlingshire

ToAlice,AlfieandMaude,Londonersall.

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CONTENTS

Introduction

BecomingLondonersTheAvernusReturns

TheKnowledgeOnFridaysWeRide

UpWestDoYouFancyaSchvitz?

LordofLord’s

DinnerTimeEveryDayITakeCoffeewiththePortuguesers

KickingOffThereAreDeadPeopleAllOverthePlace

DownBytheRiver

AtNightJesus’sBlood

Who’stheBestDressedManinLondon?

LeavingHomeTheBrigadistas

FindingHome

PostscriptListofPhotographsAcknowledgements

Introduction

‘ThisisnolongermyLondon.’These were the words of an old lady, born by the River Thames, almost

eighty-fiveyearsbeforeshewasabouttoexpirebytheEustonRoad.Proppedupin a hospital bed, she was eager to reminisce, but increasingly short of theenergytodoso.Whenshehadaburstofwill,however,andalungfulofbottledbreath,shetooktotalkingaboutthecitywhereshehadlivedallherlongandeventfullife;sheknewitwasn’tthere.

‘ThisisnolongermyLondon,’shesaidwithawaveofherveinyhandandaresignedbut somewhat slightedmelancholy.Shewasmourning thepassingofherhometownassheawaitedherowndemise.

Thatlamentforalostmetropoliswasn’texactlymymother’sfinalutterance.Herlastwordswerespokensosoftlythroughanoxygenmaskastobeinaudible,buttheyprobably involvedlove.Andwhileshehadn’t fallenoutof lovewithher city, which she once knew sowell after years as a clippie on its crimsondouble-deckers,shenolongerfeltpartofit,didn’tunderstandit.Thetownshehad so rarely left had left her; disappeared or transmogrified so as to beunrecognisable, and shewas disorientated by the changes.Hermindwas stillsharp,buthermentalmapwaswayoutofdate.

This became obvious when I was trying to mine the last nuggets of hermemory.IhavealwaysbeenfascinatedbytheoldtalesofthetumultuouscornerofWestLondontheElmseshadcalledhomeforgenerations.WewereWesties,and there had been members of my father’s family bowling along LadbrokeGroveandPortobelloRoad,workingitsmarketsandanglingitsalleyways,fromthevery startof its storyback inthemid-nineteenthcentury.But longbeforemymother’s imminentdeparture,notonewasleft,notasinglecousinorauntfloggingtheirwaresorraisingtheirkids,notatraceofourbloodflowingamid

thoseoncecrumblingstuccoterraces.Instead we had all been re-housed and resettled, scattered in a cleansing

diaspora of gentrification. In our absence those once condemned houses hadbeentartedupandfilledupwithwell-scrubbed,floppy-hairedfamiliesinpastelcashmere sweaters to match their pretty pink and lilac abodes. Theneighbourhoodhadbeen transformedmoredramatically thananyother in allLondon. But my mum hadn’t seen that movie. Shaking her frail almosttranslucently silver head she said with all the vehemence she could muster,‘NottingHillisaslum.’

She no longer knew London because the London she knew no longerexisted.Itwaswellawareofherthough.

Onthemorningof theday in2011thatEileenElizabethElms,néeBiffen,breathedherlastinUniversityCollegeHospital,Iwenttotakesomeairoutsidethehospital.Iwasseekingrespitefromtheemotionallysuffocatingwardontheseventhfloor,wheremymotherwasslowlyslippingovertheeternalprecipice.ThescreechingjunctionofTottenhamCourtRoadandtheEustonRoad,withthe underpass sucking in traffic, is one of themost noisy andnoisome in theentiremetropolis.Itisnotexactlythebestspotforabreatherandamomentofquiet contemplation. So I moved a few yards south and foundmyself pacingphilosophicallybetweenSpearmintRhinoandPCWorld.

Iwaswiping tears frommy faceandmusingon the inevitabilityofpassingand the raw sadness of imminent loss, outside a lap dancing emporia. I thenremembered that this had previously been a dodgy ‘CockneyCabaret’, wherethespiansinflatcapsandbraceswithDickVanDykeaccentsdidtheLambethWalk for Japanese tourists scoffing soggy fish and chips, and evenmanaged ahalfsmile.

Atthispointablackcabrolledby,slowingtoahaltatthelights.Thedrivershouted out of the window, ‘How’s your mum?’ Surprised but not shocked, Ididn’twant to holler ‘She’s dying’ over the throb of the traffic, so placedmyhandstogetherbymyheadinwhatIhopedwastheinternationallyrecognisedsymbolforsleeping.Forcedbythelightstomoveon,theconcernedcabbieleftmetomysolemn,soddenruminations.OrsoIthought.

ForacoupleofminuteslaterthesamehandsomeoldHackneycarriagewasback. He must have whipped round the fiendish one-way system and thenbargedthroughthemorasstopulloverbythekerbinfrontofme.

‘Do youmean she’s resting, Robert?’ he said.Now I didn’t know this taxi

driverfromAdam,butguessedhemustbealistenertomydailyBBCLondonradio show. I had spoken on air so many times about my mum, shared herstories; and shewould occasionally call up and take part in the show, so thelistenersfeltliketheyknewher.

They also knew shewas ill andmy absence from the airwaveshad alertedthem to her worsening condition. He looked really concerned about an oldwomanhe’dnevermet.Iwipedmyeyesandspoketohim.

‘Tobehonestmateshe’sdying,won’tmakeitthroughtheday.’Atthatpointalargestubbyhandreachedoutfromthedrivers’windowand

heldmineinatrulytouchingembrace,warmandkind.‘London is thinking of her,’ he said before rolling gently away into the

workadaymadness.Blimey,thatdidn’thalfmakemethinkaboutLondon.The black cab and its knowledge-encrusted driver – themselves an

endangeredurbanspeciesinthisageofsatnavsandUbers–aresuchatotemicsymbol of my city, mobile golems arising from the rat runs: it was the mostfitting and touching way for this metropolis of millions of souls to deliversuccourtooneoftheirown.Mymumwouldhavelovedthat.

She loved a black cab, always said riding in one made her feel posh. Ireturned toher impendingdeathbedand toldherwhathadhappened. Ihopesheheard.Laterthatday,surroundedbythosewholovedher,sheleftLondon.Butasherpresencefadedwiththeproceduresandbureaucraciesofdeath,sotheidea thatherLondonhad itself passedon, that in essence your city dieswithyou,reallybegantohauntme.

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EileenElizabethElms,hermiddlenamerecognitionthatshewaspreciselytwoweeks younger than the Queen – two baby girls born into entirely differentworlds,justtwomilesapart–waseveryinchofherfive-foot,two-inchframetheLondoner.Yetshenolongerknewthisplace,becausethecityshehadgrownupin, courted my father in, raised her sons, mourned her husbands, buried herfriends, kept an eye on her neighbours, cradled her grandchildren and great-grandchildrenin,wasindeednolongerthere.Ithad,bystagesandincrements,streetbystreet,shrunkandvanishedjustasshedid.

Some of her city had been knocked down, slum cleared, town planned orredeveloped away. But for a girl who had survived both the Blitz and thebuilding of a motorway right above her house, who could cope with Jerry-

bombedstreetsandjerry-builtestates,thatwasn’treallywhatthrewher.Itwasmorethatthepatternsshehadspentalifetimeabsorbingandmemorising,thedetailedsociospatial ‘knowledge’allLondonersaccrueafteryears inthisplace,hadtwisted, shifted,movedandmutatedtosuchadegreethat itwasa totallydifferentpicture.

Thisconstantly restlesscity ishappytoshed its skinofbrickandstone forsteel and glass, to unsentimentally jettison the unprofitable, to abandon theunfashionable,todiscardtheundesirable.Londonisagiantkaleidoscope,whichisforeverturning.Takeyoureyeoffitformorethanamomentandyou’relost.

And yet.Well, and yet the past is also remarkably resilient in this livingpalimpsest.A fewmonthsaftermymum’s funeral, Ihadarranged tomeetmywife at theTate.Not theModernone,whichdeepdown I still thinkof as adistant, disused power station in a largely abandoned bit of townwhere ravepartiesareoccasionallyheld,buttheold,neoclassical,slightlystuffyBritishoneonthenorthsideoftheriveratMillbank.

Ijumpedintoasherbetandforoncewasearly,sogotoutintendingtowalkthelastbit.Iwasn’ttoosureofmybearings,butwasenjoyingameanderinthevague direction of the Thames in an area I don’t really know. After a fewminutes,hopefullyheadingtowardsmyrendezvous,IthoughtIoughttocheckexactly where I was, so I looked for a sign. The nearest one said TachbrookStreetSW1,andIwasstandingoutsidenumber64.Thatrangabell.

Themostbittersweettaskofthewholepost-deathrigmaroleisgoingthroughpersonal papers. Old ladies can accrue a bizarre collection of cuttings andmementos, school reports and insurance documents, poems, recipes, drawings,GreenShieldStamps, swimming certificates, scrap books and rent books, andshehadallofthose.Herbirthcertificatewasinthereamongthepaperdetritusofalife.Ayellowing,foldedformwiththefadedyetabsoluteauthorityofapre-digital age. I remembered that the statedplaceofbirthof thisbabygirl, bornroughlyequidistant in timebetween theworldwars,was64TachbrookStreetSW1. I had, by absolute serendipity, stopped precisely at the pointwheremymumhadstarted.Asignindeed.

Ihadneverknowinglybeenherebefore,andIdon’t suppose shehadbeenbacksinceherfamily–whichatthatpointconsistedofhermum,dadandtwoolderbrothers–uppedsticksintheearly1930s.Theyheadedtoacouncilhouseonavastnewestatenearthen-suburbanShepherd’sBush,whenshewasbutasmall girl of four or five. I knew little about her short time in Pimlico (she

actuallyalwaysreferredtoitasWestminster),exceptthatthefiveofthemlivedintworooms,oneofwhichhadbeenthevenueofherfirstbreathandalmostherlast.

Amonthpremature,painfullyunderweight,sufferingfromchronicjaundice,little Eileenhad been administered the last rites in that one roomwhere herbrothersalsolay,astheyexpectedhertoaddtotheinfantmortalitystatistics.Butobviouslyshepulledthroughandlivedtoseetwofurthergirlsandanotherbrotherjointhebrood.

Her vague recollections of life inWestminster were of what she called a‘tenement’. A crowded, crumbling block, stained black by smoke and soot,chock full of poor families spilling over on to rumbustious streets where hersnotty-nosed, scabby-kneed siblings ran amok. Outside toilet, shared cookingfacilitiesonthelanding,insanitary,undesirable.ButIwaslookingatanelegantlateGeorgianterrace,manicuredtowithinaninchofperfection,swagcurtainsadorning its vast sash windows, luxury cars lining its otherwise tranquilkerbsides.

Iwasobviously looking a little too intently, because a smartly attiredmansuddenly opened the Farrow and Ball-coated front door, with its proud brassknocker,andaskedmenervouslywhatIwanted.IexplainedthatIwasn’tcasingthejoint,butthatmymumwasbornhereinthisveryhousemanyLondonsago.ThisgentlemankindlyaskedifIwantedtocomeinandhavealookround,butIdeclined,knowingthatthisplacewouldbearnoresemblancetoherlife.Theseelegantwallsheldnotraces;thepieceswereallstilltherebutthekaleidoscopehadturnedsomanytimes.Besides,IhadtomeetmywifeattheoldprisononMillbank.

Anditwasn’t justhereinher firsthomethatmymother’shometownhadvanished.Herswasaresolutelyworking-classcity;flat-cappedandoveralledintheweek,suitedandbootedonSundays,talkingfromthesideofitsmouthandsmoking from the back of its hand. Itwas a hard-working citywith factories,breweries,distilleriesandpowerstationsliningtheriver,sulphurousandstained,battered, bombed, scarred and dark, foggy and damp. But life in her smoggy,dank and dimly lit Londonwas brightened by dance halls, tea rooms, picturepalaces,hair salons,publicbaths, launderettes, football terraces, streetmarketsandunrulypubs.

The London she lived in and loved was a vast, grimy, largely Victoriansprawl. Made intimate by the proximity of family and friends, and the

continuity of life in run-down streets and squares, where kids frolicked andwomen nattered, and people who spoke the same language, with largely thesameaccent,kneweachother’sbusinessandtoldthemso.TheoldadageaboutLondon being a collection of villages was still largely true and many peoplestucktotheirvillageforgenerations.PassporttoPimlicoandallthat.

Ofcourse,eveninmymum’sprimetime,justaftertheSecondWorldWarand before this city started to swing, there were other Londons. The parallelworld of the privileged and the poshwas only ever a few streets away,wherestately prams were wheeled through Hyde Park by uniformed nannies andclipped voices commanded staff to complete their tasks. Her mother: mydeferential,softlyspokengrandma,hadbeeninservice.Shewasaparlourmaid,afewhundredyardsfromTachbrookStreetinagrandhouseinBelgraviawhenshemetthemanwhowouldbecomemygrandadandfellawkwardlypregnant.Theymarriedquickly.

OverintheCitywasanothercitystill,wherebowlerhatsandpinstripesweretheorderofthedayandthemiddlingsorttooktrainstosuburbsinSurreyandsuchlike. Soho was bohemia, Clerkenwell was Little Italy, Kilburn was adisplacedIrishcounty,theEastEndwasYiddishand–bythetimetheWindrushhad arrived –NottingHill,where shemet and eventuallymarriedmy father,washometoapioneerbandofCaribbeanfamiliesaddingatropicalswaggertothecrumblingstreets.

MymotherherselfwaspartJewish,myfather’s familypartlyRomanystreettraderstock;thiswasalwaysametropolisdrawnfromawidegenepool.Butitspredominant culturewasdefinitelywhitebread.Pie andmash,pale ale, peasepuddingandapacketofWoodbines.Quickwitted,goodatgettingacoupleofbob, savvy as a saveloy, staunch, eager for laughter and dancing, tribal andterritorialbutalsocommunalandconvivial.

ShelovedthatLondon:thewalksthroughKensingtonGardensarminarmwithmyleftyfather,talkingpolitics.Thejokeswithherbusdriverlostinapea-souper somewhere down Clapham way. The market pitches and costers withtheirsaucypatter,thecharabancridestothecoastpaidforininstalmentsattherumbustiouslocal.ThejiveattheplushPalaisdeDanceinHammersmith,thetripsupWest(actuallyeastofwhereshe lived,butsomeLondonconventionsdefy logic), pictures atLeicesterSquarewith tea andcake inaLyons’CornerHousecompletewithnippies.

Herswas a town of sing songs, knees ups, even occasional punch-ups. ButlikeallLondons,asshelivedit,soitwasdyingout;itsinevitableextinctionafunctionofperpetualurbanevolution.

WhichiswhyIdecidedtowritethisbook.Whenthetearsofmymother’spassingdried,andherashesjoinedmydad’slong-gonecadaverinaprettyWestLondon graveyard near the languorous river, I became a fifty-one-year-oldorphan boy adrift in the city. If I manage to live as long as my mum, I amalready roughly two-thirds of the way through my journey. That means thattwo-thirdsofmyLondon,thetownIhavemademylifefromandbyandin,thecity Ihave lovedwithan intensity thathasoccasionallybaffledevenme,hasalreadybeenandgone.

Londonchanges: that isagivenandaconstant.AsaLondoner,youknowyouareatinypartofaperpetuallymorphingorganism.Youalsoknowthatthedetails of every life lived on these streets, including your own, passes. Yetwehope that the essence of this great city, our collective character, managessomehowtosurvivethemaelstromofinnovation;thatwearepartofaneternityevenasoureradisappears.

Mymother’sLondonwasalreadyvanishingbythetimeminewasforming.Icameofageinabroken1970scitywherefactories,docksandworkshopswereevacuatedandeviscerated, rottinghulksofa formereconomy.Theblackened,exhaustedterracesofoncepoorbutstableneighbourhoodswerecondemnedanddemolished, replacedby soaringconcrete towers, andentire socialordersweredismantled.Thatresolutelyblue-collar,grey-streaked,yellow-litLondonofpost-warcertaintieswascrumblingaway,andtheraggedinnercityofmyyouthwasclosetoderelictandallbutabandoned.

Between1945and1985, innerLondonlostalmosthalf itspopulation.Theone-timeteemingstreetsfromPaddingtontoHackney,BrixtontoBermondseywere dismantled and decanted of working-class families in a mass suburbandisplacement.This‘slumclearance’programmemeantIgrewupnotinNottingHill but half-a-dozen miles away on theWatling: a huge, distant, ‘overspill’estateinBurntOakatthefarendoftheNorthernline.

Another remarkable fact is thatalmosthalfof allLondoners lived inwhatwe then called council estates, which were genuinely affordable and evendesirable.My family swapped an albeit tumbledownGeorgian terracewith anoutsidetoiletandaleakingroofinW10foratwo-up,two-downcouncilhouseinBurntOak.Andwere pleased to do so.After all, theirNottingHillwas a

slum.ButbythetimeIwasunleashed,itwasafabulousifoccasionallydangerous

playground. Bombsites that we called ‘debris’ competed with the street-longcraters created by town planners who vied to outdo the Luftwaffe in theirdestructive power. Vast swathes were swathed in a rickety armour of graffiti-covered corrugated iron, occasionally colonised for deathly adventureplaygroundsstaffedbyidealisticbutanarchicmiddle-classhippies.

Muchof theold innercity,whichbythe1970swasa literal shorthand fordecay,deprivationanddanger,hadbeenlefttoruinandrot,likeamouthwithhalftheteethbrokenormissing.ThinkSteptoeandSonwithamphetamines.

AsIgrewintotheexplorativemaniaofteenagelife, fuelledat firstbyRedRovers,pocketmoneyandcollectedCoronabottles, laterbyallkindsofpart-time jobs, somy horizons expanded andmy personalmentalmap developed.Each area could be encapsulated by a shorthand that estate agentswould shywellawayfrom.OurancestralNottingHillhomelandmeantbluesparties,squatrepublics, reggae shops and drug runs.King’sCrosswas toothless hookers andjunkies, warehouse raves and squalid squats. CamdenTownwas second-handrecordshops,Irishpubsfullofdossersandcheapdigs.TowerBridgewasdesertedwharves,artists’loftsandartyparties.Hoxton,ifyouevenknewitexisted,wasvillains, National Front supporters and acres of nothing. You could fire ashotgundownCurtainRoadinthemiddleofthedaybackin1979andnobodywouldevennotice,letalonegethit.Iknowamanwhodidjustthat.

Anditwasn’tjustwhatgeographerscall‘theZoneofTransition’,thatringofone-timelow-rent,oftenimmigrant,working-classneighbourhoodscirclingthecentre that had fallen down on their uppers. The epicentre of our collectiveuniverse: Soho, dear Soho, the heart of London’s supposedly glamorousWestEnd,thedarkbutmesmerisingsoulofourcity,wasshabbyandshady,swervedby all but the furtive and the brazen.The notorious redoubt south ofOxfordStreet, which is now so swish and buzzing, was a seemingly forlorn place offrayed shadows,peopledalmostexclusivelybywideboys ingrubbybookshops,dirtymenindirtymacs,theoccasionalold-schoolqueenandafewsweatyoldboozersinsweatyoldboozers.Unless,thatis,youknewwhichdoortoknockon,which stairwell to descend, which name to drop in our thrillingly un-squaremile.Thenitwasbigfun.

In my youth the post-industrial wasteland of this ‘sick man’ city was ripe

withpiraticalpossibilities.Everyemptywarehousewasaparty,everyabandonedblockafreehome.FancylivinginClerkenwellorBankside?Justclimbupandclamberin,butwatchoutforthespeedfreaksorthegluesniffersupstairs.Therewas also a splendid stock of tawdry, tacky discos, often run bymen in camelcoats,justripeforaspotofone-night-standentrepreneurshiptoturnthemintothecoolestclubsforthehippestkiddies.TheBlitz,theWag;thenightswehad.Inner Londonwas ours to dowith as we pleased, an anarchic wonderland ofendlesspossibilities.Itwaspunk.Itwasgreat.

Of course, that has all changed. I’ve seen this city flip inside out in mylifetime. The once-crumbling centre has been transformed into the mostdesirable real estate on Earth. London has become an international successstory, regularly and perhaps rightly deemed the greatest city in theworld. Itspopulationhassoaredbackuptopre-warlevelsasitspopularityhasincreased.

But these are different people in different places; smarter, richer, blanderLondoners in a nicer,wealthier, blander London. ZoneOne in particular hasbeen gentrified and sanitised,maxed out with luxury flats, swanky shops andposh restaurants. Like a colouring book where every page has been filled in,leavinglittleroomforcreativityorspontaneity.

Itseemsunbelievablenow,butuntilItookhertooneonCharlotteStreetinabout1985mymotherhadnever,everbeentoarestaurant.Thereweren’tthatmanyback then,certainlynot forpeople likeher.Fromaculinarydesert toagourmet destination, we have witnessed a remarkable risotto-drenched‘Risorgimento’ of this busted, has-been old town.As a result, even areas likePeckham and Dalston, Harlesden and Brixton are now considered hip and‘desirable’,wherenotsolongagotheycamecompletewithdirehealthwarningsandferociousfrontlines.Frommurdermiletoestateagent’swetdreaminwhatseemslikeamatterofmonths.

Yetsimultaneously,theouter,leafysuburbs,oncetheaimandambitionofsomany, the place my parents fled to from their W10 slum, are all too oftenneglected and derided, desultory and threadbare. Look atwheremurders takeplace now and it is out on the sullen, unloved edge, our very own harshlypolyglotpériphérique,wherethepoorandthecareworngather.WouldanysanefamilychooseBurntOakoverNottingHilltoday?

In many respects, what we have witnessed is a wonderful urban renewal:incredible new architecture, bridges, galleries, Gherkins and Shards; amazingtransformations of those post-industrial ruins, and a Klondike-like land grab,

which has burnished and rebranded somany run-down neighbourhoods fromdocklands, along theSouthBank, toShoreditch andBethnalGreen.My cityhasbecometrulycosmopolitan,sophisticated,artyandalfresco:continentalinitsways andbourgeois in away I couldneverhave imagined.Shiny,modern,affluent,apictureofpalewoodandgleamingglass,butperhapsjustalittledullincomparisontothetumultuous,tumbledowntownIgrewupin.

Allchange isadouble-edgedsword: itgivesandit takesaway.Somuchofthatscruffy,gritty,edgyLondonofmyyouth–aplacesimultaneouslywreckedyetredolentwithpossibilities–hasvanishedthatInowresidesimultaneouslyintwocitiesatonce.Iliveandwork,rideandwalk,playandparent,eatanddrink,occasionallyeventhinkinthistwenty-firstcenturysuccessstory,atastefullylit,gracefully designed global metropolis. But as I move through this thoroughlymodernBabylon, Icannever trulyescapetheghostsofmygrottybutbelovedoldLondon.

I regularly find myself seeing things that are not there any more. I floatthrough a cityscape of apparitions, remembering and re-experiencing the somany stories, adventures, misadventures, lies and romances contained in thewallsoreventheshadowsandshellsoftheformerwallsofmytown.Thatcity,mycity,isstillhere,allaroundanddeepinsideme.

ThisisabookaboutthatlostandvanishingLondon,whileIcanstillrecallwhat it smelled like. It is a compendium of stories that may never havehappenedandaguidetothingsthatnolongerexist.Itismymother’stownandmytowninme;ourtowninallofus.Itisamemoirofashape-shiftingcity.

CHAPTERONE

BecomingLondoners

Intheendthereisnowheretogobutwhereyoubegan,soIshallbeginthere.Thisisajournalofjourneys,urbanexcursions,whichtakeplacebothnowandthen,intimespluralandspacesingular:onecity,manycities,mycity.

This is a book about being here and being part of this monster, this all-pervading, all-providing, all-devouring behemoth of a birthright. I am aLondoner,whichmeansIambutafragment.Icannothopetotellthestoryofthewhole,norevenbegintograspthewholestory.

There are somanydifferent cities, and Ihavemovedbetween them, yet Iwasbornsquarelyintojustoneofthem.TheLondonoftheElmses–aworking-class family making their lives from and on the streets – was sure, solid, yetwithoutfoundation.Therewerenoknownorigins:wewerejusthereandfromhere,which determinedwhowewere, howwe spoke, dressed, danced.Therewasnoarrival story,no foundingmythology,nodoubt.TheElmses:aLondonmob.

I,though,havealwayssoughtstories.Ineedtoknowandtellthetale,andsohavesettledonthesagaofLittleFreddieasmypersonalRomulus.Because, inthisandthatLondon,Ihavewalkedthesamespace,alongthesamestreetsaslittleFreddieElmssomanytimes.Infact,IhaveretracedafewofFred’sstepspractically every other Saturday for half a century, sometimes on Tuesdayeveningstoo.‘ComeonURRRs.’

On my repeated, repeated, obsessive, compulsive journeys to football, Ioccasionally fancy I seeFreddiealong theway, floggingaGrannySmithoff abarrowortreatinghimselftoabeer.Ihaven’tknownhimforverylong,buthehasalwaysbeenthereinme,pacingtheUxbridgeRoad.

ForI,too,amaFreddie–RobertFrederickElms,sonofAlbertElms–andI’ve got a big brother called Reggie, which matters in a way that will soonbecome clear. For all the available evidence I have been able to uncover

suggeststhatFredwasthefirstofourLondonlineage.I did a little distinctly amateur research into theElms family tree, only to

discoverthatit’sallabitbonsai.ThereareElmsesallaroundLadbrokeGrovefromtheendof thenineteenthcenturyonwards:HoraceandEmily,ClarenceandMary,JamesandAlice;namesakesalloverthegaff,cousins,aunties,uncles-aplenty.ButasIgobackagenerationortwo,weseemtostopatlittleFred,hismumJaneandhissister–ormoreprobablyhishalf-sister–Eliza.

FrederickElmswasbornin1862,Elizaacoupleofyearslater.Bothofthemdelivered in the Uxbridge UnionWorkhouse, both of them noted as ‘fatherunknown’,theiryoungmothersigninghernameontheformswithonlyacross.Adestituteilliterategivingbirthtotheillegitimate,andIloveherprettybones.I have picked her as my great-great-great grandma and her two poor littleVictorianbastards, siredbyGodknowswho,delivered intogauntpenury inapunishingred-brickinstitutioninadistantMiddlesexvillagewhereIoncesawtheSexPistols,asmyfavouriteforebears.

HavingchosenFreddieasmyabidingancestor,Ihaveinventedastoryofhisarrival. I do not know that he tramped from theworkhouse up theUxbridgeRoad to Shepherd’s Bush as a fourteen-year-old boy and decided to go nofurther,butitseemslikealikelyscenario.Iimaginehimasalikelylad,acoster,likesomanyofhisoffspring,settingouthisstallwherehestoppedandsettinguphomejustuptheroadinNottingHill.

Once ensconced in the neighbourhood, he began begetting.Therewas anAlbert,whointurnbegataReggie,whointurnbegatanAlbert,whointurnbegatbothReggieandme.(HebegatmybrotherBarrytoo;Godknowswherethatnamecamefrom.)

SoElmsescamefromUxbridge–aplaceIoncewentto.LinkeddirectlytoLondon by its umbilical, eponymous road, it is now an outer suburb with auniversitynamedafterIsambardKingdomBrunel,whereon16December1977,theSexPistols–CookandJones,primeShepherd’sBushstreeturchins–playedtheirlasteverLondongig.Sidlookinglikeasmack-scarredgodwithhistopoff,Lydonwithahankieonhishead. Igot therebyhitchinga lift fromoutsideaboozer on BushGreen while wearing bondage trousers. One ride all the wayalong theUxbridgeRoadwithmy legs tied together, fromaphotographer forSoundsmagazine.

ThatwastheoneandonlytimeIhaveevermadethatepicschlepwayout

west. I did it almost exactly one hundred years after Freddie presumably didprecisely the same trip in the opposite direction. Turfed out of his griminstitution, as hewouldhave been at the age of fourteen –Lord knowswhathappenedtopoorJaneandEliza–hemadethefatefultrekintotown,perhapssportingabatteredstove-pipehat,andneverwentback.Hemight,Iguess,havehitched a ride on a coach, but more likely he footed for thirteen miles inhobnails until his sore feet would go no further. That is how we becameLondoners.

Lateron,thevariousFredericksandReginaldsandAlbertsthatfollowedcanbe picked up in the census forms on Lancaster Road, Charles Street (nowQueensdale Place), Cornwall Crescent and Latimer Road. Never migratingmorethanafewhundredyardsinnearlyahundredyears,aroundNottingHill,ormoreaccuratelyNottingDale.

TheDaleisthedisreputableW10neighbourdowntheclaggyslopetowardstheBush,alwaysthepoorbit,alwaystheforgottenbit.PoorFreddiehadfoundahome here and founded a West London dynasty, a QPR family. Hence myrepeated visits to their decaying Fray Bentos tin-style stadium just off theUxbridgeRoad,tobedeeplydisappointedbymeninhoops.HencewhyIseesomanyghostsalongtheway.

Actually, a little further digging onmy behalf has suggested that Freddie’sforebearsprobablyoriginatedinavillageinWiltshireknownasLacock,wherealmost every Elms has his or her roots; leaving the hungry land for London’spurportedlygold-strewnstreetsandwindingup inaworkhouse.This serves tobolstermybeliefthatpeoplesettleinthesideofthecityfromwhichtheyarrive.IfyoucameupfromKentyou’llbedoomedtoremain ‘sarf’oftheriver,whilemenofEssexpopulate theEastEnd, andviceversa.Wecame fromtheWestCountry.

That’swhy, for example, the Irishwere inCamdenTown; straight off theboat train to Euston, and as far as you can walk before you put down yoursuitcase and take adrink and a room.TheScotswent round the corner fromKing’sCrosstotheCaledonianRoad,andtheWelshsetupdairiesandchapelsnearPaddington.It’salsowhyUgandanAsianswholandedatHeathrowinthe1970sgotonlyasfarasSouthall.

ItallgoestoshowthatallthatcockneybollocksaboutBowBellsisjustthat:LondonersareLondoners;choosethesestreetsandtheywillshapeyou.Idon’tthinkasinglememberofmyfamilyhadeverbeeneastofAldgate,butwewere

GordBlimeytotheapplecore.ThencametheWestway.‘Luxury’and‘apartment’iscurrentlythemostreviledcombinationofwords

in theLondon lexicon.Aplague ofBubonic virulence, its high-rise glass andsteel pustules promising glamorous metropolitan living but in fact deliveringlittlemorethansafetydepositboxeswithbalconiesforthegloballyavaricious.

Thecurrentlandgrab,whatsomeknowastheGreatLondonFlatRace,hasdriven out those who cannot afford millionaire price tags. Ordinary familiesexiled,banishedtotheedges,unwantedintheheartofthisbrightandshiny(ormaybe shite andbriny) twenty-first centuryBabylon. It is social cleansing,nodoubt, threatening the cheek-by-jowl, rich-by-poor pattern of London life,whichhasexistedsincethehovelsofHoundsditchwereclosetothemansionsofMansionHouse.But itcertainly isn’t the first timeLondonhaswitnessedacentrifugal spasmof socialexclusion,expulsionandexpansion. IthappenedtotheElmses.

Theremay have been a touch ofVictorianmelodrama at playwhenNottingDale was described as ‘the Avernus of Kensington’ – an avernus being thegateway tohell in the lurid parlance of nineteenth-century social reformers –but there’s no doubt that the Dale was a strong contender for worst slum intown.Also known asNorthKensington,CharlesDickens himself called it ‘aplaguespot,scarcelyequalledforitsinsalubritybyanyotherinLondon’.

Adjacent to, but a million miles from, the grand and gracious houses ofHolland Park, this clay-bound enclave of potteries and piggeries was said tohavethehighestdeathrateintheentirecapital.Itwasavenalswampofacutepoverty, chronicovercrowding andubiquitousdrunkenness, peopledoriginallybytheproductofaboutofforcedsocialcleansing.

ManyoftheresidentsofNottingDalehadpreviouslybeenturfedoutofthenotorious gin-soaked Rookery of St Giles. That’s the one-time leper colony,plaguepitandgallowsbreedinggroundhardbyCentrePoint,whichwillfeaturelargelaterinthisbook.TherookerywasrazedtothegroundandNewOxfordStreet driven through it in a civic slum clearance scheme of the late 1840s,designedspecificallytocleanuptheWestEnd.SotheuncleanpackeduptheirmeagrebelongingsandheadedfurtherwesttoNorthKensington.

TheexpatdenizensofHogarth’sGinAlleywerejoinedinthethendistant

DalebyLondon’s largestgypsycommunity.Youcan still see remnantsof thattraveller gathering in the cluster of spick and span caravans and abandonedfridges that make up the gypsy encampment under the northern end of thestainedconcreteconfluenceoftheWestway.AndtravellerbloodflowsthroughtheElmses’veins.

Between the Romany settlers and the Rookery survivors, they created arollicking redoubt of totters and tearaways, costermongers and scrap dealers,horse traders andnumbers runners,washerwomen and brothel keepers,whichwasn’tentirelyunrecognisablebythetimemyowndad,Albertmarktwo,wasborntherein1924.Hearrivedinahouseat345LatimerRoad,whichhaslongsincegorn.

LatimerRoadwas once twice the length it is now, running almost all thewaytoShepherd’sBushandwasasclosetoahighstreetaslowlyNottingDaleever got. Itwashere, a coupleof years aftermy father’s first appearance, thatoneofmyfavouritetalesfromthateraalsoemerged.

I have made it a life-long mission to collect arcane London stories, thehistoryinthemargins,andthecaseofthemissingmonkeyjazzbandofLatimerRoadisaprettygoodone.ItcentresontheactivitiesofoneThomasMurphy,atravellingshowmanofIrishoriginwhomadehisfinalfortunefrombuildingandrunning dog tracks in the 1930s, and whose eternal mausoleum lies over inSoutheastLondonamidtheremainsofhislonggoneCharltonstadium.ButitisnosurprisethathewasoriginallybasedinW10.

Thearea,withitsstronggypsyconnectionsanditsmyriadstablesforallthelocal totters (Steptoe and Son’s Oil Drum Lane and their horse Hercules wereactually in the Dale), always attracted fairground and circus folk. I can stillrecallpeering through the fenceof a localyardwhere thecarnies stored theirgaudyequipmentwellintothe’70s.

Therehadevenbeenashort-livedracecourse,theNottingHillHippodrome,the footprintofwhichcan still be seenonmaps and thememoryofwhich iskept alive by a short street calledHippodrome Place. It failed because of thequagmirenatureof the soil,whichmeant the goingwas alwaysheavy, and sowere some of the local characters. The well-heeled followers of the sport ofkingsdidn’tmuchlikemixingwiththe localvagabonds, slum-dogresidentsofwhatwasthenknownasCutThroatLane.

Anyway, beforeMrMurphy invested in racing dogs, hehad a thing aboutmonkeys,specificallymonkeyswhocouldplayjazz.Jazzbandswerethebigcrazeof the Roaring ’20s, so obviously Thomas Murphy put together a troupe ofthirteen simian swingers to entertain thehappy flappers. I have to say at thispoint that Ihaveno idea if therewas somekindofawful racist jokegoingon

here, nor do I have a clue exactly what sort of racket these animals actuallymade, but I doknow thatwhen they escaped fromMurphy’s yardonLatimerRoadinNovember1926,itbecameamajornationalnewsstory.

Itseemsthatthesyncopatedapeswerereleasedinadvertentlywhenagangofhardened chicken rustlers raided the gaff, thinking it was full of potentialSunday lunches, only to discover that their foul crime had actually let themonkeys out of the bag. Mayhem ensued, with the freedom-intoxicatedprimates storming a corn chandlers round the corner on Bramley Road andscoffing twenty-eightpoundsofbiscuitsbeforea teamof eightcoppers, armedwithwhistlesandhandcuffs,managedtoroundsomeofthemup.

But a few evaded capture for days andheld thenation enthralled.TwoofthemsettledunderthearchesatLatimerRoadstationandwouldnotbeenticedout,whileBimbothedrummerboardedatrainboundforEaling.TheintrepidbandleaderFrankomadeitasfarasRugbyintheMidlands,wherethefugitivejazzerwasfinallycapturedinalocalpub,theSaracen’sHead.ThereportintheGuardianread,‘ThecapturedmonkeytravelledtoRugbybytrainandwasseento jump out of the window of a first class carriage. He then walked sedatelytowards the barrier, and treating the ticket collector with scorn, cleared thebarrierwithaflyingleap.’

Nowhere in thepapers does it ever questionquitewhy abloke inLatimerRoad had a troupe of Dixieland monkeys, nor can I ascertain if they everperformedagainaftertheirgreatescape.ButIdocherishtheideathatmyinfantfather, perhaps even sitting outside his house in his pram, as was the way inthosedays,mighthaveactuallywitnessedthissplendidbrouhaha.

QuitewhereonLatimerRoadthisoccurredIhavenoidea.Becausethatareahas been so remorselessly bashed about it’s hard to pinpoint exactly whereanythingwas. I learned a littlemorewhenmy own sonAlfie started playingfootball for QPR’s Centre of Excellence as a half-decent, ten-year-old centrehalfintheearly2000s.

EveryThursdayeveningforyearsIhadtotakeAlffortrainingontheplasticpitch,theoneyouseewaydownonyourleftasyouswooshpast,highaboveonthe eastbound elevated carriageway of the A40 approaching Paddington. Itlookslikeyouneedaparachutetogetthere,butactuallyit’sintheatmosphericwarren of rain-streaked concrete under-crofts behind Ladbroke Grove, whichutilisesthespacebeneaththeflyover.

Watching schoolboys trap and pass, trap and pass, trap and pass, forweekafterweek,getsdeeplydull,soIwouldoftenwanderoffsearchingformemories.Iscouredthescrambledanddisjointedways,exploringthedeadendsandblindalleysmadebytheimpositionofavastconcretebarrieracrosstheseoldstreets,tryingtopicturewhatwastherewhenwewere,beforetheWestwaywas.

Today there’s a splendid if ramshackle array of bizarre endeavours beneaththe roaring road, including tennis courts, fives courts, horse paddocks,skateboardruns,guerrillagardens,graffitiwalls,shootinggalleries,artgalleries,dance studios, crack dens, breakers yards, rubble . . . loads of rubble. It is anabove-groundyetstillsubterraneanother-world,wheretimehassomehowstoodstill since this leviathan on stilts crashed into the landscape. I was searchingamid all this for family traces, some sense of the life lived here before thecataclysm,butneverquitefindingthem.

ThenoneweekendItoldmymum,Alfie’sdotingGrandma,thatherboywasplaying for Rangers, the team her beloved husband had loved so dearly. HeraccenthadoneofthoseoldLondonquirkswhichrenderedanAasanE.

‘WheredoesElfietrain?’sheasked,pleasedbutnotparticularlysurprisedthatAlf/Elfshouldhavebeenchosentoweartheholyhoops,asifsomehowthiswashisbirthright. I toldher itwasontheastroturfpitchoffBarlbyRoad,a spaceshewouldoncehaveknownsowell.

‘Showmeonamap,’shesaid,soIdid.‘ThatisalmostexactlythespotwherethehouseyourDadwasborninusedtobe.’

Anditisnolongerthere,becauseoftheWestway.

IfluxuryandapartmentarethecurrentpoxuponLondonlife,thenbackinthe1960s itwas ‘town’ and ‘planning’. Londonhas traditionally been resistant toGrandprojets, theoverarchingschemes thathaveshapedothermoremalleablecities.ParisisessentiallytheproductofHaussmann’smonomania;Manhattanacarefullyconsideredgrid.ButwhentheGreatFirerazedtheCityofLondon,SirChristopherWren’s proposal to rebuild the whole lot on a rational, orderedmasterplan, with wide boulevards and symmetrical squares, was thankfullystymied by the fact that Londoners wouldn’t wait for high-minded architectsandbureaucrats, sotheybeganre-constructingtheirhouses, shopsandtavernsalongthetwisting,claustrophobicmedieval streetpatternthat survives to thisday.

This city has amind of its own, organic and anarchic, at its bestwhen itgrowsfromthegutterup.Butinthefuturistic,car-crazy’60stownplanningwasall the rage, and the part of town that has every reason to rage against theplannerswaspooroldW10.FortheneighbourhoodFrederickElmschoseashisownwasprettymuchobliteratedbymenwithbowtiesandsharppencils.Theydecided that it would have a motorway or two driven through it, high-risecouncil estatesplacedupon it and its close-knit inhabitantshoundedout inapetty diaspora to Perivale, Northolt, Greenford and other far-flung ‘overspill’estateswayoutwestontheCentralline.

FromW2 toW12, Bayswater to the Bush, a swathe of charismatic innerWest London was devastated, divided like some little Berlin by this flyover,whichshowednomercyas it tookoutwholecommunitiesallaround it: townplannersmade the Luftwaffe look benign. Paddington, once themost denselypopulated place in Britain, never really recovered, Ladbroke Grove was splitintotwoandNottingDaleessentiallydisappeared.

Mymumanddad–whohadmetwhile jitterbuggingat theHammersmithPalais, courted while the bombs fell during the Blitz, running acrossWestminsterbridgeholdinghandstoavoidadoodlebug,whohadsurvivedanoffer of accommodation from John Christie at nearby 10 Rillington Place,shouteddownBlackshirtsatSpeakers’Corner,navigateddouble-deckersinpea-soupersandwitnessedthenotoriousNottingHillraceriotsattheendoftheirroad – opted for a two-up, two-down council house on theWatlingEstate inBurntOak.Theychose to live at the endof theEdgwareRoad,on theouterreachesoftheNorthernline,wherenothingeverhappens.Andtruthbetold,theywerehappytogo,becausedon’tforget:‘NottingHillisaslum.’

It is important to acknowledge that poverty is never nice and rarelyromantic.NottingHill/Dalewascertainlynotanavernusbythetimemymumand dadwere living there.Theworst areas of nineteenth-century deprivationandovercrowding, especially around thenotoriousBangorStreet section, hadalreadybeenclearedandcleansed,replacedbyapleasantlittleparkandblocksof early social housing named after Charles Dickens’ son Henry, a localcouncillorandsocialreformer.Butwell intothe1950s, ’60sand ’70s,thiswasstillarun-downanddeeplydeprivedpartofLondon.

Thehousingstockwasmadeuplargelyofthreadbareandcarewornthree-orfour-storey, early Victorian terraced houses, which had been degraded anddivided and divided. They squeezed in more and more rent payers, most of

whom lived with outside toilets, shared cooking facilities, leaking roofs andwindows,rottenfloorboardsanddampinalldirections.

ThiswasoneofthefewpartsofLondonwherethesignsdidnotalwaysread‘NOIrish,NOBlacks,NODogs’,soconsequentlytherewerelotsofallofthose.Add in a large Spanish community, in exile after the Civil War, and asmatteringofItalians,Africans,CypriotsandMaltese,allattractedbythecheaprents and crammed into those tiny rooms, and you have arguably the firstexampleoftruemulticulturalismanywhereinBritain.

Butitwastheinfluxoffantasticallywell-dressedWestIndiansinthewakeofthe Windrush which would define Notting Hill for generations. Thesenewcomers, with their tilted trilbies and languid gaits, gave the area a nattysway and a swagger.Caribbeanmusic coming from every basement blues andopen window; exotic herbs hanging in the air; exotic fruit and veg – okra,breadfruit andplantain,which the costers dubbed ‘queer gear’ – appearingonthebarrows.

InWestLondon,itwaslargelyTrinidadiansandsmallislanders–StLucians,Antiguans,Guyanans–who settled in thoseblistered andblackened terraces.The new Jamaican arrivals tended to congregate over the river in Brixton.

That’swhyCarnival,aTrinidadiantradition,butneveraJamaicanone,founditsnaturalhomeinNottingHill.AndlongbeforeCarnystartedin1962,therewereblues,steelbandsandcalypsoringingintheair.

But it wasn’t only West Indian life. Shebeens, spielers, showbands,rock’n’rollanddogcrapwereallpartoftheeverydayastheculturesentangled,even if theydidn’t always get along.Add to thatmix the effluentpeddledbyone Peter Rachman, whose name became a synonym for evil slum landlordseverywhere.HisdubiouscareerstartedinanofficeinShepherd’sBushandhismalignpracticesservedtofurtherdiminishthereputationofthewiderNottingHillarea.(HisenforcerwasoneMichaelX,whowillalsopopupagainlaterinthisbook.)

Theneighbourhoodwasblightedbybadhousingandevenworselandlords,andamongthelitanyofsloganswhichadornedthosegrimywallswasagraffitoonawallinNottingHillforyears,whichread‘NotLordsoftheLandbutScumoftheEarth’.Therewereotherssaying‘KBW’–‘KeepBritainWhite’.

There were undoubted tensions, particularly between young West Indianladsandindigenouslocalyouths,thelatterperhapsenragedandenviousofthesexual success of the former. This famously flared up in 1958, in what havebecomeknownastheNottingHillraceriots.Moreaccurately,theytookplaceinNottingDale.LocalTeddyBoys, includingbrothel-creeper-clad relativesofmine(Itakenoprideintheprejudice),eggedonbyMosley’sfascists,foughtitout with some of the local West Indians (augmented I’m told by Jamaicanreinforcements from down south) over three nationally shaming nights ofviolence.

Overcrowding and poverty, as well as the all-too-prevalent racism of thetime,wereundoubtedlymajor factors andW10was certainly inneedof somesevereTLC.Butdiditreallyneedknockingdown?Townplannersbackinthe’60s were of the absolutist, year zero persuasion. Call in the bulldozers, drivethroughthemotorway.

Theideathatthecarshouldtakeprecedenceintheurbanpeckingorderisnow deeply unfashionable, but in the ’60s, the prevailing paradigm suggestedthat the future belonged to the automobile. The centre of the city, townplannersdecided,wasnoplacefordecent,modern,middle-classpeopletoabide.HeavilyinfluencedbyAmericansuburbanideals,theideatookholdthatinnerLondonwouldprimarily be a place towork; ahigh-rise downtownwhere youwould drive in to your swanky office on a network of lovely newmotorways

fromyouroutlyinghomeinleafyAcaciaAvenue.Thepoorsodsthatdidstayinthecentrewouldbedecantedintotowerblocksbetweentheautostrade.

It has always struck me as somehow a bit sneaky that nice bourgeoisacademicsandarchitectsconvincedworking-classpeople that thehouses theylived in were unfit for human habitation, thenmoved into them like a shotonce theoikswereclearedout.The streets that survived thewreckingball inW10andW11arenowamongthemostvaluableonearth.Afour-storeygaffinPortlandRoad,wheremycousinonce lived, is roughlysixmillionquidapop,quiteasumforaslum.ButIampreparedtoacceptthatactuallythemotivesofmostoftheslumclearanceschemeswerehonourable.

TheUtopianurgesandsocialistmotivesbehindthebigbrutalistblockslikethe large Lancaster West Estate and Erno Goldfinger’s handsome TrellickTower,whichreplacedthenotoriousbutgloriousSouthamStreetareainKensalTown, just north of Notting Dale, were admirable. People originally lovedhavingindoortoilets,fittedkitchensandcentralheating.Butsmashingapartacommunity tobuilda road in the sky isperhaps lessbenign.Doing it twice issurelyclosetocriminal.

ToparaphraseOscarWilde:‘Toloseonehousetoamotorwayschememayberegardedasamisfortune;toloseasecondisbleedingridiculous.’ButthatispreciselywhathappenedtotheElmses.TheLatimerRoadabodewassubsumedbeneath a football pitch beneath a flyover, but by then my dad’s mob hadalreadymoved a little further west-southwest, back towards Shepherd’s Bush,where Freddie first arrived from Uxbridge. They settled in a short, ratherpleasantno-throughroadcalledNorlandGardens.AtleastitwaspleasantuntilsomebrainboxdreameduptheLondonMotorwayBox.

ThenominalheadoftheNorlandGardenshousewasmydad’sdadReg,alwaysknownasGrandadWeeniebecauseofhistinystature,butitwasreallyrunbyAuntGlad,my father’s eldest sister and a phenomenal character, despite alsobeing a shade less than five feet in height. (The diminutive stature of thatgeneration of the old Elms clan is what makes me assume Freddie was alsolittle.)Gladandherhusband rana fruit andvegbusiness inNorlandmarket,playedhonky-tonkpianointhelocalboozers,cleanedlocalschoolsandsmokedthousandsoffagsaday.

AuntGladbecamemydefactograndmaaftermydad’sactualmum,afiery,

red-hairedRomanylass,pronetorollinguphersleevestofighthercorner,diedjustas Iwasbeingborn.Gladwas theabsoluteepitomeof thecaustic,caring,all-encompassing working-class woman, quick of wit, sharp of tongue, full oflove.WhenIthinkofNottingDale,IthinkofAuntGlad,theembodimentofalargelylostworld.

Her place inNorlandGardens was the housemy dad called ‘home’, eventhough he lived in exile with his half-Yiddisher wife and three sons, half-a-dozenmiles and two bus rides away on theWatlingEstate.Mymum’s family‘home’, theabodeof theBiffens,wasontheWhiteCityestate, just theothersideoftheWestway,andevenclosertoQPR.SoeverySaturday,withoutfail,andformuchoftheschoolholidays,wewouldmakethepilgrimagefromBurntOak back to the ancestral homelands to see both sets of families. Theseweekend trips back ‘home’ were a feature of estate life for most Burnt Oakfamilies,whomaintained their ties to theirold innerLondoncommunities inIslington,King’sCross,PaddingtonandNottingHill.Everybodyhada ‘home’togotointown.

MyabidingmemoryofthoseSaturdays isofwaiting forcountlesseternitiesfor a Number 52 at Cricklewood bus garage in the freezing cold, snugglingbeneath my mum’s coat for warmth.We didn’t have a car to drive up thatmodern flyover, which had wreaked such destruction, so we were doomed towaitforbusesthatnevercame.Butdespitethecoldandthewait,itwasworthit. For somehow I knew, even then I knew, thatwe had been banished fromwhatIthoughtofasrealLondon,properLondon,ourLondon.

Thiswasnowthesoon-to-be-swinging’60s,yettherewasnotevenahintofmodernityinthevocabularyofthosedark,brownandstillessentiallyEdwardianWestLondoninteriorswevisitedeveryweekend.Alitanyofsplendidlyarchaicwordssuchas:Anaglypta,antimacassar,scullery,scuttle,doily,spittoon,bolster,meatsafe,tinbath,outsideprivy,frontparlour,linoleum,Lincrusta,candlewick,winceyette,eiderdown,counterpane,chamberpot,Izal,Omoandcarbolic.

Being at both of those deeply old-fashioned West London homes alsoinvolved arcane rituals. Tanners were pressed into palms upon arrival; baconsarniesproffered,alwaysdousedinmaltvinegar;milkbottleskeptinbucketsofcoldwaterwereproducedtodrink.Thebestbitwasrunningage-inappropriateerrands; placing a bet for GrandadWeenie at the bookies and fetching beerfromtheoffiecounterintheGeneralSmutspubforGrandadBiffen.

My mum’s mum’s little house was part of the sprawlingWhite City site,which had originally been constructed in 1908 for a huge Franco-BritishExhibition and the first LondonOlympics. It was the gleaming vision of oneImreKiralfy,anAustro-Hungarianburlesqueimpresario,hucksterandconjurer.KiralfywasaprotégéofP.T.Barnum,andhedecreedavastwhitemarble-cladXanadu(hencethename ‘theGreatWhiteCity’), stretching fromShepherd’sBushroundaboutvirtuallyallthewaytoWormwoodScrubs.Theshowgrounds(as it was still known to older locals) was later used for a series of Empireexhibitions and trade fairs and boasted scenic railways, ferris wheels, vastpavilions,lakes,waterfallsandexoticthemed‘villages’displayingthewondersoftherose-huedworld,allingleamingwhite.

Initsday,theGreatWhiteCityattractedhundredsofthousandsofchapsinboaters, and ladies in fancybonnets; oneof thewondersof the age.But eachexhibition and fair was a little less successful than the last, and it slowlydwindledtodesolation. Itsgrandprosceniumarchentrancecouldstillbe seenby Shepherd’s Bush bus garage, rotting gracefully away, leading only to acollection of breakers’ yards, dodgy car dealers, dubious lockups and shabbylight-industrial units. It was finally demolished in 2005 to make way for thegargantuan twenty-first century pleasure dome called theWestfield shoppingcentre.Ithinkthat’scalledprogress.

TheroyalboxattheWhiteCityStadium,thelargeststadiumintheworldwhenitwasconstructedforthe1908Olympics,wasexactly26miles,385yardsfromWindsorCastle,where themarathon running race started,which iswhyallmarathonsarenowthatprecisedistance.(Thereis,attimeofwriting,stillaline in the pavement, in between Tesco Express and Starbucks, next to anondescript1980sBBCbuilding,markingpreciselywherethefinishlinewas).

Later, the White City Stadium became the home of British greyhoundracing, a car-coat and flat-capmecca, a cathedral of broken dreams and tornbetting slips,whichwaswithin jogging distance ofQPR’smuchhumbler, butlonger lasting ground at Loftus Road. This was evidenced by the fact thatStanleyBowles,theshamanofShepherd’sBush,thegreatestfootballerevertograce the hoops, a carefree maverick and an inveterate gambler, couldoccasionallybeseenrunningfromWhiteCitytoLoftusRoad,withamacoverhiskitandabirobehindhisearjustmomentsbeforekick-off.

TheWhiteCityhousing estate itselfwas built on the site of the decayingshowgrounds in the1930s andbecameabastionof tough,working-classQPR

stalwarts.Alwaysanestatewithareputation,itwasoncefilledwithmycousins,unclesandaunts, shouting toeachotherover thebalconiesof thecurvilinearfive-storeyblocks,peopledbyamixofoldLondon,IrishandCaribbeanfamilies.ButwhenthatgenerationofWhiteCity-itesmovedout,therewasastark,dark,decline.

Allowedtorundown,itswalkwaysstrewnwithrubbish,oldcarsfesteringinthe drives, it became regarded as a sink estate, neglected and notorious forcrime, crack dens and ‘problem’ families. I always felt perfectly safe walkingthroughtheflatstofootballandstoppingforapint,feltmostofitsinhabitantsweredecentpeoplelivingintoughconditions.ButIhadtosmilerecentlywhenstrollingpastafancyhoardingjustovertheroadfromtheestate.Itwaswrappedaroundoneoftheplethoraofswankynewluxurydevelopmentsgoingupinthearea,anditboastedinbigletters‘WHITECITYLIVING’.

Mymum’smob, theBiffens, started theirboutofWhiteCity livingwhentheestatewasfirstbuilt.Theymovedtooneoftheslightly‘superior’housesonthefringesoftheestatefromtheirtworoomsinPimlicoin1930–31.PerhapstheychosetherebecausemynanandgrandadhadgonetoKiralfy’sGreatWhiteCitywhilecourting.ThelastBiffenpresentwasmyAuntJoyce,mymum’syoungestsister,whohadaphotoofDoctorKildareonherbedroomwallandalwayscalledme her ‘little gammon rasher’. She died alone in the house in 1998. So fornearlysevendecadestherewereBiffensat9BentworthRoad.

ThemostexcitingthingaboutthatlittlehouseasakidwasitsproximitytoQPR,butalsotoWormwoodScrubsprison,whichwasdirectlybehinditonDuCaneRoad.AgrimGothic institution, therewas abellwhichwouldbe rungwheneveraprisonerescaped,warningthelocalstoshuttheirbackdoor,astheymaycomeprowlingthroughyourgardeninaMagwitchfashion.I’veconvincedmyself Iwas there theday thebell rang for theCambridgeSoviet spyGeorgeBlake,whowentoverthewallenroutetoMoscowin1966.

I could also have heard a rather special piano being played. Ivor Novellospent a couple of months in the Scrubs during the war for forging petrolcoupons.Heclearlyhadspecialprivilegesashewasallowedtobringinhisbabygrandsothathecouldcomposeafewbarsbehindbars,whichhethendonatedtotheprisonchapelwhere it still sits today.Suchstoriesmademynan’s littlehouse seem a little more glamorous, but other than that it was a fairly

anonymoustwo-uptwo-downcouncilhouse.OrsoIthought.Itwasonlyyears later,when Iwasdoing some research into thehistoryof

Kiralfy’s originalWhite City, just as the last vestiges of it were about to besubsumed by the brute leviathan of the Westfield shopping centre, that Idiscoveredsomethingfascinatingaboutthathouse.IsawamapindicatingthatBentworthRoadhadoncebeenonthesiteof theGrandIndianPavilion, thejewelinthecolonialExpocrown.ThisboastedturbanedMaharajas,uniformedsepoys, fakirs with snakes and a family of elephants that had camped exactlywhereNan’sbackgardenwas.IwishIhadbeenabletotellthattotheBengalifamilywhomovedinafewdoorsaway.

Apartfromtherarethrilloftheprisonbell,thegreatestexcitementoftimespentatNan’swastheconsiderablymorecommonplacepleasureofbeingsentto collect Grandad, Isaac Silas Biffen, from the General Smuts. This boozer,namedafteraBoer,isnowanEgyptianrestaurant,shishabarandevenalittleimpromptuMasjidforthemanyMusliminhabitantsofWhiteCity.Butitwasonce a truly rollicking local. Its denizens divided between the Irish and theWest Indian, both of them dressed in suits, many in ties, both drinking theGuinness,onelotwatchingtheracing,theotherlotplayingraucousdominoes,everybodysmokingcopiously,swearingfuriously;‘Bludclot’and‘poguemahone’.Thisplacewasrich.

Iwouldbedispatched thereat tea time togetGrandadBiffen–a solitary,grumpy,hard-drinking,usuallytight-fistedmanwhowouldhavetobeprisedoutof the saloon bar of the Smuts. Despite being a famed tightwad he wouldoccasionallybribemehalfacrownifIlethimhaveanotherbeerandmaybeachaser before heading home. That allowedme, agedmaybe eight or nine, torevelinthewanton,lubricatedairoftheplace,rankandrowdy,thickandmale.To this day I like pubs like that far toomuch. I like the very smell of them.Sadly there aren’t too many pubs like the smelly Smuts left anywhere inLondon.

AndIreallylikedgoingtoAuntGlad’stoo.ThehouseinNorlandGardensfelt tumultuous, teeming, but even then it seemed tome like an endangeredspecies of an abode. It was actually an early Victorian terrace, four storeysincludingabasement,stepsupfromstreetlevel,an‘area’below,eachfloorfulloffamily.Theplacewasalwaysbusywithcousinsandaunts,andamanknownasCharliePercywhowassomesortof in-lawwholikedrum.Therewerekidseverywhere, parties aplenty, a piano for Glad, a front parlour used only for

wakes, and a telly in the kitchen, where Weenie sat in a collarless shirtwatchingtheracinginfuzzyblackandwhite.Therewasabackyard,whichitselfbackedontoatotters’yardwheretheykeptthehorses.

Therewas also an air of cashmoney affluence, a typical cockney pride inalwayshavingafewbobinyourpocket,‘fruitinthebowlandnoone’sevenill’.GrandadWeenie had been a street angler, amanwho knew how tomake ashilling.AuntGlad’s husbandwas amarket trader and shouter of wares, andcompared to the parsimonious smallness ofmymum’smum’s council house amile away inBentworthRoad, it felt likemoney and song and life flowed inNorlandGardens.Us kids, especiallymyself andmy second cousin Lee-Ann,Glad’sgranddaughter,ranakindofsweetriot.Thelinebetweenthehouseandthe street was blurred, permeable, in and out, games that started in the yardoften ended in the Bush. My favourite memory of Aunt Glad’s house is ofescapingittorunwildonthedebriswiththelocalherberts.

Thewhole familywent tobothhousesmostweekendswhen Iwas a smallboy,andthenwedidn’t.Thefamilywasn’twholeanymore.Myfather,AlbertJames Elms, Freddie’s distant heir, was a soft, hard-left, building-site tradeunionist, anda tender, lovinghusbandand fatherof three. Intenselyproudofthecontributionhemadetohiscityasaskilledsteelerector,reconstructinghisbombed-outtown,perchedatoptallscaffolding.Hewouldreeloffa listofthejobshe’dworkedonfromhospitalstogasholders,councilestatestotheFestivalofBritain.Hewas part of the crew that constructed the FestivalHall on theSouthBankandwithother localcomradeshelpeddriveMosley’s fascists fromtheirbaseinKensingtonParkRoad.MydadwassteepeddeepintheLondonhehelpedtobuild.

AlbertElmswenttoworkonabuildingsiteinParkRoyalonerainydayandneverreturned.Hewasforty-one,andmymumwasthirty-nine;Iwasabouttobeseven.Perhapsit’sagoodthinghenevergottoseehiscityrebuiltagainbyMammon&Co,callouslyreshapedbythemarketandthosewhodoitsbidding.Butitistragicthathenevergottoseehisthreesonsbecomemen.

Hewastakenawaybyasudden,unheraldedheartattack,andIhavemissedhimeverysingledaysince.Thecauseofdeathofmyfatherin1966wasgivenon the certificate I found among my mum’s effects as ‘aortic stenosis ofrheumatic origin’, which is now described as a condition ‘rare outside thedevelopingworld’.Hisdeathleftmymumbereftandmebewildered:whywouldsuchagoodmango?

Wewouldstillgowestmostweekends.Mymumnowonherownwiththreesons, working two or three jobs, but still making that tortuous cross-townschlepptokeepthefrayingfamilytiestogether.Italsomeantthatduringschoolholidays, when mum had to work inWoolworths, or cleaning the houses ofsnobbypilotsbasedatRAFHendon,Iwouldhaveextendedsojournswiththeancients.AlternativelyIwenttostaywithmycousinIan,mymum’ssister’sboy,anotherWestLondonQPRfanaticwhohadsomehowendedupexiledinapre-fab in Fish Island, Hackney Wick, where we regularly tried to storm PercyDalton’speanutfactory.

There are few advantages to losing your father at an early age, but Iundoubtedlyhadtodevelopacertainself-reliance.LeftaloneforlongperiodsIgotgoodatsolowandering,intimateexplorationsofmynascentLondons.Andover inourold town,aroundAuntGlad’shouse,as Iventuredout into thoseknocked about, beaten-up streets, increasingly resembling some kind of littleStalingrad,Iwaswitnessingavanishingworld,adoomedwayoflife,butalsoanewoneemerging.There’salwaysfuntobehadamidtheruins.

AsIwrite,adevelopment,hilariouslybutperhapspredictablydubbedNottingDale Village, has sprung up exactly where I once cavorted with the localroustabouts inSta-PrestandBenShermans.Bighighstreet fashioncompanieslikeMonsoon,Accessorize andCathKidstonhavemade their headoffices ingarish,overdesignednewcorporatebuildingswherethetotters’yardsandhorse-feed shops once stood, beardy types and flouncy fashionistas soaking up theurbanvibes.But then thiswas always ahotbedof street fashion,homeof thefirst Teds, the nattiest rude boys and the most ardent mods, and one of theincubatorsofthebiggeststreet-styleeruptionofthemall.

Punkwasaproductoftwogreatcitiesonthebrinkofbankruptcy:NewYorkwhen it was skint, dangerous, collapsing, full of loft spaces to spare; Londonwhen it was equally boracic, broken, clad in corrugated iron and overflowingwithsquats.Bothcitieswhentheyweredownontheirluck,randomlyviolent,decaying and derided, were at theirmost creative. Theywere cheap. InNewYork,theepicentreofpunkwastheBoweryandtheLowerEastSide,inLondonitwas indisputably aWest Side story based on theKing’sRoad,Chelsea, theBushandtheGrove.

Punkwasinitiallyaformofsartorialsedition,adaringnewtrousertribe,andthe King’s Road, currently the most drearily bourgeois thoroughfare in allLondon,waswheretheactionwas.Thiswashometothecutting-edgeclothesshops; Malcolm and Vivienne at World’s End, Don Letts with AcmeAttractions in Antiquarius, Boy and Johnson’s, a radical teen catwalk ofclashing street styles parading, preening and posing every Saturday. But thebandsandthebeatcamefromtheBushanditsenvirons.

The two groupswho instigated the London punk tsunami, the Sex PistolsandTheClash,were both based in this crumbling enclave.Aswe’ve alreadynoted two of the Sex Pistols were Shepherd’s Bush ragamuffins, and a thirdoriginalmember,GlenMatlock,wasfromnearbyMaidaValeandisstillaQPRregular. The Clash all had their roots in these streets. Mick Jones, anotherLoftusRoadseasonticketholder,whomIoftenseefrettingatmatches,livedasa teenager in his grandmother’s high-rise council block overlooking theWestway. Paul Simenon grew up in a bohemian but skint household onLadbroke Grove, while Joe Strummer, the middle-class outsider, made thesquats and ramshackle short-life housing ofW9 and 10 his spiritual stompinggroundfromwhenhefirstrockedupinLondonintheearly’70s,untilwellafterhecouldaffordnotto.

Strummer’s first band, the 101’ers, were named after a squat at 101WaltertonRoad,nearElginAvenueandhe floated around the freehousesofthe area for years. There was also a squat inDavis Road, EastActon, whichshouldsurelyhaveaplaquewithasafetypin.Thisplacein1976washometoMickJones,PaulSimenon,VivAlbertinefromtheSlits,SidViciousandKeithLevenefromPublicImage.Butthemostremarkablesquatofthemall,literallyyards from the Elms household on Norland Gardens, is among the mostextraordinarytalesthisneighbourhoodhastotell,aparableofthewayLondonhas transformed itself inmy lifetime. It is the remarkable sagaof thePeople’sRepublicofFrestonia.

Itisdifficultnowtoevenimagine,butinmyadultlifetime,propertyininnerLondonwasworthsolittlethatyouwouldhavetroublegivingitaway.NottingHill,nowLondon’sstockbrokerbelt(actuallyit’smoreofahedgieghetto),wasonce the absolute nexus of free housing. At its height in the late ’70s it isestimatedthatover30,000peopleinLondonwerelivinginsquatsofonekindor another. There were Rastafarian squats, gay squats, feminist squats, squatsconcealingtheAngryBrigade,luxurysquatsinNashterracesandsqualidsquatsin rat-infested hell holes. But most were just unloved old houses filled withyoungpeople,particularlystudents,artistsandmusicians.AndbyfarthelargestconcentrationwereinthatwedgeofWestLondonfromtheDaletotheVale.

There was even an anarchist estate agent on theWestbourne Park Roadcalled the Ruff Tuff Cream Puff Agency. Run by playwright HeathcoteWilliams,thiscentreofseditionhelpedover3,000would-besquatters identifypotential properties, dished out legal advice and doled out crowbars to secureentrytoemptypremises,allintheW10,W11nexus.

Imyself resided in a few ‘temporary’ properties in the early ’80s inNorthLondon,movingfromhousetohouseandfinallysettlinginadisusedfirestationinSouthTottenhamwithSadeAduandhalfher band.BoyGeorge,MarilynandmanyofthefabulousdevoteesoftheBlitzclublivedinavast,theatricallydecayingGeorgianmansion inWarren StreetW1 that no one even claimedownershipof.Howmuchisthathouseworthtoday?

Mostcommonly the squatsof the ’70swerehumblecouncilhousing stock,ownedbythelocalauthority,whohadrows,blocksandindeedwholestreetsofoldhousing inneedofmodernisationanddeemedunfit to letout to families,butwhichtheydidnothavethemoneytodoup.Orelsethesadshellsofhouseswereawaitingdemolition,becauseofsomemadcapscheme;sittingempty,often

foryears,rottingaway.Sopeoplejustmovedin.ThisisexactlywhathappenedinFrestonRoad,whichwasactuallythecontinuationofLatimerRoadafter itwascutinhalfbytheWestway.Butwhathappenednextisunique.

As the ’60s morphed into the ’70s, I watched those old streets of decentVictoriandwellings,mainlythree-storeyworkers’houses,beingdismantledfromthe vantage point of my house-proud aunt’s front steps. Because she actuallyowned the property, it was safe for the time being. I saw local families we’dknown for years decanted into the newly constructed Stalinist stalagmites orexiled to the edges. I watched as the houses were emptied, and then oftendeliberately ‘vandalised’ by the council, who would knock out windows andsmash roofs, in an attempt to dissuade squatters frommoving in, but it neverworked.

Assoonas thecorrugated ironwentup, thehippiesclambered in,patcheduptheholes,linkeduptheelectricity,calleduptheirmates.AuntGladthoughttheywerealllong-haired,soap-swervinglayabouts,andshewasn’ttheonlyone.Localyouthswereresolutelyofthecropped-haired,tonicstrides,skinheadandskavariety,andtheonlyhairy,heavymiddle-classtypesanyoneknewworkedatthenearbyadventureplayground,buildingdeathlyropeswings,smokingrollupsandfermentingrevolution.

Scores of these lank peace-and-love warriors colonised the crumbling,abandoned old terraces all around the manor and introduced patchouli andessenceofAfghancoattothearea’saromas.Thoselocalswhohadmovedtothehigh rises, in this case the twenty-two-storey blocks of the Edward WoodsEstate, literally looked down on the bedraggled arrivistes as theymoved intotheir old houses. There was a certain tension – or perhaps mutualmisunderstanding–betweentheoldandthenew,thesmartoiksandthescruffytoffs.Who knew that this was actually the first sign of the gentrification tocome?Hippiesasharbingersofhedge-fundmanagers.

ThebiggesthippycolonyofthemallwassetupinasizeabletrancheoflandboundedbyFrestonRoad,StAnn’sRoadandBramleyRoad.Thiswasaroughlytriangular, roughlytwo-acresitespanningW10andW11,whichhousedupto150piratical freeloaders, includinga fairnumberof familieswith ragged-arsedkids.Italsofeaturedacommunalgarden,anartgallery,anoccasionalhotelandthePeople’sHall,ahandsomeredbrickVictorianciviccentre.ThiswasabouttobecometheNationalTheatreofFrestonia.

Ican’t say that I followed this storyat the time,orhadany ideawhatwas

going on behind the corrugated iron curtain on Freston Road.My gaze, andindeedmy family, were elsewhere, but I have certainly got to know it since,especiallywhenIwasasked towriteandpresentaRadio4 showcalled ‘FromBelgraviatoFrestonia’.Thistoldthehistoryofsquatting,justasitwasabouttobe effectively abolished by a change in the law, outlawing the entry toresidentialproperty.IwasluckyenoughtointerviewacoupleofoldFrestonians,andwhatasplendidlymischievoustaletheyhavetotell.

For after a few years of a more-or-less disorderly but stable existence as adistinct, if occasionally shambolic cooperative community, the GLC decidedthatitwantedthelandaroundFrestonRoadback.Theyintendedtoknockthewhole lotdown (knock it downwas theGLC’sdefault positionon just abouteverything)andatsomepointinthedistantfuturesellitoffforofficeandlight-industrialdevelopment,makinglotsofrubble,makingtheinhabitantshomelessandeffectivelywipingoutoneof the last surviving stretchesofold residentialNottingDale.

The first response was for 120 of the squatters to officially change theirsurnames to Bramley (after Bramley Road), in the hope that if they claimedthey were all one family, they would have to be re-housed collectively. Thecouncilwashavingnoneof it and issuedofficial evictionorders, andhad thebulldozers at the ready. So one of the long-term residents, Nicholas Albery,formerHaightAshbury pioneer and anarchist activist, suggested that they goone stage further,andmakeaUDI(UnilateralDeclarationof Independence).AtapublicmeetinginthePeople’sHall,94percentofthe200peoplepresentvotedinfavour,andon31October1977theydeclaredFrestoniaindependentfromtheUnitedKingdom.

Given their libertarian leanings, therewas no primeminister or president,butdiminutiveactorDavidRappaport-BramleybecametheforeignministerandHeathcoteWilliams-BramleywasambassadortoGreatBritain.Atwo-year-oldchildnamed FrancescoBogina-Bramleywas appointedminister for education.The nascent micro-state’s coat of arms bore the legend ‘Nos Somos UnaFamilia’.AndthewholeBramleyfamilycelebratedFrestonia’sindependencebyshowingapiratecopyofPassport toPimlicoonamakeshift screeninthenewlynamedNationalTheatre.Isthatlifeimitatingart?

Therewereprecedentsforthistongue-in-cheek,butalsogenuinelyidealisticandpotentiallypragmatic,move.Christiania,afarlargerhippycommuneonan

oldarmybase inCopenhagen,haddeclared itselfaFreetownin1971andhasmanaged to live a semi-autonomous existence ever since, although these daysit’sasmuchatouristattractionasanalternativesociety.Muchclosertohome,butontheothersideofLondon,theIsleofDogshadbeatenChristianiatoitbyalmostayear.

In 1970, the island, actually a loop of land in a massive meander in theThames that we all now know from the EastEnders opening credits, was aforgotten world. A solidly working-class but terminally declining communitythatwaslargelymadeupofdockersandtheirfamiliesandcutofffromtherestofLondonby itsuniquegeography, the IsleofDogswas always aplace apart,accessible only by a couple of rickety bridges and ill-served in terms ofinfrastructure,transportation,schools,etc.

So a couple of themilitant local lightermen and stevedores, headingwhattheycalledtheCitizensCommittee,setupa‘government’inacouncilflatat27SkeggsHouse.Theythensetaboutclosingthebridgesandissuingentryvisasfor‘foreign’ journalistswhowished to visit the island to cover the story.No lessluminary a broadcaster than Walter Cronkite reported on the independentcockneyislandforCBS;manyoftheBritishpapersputitonthefrontcoverandtwo of the ringleaders, Ted Johns and John Westfallen, actually ended upmeeting the then Prime Minister Harold Wilson at 10 Downing Street.Eventually,thedevelopmenttheywerepromisedatthatmeetingledtowhatwenowknowasthesoaringsteelandglasstowersofCanaryWharf,whichI’mnotsureisexactlywhattheleft-wingdockerswereafter.Sometimesyouhavetobeverycarefulwhatyouwishfor.

WhattheFrestonianswantedhalf-a-dozenyearslaterwasultimatelyforthearea to be saved for housing rather than offices or warehouses, and for thecommunitytobeallowedtosticktogether.Theyalsowantedtohaveasmuchfunaspossiblealongthewayandsetaboutaccomplishingbothwithagustoandbrio that still shines brightly. At the same time that they seceded from theUnitedKingdom, the Free IndependentRepublic of Frestonia applied to jointheEECaswellastheUnitedNationsandindeedwroteanimpressivelylegal-soundinglettertotheUNonofficialheadednotepaper,urgingthemtosendateamofblueberet-wearingpeacekeeperstothisfledglingstatetoprotectthemfromtheinvadingGLC.Thetanksneveractuallyarrived.

Border guards were posted around the corrugated perimeter, stamping the

visas of any visitors. Frestonians were issued with their own passports andactuallytravelledinternationallyonthem.Theyprintedpostagestampswhichworked to send letters even further abroad than theUK, issued anoccasionalnationalnewspapercalledtheTribalMessenger,andkeptupaconstantbarrageofinventive,knowing,publicitywheezeswhichkeptFrestonia(anameinspiredinpartbytheMarxBrothers’FreedoniainDuckSoup)intheheadlinesandkeptthebailiffsatbay.Theseparatistsreceivedsupportfromsomeunlikelysources,includingGeoffreyHowe,thenshadowchancelloroftheexchequer,whosaid,‘As one who had childhood enthusiasm for Napoleon of Notting Hill I canhardlyfailtobemovedbyyouraspirations.’EvenHoraceCutler,theToryheadoftheGreaterLondonCouncil,theiravowedfoe,seemedtoenjoyjoustingwiththem.

All the publicity stunts and a fair degree of public sympathy meant thatFrestoniasurvivedintothenewdecade,butbythenthenatureofsomeoftheresidentshad changed.The republicwas always dividedbetween theUtopianinner-circle,manyofthemmiddle-andevenupper-classidealistswhochosethesquatting lifestyle and those who, because of poverty or drink and drugproblems, had little option. And in the later years of Frestonia, the latterbecame more prominent and some of the squats became more chaotic andsqualid.Lifewasnevereasyindecayingoldbuildingswithrudimentaryfacilities,often no heating or hotwater, always no security, but some of the reports ofwhatitwasliketoactuallyliveintheRepublicinthe’80sareblood-curdlinglytough.Withnailand Iwithnowindowsandbricksbyyourbed to lobatdrug-crazedinterlopers.AnarchyintheO.K.Corral.

Thisdarker,harsherphaseoftherepublicwasalsoareflectionofthegreatculturalshiftfromhippytopunk,frompeaceandlovetohateandwar,idealismto nihilism, dope to speed and smack.The young anarcho-punkswhomovedinto Frestonia turned one of the largest buildings in the country into theominously named, and riotously hedonistic, Apocalypse Hotel. They enjoyedsmashingthingsupsomuch,itwassaidthatintheApocalypseeventhewallswere provisional. That didn’t stop The Clash, who all lived a stone’s throwaway, fromhavingtheirphototakenoutside,andtheartgroupMutoidWastefromstayingandperformingtheirearliestshowsthere.TheClash,alwaysgoodat combining solidarity and publicity, eager to show their men-of-the-peoplestreet cred, rehearsed and recorded theirCombat Rock album in the People’s

Hall.Butbynowtheendofthenationwasnigh.Theendwasn’tallbad.Atsomepoint,theolder,moremoderatemembersofFrestonia,wearyofthe

rigours of their chosen lifestyle, morphed into the Bramleys Housing Co-operative Ltd. They joined forces with the much more conventional andestablished Notting Hill Housing Trust, and as a result of a public enquirymanagedtogetasectionoftheone-timeindependentstatepreservedforsocialhousing. The original properties, except the listed People’s Hall, were alldemolishedandsomeof the residents scattered.Themoremilitantanarchists,angry at dealing with ‘the man’, left for other more radical squats andcommunes. But a block of forty small, neat, almost twee yellow brick houses,frontingontoStAnn’sRoad,aptlyarrayedaroundacommunalgarden,arestilltheretothisday;stillacooperative,stillaclose-knitcommunity,stillhometooriginalFrestoniansandtheirchildrenandevengrandchildren.

But none of my family is anywhere to be seen. From Freddie’s arrival in the1870s to the last Elms leaving theDalewas almost exactly 100 years. I guessthat’snotbadgoingforanurbandynasty,butI feelbadwhenIthinkthatweareno longer part of the fabric of that neighbourhood,whichwas somuch apartofus.Ifeelalsothatthemanorisdiminished,notjustbyourabsencebutby the departure of somany of the souls whose stories are woven into thosestreets;good,fast,Londonfamiliesgone.

Ihaveactuallyfeltthisformostofmylife,thatsomehowgrowingupoutintheBurntOakboondocksmademejustalittleless.(IthinkPaulWeller,amanof a similar age, attitude and attire, whom I admire enormously, and whoseLondonfamilywereexiledevenfurther,toWoking,carriesasimilarburden.)Ibecamejealousofkidswhosefamilieshadheldout,inaweofladswhocameoutof Holborn or Pimlico, played run-outs among the mummies of the BritishMuseumorhadtheirfirstsnogattheTatebyRodin’sTheKiss.

I almost worshipped a girl in my teenage years primarily because she hadspentallherlifeintheflatshewasborninaboveabookshopontheCharingCrossRoad.TothisdayIfeelslightlyawedinthecompanyofpeoplewhowereborninthebellyofthebeast,heirstoBlake,SheppardandGwyn.Fromabouttheageof fourteen, Iwasdesperatetomovebacktowardsthecentreof town,theoh-so-magneticpole.Butexile alsomadememore:moreambitious,moreagitated,perhapsperversely,morepassionatelyLondon.

This cockney ‘saudade’ is a common malaise. I hear it from surprisinglywistful cab drivers currently residing in Hornchurch, lamenting their daysgrowingupintheCaliortheCross,getitfromBrixtoniteswhodidwelloutofahouseonRailtonRoad,butwondernowwhethertheirlifeinSurreyisquitesosuperior. Some of this is simply the normal nostalgia of ageing souls turnedsentimental, yearning asmuch for lost youth as place, but there is somethingdeeper;acommunalsensethatwehaveallbeenreduced.

Ifeelitmostatfootball,atRangersonaSaturday,whenpeopletrudgebackin to haunt the haunts and share the stories. They revel in the tight urbantogethernessofagame,crowdingintothosenarrowstreets,shouldertoshoulderin the pubs. I still give a knowing nod at the match to tasty faces from theGrove,eventhoughmostarenowstatin-scoffingdadsorevengrandadslivinginNortholt.AndI’msure thatyearning isechoedatWestHam,Arsenal,Spurs,Millwall, all clubs whose supporters have been pushed or pulled out of theirheartlands;allplaceswhereexiledoldLondonersmakepilgrimagestore-affirmtheir tribal ties. Many of those thousands and thousands of people shell outfortunes, not just for a ticket to the football, but a season ticket to their oldmanor.

The Elms family ties to the ancestralNottingDale homelandwere finallysevered by the LondonMotorway Box. The London Box was part of a trulymaniacal 1960s scheme to drive a series of four elevated, orbital motorwaysslicing through the city, to create four roughly concentric ring roads, joinedtogetherbyanetworkofradiallinks.Amonstrousconcretespider’swebstrungoverLondon.

The innermost motorway, Ringway 1, was conceived as a large rectangle,(hencethebox)madeupoffourconnected‘crossroutes’east,west,northandsouth. Its construction would have taken out large chunks of Wandsworth,Brixton,Battersea,Clapham,Chelsea,Shepherd’sBush,Kilburn,PrimroseHill,Belsize Park, Hampstead, Camden Town, Islington, Hackney, Plaistow,Greenwich,Woolwich.Prettymuchmostofwhatwenowknowas‘ZoneTwo’wastohaveahideoussix-laneroadonstiltspushedrightthroughthemiddleofit.OveronemillionLondonerswouldhavebeen livingwithin200yardsof amotorway.ThentheywouldbeginRingways2,3and4,until thewholetownwas covered in a network of highways to nowhere. The outermost of thosecircuitous thoroughfares, Ringway 4, is essentially what we now know as theM25, the world’s biggest car park, which has become London’s de facto

perimeter.Theywereactuallygoingtodothis.Theboxwasn’ttheGLC’sonlywantonlyberserkschemetosmashapartthe

historicfabricofoldLondontown.PerhapsthecraziestofthemallwasaplantocompletelyredevelopCoventGarden.Knockdown70percentofthehistoricbuildings fromCambridgeCircus to theStrand,convert thepiazza intoavastconference centre, and replace the rest with high-rise offices, hotels andmultistoreycarparks,andforcepedestriansontowalkwaysintheskywhilethetraffic roared through a series of new highways below. They came within aninchoferadicatingoneofLondon’smostcharismaticquarters,and–aslateas1975–theywerestilltryingtoforcethisinsanitythroughdespitetheconcertedoppositionofjustabouteverybody.

Local residents, one of the last surviving old-school central Londoncommunities; Fleet Street printers, West End scene shifters, publicans,bumarees,cabdriversandofcoursemarkettraders,formedtheCoventGardenCommunity Association to combat this disastrous scheme. Architecturestudents and conservationists, displaying a growing realisation that the past istoorich,toowovenintothefuturetobebulldozedaway,joinedthem.Thefruitand flower market itself, one of the most viscerally vivid experiences in allLondon,aripe,pungentfavelaofflowersandsalads,spillingoverthoseancientcobbled arcades, ringing with coarse canting cries dating back to theseventeenthcentury,wassadlydoomed.Ultimately,itheadedoverthewaterforNineElmsandsanitisedsanityin1974.

Ofthehomesinthearea,82percent–almostexclusivelythoseofworking-classLondoners –were going tobe flattened as part of thismaniacal scheme.Butthesetight-knit families,someofwhomcouldtracetheirWC2rootsbacktotheHundredsofDrury,whenthiswasthemostroguishareainallRomeville,refused to just let their neighbourhood disappear beneath the vaingloriousdreamsoftownplanners.

They put up amighty fight: clever,witty, resourceful, staunch.Thankfullythey got support frompolitical leaders of almost every hue as the tide turnedagainst such wanton destruction. Anthony Crosland, Labour’s shadowenvironmentminister,madeaspeechwherehesaid,‘Ibelievewithpassionthatitisnowtimetocallahalt.Itistimetostopthispiecemealhackingawayatourcity.ItistimetosaytotheGLC...“Gentlemen,we’vehadenough.We,thepeopleofLondon,nowproposetodecideforourselveswhatsortofcitywewanttolivein.”’

Plenty,ofcourse,nolongerwishedtoliveinthecityatall.Gladtogetoutat a time when the place was being pulled apart; its population and itsreputation in what appeared to be terminal decline. Nobody in the mid-’70scalledLondonthegreatestcityonEarth,andindeeditcouldseemabitlikeafailedSovietstateonaparticularlygreyday.Backward-looking,old-fashioned,early closing, tired and tatty, big chunks of it under threat of demolition . . .throwinperpetualstrikes,three-dayweeks,shortages,rationingandpowercutsandLondonfeltlesslikethecapitalofagreatnation,andmorelikethebridgeofasinkingship.

My favourite anecdote from this era is straight out of an Ealing comedy.Duringabaker’s strike in1977, loaveswere rationed, theyhadguardsoutsidebread shops and a baker’s van carrying a load of precious split tins andwholemeal baps was hijacked by masked men on Commercial Road in E1.That’s how desperate things had become, a banana republic with a breadshortage.

Butasissooftenthecase,whenthingsareattheirlowestisjustwhentheyare starting to look up. London’s revival was heralded by punk’s liberatingcultural paroxysms; educated, socially mobile pioneers (don’t yet call themyuppies)movingintodecayingoldinner-cityneighbourhoods;artists,musiciansand entrepreneurs taking advantage of cheap rents.Combine thosewith newwaves of internationalmigration, a growing realisation that the fabric of thishistoric city isworth savingandorganised residents fighting forboth thepastandthefuture.AllofthesewouldcoalescetostartnudgingLondon’spendulumback in a positive direction. But that all came too late for Aunt Glad andNorlandGardens.

Thathouse,whichformerepresentedmylinkstomyfather,andviahimtoaparticulartypeofLondonliferightbacktoFreddie,wasinmymemoryatleastthelasthomestanding,withaveritablebattlezoneofrubbleandruinationallaroundit.ThecampaigntosaveCoventGardenwasultimatelysuccessful,andthere was a similar outcry about the outrageous plan to turn London into amotorwayservicestation.ButnothingcouldsaveNorlandGardens.

Bannersmade from bedsheetswere hung fromhouses and flats; women incurlersdidalotofshouting,butalltonoavail.TheWestCrossRoute,thefirstpart of this brave newworld onwheels running fromBattersea toHarlesden,wasunderway.TheLondonBoxwasopeningand so theElms’s residencewascompulsorilypurchased,andthelastofFreddie’soffspringwereboughtoutand

pushed out. The wrecking ball came in, and I watched, holding my belovedAuntie’sveinyhand,asancientAnaglyptafloatedintheair.

‘Our’housewassacrificedforthegrandioselytitledM41:talkaboutlivinginthe fast lane. AuntGlad and her familymoved to a posher butmore sedatehomeoutChiswickway.Westillwenttoseethemasoftenaspossible,but itwasneverthesame.Shehadneverbeenmorethanafewhundredyardsfromastreet market and before long they gave up the ghost, gave up on the citycompletely and settled for a life beside the seaside. As Lee-Ann said to merecently,‘Ifeltbereft,bereaved.’TheirLondonwasover.

Thecomplaintsandconcernsof theGordBlimey familiesofNottingDalecametonought.Backthen,evenareas likeIslington,Clapham,BatterseaandGreenwich were still largely populated by the easily ignored, glottal-stoppingproletariat.ButoverinChelsea,BelsizeParkandHampsteaditwasadifferentaccent, a different matter. The GLC tried to buy off the protests of themetropolitan elite with tunnels under NW2 and diversions round the King’sRoad. But the well-funded, well-organised, well-spoken, articulate andpersistentcampaignwagedby the residentsof the sortof inner-cityareas thatwereneverashorthandforcrimeanddereliction,combinedwithastronomicallyescalating costs, finally paid off. The whole lunatic Ringway scheme waseventuallyabandoned.Exceptforonebit.

AhundredyearsofFreddie’s lineage,acenturyofElmsesintheDale,weresacrificed for 0.75miles of tarmac, which basically went from one of our oldhousestoanother;fromShepherd’sBushroundabouttoLatimerRoad.Itwas,Ibelieve, the shortest stretch of motorway in the world, until it wasignominiouslydemotedtothestatusofanAroadin2000.IfyoulookcloselyatthepointwherethenownamedA3220meetstheWestway,theroundaboutjustbeforethefootballpitchwhereAlfieplayedandmydadgrewup,youcanseeashort spur of road going nowhere. It is literally just a few feet long, headingtowardsHarlesden, ending abruptly; a connectionnevermade.That’s all thatremainsoftheGLC’sgrandest,maddestvisionforLondon.

AndwhatremainsofthatpartofmyLondonandmypartinthatLondon?Welltruthbetold,itstillhasanairandIstillholdatorch.IheardMayfairdescribedrecentlyasaplaceforpeoplewhocan’taffordNottingHill,andthejokewasn’tentirelyfunny.Gentrificationisadouble-edgedsword:itbringethandittaketh

away.Thejet-poweredgentrificationthatroaredthroughW11fromroughlythelate ’80sonwardshasbroughtuntoldwealth,elegance,goodfood,niceflowersand some fuck-off enormous basements with home cinemas and swimmingpools.

NottingHillnowfeelslikeafogormaybeevenathicksnowfallofaffluencehas settled over the streets, making them muffled, muted, calm. It isinternational, aspirational, like a living Patek Philippe advert. It must be anexcellentplacetoliveifyouwant,andyoucanafford,tolivelikethat.Itfeelscosseted, like a boutique hotel of a neighbourhood, and I can enjoy a plushhotelasmuchasthenextman.ButIdon’treallyenjoywhattheneighbourhoodhasbecome.

Onitsfringesandinitscrevices,however,therearestilltheestatesandthesocialhousing,andtheoccasionaltattyhousethathasescapedthecurseofthedevelopers.Peoplestillsitonstepsanddrinktea.Thereistheoddhoopedshirton a snotty kid, or a dread’s tam bobbing in the distance, a local builders’merchants, a local substance merchant, a makeshift mosque, a Baptistcongregation.That shabbySpanish restaurantwhereyoucanget a latedrink,thatMoroccangafftheguysgoto,thesocialclubundertheflyover,thepointerstoitsformerlifestilllived.Andwhatgentrificationhastakenawaywasnotallgoodinthefirstplace.AskKelsoCochrane.Askmymum.

But I domiss the booming bass of DubVendor and People’s Sounds, theloping step of Rastamen waiting for the black star liner on Portobello Roadwhenthetwosevensclashed.Sooncome. I longto see the ‘QPRNOTTINGHILL’flagflyingoverarun-downterrace,andatotterfeedinghishorseoutsideapub.InmymindIstillhearJimmyPurseyfromSham69shoutingforpeace,asallhellcrashedaroundhimduringabiblicalriot inAcklamHall;out-of-townracistskinheads,scatteredbythefuryofrighteouslocalkiddies,blackandwhiteuniteandfight.

Singingofriots,therewasJoeandTheClashintheKPHwiththeoldIrish,theSPGamassing round the corner;GeoffTravis sellingmea sweetdeepAlGreentunewhenI’dgoneintoRoughTradetobuysomepunk.RangerscoloursflyingfrombusstopsandsweetshopsallthewaytoWembleyin’82.Thisisourcave. Norman Jay spinning Good Times ; the Mangrove, the Colville. Thebeautifulblack-and-whiteimagesofbeautifulblack-and-whiteboysentangledinRoger Mayne’s epochal lens. Love those boys, mourn those streets. Grandad

Weeniestandingproudonthecobbles,akettleinhiswaistcoatpocket,hisdad’shand-cart behind him.Oysters in the Cow. KennyMars Bars on his barrow.Trinnycorner.BoxersfromDaleBoysrunningearlymorning,hoodsup,handsheldhigh.Freddiealwayssomewhereinthedistance.

Cross over Ladbroke Grove and you cross one of London’s unmarked butunmissableboundaries,afaultlineinthecapital’stectonicplatethatyoufeelinthe air leading down into the Dale. Still a different land. Here in forgottenNorthKensington there is lessaffluence, lesselegance, lessalmosteverything.But it is more like ours, more like London. The Dale still feels like it isrecoveringfromtheblows,concussed,perhaps,byallthebashing,sufferingfromcollectiveamnesia, like ithas forgotten itsown stories.Yet it also feels like acommunity determined to hold on, to retain its rightful place in so regal aborough.

Thereis(hopefully)stillapubcalledthePigandWhistle,apugugly, flat-roofedboozerhardbythestation,whichisjustalittleliketheSmuts,whereyoucangetgoatcurry,apintforfourquid,atipforthe4.15atUttoxeterRacesandapairoftrainersifyouknowwhotoask.Butyou’dbetternotask.AsIsearchformusicalmonkeysinthelandofFrestonia,IknowIneverreallycamefromhereandIshallnotreturn.Youcannevergohomeagain.

TheAvernusReturns

I had to look up that word again to check that it really was as chillingly apt as Ithought.Avernus, from a volcanic crater in Italy, whichwas seen as the entrance toHades,aperilous, sulphurous gateway to the flamingunderworld,whereno sane soulwould venture and no birds flew. ‘The Avernus of Kensington’ was a commonplacedescriptionfortherancidVictorianslumsofNottingDale,wherethelifeexpectancywastheshortestinallLondon,andthefieryconflagrationoftheafterlifeofthedamnedwaseverpresent.Itisawordthatsadlyhascomebacktohauntus.

It was on 14 June 2017 that the murderous flames of hell returned to NorthKensington. Reminding us that in this ever-changing city, some things are doomed toremain thesame.GrenfellTower is/was(currentlystuck in the terrible limbobetweentenses) part of the LancasterWest Estate, a 1970s concrete enclave in the ward ofNottingDale.Abold,brutalistslumclearanceschemeafewhundredyardsfromtheoldElmshouseonLatimerRoad,justupfromhopeful,hopelessFrestonia.

Thenationwatchedthatnightinhorror.Weallfeltthepain,andmaybetheguilt,ofGrenfell; the flames shamedus all aswe saw the tower turn to ashen crematoria,thosesacrificedsoulssealedandsearedinside.Itscorchedme.

Muchofthebreastbeatingafterwardswasaboutthedisparityandproximityofrichandpoor,butitwasalwaysthusinthosestreets.Londonisbuiltoncheekbyjowl,eachlearning and borrowing and stealing from the other. That social juxtaposition isLondon’sgristandgift;itgivesthepoorhope,andtheculturemakesusallricher.Thereal threat is that thenot rich, or the ordinary, everydayLondoners,will be expungedaltogetherfromaboroughlikeKensingtonandChelsea.Proximityworkswhenrespectisshownbybothsides.TherealburningshameofGrenfellistheattitudeofthewealthyoverseerstotheirlessfinanciallyaffluentneighbours.

Many of the more well-to-do locals were magnificent: Cerys Matthews, MarcusMumford,LilyAllen,DamonAlbarnandthelegionofnot-so-famouslocalpeoplewhoinstantlytriedtohelp,andcontinuetodoso,becausetheyunderstoodandcherishedthe

weftandweaveofthesocialfabric.ItisthatverymixthatmakesanarealikeNorthKensington attractive to many people, but not to everybody. There are those whocomplainaboutthecarnival,lookdownontheirneighbours.Somewealthypeopledon’tlike to know that they share a city with those less affluent than themselves. Gatedcommunities,anybody?Is‘exclusive’theugliestwordintheEnglishlanguage?

Grenfellandalltheothercouncilblockswereonlyperceivedaspoorandproblematicby those in the multimillion-pound homes who were embarrassed by their shabbyshadows; thosewhowanted tohide the shame of ordinariness in inflammable plastic.Grenfellhousedarich,diverse,coherent ifcomplexcommunity;adecentplace to live,fullofdecentpeople,andI’msureafewdodgyones.Itwasahavenandahomeforrefugeesandarchitects,barrowboysandschoolgirls,oldladiesandyoungbabies,whichwasallowedtobecomeadeathtrappreciselybecausethemastersoftheboroughdidnotwanttheirlikethere,amongthegleamingstuccoandbountifulboutiques.

The past waves of social cleansing in W10, including the one that drove everyremaining Elms from the area, were at least carried out in the name of socialimprovementandadvancement.Theyweredesigned,rightlyorwrongly,tohelpthepoor:‘homesfitforheroes’,‘slumclearance’,modernflatsandmotorways.Thatareaisfullofthe efforts of the well-meaning well to do, from the Rugby Club and Harrow Club,(startedbyRugbyandHarrowSchools)totheDickensEstate(foundedbyDickens’sson)toHollandParkSchool(supportedbyTonyBenn).

Now,though,nakedgreedistheonlymotiveformovingthepooraway,shiftingthemout,knockingthemdown.Themarketdictates that thosewhocannotaffordthepricescannotliveontheland–andtoomanyofthosewhodolivetherenow,inthebighousesand the posh apartments, prefer it that way. They want to reside in a financiallyhomogenous ghettowhere they don’t have to gazeupon the poor and their grimy littleflats.

Untilweacknowledge thatLondonisat itsbestwhenweall livesidebysideandmake efforts to ensure it stays thatway,Grenfellwill rightlydamnusall. I spoke tomany people in the direct aftermath of the tragedy (or was it an atrocity?), but oneconversationstoppedmeinmytracks.Itwaswithalocalgirl–notaGrenfellresident,butshelivedinoneoftheadjacentblocks–andshesaidthatfordaysafterthefire,nobirdsflewanywherenearthecharredremainsofthetower.Anavernusindeed.

CHAPTERTWO

TheKnowledge

Cabdriversspendthreeorfouryearsscuttlingroundtownonmopedswithmapson the front, in an intense course in memorising the streets and the touristattractions,thepatternsandthepotholesoftheentiretown.Apparentlytheydevelop superhuman hippocampi as a result of carrying theA to Z andmorearoundintheirnoggins.Theybecomeseers:theycanliterallyseearunintheirheads.

Anyonewho spends any time in this sprawling, baffling citywill begin todevelopanacutementalmapof theirown;unique,detailed, ingenious, fullofshortcutsandmnemonics,marginalgainsandshrewdobservations,acerebralencrustationofaccruedurbanwisdoms.WealldotheKnowledge.

But even the most learned Londoner’s perception of their town willinevitablybefullofhugegaps,blindspotsandlacunas.Weallliveinourownindividual, limitedLondons,becausethismetropolisisessentiallyunknowable.It is uncontainable, spreadingout in all dimensions anddirections, up, down,out,back,acrossriversanderas,throughtunnelsandthroughtime.Londonwilldefinitelyexhaustyou,butyoucanneverexhaustLondon.

I am certainly not tired of life in the Johnsonian sense. I adore this dirty,cultured, clever place as much as I have ever done; it is my restless city ofcircuses. I still get that boyish buzz, dodging through Cambridge Circus’scongealedjamtoenterSoho’starnishedlure.StillthankaGodIdon’tbelieveinwhenI spyStPaul’sdwarfedbutblessedolddomefromtheriseofLudgateCircus.StillsaymyrespectstotheaddictedandtherentedwhoonceparadedbyPiccadilly’s tourist-cursed circus. Still long for St Giles’s battered Circus toentertainmeagain.IloveLondon’smanypasts,andmanyofitspresents,butIamacutelyaware that Iamhardlyup to theminute inmycognitivediagram.Thiscityofperpetualmotionmoveson.

InevitablytherecomesapointinyourLondonlifewhenyoutipoverfrom

acquiringtheKnowledgetolosingit;aformofmentaldownsizing.Youcannolongerkeepup.IknowthatNottingHillnowadaysisnotconsideredaslum,butIamoutofthelooponwhichdoorstoknockoninSohoat3a.m.,orevenifthere are any. Is it Dalston or Clapton? Who lives in Harlesden? Why isPeckham,andwhatisthepointofcraftbeers?

Therewas a time Iwas truly on topof this town. Iwouldhave taken youdowna ladder intoadrippingbasement,deep in theCity, armedonlywithabottleofChablisandacoupleofpapercups,andwecouldhavefeastedonliveoysters from the shell, standing among briny tanks full of sea creatures, tocelebrateagooddaywiththebullsorthebears.Orelse,wecouldhaveboughtsome vinyl from a portly elderly lady in Dean Street who would have satknitting,while givingus the lowdownon the latest twelve-inch import funkmasterpiecesinaroombelowabrothel.Sohowasacinch.

WecouldhavesqueezedintothattinyliftabovethecrumblingGoldenGirlclub,wherethedesiccated‘hostesses’satondisplayinthegrubbyMeardStreetwindow, to see the secretMatissemasterpiece in the forgotten rooftop bar. Iwould certainly have pointed out the fancy cheese sign in Farringdon (itactuallyread‘Crowson&SonsLtd:TheFancyCheesePeople’),whichwasinfact a front for secret spies going about their spooky business. But I can’t.They’realllonggone:timeandchangehasrobbedmeofsomeofmybestpartypieces.

Assomeonewhopridedhimselfonbeingintheknow,whothoughtitwasimportant to be on first-name termswith every doorman in town, andwhosesoleambitionwastobeafaceabouttown,itisablowtotheself-esteemtohavetoadmitthatsomeofyourfavouriteplacesarenolongerplaces.(Londonersareevenproudofwhatwedonotknow,boastingabouthavingnoideaofwhatgoesonoverthewater,whicheversideofthedividewearefrom.)

SureIcanstillpointyoutoadecenttailor(takeabow,George),locatethebest shawarma on the Edgware Road, get a schmeiss from a naked boxer inBayswaterandavoidtrafficontheHampsteadRoadbyzippingroundthebackof the old petrol station. But that particular cut-through is about to vanishbecauseofHS2.Ineedtoplugmypersonalsatnavintoacomputertoupdateit.Andthereinliestheproblem.

Asalways,Londonmirrorslife,andtrueknowledge–thekindofingrained,split-secondmasterywhichcanonlybeearnedbyspendingyearsonamopedoralifetimeontheOldKentRoad–isincreasinglyredundant.Whydoyouneed

to really know anything if you can look it up on your phone? There are nosecrets,andconcomitantly,noexpertsanymore,justcomputers.

Thiscity,whichoncerewardeddiligenceandintimacy,valuedprivacy,keptitstruetreasuresoutofsight–upanalley,downthesteps,backayard–isnowanopenbook; ormore aptly an app.Take thequeue at the twenty-four-hourBeigelBakeonBrickLane, apolyglot snakeofcameraphone-wielding touristsandsweetlyexcitablenewbies.Oncethekindofplaceyouhadtoknowabouttoknowabout, it ismobbed,spillingoutontothepavement.Whichisgreat fortheowners,andthebeigelsarestillthebest.Buttheonlyedgeyoucangetfrombeing a Londoner, rather than a visitor, is from loudly pronouncing themproperlyasyoushoutyourorderforadozenplainandasaltbeefwithmustardandpickle.Letbagelsbebeigels.

Of course, we still scoff at tourists standing on the wrong side of theescalators, chastising them for their gaucheness. I have even been known tostandatthebarintheFrenchHouse,hopingforsomeonetoorderapint.Butapart from petty point scoring there is a genuine worry about losing thecollective, accumulated nous of the town. Particularly in Central London,whichisincreasinglyaplaceforotherpeople.

I had a conversation with an immaculately presented, luxuriously attired,voluminously wedged property developer, who was actively ‘developing’ theWestEnd.Hesaidtome,withoutahintofdismayorevenirony,‘Robert,youmustunderstandSohoisnotforLondonersanymore,it’sfortheworld.’IfeltabitlikeKingCanute.Stopthebloodywaves:Ilivehere;I’mfromhere.

IwatchedjustthishollowingoutprocesshappentoManhattan,acityIhaveknown and loved and lived in, going right back to the late ’70s. Forme, thegreatest pleasure of New York was New Yorkers. The swooping checker cabdriverswiththatstrangulatednasalsneer,takingnoshit,takingyouanywhere.The fourth-generation Irish in a bar in Hell’s Kitchen singing ‘The Rose ofTralee’ and describing a Dublin he’s never seen. The Italian–American in ashinysuitina‘socialclub’onMottStreet,playingFrankandonlyFrankonthejukebox.ThedragqueenintheMeatpackingDistrict, talkingjust likeJohnnyFriendly in a frock.The cutewaitress in the Jewishdeli,who could traceherfamily directly to that cold-water, walk-up tenement on Delancey. The oldUkrainian guy eating dumplings in Vaselka, theNuyorican hustler on roller-skatesonAvenueA.NewYorkincarnate.

They were the sharp, hard edge of their diamond-cut city, and I havewatched them leave, disappear; a deracinated population leading to a lessspecific,muchlesscharismaticManhattan.Anddon’ttellmethatithasshifted,I don’t want to go to New York and hang out in Brooklyn: I want DamonRunyononBroadway.

AndIwantaLondonalivewithpeoplewhoknowLondon.TheKnowledgeused to be a neighbourhood. It was where you lived, and as your knowledgeexpanded,sodidyourcity.Itwasalsowhatyoushared;yourfriendswerepeoplewhohaddevelopedsimilarcities,whoseLondonsoverlappedwithyourown.Asyouventured beyond youthful constraints, left your estate, took innew areas,crossedzonesandboundaries,metbodsfromdifferentbarrios,datedgirlsorboysfromexoticpostcodes,soyoustartedtopiecetheplacetogether.Allthewhileexpandingyoururbanhorizonsanddevelopingyourmetropolitanhippocampus.

Iamsuremyrelentlessdesiretotrytomakesenseofthecity,anirresistibleurgetoventureforthandexplore,wasafunctionoffindingmyselfstrandedwithmyWestLondonfamilywayoutontheveryedgeoftheknownworld.Exiledaswewereinthesimmeringperiphery,IknewIhadtogetoutofBurntOakandgetbackintotown.ThankfullywehadtheTube–thoughforyearswebarelyusedit...

WhentheveryfirstescalatorwasinstalledontheLondonTubenetworkatEarl’sCourtstationin1911,thisremarkablenewtechnologywasdemonstratedbyaone-leggedmanknownasBumperHarris,whotravelledupanddownthemoving stairway all day to prove that it was safe. The theory was that if amonoped couldmanage to stay upright, then peoplewith twice asmany legswould surely find it adoddle.Mymumneededmore thana stableone-leggedex-armyofficertoconvincehertogodownthere.

I thought,whenIwasyoung,thatmymum’sdogged(andtome,perverse)preferenceforthebusesoverthemuchquickerandmoreefficientUndergroundsystem was the result of some sort of exaggerated sense of loyalty to her oldregiment.Shehadstartedasaconductressorclippieonthebuses,actuallyonthenetworkoftrolleybuses,electricvehiclescontrolledbyoverheadcables,asafourteen-year-old girl fresh out of school in 1940. Imagine now putting afourteen-year-oldkidtoworkonthebusesduringtheBlitz.

Itwasactuallya formofconscription,warwork foryoungwomen,andshe

had to choose between theWomen’s LandArmy and the trolleybuses,whichwas no choice at all.The closestmymumhad ever been to the countrywaswalkingacrossWormwoodScrubs: shehadamajordislike formudandwouldnomorevolunteertowearwelliesthanshewouldatinhat.Butshelookedjustdandy inherclippie’suniform; she lovedbeingonthebuses.ShehatedgoingdownintotheUnderground.

My mum definitely minded the gap; she also minded the escalators, sheminded the whoosh of stale air as a Tube train approached and the dreadeddoors that opened and closed of their own accord. She was convinced thatdisasterlayaroundeverybendandtwistinthetunnel.WhilemydadwasstillaliveshecouldoccasionallybeconvincedtogetonaTubeforafamilyoutingupWest,providingeverybodyheldhandsatalltimes,butonceshewasalone,withnomantoholdherhand,itwasalltoomuchforher.

I think, lookingback,thatshehadsomekindofclaustrophobia,but itwasonly after she was gone that I figured it might also go back to her wartimeexperiences.GoingdownintotheUndergroundmeantthebombswerefallingabove,and I rememberher sayinghowmuch shehated thoseairless, sleeplessnightscrowdedontoaplatform,notknowingifyourhousewasgoingtostillbetherewhenyouemergedblinkingintothedaylight.It’snotawondershedidn’twanttogodownthere.

Just possibly she also thought, deep down, that the buses were more forpeople like us. The Tube, with its leafy, suburbanMetro-land overtones wasalways the more middle-class mode of transport, ferrying chaps and theirsecretaries fromAmersham to theCity (theMetropolitan line originally hadPullmandiningcarsontheTubeforwell-heeledcommuterstotakekippersontheir morning commute), while the humble bus was the working man’sconveyance. Itwasalsocheaper,andwhenshewasa singleparentwith threeboys,everypennycounted.

Anyway,forwhateverreason,weseemedtospendaninordinateamountoftimeonbusesandevenmoretimewaitingforthem–andwaitingforthemandwaitingforthem.AnybodywhotellsyouthingswerebetterbackintheolddaysobviouslyneverstoodinthesleetandrainforhoursdesperatelyhopingtoseeaNumber7comingtowardsthemonthedistanthorizon.Busesbackthendidn’thave timetables; theyhad rumours,andtheold storiesabout themhunting inpackswereentirelytrue:youneverseemedtoseeasingledouble-decker.ButIlearnedtolovethemanyway.

Everybody loves theoldRoutemasters,with their roundedgenial faceand theirsuicidalopenplatforms.Tothisdaymysonstilltalksaboutthetimeweleapedoff amovingNumber 31 onShepherd’s Bush roundaboutwhenhewas but asmall boy and we were late for footie. He just caught the very last of theRoutemasters,butwhenyou livedwiththosesumptuousmachines foryearsofyouryouth,youcanrecountnumeroustalesof fallingoff, leapingon,bunkingon, throwing up, chatting up, playing up, getting thrown off and generallylarkingaboutonabus.

Theywereourplaygrounds.Rushupthestairs,frontseattotherightabovethedriverifyouwerealone,atthebackinagangandletthefuncommence.It

was an unwritten rule back then that smokers, snoggers, schoolkids and allround roustabouts went upstairs, leaving families, serious men and little oldladieswithbagsonwheelsdownbelow.

Theview fromthe topdeckofabus is thebest in town:youcan seeoverwalls,intogardens,intolives.Youareprivy.EverybodywhospendsanytimeinLondonadoptsabusof theirown;a routewhichyouknow intimately,whichcarriesyouandyourmemories–andmineistheNumber52.Ihaven’ttakena52 in years, but it is stillmybus, because it is the vehicle for somanyofmystories.OriginallyrunningallthewayfromBorehamwoodtoVictoriaviaMillHill,BurntOak,WillesdenandLadbrokeGrove,itisaridiculouslylongroute,whichlikesomanyhasnowbeenseverelytruncated.Thiswasthebusthattookusbacktotheancestorseveryweekendfordecades.The52tookmetofootball,to the open-air swimming baths in the summerwith a rolled up towel and aBovril and aWagonWheel afterwards; it tookme into town for expeditions,took me to my first real girlfriend’s house and took us both on long tonsil-exploringridestogetheronthebackseat.

InJuly1976,theNumber52tookmeallthewaytoVictoria,wearingpinkpeg trousers and plastic sandals, to see the Crusaders play one of the mostmajesticgigsIhaveeverwitnessed,whichmademeacommittedjazzfantothisveryday.AfewweekslaterittookmetoCarnivaltowitnesstheinfamousriotThe Clash sang about, the streets of my ancestral homeland aflame, while Imorphedintoaspikybiker-jacketedpunk.Andafewyearsback,whenmymumpassedaway, Iwentbackto theWatlingEstate tocleanoutour littlecouncilhousefortheverylasttime.Iclosedthedoorofthehouse,walkedtheroutesofmymemories,heldherhandinmine,stoodattheoldstopandrodemybusforafewstops,justtoremindmyself.Idon’tknowifIhaveeversobbedsomuchona52before.

Almosteverythingoccurredonabus,particularlywhenIgotaRedRover.This legendarydaypasswasabig thingback in the late1960sandearly ’70s,andI’mfairlycertainIwasten,certainlystillatjuniorschool,soitwasprobably1969 when I went onmy first ever Red Rover adventure. It was the first ofmany.Ialsoseemtorecallthesmall,stampedyellowcardboardpasscostthreeshillings: fifteenpence.Even then thatwasa smallprice topay for theentirecity. It worked like this: three or four of you, armed with your Red Rovers,wouldmeetatthestopoutsidethestationonWatlingAvenueinthemorning;everyonewouldhave sandwiches inaplasticbag,and thewordsofyourmum

ringinginyourears,‘Makesureyou’rehomeintimefortea.’Thispassallowedyou togetonandoffanyLondonbus freeofcharge, for

oneday,sothat’swhatwedid.OncewewerebeyondtheboundariesofBurntOak we had no plan, no route, no timetables, just a desire to range freely,escape,explore.IrememberrunningamokamongthedinosaursattheNaturalHistoryMuseumandgoingwarilytranspontinetotheImperialWarMuseuminLambeth with its tanks and cannons. I recall breathlessly scaling theMonument’s311steps,andrunning,shoutingandholleringovereverybridgeintown.

OurRedRoversmeantthatboysfromhumbleBurntOakplayedonOxfordStreet, played inHyde Park, played once with the busby-sporting soldiers onHorseGuardsParade.But just asoften,wewould findourselves inHarroworAlperton,PrestonParkorParkRoyal,gettinglost,goingnowhere,leapingoffata moment’s notice, running for another bus to God knows where. It didn’tmatteraslongaswewerehomeintimefortea.WeweredoingtheKnowledge.

TherearemanygreatLondonbus stories.Themostdramaticoccurredon thepenultimatedayof 1952,whenapreposterously iconic combinationof eventscombined to create a scene, which if it occurred in a clichéd Londonmoviewouldbelaughedoffscreen.OneAlbertGunter,agoodnameforabusdriver,was taking theNumber 78 (a classicRTdouble-decker and forerunner of theRoutemaster) north over Tower Bridge. He was heading in the direction ofShoreditch, when the two sides of the famous bridge began to part and thebasculeonwhichhisbussatroseintotheair,andavoidopenedupbeforehim,theriverwaybelow.

Staying splendidly calm,Albert puthis footdownand literally jumpedhistwelve-tonnechariotacrossthegreatdivide:adouble-deckerflyingthroughtheair.Helandedsafelyontheotherside,withallhispassengersintact,althoughhisconductordidsufferabrokenleg.Albertwasawarded£10andadayoffforhis amazing sangfroid.Today he’d have his ownYouTube channel, and quitepossiblyacrackatbeingthenextJamesBond.

ButmyabsolutefavouritetaleofLondon’sworld-famouscrimsonomnibusesis the one I know as: ‘Take this bus to Cuba.’ This really is a piece of lostgeopolitical history, which involves some of the biggest global figures of thetime,intrigue,espionage,ping-pongballsandafleetofredbusesboundforthe

red island.Thecontextof this story is theColdWarat itsmost febrile,whennucleararmageddonhadcomeperilouslyclose,becauseofthemachoposturingof theCubanmissile crisis and the trade embargo imposed on theCaribbeancommunistsbytheUnitedStates.

It is now late 1963, and the head of the Cuban Department ofIndustrialisation,oneErnestoGuevara,wantsanewfleetofbuses forHavana.Sohedecidestoplaceanorderforthemosticonicandsplendidlyredbusesintheworld,i.e.theLondonbus.Atthetime,thesearemadebyLeyland,thenaprivatecompanybasedintheMidlands.AtfirstChefanciesdouble-deckers,butsomeonepointsout theywon’tmake itunder the low-lying streetlampsofoldHavana,soinsteadheplacesanorderfor400single-storeyredLeylandOlympicbuses. But this, of course, is contrary to the newly imposed American tradeembargo.Sopressureisplacedonthecompanynottofulfiltheorder.Buttheystubbornly insist that theywillnotbeorderedaboutbybloodyYanks, andgoaboutbuildingthebusesforthatniceMrGuevara.

TheAmericansarefurious,soJFK–foritishe–triestostopthedamnbusesbeing delivered by threatening any shipping or airfreight companies withblacklistingiftheycarrythiscargo.Thisdelaysthemformonths,buteventuallyanEastGermanfreighter,theMVMagdeburg,arrivesinthePortofLondontotakethefirstconsignmenttoHavana.Itisnow27October1964.JFKisdead;LyndonB.isinoffice,andit’safoggydayinLondontown,whereasmallcrowdof Jack Dash’s communist dockworkers have gathered on the Dagenhamquayside to wave off the first shipment of forty-two buses, with clenched fistsalutesandfraternalgreetingsfortheirCubancomrades.

TherustyoldDDRhulksailsslowlyuptheThamesEstuarywithajourneyof4,500milesaheadofit,andgetsasfarasBroadnessPointnearTilburyinEssex.Coming in the opposite direction out of the murk a Japanese vessel, theYamashiroMaru, bound for theRoyalDocks, suddenly appears. The two craftcollideinacrash,whichdisturbedfamilieswatchingblack-and-whitetelevisionsetsmiles away.TheMagdeburgwas ripped open and tippedover, lying on itssideintheThameswithitspreciouscargoofbusesdrowninginthewater.

Thecollisionwasabigstoryatthetime,makingthefrontofthepapersandeven Pathé newsreels, but I first heard of it from listeners onmy radio showdecadeslater.Oneofthecallershadbeenayoungboylivingintheestuaryatthe time, who recalled seeing thousands of lightweight plastic balls bobbing

aboutonthewaterroundthewreck.Thisseemedtotallyfar-fetched,butitwasapparentlytrue;atechniqueforattemptingtorestorebuoyancytothecraft,bypumpinginair-filledorbs.

Theshipwaseventuallyrightedweekslater,butthebuseswereawriteoff,ruined by salt and water, destined never to get to Cuba. I had an image ofpeoplewaitingpatientlyatbusstopsinHavanaforafleetofLondonbusesthatnever came, and knew exactly how they felt. I also wondered whether thefrustrationiswhatpromptedChetogiveuphisgovernmentpositionandgoofftoBoliviaforsomeproperrevolutionaryaction.

Ipresumedthiswastheendofthisbriefyetbrilliantstory.Butafewweekslater,anotherlistenercalledtosayhehadbeensointriguedbythetalethathedida little furtherdigging.Hehaduncovereda smallpiece in theWashingtonPost in 1975 written by two reputable reporters, Jack Anderson and LesWhitten,whichclaimed that theMagdeburg and its cargoof sanctions-bustingbuses had been sunk by the Japanese craft under orders of theCIAwith thecovertassistanceofMI5.

Theclassic,reddouble-deckerRoutemasterbushastobeafirmfavouritefortheultimate symbol of London. But the roundel, that red circle with blue bar,which announces and adorns Tube stations, would run it a close second.Noothercityisasdefinedbyitstransportsystem;noothercityhassuchanelegantheritageofeverydaydesign.

FrankPickistheheroofthisstory:managingdirectoroftheUndergroundintheearlypartof the twentiethcentury,hecommissionedHarryBeck’sperfectmapoftheUndergroundandEdwardJohnston’swonderfulfont;hebroughtinarchitectslikethegreatCharlesHolden,whosemodernistmasterpiecesgavesomuchgravitastohumbleplaceslikeArnosGroveandHangarLane.

The magnificent Mr Pick encouraged artists of the calibre of GrahamSutherland, Paul Nash and evenMan Ray to design posters; he oversaw thefabrics used on seats, the fittings used for lights, the card used for tickets.Heensuredthattheprocessofthisgreatmetropolisgoingaboutitsbusinesswasnotonlyasefficientaspossible,butasbeautiful.Beautifulmasstransportation:whatastaggeringlysplendididea.Whataman.

MrFrankPickwasperhapsthesinglemostcivilisinginfluenceonthehistoryofthiscity,andIwasoverjoyedwhenanelegant,elegiacmemorialwasrecently

unveiled tohimatPiccadillyCircus station.DesignedbycontemporaryartistsLanglands&Bellittakestheformoftheroundelwithhisnameinitandusedhisownwondrouswordstodescribehismission:

BEAUTY UTILITY GOODNESS TRUTH IMMORTALITYRIGHTEOUSNESSWISDOM

HesaidthataboutUndergroundtrains.ItisfairtosayweoweMrPickagreatdeal.Forme,hiscommissioningHarry

Beck’s sublime topological rendering of the city was his masterstroke. Thatveritable‘MondrianmeetstheMonaLisa’ofmapsplayedamassivepartinmylife.Icanstillclosemyeyesandseeit,thecolourcoding,thestarksimplicityoftheconnections,thestaggeringlycleverwayitmakessenseoftheunknowable,byexcludingallgeography,alltopography,alldistance,allreality.Londonisn’treally like that; it isn’t ordered andneat and knowable, but it iswhen you’redownthereinBeck’sbeautiful,rationalUnderground.

Except they’ve gone and changed it, defiled it with additions, the bloody‘ginger line’ indeed. They have also thereby robbed us of one of our mostpleasinglyarcane facts. Itused tobe true that therewasonlyone stopon theTubemap thatdidnotcontainanyof the lettersof thewordMackerel.Thatwas St John’sWood, but now thatHoxton has been added that is no longertrue.SeewhatImeanaboutchange.

I mastered Beck’s original purist masterpiece – based on the simplicity ofelectrical circuit diagrams – early on and can still recite the entireNorthernline,bothbranches,north to south.Stillgetacertainpleasure ingoingdownthe escalator at Camden Town without a care in the world, while hordes oftouristsarehavingnervousbreakdownsatthemostcomplexintersectionontheentiresystem.Ilovethelookontheirfacesastheytrytoworkoutwhethertheywant platform1northboundEdgware, or platform2 southboundviaBank, orplatform3 southboundviaCharingCross,orplatform4northboundviaHighBarnetorMillHillEast?IfyougrowupinBurntOak,youjustknowthisstuff.IfyougrewupinBurntOak,youknowhowtogetaway.

BurntOakonlyexistsbecauseoftheNorthernline,whichwasextendedbeyonditshandsomeLeslieGreenHampsteadterminus in1924,creatingnewsuburbsall theway toHigh Barnet. Still the longest continual subway tunnel in theworld, ithasbeendubbed ‘themisery line’,because itscomplexityand length

meanttherewereoftendelays,buttomeitwaspurejoy.ItwasLondoninajet-blackline.Ourstation,oneofthosesuburbanvernacularcottageystopswithaparade of shops wrapped around it, actually used officially to be called BurntOak(Watling),becauseBurntOakisbasicallytheWatlingEstate,namedafterthe Roman Watling Street. And Roman Watling Street is the Imperialantecedent of the Edgware Road, running all the way to Marble Arch. It’sactuallyonlyninemilesfromtheArchtotheOak,buttheWatlingEstatefeelsalongwayfromtriumphal.

A vast LondonCountyCouncil project begun in 1927 (the LCCwas thepredecessor to the GLC, who specialised in building things rather thanknocking them down), the Watling Estate was part of the ‘Homes Fit forHeroes’ campaign. After the First World War, there was a drive to providedecent accommodation for the families ofmen returning from thehell of thetrenches.Getthemoutoftheinner-cityslumsandintodecenthousinginleafysuburbs.Over4,000 individualhomes in the low-rise, low-density,garden-citymovement style were built, on what had been open land between the moreestablished,muchmorebourgeois ‘villages’ofHendon,EdgwareandMillHill.Andthereinlaytheproblem.

Despite the specific intention of filling the Watling Estate with the‘deservingpoor’, thekindofhard-working,workingclasswithdecentjobsandtidyfamilies,itimmediatelyraisedthesnobbishhacklesofitsnearneighbours.Theywanteda golf course rather thanacouncil estatebuilton the fields.Assoon as the first families arrived, many of them rehoused from a vast slum-clearanceschemeinKing’sCrossandtheCaledonianRoad,Itwasimmediatelydubbed‘LittleMoscow’bytheRight-thinkingresidentsoftheprivatelyownedhomesallaroundit.

One local Tory councillor described it as ‘the raw red tentacles of thathousing octopus, the London County Council’. There were even calls for aTrump-typebarriertobebuiltallthewayroundtheestate,‘theWatlingWall’,tokeeptheprolesintheirplace.Theynevergottheirwall,butwealwaysknewwherewestoodinthepeckingorder.

Our familymythology has it that whenmymum and dad first visited theWatlingtoseeiftheywouldtakeuptheofferofahome,mydadsaidthattheywould only live there if he could find a pubwithin fiveminutes’walk of thestation. Not because he was a drinking man, but a sociable one, and to hisNottingHillheadapubmeantacommunity.Bypurechancetheyturnedright

out of Burnt Oak station, up the slope towards the Edgware Road and fourminuteslatertherewastheBaldFacedStag,anoldcoachinginnthatpre-datedtheestate,sotheytookthehouse.IftheyhadturnedlefthecouldhavewalkedallthewaytoMillHillBroadwaywithoutseeingaboozer,andwewouldhavelived somewhere else. Because the ‘improving’ urges of the LCC plannersinsistedthatthereshouldbenopubswhatsoeverontheestateitselfincasealltheurbanoikstooktodrink.

Living near a Tube station is one of the defining factors of what kind ofLondonyou reside in,howyouperceiveandutilise thecity. If you’reoffgrid,notonthemap,you’rerelyingonbusesandovergroundtrains,soyourfocusisontimetablesandtermini.It’swhySouthLondon,muchofwhichisuntouchedbytheTube(partlybecausetheheavyclaysoilmadediggingtunnelsdifficult),hasaverydifferentfocusandfeel.

InareaswithoutanUndergroundconnection,peopleare less linkedto thecentre,tendtostaymorelocallyandgravitateasmuchoutasin.Forexample,CrystalPalacehasagreatrivalrywithBrightonFCbecauseitiseasierforthemtogettothecoastthanitisto,say,ChelseaorFulham.It’seasiertodayformeinCamdenTowntogettoParisthanitistoPalace.Onetrainallthewayfromnearby St Pancras to Gard du Nord, rather than trying to work out whichplatform at London Bridge might just take me at some appointed hour tosomewherecalledSelhurst(or is itNorwood?)without stopping ineverybackgardeninSouthLondon.

As a kid, proper trains – with doors you had to open yourself, and rackswhereyoucouldputyourbags–wereonlyevertakenonceortwiceayearforfamilyholidaysontheKentcoastinMargateorRamsgate.(WecalledthemtheGits: Margit, Ramsgit.) As a result I still feel odd getting on a proper trainwithout a suitcase, and mainline stations are a major event involvingsandwiches and probably bottles of beer, certainly not for everyday journeysaroundtown.

To my mind, you navigate round London on the Underground. Youunderstand London via the Underground. We had the Underground a four-minutestroll fromourhouse. Ifbuseswerethetransportofmyboyhood, thentheTubewas the conveyance ofmy teenage years. I was educated abovemystation,agrammarschoolboyandlateranundergraduateattheLSE.

Myparticular station,BurntOak,playedamajorpart inevery stageofmydevelopment. I was actually educated in front of my station and in front of

Edgware station,Hendon,GoldersGreen . . .because itwas theway in thosedaysforallthekidsfromthedifferentlocalschoolstocongregateatthevariousstationsafterschoolandintheholidays.Wewouldrockupintheforecourttofightandflirt,paradeourlatestfashiondisasters,showoffourup-to-the-minutemusical sophisticationandpledgeundying love for a girl calledRebecca,whotoweredaboveyouinherplatformshoes.TherewerelotsofgirlscalledRebeccainourpartofNorthwestLondon.

Actually, Burnt Oak station was a bit different. Only boys from the Oakitselfwoulddarecongregatethere,becauseboysfromtheOakhadareputationtomaintain. Iwasnever a fighter, but thosewhowere, thenotedBurntOakbootboys,didsomethingcalledstationduty,wherebytheywouldwaitaroundfor hours in their Dr Martens and Harringtons, protecting the estate fromwould-beinvaders,suchastheHendonmafia,theMillHillEastmobandeventheCamdenTowntongs.SkinheadsentinelswerepostedforyearsatBurntOakstation,whichmeantthatthe‘posh’boysfrommygrammarschoolneverdaredtrycarousing,canoodlingorcavorting there,andBurntOakgirlswere strictlyofflimitsforthemanyway.

Growingupherewasaperpetuallearningprocess.TentativeshoppingtripsupWest to look longingly in the window of Lord John and daydream aboutbuyingajumbocollarsuedejacket,butoptingforMrByriteinstead.AforaytotheEastEnd,pretendingyoulikedjelliedeelsfromTubbyIsaacsstallbecauseitseemedlikethecorrect,cockneythingtodo.Howcananybodyeatthatstuff?First visit to Wembley Stadium, not to see a game, but to stand outsidepretendingtobeaproperhornylad,becausetheladieshockeyinternationalwastakingplaceandtherewere65,000screamingschoolgirlsinside.(Ibelievethosegirls still hold the record for the loudest decibel levels ever recorded at thenational stadium. It was a banshee wail you could hear all the way toWillesden.)Onemelancholyteenagemorningwakingupwithahangoverandahard-on,aloneonasofainaplacecalledLonesome.

I learnedtobesociallyandvocallyschizophrenicearlyon,grammarschoolladandBurntOaklad:Iwastheonlyoneinmyyearwhowasboth.AlthoughIwasneverascrapper,ormuchofafootballer,Iwasprettygoodattrousersandtunesandhadacoupleofguardianangelolderbrotherswhowerefacesontheestate.IalwaysgotonwiththeWatlingboys,indeedspentalotoftimeattheWatlingBoys’Club,aclassicrumbustious,tabletennis,boxing,Britishbulldogand mixed disco one-Thursday-a-month youth club, whose main aim was to

keeptheladsfromkillingeachotheroranybodyelse.Theydidagoodjob,notonereportedmurderinourtimethere.

I could talk fluent Burnt Oak. The local accent and argot preserved analreadyslightlyantiquatedandexaggeratedversionofold-schoolLondonlingo.BurntOakese involvedplentyof rhyming slang,glottal stopsanddropped ‘h’splusmuchcontemporary talkof sortsandcrews,geezersandgribos,aggroandskullduggery.Icouldspotajekylldickyorapairofsnidedaisieswiththebestofthem.ButIcouldalsotalkprettygoodgrammarschoolwhenrequired.

TothisdayIhaveanaccentthatleapsaboutalloverthegaff.MyRadio4voiceisdistinctlymoremodulatedandmeasuredthanmyback-of-a-cabormyshouting-at-referees voice. It happenswithoutmehaving to try; a completelyunconsciouschameleonresponse.I’msureit’saLondonthing;thisisthecityofperpetual reinvention,which I’vealways thought is adirect resultof living inthosetwoparallelworldsasateenager.AnditwasinthemorerefineddomainofmygrammarschoolmatesthatIbecameastationspotter,aplatformsoul.

I think Iwas fourteen the yearwhenwewent all theway. Itwas that in-betweentime,afterboyhoodgamesofrun-outsanddeadman’sfalls,butbeforegirlsandgoingouttopubsandclubs,whenthesixweeksof the longsummerholiday still felt like a gapingchasm.So, for some reasonabunchof the ladsfromschoolcameupwithachallenge:wewouldattempttovisitasmanylaststops on the Underground as we could. Amersham and Upminster andCockfosters(cuegiggling)andEppingandStanmoreandOngar(ohpoor,dear,vanished Ongar). The aim was not really to spend any time in the ultimatedestination,butsimplytoaddittothelist,totravelratherthantoarrive.Wejustlovedridingthoserails.

TheonlytimeI recallgoingsouthof theriverwaswhenwedidtheentireNorthern line Edgware toMorden and back to Barnet.We were very muchNorth Londoners. I also don’t remember how many ends of lines we finallymanagedtovisitintotal,butIdorecallthetriptoHeathrow.Ihadneverbeenonanaeroplane,orevenseenoneupclose,sothiswasthemostexcitingTubestationofthemall.Iwasmesmerisedbydestinationboardsthatpromisedplacesevenmore exotic than Theydon Bois andWest Ruislip. But bizarrely what IreallyrememberisthatitwasthefirsttimeIhadeverseenindividualporcelainurinalsratherthanacommunaltroughinthegents’toilets...It’sverystrangehowthememoryworks.

Quite why we were spending our days and presumably our pocket money

makingthosetripsIdon’tsupposewereallyknew,butIdoknowthatIloveditandlookbackonthoseinnocent,boyishexpeditionswithanintensefondness.Itwaspartofourcollective, continuing loveaffairwith transport,withFrankPick’svisionofacivilisingpublictransitsystem.Itwasasignofmyburgeoning,stillburning,loveaffairwithmycity.Whoeversaidatrulydevelopednationisnotonewherethepoordrivecars,butonewheretherichusepublictransport,certainlygotitright.Ididn’tlearntodriveuntilIwasthirty-eight,andtothisdayIamnotverygoodatitanddon’tmuchlikedoingit;parallelparkingisstillbeyondmyabilities.ButIgotgoodatridingtheUnderground.

EveryoneinBurntOakwasgoodatbunkingthefares.Itwasnotuntilthelate1980s or early ’90s that electronic barriers were introduced at many LondonUnderground stations. Before that, paying for your journey was almostvoluntary.Manyandvariedwerethewaysofavoidingthefare,including–formanyofthelocalherberts–thepotentiallyfataltrickofwalkingoverthetracksandclimbingoverthefenceintothebackofBurntOakmarket.

I tended to employ slightlymore sophisticated ruses, but was never abovedoing a runner past the bloke on the ticket desk. Seeing as it was oftenmybrother’smateVictor,thatwasperhapsalittlerudeandprobablyunnecessary.When they finally introduced effective electronic barriers at Burnt Oak, thelocalsweregenuinelyoutragedatthefactthattheywerenowbeingobligedtoactuallypayfortheirjourneys.

Thewhole system seemedmuchmore anarchic back then,more prone todelays and breakdowns, less efficient, but more fun. It was definitely lesscrowded.Outsideof rushhour you couldusually get a seat.Trains are far toopackedformuchmerrimentthesedays,butbackinthe’70stherealwaysseemedtobesomesortofgoingsongoingon.Thepresenceoftwosmokingcarriages–onefromthefront,onefromthebackofeverytrain–waspartofthepartyfeel.Although I never took to cigarettes, I would often choose to ride with thepuffersbecausetheatmospherewassomuchmorerumbustious.Youknewthattherewouldbesomecharactersinthesmokingcarriages,ifyoucouldseethemthrough the fug, and the grooves in the fine, slatted wooden floor would belitteredwithfagbutts.

Therewasalsonoprohibitionondrinkingontrains,sopeopledid,buttheydidn’thaveto,becausetherewerealsobarsonthestations.Therewereactually

thirty‘pubs’ontheLondonUndergroundsystematonepoint,andastheywereoutsidethenormal jurisdictionof licensing lawsyoucoulddrinkatoddtimes,whichwerealwaysthebesttimes.ThetwoIparticularlyrecallwereatLiverpoolStreet and Sloane Square. The Liverpool Street ‘tavern’ was known as Pat-Mac’s Drinking Den and was situated on the eastbound platform of theMetropolitanline,withaservinghatchthatmeantthatyoucouldactuallyhaveadrinkwhilewaitingforyourtrain.Ifyourconveyancewasstuckatthestation,which theyoftenwere, youcouldplayakindofalcoholicversionofchicken,whereyouriskeddashingoutforaswiftone.

But itwas thebaron thewestboundplatformatSloaneSquare that reallyattracted subterranean lushes, and which provokes pangs of sodden nostalgiaamong thosewho remember it, if they can remember it. Still there until themid-1980s,itwasknownastheHoleintheWall,becausethatispreciselywhatit was. It’s now a sandwich bar, but back then it was a tiny, but remarkablylively,trulybohemianboozer,completewithapubcat,whowouldsitonthebarbytheoptics.

Thiswasaplace forthekindofpeoplewhocannotgoa fewstopswithoutstoppingforasnorter,butwassopopularthatithadregularswhowouldbuyaplatform ticket just to enjoy its smoky, claustrophobic conviviality.WhatevertimeofdayyouwenttotheHoleintheWalltherewouldbeaposhblokeinacamelcoatandatrilbyhat,anageingthespianofeithergenderinfartoomuchslap, a hairdresser and probably an old footballer hit on hard times. SloaneSquareflowedwithdrink,whichisaptasitisalsotheonlystationwithariverrunningthroughit.

ThereasonIwenttoSloaneSquarealotbackinthe’70swasnotprimarilytodrinkinanairlessundergroundbroomcupboard,butbecauseIlikedapairofstrides and a silly haircut. The King’s Road was a mecca for the sartoriallyextravagant, bizarrely coiffed youth of the nation. Lined with arcticly coolclothesshops,thisregalthoroughfarewasalsoakindofcatwalkforcompetingtrousertribes.

Every weekend in, say, 1975 to ’76, Teddy Boys, soul boys, proto punks,Bowie freaks, mods, rockers, surfers, queer pioneers and the generallyoverdressedbutunaligned,allparadedalongwhatwasthenastill shabby-chicstreetthatreekedof thestaleendofthe ’60s.TheChelseaDrugstorewasstillextant,and itwasn’t toohardto imagineMrJimmyshivering inhismilitaria,waiting forhisman,orMickgettingmarriedyetagainat theTownHall ina

TommyNutter three-piece suit.Big lumberingAmericancarswouldcruiseupanddownthestrip,theirexaggeratedfinsandgleamingchromedrawingroundsof applause. Occasionally the cults would stage a little mock battle, usuallyinvolvinggettingchaseddownCheniesStreetbyafatblokewithsideburnsinadrapecoatastheTedstookumbrageyetagain.Itwasmagnificent.

TheKing’sRoadwasameccaforthemostzealouscultistsfromallacrossthecity.Wewouldcradleasingledrink,whileposingfuriouslyinsideoroutsideoldpubs like the Chelsea Potter and the Imperial, which are now irredeemablySloaney, but back then were genuinely rock’n’roll. The odd, old ChelseacharacterswerejustaboutvisibleandyouwouldoccasionallyseeQuentinCrisp,GeorgeBestorFrancisBaconfloatingbyorproppingupabar.

Ifyouwereparticularlyunlucky,you’dfindyourselfsittingonastoolnexttoJohnBindon.Downatthedown-at-heel,World’sEndendoftheKing’sRoad,therewasstillanairofoldtimeSW10villainy.Bindonwasafull-timeFulhamboy,part-timeactor(PoorCow,Performance,GetCarter,Quadrophenia),gangster(protection, drug-running, murder) and Princess Margaret’s minder andparamour (Mustique and Mayfair). He was also a crushing bore, who wouldbullyanybodyintobuyinghimadrinkandlisteningtohisstories,underthreatofviolence,orevenworse,unleashinghispartypiece.Thisinvolvedbalancinghalf-a-dozen pint pots on his erect penis, before whirling it round in amovementknownas‘thehelicopter’.Hewasn’tknownasBigJohnfornothing.

WehadourowncropofChelseacharacters,too.AcefaceslikeJordanandLittle Debbie from Sex, Rasta Don Letts from Acme Attractions, SiouxsieSioux, Adam Ant, Boy George, Rockabilly Billy, Eric the Surfer, Pete theMurderer,WelshChris, theBromley contingent, theEaling boys, and even alittle firm fromBurntOakwhohad swapped skinheadgear for theoutlandishtrappings ofmid-’70sChelsea attire.And Iwas one, just about: an underage,souped-upsuburbanteenagerwithanasymmetricbarnet;thrilledtobemixinginsuchexaltedmetropolitancompany,insuchanotedLondonthoroughfare.

Time would soon point both the King’s Road andme in more conventionaldirections–theformer,ultimatelytowardsanodynehorrors,andthelattermoreimminentlytowardstheunlikelyfateofbecomingastudent.

I sayunlikely,because, just like thecliché,notoneofFreddieElms’sheirshad ever gone touniversity.Norhad a singlememberofmymother’s family,

that I knowof (mymum’spaternal linewere amystery– Inevermet them).And although I passed the eleven plus and went to Orange Hill GrammarSchoolforBoys,Ihadneverreallycontemplatedwhatcamenext.Untilonedaymy history teacher DrWheaton, who liked the fact that I liked his subject,askedmecasuallywhereIwantedtostudyformydegree.Itwasaquestionthatcameasaboltfromtheblue,andrequiredalittleresearch.

It was now 1976, and I had just got to the point where I felt like I wasmakingheadwayinmyquesttomastermycity.QPRhadthegreatestteamevertograceLoftusRoadandsoulboywasrapidlymutatingintopunksomewhereontheKing’sRoadyouthculturepetridish.Thiswasnotimetoconsiderdreamingspiresordrearydormsinfarofftowns.SoIonlyfilledoutthreeofthesixslotson theUCAS form, putting downKing’s,UCL and LSE. It was the LondonSchoolofEconomics I reallywanted togo to,knowing itwouldmakemyolddead dad dead proud to hear his son was attending a famously Bolshyinstitution,andthankfullytheymademeanofferImanagednottomessup.

Backinthosehalcyon,debt-freedaysIgotallfeespaidandafullgrant,butonly if I lived at home. because our council house was within commutingdistanceoftheAldwych.SoIbecameacommuter:fivedaysaweek,BurntOaktoHolbornandback,NorthernlinetoTottenhamCourtRoad,changeforonestop on the Central, or even on to the now disused one-stop branch line toAldwych.Nowthatwasaneducation.

Doingthatjourneyeveryday–andIwenteveryday,lovedbeingattheLSE,lovedbeing in the centreof town, throwing eggs atSirKeith Joseph, arguingwithMaoists,feelinglikeIwasatthecentreofevents,equidistantbetweentheCityandWestminster–IspentalotoftimeontheTube.SoItooktoplayinggames.Iwouldmakeupstoriesaboutthepeoplesittingoppositeme,tryingtoimagine their lives, theirwork, their secrets; constructing scenarios, inventingpeccadillos.IassumedquitealotofS&M.

‘Guess theprofession’wasonegame, trying togarnercluesas towheremyfellowtravellersfittedintotheoverallpictureofthismetropolis/machinegoingabout its daily business.Anotherwas predicting exactlywhich station peoplewouldgetoffat. Igot rathergoodat it: IcouldusuallydetermineachangeatEuston from an alight atGoodge Street, and on theway home I could tell aHampstead fromaHendonoranEdgware fromaMillHillEast, almosteverytime.Ibecameakindofmobilecitysleuth.

Ialsomanagedtopickupawanker.MostdaysIdidthejourneyintocollegeatroughlythesametime,justaftertherushhour,walkingtoColindaleratherthan Burnt Oak, in order to facilitate my own particular fare dodge. Thecarriages would be largely empty and one day it was just teenage me, and amiddle-agemanwhowasalreadyensconcedatourendofthecarriage.We’dgotabout as far asBrentCross (formerlyBrent)whenhebeganmasturbating.Atfirst behind his briefcase, then more brazenly while staring intently into myeyes. I got up and hurriedly changed into the next carriage while trying tosuppress laughter.But then a couple of days later it happened again, and thistimehisactionswerecoupledwith loud lasciviousnoises. I tookumbrageandgave him a volley of abuse before moving, alerting a couple of other peoplefurtherupthecarriagethatwewereinthecompanyofanUndergroundonanist.

Ithoughtthatwouldbetheendofit.ButthentheverynextdayasIwalkeddownthestairsatColindaleatmyusualtime,hewasthere,sittingonabenchwaitingforthetrain/me,abiglecheroussmileonhisface.Anelaborategameofcatandmousealongtheplatformfollowed,whilewewaitedfortheCharingXsouthbound.WhenitarrivedIrantogetintoadifferentcarriage;sodidhe.Weweretogetherinthedoorofthetrain.Abitofargybargyensued,andIoutedhimwith a variety of shouted threats and a shove.He eventually slunk awaywith somethingother thanhis tail betweenhis legsnever to be seen again. Irathermissedhim.

Itwas onmy daily commute to college that I first learned about ‘ghosts’ anddiscoveredthatIwentpastoneeveryday.Somebodymusthavetoldmetolookout as the train sped between Tottenham Court Road and Holborn on theCentral line, so I did, and eventually became aware that therewas definitelysomethingdownthere.Forjustafractionofasecondyoucouldseethefleeting,spectralimpressionofastation;aplatform,maybeposters,atiledsignforastopthatisnowheretobeseenonthemap,andnotraineverstopsat.Thiswasmyfirstghoststation.

Becausetrainsdidstophereuntil1933,whenBritishMuseumStation,asitwasknown,closeddown.Backinthe1970sitwasstillallthere,andindeedalittle investigationof the then-extant above ground station structureonHighHolborn revealed closed but still accessible access tunnels. And in the crêperestaurant next door, a trip to the basement toilets and a little poke about

behind the mops and buckets revealed more. It was like urban archaeology,furtiveexploration. Iwashooked.Now,however,Museumstation is all gone,wipedawaybymajorredevelopmentin1989.

Butseekingoutghoststationsisaveritableindustry.Therearebooks,guidesandtours,people lovethe ideaofashadownetwork,anundergroundbeneaththeUnderground,pickledindust.Backthenitrequiredrealdetectiveskillstoworkoutwhere these lost stationswere. I poredover oldmaps,marvelling atBeck’sbrilliance,butfrustratedforoncebythefactthatitgavenogeographicalinformation. Where exactly was Lords station and how close was it toMarlboroughRoad?Foryears,spottingdisusedTubestopsbecameanobsession,and often it was just that, you suddenly recognised some old tile work or afamiliararchitecturalmotif, realisedthataChineserestaurant,orthosedowdyofficeslookedliketheywereonceapartofthenetwork.Soyoudidtheresearchandaddedittothelist.

Onesummer,whenIwasamaninmythirties,fartoooldtobeplayingtraingames,Ilinkedupwithamate,afellowghosthunter,andwespentasplendidlypointless week cycling round from South Kentish Town to York Road,Shoreditch toDown Street on a kind of pilgrimage to the buried past. I wasfourteenagain,re-affirmingmyteenagecrushonLondontown.

Oneofthebigdiscoveries,whichhadactuallybeenthereforalltoseeallthetime,wasaseriesofcurved,ArtDeco-style,pill-box-likestructuressittingaboveground,nexttocertainNorthernlinestations.BelsizeParkandCamdenTownhaveoneeachandthere’samassiveonejustovertheroadfromGoodgeStreet.ItturnsoutthattherearesimilarstructuresonthesouthsideinStockwell,andClaphams North, Common and South stations. These are actually speciallyreinforcedbomb-proofentrancesandventilationshaftsfordeep-lyingtunnels.

BeneaththeexistingNorthernline,thetunnelswerebuiltinthe1930sand’40swithaningeniousdualpurpose.OriginallytheywerepartofaplantocreateaparallelNorthernlineexpressway,afastlinewithfewerstops,toeasepressureon London’s most complex network. But when the Blitz started, they wereconvertedintovastsubterraneanair-raidshelters,eachsleeping8,000peopleonbunkbeds,withcanteensandtoilets,sodeepthebombscouldneverpenetrate.

TheGoodgeStreet sitewasusedbyGeneralEisenhoweras abase for top-secretworkontheD-DaylandingsandisstilldubbedtheEisenhowerCentre.The aim was that, when the war was finally won, the tunnels could all beconnectedup to eventually become thenorth– south express route theywere

originallydesignedtobe.Sadlythisneverhappened,andtheyarenowusedforcorporate storage. But I’ve often wondered why a mayoral hopeful doesn’tpromise to bring them back to life and deliver the long awaited pole-to-poleexpressway.

There is an interesting addendum to this story. In 1948, when the HMTEmpireWindrusharrivedinthePortofLondonfromJamaica,withits492zoot-suited passengers,many of them lured by the promise of jobs on the LondonTransportSystem,theyweretakenstraighttoClaphamSouth.Theretheyweregivena sheetandablanketandeachallocatedabunkdown in thebowelsofthe old deep wartime bunker; somewhere to stay while they looked foraccommodation and work. The nearest labour exchange was onColdharbourLane, Brixton, which is where the Jamaican community then set up home.Whereyouarriveiswhereyouwillstay.

Istillloveaghost.IrecentlyventureddownintowhatisnowcalledStrandstationwith a guide from the LondonTransportMuseum, loved the old tile-work and posters, the idea of a place frozen in time, stopped in its tracks in1994.Butprimarilyitmademefeelveryold.BecauseIhadregularlyusedthatstop when I was a student and it was called Aldwych. That UndergroundstationshavediedandbecomespectralinmylifetimewasjustanotherreminderofmyrapidlyvanishingLondon.

Beingmade to relivemy subterranean student yearsherehas remindedmeofoneofthemostremarkableUndergroundstories,whichIwalkedpasteverydaywithoutevernoticing.Butthen,sodidmillionsofLondoners.

First off, it’s important to recognise that there’s an awful lot of stuff downthere. London is lacerated with a labyrinth of tunnels and cavities andcatacombs,particularlytheareaaroundHolborn,whichisfamouslyriddledwithtram tunnels, train tunnels, postal tunnels and a vast former undergroundtelephoneexchangewhichcanhold10,000peopleandplayedamajorrole insecretsecurityandsurveillance.Youneverknowwhatisgoingonbeneathyourfeet.

Holborn station is the deepest in central London, roughly 100 feet down,which I can personally testify to. Itwas a regular student prank to drunkenlyattempt to run down the near-perpendicular up escalator and end up splayedacross the station floor bruised and giggling. Its profundity is apparentlywhat

madeitattractivetoscientists,somethingaboutescaping‘radiationnoise’.Throughout the time I was arriving there every day to go and study the

LeagueofNationsandtheinfluenceofHegelianphilosophyonearlyMarx,andtensofthousandsofcommuterswerecomingandgoing,adirect forerunneroftheLargeHadronCollideratCERN,waswhizzingparticlesaroundbesidethePiccadillyline.Honestly.

I had longheard rumours of nutty professor-style experiments taking placedeepunderLondon,butassumedtheywerejustpartofthefolkloreofthecity.ButmanyyearslaterIspoketoamanwhousedtoworkatHolbornstation,andhetoldmethateveryday ‘theProfessor’ashecalledhim,wouldarriveatthestation, takea setofkeysoutof theoffice,pullonhisdun-coloured labcoat,andheadofftohislaboratory.ThiswassetuponadisusedplatformaccessedviaalockedservicedoorontheeastboundPiccadillyline.

‘ItwaslikesomethingoutofaHeathRobinsondrawingdownthere,alltubesandpipesanddialsstucktogether,’Iwastold.

‘The Professor’ was one John Barton, a physicist from nearby BirkbeckCollege. He used this brilliantly British do-it-yourself facility throughout the1970sand’80s,doingresearchintoparticlephysicsanddarkmatterofpreciselythekindtheynowspendbillionson,deepinsideamountaininSwitzerland.Buthewasn’tthefirst,orthelast.

Theoriginal‘cosmicray’machinewassetupdownthereduringthewar(raygunsanyone?)tosearchforneutrinos(whatevertheyare),butwashamperedbyratsbiting through thewires.Andas recently as the1990s, experimentswerestillbeingconductedwhilethetrainswhizzedbyandtheofficeworkersandthestudentswaitedjustafewfeetaway.WhoknowswhethertherearestillboffinsbeaveringawaydeepbeneathKingswaytoday?

Therearesomanymoresubterraneanstoriestoimpart:walkingthroughthedrippingCamdenCatacombs all theway to theRoundhouse; the transvestitebankrobbertryingtoescapebyrunningthroughtheNorthernlinetunnelsfromHampsteadTube;theroaringalcoholicoutpostofIrelandburieddeepbeneathPiccadillyCircus; the secretexit fromtheplatformatWestminster,which ledstraight to the Speaker’s chair. Some of these tales will emerge as this bookprogresses,otherswillremainburieddeep.Itis,indeed,thedepthandageandcontinuity of the London Underground which makes it so profoundlyfascinating.Inessence,oursisanundergroundcity.

Andformostofus it isa true love–haterelationship.LovetheTube;hate

beingontheTube.Itishardnottodislikestandingcrushedandcontorted,yourolfactory system assaulted, your sweat glands provoked, your dignitycompromised,asyoucramintoacarriageatLeicesterSquare.You’rejusteagertogethome,togetawayfromtheworld,mostofwhichseemstobewaitingonthenextplatformtocramintoyouralreadyrammedtrain.But then it ishardnot to love the circular uplighters at Baker Street as you ride the escalatorstowardsthesurface.WhocanfailtobeimpressedbythegeometricmetalgridswhichsheaththestepstostopyouslippingasyoustepdownintoOxfordCircusTubefromthemayhemabove?WhocanstandinGantsHill’simplausiblygrandticketoffice, likeaminiMoscow,andnotbeenthralled?And it isn’t just theold.SouthwarkandCanaryWharf,futuristmanifestationsofdesignexcellenceontheJubilee,areequaltoanythingFrankPickdecreed.Itisajoytotravel.

IwasluckytobeinvitedontoperhapsthegreatestTubejourneyofalltime.It was a one-off 150th anniversary celebration of the first-ever Undergroundtrainjourneyanywhereintheworld.Asteam-drivenlocomotivepulledoutofPaddington on 9 January 1863, to make a three-and-a-half mile trip east,beneath and through theVictorianmetropolis toFarringdon.Onour twenty-firstcenturyversionwewouldbetravellingalittlefurther,fromEarl’sCourttoMoorgate on a beautifully restored Metropolitan 353, fully steam-poweredlocomotive.Exactly100yearssincethelastgleamingsteamerrodethosesamerails.

Forthe firstandonlytime,Ihadgoodreasontowearmychocolatebrownbowleramidimmaculateblackandredlivery.I sat intheglamorousbrassandleathertrimmedteakcarriage,withitsgas lightsandruchedcurtains,smellingthe coal fire, hearing the hissing song of the pistons and marvelling at thekineticforceofthetraction.ThisishowLondonersoncetravelled,thisishowFreddieandAlbertandReggiecouldhavecrossedthecityweshare.

Andaswerolledmajesticallyacrosstown,onanordinaryworkadayevening,onthosesamemetaltrackswetakeeverydayandtakeforgranted,therewasatangible,scalding,magicintheair.Itwasalsoinyourlungs,inthetunnels,andmostofallintheamazedfacesofthepeoplewaitingonplatformsforordinarymodern day electric trains.Their reaction as they saw this elegant, elementalapparitioncomesteamingpastwasspectacular,delightful,aghost-trainindeed.Swathed inagaseous silverhaloandpoweredby thepotencyofmemory, thiseverydaythingwedowaselevated,madesumptuousandthrilling.Thepastwas

challengingthepresent,andforonenight,atleast,itwaswinning.A night like that, a journey like that, can make you think. Does change

really make things better or just different; is progress inevitable, a relentlessmoveforwardorisitachimera?IsourLondonactuallybetterthantheoneourforebears knew? Certainly theirs was dirtier, more visceral; but maybe moreelegant,moreintenseperhaps,thoughdefinitelynolessmodern.

ThemostpoignantmomentofthatjourneywaspullingintoBakerStreet,acharismatic early cut-and-cover station, a beautifully over-engineered brickbuilt,highVictorianconstruction,deepinthesoilofourcollectivestory,whereit isneverhardto imagineacitysimultaneouslyofnowandthen.Now,here,steaming through Baker Street, we were deep in Arthur Conan Doyle’scoruscatingimagination,inatimemachinedispensingdelight.Itwasoneofthemostthought-provokingjourneysI’veevermade.

ButtheneverytimeIdescendintoourcollectiveunderworldIthinkofthismonstrous,wondrousLondon.Thisisacityofmovement,aplaceofperpetualmotion,restlessandendless,foreverpushingitsownboundaries.Yetforallthatfrenetic, frantic energy, itmanages tomakemoving around town considered,consistent;itcares,ittakescare.Londontransportistheessenceofourcity.

Theveryactofurbanjourneyingisegalitarian.Yourposhcarisn’tgoingtogetyouthereanyfaster;weareallstuckinthismiretogether.Butitisalsoanelegant elegy to the city itself.The steelybattleship light that infusesour air,makingitdenseandmakingitours,isthebestbackdropforthebestviewofall.Atdusk,inwinter, justbeforethelightsgoon,justasthoughtsturntohome,stand in your overcoat and watch the line of double-decker red buses onWaterlooBridge.Theretheyare,solidyetshimmering,stately,connected,thesamelinemyfathersaw.Thatisours.

EverytimeIsitonabus,especiallyinwinter,especiallyupstairs,thesteaminside making the windows opaque, the branches of overhanging trees click-clacking against thewindows, I am simultaneously travelling and so athome.And when I leave home and enter that vast shared space beneath us, ourunderground,where there areno trees or seasons, a place entirely of our ownmaking,Iamatease.Iwalkwithsomanyothersalongatiledtunnel,followingBeck’sbeautifullogic,FrankPick’srigorousartifice.IknowIcanonlybehere.Here,wherethesteamspewedandelectricityflows,wherethebombsfellaboveandwheresomanyofmyjourneysandourstorieshavebegun.Iknowitdownthere; I have the Knowledge of the great subterranean facilitator. I know

Londonbyitsmeansoftransport.

*

If I ever foundmyselfmarooned on a desert island, or probably less likely onRadio4’sDesertIslandDiscs,IhavealreadyworkedoutthetunesIwouldtake.I’dwant songs thatwould transportme to places other than this godforsakenparadiseprisonIfoundmyselfstrandedon.IwanttohearatuneandinstantlybeinManhattanorHavana,SevillaorBuenosAires,allplacesIhaveloved.SoobviouslytheonesongIwouldcherishaboveallothers,istheonethatwouldtransportmebacktomybelovedhometown.

Of course ‘Waterloo Sunset’ is a contender: it is our de facto nationalanthem.ButthemostevocativelyLondonsongformeis‘Debris’bytheFaces.Ifyou don’t know Ronnie Lane’s elegy to his disappearing city, that rich andruinedplaceofouryouth,andhisskintolddadrummagingroundthe‘Sundaymorningmarkets’;a song so touchingandmelodicallymelancholy that Ihaveknown toughmencry at itsopeningchords, thengive it a listen. It is a tuneaboutmovingon,butstayingwhereyouare,whichiswhatwealldohereinthiscity.

But more evocative even than ‘Debris’ would be my one luxury item. Ithoughtoftakingmymum’soldticketmachine,themetalcontraptionsheworeasaclippieandIplayedwithasaboy.ARedRoverticketwouldbetoopainful,allpromiseandnodelivery.SoIsettledonthemostluxuriousthingIknow,anartefact so wantonly handsome, yet so splendidly functional, so instantlyevocative of where I live: I would take Leslie Green’s Oxblood-tiledMorningtonCrescentstationandplaceitbyapalmtreeinthecorner.

OnFridaysWeRide

EveryFridayatGloucesterGatewegather.Earlymorning,prescribedhour,sharpasyoucan,looksmart;Imean,looksmart,ridesmarttoo,holdyourline,takeyourturn,stopatlights,thinkofothers.Thisisagentlemen’sride.Fivelaps,anti-clockwise,maybesix,not toofast,butstretch those legs, fill those lungs, feel it, feel theroad, theairyou’recuttingthrough,theterrainyou’rerushingby, theswiftdipdownpastthemosque,theburn as we rise up past that sumptuous Nash terrace. There’s a giraffe. Feel thefriendship, too, the trust. You’ve been riding alongside these fellows for years, close,wheels almost touching, wind, snow, rain, rain, sunshine, beloved sweet shafts ofsunshine.Yes,ithurts:ithurtsmuchmoretomissit.

WhenwefirststartedtheFridayride,thetwenty-firstcenturystillfeltnew.Andsodidpullingonyourkit,clippingintoyourpedalsandrollingintoRegent’sParktomeetupwithsomematesonroadbikesforafewlapsroundtheoutercircle, then into theinnerandcoffee.Wehadthatprettyroadprettymuchtoourselvesbackthen.Peoplestilllookedat youaskance inyour tights,but it’s gonemad:hundredsof riders inRapha,peloton after peloton, chain gangs whizzing round, heads down, bottoms up, younger,faster.We’regettingonnow,butstillweridesmart.

Birettas, bidons, groupsets, gilets,Campag, carbon, rouleurs, puncheurs . . .Learntheterminology.Enjoythecamaraderie.Westartjustmaybefiveorsixofus,airalwayscrisp,ifit’swinter,bloodycold,butwewarm,wegrow,friendsmerginginbythezoo,rollinghandshakesastheyjoin,‘Bonjourmesfrères’.

Perhapswe becomea dozen or even a score, riding two abreast, talking aswe go,untilwereallygo.Thenit’shangon,catchyourbreath,ridehard,butnevertoohard,don’twanttodropacomrade.Weareinthistogether;wegoasfastastheslowestrider.That’llbeme.

Theycallmethepatronoftheride,toobscurethefactthatIamthemanmostlikelyto struggle, but alsomost likely to be there. I loveFridaymornings in the park.Whowould not want to see this city’s most elegant space spin by: Snowdon’s Aviary,

Gibberd’s minaret, Lasdun’s exquisite Physicians, those butter-cream coloured terraces,symmetricalclassical,itistheRegent’sparkafterall.London’sloveliest.

Thenwe sitandchatand joke inour tightsandourbib shortsamid the roses inQueenMary’sGarden.Doublemacchiato,maybehalfapainauraisin.Ifyouwanttoshareyourjoysorwoesyoucan,orelsewe’lltalkbikes,orraces,BoonenandNibali,orelse we won’t talk at all, just ride, side by side, feeling it. At Christmas we drinkchampagneandmakespeeches.

I’vealwaysriddenpushbikes.Ifyouwanttoknowthetopographyandthetemperofthis town, ride a bike.Your legsnever lie, you feel every incline, every dip, you senseundergroundrivers,hillocks,mounds;youcertainlyknowwhenyouareapproachingtheedgesofthebowlinwhichthismightycitysits.RiseuptowardsHighgatesayorCrystalPalace in the south, and your thighswill understand the logic of the lie of the land.TheywilltellyouthisiswheretheancientThamesriverbasinrisestoanelevated,onceforestedridge;greatviewswillbeyourrecompenseforgreateffort.

Riding a bike also lets you knowwhatmood this city is in.Mydaily commute isshort but fairly tempestuous. Fifteen minutes of dodging and weaving, cars notindicating, buses not caring, pedestrians not looking, other cyclists overtaking on theinside.Ofcourseit’snevermyfault.Somedaysit’sagoodride,thetarmacfeelssmooth,thegapsopenup,thelightschangeaccordingly,peoplearepolite:youarriveatworkinastateclosetonirvana.Otherdays–andyouneverreallyknowwhy–well, it’s likeawaroutthere,andbelievemenobody’swinning.

IfforanyreasonIamnotonthebikeforafewdays,Ifeeladeep-down,disablinglethargy, like I am stuck: I long to roll away, to arrive at that moment of fluidtranscendencewhenyouandbikeandroadandcityandmaybeeventheelementsareasone,floating,fleeting,butgenuinelytranscendent.Thenyoucomeoff.

Ihavehadfourorfiveaccidentsovermaybethirtyyears,andtheyhavealmostallbeen my fault, particularly because of carrying bizarre items. The most ridiculousinvolvedaneight-kilogrammeChristmasturkeyfromtheGingerPigbutcher’s,asuddensnowstormandabadlybruisedbreast(theturkey’s)afterhittingtheMaryleboneRoad.

ThefunniestoccurredwhenIhadjustcollectedarepairedbrollyfromJamesSmith&Sons,thatsplendidVictorianumbrellaemporiuminBloomsbury.Iwasonmybike,soIhungthefurledstickoverthehandlebars,justclearingthegroundperfectly.Until,thatis,IwentroundthecornerbytheBritishMuseum,leaningasIturned,thepointoftheumbrellastuckintheroadandIpolevaulted,flewthroughtheairlanding,atthefeetofagrupettoofgigglingItalianschoolkids.ItwasnolaughingmatterwhenapieceofflyingglassslicedthroughmykneecaponeFridaymorning.NorwhenIarguedwithaspeedbumpandbrokemywristandtworibs.UniversityCollegeHospitalhasservedme

well.But the good daysmake it allworthwhile.Themost remarkable daywas back in

Regent’sPark. Itmusthavebeen1998,early in theyear,early in themorning, foggy,cold.Iwasonmyown,rollinggentlyroundtheouter,anti-clockwise,justpastthezoo,when Iwent past a small group ofmenwalking in the direction of themosque andthoughtoneofthemlookedlikeIanPaisley.Irodeon,pastWinfieldHouse,thehomeofthe American ambassador and I saw another bunch of guys walking in the oppositedirectionandyes, therewereMartinMcGuinessandGerryAdams. Ihad just riddenthroughtheGoodFridayAgreementsecretlyinthemaking.OnlyinLondon.Onlyonabike.

CHAPTERTHREE

UpWest

Let’s go to the pictures. We could choose from the Rex, the Imperial, theOdeon,theRegal,theIonic,theAstoria,theCoronet,theEssoldo,theRoyalty,theTivoli,theGaumont,theEmbassy,theAstor,theFlorida,theCapital,theLumière, theGrange, theRialto, theColiseum,theElectric, theMajestic, theLido, the Forum, theABC, theCameo, theRio, the Empire, theTroxy, theBiograph,theAcademy,theSplendid,theRitzy,theRuby,theAmbassador,theGranada,theVogue,theBelleVue,theParisPullmanortheMinema.ButtheMinema’sabitsmall.

If London has its ghost stations, then it is positively littered with thevanishedhauntsofthosewhofavouredtheflicks.Manyofthosegrandpicturepalaceshavebeendemolished,whileothers remainasmaimedandmisshapenmultiplexes.Butyoucanstillplayspot-the-old-disused-cinema-buildingasyouwalk along almost any high street in London. (Look out for the evangelicalchurches.)Andwhatpalacesthesewere,withsuchevocative,exoticnamesandelaborate,artdecoarchitecturetomatch.

Theirheydaywasbackinthe1930sand’40s,whenmymumanddadwouldhavegonetotheCoronetatNottingHillorthelocal‘bughutch’,whichisnowthe chic boutique Electric cinema on Portobello Road, two or three times aweek during their courting. She told a tale ofmy then teenage father gettinginto a punch-up at the end of thenightwhenhe refused to stand up for thenationalanthem,whichonlyaddedtoherreasonsforfallinginlovewithhim.By the time Ihadcomealong,manyof thesepre-cathode-raycathedralswerewellpasttheirbest,butalmostallwerestillopen,andasafamily,goingtothepictureswaswhatwedidforentertainment.

I’msurewemusthavehadatelevisionsetwhenIwaslittle,thoughIcan’treally remember it. Idovaguely recall likingTheWoodentops. IknowwegotacolourTVatsomepoint–rented,ofcourse,butitwasoneofthosewhereyou

had to put two bob bits (later 10p pieces) into a meter on the side of thetelevision,anditwasforeverrunningoutduringwhateverprogrammeyouwerewatching. There was a big, old, brown radiogram, and on Sunday morningsMumandDadwouldplay their records:RayCharles,TomJones, JimReeves,MrsMills,and,unfortunately,DesO’Connor’s‘Dick-a-Dum-Dum’.Thenintheafternoon, after dinner, it was Sing Something Simple on the wireless for thegrown-ups followedbythechartcountdownforthekids.Thenitwasoffwiththeradioandletthearguinghourbegin.

This was a family tradition, which I thought everybody had, whereby wewouldall sit roundthetable,even littleme,andhaveamandatorydiscussionontheeventsoftheweek.HaroldWilsonseemedtofeatureprominently.Wewereatalkingfamily,primarilybecausemydadlovedadebate,andencouragedusalltohavethecourageofourconvictions.Then,whenhepassedaway,thetalking ceased. My mum kept listening to Ray Charles, though, especially ‘ICan’tStopLovingYou’.Weplayeditatherfuneral.

Butmyprimarymemoryoffamilyentertainmentduringthoseearlyyearswasgoing to the pictures. Another bizarre tradition, but one which I have sincelearnedwasactuallyquitecommonplace,wasthatwewouldturnupforafilmatthelocalpicturehouse,atwhatevertimemyparentsdecidedtogo.I’mnotevensuretheybotheredtofindoutwhatwason.Wewouldsimplygointowhateverwasshowingatwhatevertimewearrived,invariablyhalfwaythroughthemainfeature,andthensit throughtothenextshowinguntilwegottothepointatwhichwehadentered.

‘This iswherewecame in,’wouldbeuttered,atwhichsignalwewouldallgetupandleave,havingseentheentirefilm,butrarelyintherightorder.

But when it was a big movie, an epic or an event, a Spartacus or aMaryPoppins,HowtheWestWasWonorDrZhivago,starringOmarSharif–mymumloved Omar Sharif – that was different. (My dad was blonde, but my mumdefinitelyhada thingaboutdark-haired,Arabic-lookingmen:once,watchingSaddam Hussein on the TV, she said, ‘He’s such a bad man, but he’s sohandsome’.)Thenwewouldhead‘upWest’.

I do remember going to Leicester Square and being slightly scared of old-schoolbuskersintheMaxWallmould.Ageing,threadbaremen,completewithshabby, stained tail-coats, bowlers and fezzes,working thevast snakingqueue,doing the sand dance and holding out hats to put your pennies in. Butmoreusually our fancy cinema of choice was the Odeon Marble Arch, because itboastedthebiggestscreeninLondon.Sizematters.

ItwasadreadfulshocktometogopastMarbleArchonabusnotsolongagoandseethatthebuildingwhichhousedtheOdeon,thatentirecornersite,had gorn. My youth demolished. Going to the pictures there was a properperformance,whichwould be planned at great length beforehand, andwouldinvariablyinvolveuswearingourSundaybestforthetripupWest.Thestaffatthe cinema would be equally well turned out: uniformed commissionaireschecking your tickets, usherettes selling glossy programmes in the foyer andexpensive treats that you only ever saw at the cinema. There was always aninterval with Kia-ora to drink andmaybe even a pineappleMivvi, and thenafterwardsonthebushome,long,animateddiscussionsabouthowfastcowboyscouldreallydrawagunfromaholsterorwhetherDrZhivagounderminedtheRussianrevolution.Thelatterwasanargumentthatclearlycutnoicewithmymother,whoevenboughtthesoundtrackalbumandaddedittothesmallvinyl

pilebytheradiogram.

Except for onepantomime atShepherd’sBushEmpirewithmy auntGlad, assomesortoftreataftermydaddied,Idon’teverremembergoingtothetheatre.Itsimplywasn’tpartofourculturallife.Theatrewasforposhpeople;theflicksandthefootballwereforus.Boththefootieandthefilmsweremass,collective,bondingexperiences.NeitherofthemwasonTV,soyoucouldonlyseefootballmatchesandfilmsbyactuallygoingtotheOdeonortheArsenal,theGaumontorthefootballingflea-pitwhichwasLoftusRoad,soeverybodydid.

They were cheap and they were full. Nobody bought tickets in advance,whichmeantlong,remarkablyorderly,butviscerallyclosequeues.Backthenwereallywereacityofqueues,forjustabouteverything:banks,buses,evenbreadduringthebakers’strike.Later,whenIstartedgoingtogigs,wewouldstandinlineonthepavementallnighttosecureticketstoseetheFacesattheKilburnGaumont (a wonderful art deco cinema, now an evangelical church) or BobMarley at the Finsbury Park Rainbow (a wonderful art deco cinema, now anevangelical church). That sense of shoulder-to-shoulder proximity to otherpeople enjoying a shared endeavour, and the heightened expectation as youinchedclosertoyourgoal,isalargelylostpartoftheurbanexperiencenowthatticketsareboughtinadvancefromamachine.ButthenIhatequeuingupnow,somaybethemodernworldisn’tallbad.

OnSaturdaymorningswewenttotheSaturdaymorningpictures.By‘we’,Imean just about everybody under the age of twelve, enmasse, on our own, akind of Lord of the Flies experience, where the naughty boys, which was justabout all the boys, whooped and hollered, ran around, leaped over seating,wrestledintheaisles,andlobbedsherbetfountainsintotheair infrontoftheprojector,sothatitappearedtobesnowingduringTarzanorTomMix.

Afewyearslater,intheteenagetime,theurchinsfromtheWatlingwouldregularlystormtheABCortheClassic.Oneortwoofthegangpaidforentry,thenonceinside,theyopenedtheexitdoorssothatscoresofragamuffinscouldrun in,dashingupto theGodsorhiding in the toilets.Half the timeyougotcaught,andperhapsgotacliproundtheearforyourefforts,butitwasallpartofthejollity.Laterstillinlifethereweremanyall-nightersattheScalainKing’sCross,enjoyingcommunalcinematicentertainmentofaverydifferentkind.

Thereweremanydifferentkindsofentertainment in theglitteringWestEnd,someofthemnotallthatglittering,someofthemdownrightbizarre.Wealwaysfeltpulledandtiedtotheideaof‘theWestEnd’:itwasthebenchmark.OxfordStreetwastheultimatedestination;itwasheldupasakindofparagonwhenwewere kids, amythologised shorthand for the biggest and the best: departmentstores,fashionshops,recordshops,summersales,Januarysales,Christmaslights–ohthoseChristmaslights,whatatreat.

OxfordStreetwas a kindofworking-class aspiration.WeknewnothingofBondStreet,KnightsbridgeandMayfair; theywere foreign lands forwhichwedidn’t have the correct visas, butOxford Streetwaswhat you saved up for. Iwish somebody had saved Oxford Street, because it has become the streetLondoner’slovetohate,orrather,justhate.

LikeaperpetualscenefromSoylentGreen, it isrammedyetbland,barefacedand brutal in its globalised chain-store avarice. Jammed with dispiritedScandinavianteenagersdesperatelyclutchingcarrierbags,whohavedecidedtospendtheirentirebudgetoncrapandtheirentireholidayonthathellishcorneroutside Topshop. London’s most famous shopping parade is now a place fewLondonerswouldvoluntarilygoshopping.(IacceptgoodoldJohnLewishasitsuses, but should always be entered via the back way on Cavendish Square,unlessyouparticularlywantaglimpseofBarbaraHepworth’sexquisiteWingedFigureonHollesStreet.)

ThisdrearilyrepetitivecollectionofthesamesoullessstoresyouwouldfindinManchester or Edinburgh, New York or Chicago, only with added UnionJack hats, is the city as a raw robbingmachine.Money is sluiced out of theinnocentsabroad.OxfordStreethasalwaysbeencrude,butatonetimeitwasalsoabsolutelycompellinginitsgaudy,gimcrackhucksterism.

Like most of us I try not to even walk a few yards down that torridthoroughfare,alwayspreferringtonip intoSohoorFitzroviatoweavemywayeast or west. But just occasionally if I am in a particularly romantic frame ofmind, I try to time travel to the Oxford Street of my youth, or maybe myimagination.

Thewestern endwas always themore glamorous. It is adjacent toMayfairand Marylebone rather than Soho, after all, and still retains a slither of itsformer élan, largely becauseSelfridges is such an iconic building.Back in theday,eventheflagshipC&AupbyMarbleArchwasconsideredfancy.Ivividly

rememberfeelingliketheposhestboyinBurntOakwhenIusedacombinationofChristmasmoney andCorona returns to buy a button-downBenShermanshirtfromMrSelfridge’selevatedemporiumin1969.ButIalsorememberbeingtakentothegreatdepartmentstoreatChristmastohavemyphototakenwitharather threadbare and tetchy live monkey, which doesn’t seem quite soglamorousandsophisticatedinretrospect.Andbelieveme,thatwasn’ttheonlyspeciestobefoundonOxfordStreetbackintheday.

Even up at the elegant end there were signs of the width, weirdness andskulduggery to come.There always seemed to be a little teamofwide-boy flypitchers flogging hooky perfume on the pavement directly outside Selfridges’grandfrontdoors,withitsfamouslyfragrantcosmeticssectionwithin.Atrestletable,acardboardboxfullofbottlesofcolouredwaterandacoupleoflookoutsposted to give fair warning of the old bill approaching, these shysters weremasters of the rapid patter, the quick sale and the equally swift pack up andscarper.Theywereexemplarsoftheircraftycraft,butintermsofstreettheatretheyhadtocompetewiththeproteinman.

StanleyGreenwas the legendarily implacableplacard-waving,cap-wearing,anti-lust, anti-meat, -fish, -bird, -egg, -cheese, -peas, -beans, -nuts and -sittingcampaigner.For yearshe trawledOxfordStreet everyday inhisdun-colouredcoatandcapsellinghisself-pennedand-printed,typographicallyeccentricandintellectuallyinexplicablepamphlet,‘EightPassionProteins’.

StanleyapparentlyonceworkedatSelfridges,beforefindinghistruecallingasaself-electedkeeperofourcollectivepuritanicalconscience,cyclinginfromhismum’shouseinNortholteverydaywithhissandwichboard,rainorshine,towarn generations of Londoners about the libidinal danger of nibbling nutsandsittingontheirbutts.Stanleywasa fixture,simultaneouslyunnoticedandlargely ignored,yet integralandundoubtedlymissed.Andsincehisdeath, thenakedlustforbothproteinandprofithasgoneunquestioned.

Stanleywasn’t theonlyproselytiseronOxfordStreet. Indeed ithasbeenahotbedofvariouspersuasionsofmoreor lessmanicstreetpreaching.I recallagroup of scowling bowler-hatted, Orange Orderish, hellfire and damnationProtestant zealots, who predicted the imminent apocalypse on the corner ofRegentStreetforafewyears.TheSalvationArmyhastheRegentHalloveronthesouthsideandyoucouldoftenhearthebrassbandplayingtheirbrandofoldtimereligioustunesandeventreatyourselftotheoccasional‘WarCry’.

Thecryof‘Jesuswasawinnernotasinner’,barkedthroughaloudhailerina

harshLiverpudlianaccent,fromahectoringEvertonianevangelistwhoseemedtoappearjustasStanleypassedon,wasanotherofthesoundsofthestreet.The‘winner-sinner’ man had to compete with a much more melodious group ofgospel-preaching West Indian women usually to be found singing sacredspirituals outside Oxford Street Tube. I rather liked them and occasionallyjoinedinforahallelujahortwo.

As you progress east, you may be lucky enough to encounter everybody’sfavouritebunchofpercussionclanging swamis.Thepresenceofacrocodileofbenignly smiling, shaven-headed, forehead-daubed, sari-, sock-and sandal-wearing,mantra-chantingconvertstoHindumysticismisoneoftheheraldsofthefactthatyouareapproachingSoho.

TheHare Krishna temple by Soho Square is a vegetarian institution, andwhileIcanmakeneitherheadnortaleoftheirbeliefsystem,Iamquitefondoftheir lentils and very aware of the sterling work they do feeding London’shungryandhomeless.Whenever I see themshimmyingalongthe street Ialsoenjoyhavinganimpromptusingalongtotheirhittune:‘HareHare,HareHare,Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare’. Certainly I’d rather a mantra from the HareKrishnas than theofferofapersonality test fromtheScientologists round thecorneronTottenhamCourtRoad.

TherewasatimewhenthemaindrawofOxfordStreetwasworshippingvinyl.There may still be an HMV on the strip by the time you read this, andapparently they even stock a few records in Gap now, but this was once amecca.Fridayafternoons, a fewbob inyourbin, awhole listof tunes inyourhead,OxfordStreetbecamethelaunchpadforallvinylpossibilities.

ThereweremultipleHMVstores,OurPrice,Harlequin,Simonsdowninthebasement,andRichardBranson’sfirstVirginstoreabovetheshoeshop‘Ravel’sChaussures’. Then later there was the giantVirginmegastore right up at theeastern end on a site which had once been a cinema. All of these musicalemporia were full of surly, lank-haired, spotty blokes in unwashed jeans andblackT-shirts,andthatwasjustthestaff.

Of course the really hip stores with the really cool and splendidly stroppyshopassistantswerealways justoffOxfordStreet, inSoho itself,orbestofallroundinHanwayStreet,thefinestlittleurine-soakeddogleginallLondon.Butyoucouldstillspendmanyhoursandafairfewquidinthosegianthangarsfull

ofLPs.Andwhat’smoreifyouwereintheVirginstore,youwerenexttotheonly pub onOxford Street and opposite the most venal, the most enjoyablehundredyardsinallLondon.

Sometimesbackinthepre-chaingangdayswhenOxfordStreetwasstillwild,Iwouldjustplotupthereandwatch.Themainfocusoftheactionwastherun-down block or three from the corner of TottenhamCourt Road toWardourStreeton the southern sideofOxfordStreet, theSohosideofcourse.To thisday that is still a fairly shabby stretch, although it’s been so disfigured by thewanton vandalism carried out in the name of Crossrail that it’s hard to tellexactlywhatistherebehindthehoardingsandthescaffolding.

Whatwasthere,manyafternoonsbackinthe1980s,wasonceawondertobehold.IftheladsknockingoutfakeperfumeoutsideSelfridgeswerewide,thechapsdownthisendwere, in the immortalwordsofBarringtonLevy ‘broaderthan Broadway’. This was the place to watch three-card tricksters at theirabsolute trickiest and fake auctioneers who could fleece an entire flock oftouristsandout-of-townersinamatterofminutes.

London has a very complex relationship with what I can only call streetmorality.I’mnottalkingaboutseriouslybadpeoplehere.ThecultoftheKraysandallthatLock,Stockandtwodiamondgeezersbollocksisquicklyrevealedasa fantasy if ever you spend any time among the physically active end of thecareer-criminal fraternity. I’m sure they can be jolly nice to their mums, butyou’renottheirmum,andmostarebulliesandbores;andmostcrimeissqualidand brutally banal. Yet who didn’t smile when we read about the old boysbreakingintoHattonGardenforonelastheist?(Unlessofcourseyouhadyourown ill-gotten stored in one of those safety deposit boxes.) Who doesn’toccasionally root for the light-fingered, fleet-footed, street-wise heirs of JackSheppard?Astheysingatthefootball,‘He’soneofourown.’

Look at the most loved fictional Londoners, and apart from SherlockHolmes,himselfasociopathicdrugfiend,almostalltheothersareonthewrongsideoftheline.Dickens’sArtfulDodgerisperhapstheultimatetemplatefortheclichéd but still chirpy, cheeky, cockney street angler, bobbing and weaving,duckinganddiving.EverybodylovestheDodger;everybodylovesadodger.ItisintheDNAofacitybuiltontrade,thisisaporttown,anindividualisticplaceofexchangeand interaction,ofbarrowboysandbankers,costers, scalpersandbrokers,wherequickwitsmeetfleetingopportunities,wheretheCityofLondonisaparadigmandthePortofLondonwasasourceofendlesspossibilities.

Thedistinctionbetween theDodger andBill Sykes, thewide boy and thepsychopath,apocketpickerandamurderer,isonemostofusrecognise.So,weloveMichaelCaine’sAlfieandthecharismaticCharlieCrokerfromTheItalianJob,AdamFaith’sebullientBudgiefromthebrilliantLWTseriessetintheseedySohoofthe’70sandaboveallDelBoyTrotter,Peckham’sfavourite‘felloffthebackofalorry’merchant.Weadmireanindependenttrader,andweallknowamushfromShepherd’sBush.

I’veneverknownexactlywherethefirmswhooperatedonOxfordStreetwerefrom.Romantically,Iliketothinktheywerethedirectheirsoftheeighteenth-centurydenizensoftheHundredsofDrury,CoventGarden’snotoriouscriminalredoubt,orelsethattheyhadwanderedoverfromtherookeriesofSevenDialsorStGilestoworkthedrop,butmostlikelytheywereoutofEssex.Certainlytheyhadtheexaggerated,elasticatedvowelsandsing-songcadencesoftheoldEast – ‘Caam on daarling, git yourself a baargiin’ – which are now almostexclusivelythesoundoftheurbanEssexfringes.

Having spent too many early mornings in my youth unpacking boxes ofbruisedbananasandsoggyonions,layingoutwaresonthatfaketurfstuffwithfrozenfingers,thentryingtoflogittoNorthwestLondon’slovelyhousewives,Iknowalittleabouttheskillsinvolvedinstreettrading.MybrotherReggiewasaconsummate greengrocer; good looking, a brilliant shouter, a flirt, a joker, acracking convincer, quick at mental maths and for a while I was his haplessassistant.

Themostimportantpartofthejobisbuildingupanedge,attractingacrowdaroundyourpitch.Onceyou’vegot ’em looking,youcanget ’emspending. IfyousawagaggleofpeopleontheOxfordStreetpavement,peeringandcurious,felta frisson intheair,youknewacantingcrewwere inoperation.People incrowdsbehavedifferently, theygowith themob; theybecome irrationalwithcommunalexcitement; they start tobelieve that theycanactuallywinmoneyfrom a geezer with an upturned cardboard box, three playing cards and anaccentstraightfromcentralcasting.

A three-card trick, or ‘find-the-lady’ team requires a lot more than threepeople.Alargepercentageofthathysteria-inducingcrowdare‘shills’,inonthescam:beparticularlyawareoftheratherprettyandextremelyblondegirleggingon the mug punters. Sentries will be posted all along the street to relay

informationofcomingcoppers,andabigblokewillalwaysbepresenttodeteranyonewhowantstoqueertheirpitchbypointingoutthatthis isacon.The‘three-cardmonte’, as it’s known, and thepea and cupor shell game, rely onimpressive sleight of hand and speed of movement. But I always found theschoolboyprestidigitationmuchlessinterestingthanthepsychology.Workingacrowd is a city skill, it’s the theatre of the chancer and some of the greateststreetpsychology andvagabond theatricality I’ve everwitnessed tookplace attheOxfordStreetauctions.

These seemed to springup suddenly in the ’80s, and for a few years foundtheirnaturalhomeontheveryedgeofthedarkmile.IthinkitwasoriginallyanAmericangrift,butby the time ithadgot toOxfordStreet ithad takenonadistinctlyLondoncharacter.Andwhatcharacterswereinvolved.

Basicallyateamofadozenorsowouldtakeoveranemptyshopspaceforadayortwo, fill it fullofboxesandbagsofgaudygearofnegligiblequalityandvalue,aswell as a fewgenuine ‘luxury’ items.Although luxuryback thenwaslargely electro-tat of theWalkmans, digitalwatches, games consoles and flat-screen TV variety. These were prominently on display to tempt the hordes.Then the frontman–whobelievemehad a lot of front –would proceed tobuild up his edge by repeating his practised spiel into a microphone, whichcouldbeheardclearacrossthestreet.

Itwasamantratooutdoeventhekrishnas.Invariably,themanwiththemicwas a good-looking young guy with that real rapid patter, and the waywardgleam-in-the-eye charm of the professional barker. Theywere an exaggeratedworking-classparodyofthesmooth,besuitedauctioneersoperatinguptheroadintheBondStreethouses.Barrowboyswithloudspeakers.

Theycertainlyknewhowtoworkacrowd,luringthemin,windingthemup,sorting them out. Only, rather than expensive works of art, these guys wereflogging off their TVs and watches preposterously cheap. Incredible bargainssoldwithjaw-droppingchutzpah,greatoratoricalflourishes,ribaldhumourandcorner-of-the-mouth showmanship. Of course the original buyers getting thecheapgearwereallpartofthecrew,andthestuffjustcamebackin-house,butitlooked like bargains were flying out. So members of the public would getsuckeredin,thentheirmoneywouldbeswiftlysiphonedoff.

I’ve seen grown, presumably sane, but certainly not very sensible peoplehandoverlargesumsforasealedcarrierbagofstuff.Theyhadnoideawhatwasinside,andevenpromisedthattheywouldn’topenituntiltheygothome,such

wastheirfrenzyandgullibility.I’veseenotherstakeorderstotakeallthemoneyin their pockets or theirhandbags andwave it in the air in a kindof orgyofavariceandgroupstupidity.

Crowdsofmugpunterswouldthronground,gorgingongreed,pleadingtobeable to give their hard-earned cash away in exchange for a bottle or two ofsmellywater,aballpointpenandaplastictrinketworthtwobobatbest.Largesumsforbigdisappointments,andalsobigquestionsaboutmorality.Butthen,thisisOxfordStreet.AndwhileIwatchedthosefleecingteamswithamixtureofadmirationandabomination,Ihadtheaddedelementofknowingwhatusedtogoondirectlybeneaththeirfeet.We’llcometothatlater.

*

Theearly1970swasa timewhentherewerea seriesofLondon ‘spectaculars’,bigshowpieceevents,whichcapturedthepublic imaginationandeveryfamilyfelthonourboundtogoto.Themostspectacularofthemallwasthe‘TreasuresofTutankhamun’exhibitionat theBritishMuseum in1972,whichcausedanabsolute sensation, veritable mummy-mania. We are used now to publicgalleriesputtingonblockbustershowswhichattractbigcrowds,butthiswasthefirstanditwasdifferentgravy.ThewholecountrywentTutankhamuncrazyandthere was King Tut tat of every kind imaginable: pencil sharpeners, thermosflasks,schoolrulers,allinscribedwiththeimageoftheBoyKing’sgoldendeathmask,whichyoujusthadtoseeforyourself.

Now, we were not really the sort of family who spent too much time inmuseums, and none whatsoever in art galleries, but we dutifully went toBloomsbury,only tobeconfrontedwiththebiggestqueueIhaveever seen inmyentirelife–andasIsaidearlier,thiswasatimeofgargantuanqueues.Thisone stretched twice around the forecourt of themuseum, alongGreatRussellStreetandroundintoGowerStreet.Itwasvast,anditwascold,anditwaswet.Fourshufflinghoursorsolaterwefinallymadeitintotheexhibition,butIhaveverylittlerecollectionofanyofthepricelessEgyptianartefacts.Itwassopackedinside, all I could see was yetmore adults’ backs.My abidingmemory is theoverpoweringsmellofotherpeople’solddampovercoatsandthestinkbombsIboughtfromthemagicshopopposite.

My favourite Tutankhamun story, probably apocryphal, but no lessenjoyable,concernsaScotsman,whoarrivedatStPancrasoffthetrain,eagertoseethissensation.Hejumpedintoablackcabandasked,inhisheavybrogue,

tobetakentoTutankhamun.ThebestpartofanhourandafairfewquidlaterhefoundhimselfdepositedonTootingCommon.Atleasttherewerenoqueues.

There’s always a long line of hopeful, if slightly lost-looking souls snakingalong theMarylebone Road waiting to get into the myriad waxy wonders ofMadameTussauds.Iseethemallthetime,theseexpectantfolkfromallaroundtheglobe,andlikemostLondonersIthink,‘Whatthebloodyhellareyoudoingthere?’ Inacitywith somuch tooffer,quitewhyanybodywouldwant topaygoodmoneyandwastegoodtimestandinginline,onthemostpollutedroadinEurope, to see a waxworks doll of David Beckham’s wife and Elton John’shusband is surely one of this city’s greatestmysteries. I literally do not knowanybodyfromherewhohaseverbeentothewaxworks,oratleastnotsincetheBattleofTrafalgar.

This was an elaborate tableau down in the basement of the MadameTussaud’s building, telling the gory story of England’s greatest ever sea battleandNelson’sfinest,yettragicallyfinalhour.IwasconvincedthatI’dbeentakentoseethisbymydad,wholovedhistoryandwouldsurelyhavegoneifhehadn’tdied, just before it opened in the late ’60s.So itmusthavebeenmymumormaybe an aunt or uncle or somebody who agreed to take us to this newexhibition,whichwascausingquiteastirandattractingbigqueues,becauseitwassaidtobesolifelike.Deathlikewasmoreaccurate.

Ihave since spokentomanyotherpeoplewhowerealsopress-ganged intogoingtothisasyoungstersandneverreallyrecovered.Maybeitwasthesmell,an overpowering reek of cordite and smoke, or maybe the sounds, deafeningbangs and cracks of cannon, and the screams andmoansof injured sailors, orelsetheliberaluseofwhateverredgunksubstitutedforbloodonthesplinteredand severed limbs of the dummies, but I was definitely disturbed. I wasparticularly upset by the fact that, among the hardened salts serving on theVictory, someof thecabinboyswerenoolder than Iwasat the time. IvowedthereandthenthatIwouldneverbecomeasailor,apromiseIhavefaithfullykept,despitequitelikingbellbottoms.

WhenIboughtahouse inanancienthilltoptowninSpainhalf-a-centurylater,IwasamazedtofindthatmyroofterracehadabrilliantviewoutoverthecapeofTrafalgar,theexactspotwherethebloodybattleoccurred.

Another bizarre, maritime-themed, queue-inducing event, which occurred in

London in the1970s in thenameof entertainment, involved thecarcassof awhale on the back of lorry. In fact there were three white whales on lorries,which toured the country for the perusal and pleasure of themasses. One ofthemparkedupontheSouthBankbyWaterlooBridgeanddrewlargecrowds.Theywereencouraged, forasmall fee,ofcourse,towalkinsideits insidesandtakepictureswiththepoordeceasedleviathan,providingtheycouldstandthestenchofslowlydecayingblubber.Thankfullymyfamilyneverfelttheneedtojointhatparticularqueue.Butitclearlywasn’tbecausetheyhadaproblemwiththe concept of cetaceans as a source of public entertainment. After all, theytookmetotheDolphinarium.

We’renowbackonOxfordStreet.Just before my time, there was a cavernous subterranean nightclub at 79

OxfordStreetcalledTiles.Thiswasamid-’60smodjoint,whichsawmanyofthefamousR’n’BbandsofthemomententertainacrowdofneatlydressedboyswithBostonstraight-edgecutsandgirlswithSassoonfringes.WhatmadeTilesuniquewasthefactthatitboastedanentiresubterraneanstreetofshops,aswellas the club itself down there; which gives you a sense of the scale of thebasementsunderthoseOxfordStreetshops.

‘Theundergroundcityforthenewgeneration,’theycalleditintheflyers.Soin Tiles in 1967 you could sort yourself out a seersucker jacket, a Motownimport,getyourbarnettrimmedandyoureyelashesdoneandprobablypickupabagofbluesinthebogs,whiledancingtheblockorthemashedpotatotoAmenCornerorCliffBennettandtheRebelRousers.AllbeneathOxfordStreet.

Tileswasneverreallyuptherewiththelegendarynames liketheSceneortheFlamingo;itwasalwaysseenassomethingofacash-in,aplacefor‘tickets’,out-of-towners, rather than faces, probably because it was on mainstreamOxfordStreet rather than in subversiveSoho itself.Tileswas short-lived, butabsolutelymassivewhileitlasted.

Overtheroad,almostdirectlyoppositewhereTileshadbeen,onthecornerwithNewmanStreet,ontheslightlymoreupmarketnorthernsideofthestreet,wasanother1970sunderground‘attraction’,whichturnedouttobeoneofthebiggestdisappointmentsofmylife.

Itmay say a lot about the levels ofmy philistinism, but Iwasmuchmoreexcited about the prospect of visiting the Football Hall of Fame than seeingKing Tut’s relics. At one point I thought I had actually dreamed the wholething up, as there is almostno evidence of the existence of this place.But it

definitelyopenedforafewmonthsin1971,andIcantellyou,itwaspathetic.Ishould have known itwas going to be rubbish as therewas no queue outsidewhatsoever:my cousin Ian andmyselfmightwell have been the only peopleinside. But then, why would anybody but two easily excited, football-madtwelve-year-oldWestLondonexilespaytoseethismotleycollectionofcrap?

There were a couple of creepy waxworks of old, mutton-chop-wearingVictorian FA administrators, a few moth-eaten caps awarded to pre-warinternationalsandascatteringofdog-earedprogrammes.Theprizedisplaywasapair of heavy hobnail style boots on a plinth, supposedly worn by StanleyMatthews.TheylookedliketheonesmyageingPEteacherwore.Therewasnota singlemention of our belovedQPR, andwewere deeply disappointed.Thefolks getting shaftedover the road at the ‘auctions’ a decadeor so later got agooddealcomparedtoourdayoutattheFootballHalloffame.ItwasnowherenearasgoodastheDolphinarium.

Oneofthepropertiesoccasionallytakenoverbythecrookedauctionfirmswas65OxfordStreet. In recentyears ithasbeenanamusementarcadeandaUnion Jack crap shop, neither of which utilised the vast basement below. Iwouldoccasionallywanderinandwonderifitwasstilldownthere.Butin2012thewhole sitewasdemolishedtomakeway foranotherblandshop front,andofficesabove, therebywipingawayall tracesofoneof the1970s’mostbizarreWestEnd‘attractions’.

Opening on April Fools’ day 1971 to considerable hoopla, Pathé NewsreportedhowwonderfulitwasandNationwidedidapiecefortheBBCsingingitspraises. ItwasownedandrunbythesplendidlynamedPleasuramaLtd,whosechairmanwasoneSirHarmarNicholls,ToryMP.Theswankypremiseshadanelaborate, very ’70s frontage on Oxford Street grandiosely announcing theLondonDolphinarium.Obviouslywehadtogo.

Icanvividlyrecalltheexcitementandglamourofitall.ActuallyIcan’t,butI canvividly recall the overpowering reekof fish in ahot, humid and sweatybasement.Itwasanextraordinaryplace,asmall,swishfoyer,leadingdowntoasteeply banked auditorium at one end of a double height, windowless,undergroundroom.Itwasdeckedout intheheightofgaudy ’70staste,withadeepbutnotparticularlylargeswimmingpoolinthemiddleofit.

A pair of dolphins called Bonnie and Clyde did all the usual jumping-around,Flipper-type tricks involvinghoopsandballsand suchlike,while seals

and penguins were somehow involved as well. The male ‘keeper’ wore tightwhiteLionels,andsome’70s-styledollybirdsknownas‘aqua-maids’swamwiththemarinemammalsandtemptedthemwithtastypiscinetitbitsfromabucket.Actually, they tempted themwithmore than that, and it’s reported that thedolphins had to be dosed with anti-androgens to stop themmaking amorousadvancestotheaquamaids.

Itisalwaysamistaketotryandimposethemoralityofoneeraonanother,and I don’t think too many people complained then that this was cruel. Icertainly had no moral objections as a twelve-year-old, but I do rememberthinkingthatitwasallabitsquashedandsqualid,andcertainlywonderedhowonearth,or ratherunder it, theygotthedolphins intoabasementonOxfordStreet.Whileconsiderablymore funthanthe football farragoover the road, Isortofsensedtherewassomethingfishyabouttheplaceinmorewaysthanone.

Poor attendance figures led to them attempting a dolphin pantomime atChristmas,wherea JasonKing lookalikeplayedRobinsonCrusoeonDolphinIsland.Andat somepoint theKingofSoho sleazePaulRaymondhimselfgotinvolved and produced a dolphin revue,whereby the animalswere trained toremovetheaquamaid’sbikinisbynudgingthemwiththeirsnouts.AccordingtotheSun,whoranapictureundertheheadline‘FlipperStripper’,oneofthegirlswas actually calledLindaSalmon.TheDolphinariumcloseda coupleof yearslaterandmoreregulartattookover.Butitseemsthatthepoolwasstillsittingtherebeneath thebuildingallalong,until thewholeplacewasdemolished inthe2000s.

I can’t really argue that it was a better world when marine mammalsperformed tricks with scantily clad ‘mermaids’ in a sweaty cavern beneathOxford Street. Or for that matter when every other doorway in parts ofW1lured‘tricks’withaluridredlight.Butitmighthavebeen.Itwascertainlymoreinteresting. I definitelywonderwhat tales the currentWest Endwill have totell.IcannotimaginetoomanypeoplesharingtheirhazybutdefiningyouthfulmemoriesofthatamazingtriptoUniqlo;themountingexcitementinthequeueas they neared the cash register, or even the bitter disappointmentwhen thepufferjacketdidn’tquitefit.

Cities need a slice of sleaze, a touch of chicanery, a frisson of edge. ThecorporatesanitisationofcentralLondonmeansthatallthegristinthemillhas

been pushed out to the fraying edges, away from the now-tourist-dominatedheart of town. This blandification of the centre is not a problem unique toLondon.Paris,whenI firstwentthereinthe1970sand ’80s,wasagrittycity,richin‘noirish’, ‘nouvellevague’imagery.Youcouldstillimagineatough,butbeautiful ‘Little Sparrow’ emerging from the dishevelled streets and Gitane-stainedbarsaroundLesHallesandRueStDenis.ItwasatownofbordellosandBains Douches, where the characters were still murky and the transactionsdodgy;charismatic, slightlyunnerving, rich ingrimy layerupon layerof streetlife, but nomore. The bourgeois and the bland havewon the day – and thenight-time,too–inthenowfrou-frouFrenchcapital.

Andover inNewYork, once theworld capital of sexy sleaze and excitingedge,isthereanybodywhoreallythinksthatTimesSquare,oncethedodgiest,shabbiest,mostthrillingspotinthewesternworld,isactuallybetternowthatitis anoutdoorbranchofDisneyland?DoyoupreferMidnightCowboy orMoulinRouge,TaxiDriverorHannahMontana:TheMovie?

IactuallywatchedTaxiDriver– formetheultimateNewYorkfilm,maybethe ultimate film – in 1976, when it was first shown at the National FilmTheatre.Istillhaven’trecovered.ThiswaswhenthebarwasatthefrontdownbytheriverandtheSouthBankwasstilllargelydesertedandderidedasafailedbrutalist monstrosity. I loved the near-empty concrete walkways and rigorousstraight lines: the quasi-Stalinist air of architectural menace, the unforgivingurbanismof it all, itmademe feel like Iwas inAClockworkOrange. Except Ihadn’t seen it, because by the time I was close to old enough, a bruised andcritically battered Stanley Kubrick had withdrawn the film. So myself and agroup of equally obsessed mates, some wearing bowlers, travelled to Paris,specificallytoseeitinthecinemawhereitwasshownatmidnighteverynightforyears.Stilllovethatmovietothisday;stillhavemybowler.

As a seventeen-year-old boy, I had become an ardent cineaste. I was adevoutreaderofSightandSoundandafirmbelieverthatgoingtoseeartyandobscuremovieswouldmakememorepopularwith females. Ihad learned theword‘auteur’andlearnedthatsomegirls–particularlytheoneswhohadjoinedusinthesixthformatourpreviouslyall-boysgrammarschool–likedladswhowerepreparedtoshowtheirsensitiveandartisticside.WhichiswhyIalsotooktocarryingacopyofanunreadableScandinaviannovelroundinmypocket.

I also learned that even grammar school girls like other, less cerebral

entertainments.ThiswasconfirmedwhenwewentonamassschoolexcursiontotheHendonClassictoseeEmmanuelleormaybeEmmanuelle2.Wewereallayearorsotooyoungtogetintoan18certificate,butwedressedinourbestandmanagedtoconvincethenot-all-that-botheredpeoplesellingtheticketstoletusin.Thatnightwasaneducationinmanyways.

JustJaeckin’sfamedsoft-pawcornepicwasonscreenone,thelargestattheClassic(whichhadbeenanOdeonandisnowagymnasium),itbeingextremelypopular and all. By this time the multiplexes had well and truly arrived,choppingupthosegrandoldcinemasintoasmanyseparatescreensaspossible,withnocareoverarchitecturalintegrityorcinematicexcellence–andofcourseIthoughttheyweregreat.

But looking back, I actually believe that butchering the grand old picturepalaces into multiple, separate boxes, was a portent of important changes tocome.Wenow live in amuchmore atomised, solipsistic society.Technologyhasallowedustofragment,tofillourliveswithourownself-affirmingchoices.Wewatch,wehear,weexperienceonlywhatwewant,andwedoitinourownlittlebubble.Andthatbubblebeganwhenwesectionedoffthebigcinemasintotiny,misshapenscreens.Choicewonoutoversharedexperience,individualismovercollectivism.

AlongwiththevisitstotheSouthBankandtheNFT,IalsoheadedbacktoOxfordStreet toconfirmmy teenagecineastecredentials.Becauseas tackyasthestripcouldbeinthe’70s,italsoboastedoneofthegreatestcinemasthiscityhaseverseen:theAcademyatnumber165hadbeenLondon’smostimportantindependent art house and foreign language cinema for generations. It wassmart,cultured,cosmopolitan,sophisticatedandpreposterouslypretentious.

TheveryactofgoingtoOxfordStreet,theepicentreofcrass,yetchoosingtoentertheAcademyandrubshoulderswithsuperciliousacademicswithleatherpatches on their elbows, émigré intellectuals andwan-looking blondewomenwith too many vowels in their names, was a massive decision. I was self-consciously crossing a line. Burnt Oak boy out of Notting Dale, watchingKurasawa and all that. I was increasingly aware that my education was alsoschizophrenic,partlyfromschool,butalsofromLondon.Thecityitselfbecamemyteacheron justaboutevery subject fromarchitecture topsychology,art tocomparativereligion.OnOxfordStreet,Icouldlearnaboutabstractsculpture,theimpendingapocalypse,thethree-cardtrickandtheSevenSamurai.

Backinthe1950sand’60s,thebasementoftheAcademybuildinghadbeenthe original home of theMarqueeClub, where on 12 July 1962TheRollingStones played their first ever gig. But by the time I firstwent there in about1976or’77,eventheAcademywasmultiscreenandthebasementwasscreenstwoandthree,while theMarqueewas roundthecorneronWardourStreet. Iwasa regular there too,andover the roadat the100Club, the sole survivingmusic venue onOxford Street today. I was working onmy nightmoves, butwe’llkeepthoseforanotherchapter.

I’mnottellingyouanyofthistotryandmakemyselfseemclever,althoughappearingcleverwascertainlyadesiredsideeffectofgoingtotheAcademyandtheNFT, aswas the likelihoodof seeingnaked foreign fleshon screen.But Ithink I realised even then that this was what London meant to me, whatLondonofferedmeandcouldhelpmetobecome.

SomeoftheladsfromtheWatling,quickandsharpthoughtheywere,rarelylefttheestateexcepttogotofootball.Theyfeltsafeintheircocoon,happytobe faces in theBaldFacedStag.Others, likemyself,were luredby the lights.Evengrowinguppoorinametropolis,youcanstillseetheseaofpossibilities,because of the proximities. Actors acting, musicians performing, artists doingwhateveritisartistsdo,celebrities,charlatans,longcars,tallbuildings,bigstuff:that is the essence of our everyday.Out in the country, or in smaller towns,there are fewer opportunities to witness other ways, but bunk the fare on aNumber52orasouthboundNorthernlinetrainandafewstopslateryouhitacity bristlingwith alternatives. It hitme between the eyes, and opened themtoo.

IrecentlymetsomekidsfromanestateinSouthLondon,youngblackladswhowereontheradiototalkaboutgangcrime.Theywereintheirmid-teens,full of braggadocio and little boy nerves, bright as Paul Smith buttons,effervescentwithenergy,yetclearlywayoutoftheirends–truthbetold,alittlescared.Formanyofthem,thiswasthefirsttimetheyhadeverbeenupWest,oranywhere else for that matter, their horizons ended at the limit of theirpostcode.Thesekids,boysjustlikewewere,hadneverhadRedRoversortripsto Speakers’ Corner, never climbed the Monument or run shouting overWaterloo Bridge. They had on blinkers, living in a small, closed, timid,dangerousworld,theoppositeofabigcity.NowtheywereattheBBC,andtheycould suddenly see a different universe, see people not entirely unlikethemselves doing jobs they’d never even contemplated. They were excited,

amazed,baffled, itwasbeautiful, scaleswere fallingandLondonwas revealingitself.Londonerswereemerging

*

Therewasafairamountofthatgoingonatthepicturestoo–therevealingbit,that is. While most cinemas in the late 1970s early ’80s had either beenmodernised and multiplexed, or else shut down and even demolished, therewereafewwhichjustcarriedonintheirwondrousdecrepitude.SomeofthemsurvivedasspecialistBollywoodhouses,othersaspornpits.Thedayofthedirtypicturesisdefinitelydone.

ThebestoftheworstofthosebugholeshadbeentheTolmer,alegendarilydecayingvenueinatrulylostpartofLondon,whichsadlyshoweditslastcheesydoublebillbeforeIgotthere.JusttothewestofEustonstation,andbackingontoHampsteadRoad,hiddennowbehindaboxy,mirror-frontedofficeblock,isTolmers Square. Today it is a rather grim 1970s red-brick council estate, aninsularwarrenofflatsandscrubbygrass,butonceithadbeenacausecélèbre.

RatherlikethebattletosaveFrestonia,thisenclaveofrun-downbutratherhandsome five-storeyRegencyhouses,with grandpillars andporticos, arrayedaround a square with a cinema (which had originally been a church) at itscentre,wasmarked fordemolition fromthemid-’60sonwards. (It’s interestingthat in the1930s, churchesbecamecinemas,whereasnow it is theotherwayround). The population of what was dubbed Tolmer Village was anotherexampleofearlymulticulturalism,aworking-classmixofGreekCypriot,Irish,African and Indian, the last of whom who opened some of the first Indianrestaurants and shops in London, just behind Tolmer Square on DrummondStreet.EventheEsperantocommunity(is theresuchathing?)hadtheirheadofficeshere.Ofcourse,theplanwastowipeitallawayandreplaceitexclusivelywithoffices,butacombinationofresidentsandstudentsfromnearbyUCLandthe Architectural Association fought a brilliant campaign to make CamdenCouncilchangetheirmind.

When it closed in the mid-’70s, the Tolmer was infamous as London’scheapest and grungiest place to watch films, which a high percentage of theaudience were not doing. Prostitutes and their punters went about theirtransactionalrelationshipsinfullviewofstudentsskippinglecturesandasemi-permanent audience of the homeless, junkies and street drinkers seekingsomewherewarmtonodoff.Therewasn’tadryseatinthehouse.BythetimeI

went, thereweren’tanyseatswhatsoever inthehouse, they’dbeenrippedoutanditsauditoriumusedsolelyforinchoatedancingatsquatraves.Soonafter,itwasdemolished.

Ididmake it to theequallynotoriousBiograph–or, as itwasknown, theBiogrope–toseeafilm,butthatwasn’tthemainentertainment.Victoriaisthelandofthelost.Nobodyknowswheretheyaregoinginthisconstantlystirringcauldron of perpetual revolution, a quasi-Maoist mess of turmoil and unease.Therehavebeenbuildingworksandroadworksandnoiseanddirtanddiggingand disorientation in the ever-shifting concrete quagmire around Victoriastation throughout my entire life; never a day in repose. It is the mostpermanentlytransientofquarters,nothingiseverstill,noonelivestheresurely,nothingsurvives,nothingisforus.

Victoria is a place for arriving and leaving:Tubes, trains, coaches, queues,bags,bafflement,atourofBabel,ateeming,torridforecourttothecity.Iratherlikeit.I’vealwayslovedthegrubbyzonesaroundthebigmainlinestations.Inany real city worth its salt, terminal hinterlands are always turbulent anddisturbing, the air is choked by fast-food fumes and taxi emissions, ne’er-do-wells, sexshopsandgrease-stained,red,plushsteakbarsoneverycorner.Anddodgyoldcinemas.

The Tolmer was by Euston, the Scala is opposite King’s Cross and theBiograph,whichclaimedtobetheoldestcinemainBritain(itwasn’t),wasonWilton Road Victoria, and boasted the best 1950s Miami-style logo in allLondon.And for some reason itbecameamajor gaycruisingvenue,which ispreciselywhyIwent there. Ialsowent to theLondonApprenticepub inOldStreet, the Vauxhall Tavern, the Coleherne in Earl’s Court, Bolts nightclubnear our squat in Harringay, Heaven in Charing Cross and a sauna/spa/bathhousethingonEndellStreetinCoventGarden,whereIsawmyfirstever,real,in-the-flesh,up-closemale-on-maleoralaction.ButtheBiographwasrightupthere,ordownthere,orwhereveryouplace1980sdown-and-dirtygaycruisingculture,whichIgottoknowbetterthanmynaturalproclivitiesmightsuggest,becauseIsharedaflatwithMichaelSmith.HetookmetotheBiogrope.

Michael is dead. In retrospect, it was close to inevitable that Michaelwouldn’thavemadeitthrough,butbackthen, intheearly ’80s,nooneknewthat his chosen lifestyle, although never exactly healthy, would prove to bequite so swiftly fatal. He was a chain-smoking, hard-drinking, drug-imbibing,poppers-sniffing, leather-wearing, rough-trade-seeking sybarite from a genteel

northern town, with themost nicotine-stained fingers and engagingly smuttysmileI’veeverseen.SwitchingbackandforthbetweenNewYorkandLondon,eking out a dwindling inheritance, by living as close to squalor as he could,Michaelwas a true cosmopolitan, a great friendanda fantastic raconteur.HedecidedthatIshouldgettoknowhisworldandsomadeitapointofpridetotakemetoeverysordidboltholeinbothofhistowns.NothinginLondoncouldquitecomparewithanightwithMichaeldowntheMineshaftortheManholein Manhattan’s Meatpacking District, but a matinée at the Biograph provedsuitablydiverting.

Quite why this shabby old picture house near Victoria station became sopopular among Michael’s mates I have no idea, although apparently it hadacquiredtabloidnotorietymanyyearsbeforebecauseofthegaygoings-ongoingoninthecheapseats.IfIhadactuallygonetheretoseeHonkyTonkFreeway,Iwould have been more than a little put off by the furtive shuffling and thefrantic coming and going, or should that be going and coming, between thestalls and the toilets. It was ameatmarket indeed.Henry Cooper’s identicaltwinbrotherGeorgewasthehousemanager,buteventhethreatofatastyrighthook didn’t stop the shenanigans. It was the sudden appearance of thebulldozers,shortlybeforethebuildingwasabouttobelisted,thatfinallyrobbedusofthisoddoldinstitution.ItwasAIDSthatrobbedusofMichael.

Ihaveonlythehaziest,trippiestrecollectionofacinemathatusedtositontheCharingCrossRoad,backingontoLeicesterSquare.Atthesouthernend,justbefore you get to the National Portrait Gallery, where the Capital Radiobuildingisnow.Itsfinalincarnationwasaspartoftheubiquitous1980sClassicChain,and itwasat somepoint in themiddleof thatexcessivedecadethat IendedatypicallyindulgentSohonightthere.Itwasjustyetanotherexhaustedoldcinema,butonewhichwasopenatfourinthemorning.

I haveno idea ifwe paid or not – I suspectwe justwalked in.Therewasdefinitelyamovieplayingonthescreen,buttherewerealsopeoplelivingintheauditorium.A load of punks, of theCrass,mohican, dreadlocks and dogs-on-string variety, had set up home amid the torn and broken seats and wererunning itasa residential squat/cinema.Pilesof their tattybelongings litteredtheplace,domesticsquabblestookplace;Ithinktherewereevenrudimentarycookingfacilities.Theydefinitelysolddrinksandprobablysubstancesfromabar

and slept in the aisles – although I don’t knowwhen, because everybodywasawakeduringthisbizarreall-nighter.ItresembledascenefromMadMaxgoestothemovies.

The time from the mid-1970s until Margaret Thatcher’s free market reformskickedin,inthemid-’80s,andweallstartedtogodesignerfancy,wasaperiodof incredible waywardness andwonderful creativity. London had been largelyleft to rot, abandonedand forsaken, leavingvast spaces for youngchancers tomovein.Thesewereessentiallyentrepreneurs,butof thepiratical ratherthanthestrictlyprofitablevariety.Bigbusiness stillwantednothingtodowithourtarnished town, government policies still assumed the flight to the suburbswouldcontinue.

Therewas a band of terrible/beautiful dereliction, running roughly parallelwith the river, taking inBattersea andBankside, both of themdominated byredundantpowerstationsandthevastdeserteddocklandsarea,startinghardbyTowerBridgeandheadingwayouteast.OnlyHaroldShandandthewritersofTheLongGoodFridaycouldseeanyfutureforthedocklands.

Therewasanotherswatheofformerlight-industrialLondongonetoruin,arun-down wasteland of warehouses, lockups and would-be villains from OldStreetroundabouttowaybeyondBethnalGreen.Rightinthecentreoftown,CoventGarden,with tumbleweed blowing through the former flowermarket,was almost serene in its abandonment, while the badlands of King’s Cross’scanalandrailwayworldwereextremelybadindeed.

Tomymind,therearecertainevents,which, inretrospect,werepivotal inthe transformation of these urban wastelands. Andrew Logan’s fabulousAlternativeMissWorld extravaganza in his artists’ studios in ButlersWharf.PaulSmithopeninghisfirstboutiqueinFloralStreetandtheBlitzclubstartinground the corner. The first warehouse parties in ‘Mayhem’, ToyahWillcox’sformer printworks in Battersea. A designer calledWillie Brown launching ashopcalledModernClassics(whereSpandauandIboughtourkilts)inCurtainRoad,whennooneevenknewwhereShoreditchorHoxtonwere.AndSteveWoolley,nowoneofour leading filmmakers, takingover adisusedcinema inKing’sCross to start theScala.WhenStevemoved in,King’sCrosswasn’t somuchaneighbourhoodas a jungle, and theScalawasn’t a cinema, itwas theworld’sonlyeverPrimatarium.

It’s remarkable howmany stories in this book involve animals in unlikelyplaces.ButwhatwasmostbizarreaboutthetaleofthemonkeyextravaganzainKing’s Cross is that it didn’t have any monkeys. It didn’t have any punterseither.FoundedbyawealthymonkeynutnamedCyrilRosen,theplacewasadisaster. If few people attended the Football Hall of Fame, it was positivelypopularcomparedtothePrimatarium.LikemanymillionsofotherLondoners,Inever went, and despite repeated appeals on my radio show, I have nevermanaged to discover a single soul who actually paid to attend.One person Ispoketojustwanderedinoffthestreetoneday,findingnobodyondutyinthelobby, or anywhere else for thatmatter, and took a little look round, but leftafter a few moments of bored bewilderment. It is on record that MichaelHeseltineattendedtheopeningparty,andgiventhathisnicknamewasTarzan,thereisacertainironythere,butitwasapredictabledisaster.

Why would anybody turn a palatial old 1,000-seater cinema into a fakejungleexperiencewithplasticpalmtrees,piddlingwaterfallsandsimiansounds,photographs and films, but no primates bar a few stuffed orang-utans andchimpanzees?Andwhywouldanybodygotoseeit?Clearlytheydidn’t.

Not surprisingly the Primatarium was short-lived, and it was eventuallytaken over by a young Islington-born movie nut. Stephen Woolley hadoriginallyopenedtheScalainTottenhamStreet,overinFitzroviain1979.HisschoolmateSteveDaggerhadputononeofSpandauBallet’sfirstgigsthere,andI had introduced them on stage with preposterous poetry, all of which wasfilmedinartyblackandwhite forLWT.But in1981itmovedtothemassiveKing’sCross site, still shrouded in fake junglegear.StevedisplayedhisplayfulsenseofhumourbyshowingKingKongontheopeningnight.

TheScalawasactuallya repertory filmclub,costing50payear to join, inorder to circumvent British censorship rules. It specialised in all-day and all-nightsessionsofcinematicschlockandawe;zombies,perverts,kung-fufighters,but also avant-garde auteurs, rarely seen foreign language masterpieces andinspired art-house double headers. Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia andEraserhead is one pairing that sticks inmy head. You could take in your ownalcohol, smoke whatever you wanted, and party like it was a party: all thiscinematicmerriment,withtheNorthernlinerattlingawaynoisilybeneathyou,muchofthemadjunglescenerystillinplace,ahousecatwhowouldjumponyourlapduringhorrorfilmsandaraucousbutseriouslycineasteaudience.Itwas

thegreatestfunyoucouldpossiblyhaveinathreadbarevelourseat.TheScalawastheperfectmetaphorforLondoninthe1980s.Itwasthecity

in microcosm: anarchic, grubby, cheap, scurrilous, crumbling, still hungoverfrom a former age, yet blessedwith awayward, gutter creativity; all ofwhichoperated on the very edge of illegality and occasionally toppled over it. TheScalaclosed in1992after itwas fined to thepointofbankruptcy for showingthestill-bannedAClockworkOrange,advertisedasMechanicalFruit.ButbythenSteveWoolley’smindwasnotonhis picturepalace, ashehad startedPalacePictures and had begun producing a slew of brilliant British films, includingMonaLisa,whichisprobablythebestrepresentationofoldKing’sCrossinallitsdeeplydodgyglory.

And today?Well, theScala is anightclub andmusicvenue (itwas alwaysmore like a nightclub with films showing) and King’s Cross is a swankyneighbourhood.As forgoingtothepictures,well it’sneverbeenbetter.Sadlywehavenomoreflea-pits,butalongwiththemyriadchainswehavegotSecretcinema,Rooftopcinema,Hottubcinema,Floatingcinema,boutiquecinemas,cine-clubs and live soundtrack events; London still loves films, and films stillloveLondon.

Come on, let’s go to the pictures, we could choose from: The Long GoodFriday, The Lavender Hill Mob, Blow-Up, Quadrophenia, Meantime, Dirty PrettyThings, Hue and Cry, Notting Hill, Alfie, Oliver, Babylon, Nil By Mouth, MaryPoppins,MyBeautifulLaunderette,MyFairLady,ToSirwithLove,Repulsion,PoorCow,PartyParty,UptheJunction,AClockworkOrange,TheBlueLamp,TheKrays,Layercake, Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Passport to Pimlico, Piccadilly,Gangster No. 1, Bend It Like Beckham,Withnail and I, The Ladykillers, The RedShoes,TheBlueLamp,TheElephantMan,HopeandGlory,FromHell,PrickUpYourEars, The Small World of Sammy Lee, Mona Lisa, Life Is Sweet, Bedknobs andBroomsticks,BulletBoy,28DaysLater,84CharingCrossRoad,10RillingtonPlace,Wonderland, Somers Town, Frenzy, The Ipcress File, The Omen, A Kid for TwoFarthings,Kidulthood, Performance, SlidingDoors,Deathline, Jawbone,AnAmericanWerewolf in London, The Lady in the Van, Bridget Jones or Steptoe and Son RideAgain,Ithinkyoucanseeouroldhouseinthatone.

DoYouFancyaSchvitz?

Whilesittingnaked,flushedandsweatingonamarbleslab,orbeingpummelledbyahirsute cabdriver ina scalding fog of steam, I occasionallywonder if I am somehowcommuningwithmyancestors,reachingbacktorecoverlostmemoriesofanever-knownshtetl. Do I like a schvitz so much because of the Jewish blood that flows frommymother’s ancestry?Or perhaps it’s an unconscious recollection of the old LimeGrovewash house,where generations ofElmseswould have soaked away the grime and theblues,whenatinbathinthekitchenwasn’tsufficient.Maybeit’sjustthesecondbestfunyoucanhavewithnoclotheson?

AschvitzisaYiddishsweat;sitting,lying,loungingnaked,lettingitallflowoutinahotroom.ATurkishbath,aFinnishsauna,aMoroccanhammam,aRussianbanya–somanydifferentculturescanlayclaimtothetraditionofcommunalperspirationandablutionand you can find every variationhere inLondon.You can find themall atPorchesterHall.

Itseemsfittingthatthefirstpersonwhoevertookmetothebathstoopenmyporesandpoursometeawasasecond-generationIrishhairdresserandpunkrockmemorabiliadealerfromClonmelviaFinchley,calledOllieO’Donnell.MrO’DonnellisnotnotablyJewish.Youdefinitelydon’thavetobe‘ofthefaith’togotoPorchesterBaths;agrandbut gloriously decayingEdwardian edifice inBayswater.But you can’t really immerseyourselfineitherthe‘frigidarium’,thefreezingplungepool,orthecoruscatingcultureoftheplaceunlessyoulearnalittleYiddish.

Men’sdaysatthebathsarenotforthefainthearted,andnorisschmeissing.Whenyoufirstarriveatthebaths,unawareofitscomplextraditions,elaboraterigmarolesandhierarchies,youareapisher.Literallyabed-wetter,aknow-nothingnewboy,andyouareprobablyalsoaschlump,aschmuck,ashmendrickandaschlemiel.Nottomentionableedin’goy,whichwillbecomeobviousbecauseyouaretuchasnakedandeveryonecanseeyourschlonghasn’tbeencircumcised.ButIwouldn’tworryaboutallthat.

Oneofthemostendearingthingsaboutthebathsistherigorousegalitarianism.Half

of the week is dedicated to women and I’m sure ladies days have their own arcanerituals.Whentheguysarein,Jeworgentile,gayorstraight,richorpoor,blackorwhite,Tottenham or Arsenal, it makes no odds. You may well find yourself sitting withTerenceStamp,FrankBruno,DamonAlbarn,WayneSleep,IanMcShane,ablagger,aplumber and a card counter, a Lord, a judge, a journalist and a bevy of black cabdrivers,allnaked,andallcompletecuntsaccordingtoMorrieoverinthecorner.

ThereusedtobescoresofTurkishbathsaroundLondon,especiallyintheEastEndwhere theywere a vital part of the social and religious life of the Jewish community.Theybrought the customover fromEasternEuropeandused thebaths to get suitablysprucebefore going to synagogue.The famous oldRussianVapourBathsat86BrickLane,knownasSchewzik’s,afteritsowner,wasforyearsaBengalisupermarket,butisnowahotel.ThereinliesaLondontale.

Thereisstillasignsetinthepavement,nearmyoldflatonRussellSquare,pointingtoalong-gonehammamwhichstoodonSouthamptonRow.JermynStreetoncehadtwo,includingaparticularlypalatialplace,whichgotbombedinthewar,andasmalleronethat lasted into the ’70s and was favoured by dandies, politicians,West End actorssweating off post-play hangovers, Lord Boothby and the Kray twins. Another was onLeicesterSquarebutwasdemolishedwhenthefamedAlhambraTheatrewent.

These days only a couple of old-school schvitz’s remain, and my favoured one isunder threat.Thereareproposals tomakePorchesterHallplusher, inaccordwith thegentrificationoftheareaitserves.Moreofamodern‘spa’withalltheconnotationsofscented candles, soppymusic, serenity and expensive treatments. There is not a lot ofholistic ‘omming’ or quinoa at PorchesterHall, but there are plenty of eggs on toast,strongteaandschmeissing.

Iamtechnicallya‘schmeissponce’,whichmeansthatIenjoybeinggiven‘abath’,asit’salwayscalled,buthaven’tacquiredtheskills togiveonebackinreturn.Basically,teams ofmen gang together to take turns lying in the hottest steam roomwith awettowel over theirheadswaiting to bepummelled.The others rub you vigorouslywitharaffiabrush,calledabesom,dippedinabigbucketofsoap,raisingthetemperaturetodiabolical,workingyourmusclesandyoursoulsimultaneouslywithtoughforearmsandpalms.Itisunbelievablyhardtogiveabathinthepulsing,burningheat,butgreattogetone.Followedbyadipintheicyplungepool,itistheperfectendtoasweatingsession.Thenthefunbegins.

Thewordbanterhasbeenhorriblydebasedbylads’magsandTwittertwits.ButthefirsttimeIeversatupstairsinthe‘tepidarium’,thecooling-offarea,andmeeklylistenedto the verbal volleys ricocheting off the marble pillars, and the often lewd, ludicrousstoriesbeingtold,Iwasknockedsidewaysbythedexterity,thehumour,theobscenityand

thesheervolume.Loud,rude,crude,cutting,butalsoclearly,deeplyloving.Blimey,thatwasbanter.

Herewerebig,naked,flabbymen,adoringthistimetheyspendtogether,revellingintheirconceptofcommunity.Tome,sittinginarobe,cleanandscrubbed,eatingtoast,listeningtoJimmyTwoBathsjoustverballywithHarryroundthecorner,laughingoutloudattheirrottenjokes,wasLondonlifeatitsverybest,andIwashooked.

ForafewyearsIwenteveryWednesday,gottoknowsomeofthecharacters,maybeevenearnedalittlerespectinthecauldronofquickwits.OneoftheguysIusedtoseetherewasavolubleNorthLondoncabbiecalledMitch.Abig, loud,dappermanwithhisclotheson,pronetoaspotofcrooning,whowasverymuchpartoftheinnercircle.TheyallgottoknowwhatIdoforalivingandwouldoccasionallyribmeaboutgettingthemontheradio.ButwithMitchitwasdifferent,hewantedmetogethisdaughterontheradio:‘She’sagreatsinger,’hewouldsay,‘She’sgoingtobebig.HernameisAmy.’

LordofLord’s

Whatisthemostluminous,numinousspaceinallLondon?StPaul’sisclearlythemaincontender:bornofflames,itsdomeshroudedinHitler’sfire,yetstillhere,dwarfednowandaged,butstillthevisionwecarryofourcollectivecontinuity,thecapital’seternity.St Pancras Old Church is a personal favourite, a humble jumble of a prayer roomoverseeingthenowsecretedFleet,whosepatchworkhistorystretchesbacktothebaptismofthefirstChristianLondonersinValeRoyal.

Number 19 Princelet Street, just off Brick Lane, is heartbreakingly special, acrumbling Huguenot house with a spellbinding private synagogue at the back; spare,silenttestimonytothenarrativesofarrivalandsurvival,aprayerinthenight.Butasanon-believerinallandanyfaiths,barafalteringtrustinmyfellowman,themostawe-inspiringspaceinthiscity,repletewithsomanymonumentsandsomuchreverence,isLord’s,ladiesandgentlemen.

I’ve always adored the great sporting icons, temples ofwill and suffering, joy anddreadedhope.I’veseengamesattheSanSiro,theBomboneraandtheBernabéu,boxingatMadisonSquareGardenandtheRoyalAlbertHall,baseballatFenwayandcyclingonVentoux.I’vewatchedsombremeninsuitsoflightsparadeanddanceandkillanddie in Seville’s unequalledLaMaestranza, undoubtedly themost sumptuous arena ofthemall.(Arena,nowthewordforallsportingvenues,justmeanssandinSpanish,thesandwherethematadorswalk.)Butinawholeworldofbeautiful,historiccathedralsofsinew,there’snonethatcancomparetothecricketfieldinStJohn’sWood.

IfIcouldtreatatreasuredfriendtoanyonespecialdayinmycity,itwouldbetheopening day of the firstAshes test at the home of theMaryleboneCricketClub: thetraditionofeggsandbacon, thecrackleofverdantanticipation,OldFatherTime, theW.G.statue,thestatureofthepavilionandthemodernityofthemediacentre.Likealltrulyspecialspaces,itisanaccretionofmomentsandmythologies,butitisalsoalovesong ofEngland, a paean that touches evenmy cynicalmetropolitan soul. If you canallowanideaofperfection intoyourheart,evenjust forafewhours, thenthis is the

perfectsetting.Nograss isgreener,nosilencequieter,nobuzzbuzzier thanthatcontainedwithin

theconfinesofthecricketground.Itdoesn’thavetobetheAshes;itdoesn’thavetobeatest:anydaywhenthesunshinesuponNW8,armsare turned,shotsareplayedanddrinksarepoured,isaprettygoodday.

Iamnotacricketnut–footballismytrueaffliction–butIfirstwenttoHQasalocalkidandwasinstantlyentranced.Backthenyoucouldsitbytheboundaryropeinyourschooluniformlikesomethingfroma1940sfilmandwatchthemeninwhitetoilandswipe,dreamygreenhoursfoldinguponthemselves.LateratcountygamesIstoodinthe tavern with the noisy boys, holding a pint and self consciously chanting ‘middle,middlemiddle,sex,sex,sex’.Today,wheneverIcan,Iblagaticketforatestorsweettalk my way into the pavilion with a member; being in the inner sanctum holds adefinitesway.Thatmajesticroomiscertainlylongonatmosphere.

I think Iunderstood straightaway thatLord’s isaplace to suspenddisbelief, castasideprejudiceand immerseyourself in themyth, revel in thespell.Once through theGrace gate, traditions thatwould grate elsewhereare greathere: bells are rung, tea istaken, snoozing is almost compulsory. Old codgers in blazers are venerable sages,corporate suits in boxes are firmaficionados, grownmenmark cards, small boys seeksignatures.Sportsmanship is celebrated,milestonesby either sideareapplauded,drawsarehonourable, champagne is available, life is enjoyable. If it’s not cricket, it hasnoplaceatLord’s.Buttheydon’tmakeiteasy.

Ilikethefactthattheyhavestandards.OneofmytrueLondondisappointmentswasgoingtotheRoyalOperaHouseforthefirstandonlytimetoseeaportlypersonwarble,putting onmybestest biband tucker, only todiscover thatmost of the crowdwere incasuals. Jeans foranightat theopera,whathavewecome to?Masteringappropriateattireforalloccasionsisanessentialcityskill:CoventGardenisnotanallotment.Oneofthepleasuresofadayatthecricketformeisgettingsuitablysuitedandbooted,palelinenandloafers.

I opted for just that ensemblewhen I and a couple ofmates decided to attend aMiddlesex versus Yorkshire county game on aMonday after a languid, liquid lunch.OneofourpartyisanMCCmember,soweknewtosportjacketsandties,eventhoughitwasthatrarebeast:aswelteringlyhotdayinNorthLondon.Weneededtobesuitablysuitedasweintendedtopartakeofthepavilionandrulesisrules.

Threeimmaculate,middle-agedmeninwhistlesandPeckhams,in80plusdegreesofheat,inagroundwithmaybeafewhundredhardysoulspresent.Wepaidtheexorbitantentrancefeeandstrolledtowardsthepavilion,confidentthatforoncewewouldmakeitpast the sentinelsand intohallowedspace.Butaswewent towalk in,eyebrowswere

raised,headswereshaken,entrancewasbarred.‘Socks,’isallthesternlookingsecuritymansaid,andwealllookeddowntoseethatmymateRichardwasindeedwithouttheaforementionedgarments.‘Youcannotenterthepavilionwithoutsocks,thisisnotItaly.’

Icouldnothavelovedthemmore.Except perhaps when I heard a story from SebastianCoe. LordCoe, BaronCoe,

aristoToryMP,headoftheIAAFCoe.Hearrivedforatestmatchatthebiggatetodiscoverthathisticketswereawaitinghimroundtheothersideofthestadium.Hetriedto reason with the doorman, insisting that he had an important meeting withMCCbigwigsinside.Exasperated,hefinallyplayedthe‘DoyouknowwhoIam?’card.

‘Indeed I do my Lord,’ said the humble chap barring his entry. ‘Therefore I alsoknowthatyoushouldbeabletogetroundtheretocollectthemprettyquickly.’

EvenaLordcan’tbeatLord’s.

CHAPTERFOUR

DinnerTime

OnFridayIhadabender.Fortherestoftheweekourdailyeatingpatternwentlikethis:breakfastwascerealwithmilk,freshfromthesilver-toppedbottlesleftdailyon thedoorstep,or else a sliceof ‘holy-ghost’ and jam, sometimeseatenwithyourfeetinthegasoventokeepwarm;dinner(whichwaswhatwecalledlunch)wasservedatnooninthehallatschool.Igotitfreewhenmydaddied,andIlikedeverythingaboutitexceptthesemolina.

Theeveningmealwascalledteaandwastakenatabout6p.m.CookedbyMum, it invariably involved meat in some form, usually minced, vegetablesboiled to the point of suppuration, and fruit from a tin –mandarin segmentswerebest,servedwithBird’scustardorCarnationcondensedmilk.Occasionally– and I realise now itwaswhenwewere particularly skint – something grimfromthewar,likeoxheart(veryStJohn)ortripeandonions,wouldbeputonthetable.Thekitchenwouldsmelllikeanabattoir,andwewouldallgrimaceasweate.Butweate.

Later on, when ’70s culinary futurism and E-numbers really kicked in,Cadbury’s Smash, boil-in-a-bag fish andAngelDelight – butterscotch flavourhopefully–becamestaples,washeddownwithabottleofluridpinkCresta(‘It’sfrothy man’). Snacks were of the chocolate variety: Penguins, Club biscuits,Tunnock’swafers,butoccasionally,ifthecupboardwasbare,sugarsandwiches.Yep,whitesugarpouredliberallybetweenslicesofMother’sPridebread.

Mymumwasnevermuchof aworrieraboutnutritional technicalities,normuchofacook,loveher.Butshemadeadecentspotteddickinanoldmuslincloth, we were never hungry and there was always some form of roast on aSundaywithBrussels sproutsyoucoulddrink througha straw.ButonFridays,afterahardworkingweek,sheoptedoutofstandingbythestovetomakeourtea,andinsteadweallgotatakeaway.Ihadabender.

TraditionalFridayeveningfarewasfishandchips,andwewouldsometimes

stillpatronisethelocalchipshopforourtakeawaytea.IwouldbedispatchedtogouptoWatlingAvenuetoaskforcod,orrockandchipsfourtimes,acoupleofwalliesandaha’porthofcrackling,justpossiblyasaveloy,lashingsofsaltandvinegar–wrappedinnewspaperofcourse–runbacktokeepitwarm.Tothisday I cannot eat chipped potatoes, in any form, no matter how fancy therestaurant,withoutapplyingsourwine,ideallymalted;certainlynotbalsamic.

It is also interesting how fried fish, particularly served with a pickledcucumber (why is that a wally?) comes from the Jewish food tradition. Butthough I love fish and chips now, as a young boy Iwas seduced by themoresnazzy delights of a juicy bender with thin, crispy chips, and maybe even aknickerbockerglory,ifmumwasflush.OhthewondersoftheWimpyBar.

BurntOakinthelate’60shadthreediningoptions.OppositethestationwastheBetaCafé,alwayspronouncedtheBetterCaff.Aclassic,nicotine-shrouded,Formica-topped, greasy spoon runby a lovely Italian family, theMiglios,whohadmovedoutofClerkenwelltodishupstrongtea,sausageandmashorliverandbacontothegoodfolkoftheOak.Actuallyquiteafewofthebadfolkwenttheretoo,butnooneevertooklibertiesintheBetterCaff,asoldmanMigliowasalwaysassumedtohave‘connections’,plusheusuallyhadaverysharpknifeinhishand,andhetooknolip.

ThechipshopwasalittlefurtheruptheWatling,andtheyounggirlswhoworkedtherewereconsideredquiteacatch,despitethelingeringsmell,becauseit was said they always gave their boyfriends extra chips. But five minutesfurtheraway, round thecorner,on theEdgwareRoad,near thebowlingalley,which undoubtedly meant it was posher, was the Wimpy Bar. This was anexcitingplaceindeed:adestinationrestaurant.

TheWimpyBarwasoftenmymum’sdestinationwhenshefinishedworkonaFriday, first atWoolworths, later at thenearbyGreenShieldStampoffices.Shewould stop off and get a takeaway to bringhome for our tea; burger andchipsformybrothers,butafrankfurterforme,withnotchescutintoitsothatitcurled round in a circle to fit in the toasted bun, hence the retrospectivelyrisible name, the bender. They were usually almost cold by the time she gotthemhome,butitdidn’tmatter.Thiswasarealtreat,whichwelookedforwardtoallweek,andIcouldsmell themassheopenedthedoor.ButevenakinkysausageeateninfrontoftheTVwhilewatchingHereCometheDoubleDeckers!,wasasnothingcomparedtotherareeventofactually‘eatingin’,whichiswhat

wecalledeatingout.IrecalleatinginatsomethingcalledtheGoldenEggonceortwice.Thiswas

achainofegg-basedeateries,whichwewenttoonatripwithmydadupWest,where they somehow pulled off the trick of making egg and chips seemglamorous.Tobehonestanymeal takensittingata tableoutsideofour littlekitchenwasexciting,especiallytheBurntOakWimpy.

We didn’t exactly eat in at the Wimpy all that often, but I definitelyrememberthethrillofsittinginabooth,withmenuscoatedinplastic,theredplastic seats and the red plastic, tomato-shaped tomato sauce dispenser, withAmericanmusic playing,while aGreekbloke in a funnyuniformcooked thefood. It was a chain, which seemed exotic and exciting and apparentlyAmericanand thereforemodern. (Wimpywasactuallyownedby theveryoldfashionedanddeeplyBritishJ.Lyons&Coofcornerhousefame).IfwewereintheWimpyitwasprobablysomebody’sbirthday,sowewoulddefinitelypushtheboatoutandgetacokefloatorgloryinaKnickerbocker,perhapsevenafrothycoffee for Mum, confident that there probably wasn’t a more sophisticateddiningexperienceinallLondon.Andtruthbetoldthereweren’tverymany.

The quality, quantity and diversity of eating places in this city now:restaurants,cafés,bistros,takeaways,fine-dininginstitutions,gastropubs,pop-upexperiences, gourmet vans, vegan joints, tapas bars, tavernas, trattorias,teppanyakis, ocakbasis, etc. etc. etc. is incredible. The transformation in ourcommunal eating habits and the amazing explosion of culinary options is, Ibelieve,thebiggestsinglechangeinLondoninmylifetime.

Onmyradioshow,duringthe2014WorldCup,wedidalisteners’inventoryofthenumberofdistinctlydifferentnationalcuisinesyoucanfindinLondon,andwestoppedwhenitcametoconsiderablymorethanthenumberofnationsintheworld.YouwantaKazakrestaurant,wellthere’sonejustofftheOldKentRoad,fancyaBurmesefeast,it’sontheEdgwareRoad,GhanaianFood,that’llbeCricklewood, there’s evenanAfghanplace inBurntOaknow.And if youshouldwanttoconsumerawfishwrappedaroundcold,vinegaredrice,dippedinsoysauceservedwithpickledginger,wellyoucangetitonjustabouteveryhighstreet and in every supermarket in town.Who could possibly have predictedthat?

Wedidn’thavemany restaurantswhen Iwasgrowingup,certainlynot forthelikesofus.IwroteintheintroductiontothisbookthatIdon’tbelievemymumhadeverbeentoaproperrestaurant,withtableclothsandwaiterservice,

beforeItookhertooneinthe1980s.Andifyoudon’tcounttheWimpyBarinBurnt Oak, Lyons Corner Houses with their uniformed nippies, and theoccasionalpie-and-mashshop,Ithinkthatisprobablyright.

Mydadmight,perhaps,havesplashedoutandtakenheroutupWestwhentheywere courting, but I doubt it. The kind of fancy, formal, usually Frenchestablishments with snotty waiters and snooty manners that constituted finedining back thenwouldhavemadeher deeply uncomfortable, andher initialreactions to ‘foreign muck’ when we first tried edible exotica in the ’70scertainlysuggestedshehadneverbeenexactlyexperimentalinhertastes.

Londoners likeusdidnothaverestaurants,butwedidhaveblokeswithbells.The ice-creammanwithhischarming,chimingvan is the last remnantofanentire economyofmobile campanologymerchants.We stilloccasionallyhaveanice-creamvanturningupoutsideourhouseinCamdenTowninthesummer.Our kids, now grown-up, will still respond to the pre-recorded peeling of hisbells by rushing out to buy a 99 with sprinkles in a conditioned Pavlovianresponse.AnditallstartedinBurntOak.Sortof.

TherewasanabsolutecacophonyofambulatoryvendorsandstreethawkersinVictorianLondon,allarmedwithbells,whistlesandelaboratecriestoattracttrade. From the muffin man to the pigs’ trotter man, girls with cakes andsherberts, pie people aplenty, and the ubiquitous oyster boys who floggedbivalvesforpenniestothepoor.

My own great-grandadAlbert was amilkman, selling dairy products of allkindsfromahand-carthepulledalongLadbrokeGrove.There’sagreatphotoofhimwithavasthandlebarmoustacheandacrispuniform,standingproudlywithhisnewly acquiredhorse.But unfortunatelyhe diednot long after, agedjust forty-one (the exact same age my own father Albert passed away) in ahorrific accident when the cart toppled over on him. Later on, my brotherReggiespentyearsasamilkman,andIregularlyhelpedhimonhisround,whichwe both survived despite me crashing his electric float into a lamp post inHendononeChristmaseve.We’vegotmilkinourblood.

‘Stopme and buy one’ was the slogan of the original purveyors of ‘pennylicks’. These tempting Italian émigrés were the first ever ice-cream men,flogginggelatointhickglasses,whichwouldbehandedbacktothevendoroncethefrozendelicacyhadbeenconsumed:tasty,butnonetoohygienic.Thefirst

recognisable,motorised ice-cream van, however, completewith chiming tuneandwafercones,wasstartedin1937byaLondonItaliancalledToniPignatelli,operating out of his cassata-coloured ice cream parlour onWatling Avenue,directlyoppositeBurntOakstation.

Itwasstillthere,nexttotheBetaCafé,whenIwasgrowingupandbuyingthe occasional cornet or a vanilla block to take home. The shop was calledToni’s,andhiscompanyTonibellsboastedthelargestfleetofvansintheentirecountry. Throw in the fact that the first ever Tesco store, started bymarkettraderJackCohen,alsoopenedontheWatlingin1931andhumbleBurntOakplayedaremarkableroleinourhighstreethistory.

But youdidn’thave to go thehigh street to get comestibles: theycame toyou. In these days ofOcados,Amazons andDeliveroos we are used to goodsbeing brought to our door, but it certainly isn’t new. There was a positivearmadaofcraftcruisingthestreets,deliveringeverythingfromlaundrytobread,burgers,paraffinandfizzypop.

Aswellasaweeklywetfishmaninawhitecoat,therewasamobilefishandchip shop that came round, tempting youwith the combinedwaft of chip fatanddiesel.ButmymumwasconvinceditwasdeeplyinsanitaryandtheburgershesoldwereneverlikelytocompetewithaWimpy.Thesmelliestvanwastheone selling paraffin, which parked up on the corner of our road belchingnoisomefumesyoucouldseehoveringintheair.Peoplewouldqueueuptofillplasticcontainerswithnoxiouspinkorblueliquidfortheparlousoldheatersintheirparlours.Forsomereasonthesameblokealsosoldbigtubsofvinegar.Weallgotthroughlotsofvinegar.

ButitwastheequallyvividlycolouredliquidsprofferedbytheCoronamanthat I waited for with thirsty anticipation. This was a system of deliveringbottlesof lemonade, limeade,orangeadeandmypersonal favourite,cherryade,to your door.He had crates full of the stuff on board, clinking and clankingtogether temptingly. And once you’d drunk the pop and experienced theconsiderablesugarrush,therewasmoneybackifyoureturnedthebottle,andafiercecompetitionensuedbetweenuskids,tryingtofindoldCoronabottlestogetthepenniesbacktospendonsweets.

The Corona man, with his bright, pop art livery and the accompanyingtelevisionadswiththestrapline‘It’sFizzical’feltpositivelymodern.Butitwasachappedallingaweirdtricyclecontraptionandpeddlingallmannerofancientfarewhoreallytookusbacktoourcollectiveculinarypast.Irememberhimas

the toffee appleman, a grizzled old fellowwith the air of amorbidVictoriannovella, a sonorous bell on the front of his three wheeler and a mournful,elongatedcryof‘TooffeeeAaaapples’.

ThemelancholytoffeemanrolledslowlythroughtheestatewithabigboxonthefrontofhistrikefullofCox’spippinsdippedinbright,thick,glossyredtoffee, which could crack themost resilient enamel.As kids we loved eatingthem despite the rumour that he made them in the same tin bath heoccasionallywashedin.Healsosoldbagsofmonkeynuts,peanutsintheirshell,whichwereprimarilyfootballfood,alwaysfloggedatmatchesbyblokesrunninground the touchline before the game.But in thewinter the toffee applemanmysteriouslymorphedintothefaggotman,anevenmoreancient,arcanefigure,wearing an old First World War greatcoat, flogging these strange, steamingrissolethingstobeeatenwithpeasepudding,alwayspronouncedpeacepudding.It’sabeigemushmadeoutofsplitpeas,akindofcockneyhummus,whichmymumfoundweirdlyirresistible.

It’s amazing thatwewere ever able to sit down for a fewminuteswithoutrushingtothedoor,becauseaswellasalloftheabove-mentionedtraderstherewasaconstantstreamofcallers.Therewerecoalmenwithblack-smearedfacesand those leather hats down their backs humpingheavy sacks of carbon, andtheir allied and equally sooty trade of chimney sweeps. Italian/Swiss mobileknifesharpenersknockedonyourdoor,offeringtorefreshyourkitchenknivesandgardenshearswithagrindingcontraptiononapushbike.

Frenchonionsellersalsoonbikes,ladenwithalliums,laundrymenbringingbackbedding,potatomenwithsacksofspudsfromtheDickensianpotatodepotbehind St Pancras station, where the British Library now is. There wereKleenezemensellingdusters,Avonladiesprofferingsmellyproducts,thepoolsman come to collect your coupon, the man from the Pru to collect yourpremium, the rent man, the meter-reading man and the dreaded providentchequechap,knockingominouslydemandingyoupaytheoverdueinstalmentsyouowedonthatloanyougotforanewpairofLevi’s.

But it wasn’t just agents ofMammonwho disturbed the peace. The Boys’Brigadewouldwake us upwith their holy trumpets onSundaymornings, theJehovah’sWitnesses would occasionally venture into the Oak trying to savesome soulsby interruptingyour tea, andoneCatholic friend remembers therewasevenamobilealtarwheeledroundinapushchairbyagroupofnuns,sothatyoucouldholdmassandsayafewHailMarysinyourownfrontroom.

Oneeveningsomethingremarkablehappened.Ithinkitmusthavebeen1970or ’71 andmy eldest brotherBarry, by then aworkingman earning a decentwage,askedmetorunanerrandforhim.Perhapshe’dcomehometoolatefortea,ormaybehedidn’tfancymymum’susualfare,buteitherwayheaskedmetoheaduptotheEdgwareRoadtogethimanIndian.IhonestlyhadvisionsofbringingbackGeronimo.Indiansformewerestillconnectedtocowboys,andIhadno idea thatanew,proper, sub-continental restauranthadopenedalmostopposite the Bald Faced Stag. I certainly had no notion that the world wasabouttototallychangeinjustonemouthfuloffood.

Once Barry had explained what it was he actually wanted and written itdownonapieceofpaper sothatnomistakesweremade, I struckabargain. Iwouldgoandgethisdinnerprovidinghewouldletmehavesome.Soonthatnight,havingrunhomeasfastasIcouldwithabagfullofworryinglypungentfoodstuffs, I hadmy first ever breathless taste of prawndhansak, sag aloo andstuffedparatha,picklesandchutney.Blimey. I’ll say itagain.Doublebleedingblimey.

I know precisely what we ate that night because my brother Barry hasorderedprecisely thatcomboalmosteverytimeIhaveeatenwithhimfor thelastthirty-oddyears.HemovedtoAmericainthe1980sandthefirstthinghedoes when he occasionally returns to London is go to an old-school Indianrestaurant.Ideallywiththeflockiestwallpaper,thefloralestcarpet,thecoldestlagerandthespiciestfood,togetthekindofcurrythatjustdoesn’texistinNewEngland.I’mnotsurethatfoodreallyexistsverymuchinoldIndiaeither,butithasofcoursebecomeanabsolutestapleoftheBritishdiet.

Formethatfirstmind-blowing,mouth-explodingexperienceofIndianfoodwas a life-changing event, a personal epiphany and a portent of incredibleculinary things to come. It was comparable only to the jolt of seeing DavidBowieonTopofthePopsperforming‘Starman’withhisarmdrapedlasciviouslyaroundMickRonsonayearorsolater,whenweallsawtheworldchangeinasong. Sitting on the sofa, mouth agape, Bowie opened our eyes to a wholeuniverse of wonderful, dangerous, mouth-watering possibilities. In the samelittle room in a councilhouse inBurntOak, prawndhansakopenedmy tastebuds to the same. When my mum saw David Bowie on the telly she saiddismissively, ‘He’s a “weirdo”.’When she smelled Indian food she said it was

‘filthyforeignmuck’.Whichjustconfirmedhowgoodtheybothwere.Anditwasn’tonlyme.Justasanentiregenerationofpeoplecanremember

the eye-opening electric shock of the Starman on that epochal Thursdayevening, so our entire citywas about to be transformed from a bland, stodgy,culinarybackwatertoperhapsthemostopen-minded,cosmopolitanfoodcapitalin the world. Perhaps it’s because we did not have a great indigenous foodcultureinthiscountry,orgreatrestaurantsinthiscity,thatweweresoeagertotrynew things, greedy for thegood stuffwhatever itsprovenance.Sooneveryhigh street had an Indian and aChinese and evenmymumdeigned to try aspringrollortwo.

The next stage on my own personal journey of culinary enlightenmentinvolvedGeorgeMichael’sdad.Itisdifficultnowtoimaginethehumblekebabasamemorableexperience,butagain Ican recallexactlywhere Iwaswhen Ifirst ate one.Which is surprising given that I can barely remember anythingaboutanyotherevenings spent in thecompanyofakebab. Ihadbeento thepictures in Edgware with a group of boys from my grammar school andafterwardsoneofthemsuggestedwegoandgetakebab.Ididn’twanttorevealmyignorancebysayingIhadnoideawhatthatwas,sowentalongwiththem,to thisGreekCypriot restaurant,withaglass takeawaycounterat the front. IspenteverypennyIhad,includingmybusfarehome,onalambshishinpittabreadwitheverything(IalreadyknewfrommyIndianfoodexperiencesthatIliked spicy). Yet again, I loved it immediately, savouring every last meaty,greasy,umami-drenchedmorselonthelongwalkhome.

Ibecameapositiveproselytiser forthewondersof thekebab,andthenextweekend led a small group of herberts from theWatling on an expedition toEdgware,way out of their geographical and culinary comfort zone, to try thisexotic delicacy. They all loved it. They all lived on kebabs for the next fewyears.

ItwasonlymanyyearslaterinaconversationwithGeorgeMichael,whomIhadknownfromhisearlydaysasapodgy,prettyyoungNorthLondonsoulboyonthe fringesof thetrendySohonightclubscene,hangingat thebackof theBlitzwitha lookofdesire inhiseyes, that Idiscovered theconnection. Ihadbeenaskedtoworkonthescriptofadocumentaryabouthislifeandinaseriesof conversations with this now very self-serious and clearly uneasy superstar,with an obsessively neat beard, and awhole host of neuroses, one of the fewlightmomentscamewhenImentionedthesagaofmyfirst-everkebab.Those

biganxiouseyeslitup,hebeamedaverywelcomesmileandsaid,‘Thatwasmydad’srestaurant.’Furtherprobingarounddatesrevealedthathemaywellhavebeensitting inthebackof theshopthenight I lostmykebabvirginity,ashehabituallyusedtodoasayoungboy.

Whileweareonthesubjectofkebabhouses,permitmetomusealittleonthenomenclatureofhigh-streeteateries.Whodecideswhichterminologygetsappliedtowhichtypeofcuisine?I’llexplain.IntheolddaysLondonwasawashwithchophouses,andpie shops.Today it isalwaysakebabhouse andacurryhouse.Buttraditiondictatesthatit’saburgerbar,anoodlebar,andbackinthedayaJewishnoshbar.Whereasit’salwaysafishandchipshop,achickenshop,and a sandwich shop. But if you fancy something Italianate you visit an ice-creamparlourandevenapizzaparlour,whileforChineseorThaiit issimplyarestaurant. Is therea secretcommitteewhodecidewhich linguisticappellationcontrôléewearegoingtouse?

IamveryawarethatmyjourneythroughLondon’sgastronomicpasthasthusfarbeenextremelyparochial.That’sbecausetheideaoftravellingacrosstowntogoand eat was absolutely unthinkable. I now know that there were chic littlebistrosaplentyontheKing’sRoadcompletewithginghamtablecloths,candlesinwinebottlesandwaitresses inminiskirts. I firstheardaboutLeeHoFook’sand its famous chow mein fromWarren Zevon in the song ‘Werewolves ofLondon’. Ihave sincebeenregaledwith talesofSchmidt’sGermanrestauranton Charlotte Street with its splendid sausages, bellicose waiters andWeimarmores,thoughsadlyInevermadeittherebeforeitclosedinthelate’70s.Ihaveeaten in such long-term London institutions as the Gay Hussar in Soho,Simpson’s in the Strand andRules inCoventGarden, which has been theresince1798.Buttheseweretheexceptionsthatprovedtherule.

Todayweallknowwheretogotogetthebestofeverything.Acquiringgeo-culinary nous is part of contemporary London life, at least for the restaurant-goingclasses,whichisaninfinitelybroaderdemographicthaniteverwas.MyeldestdaughterAlice,inhermid-twenties,spendshermoneyonfood,andhertimeandsocial life isplayedoutlargelyinrestaurants.Almostnooneheragedidthatbackinthe1970sor’80s.Restaurantsthenwereforold,stuffy,wealthypeople,whiletheyoungwenttopubsandclubs.WhereIwasintheWagClubin Soho searching for excitement,Alice is in the same streetwith hermates

consumingSzechuanspice.Asafamilywe’vealwayseatenout,somykidshaveadetailedmentalmapof

wheretogotoconsumewhat.VietnamesephoandthosegossamersummerrollsmadebytheoriginalboatpeopleinShoreditch.Turkishfood,thesweetestlambchopscharredandrich,grilledonionsinpomegranatejuiceandcrunchysaladswith sumac in Dalston. (We’ve been dining in the same splendid KurdishocakbasinexttoGilbertandGeorgefordecades.WhenAlfiewasabouttenhetriedtosellaschoolraffletickettothepairbyaskingthem‘Wouldyouliketowinaflat-screenTV?’Georgeanswered‘Nothalf’andboughtabookful.)

Chickensoupwithkneidlach,sweetandsourpickleandalatke,fromHarry’sinStJohn’sWoodHighStreet.ThebestdimsumonBakerStreet,butalwaysLisle Street for Cantonese roast duck and char sui. Fish and chips meansqueuingupwiththegobbycabdriversinLissonGrove.ThreekindsofBengalikebabs and thebestPeshwarinan froma tandoor inWhitechapel.The finestshawarmathis sideofBeirut,washeddownwith freshlysqueezed juices fromabrightlylitcaféontheEdgwareRoad.Whataneducationthey’vehad.Whataworldtheyenjoy.

TheseismicshiftinLondon’sdiningtectonicsreallystartedinthemid-’80swhen the likes of Alistair Little and Rowley Leigh opened up funky,independentrestaurantsinSohoandKensington,andthewholefoodieconceptemerged.Butmyownpersonalfoodjourneybeganinthelate ’70s.Eatingwasstillwaydownthelistofprioritiesintermsofconsumption,butIdidmanagetovisitsomeofthefamousnamesofthetime.Perhapsnotoriousnameswouldbemoreappropriate.Therewerethreeplaces inparticular,eachfromadistinctlydifferentculinarytradition,eachvyingtowinthetitleofrudestrestaurantinallLondon.

Bloom’sKosherrestaurantonWhitechapelHighStreetissimultaneouslyoneofthe most reviled and yet revered food memories this city carries. It was aninstitution in the way that Bedlamwas an institution. The closest we got toKatz’s,thenoisy,shabby,vibrantNewYorkdeliontheLowerEastSide,whereMegRyanfamouslypretendedtohaveanorgasm.ButtheonlyloudmoaninginBloom’scamefromthephenomenallygrumpyoldblokesinstainedandfrayedwhitejacketswhoconstitutedthestaff.

Bickering,grumbling,confronting,insulting,seeminglyaffrontedbythevery

fact that youhadchosen to eat there, itwas likebeing servedby a coterieofparticularly stroppy cab drivers who you’ve just asked to take you to SouthLondon.One Jewish friend, taken toBloom’sasaboy inanactofpilgrimageandariteofpassage,whichseemstohavebeenuniversalamongNorthLondonJews just one generation away from the streets of Whitechapel, was told‘Bloom’sishorrible,you’regoingtoloveit.’AnditwasandIdid.Especiallythesaltbeef.IlovedBloom’s,lovedheadingEast.

The East End has always exerted a mesmeric pull on Londoners, even aconfirmedWestielikemyself.Itisingraineddeepinourcollectivemythologyasthegreatpointofentry,thestartofsomanystories.Oriental,exotic,edgy,yetfullofthepalpableenergyofupwardtractionandtrajectory.Butbythelate’70sitwasallbutbroken.Miredingrainyblackandwhite,lookinglikeawarzone,windowsmissing, doors boarded up, its grimy streets festoonedwith dribblingwinossittingroundburningbraziersinthemiddleoftheroad,angry,sad.Themarketsweredying,theHebrewswereleaving,happilyhandingthiscrumblingslumovertothenewlyarrivedBengaliswhowouldfillupthesweatshops,takeoverthefoodshopsandcramintothetenementsandgarretstobringbacklife.

Themore secular, cultural Jewshaddonewell andheadedeast andnorth,but therewas still a fading air of oldAshkenazi culture; bearded, side-locked,over-coated,insularyetgarrulous.RabbinicalHassidimtalkingTorahonstreetcorners,dustysynagoguesechoingwithagedcantors,Katz’stwineshopwithjustone ball of string in the window, the Schmutter brothers sitting on rolls offabric, Roggs’s deli with barrels of brining pickles, Fishberg’s jewellers,Grodzinski’s bakers. Yiddish signs, Russian names – it was fascinating andforeign,yetabsolutelyintrinsictothefabricofourcityandthemythologyoftheEast.IfirstknewtheEastEndthroughstayingatmycousinIan’sprefabonFishIslandinthe’60s,butadecadelaterIwasregularlyexploringitsanarchistalleysandHassidichaunts,whichwereall themoreenticingas theywere soclearlydoomed.AswasBloom’s.

My favourite story of Bloom’s hideous rudeness concerns a man who hadorderedmashedpotatowithhis chopped liveror tongue,but instead receivedboiledpotatoes.UponpolitelypointingthisouttoLou,thefamouslyferociousheadwaiter,Loupickeduptheman’sforkfromthetableandproceededtocrushhis spuds while shouting ‘You want mashed potatoes, I’ll give you mashedpotatoes.’ Itwas all partof thepantomimeof terrible service,overpriced foodyetdeeplyattractiveauthenticity.Andohthesaltbeef.Bloom’sisnowaBurger

King.It was the hot-and-sour soup at Wonkeys, or Won Keis as it is officially

known.ThiswasBloom’smaincompetitorintherankrudenessstakesanditisstill there in Chinatown, but it has cleaned up its act and stopped being sospectacularly aggressive as tobe legendary.The tales ofmeat-cleaver-wieldingwaiters,shoutingandswearingatcustomerswhotookumbrageatbeingmovedtoadifferentfloorhalfwaythroughtheirmealarelegion.Smalltipsleftincoinsliterally being thrown back at you was normal. The rancid toilets and thecommunaltableswithpeoplesmokinginyourfacewerefamousfeatures,butthehot and sour soup and indeed all the standardHong KongCantonese disheswerefantastic,andIdevelopedarealWonkeysjonesbackinthe1980s.Perhapsit wasmasochistic,maybe I was subconsciously preparingmyself formarryingintoatypicallyloudandpugnaciousCantonesefamilymanyyearslater,orelseIjust enjoyed this down and dirty, cheap and spectacularly charmless Sohoexperience.UntilthedayIdidn’thaveenoughmoney.

I’dsuppedmysoupandstrippedadeadduck,onlytodiscoverIhadlesscashinmypocketthanIthought.Iwasonlyapoundorsoshort,butIwaspetrifiedas I tried to explain to thewaiter that Iwould go out to the bank and comestraightback.Hisfacewentbrightpuceandittookhimafewsecondstofindthecorrectterminology. ‘YOUFUCKINGCUNT’deliveredinaheavyHongKongaccent.ThosewerethewordsringinginmyearsasIleft.WhenIreturneda fewminutes lateraspromised, I thoughthemightbepleasantlysurprisedbymyhonesty,buthecalledmeexactlythesamethingagain.

Jimmy’scouldn’tpossiblycompetewithBloom’sorWonkeysintermsofoutand out hostility. The geriatric staff at this antediluvian Cypriot, somewherebeneaththestreetsofSoho,couldevenbecivil,occasionally jolly if theyhaddrunkenoughouzo,butwhatitlackedinvenomandvitriolitmorethanmadeup for in old fashioned ineptitude and decrepitude.And itwas certainly old-fashioned,evenbackthen.

NooneeverreallyknewwhereJimmy’swas.Partlybecauseithadmovedacoupleoftimesfromwhenitfirstopenedin1948,alsobecauseitssubterraneansettingmeantallyousawfromstreetlevelwasasmallsignandadoorwaydown,butmostlybecausenobodyeverwenttoJimmy’ssober.Tryingtofinditwouldrequireadrunkenhuntroundthestreetsuntilyouliterally felluponit. Itwasoneofthosemuch-lovedSohoinstitutions,likeJeffreyBernard,whichisforeverassociated with excessive alcohol. But I can confirm that my research has

revealed that it was actually next door to the Bar Italia on Frith Street, andwhen you stumbleddown those steps you entered a time-travelling troglodytetaverna.

Stuck firmly in the grim austerity of post-war London, the thick whiteundulatingwallswere grimy and greywith age.Therewere a fewdecades-oldtouristpostcardspinnedup fordecorationandabizarreHellenicmuralclearlypaintedbyoneofthewaiters,whowerenowsooldtheycouldbarelynavigateroundthefustysmellingwarrenoflittlecave-likerooms.Jimmy,arotundman,sat in the corner smoking a cheroot and sipping something potent, while hiswifeorpossiblyevenhismother,atrulyancientcrone,perchedpermanentlyonthetillsilentlyglaring.

Thefoodwasalsodeeplygrey,thoughfillingandfabulouslycheap,buttheplacewasburdenedwithbizarrestipulations.Themezecouldonlybeorderedbygroupsoffour,andforsomereasonschipshadtobeservedwitheverymeal.Itwasquestioning these arcane ruleswhichwouldpromptheated rowswith thestaffwhowouldcomeclosetotheplatesmashingGreekeateriesarefamousfor.Wrongdisheswouldbedelivered,traysdropped,winespilt,cursesexchanged.Itwasgreat.

Therewassometimesamusicianproppeduponastoolinthecornerplayingmournful rembetika, and as the night wore on he would slide into drunkenoblivion like everybody else and sometimes literally slide off his stool. LosingJimmy’s alongwith the loss of the Pollo (catch-phrase, ‘You ordering food ormuckingabout?’),theStockpotwhereIfirsthadspagbolnotfromatinandtheCaféEspana,which servednothingSpanishwhatsoever, all onOldComptonStreet, really didmark the end of an era of dirty, dirt cheap, charismatic oldSoho institutions. But perhaps Jimmy’s hasn’t really closed, maybe it’s in abasementsomewhereandwejustcan’tfindit.

GreekCypriot foodwas themainstay of both theWest End andCamdenTown back in the 1970s. The community had settled alongside their Irishneighbours(whoopenedpubsnotrestaurants)inthesouthernendofCamden,soMorningtonCrescentandFitzroviawereawashwithDomestica,whichtastedlikeDomestos, and litteredwith the shards of intentionally cracked crockery.Therewasthefamouslatenightcarouser’skebabhouseDionysusonTottenhamCourtRoadwiththebouncersonthedoorandtheeternalflameoutside,untilitburneddown.

Therewerehalf-a-dozen‘bubbles’onCharlotteStreetalone,almosttheonly

places in all London where you could eat lunch outside on a sunny day,pretending you were still on holiday. Names like Anemos, Aphrodite andAthena, Zorba’s and Hercules, and the supposedly upmarket but impossiblycrusty White Tower, all serving identikit dolmades and rubbery rings ofcalamari.ButitwasonlyatAnemoswheretheheadwaiterdoubledasatablemagician,whosetoptrickinvolvedmagicallyremovingthebrasoffemaledinersbeforedancingontheirdinners.Itwasthe1970s.

So we weren’t very good at sophistication either. The most elevated diningexperience inallLondonhadbeen justaround thecorner fromtheCharlotteStreetGreeks,atopthePostOfficeTower.Thefamousrevolvingrestaurantonthe thirty-fourth floor was spoken of in whispered, reverential tones in ourfamily, so unbelievably posh was it. Dinner-jacketed diners and their taffeta-encasedconsorts choosing fromFrenchmenus and sippingFrenchbrandies asthecitywhirledawayromanticallybeneaththem.

Ofcoursewehadneveractuallybeentoeatthere,despitethefactthatmydadhadworkedon the iconicbuilding shortlybeforehisdeath.But suchwasthepotencyofthisundeniablyphallicsymbolthatwealwaysspokeaboutgoingto dine there one day. Then one day we were robbed of even the remotepossibilityof samplingsuchsophisticateddelights. I remember themsayingonthenewsthat‘TheKilburnBattalion’oftheIRAhadblownitupinlate1971andwewere genuinely sad to lose such a beacon of elegance. (It now seemsmorelikelytohavebeentheanarchistAngryBrigadewhoplacedtheexplosivedeviceinthemen’sloosasanovertactofclasswar.)

But actually I did eat up there, thoughonly a sandwich fromPret. I spentthreehourspresentingaliveshowfromtherevolvingroom,soIcanattestthattheviewisspectacular.Iwouldgoasfarastosaythatdespitetheproliferationofviewingtowersandskydiners,itisstillbyfarthebestvantagepointintown,anincrediblepanorama.ButIcertainlydidn’tfeellikeboeufbourguignonandabottleofclaretaftergoingroundandroundandroundorelseImightalsohavedepositedsomethingnastyinthetoilets.

AndwhenIdiscoveredwhoranthismostexalteddiningexperiencebackinitssupposedlyglamorousheydaythatalsoputmeoffmyfood.BecausetheTopoftheTowerrestaurant,theapogeeofswinging’60sélan,wasactuallyabranchofButlins.ItwasopenedbyBillyButlinhimself,accompaniedbyTonyBennno

less, and the happy campers (ormaybe it was ‘delirious diners’) were given atacky‘certificateoforbit’toprovetheyhadeatenthere.HideHi.

Pizza was the next major high-street sensation to broaden our collectivepalette, and I was amazed one afternoon when my mum came home andpronounced that shehad been to a restaurant inEdgwarewith the girls fromworktotrythisItaliandelicacy.IwasratherrelievedwhenshepronounceditPizzer,torhymewithwhizzer,andalsopleasedwhenshesaid, ‘Thatpizzer, it’sjust cheese on toast.’Mumwasn’t yet ready for her own culinaryDamasceneconversion, though it would come, and besides, she had a point. I’ve alwayspreferredherWelshrarebit.

My own first taste of Italian cheese on toast was from Pizzaland onTottenham Court Road. (Owned by Associated Newspapers and UnitedBiscuits of course.) It was somewhere up at the northern end, near the lap-dancingclubwhereIfirstmournedmymother’simminentdeath.Idorememberithadatextureclosetocardboard,butalsothatitwascalledaPizzaPlatterandcame servedwith coleslaw and a baked potato.Quite howmanyNeopolitanshave ever tried pizza and jacket spud I do not know, but I wouldn’t reallyrecommendit.

Soon though therewerenumerousvariantson thepizza theme includingahorrendous, though strangely popular, place called the Chicago Pizza PieFactory off Hanover Square, which sold some bizarre American pizza pie sothickandgloopyitwasbasicallyaquiche.Butstilltherewerequeuesoutside.Inthelate1970sandearly’80stherewasstillalongwaytogoonourjourneytoculinary cosmopolitanism, as evidencedby the fact that thenextbig thing toemergewasindeedapotato.

BoxerBillyWalker,theBlondeBomberfromWestHam,hadthefirstchainof London-based spud emporiums under the name Billy’s Baked Potato. (Ialwaysthoughttheyshouldhaveservedasideofcauliflowerear.)ButitwasthelaunchofthehorriblymonikeredSpudulikethatelevatedthehumblepotatotoa brandname and surely constituted anadir in our collective taste.Mymumseemedgenuinelypleasedthatanindigenousdishwas fightingbackwhenoneopenedinBurntOak,buteventhenitseemedtometobeasorryindictment.ItwaslikesomethingfromtheendgameoftheSovietUniontofetishiseabakedpotato, made even more tragically mundane by the fact that Spudulike wasactuallyownedbytheBritishSchoolofMotoring.Asacitywevaluedfoodsolittlethatwewerefedbyacompanyofdrivinginstructors.

Foodandtheinfernalcombustionenginecangotogether,asevidencedbythefactthattherewasactuallyaFormulaOne-themedrestaurantinLondonbrieflyin the 1980s. All roaring engine noises, chequered flags, podium girls andovercookedburgers. I hate car racing, and I soon learned I’mnot too fondofthemedrestaurantseither.

Thiswas theageof the ‘concept’and justaboutevery idea,except servinggoodfoodinaconvivialenvironment,wastried.Afewstillexist:theRainforestCaféisasweatyconcoctionof junglenoises,waterfallsandfakewildlife(eerieechoes of the Primatarium there) which is part of the terminally tackyexperiencethatistheTrocaderoinPiccadilly.PlanetHollywoodisstillfloggingthenotionthatwewantphotosof lardyoldAmerican filmstarswith faceliftsserved up with our dinner (more burgers). But these places are aimed atdesperateout-of-townfamilieswitheasilyimpressedchildren.Backinthe1980sitwasuniversallyassumedthatgrown-upLondonersalsoneededsuchfripperytobeenticedintoaneatery.

SowehadMagicMoments,abasementplaceinMayfairenteredviaa‘secretdoorway’accessedbypullingabookfroma‘library’torevealaroomwheretablemagicianswouldthrillyouwithcloseupprestidigitationwhileyouateburgers.TherewasOldKentucky,whereyouwouldbeservedbyriverboatgamblersandcathouse kittens in low-cut tops, and be regaled by live barbershop quartetswarblingfartooclosetoyourearswhileyouatemoreburgers.

Most of these places were direct American imports, which shows howLondon was still in thrall at this point to all things Stateside. There werethough some spectacularly naff and profoundly embarrassing home-grownconcepts,featuringbeerandwenches,orinonecasemeadandwenches.Itwas‘CarryOnUptheRestaurantTrade’.

The Tudor Rooms was a large space on St Martin’s Lane where failingthespians,includingtheultimatebrassyblondeDianaDors,tragicallyekingouta living towards the end of her life, entertained stag parties and bewilderedtourists to a Henry VIII-themed evening of overcooked beef, rotten tablemannersandbawdyservinggirlsflashingtheircleavages.

SchoolDinnerswasinHighHolbornandverymuchaimedatexploitingthejuvenile fantasies of the City boys and ill-suited businessmen of that barrio.Young girls in revealingStTrinian’s-styleoutfitswere encouraged to flirt and

teasethepunters,goadingthemon,thencaningthemwhileeverybodycheeredand flung about their shepherd’s pie. A friend of mine, known as DangerousJane,worked there forawhileandactuallyenjoyed thrashing those tossers. Itcertainlyhurtthemmorethanitdidher,especiallywhentheygaveherbigtipsforanextraswish.Buttheyloveditandmorebranchesopenedacrosstown.

Someof those sexually starvedCityboyswouldalsohavegone toCasper’sTelephoneExchange,anotherburgerjointinMayfair,whoseUSPwasthefactthat theyhad telephones.Big clunkyoldwhiteplastic jobsonevery table, sothatyoucouldcalluptheattractiveoccupantsoftabletenandflirtorjoke,orwhatevermighthopefullyleadtoalegoverattheendofthenight.

NextdoortotheLondonPalladiumonArgyllStreetwasaplacecalledtheVideoCafé,wherethecutting-edgetechnologywassuchthattheycouldshowthese excitingnew things calledpopvideoswhile youate.What’smore, theyhad cameras present, which honed in on the punters and actually projectedthem on to the big screens so that you could watch yourself eat, a horribleforetasteofpeopletakingselfiesineveryrestaurantintown.

Apart fromonenightwatchingKateBushwarbleat theVideoCafé, IcanhonestlysaythatInevertriedanyoftheseplaces,thoughIamextremelypartialtoashepherd’spie.Foodintheearly’80swasstillalowpriorityonanightout,butIhadalreadydevelopedmyLondoner’scollectionofcheap,ethnicstaplestokeepme fed. Ihadmy Indian,myChinese,mykebaband IhadalsobecomefondofaMalaysianplaceindeepSohocalledRasaSayangonWindmillStreet,which sat below a brothel, next to a junior school and opposite the lastsurvivingSohonoshbarwithpicturesofboxersonthewalls.Perfectsetting.

ButifIhadtochoosefood,ordrinkandfun,itwasbringonoblivioneverytime. For a while it was all about cocktails, as day-glo coloured concoctionscomplete with swizzle sticks, umbrellas and preposterous names, ‘a long slowcomfortable screw up against the wall’, were all the rage. Hairdressers lovedcocktailsandeverybodyloveshairdressers.

PeppermintParkinStMartin’sLane,ZanzibarinGreatQueenStreet,thatplace above Widow Applebaum’s, opposite Browns in South Molton Street.WestEndcocktailbarsintheearly’80swerewherethefashioncrowdandthewideboysentwined.MinorvillainsfromBermondseyandstreettradersfromtheAngel, in baggy Woodhouse whistles, flirting with the girls who worked atSassoon’sorFioruccioveramaitaiandaLutherVandrosstune.

Rumours,justupfromtheLyceuminCoventGarden,wastheepicentreof

theLondoncocktail scene.Alwaysbusywithasmatteringof lithe localballetdancers, the elegant black kids who hung out at the Pineapple studio, thecoolest bouncers and club runners, the staff from Paul Smith and even theoccasionalfamousthespian,sippingatequilasunriseanddiscretelyscoringsomecharliebeforediningroundthecorneratJoeAllen’sorOrso.Throwinacoupleofoldbill fromBowStreet forgoodmeasureandyouhad theperfectLondoncocktailset.ThemeasuresatRumourswerereallygood.

TheproblemwasIsufferfromapusillanimousconstitutionandsimplycouldnotstomachcocktails.Especiallyonanemptystomach,andIcouldrarelyaffordboth food and a night of Long Island iced teas.Rumourswas great fun; sexy,noisy, throbbing with desire, and with none of the oh-so-serious mixologistbollocksthatobfuscatescocktailstoday.ButafteranightofgulpinggloopandtryingtoimpressastylistfromStreatham,IusuallyendedupthrowingupovermyCommejacketandprobablysittingaloneinadoorwaysomewhereneartheStrand. I was rather glad when the Soho Brasserie opened, and we suddenlywentsophisticated.Cocktailsbecamepassé,andIcouldfinallydrinkfizzywater.

IhonestlybelievethattheopeningoftheSohoBrasserieinlate1983wasthepivotalmoment inLondon’sdiningstory.Notbecausethe foodwasespeciallygood, although the calves’ liver and bacon was lovely, much better thanmymum’s. It was sensational because they had those chunky tumblers for yourBadoit or beer, because they had green opalescent tiles on thewalls, and thezinc-topped mahogany bar at the front where you could see everyone andeveryonecouldseeyou.Itwasaroaringsuccessbecausetheyhadgood-lookingyoungwaitersofbothsexeswearingwhiteshirtsandblackaprons,becausetheyhadcitronpresséandjazzandNickLogan,theeditorofTheFace,havinglunchwithJulieBurchillintheback.

TheSohoBrasseriechangedeverythingbecausetheyhadthatbustling,yetcool, easy-going vibewe’d all enjoyed in Paris or Barcelona, but thoughtwasimpossible to replicate in stuffyoldLondon town.Until theydid just thatonOldComptonStreet, next door to a peep show,which smelled of spunk anddisinfectant.SuddenlyLondondiddiningout.

Youshouldalwaysbecareful,ofcourse,whatyouwish for.WithhindsightthiswasthefirstsightingofthekindofgentrificationthathastransformedSohofrom the sleazy, shady tenderloin we all loved so dearly to the slick urban

showroomitistoday.Thoughitwasmoreaccuratelydescribedastrendification;nottoomanymembersofthegentrywereinvolved.TheSohoBrasbecametheepicentreofawhirlingemergingmedialand, fullof thrustingyoungturkswithflat cockney vowels, big hair and even bigger padded shoulders, angling foradvances on record, film or book deals, before going to have sex or drugs orideallybothinthetoiletsattheGrouchoClub,whichopenedroundthecornerafewmonthslater.

The Soho Brasserie was zeitgeist in a bottle, with a wedge of lime in theneck. There was the ‘spend it like money’ conspicuous consumption ofThatcher’s now roaring free market wonderland. There was the laid back, alfresco,LeMonde,ElTel,watchtheworldgoby,would-becontinentalismofaEuropeanstreetcafé.Therewasalsoanewfound,abouttime,terriblyun-Englishegalitarianism.

TheSohoBrasserieandthelegionofsimilarjointsthatsoonjoineditwerenot stuffy-old-bloke, old-school-tie affairs. This was not Simpson’s in theStrand, but a young, anything-goes-as-long-as-it’s-hip hangout. Gay, straight,black,white,male,female,didn’tmatteraslongasyoulookeddecorousdrapedoveradoublemacchiato.Nobodywasgoing to testyouonwhich fork touse,buttheymightjustuseyouintheirlatestpopvideo.Thiswasafulcrumofurbantheatrewithcrèmebrûlée.

If youwanted cutting-edge cooking youwent round the corner toAlistairLittle’sappropriatelymini,minimalistplaceortherevamped,rag-rolledeaudenilcolouredL’Escargotforaspotofnouvellecuisine.Butifyouwantedtofeelyou were at the centre of the universe, you pulled on your Gaultier and ategoats’cheeseattheSohoBrasserie.Nothinginthiscitywouldeverbethesameagain.

TheSohoBrasserieislonggoneandalsolargelyforgotten,butitopenedthedam. Corbin and King were simultaneously doing what they still do sobrilliantlyoveratLeCaprice,and later the Ivy.TerenceConran joined inbyrevivingQuaglinos,arestaurantBryanFerryhadsungaboutin‘DotheStrand’,and everybody nicked the ashtrays. The Criterion Brasserie, one of London’smostglitteringlyopulentrooms,wasliterallyrediscoveredhiddenunderneathalayerof’50sFormica,andbrieflybecametheplacetonibbleoncornichonsandpretendtoreadLaGazettadelloSport.

Laterstill,urbanarchaeologyuncoveredthegiantartdecogemthatbecame

Oliver Peyton’s roaring Atlantic Bar&Grill in the basement of the RegentPalaceHotel,whichhadrecentlybeenaknockingshopwithroomstorentbythe hour. Going to a good-looking restaurant with good-looking peoplesuddenly became the thing to do, the places to see and be seen.We’d gonecontinental.ButwewerealsoturningJapanese.

ItwasinaJapaneserestaurantonthecornerofEndellStreetinCoventGarden,oneoftheearliestIrememberappearinginLondon,thatIhadmyJoeGargerymoment. By now I was doing all right,making a few bob, living in a flat inBloomsbury and pretending I’d had a sophisticated palette all along. I evenstarteddrinkingwine.(Ihaven’tyetstopped.)

Idecidedthatmymumshouldbeintroducedtothedelightsoffinedining.SoI tookher first toL’Etoile inCharlotteStreet,a realold-school institutionwhich stillhad the legendaryElena taking careofhospitality, and after a fewnervousmoments fussing over the cutleryMum began to enjoy the attentiveserviceandthestarchedwhitetableclothsandthefactthattheytookhercoatandcalledherMadameandgaveherbeer.Sheevenlikedthefoodalthoughwasquietly insistent that thevegetableswere undercooked. Itwas takingher to aJapanesewhichturnedmeintoPip.

QuitewhyIthoughtrawfishandsteamingsakemightbeagoodideaI’mnotsure. Though I suspect tomy shame that I was simply trying to show offmynewfound sophistication and cosmopolitanism to the woman I wanted toimpress the most. Japanese food was still very formal, exotic and extremelyexpensive, and Iwasdisplaying the fact that I’d comea longway fromBurntOakandtheBetaCafé,andsohadLondon.

I dearly wanted my dear old mum to be impressed by how far we’d alltravelled.InretrospectI’mnotsureshehadeverquiteforgiventheJapaneseforwhat they did in the war, so she was a little on edge, thrown further by thebowingwaitressesandtheshaven-headedchefwiththerazorsharpsushiknife.When she nearly retched at her first taste of hot rice wine I realised I hadprobablypushedtoofar,toofastinmyquesttobroadenhertastes.

Mymumwouldneverdreamofdoinganythingtocauseastirorascene,buteven surreptitiously spittingout sashimibecause theyhaven’t cooked it isnottechnicallyconsideredgoodmannersinJapan.Thenwhentheybroughtabowlofricesheturnedtomeandsaid‘Robertwhere’sthesugar?’Shehadonlyever

eatenricepuddingandhonestlythoughtthatthesesneakyorientalsweretryingto rushusoutbybringing thedessertat the same timeas theuncookedmaincourse.Irealisenowthatitwasmyshowingoffwhichmadeforaratheruneasymeal,andthatmyembarrassmentwasgaucheinitself.ButIwasgladthechipshopovertheroadwasstillopen,andIcouldactually feedhersomethingsheliked.Shedefinitelypreferredherfishfried.

WeneverateaJapanesemealtogetheragain.ButwhenIgotmarriedtomyMancunianManchurianwife,wetooktotakingMumoutwithusonSundaysfordimsum.Wewantedourkidstoseepeoplewholookedlikethemandknowa bit about Chinese culture, which in large partmeansChinese food. So wewent every other weekend for the traditional feast of tiny steamed or friedmorsels that are dim sum, plus big plates of dead birds and bits of pigs – andGrandmacamewithus.

Afteraslightlywarystartshebecameanabsoluteenthusiastforchasiubaoandhagao,roastduckandevensteamedrice.Thesweet,earthy,saltyflavoursofCantonesecookingappealedtoher,butsodidthenoisy,steamyatmosphereofbigbustlingChineserestaurants.Shelovedthefactthatfamiliesgatheredenmasse, generations sharing foodand love, theelders sittingat theheadof thetable, kids running around, babies on laps, her own grandchildren arrayedaroundher.

Wieldingchopsticks likeaHongKongmaven,shebecameareal fixtureatthe Oriental Plaza, a massive pan-Asian centre that opened on the EdgwareRoad,reallyclosetoherhouse.Shelovedthefactthattheyknewhernameasshewalkedin.ShealsolovedtripstoChinatownfollowedbyabeerortwoonthesofaintheGrouchoClub,wheretheyalwaysmadeafussofher.She’dcomealongwaytoo.Thiswasn’therLondonbutshelovedit.

Just how far we’d all journeyed, both in terms of food and also food as ametaphorforlifeinLondon,wasdisplayedwhenIunexpectedlypoppedbyherhouse one Friday afternoon. This was the same house I had grown up in,devouredbendersanddrunkBrusselssproutsandCrestain,butithadchanged.Sheliveddirectlyoppositeajuniorschool,andinherlateryearstooktolookingafter kids after school had finished – a bit of child minding for which shecharged something like a pound anhour, andprobably didn’t even take that.Shejustlovedhavingyoungchildrenaround.Thisparticularafternoonshehaddozensofyoungchildrenaroundbecauseitwasabirthdaypartyforoneofhercharges,sonoisychaosprevailed.

ItwaslikeacouncilestateversionofaBenettonadvert,withkidsofeveryconceivable colour and a smattering of their mothers helping out. They hadobviouslybroughtfood,becauseourlittlekitchentablewasladenwithofferings;there were heaps of Malaysian noodles, samosas and pakora, fragrantMiddleEastern pilaufs, chicken legs in a Caribbean style and a variety of dips andsweets.AsIwalkedintheroommymumwasstandingnexttoaSomaliwomanintraditionalgarb,withhennaedhands.Theywerenatteringtogetherandmymum had some sort of unleavened bread in her hand with a big dollop ofhummusabouttoenterhermouth,whichwasbeamingamassivesmile.

‘Help yourself to some food Robert,’ she said, gesturing to the UnitedNationsfeastinfrontofus.‘Thegirlshaveputonalovelyspread.’

EveryDayITakeCoffeewiththePortuguesers

The finest little corner shop inCamdenTown is run by a pair of charming brothersfrom thebanks of theDouro.One reserved, slightly seriousandkind, the othermuchmoregarrulous,jocular,pronetoairguitar:bothofthemcallmeMrRoberto.ItalktotheminSpanish,whichisclearlysillybutitallowsmetopractisemysecondlanguage;and they are Iberian after all, so they indulgeme. Especially as I am often the firstpersonintheshopat8a.m.lookingformybreakfastshot.

Wetalkfootball,music,wine,haveagoodoldgossipaboutlocalaffairs,orjustlarkabout. They make good and remarkably good value sandwiches on terrific, rusticPortuguesebreadandgetthroughvastpilesofthosefabulouspasteisdenata,theflakycustard tarts, which have become part of the London diet. But they are notmonocultural;theystockothernon-

Portugueseurbanessentialslikebaklava,samosasandhummus.It’sthesortofjumbled,overstockedshopwhereyoucangetjustaboutanythingyou

need, and somehow the staff know where everything is. The Fereira delicatessen, forthat’swhat it’s called, is open everyday, starting early, closing late.Youcan even sitoutside,andpeopledo;touristsonthewaytoRegent’sPark,regularswhotakeacupofsomethingandacakeatthesametimeeveryday.

Thecoffee,madeinabigoldespressomachine,isservedjustasIlikeit:short,dark,sweet,cutwithjustalittlehotbutnotfrothymilk.InSpanishit’scalledacortado,sothat’s what I ask for. My daily cortado, usually taken while chatting away, is onepound, it’s always been one pound and I hope it will always be one pound. This isdefinitelynotachain.

WhileI’mstandingsippingfrommypolystyrenecup,familiescomeinandpickuptheirvitalsuppliesofbacalhau,thatdriedsaltcodwhichlooksskeletal,tastesfecalandnoonebutthePortuguesecanstomach.Alongwiththeirsmellyfish, theystockupon

fresh figs, a baffling variety of tinned sardines, vinho verdewine, boxes ofOmo andmagazinesdevoted to the torrid love lives ofBrazilian telenovela stars andpictures ofCristianoRonaldo.

OnaFridayafternoon, theoccasionalbottleofSagreschangeshands, tunapattiesare eaten out of serviettes; it’s something of a focal point for a community, which isotherwiselargelyinvisible.Ifitwasn’tforthefactthattheytalktheirstrangelysibilanttongueIwouldneverhaveknownthereweresomanyPortuguesepeoplenearby.

Butthebrothersdon’tjustcatertotheirquiet,unassumingcountryfolk.TheEasternEuropeanbuildersqueueuptogetthosesarnies,ofteneatingtwoatatime.Cabdriversfromfarandwidedropintogetsomenutrients.Coppers,road-sweepersandschoolkidsall in their respective uniformswander in and out.The local elders, Irish andGreekCypriotmainly,oftennipinforanatterandmaybeevenanatatoo:it’swherethestreetmeets.Youcangetanonionorabottleofbleach;youcanrunatabandenteraraffleatChristmas,whichIwononeyear.Igavethembackthebacalhau.

Places like theFereiraarewhat put paid to the lie thatLondon is somehow cold,anonymous,unfeeling.Idon’tknowmostofmyneighboursbymorethananod,whichisjustfine,pryingeyesandknowingglanceshavenoplaceinmytown.Others,afew,are

firmfriends,butweallknowthatthecornershopiscollectiveterritory.Ifyoudowanttofeelpartofsomethinglarger,dareIsayacommunity,thennipoverforacakeandyoumayseeSuggsortheshabbyIndianblokewholivesdownthestreet,drinksfartoomuchrum,lovesCliffRichardandquotestheBhagavadGita.IfIevermove,Iwoulddearlymissthatshop.

I was in there for my coffee on the morning of 8 July 2005, when the Englishnewspapersonthestandinthecornerwereobviouslyfullofthebarbarous,murderouseventsofthedaybefore.IwasspeakingEnglishonthisoccasion.Itdefinitelywasn’tadayforjocularity,andIcommentedonthebloodyoutrage,whichhadbeenvisitedontheTubesandbusesjustastone’sthrowaway;thepitiless,pointlessplacingofbombstokillrandomlyinthenameofsomebody’sGod.

‘What a truly terrible crime,’ I said, quietly, asmuch tomyself asmyPortuguesefriendbehindthecounter.Iwasn’treallyexpectingareply,butIcertainlygotone.HetoospokeEnglish,hisheavilyaccentedvoice,quaveringwithamixof indignationandpride,‘YesMrRoberto,itisaterriblething:butyouknowusLondoners,wedonotgivein.’

Inthatmoment,IwassoproudofusLondoners.

CHAPTERFIVE

KickingOff

ItwasalreadysmoulderingontheSunday.Reports filteringthroughoftroubleupTottenhamway, something about a rude boy getting gunned downby thepolice,stuffonthenews,stuffintheair,makingitthick,hardertobreathe.Myboy,Alfie,muchcloser to the streets thanme, reportedback that the gutterswere filling up with bile; it was getting slippery out there. I told him to bewatchful,butdidn’tthinkmuchofit,pulledonawhistle–linen,becauseitwashot–andheadedintotown.

I wasmeeting up on theMonday night with one ofmymusicalmuckers,RobertRyan.He’sathrillerwriter–which,givenwhatcamenext,isprettyapt–andisoneofthefewpeoplewhosharesmytastefordifficultatonaljazzofthekindmywifedubs ‘nervousbreakdownmusic’.WhichisexactlywhatweweregoingtoSohotosee:averynervousbreakdownindeed.

WerendezvousedinBarItaliaandIrememberglancingupatthebigTVintheback,wheretheynormallyshowSerieAgames.Buttheyhadrollingnewson,anditwasdefinitelyrockingandrolling,kickingoff,scenesofrebelyouth,hoodsup,trainersrampant,glasssmashing–Croydonorsomewhere,stillalongway away, another world.We wandered over the road to Ronnie’s for somespirituals. It wasMatthewHalsall, a laid backManc trumpeter with a lovelytone, and his fluid, fiery sax man Nat Birchall, blowing a tribute to theColtranes.Theyevenhadaharpplayerfor‘JourneyIntoSatchidananda’,rightupmyashram.Thenthelightswentout.

Ilovedpowercutsbackinthe’70s,everybodydid:theold’unsgotallmistyeyed about blackouts in the war and us youngsters thrilled to the shadowypotentialformischief.AndasRonnieScott’swasslammedintopitchblack,anairofcommunalnostalgia,withjustamerehintofmenace,descendedupontheplace.Apparently thiswasa localisedshutdownofallelectricity, just ina fewSoho streets, but it took out theatres, restaurants, bars and our famousmusic

venue.Socandleswerelitandthebandplayedacoustically,andwealllistenedintently,which,giventheintensityofthemusic,madeitevenmorepotent.Agreat set, butwalkingout into theheavy, lightlessWestEndair afterwards, atruly eerie atmosphere had descended upon the darkened, made-medievalstreets. Agitated and edgy, people talked quietly, conspiratorially, whispersaboutsedition,fearsofacontagionandaconflagrationengulfingthetown.

Youcould literally feel it intheair,as if theencroaching flameshadmadethesummereveninghotterstill,scorchingthedarkness,burningofftheoxygen.Perhaps the power cut was part of some larger, even scarier series of eventscontrolledbytheriotersormaybethestate,shuttingdown,closingin.Rumourswere flying; some said a column of the sans-culottes intent upon blood wereheadingtowardsus,marchingdowntheTottenhamCourtRoadtosackSohointhemurk.Others said policemarksmenhad gathered atopCentre Point, andmaybetheyhad.Initsoriginal’60sincarnation,thetopfloorofLondon’sthentallestbuildingwasdesignatedforusebythesecurityservices,thebestvantagepoint in town. A helicopter appeared overhead, its deafening rotors blowingblastsofparanoiadownwardsintotheW1darkness.

I remember saying to Rob that it felt like something cataclysmic wasoccurring,soweheadedafewstreetsnorthanddodgedintoapub,whichhadelectricityandaTV.Thereonthescreenwesawourcityaflame,riotersamok.TheClashcametomind,thesong,whichalwaysstartedthesetwaybackwhen,Joe Strummer taut and sprung, fists clenched, shouting out the title before aburstofdrums...LONDON’SBURNING!Soitwashappeningagain.

RobandI split,wishingeachotherwell,a safe journey. I jumpedonabusheadednorth,aNumber29or24,sawsomewindowsgonejustpastEuston.Afewstragglingyouthswithstridesaroundtheirarses,lookingforlornlyformore;more trouble,more trainers.Thenwe got toCamdenTown,my town, and IjumpedoffbySportsDirecttosee,inthedistance,asmallbunchofboyswitharmfulsofbooty,smilingmaniacally,shoutinggleefully.Itfeltlikearatherjollymasshysteria,aBeanoforthebad.

ButinNW1wewerelucky,relativelyunscathed,minorskirmish.Igothometo hear terrible tales of Hackney andWalthamstow, Peckham and Croydon,Ealing,Woolwich...outoforder,outofcontrol,inflames.Anothersongfromevenfurtherbackleapedintomyhead,areggaetunefromSkinheaddays,‘Demaloot,demashoot,demawail,ashantytown...alltherudeboybombupthe

town.’TheLondonmobwas back: the unseen, unledmilitia living always in our

midst,inourmargins,thespectreintheshanty.Thisisourresidentpoltergeist,aforce,whichspringsforthwheneverchaosissummoned,andonceagaintheyhadclaimed thecity for themselves.The lordsand ladiesofmisrulehad risenfromthecracksandthedreary,brokenplacesandwereona spree.Awantonrevelrythatranfordaysandspreadtotownsandcitiesacrosstheland.WarinaBabylon,burningandalooting,dembringsorrow,tearsandblood.

Theyhave ahistory;wehave ahistory. Spa Fields,GrosvenorSquare andRed Lion Square, theGordon riots, the Poll Tax riots, Broadwater Farm andBrixton,NottingHillandSouthall,Lewisham, theBattleofCableStreet, theBattle of Waterloo station, the Brown Dog affair, Grunwicks, the AngryBrigade,theIRAandtheSPG,HeadhuntersandBushwhackers,NFandBNP,RedAction,Blackshirts,blackbloc.

Despite theusually accurate imageof ours as a civilised city, level-headed,calm, therehas always been a backbeat of turmoil and tribulation; an unseenundercurrentofaggroandstrife,troubleonthestreets.Thiswastroubleaplenty.Lashing out and cashing in, a convulsion of consumerist chaos, but were themobrippingitupforgoodorbad,riotingforrightorwrong?

Certainlytherewasacause, thedeathofMarkDugganunderpolice fire,afatalpoolofyoungLondonbloodinacar.Yetanotherblackmangone,anotheryoung life lost, too many, too much. Black lives matter, poor lives matter.Questionsneedtobeaskedandanswered.Butsomeoftheyouthonthestreetssmashing windows and grabbing armfuls weren’t challenging authority, theywere accruing booty. It felt disconnected, disrespectful to the events up inTottenham.For the first time inmy life I didnotknowwhose side Iwason,wheremysympathies lay,and itvexedme.Mine isa tribal town, redorblue,leftor right,NorthorSouth, IronsorLions,usor them. ‘You’vegottadecidewhichsideyou’reon.’AndIdidn’tknow.

I’vealwaysconsidereditlilyliveredtositonanyfencewhatsoever.Icannotwatch a sporting event, an election or awar, nomatter howdistant,withouthaving a team to root for.Thisneed to selectmy side and stickby themhasmeant cheering on Benfica against Man United in 1966 and the RussianBasketball team against the USA in 1972. The MPLA, the ANC, and theYPG/YPJ. I support theCubans at baseball, boxing and embargoes, theDruzeMilitiainLebanon(OhWalidJumblatt),Euskaltel–Euskadiincyclingandthe

WestIndiesincricket.IwasthereatLord’sin’76,sittingbytheboundaryropewhoopingwhenthat

BoerandboreTonyGreigsaidhe’dmakethegreatWindiesgrovel.Iturnedoutfor theGrunwicks workers, the strikingminers, the Fleet Street printers andbackedawholeseriesofratherdodgy1970sliberationmovementsandeternallyuselesssportsteams.ButIcouldnotworkoutwhetherthisnameless,shapeless,shamelessmobcausingmayhemonourstreetsonasteamynightin2011wereontherightsideofhistory.

IwonderedifIwasnowtoobourgeoisaburgher,tooinvestedinthestatusquotofeeltheirpain,understandtheirangeroreventheirjoy.Icouldnotseetheirpoint,didn’tevenknowif theyhadone.AndmaybeIwas,maybeIam.Foralltheleftyideologyofmybackgroundandmyyouth,Iamnowaproperty-owning, profoundly middle-class, middle-aged Londoner who prefers his highstreetnotinflamesthankyou.

Butdespitethat,Iknewthoseragged-arsedriotersembodiedaforgotten,orratherconvenientlyoverlookedLondon,ignoredasmuchasignoble.Weknowtheyarethere,butweavertourgaze,wefloatpastwithoutwishingtosee,putcombustiblecladdingoverthestainedandcrackedconcrete.Perhapsthepointisthis:theLondonmob,anapparitionmademanifestwheneverthecityboils,arewhatweare.

During the civilwar, themobwere theLondon apprentice boys, cropped-hairedroundheads flockingtotheParliamentariancause.IntheGordonriotstheywere rabidanti-Catholicbigots. InNottingHill in1958 theywere racistTeddyBoys; inNottingHill in1976 theywere enragedRastafarian rebels. In2011theirragewasinchoate,inarticulate,indiscriminate.

The people kicking in windows and torching cars are always there, butusually a mute presence, a voiceless, aimless golem hovering in the shadows,lurking in the alleyways as you walk home. This wasn’t so much aboutgovernment or policing or race, it was about the mess we’ve made, the crapwe’vebrushedunderthecarpet.Weareallguiltyofneglect.Wehaveturnedablindeye,givenacoldshoulder,allowedthingstofester,tofermentandstink.Storeup flammablematerials inunsuitableconditions, thenneglect themandeventuallytheywillburstintoflames.

Theseherberts,nickinghigh-streetcrapandburningdown furniture shops,wereus.Ourcrasslymaterialistic,de-politicised,de-moralised(literallystrippedof its core morality) and horribly divided society in the flesh, in our faces.

Sometimes looking in themirror is not particularly pleasant. As befitting anurbanbeast,thisrampaginggangwerenotsomuchaforceofnatureasnurture,theyarewhatwehavecreated.Everyagegetsthemobitdeserves.

Our rampaging twenty-first century London rabblewas not heroic or evenartfullynihilistic,theyhavebeenstrippedofalldignityastheirculturehasbeenshredded, theirhistorydenied, their collectivevaluesunderminedby crushingmaterialismandcrudeindividualism.ThiswasnotRailtonRoadin1981,whenthe righteous flames licked the racistBabylon.TheywerenotHoHoHoChiMinhchanters,orstaunchCableStreeters,ensuringtheydidnotpass.Notallthepeopleonthestreetsonthosenightswereviciousandvacuous.Someweregenuinely enraged by racist policing, but many more were just enjoying theheadlessadrenalinerushofacityturnedtemporarilyonitshead.It’sfuntobebad.

The potential for badness and abandon has been severely curtailed in ourvideo-surveyed, closelymonitored, hard-working, censorious, controlled, well-behavedcity.So steambuildsup.TheLondonofmyyouthwasamuchmoreunruly, much more raucous place, regularly bubbling over, but rarely in socataclysmicafashion.Theseriotingtwenty-firstcenturyyouths,inalltheiruglyemptiness, were a potent and timely reminder of two things. If you ignoresomething for long enough, it doesn’t go away it just gets worse. Oh, andLondonlovesarow.

TrafalgarSquareissimultaneouslytheverycentreofourLondonuniverseandaprofoundlyforeignland.Initseveryday,thevast,soullessexpanseisexclusivelyfor tourists to loiter and litter, but we collectively reclaim the Square inmomentsofextremis;joyandcelebrationortrialandtribulation.MymumanddadwerethereonV.E.Day,themostgloriouslyrighteouskneesupthiscityhaseverseen.IwastheredemonstratingagainstthePollTax,themostterrifyinglyviolent protest I have ever seen. I spent a few dreary, but satisfyingly self-righteous afternoons in Horatio’s shadow in my student days, picketing theapartheidSouthAfricanEmbassy.IwasalsothereonWednesday6July2005,whenIaccidentlybecamethefirstpersoninBritaintolearnthatLondonhadwontheOlympics.IwasbroadcastingfortheBBCandtheradiofeedfromtheIOCmeeting inSingapore, announcingwhetherLondonorParishadgot thevote,reachedmyheadphonesafractionofasecondbeforeitreachedthegiant

TVscreen.However, IwasdefinitelynowherenearTrafalgarSquare in1907, forwhat

wasperhapsthemostsurrealriotthiscityhaseverwitnessed.Totell this story,we firstneedtogoonadetourtoBatterseaPark,where,

almost hidden away among the rhododendrons, you’ll see the second-most-intriguingcaninememorialinallLondon.Itisactuallyarisiblytweecastingofa cutesy little terrier on a plinth, but the story told in its inscription isfascinating.This is the taleof ‘TheBrownDogAffair’. It’sa sagaofbloodonthe streets and on our collective conscience: vivisection, suffragettes,medicalstudents, class warriors, toffs with dogs on sticks, and a communist councilestate.

The original statue of a brown dog, a much grander, more ornate andupstanding affair was commissioned by anti-vivisection campaigners and paidforbypublicsubscriptionin1906.ItwasthelikenessofapoorhoundwhohadbeenusedforgrizzlyexperimentsbystudentdoctorsatUCL,andwhobecamethesubjectofacourtcaseandacausecélèbre.Itwasatrulycontentiousissue,which enflamedpassionsonboth sides, and causedmuchdebate in thepress.Because itwas socontroversial,nocouncilwouldagree tohave the statueontheir turf untilBattersea said theywould take it.That’s how thebronzemuttendeduponthenewlybuiltLatchmereEstate,suitablyclosetothedogs’home.

Currentlythefocusofthemost febrileoutbreakof luxuryapartmentmaniain the entire city, Battersea back then was very different. Often dubbed thesmelliestspotinLondonbecauseofsomanypungentfactories,itwasdescribedas ‘full of belching smoke and slums’. It was also a notorious hotbed ofradicalism. At various times Battersea boasted London’s only communistMPanditsfirstblacksocialistmayor.SotheserampantSouthLondonleftiesagreedto give a home to the statue, which included a seven-foot plinth, a drinkingtrough for thirsty pooches and a vehemently anti-animal-experimentationinscription.GeorgeBernardShawevenspokeat theunveiling.Littledidtheyknowthetroublethatwouldensue.

Medical students, exclusively the male scions of upper-class families,objected to a monument which seemed to impugn their profession and sodecided to go and smash it up. The Battersea council estate dwellers werehavingnoneof it.Nobodywasgoing tobash their statue, so theygathered todefenditandaratherlivelybitofclasswarheave-hoensued.Thiswentonforweeks, becoming more and more vitriolic and ended up with a permanent

twenty-four-hourpoliceguardaroundthebrowndogandcountlessinjuriesandarrests.

The would-be surgeons were not giving up though, and on 10 December1907 roughlyone thousandof themmarchedalong theStrand, someof themwearingwhite coats and surgicalmasks, someof themcarrying canine effigiesand even stuffed pooches on sticks, until they got toTrafalgar Square.Therethey ran into an equally large group of suffragettes and trades unionists, whosided with the statue, objected to the doctors and all hell broke loose. Theimageofpurple-cladwomenandmilitantworkingmeninflatcapsgoingtoetotoewith juniormedics armedwith taxidermy is intrinsically funny in aMaryPoppinskindofway,butthiswasaseriousaffray.Aroundfourhundredpolicewere needed to help quell the trouble and plenty ended up in local hospitalsbeingtreatedbypresumablyfullyqualifieddoctors.

MeanwhileBatterseaCouncilhadachangeinpoliticalcontrol.TheTorieswere now in charge and one night, without any consultation, the brown dogsuddenly disappeared. Rumours suggest that it had been unceremoniouslydumpedinthenearbyThames,nevertobeseenagain.Noremainingreminderof one of London’s most surreal violent convulsions survived, but the storyneverentirelywentaway.In1985theAnti-VivisectionSocietycommissionedthenewpooch,whositsnow,notintheoldcouncilestate,whichisstillthere,butinthenearestpark.Shameit’ssucharopeystatue.

Whilewe’redoingdogsandstatuary,willyouallowmealittlediversionintoanalternative,andcompletelyunreliableversionofthetaleofthemostcelebratedLondoncanineofthetwentiethcenturyandhispartinthestoryofthestolenstatuette? Pickles was the pooch who famously found the World Cup. HediscoveredtheJulesRimettrophy,wrappedupinnewspaperandhiddenunderahedge in Norwood in 1966. The elegant golden winged figurine had beennickedfromastampfairjustacoupleofmonthsbeforewewereduetostagethetournament.Themostfamoustrophyintheworld,theonedestinedtobeheldaloft inBobbyMoore’shandafter thegameagainstGermanyatWembley(orwas it?), had been put on display on a Stanley Gibbons stall at a philatelisteventinWestminsterCentralHall.Itwasguardedbyasingleseventy-four-year-oldblokewithaweakbladderwhorequired frequentcomfortvisits.Whilehewas relievinghimself, somebody simply pinched it from the opendisplay case

andhaditontheirtoes.For over a week the mysterious case of the missingWorld Cup kept the

nation enthralled and appalled. Until it finally turned up under theaforementionedSouthLondonprivet.Andthatwasalsobecauseofapeestop.Pickles, a black-and-white mixed breed collie, sniffed it out while on hismorning ablution walk, saved the blushes of the nation and became a star.Fêted, photographed, featured in films and even on Blue Peter, the name ofPickles still resonates.He is buried in aSouthLondonback garden, a caninesuperstar.ButIwastoldaslightlydifferentversionofevents.

Ihadreasontogettoknowachapwhodealtintickets.I’vealways(withawhole suitcase full of caveats) rather enjoyed the company of London’s‘entertainmentbrokers’astheynowdubthemselves.Afunnier,broaderbunchofblokesitwouldbehardtoimagine.Thisonewaslargerthanlifeinallsortsofways, though charming as all hell, a self-appointed heir to the notorious andportly Stan Flashman, the 1970s ‘king of the ticket touts’.My fellow’s familyrootswereintheItaliancommunityinClerkenwell,andtheconversationoneevening,oiledofcoursebyComosofChiantiandApenninesofpasta,gotroundtotheWorldCups(forwhichhecouldgetanybriefsyouwanted)andthestoryofPicklesandthemissingtrophy.

Now I have no way of knowing if the story he told is true. But what isundoubtedly beyond doubt is that this fellow’s father’s family knew people inlowplaces.TheywereprivytothewholeLittleItaly,Sabinishebang.Whatisequallytrueisthatmymancouldcertainlytellatalltaleortwo,soeverythinghesaidtomecouldwellbeextremelyfantastic.Butthewayhe’dheardit,thetrophyhad indeed been lifted by an opportunist thief, a low-lyingmember ofthemob,who had nicked it for the self-same reason dogs lick their bollocks:becausehecould.But thenhehadno ideawhat todowith it.Whowants tobuytheWorldCup?(Don’tmentionQatarorRussia.)

ObviouslytheheatwasontheMettofindthisthing,butitwasalsoalittleembarrassingforthefirm,positivelyunpatriotic.Sophonecallsweremadeanda deal was struck. The World Cup would be handed back, but to avoidembarrassment all round it would be done in such a way that everybodyinvolvedcouldkeepwellclearofthetransaction.Likeperhapsstickingitunderahedge in somedistantbitofSouthLondon, a longway fromEC1,where itcouldbefortuitouslyfound,perhapsbyahound.

This (shaggy dog) story doesn’t end there, though. There have long beenrumoursthatthetrophy,sofamouslyheldaloftbyourcaptainattheendofthegame, might not have been the real thing. When the World Cup wentwalkabout,theFA,againstthestrictinstructionsofFIFA,hadpurportedlymadeacopyjustincaseitnevercameback.Spookedastheywerebyhavinglostthething once, itwas the replica thatwas given toMrMoore to celebratewith.Whichmightnothavebeensuchabadthing.Asfolklorealsohasitthatitwasleft thatnight in thehouseof abloke inLeytonstone,where JackieCharltonhadendedupkippingonastranger’ssofa,paralyticdrunk.TherealJulesRimetwasfinallygiveninperpetuitytoBrazilwhentheywonitforthethirdtimein1970,onlytobenickedagainandmelteddown.Orsotheysay.

All right then, once more unto the breach and all that. I often find myselfshakingmyheadwhen Ihear it said thatwe live inaviolentcity, inviolenttimes.Nowedon’t.Thankfullywedon’t.Definitelywedon’t.Orrathermostofusdon’t.

Occasionally thecityexplodes intowantonviolence like the riotsof2011,sporadicallyitalwayshas.Yetdespitesuchspasmodicparoxysms,Iwouldarguethat–formostofitsinhabitants–dailylifeinLondonhasrarely,ifever,beensafer.Comparedtotherandomlyviolent,triballytroubled,frequentlydangerousLondon of my youth, this is a quiescent, rather placid era. The streets arecalmer,thepubssafer,thedancehallsquieter,thefootballterracesduller.Yetparadoxicallyandtragicallythesearethedeadliestoftimesforsome.

There are among us a group of usually young, all too often black males,afflicted by the curse of knife and even gun crime. Locked in an ever-diminishing cycle of poverty of expectation and poverty of example, and thetemptations of the get-rich-quick drug trade. Trapped by a claustrophobic,postcodecageandlashingout.Robbedofpositiverolemodelsandtheculturalsolidityof community and force fed a live-fast, die-younggangstermythology,they are all scared; they are all victims.Often the brightest and the sharpest,denied a vision of the future, the best become the worst. Again we live inparallelLondons.Streetsthataresecureandsereneformemaybeterrifyingandultimatelydeadlyforakidfromtheestateroundthecorner.Helivesandmaybediesinhistiny,scaryworld.

Every time I hear of a lad stabbed in a stairwell on his estate, or fatally

shankedinashoppingprecinctbyagangafterschool,mysoulseepsandweepsatthecruelstupidityofit.WhatawasteofpreciousyoungLondoners.Whatistobedonetostopsuchfutilecarnage?Buttherealityisifyouarenotintheirclaustrophobic and dangerous world, hemmed in by ingrained institutionalracism,povertyandparanoidadolescentmachismo,eggedonbyabraggadocioof bad-boy gangster glamour, chances are you live in the safest, most pacificLondonever.

Despite the outrages, despite the knives and the guns, we live in largelypeaceable times, in an unusually well-behaved and non-violent city. Thestatistics support this argument,but it’s less about crime figures,more about asea change in attitudes. The London I grew up in was much more casually,randomly, pointlessly prone to rucks and rumbles, punch-ups, bootings andhead-butts,anditalwayshadbeen.

Mymumusedtotellushow,whenshewasfirstmarriedtoourfather,iftheyhadnomoneytogooutonaSaturdaynight,forentertainmenttheywouldsiton thewindow sill of their one-room flat andwatch the brawls and bust-upswhich routinely took place outside the Monkey House, the pub opposite inW10. The police were so used to this ritual of pissed-up blokes havingmassfights in the street at closing time that theywere armedwith strait jackets towrap up the combatants before they dragged them off to the cells in waitingblackMarias.JustanormalnightinoldNottingHill.

TheBaldFacedStaginBurntOakwasjustasspectacularlyrowdyfortyyearslater,when Iwasa lad,aboozer sowantonlywild itwasanentertainment initself.Nobandorcomediancouldpossiblycompete.Itwasnotuncommonforthechapsof theStagtocapturethegovernor, lockhimupinacupboardandhelp themselves to thebar.Outsiderswouldoftenbewelcomedbyavolleyofflying beer bottles, and drunken duels between regulars would regularly takeplaceinthecarparkoutback,chairlegsatclosingtime.Itwasaperpetualminiriot.Itwasalsogreatfun,butlikesomuchfunitwasdangerous,andyouneverquiteknewwhenitwouldturn.

GrowingupinLondoninthe1960s, ’70sand’80s,welearnedtonavigateourway throughviolence fromaveryyoungage.Youdidn’thave togoanywherenear a pub to find yourself assaulted for such everyday sins as looking atsomebodyinthewrongway(‘Youscrewingmeout?’),wearingthewrongpairof

trousers, or the wrong colour football scarf. Sometimes even such minorprovocation wasn’t necessary, and you could end up in a ruckus for nodiscernible reasonwhatsoever. Troublewas part of everyday life and this citywas alsoperpetually tornwith sectarian, sporting, political, cultural and tribalstrife and division, regularly brimming over into affray and physicalconfrontation.

For one thing, the SecondWorldWarwas still rumbling on. If I want tomakemyselffeelparticularlyoldIrememberthatIwasbornlessthanfourteenyears after the global conflict officially ended– sometimes it felt like itneverdid.The scars andwounds in the fabricofLondonwere still raw.Therewereflattened bombsites all over town, colonised for car parks, markets andmakeshiftplaygrounds,rowsofprefabswherebombed-outhouseshadbeenandpotmarksandsurfacedamageonbuildingseverywhere.(Cleopatra’sNeedlestillcarries the scars of First World War Zeppelin raids.) People had Andersonsheltersintheirgardens,gasmasksintheircupboardsandrationbooksintheirhandbags.

Us kids made Airfix models of Spitfires and Heinkels, and staged mockbattleswithplasticdesertrats.For‘showandtell’atschool,boysandgirlswouldbringinmedalsorbitsofshrapnel.ArmysurplusstoreswerestillfloggingkhakikillingkitandonLisleStreetinSoho,wheretheChineserestaurantsnoware,therewererowsofshopssellingex-militarytechnology.Everynowandthenanold undiscovered bomb would be located and families evacuated. Armistice,whatarmistice?

TherewereNaziseverywhere:intheTVshowswewatched,inthefilmswesaw,particularly inthecomicsIread.Thewarwasstill there inthesongstheoldergenerationsang,thestoriestheytold,anddeepinthementalityofpeoplewhohadnotyet forgivenor forgotten.Theycertainlymentionedthewar.MypoorUncle Ernie, whowould undoubtedly now be treated for PTSD,walkedround my nan’s house reliving the torment of being on a torpedoed ship.AnotheruncledevoutlyhatedJapanesepeopleafterhistimeinacamp.Everyfamilymemberhadatoughtaletotell.

The ultimate violence of total war, albeit one where Londoners could berightlyproudoftheparttheyplayed,wasabackdroptojustabouteverything.Thiswas a battle-hardened,maybe still shell-shocked city and the potentiallycataclysmicshockofnucleardestructionhungoverusall:duckandcover,kids,duckandcover.Armageddontime.

As small children we would walk arm in arm round the infant schoolplaygroundchanting,‘Whowantstoplaywar?’,andweknewexactlywhichwarwemeant.Wewerenine-year-olds shouting ‘schweinhund’, ‘händehoch’ andgoingonKamikazemissionsuptheEdgwareRoad.Bythetimewegottojuniorschool,thegameofwarhadmorphedintomassbundlesofbruising,sometimesbleedingintensity,oftenfollowedbyaset-tobetweentwoboyswitheverybodyelsestandingroundinacircleeggingthemnoisilyon,‘fight,fight,fight’.Andifyou came home with a bloody nose, your mother wanted to know why youdidn’twinandmaywellsendyoubackoutforanothergo.

NowcanIpointoutherethatIrarelywon.ThankfullyIrarelyhadto.ThefactthatIhadtwoelderbrothersofsomestandinggavemeacertainlatitudeinmatters of machismo: wise souls knew not to pick on Reggie Elms’s littlebrother.Ialsobecameawareearlyonthataggrowasnotmyforte.Ihadneitherthestomachnorthefistsforthefight;Iwasnogoodatit.Butthatrealisationdidn’tstopthefighting.

Because I didn’t have the bottle (which is of course rhyming slang, bottleandglass,arse)forthebattle,itjustmeantthatIgotprettygoodatsidestepping.Keepingyourcoolandyourdistancewhileallhell isgoingonaroundyouisastreetskill,whichhasservedmewell.Anditwasfirstlearnedintheplayground,thenhonedinteenageyearswhenprettymucheverynightoutandeverytriptofootballseemedtoinvolvefrictionandafracasofsomekind.

Oneofthegreatmythsofthe1960sand’70sisthatLondonwasthecentreofsomesortofswinginghippylove-in,agroovy,trippytowndrapedincrushedvelvet.Wellnotroundourwayitwasn’t.Ihavespokentopeoplewhowereincool, patchouli-scented scenes in Powis Square, and Pont Street with variousstonedStones,andasoneofthemsaid,‘SwingingLondoninvolved22people,16ofwhomhadrichparents.’Formostofus,peace,loveandflowerpowerweresomethinghairypeoplefromSanFranciscosangabout.

JustabouteveryoneIknewhadcroppedhairandbigboots,notnecessarilymadeforwalking.Idon’twanttomakeitsoundasifIspentmyyouthterrifiedofthenextruckus;itwasmorethatyouacceptedthatadegreeofviolencewasanormalpartofeveryday,andcertainlyeverynightlife.Andprovidingyouwerelightonyourfeetitwasusuallyeasyenoughtoswerve.Occasionallythoughitreallydidgetoutofhand.

The two most spectacularly unruly and downright vicious events I wasinvolvedinduringmyteenageyearstookplace inthetwoleast likelypartsof

London imaginable, Barnet and Dollis Hill. Yep, High Barnet; the verdant,affluentsuburbontheverylimitofthenorthernfringesofthecity,whichissaidto be the highest point between London and the Urals. And Dollis Hill, adrearilymundaneNorthwestLondoncommunityofhumbleEdwardianhomesthatdoesn’thaveanynotedhighpointswhatsoever.Alsobothofthevenuesfortheseclasheshavesinceceasedtoexist.BarnetfootballclubnolongerplayatUnderhill and theGrunwick photo-processing plant is now a housing estate.Buttheyarebothsearedontomymemory.

Enoughwordshavebeenwrittenaboutfootballhooliganisminits1970sand’80s heyday. But unless you regularly stood on those decaying old terraceswatchingattackteamsofkamikazeyouthstrainedin‘Whowantstoplaywar?’andBritishBulldog,kickinglumpsoutofeachother,prettymuchuntroubledbyanypoliceinterventionorsafetyconsideration,youcannotknowhowwildandwanton it was. If working-class lads like kicking lumps out of each other letthemgetonwithit,seemedtobetherule.

AtLoftusRoad, I regularlywitnessedhuge firms of hundreds of lads, frombigger, tougher teams try and ‘take’ the Loft, our humble home section;routinely sawpitchbattles occurringwhile the game continuedunaffectedonthepitch.WatchingColdBlowLane’sfinestcladinbutchers’coats,tooledup,pissedupandriledup,headingforyourend,cancertainlyputthefearofSE1intoyou.

But itwasalso true thatunlessyou specificallywishedtoget involved, theviolencehadaremarkablewayofdancingneatlyaroundyou.Iwasyardsfromthe action on numerous occasions, indulged in a fair amount of baiting andbanter, but never really got hurt. Football hooliganism was a sport forconsentingjuveniles,mostofthepeopleinvolvedloveditandyoucouldusuallyoptoutwhilestayingcloseby.ButnotatBarnet.

Itwas1973,Iwasfourteenandalreadyawar-waryfootballfan.Iwasusedtobeingalerttothemyriaddangersofagame,butnotexpectingtoomuchtroubleatanon-leaguegroundwheremyteamhadtogoforacupreplay.BurntOakisthe black sheep of the London borough of Barnet, a tough working-classenclave, but this was up in the proper posh old county town. Famed for itscharming little sloping ground, I went with a group of mates from schoolexpecting a gentle night watchingmy team. I should have remembered fromhistorythattheBattleofBarnetwasoneofthefiercestoftheWarsoftheRoses,andparttwowasabouttocommence.

Both big North London firms, Arsenal and Tottenham, plus a fair fewfighters fromeveryothercrew inthecapital, joined forces todefendthe littlelocalnon-leagueteam.TheyforgedanunholyallianceagainstQPR’srelativelysmallbutstillgamegangoffightingboysfromLadbrokeGroveandShepherd’sBush.TheWestieswereledbyEllie,aladwithpoliowhodraggedhisleg,butswunghisfists,andturnedupmaybetwoorthreehundredstrong,tobemetbythislarge,unexpectedallianceinwait.Allthisatagroundwithnosegregation,nofencesandveryfewpolice.

No exaggeration, for two hours, a pretty much non-stop, no-holds-barredassault occurred. I had somehow draggedmynice grammar schoolmates intotheQPRcrewandwefoundourselveshemmedinundertheonestandwitharoof,whichwasbeingdismantled fromabovewith the slates rainingdownontheblue-and-whiteladsbelow.

ItwasRorke’sDriftwith a footballmatch goingon a few feet away. I sawpeoplecarriedoff,bleedingfromheadwounds,onlytogetpatchedupbytheStJohnAmbulanceandreturntothefray.Otherslaidoutinlinesonthesideofthegroundinimprovisedtriage.Therewerechargesandcountercharges,pincermovements,andalloutattacks,itwasabsolutemayhem.Thefewpolicepresentwereoverrunandbatteredtoo.

I have witnessedMillwall’s Bushwackers running riot round the Blue andChelsea’s Nazi Headhunters Sieg Heiling and smashing up Loftus Road. I’veseendecadesoffootballviolencecloseupbutneverhaveIbeensoterrifyinglyclose to such constant, hand-to-hand, boot-to-head, head-to-nose, toe-to-toecombat,asthatnightinsleepysuburbia.

Thenwewenthome.Notawordinthepapers,notaTVcrewinsight,justafewyoungboys,batteredbutboastingintheplaygroundnextday.QPRwon.

Thenext time Iwas involved inamajorNorthLondonaffray,notonlyweretheTV cameras present but I ended up on the SixO’ClockNews. InOctober2016therewasanexhibitionheldatWillesdenLibrarytocommemoratefortyyearssincethestartoftheGrunwickdisputeandthirty-nineyearssincemyfirsteverappearanceonnationaltelevision.Grunwickwasagrimandgrimy,breeze-blockphotographicprocessingplant inChapterRoadNW2,where an almostexclusivelyAsian,femaleworkforcefacedDickensianconditionsandappallingracist treatment, so went on strike. For the first time the still largely white,

working-class TUC supported an ethnic-minority-led strike, and a major,protracteddisputebegan.

Thedisputestartedattheendofthedeliriouslylonghotsummerof’76,anditwasstillrumblingonayearlater.OverthattimethestaunchAsianwomenattracted increasing support from trades unionists, socialists, bearded, paper-selling Trots and grumpy old-school ‘tankies’. This motley collection of ’70slefties, visionaries and malcontents turned up every week in those crowdedresidentialstreetstotryandstopthe‘scab’workersbusedinbythemanagementfromenteringtheplant,andtoarguenoisilyamongthemselves.

BecauseitwasonlyabusrideawayfromBurntOak,Iwentalongacoupleoftimestoseewhatwashappeningandtobolstermycredentialsamongthecadreofsixth-formagitatorswhohadbecomemymates.Thenon22June1977itwasannounced that a national mobilisation and mass picket had been called forGrunwick: thebigpush, the final showdown.Theproletarianheavycavalry–the National Union of Mineworkers, led by the legendary Arthur Scargill,Yorkshire’s ownCheGuevarawith a combover –would be coming down toNorthwestLondontosavethedayandshuttheplant.Excitingisnotthewordforit.

Idistinctlyrecallgettingupinthedarkbeforedawnanddonningmythenderigeur leather bikers’ jacket andheading forDollisHillwithmy comrades.Askinny, ginger fashion punk about to be thrust into the forefront of the classstruggle.Alltooliterally.

Thescenewasextraordinary.Crammedintothesemundane,tightlypacked,slightlyshabbyresidentialstreets,ordinarypeople’shomes,wastheusualpicketline of striking workers, dignified and proud in their saris with placards inEnglishandHindi,plustensofthousandsofprotesters.Ontheotherside,justfeetaway,wererowsandrowsofpolice,mostnotablyastern-lookingphalanxofriotshieldandbaton-wieldingSPG.

ThesewerethedreadedSpecialPatrolGroup,aterrifyingparamilitarymobwhom I had last encountered inAugust 1976. Then they had been lined upacrosstheHarrowRoadreadytowadeintotheCarnivalandplaytheirpartinprovokingthetroublewhichfollowed,trashingtheGroveandpromptingTheClashtowrite‘WhiteRiot’,theirfirstsingle.Onthatdaytheyhadstoppedmeandmynicewhitematesaswehadheadedtowardsthecarnivalandaskedusaquestion. It was, and I quote: ‘Why do you want to go in there with all theniggers?’

Thatwas the ‘enemy’wewere facing thatday.Their jobwas tomake surethat thebus, literallyanoldRoutemaster, fullof strikebreakers,couldmake itthrough the picket lines into the plant. Ours was to stop them. The verylanguageofthetime–scabsandscum,filthandpigs–givesyouanindicationofhowembittereditallwas.Andarrayedagainstuswereacollectionofshadowyfar-rightideologuesliketheNAFF(NationalAssociationForFreedom)andtheMondayClub,fundingthestrike-breakingoperation.Thiswasseriousbusiness.

ButIjustrememberlovingtheexcitementanddrama,especiallywhenwordwent out that the flying picket ofminers had arrived. To the sound of hugecheers, this columnof tough,northernmen, led byComradeScargill barkinginstructions into a loud hailer, camemarching towards us from upWillesdenway, flying their banners as if towar.Which is prettymuchwhat it became.Here in these tightly packed suburban North London streets, on a sunnysummer’s morning a no-holds-barred, no-prisoners-taken, no-quarter-givenbattlecommenced.Itwasbloodymad.

You must have seen the scenes from the Battle of Orgreave, the massiveclashbetweenminers and coppers during the strike in 1984.Well, thiswas adressrehearsalforthat,butinthebackstreetsofDollisHill,withlocalresidentstryingtogettoworkandtaketheirkidstoschool.InfactIrecallonemomentwhen a group ofminers and old bill were literally exchanging blows, only tobreak off to let a family go by, then resume hostilities after they had passed.Therewerebitterlittlesidetusslesgoingonallover,biggrownmenjustopenlyfighting in side streets andpeople’s front gardens,usingdustbin lids as shieldsandplantpotsasammo;bloodonthedoorstepandthedahlias.

Then the scab-laden bus came, and the SPG tried to smash their waythroughourlines.Somehow,atthispivotalmoment,throughtheunstoppablemomentumofthecrowdIfoundmyselfintheveryfrontrank.Iwasarminarmwithfellowprotesters,facedoffbyacopperwithhisbatondrawn,hoveringovermyhead,butalsobyacameramanfromtheBBCpointingatmyface.Isuspecthislenssavedmefromawhack.

But itwas all tonoavail,our lines couldn’thold, thebusgot in.We lost.Almost all the sides I’ve picked over the years have lost.Thoughhistory hasundoubtedly decided that the striking Grunwick women were right; steadfaststrugglersforequalityanddecency.Likesomanyapparentdefeatsitwasactuallya vital step on the path to victory and the recognition of everybody’s rights,regardlessofraceorgender.Butonthatfateful,fearsomeday,andinthecoming

monthsasthestrikepeteredout,welost.ThateveningIsatdowntowatchtheTVwithmymumandthereIwason

thenews,aneighteen-year-oldboy,theself-sameagemylefty,agitatordadhadbeen when she first met him on the strife-torn streets ofW10.Apparently Ilookedverymuchlikehimtoo.WhenshesawmeontheTVI sawhersmileandcrysimultaneously.CaughtperhapsbetweenhertwoLondons,herpastandherfuture,herhusbandandherson.

‘Youtakecare,Robert,’isallshesaid.‘Youtakecare.’

By the end of that summer I had takenmy place at the LSE, where being aveteran of the Grunwick dispute gave me a certain cachet on the steps ofHoughton Street. I plunged into the alphabetti spaghetti of student politics,tryingtodisentangletheIMGfromtheWRPandtheSWPfromtheCPGB.Iwasnevermorethanafellowtraveller,bunkingthefaresatthat.ButIcouldatleast claim proper proletarian status, whereas most of the residentrevolutionaries were middle-class Marxists, convinced that the great leapforwardforoiksliketheElmseswasjustaroundthecorner.

Thereweresit-insandoccupations,picketsandprotestsalmosteverydayifyoufanciedit.Politicswasanintegralpartofalivelystudentsociallife,whichinvariably involvedroll-upfags,pintsofbeer insubsidisedbasementbars,girlswithCNDhaircuts,benefitgigsatConwayHallinHolbornandtripstoCollet’sbookshopontheCharingCrossRoad.Thiswasatattylabyrinthofproselytisingpamphlets, Soviet posters and Gramscian tracts next door to Foyles up nearTottenhamCourtRoadTube.Everyself-respectingstudentrevolutionarywenttoCollet’s tobrowsebooksandbuybadges.Power to thepeopleandpass thepot.

TheGLC,oncefamousforknockingthingsdown,wentfromvillaintohero,building an anti-Thatcherite bastion atCountyHall, just over from the LSE.There were numerous benefit gigs there and at Islington Town Hall, whichproudlyflewtheredflag.Indeedtherewasawholealternativenetworkofleft-wing life in which LSE students were deeply involved. I dipped in and outdependingonwhichoutfitIwaswearingthatday.

My favourite of all the many slightly mad lefty bookstores, which oncelittered thecity,was theAlbanianShop inBettertonStreet,CoventGarden.Thiswasamusty treasure troveofStalinist statuettes,key rings,badges, flags,

pickled fruit and the collected twenty-four-volume speeches of EnverHoxha,the dear leader of the Socialist People’s Republic ofAlbania. For years it satnext toa launderette inwhatwas still a run-downandcheappartof town. Itwas a hoot until the Iron Curtain and the Soviet Union fell and the shopvanished,alongwithCollet’sandsomanyothersalmostovernight.

Over in Whitechapel, up Angel Alley, redolent with layers of East Endsedition,theFreedomBookshopandprintingpress, the fervidhomeofBritishanarchism, thankfully still survives. The Soviets would never have subsidisedragingBakuninites,soitragesstill,alastingtributetothedreamsofgenerationsoflibertarianvisionariesandplotters.

Ifthetermloonyleftwasapplicabletoanyone,itwasthecertifiablelunaticswho supported thevariousMaoist groups,who somehowsaw theLSEas theirspiritual home. One lot were ardent followers of the Sendero Luminoso, theShining Path, a wildly violent Peruvian guerrilla group, who plastered thecampus and much of WC2 with stencilled posters singing the praises ofChairman Gonzalo, their bearded guru. But they were positively mainstreamcomparedtoabunchofwild-eyed,exclusivelyfemaleMaoistswhowouldstandonthestepsofthemainLSEbuildingtryingtoconvinceusthattherevolutionwas indeed just around the corner. Imean literally round the corner.One ofthemactuallytoldmethatthegloriousRedArmyhaddugatunnelfromChinaandwouldbeemerging, littleredbooksandAK-47sinhand,somewhereneartheStrandatanymoment.

I laughingly told this story foryears,until in2015 itwasallover thenewsthatagroupof femaleshadbeenheldasvirtualhostagesandsexual slaves fordecades inahouse inBrixtonbyoneAravindanBalakrishnan, leaderof ‘TheWorkers Institute ofMarxism-Leninism-Mao Zedong Thought’, a charismaticcharlatanwhohadstudiedattheLSE.Itwasthem.

Themostchillingmomentofmystudentpolitical shenaniganscamewhenwewerepreparingtooccupysomebuildingorother.OneofourcomradeswasanolderguycalledRichard,withabonafideSouthLondonaccent,apairofDrMartens and an intense commitment to overthrowing the state.Hewas veryunlikemostoftheposhTrotsandnooneeverquiteknewwhathewasdoingattheLSE–heseemedtobeasortofsemi-professionalagitator.BeforewesetoffhetookmetoonesideandaskedconspiratoriallyifIwantedanythingfortheoperationahead.Ididn’tquiteunderstandwhathemeantuntilhesaidopenly:‘IfweneedanygunsIcangetthem.’(IhavesincewonderedwhetherRichard

wasactuallyanundercovercopinfiltratingourranks.)‘YoutakecareRobert.Youtakecare.’Therealironyofthisragingrevolutionarymilieu–‘thefinalpush,brothers

andsisters,thefinalpush’–isthatyetagainIwaswatchinganotherLondonontheedgeofextinction,thoughnobodyrealiseditatthetime.

One of my tutors was an Australian political scientist called KennethMinogue(Inever thoughtabout thisbefore,but I lovethe ideathathecouldpossibly be related toKylie), whowas part a new breed of brash ‘neo-liberal’ideologuesbasedattheLSE.Hepreachedwhatseemedatthetimelikefar-outfree market economics and neo-con politics. I remember a heated debatebetweenProfessorMinogueandagroupofusundergrads,inwhichwemockedhis assertion that this upstart milk-snatching woman he was advising wouldchangetheworld.Themeteorwasabouttohit.

Just how much London and the universe would change in a few shortThatcherite years can best be illustrated by spending some time in StokeNewington. I did that because one of my best friends from the LSE hadsomehowwangledacouncilflatthere,asyoucouldinthosedays.Evenbytheshoddy standards of the late ’70s, N16 was a remarkably run-downneighbourhood. Grimy, grotty and seemingly stuck in a forever February ofmurkyhalf-lightandconstantdrizzle.Buttherewerecompensations.

We spentmany hours getting disgraceful while wrongly thinking we wereputting the world to rights in a series of mordantly unreconstructed Stokeyboozers.Nicotine-stained,sticky-carpeted,cheap,warm,rollickingboozerswithgreatoldjukeboxesandaclientelethatdividedintothreeelements;Irish,WestIndianandrevolutionary.Ohandtherewerealwaysexemplarykebabsoneverycorner.

TheIrishandWestIndianladsremindedmeverymuchofmyWestieroots,but theHackney reds were of a different order. Thesewere proper hardmen(and a few hard women) plotting the violent downfall of almost everything.TherewasanexiledBasquereportinggleefullybackonthelatestETAoutrage.Thereweredecidedlypost-peace-and-loveClassWaranarchists,includingsomenear-insaneItalians,intentonincendiaryinsurrection.Andmostterrifyinglyagroup of home-grown ‘squadists’, shovel-wielding, building-site warriors, whowould later formRedAction.Theywere amilitantworking-class anti-fascist,

street-fighting cadre who regularly came to blows withCombat 18, and gavehonourguards to IRAmarches.StokeNewingtonwas theepicentreof tough,radicalLondon.Andwhowouldknowitnow.

StokeNewingtonwent through a transitional period in the1990swhen itwas largely lesbians, kite shops and dreadlocks, but Stokey today is the verymodelofamodernwell-manneredinner-citycommunity.ClissoldPark,ChurchStreet, the Gothic cemetery, the gastropubs, the pilates, the artisan bakers,everything from the tabbouleh to the mummies is yummie. Walk downAmhurst Road now, or Milton Grove or Walford Road, all prime slices ofgluten-free N16 loveliness, and you would never know that those threeaddresseswerethesceneofthreeofthebiggestterroristbustsofthetwentiethcentury. All within half-a-mile of each other, but a million miles from thepleasant,priceyStokeNewingtonoftoday.

SixmembersoftheAngryBrigade,anarchistactivistswhoblewupthePostOfficeToweramongothers,werenickedinaflatfullofexplosivesinAmhurstRoad.TherampagingIRAcellbehindtheBalcombeStreetsiegeandnumerousbombings and shootouts were captured inMiltonGrove.While one of thoseRedActionhardmen,anEnglishguywhoprogressedtofullmembershipoftheRepublicanArmy,was lifted fromhis flatonWalfordGrove,afterheplantedthe Harrods bomb (which ruined my hair: I was having it cut in Smile inKnightsbridgeandwasevacuatedwithhalfahaircutwhentheblastoccurred).

But it wasn’t just lefties and it wasn’t just Stokey that harboured politicalturmoil. I will talk in detail about the extraordinary changes that have beenvisitedupontheCross,butsufficeittosaythatbackinthe1980swhenIlivednearbyitwasseething.ArgyleSquare,apotentiallybeautifulrectangleoflarge,butneglected,GeorgianhousesoppositeStPancrasstation,wasthesinglemostseedyplaceIhaveevervisited,anywhereintheworld.

Thesquareitselfwassmearedwithdrunksandjunkies:OldWhiteLightningimbibersandyoungsmack-andcrack-headsinarambling,mumbling,shoutingintergenerationalinterminglingoftheeternallydamned,splatteredwithvomitand blood. The drearily decaying houses around were all dirt-cheap hotelsoffering rank rooms for those in despair. Knocking shops, shooting galleries,bedsbythehourandplacesoflastresortforhomeless,hopelessfamilies.Exceptfornumber21,theFerndale.

IusedtowonderwhyyousawsomanynastyskinheadrevivaltypesinKing’sCross.Allbigboots,MA1sandbleachedjeans,tattooedandugly,robbedofthe

minimalistélanoftheir1969progenitors.Thesewereclearlyskinsoftheracist,NationalFront,BNPvariety,anditturnsoutitwasbecausetheFerndaleHotelwas a fascist safe house. Which didn’t make the area particularly safe. TheFerndale in theearly ’80swas runbyamannamedMauriceCastles,whowasconvictedofsupplyinggunstoacelloflocalNFfanatics,basedathisgrottygaff.

These racial warriors went on a spree of sulphate-fuelled armed robberies,turning over local sub-post offices and banks to further the white nationalistcause.TheFerndalewasamagnetforfar-rightfanaticsfromacrosstheglobe.Itwas rumoured that the two Italian terrorists who went on the run after theBolognabombingswerehiddenattheFerndale,anditwasdefinitelythelong-termhomeofIanStuart, leaderofSkrewdriverandthewholeneo-NaziBloodandHonourmovement,andaboltholeforswastika-sportingboneheads.

So the ‘commies’wentand fought them.The IRAplaceda smallbomb inArgyle Square and Red Action led numerous sorties upon Stuart and hiscropped-haired cronies. Every weekend, just up the road in Chapel Market,therewasarampagingset-toasthetwosidessoldtheirinflammatorytractsandtried to take control of the streets ofNorthLondon.Old biddies going to dotheir shopping in themarket and families bound for doubledouble at thepieandmashwouldhavetorunthegauntletofpoliticalgangskickingsevenshadesoutofeachotheroutsidetheAgriculturalpub,astheaggroebbedandflowed.Rightorleft,rightorwrong,yougottadecidewhichsideyou’reon.

WhichwasdefinitelyanissuefortheIrishlads.AnyonewhotriestotellyouthatmulticulturalismisnewtoLondon,orthatsuspicionandprejudiceagainstanethnicminoritybecauseofterroristoutragesisuniquetothecurrentMuslimcommunity, clearlywasn’t around in the ’70s.Onmy firstdayatOrangeHillSchoolin1971,Iwouldestimatethat‘indigenous’whiteEnglishwasaminorityinmyclass.TherewerealargegroupofJewishboys,apairofbrilliantNigeriantwins,anItalianwhosedadranthelocalcafé,someIndians,GreekCypriots,aMaltese lad, a Polish kid fromRAF stock, aGrenadan and just the one Irishboy,Patrick,orPadraigtohismumanddad.ButifhehadgonetoStJames’s,theCatholicschooldirectlyopposite,hewouldhavebeenamonghundredsofhis first-, second-and third-generation country folk. Burnt Oak was full ofO’Keefes, Kellys and O’Neils, and of all the cultures that made up thepatchworkquiltofourcity,theCelticstrainwasthestrongest.

London working-class life was absolutely streaked with emerald. Irish

dancingclassesinthelocalscouthut,theSligoChampionandtheLeinsterExpressforsaleinthenewsagents,hurlingandGaelicfootballgamesinthepark.Mengathered on high ground to hear the All-Ireland Final on the crackly radio;diddlymusicandbaconandcabbageeverytimeyouenteredyourmate’shouse.Confirmationgowns,priestssmokingatthebusstop,pintsofGuinnesssettlingonthebar,massonSundaymorningfollowedbyasessioninthebestdarksuitand tie. Summers spent in Mayo, shovels, poets, Hail Marys and the craic.Bombs.

Assoonaswecouldgetservedinpubs,whichprettymuchmeantyoucouldseeoverthebar,wemigrateduptheEdgwareRoadtoCricklewoodandKilburnandtheroughhouseIrishtavernsfulloftheboyson‘thelump’.Thesepubswerealmostexclusivelymale,almostexclusivelyIrish,accentsasthickasdoorsteps.Big Tom and theMainliners, racing tips and teary Tipperary memories fromsentimentalstakhanovitesonstout,heroic,occasionallytragicfellows,wholefthometobuildthistown,thenpossiblyhelptoblowitup.

As the night wore on in the Cock or the Crown, the lyrics of the songsbecamemoreandmorebellicose,theanti-Englishfeelingmorebelligerent,andall my Irish mates knew all the words. But I never felt threatened, it wasn’taimed at me, their argument was with the British establishment, and theirgenerosityandwarmth(untilafightstarted)werepalpable.Butthenattheendof the night, as the bell for last orders sounded, so the strains of the Irishnationalanthemrangoutandthosewhocouldstillstandhadtodosoandsing.A bucketwould be passed around, collecting for ‘Irish orphans’, and you justknewthatitwouldbeformakingthemratherthanhelpingthem.Noneofmyyoungmateswere exactly IRA sympathisers, theywere Londoners; itwas ourcity,ustheywereblowingup,butsomewereperhapsIRAunderstanders.

PuttingasidefolkmemoriesofGuyFawkes,thefirstterroristattackonLondonwas a Fenian bomb, which exploded in Clerkenwell in 1867 killing twelvepeople.Bombsandbulletshavebeenpart,ifnotoftheeverydaylifeofLondon,then certainly of its nightmares, ever since. The only decade without majorterrorist incidentswas the 1950s, when Londonwas unusually quiet after thetraumasandexhaustionofthewar.

IrishRepublicanattackshavecertainlybeenthemostpersistentandby farthe most deadly, but it was the anarchist outrages, which raged throughout

EuropeandtheUSAroughly100yearsago,whichbearmostsimilaritytoourcurrentsituation.Youngmen,mainlyof‘alien’extraction,oftenlivinginpoor,excluded communities, driven on by a fanatical, nihilistic, millenarian creed,radicalised in secretmeetings in dusty halls or by inflammatory pamphlets inunreadable tongues, were convinced they could make the world better byblowingitup.

The siege of Sydney Street in 1911 was one example, when a group ofLatvian revolutionaries, including thenotoriousPeter thePainter,wereholedup in ahouse inStepney after a spree ofmurders and armed ‘appropriations’.Winston Churchill (Winnie the Painter) turned up to oversee the deadlyshootout that occurred. But one of the most incredible stories of London’sperpetualterroristpasttookplacetwoyearsearlierandtakesusbacktowherethischapterbegan.TheTottenhamOutrage.

You stilloccasionallyhear theareaup towardsEdmonton,aroundLorencoRoad,calledLittleRussia,butbackinEdwardiantimesthispoorandtoughpartofTottenhamreallywarrantedthatmoniker.Itwasfullthenofeasternémigrés,asylum seekerswhohad fled the repressiveTsarist regime, including scores ofanarchists andBolsheviks,many of them Jewish.Two of those – PaulHefeldandJacobLapidus–attemptedtorobarubbercompanyontheHighRoadnexttoTottenhampolicestation,and itwastheensuingchaseand firefightwhichhasgonedowninhistory.

Zig-zagging foreightmadcapmilesacross theLeavalleytowardsChingfordinEssex, it tookhours before the final felonwas fatally shot atOakCottage,Hale End. Four people died, including theRussians, a ten-year-old boy and apolice officer. A further seven PCs were wounded along with seventeenmembers of the public,many of whom joined in the pursuit, which involvedsequesteredmotorcars,ahorseandcartandperhapstheonlyevertramchaseinhistory.At one point the two alien desperadoswere being pursued across themarshes,throughafootballmatch,wheretheplayersstoppedthegametojoinin.At the funeral of PCTyler, it was reported that 3,000 police officers andhalf-a-millioncivilianslinedtheroutetopaytheirrespectsasthecortègewentby. (Echoes of the heroic PC Palmer, perhaps.) He is buried in Abney ParkcemeteryinfashionableStokeNewington.

Whereveryoulookinourcitytherearereverberationsofaviolentpast,andoccasionally an explosive, horribly flammable present. London isn’t alwaysburning,butthepotentialforaconflagrationisalwaysthere,justasparkaway.

ThereAreDeadPeopleAllOverthePlace

OursresidemainlyinMortlake,averdant,affluentsuburbofSouthwestLondon,wherethe livingpeoplealldrive carsall the time, so the traffic is forever terrible.Theyalsofollowrugbyandwearpoloshirtswiththeircollarsturnedup,oratleastthemaleonesdo;thefemaleoneshaveblondehairandlotsofvowelsintheirnames.Bothhavewaxjacketsandgotopubsbytheriver,whichisnice.GoingtoseeMumandDad,whichIdon’tdooftenenough,feelsalittlelikegoingonholiday,sodifferentistheleafyLondontheynowrestin.

Idowondersometimeswhattheymakeofitdownthere,butthenmydad,deepinanElmsfamilyplotwithhisownmotherandfather,hashadplentyoftimetoadjustand my mum is merely dust. Every year on my mother’s birthday, we meet up withReggieandhisfamilyforalittleceremony,followedbyaspotoflunchinalovelyspotoverlookingtheThames.Whenwedothecommune,Ialwayssayafewwords,tellthemaboutthekidsandstuff,howwe’reallgettingon.IrememberhowmuchImissthemboth,howmuchIhavealwaysmissedhim,everysingledaysincetheageofsix.

Then I get towandering among the graves andwondering about all the other, nolonger living, Londoners. How many there are, and where are they all? I’ve alsoincreasingly taken to discussingwhere I am going to go,when the great day comes. Iwaverbetweenashesscatteredontheriverandanelaborateeternalmausoleuminoneofthemagnificentseven,ideallyHighgateorKensalGreen,wheretheMason’sArmspubhasaspecialspaceforcoffins.DefinitelynotBrompton,tooclosetoStamfordBridge;Iwouldn’tresteasy.

As I get older, I enjoy a touch of Victorian funereal melodrama; love it when avillaingetsahorse-drawnhearse,mutesandplumesandall.LittleBernieKatz’sbigdayinSohowasperfect.Equestrianelegance,marchingbandplaying‘WhentheSaintsGoMarching In’,anda glass-sided coffinparadingdownDeanStreetwith thePrince on

boardandthemournersprocessingslowlybehind,notadryeyeinthestreet.Thatwasthebestafternoonofthecenturysofar.

The LondonNecropolis Railway, the black-draped line of the dead, which ferriedcadavers,coffinsandcriersfromaspecialterminusinWaterlootoBrookwoodCemeterywouldhavebeenagoodwaytogo.(ThoughIdon’twanttobeburiedinSouthLondon).Certainlymakessenseofthewordterminus.AndintypicalVictorianfashiontheyhadthreeclassesoffuneral.Iquiteliketheideaofafirst-classtickettooblivion.

The grandest emporium in all nineteenth-century London was Jay’s MourningWarehouse;anentire,ornateblockofRegentStreet,biggerthanthecurrentAppleStore,sellingjustthejet-blackparaphernaliaofgrief.

I do thinkwe collectively underplay death now, try to deny its dominion.When Ilived in Harringay in the 1980s, when it was still a resolutely Greek Cypriot

neighbourhood,theyknewhowtodofunerals.Mastersoflamentation,thewholestreetwould go in for public weeping andwailing, quite possibly gnashing of teeth, womenprostrating themselves over coffins, men arm-in-arm in floods, and there would beexcellent food, dolmades and all. I like dead people, and I like the places they areinterred.I’mnotagrave-bothereroranything,Ijustenjoythestoriesthosecemeteriesandchurchyards tell. Abney Park’s tangled abundance. St Giles-in-the-Fields, where thegallows fodder were laid. Bunnhill Fields behind Old Street, full of famous non-conformists – surely they have to bemore interesting than conformists. ThemournfulSephardicemeteryinMileEnd,whichbackedontomymateGraham’shouse.OldStPancras, with Sir John Soane’s sepulchralmasterpiece; the uprightMoravians off theKing’sRoad;Postman’sParknearClothFair,whereplaquescelebrateVictorianHeroeswhodiedpullinglunaticsfromtrainlinesandthelike.

I enjoy a little homage to the Winchester Geese at the Crossbones graveyard bySouthwarkCathedral,which for yearswasamunicipal carpark full ofdeadwhores.You can meet them after a chorizo sandwich from BoroughMarket. I once spent afreezingwinternightinthechillingCryptofKensalGreenwithSting,hearingtalesofnecrophiliaamongthesarcophagi.Butmyfavouritegraveofall is therestingplaceofGirotheNaziDog.

Whether a canine can actually be a Nazi is a moot point, and technically thisparticularpoochwasoriginallyaWeimarRepublicterrier.Hisgravestonesitsbyatree,next to theGrandOldDuke ofYorkandup the steps from the ICA–althoughhisbonesareactuallynextdoorinthegardenof9CarltonHouseTerrace,whichwastheGermanEmbassyuntilwarwasdeclared in1939. (OriginallyaNashmansion,nowtheRoyalSociety,itsinteriorwasredesignedbyAlbertSpeerin1936,andrumourhasita huge swastika mosaic is still hidden beneath a fitted carpet in one of the grandrooms.)

The beloved pet ofLeopold vonHoesch, the famously dapperGermanambassadorwhopredatedthefascistregime,GirodiedafterHitlercametopowerin1934.Hewasburiedinthebackgardenandgiventhisheadstonebyhisdotingmaster.Hoeschhimselfexpiredtwoyearslaterandwasaffordedafullstatefuneralincludingaswastika-drapedcoffinandNazisalutesfromtheterraceabovetheMall.Yearslater,whenthegardenwasbeingredesigned,Giro’smonumentwasmovedtoitscurrentspotbyatree,theonlyNaziplotinLondon.

There isoneotherburialIwould like tobring toyourattention, thoughnomortalremains remain, because there never were any. This is the saga of Butty Sugrue, aKerryman, showmanandpublican,who once pulled a bus acrossWestminsterBridgewithhisteeth,andtheburialofhisbarman,MickKeane,‘thehumanJCB’fromCork.

Mickwasentombedaliveinabuilders’yardofftheEdgwareRoadforsixty-onedaysin1968.Thisismyfavouritetaleoftherollickingold-timecountyKilburn.

Sosplendidlypotty is thisyarnthatI’mgladatypicallypatronisingPathénewsreelexists to prove it is not just anotherNorthLondon Irish shaggy dog story.Thousandsturnedoutindarksuits,whiteshirtsandtiestowatchthespeciallyadaptedcoffin,withthe living, breathing Corkie inside, being ferried on the back of a builder’s lorry, insearchofaworldrecord.TheywentfromButty’sboozer,theAdmiralLordNelson(nowsadlydeceased)toadeepgraveduginayardafewhundredyardsuptheKilburnHighRoad.AbitofplumberspipingactedasanairventandKeanewaslowereddownandcoveredwithsoil.

Forsixty-onedayspeoplepaidtopeerandmarvelasfoodwaspasseddownthepipe,and at the other end waste went out of a trap door into a layer of lime. The BBCcoveredtheevent,questionswereaskedintheHouseofCommons,Buttytheshowmandid a roaring trade andMick theBarman kept on breathing.HenryCooper came tohaveawordandworldboxingchampJoeLouistalkedonaphonepasseddowntotheburied barman. Some suggested thatMick secretly nipped out at night for a pint ofnourishingGuinness in theNelson, butno skulduggerywasproven, andhe broke theexistingrecord.

Thedayhe emerged, aworld champhimself, thousands stopped the traffic on theKilburnHighRoad.Girlpipersplayed,grownmenwept,thecoffinwasputbackonthetruckandferriedtoButty’spubwherethelidwasraisedandthetriumphantifhirsuteMickKeaneemergedtohugecheersandcopiousrounds.TheysaythatnightintheLordAdmiralNelsonthecraicwassolouditwokethedead.

DownBytheRiver

Whereistheepicentreofourcity?Officially,themidpointofthemetropolisismarkedbyasmallplaqueinthepavementonatrafficislandoutsideCharingCrossstation,bythestatue of King Charles I just down from Trafalgar Square. So all distances to thecapital aremeasured from that precise point: twenty-fivemiles to London, twenty fivemilestothere.

Butasthiscitykeepsmorphingandmoving,soitsaxisshifts,andcleverpeoplewithcomputershaverecentlycalculatedthatitsgeographicalcentreisnowtechnicallyfurthersouth,overthewaterinananonymousspotinSE1–specificallyinapleasinglyplaincouncilestatecalledGreetHouseonFrazierStreet,closebyLambethNorthstation.Ifyou’veever tried todrive fromtown toGatwickAirport (averybad idea)you’llknowthattheSouthLondonsprawlgoesonforever,draggingthecentreofgravitydownwithit.

Individually,wewillallhaveourownversionofthelocationoftheheartofthecity.Mine,asaNorthwestLondonerwhoholdsSohoandtheWestEnddear,isprettycloseto Seifert’s soaringCentre Point.Emerging fromTottenhamCourtRoadTube, at theteeming crossroads where the four historic neighbourhoods meet – Soho, St Giles,FitzroviaandBloomsbury–feelslikebeingdepositedrightintothebellyofthebeast.

Forsome,theCityitselfisthecore,forothersmaybeMayfairorMarbleArch.Butcollectivelyinourheartofhearts,weknowthatthesoulofourcityresidesinthebreezethatblowsacrosstheThamesasyoustandonWaterlooBridgeatsunset.RayDaviesgotitright.

We all live by the river. No matter where you are in London, even if you areensconcedinasuburbmanymilesfromthegreatgreytorrent,youdwellinacitybythebanks. The Thames is the reason we are here, our raison d’être and our perpetuallyflowing source ofnourishment.And if youhaven’t seenand felt thewater flow forawhile, you have to get yourself down to the Thames to sense its mighty power andpurpose.Oursisaporttown,atradingtown,awater-borntown,andassoonasyouhittheriversideandseetheopenvistas,sensetherushofionsandfeelthedistantlureofthe open sea: all that history, twomillennia ofmaritimeLondon stories, flows swiftlypastandthroughyou.

The Seine is a slow-flowing, elegant river, meandering and inviting, renderingromanticParislushandfeminine,whereastheThamesisabruteofawaterway,tidal,toughtonavigate,hardtohandle,difficulteventocross,makingthisamoreprosaicandmasculinecity,asailor’stown.TheSeinejoinsthetwohalvesofParis,linkingleftandright, those pretty bridges inviting you to amble back and forth, whereas the ThamesdividesLondonnorthandsouth,ahugebarrierweallrecogniseandmanyofuskeepto.

IhavelivedinmanyplacesinLondon,butalwaysonmysideofthedivide,stillfeelout of kilterwhen I cross it; could never be transpontine.A friend ofminewho hadgrownupinatightLondonfamily,lessthanamilefromtheThamesinHolborn,wasoncediscussingarelativeofhiswhowasnowablacksheep,rarelyseen.WhenIaskedwhathehaddonetobecastouthesaid,‘Hemarriedagirlfromoverthewater.’

ButwhatweshareasLondoners,whicheversideofthegreatchasmwearefrom,isthe river itself.Our common ground is not ground at all.We all have our favouritebridges:Hammersmithmightbemine,Bazalgette’slow-slungsuspensionbridge,verdantandhandsome,sittingsolidlyjustabovetheflow,greatboozersonitsbanks,plaquesandadornmentsonitsstructure,confidentyetultimatelyfragile,foreverinrepair.

Acoldandmistymorningby lovelyAlbertBridge isafinething,as thePoguessopoeticallyremindedus.TowerBridgeisapreposterous,yetperfect,symbolofourcity,afilm-set,set-pieceofabridgelyingaboutitsage,aVictorianfantasyofmedievalLondon,amusic hall entertainment: ‘How’s your love life?Upanddown, likeTowerBridge.’ContemporaryHungerfordBridge is aposeur, a tart’s boudoir of a crossing, festoonedwithfairy lights,but thewobblybridge isagood ’un,svelteandsharp,ourshinynewLondonincarnate.

ThegovernorisWaterloo.Notbyanymeansabeautifulstructure,thoughIlikethefact that thecurrent iterationwasbuiltbywomen. It isknownas theLadies’Bridge,becausea largely femaleworkforceconstructed itduringwartime.But in thiscaseyoudon’twanttoseethebridge,youstandonthebridgetoseetheview.Sittingattheperfectpointof thecurve, it ispositionedequidistantbetweenthe twinforces,CityandState,whichhave shapedour townandourdestiny. It is said thatLondoners first lookeastwhentheyarriveonWaterlooBridge,towardsStPaul’s,andtheCity,becauseweknowthatLondon began there,whereas visitors initially lookwest, seduced byBigBen, theWheelandWestminster’stouristlures.Eitherwayismagnificent.

London is an autumnal town, so November light is ideal to see the river: flatbattleship skies, rendering our city serious yet ethereal, muting colours, yet amplifying

grandeur.Youalsowantbriskautumnair,tofeelitinyourhair,thebreezeblowingoneway, the tide flowing theother;elemental.TheRiverThames, fatherof thecity, flowsbelowyouonthisbridge,yetsoarsaboveusallonthisjourney.WhenmychildrenweresmallIwentthrougharidiculous,quasiKuntaKinteritualinvolvingholdingthemonWaterloo Bridge and showing them their birthright, our town, telling them all this istheirs.

One timemywife’s friendasked ifwe could show two fifteen-year-oldMancuniangirlswhowere staying for their first-everweekend inLondonaround.The firstplace ItookthemtowasWaterlooBridge.Wewalkedtogethertothecentre,turnedtotheeastand I began to give them my spiel about this Roman ford growing into the greatestmetropolisknowntoman,acityofscholarsandscoundrelswhobetweenthembuiltsomanymonuments, which have been bombed and bashed, but never beaten. I showedthemStPaul’s:domedemblemofeternityandtheNationalTheatre;angularsymbolofmodernity.IsungmylovesongofLondonandtheylistenedforafewminutesuntil,asone,theysaidtome:‘Robert,where’sTopshop?’

CHAPTERSIX

AtNight

Itbeganbymovingthe furniture.Thesofaandchairswouldbeshovedtotheside,rugsrolleduptorevealthefloorboards,nick-nacksputawayupstairs.Ifitwas going to be a particularly big shindig, the front room might be clearedcompletelybyputtingthewholelot,excepttheradiogram,outofthewindow,into the garden, butmore likely a bit of humping and shifting to the cornerswouldmakeenoughspaceforaknees-up.

Therewereoftenparties.Usuallytheywerejustimpromptu;grown-upsbackfromthepubofaSaturday,continuingthefunwithafewfriends,bottlesofbeerclinking,sing-songs,maybeadanceortwo.Tiesloosened,shoesoff,Daddoingarenditionof‘KingoftheRoad’beforegivingofhispartypiece,jumpingoverabroomstickheldinhishands.Mum,proudinafloraldress,stillyoung,Irealisenow,inloveandlovely,earringsglittering.Sittingtogetheronthesofasingingwith friends, me sneaking downstairs, bouncing on a knee to Al Martino’s‘SpanishEyes’, crooned by all concerned.The bitter taste of stout on smilinglips,bigmenwithbighardhandshonedongirders.Drowsy,dreamymemoriesofthenightsbeforeDaddied.

Those nights were intimate, familial, fun, but wedding receptions were adifferentorderofnocturnal intensity.Usuallyheld indraughtybackrooms, inpubsheavywiththeastringentaromaandwaftingfugofadulthood,therarefiedairofanticipatedrevelry.Bestwouldbeworn;formeitwasshrunkenversionsof that svelte, early ’60s silhouette, sported by older cousins and uncles fromPaddington or Acton. They would gather by the bar looking admirable, ifslightly menacing, in dark sharp suits with thin ties, black lace-up shoespolished to conscription perfection, smoking cigarettes from the back of theirhands, telling stories of spivs, sparring with Terry Downes, running with theNottingHillboys,flirtingwithconcomitantwomenwithbeehivehair.OnehadaHumberSuperSnipeboughtfromWarrenStreet.

Inanothercorner,anoldergenerationstill,bornbeforebothwars,men incollarless shirts and scratchy demob suits with fob chains with large brassykettles, heavy boots and silk scarves. There were rinsed and set old womenkeeping their coats on, drinking port and lemon, sitting down, looking stern.Thesewerepeoplewho’dkeptnags inyardsbehind railwayarches,celebratedthereliefofMafeking,cursedtheKaiserandmaybeseenthatmonkeyjazzbanddownLatimerRoad.Theywere closer to Freddie than to today.They’d beenyoungLondonersonce,too.

The young ran riot at weddings. Scores of little cousins fromWhiteCity,thatruddy-faced,blessed-by-the-blarneyblush,buzzingroundtheroom,gettinginpeople’sway,gettingacliproundtheearoraruffleofthehair.Nickingcake,guzzling coke, dancing the twist to Chubby Checker with an aunt who hadthose bow legs that were a sure sign of rickets. (My mum’s only attempt atsagaciouslifeadviceconsistedoftellingme,‘Youhavetobeverycarefulwhen

you do the twist or else you could split your spleen.’ So I have been severelyhamperedatweddingseversince.)

Asthenightworeon,theadults,inflamednowbybeerandchasers,maybecarryingancientgrudges,hit thedance floor, and then someonehit someone,therewasalwaysato-doatado,ascuffleandakerfuffle.Butthentheymadeup,puttheirarmsroundeachotherandsangtheoldsongs.Wesangthemtoo,no generation gap, no embarrassment. I still know all thewords to all of thefollowing: ‘RollOuttheBarrel’, ‘MyOldManSaidFollowtheVan’, ‘ByeByeBlackbird’,‘Bless’EmAll’,‘DownattheOldBullandBush’,‘It’saLongWaytoTipperary’,‘PackUpYourTroubles’and‘DoingtheLambethWalk’.

TheLambethWalk isnotmuchof adance really,moreof anexaggeratedbowl,andnoElmshadeverwalkedmuchinLambeth(strictlywrongsideoftheriver)butwedidtheirdanceanywayandsungtheirsongwithabigboomingold‘Oy’attheend.Thefinaleofaweddingnight,thefinaleofanygoodnight,wasaproperkneesupand ‘KneesUpMotherBrown’was inevitable, theold girlsflickingtheirskirtsintheairlikeMarieLloyd,whotheymayjusthaveseenattheEmpire.

Therewasalwaysa lusty renditionof ‘Maybe It’sBecause I’maLondoner’,ourcockneyaccentsnotchedupforthatone,endingwithaloud‘GetOffMeBarrow’,followedbyacheeky‘GetOffMeSister’.Therewasnomaybeaboutit:wewereLondonersandwetoldourselvessoloudlyateveryparty.Ilikedparties.I startedtorealisethatI likedthenight.Butsomehow,eventhenIknewthenightisadangerousplace.

*

Cities are designed to defeat darkness.One of the reasons I have never beenable to settle in thecountryside is the lackof lightatnight. I’mnot somuchscared of the dark as annoyed by it. Nature has never really struck me as aparticularlygoodthing,creepingandcrawling,bitingandstinging,shittingandthelike.Idon’tcareforfieldsormud,andIdon’tmuchlikethefactthatoutthere,inthewoodsandthewilds,thesettingsunisaninjunction,itisorderingyoutogotobedlikeabossyparent.Incivilisation,whichmeansincities,thenightisaninvitation,atimeofinfinitepossibilities,dayisforwork,nightisforplay.

Londondrawsyououtafterdarkby lightingyourwaywith lamppostsandshop signs, the pulsing promise of neon, the taxis’ glowing golden insignia,

signallinga ride towhereveryouwant togo.Thebright light, floodlit lureofmusic and laughter, narcotics and stimulants, good company, bad people, sex:London at night is sexy. Better dressed than during the day, dandified andprettified, garrulous, glamorous, more relaxed, less business-like and serious,morefrivolousandabandoned.I’veneverbeenremotelyfrightenedofthenightinLondon,butenergisedandenthralledbyit,temptedandteasedbyit.ThoughIamwellawarethatthenightisadangerousplace.

ThebestnightswhenIwasaboyinBurntOakweretheoneswhenmyelderbrothersthrewacabbage.Thatparticularpieceofobscurerhymingslangisnowjustaboutmoribund,butbackinthelate1960s,early’70s,itwasdefinitelythechosenwordforaparty.(Apparentlyitwascostermonger’s lingofromthecry,‘I’vegotcabbageallhearty.’)WhenBarryorReggiehadacabbageatourdrum,(drum is a much more commonplace piece of slang, but not of the rhymingkind, it’s from the Romany for road or home) I was beside myself withexcitement, as it meant a glimpse of all the wonders and possibilities of thenightthatthefuturemighthold.

Having two brothers considerably older than me, two boys who hadexemplary shoes and a certain standing, meant that I was surrounded by themyriaddelightsandtemptationsofteenagewaybeforemytime.Asaneleven-year-old in1970, I proudly sported anumber twocropwith a razorparting, apairofLevi’sSta-Prestheldupbynarrowredclipbracesand–mostproudly–ownedmyownimportskarecordbyLaurelAitken: ‘MrPopcorn’ontheNewBeatlabel,purchasedwithbirthdaymoneyfromWebster’s inShepherd’sBushMarket. Iknew farmore than I shouldaboutHarrington jackets (namedafterRodneyHarrington,thecharacterplayedbyRyanO’NealinPeytonPlace,whichmymumwatched assiduously), Solatio box-top loafers and button-down BenShermans.

Iwouldsitathomeafterschoolplayingnotjustmysingle,butworkingmywaythroughthelargepileof45s,andafewLPsmybrothersowned:That’sSoulwith the jigsawpuzzle cover, andMotown andReggaeChartbusters, volume twowasbest.Ibecameaninstant,infantexpertonthedifferencebetweentheshinyDetroit sound and the deeper southern soul of Stax, could tellMarvinGayefrom Wilson Pickett within a note or two. I was a particularly annoying,precociouslittleknow-it-allonthefinerpointsoftheJamaicanmusicthatmadeupthecoreoftheircollection:Pama,Trojan,StudioOne,BlueBeat,R’n’B;ska,

reggaeandrocksteady.Thiswas thepremierLondon soundtrackof the time, the staccato rhythm

andshufflingbackbeatofourstreets.TheReturnofDjangoasyoustrolledpastamarketstall,SlimSmithseepingoutofflats,PatKellyblastingoutofcars,‘TheLiquidator’ontheterraces,1000VoltsofHoltineveryhousehold.Reggaeflowsthroughallourveins,marksourstep.

If jazz is thesoundofNewYorkandchanson isParis, thentherhythmsoftheCaribbeanhaveresoundedaroundandbeen incorporated intotherhythmofourcitysincetheHMTEmpireWindrushfirstblewintodock.Heavydubbasslinesanchoringourfeettothefloor,righteousrootsandculturelyricstellingourcollective story, ‘Police and Thieves’ indeed, dancehall slackness like bawdyold-timemusichall,soaringlovers’rockharmoniesonasummer’sday.Reggaeisoneofthereasonswewalkwithashoulder-rollingswagger.

One of themost delightful tales of London’s totally organic blending andblurringofculturallinesisthestoryofRnB–RitaandBennyIsen–amiddle-aged Jewish couplewho started out flogging platters on Petticoat Lane.TheythenranarecordshopcalledRitaandBenny’sat260StamfordHill,amidtheGlattkosherbutchersandwigemporiumsofdeepHassidiccountry.This littleshophadsuchagreatstockofthevariousislandstylesthatitbecameameccafor the local skinheads and the Jamaicanmusicians whomade the sides theysold.HeavyweightJAproducerswouldheadstraighttoRitaandBenny’s fromHeathrowwiththeirtunes.

Bennywasapparentlyawirylittlemanwhilehiswifewasabigvoluminouswoman, and between them they became perhaps the greatest Londonauthorities on and purveyors of reggae music. They regularly flew out toKingstontododealswiththetougheststudiobosses,perhapsbondingwiththeRastasoverashareddistasteforporkproducts,securingexclusivesofthelatestimporthits.TheythenstartedtheirownrecordlabelcalledRnBwhichputoutandevenproducedandpressed someof themost cutting-edge rocksteady, skaandreggaeoftheera.IfyouwenttoaclubinLondoninthelate’60syouweredancingtorecordsmadebyaniceYiddishcouplefromN15.

Although I had obviously never been anywherenear a nightclub, I knew thenamesofalltheplacestogofromeavesdroppingonmysiblingstalkingtotheirmates about nocturnal adventures, making mental notes for future reference.There was clearly a two-tier structure when it came to going out. Local,suburbanNorthwestLondondivesliketheBeehiveortheBirdsNestwerethemidweekstaples,usuallyattachedtopubsinplaceslikeHarrow,Wembleyand

Hendon, where the tribes would gather to skank and moonstomp and BurntOak’screwdemandedandreceivedutmostrespect.Buttherewasawholeotherlayer of places to go after dark, which were spoken of with a muted mix ofreverence,aweandmaybeevenfear.Shrinesofthenight.

Up West were the Scene and the Flamingo, super-hip, super-cool clubswhereyouhadtobeafaceandGeorgieFame,theverybestofthewhiteboys,couldbeseenwiththeBlueFlames;moddy,moody,groovy,thetastiestlooking‘sorts’, the best-dressed geezers, pills andpromises.Then therewere the blackclubs; theFourAces inDalston,CountSuckle’s place inPaddingtonand theRamJamdowninBrixtonwhereyoumight seeGenohimself,hand-clapping,foot-stompingfunkybutlive.Butyoubettersteplightly,takenoliberties.TheWestIndianboyswereheldinesteem,highesteemindeed.AllthisIknewbythetimeIwasten.

ButitwasonlywhenmybrothershadacabbagethatIcouldreallystudythefiner points of night-time teen behaviour. The room already cleared ofextraneousclutter,adultsbanished,thepileofrecordsfromthecollectionwouldtakecentrestage,joinedlaterbyothersbroughtbytheirmates,sixtoaspindle.Boyswould start to arrive first, their hair cropped just for the occasion, theirRoyals reflecting, steelcombs inpockets,bravadoinabundance,crombiesandsheepskinspiledon thebed.Bottlesof lightaleand thosebigWatney’sPartyfours and sevens would amass in the kitchen, packets of Players No. 6 wereproffered.

Then came the girls. Flat shoes, A-line skirts, feathered hair, giggles andswaggers, shy,confident, fragrant, flagrant.Lorraine fromover the road.SomewouldsayIwascute,mayberufflemybarnet.Iwasn’tsureifcutewasgood.

Ididadeal,whichwasthatIwouldbealloweddownstairsforthefirsthouror so, then itwas off to bed, before the action really started. But obviously Ilearned that the more the night wore on, the better, the hotter, the moreintense it got, ratcheted up. So I got good at sneaking down, never actuallyundressing, stillwearingmyprizedBenSherman, so that I could tryand slideand sidle into the front room or the kitchen and observe unnoticed, or juststandinthedoorwayandspyonproceedings.

Inotedhow the facesheld themselves, self-contained, tidy, a presence, anaura. I sawdance steps, groupsof threeor four lads skanking inunison, sharpneat shuffles to ‘Double Barrel’ by Dave & Ansell Collins, or a lone boythrowing self-conscious shapes to ‘Hard to Handle’ by Otis, catching his

reflection. I saw girls in a row doing formation moves to ‘Groovin with MrBloe’,sendingsignals,thesexualsemioticsofthenight.

Unlikethemiddle-classpartiesIwenttolaterwherepeoplesataroundandtalked, words were kept to a minimum, the music was loud and there wasperpetualmovement,agitation, inebriation,dancingandoccasionally fighting.Teenage angst had not yet been invented, at least not round our way, butteenageaggrowasalltherage.Iwitnessedarguments,whichcametoblows,butalwaysoutside–sortitoutoutside.Inside,inthathotlittleroom,lightsdownlow, I smelled desire, saw flirting, snogging, sobbing and the kind of heavypettingwhichisspecificallyprohibitedatswimmingbaths.Isawpeoplegettingoutofitandoutofhand,othersrisingabove.Isawandunderstoodthewaythatthenight-timeanditsattendanttemptationscanliftyouuporknockyoudown.Iwasmesmerised.Iwaswaiting.

As I got a little older,Watling Boys’, the local youth club, heldmonthlydiscos,whengirlswereletinandboyswereletofftheleash.ThreePlusThreebythe IsleyBrotherswas the albumof themoment and PatrickKamara, a half-Irish,half-Jamaican ladwithgreat grace andbalance,wasourpremierhoofer,thelooknowflaredanddervishtwirling,soulboyswagger.Ilearnedthereandthen to respect superior talent and only go on the dance floor if it was verypackedoryouwereverysure.Ialsolearnedthatthewayyoudance,thewayyouwalkandmoveandholdyourself,yourdemeanour,isyourmainweaponinthestrobing,noisy,non-verbalworldofthenight.

Watling Boys’ was a training ground, but we all knew it was not the realthing, too early, too soon, too early inourpaths, too early in the evening.Ayouthclubdiscoat6p.m.inaroomwherewehabituallyplayedping-pongwasnotgoing tocut it.Goingouthad tomeangoingoutofyourcomfort zone,aleapinthedark,thebigstepintotheotherLondon.

RedRovers,excursionsandexplorationsbydaywereonething,alwayshomeintimefortea.Butspecificallyleavinghometoventureforthafterthedaywasdone,whenothersweretravellingintheoppositedirection,boundforTVandbed, curtainspulled,was adifferentorder.Crossing thatnocturnal line is stillone of the great coming-of-age markers; it is your graduation into the otherdimensionandallitoffers.Excepttodayithappensmuchlater,kidscannotgetinto clubs and pubs and bars in London anymore, we’ve become prissy andpuritanical,demandingIDoneverydoor;butwhenIwasfifteen,thetimehad

come,thenightwasours,thecitywasavailable.London looks and feels different after dark. The molecules vibrate more

slowly,morespacearoundthem,makingtheairrarer,sharper,yourvisualsensesheightened by the crisp contrast between black skies and bright lights, yourhearingattunedtopickupsoundsonmutedstreets,yourawarenessofdanger,butalsoofpotentialpleasureispiquedandhoned.Thenightisexpansive.

BackthenLondonafter thecurfewwasmuchquieter than it isnow, therewas no concept of a twenty-four-hour city or the night-time economy.Therewerealmostnonightbuses,certainlynonightTubesandnightczars,shopsandjustabouteverythingelse shutat five,pubsat ten-thirty, therewere far fewerrestaurantsandamenities,farfewersoulstobeseenoncethecurtainofdarknesscamedown.Middle-agedpeople,middle-classpeople,nicepeople,hurriedhomeandstayedthere.AClockworkOrangetime.

This city’s nocturnal affairs hadn’t yet been gentrified, monetised andcommodified. The unconstrained streets of the 1970s at night were dark andanarchic, feralandgreatfun.Certainlyoutinthedormitorysuburbswherewelived,onlytheeagerandthedesperateventuredforth,thenightwasharshandwild,itwasthetimeforwantonteens,andwedesperatelywantedtomakethemostofit.

Standingatthebusstopmob-handedoutsidethestationonaFridaynightin1975,wewere‘thelittleOak’.Notyetreadyfortheseriousroughandtumbleofthe Bald Faced Stag and beyond, but bound for the Bandwagon. Our high-waisted, flared strides fromWembleyMarket flapping round skinny ankles torevealapairofplatformshoes.WaitingforthebustoKingsburyforanightoffun,funkandmaybeevenafumble,feltlikethebiggesteverthrill,likeyouhadtakenyourplaceinthelineage.

MymumanddadmetasteenagersjitterbuggingattheHammersmithPalais,mybrothers had come of age skanking in the Tottenham Royal, and I was nowgoingtomyfirst-evernightclub.Themusicinmyheadwasalreadypulsing,therhythmsrocking,theFatbackBandsinging‘Busstop,dothebusstop,peopleareyoureadytodothebusstop.’Iwasready.

Thefrissoninthequeueinthecarparkoutsideahallattachedtoapubindeepest,darkestNW9onaFridaynightmorethanfortyyearsago,isoneIcanstillfeelnow.Excited,hyped,anxious.Despitethefactthatclubswerenottoo

particular about underage punters, I was one of the youngest and there wasalways a chance the bouncersmightmake an example. So I learned to standtall,frontitout,makelikeyoubelonged.AndonceinsideIquicklygraspedthegeography and pin-table geometry of a nightclub, the hierarchies and battlelines,thedancersandthedressers,theflirtersandfighters,howtonavigatethefluid,rhythmicflowofenergyaroundacrowdedroomwherepleasureisthesolepurposeofyourperformance,butmyriaddangerslurk.

I studied the peerless ones; themost beautiful girls and themost desirableboyswiththeirroutinesandretinues.Ikeptaneyeonthedodgyones,growlersand brawlers, shams and scammers. I could see, despite all the distractions –throbbingmusic,flashinglightsandtheairsaturatedwithstingingpheromones– that, like the city itself, a nightclub is a constant interplay of fleetingtransactions.Londonisperpetualmotion,showingoffandputtingout,creatingand consuming, buying and selling; it is a dance – do the hustle.Master thenightandyouhavemasteredthemetropolis.

TheBandwagonwasour localXanadu, servingdisparate tribesondifferentnights.FunkforusonFridaysandSaturdays,heavymetalforthehairygribosonThursdaysandSundaysandnevereverthetwainshallmeet.Thatwouldhavebeenveryuglyindeed.Thiswasastrictlyteenagepleasure-domefabledinfourpostcodes,anditcertainlywasn’ttheonlyone.

Every far corner of the sprawling city had its local equivalent, all withsplendidlyterriblenames: theLacyLady inIlford,CinderellaRockefellersandTiffany’s in Purley, the Purple Pussycat in Finchley, Manhattan Lights inMuswell Hill, the Bon Bonnie in Herne Hill, the Bali Hai and the Cat’sWhiskers in Streatham, Elton’s in Tottenham, Cheeky Pete’s in Richmond,Barbarella’sandAmerica’sinSouthall,thePinkToothbrushinRaleigh,FlicksinDartford,Tudor’s andBogart’s inHarrow,Scamps inSutton andCroydon,whichalsoboastedSinatra’s,DrJohn’sandadiscocalledBoobs.

Naffas thenamesmaysound, theseplaces featured topDJs likeChrisHilland Robbie Vincent and attracted ardent funkateers from all across town.(ThoughprobablynotBoobsinCroydon.)Thesuburbsheldsway,andsoulwasthe soundof youngworking-classLondon.Black andwhite in equalmeasure,maleandfemalealike,excellenthair,fineattire,Cortinastotravel.Andtravelthese posses did, beyond the boundaries even, to the California Ballroom inDunstable, the famedGoldmine inCanvey Island,Caister andBournemouth,mobilefunkateersinsearchofthebeat.Buttheyrarelyventuredintotown.

The mid-’70s funk scene was peripheral, a southern equivalent of thenorthernsoulstompersinsuchexoticoutpostsasWiganandCleethorpes.ButasIclaimedmyplaceinthesoultrain,locatedmytribe,grewmywedge,woremypegsandplasticsandals,Ibegantohearwhispersofanexalted,sacredplace.Every club had its ace faces, those chosen children graced by the dancing ordressing Gods, and our top ranking Bandwagon boys and girls spoke quietly,discreetly, in the same way my brothers had done about the Scene and theFlamingo,andthewordtheywhisperedwasCrackers.

ThefirsttimeIeverwenttoanightclubinSohoitwasinthemiddleoftheafternoon. Friday lunchtime in late 1975, bunk off school, bunk the fare toTottenhamCourtRoad, stand amid the shoppers andmoochers at the grottyendofOxfordStreet,whereitmeetsWardour,with50pinthepocketofyourjunglegreens.Inalinewithabunchofthemostdauntinglyhipblackkidsandasmatteringofgood-lookinggirlsandtoughcampguysfromthehairdressersandfashionstoresonSouthMoltonStreet,tofilterintoagrottybasementsmellingofburgersandsweat.Adiscodesignedtohold200butwithdoublethatalreadypresent, jazz funkpumpingandit isn’teven1p.m.Iwasabouttoenterurbanheaven,thegreatestevernocturnalexperiencebyday.IwasalsoabouttotrulyexperienceandmaybeevengraspLondonfortheveryfirsttime.

IwroteaboutCrackers inmypreviousbookTheWayWeWore.Abouthowitcontained the most wonderfully, rhythmically, terrifyingly cool kiddies; thesharpest,mostagile,joyousandrighteousyoungLondoners.Prettymuchnoonepresent was over the age of twenty-one, gathered from estates andcomprehensivesalloverthecitytobecome,forafewhoursatleast,exactlywhotheywantedtobe.

ItisnosurprisethatthemosthighlyvaluedskillsatCrackersweredancingand dressing (I was strictly sartorial), because they are traditionally working-classexploitsandexpertise,oftendenigratedandderidedbytheLondonhautebourgeoisie with their Hampstead hippy pseudo-intellectualism and shabbyattire. It has long been a truism that themiddle classes can’t dance and theworkingclasscan’tplaytennis.Andbackthenthemiddleclassesdidn’treallydomulticulturalism, we did. Crackers wasmarkedlyAfro-Caribbean, but alsogay,withaGreekCypriotDJplaying tunesby IdrisMuhammad.Andnoonecaredaslongasyoufeltthefunk.

Since thenI’ve spokentonumerouspeoplewhoshared the samecracklingCrackers experience, and realise now that what we were all doing whileshuffling and hustling to Lonnie Liston Smith and admiring the coruscatingmovesandtherazor-sharpthreads,wasstakingourplaceintheheart,theverysoulofourcity.WewerereclaimingthenightonaFridayafternoon.

Soho had seriously slipped since its swinging ’60s heyday, no famedboutiques,norankingmodclubs,totallydominatedbythegrubbymittsoftheskintrade.Itwasunderwhelmingandoverlooked,indeedthewholeoftheWestEndwasdownonitsluckbythemid-’70s,theglamourwasgone.Forthrustingyoung things, the suburbswere the place to be scene.Yet perhaps, somehow,deepinourcollectiveteenpsychewesensedthatasLondoners,whetheroutofBurnt Oak or Bromley, Ealing or Earlsfield, in order to really fulfil all thepromisesLondonmakestoyou,andforustodothebestbyourcity,wehadtoholdthecentre.

Itishappeningagainnow,thependulumisswingingbackouttotheedge,asthecoreisrenderedplushandbland,tooexpensive,tootouristy.It’sgreatthatNewCrossandTottenhamarehip,andhappening,butunlessSohoisthriving,thecityisailing.Backin1976theWestEndwasstartingtorockagain.

BuzzingandblinkingintotheblindinglightofaFridayafternoon,drippingwith perspiration and exhilaration after a session of the most thrilling teentraction, I felt like a little princelet, a teen pretender. Bowling and brazen,cocksureandcrowing:Ilivehere;I’mfromhere.Thistime,thistownisourtown.

The secret of cities is that they are theatrical backdrops, or maybe greenscreens; each generation projects their own story on to the streets. AndswanningdownWardour,heading for a record shop in searchof import funk,nowaconfirmedCrackerskiddy,IwasPeteMeadonandBudgieBird,theArtfulDodgerandNikCohnrolledintoone.InrealityofcourseIwasasixteen-year-oldschoolboywithasillyhaircut,butinSohorealityisnegotiable.

Isoonlearnedthatitwasn’tjustFridayafternoonswhentheyservedupthefunk,anditwasn’tjustCrackers(thoughitwasalwaysthepinnacle).Therewasawholeburgeoninginner-cityclubsceneatplacesliketheGlobalVillage,theLyceum, Bangs, Sombreros . . . Uptown funk indeed. And it was markedlydifferenttothesuburbangroove.Themusicwasmoreintense,thecrowdmoremixed,moregay,moreflamboyant,moresavvy,morequeuesatthetoilets,lesslightale, less trouble,cometothinkof it,notrouble. Imaginethat in1976,a

clubwithnotrouble.Thepeoplewhomade the effort andheadedupWestwere a self-selecting

group.OnlyafewofmyNorthLondonmatesgotintoit,whileotherspreferredtostayentrenchedintheirownfiefdoms.Butyoumetotherlike-mindedsoulswho liked soul; kids a lot like yourself from every corner of the city, somebecomingfriendsforlife.Othersyouencounteredwerenothinglikeyou,thoughperhaps were templates of who you might like to become. Art students,‘entrepreneurs’, models, actors; sexy, scary, intriguing characters. You werestretchingout,makingcontacts,lovers,enemies.Londonwasrevealingitselfasaweb,aninterconnectednetworkofthenight.Andtherewasnotrouble.

Therewere always fights at suburban clubs, flare-ups and face-offs.Usuallytheywere nothing about nothing and all about pissed-up teen posturing, andtherefore dealtwith pretty quickly, but occasionally ahumdingerwould eruptand mayhem would ensue. Some people like mayhem; they’re good at it. Ipersonallygotgoodatswerving,dodgingmywaythroughthemaelstrom.ButforthosewholovedarumbletherewasalwaystheIrishclubs.

ManyifnotmostoftheladsontheWatlingEstatewereIrishinorigin,andoccasionally theywould pay a little homage to their roots and go to an IrishDanceHall.Inthe1950sand’60sthesehadbeenthefulcrumsofthatheroicallyhard working, hard drinking, yet always immaculately washed and pressedcommunity, which did somuch to create our town.Girls on one side of theroom,boystheother,show-bandsintheirfancyfineryontherevolvingstage.

Therewereawholenetworkof thesebig,barn-likedancehalls throughoutLondon,nineteenatonetimeincludingtheNationalinKilburn,theHibernianin Fulham, the Blarney in Tottenham Court Road (now Spearmint RhinowhereImourned),theGaryOweninHammersmith(whichbrieflybecametheStarlightRollerdiscowhere I fellover repeatedly) the Innisfree inEalingandmightiestandcertainlymaddestofthemall,ourlocalbearpittheGaltymore,acoupleofmiles up theEdgwareRoad inCricklewood. ‘The craicwas good inCricklewood.’Itcertainlywas.

IwasfarfromaregularattheGalty,onlyeverwentahandfuloftimes,asmytoleranceforBigTomandtheMainlinersplaying‘GreenGreenGrassofHome’was limited.Although I didhaveoneof themost rollickingnights ofmy lifehollering rebel songs with the Dubliners at the National, one St Patrick’s.(Beinggingerwasdefinitelyaboonthatnight.)

Butthere’snodoubtingthefactthathundredsoftheErinIsle’sfinestpacked

into a roomwith a sprung floor awashwith stout canmake for amemorableevent.UntilinevitablyablokewholookslikeJohnWayne’sinebriatedbrotherdecidesenoughisenough.Sometimestheroomwoulderuptintoacartoonbar-room brawl, ‘bottles flying, biddies crying’; more commonly it would kick offoutsideafterwardsasladsstrippedtothewaistwouldtraderiotouslywindmillingblowsupanddowntheEdgwareRoadfortheentertainmentofthecrowd.SadlytheGaltymoreisgone.

Andsohaspub rock.At the same timeas Iwasbeinga soulboywithmyBurntOakmates,soIwasapubrockhabituéwithmyschoolchums.Goingtoseebandswaswhatgrammarschoolboysdid.Andbackbeforepunkredrewtherock’n’rollmap,therewereaplethoraofthesemuscularoldVictorianboozers,clusterednorthoftheMaryleboneRoad,whowouldputonabandfortenbobinthebigroomattheback.

Beforegastropubswereinvented,rockpubswerethething.FromFulhamtoFinchley, there were a score or more of these ornate but grubby gin palaces.Typically there’d be a few old boys supping sedately in the saloon bar, whilemusicalpandemoniumeruptedasDrFeelgoodorRoogalatorrippeditupinthebackroom,maximumrhythmandbooze.BetweenthemtheyhousedauniquelyLondonscene,whichwasavitalandoftenvisceralprecursortopunk.

Ofalltherockin’pubsofthemid-’70s,onlytheHopeandAnchoronUpperStreetandtheDublinCastleinCamdenTownarestillmusicvenues.Manyofthenameswhich followareno longer evenboozers, torndownand rebornasnot particularly luxurious luxury flats or far-from-super supermarkets. But in1975itwasagloriouslygrubbycircuitoflightaleandheavyrhythmandblues,or soul, or country, or ‘raspberry ripple rock’ as Ian Dury described his bandKilburnandtheHighRoads,whoIsawintheTallyHoinKentishTown.

Pub rockwasn’t defined by onemusical style, but a certain stripped back,back tobasics, stylisticpurity.Theethoswasdown to earth, spit and sawdustand stained trousers.Which suited such unreconstructed old drinking dens astheGreyhound,theBrecknock,theElgin,theRedLion,theRedCow,thePiedBull, the Bull and Gate, the Pegasus, the George Robey . . . and mostmemorablyformetheNashvilleRoominWestKensington,wherewewatchedpubrockmorphintopunkrockoveramatteroffrenetic,fantastic,rippedandtornmonthsin1976.

Part of the appeal of going to see bands in boozers back then was inventuringtopartsofthecapitalyoumightnototherwiseknow.ThiswaswhenI

firstwalkeddownIslington’sUpperStreetafterdarktoseesomeunknownmobcalled The Stranglers at theHope andAnchor, just up from the transvestiteshoeshopwithaphotoofJimmyEdwardsinthewindow.ItwaswhenIfirstgottoknowCamdenTown,whichwould laterbecomemyhome.Walkingoutofthe Tube and into the twilight-gleaming, rubbish-strewn, patchouli-andGuinness-scented Withnail and I madness of the market for the first time,lookingforaplacecalledDingwalls.

These were journeys of exploration in every sense; geographical, musical,personal,andtheycostalmostnothing.Backthennothingcostanythingmuch.Going out in Londonnow ismuchmore swish,muchmore elegant, efficientand infinitely more expensive. You pay for décor and design, exotic cuisine,craft beers, flat whites, night Tubes and Ubers, service with a smile, suitedsecurityandexorbitantexclusivity,redropes,VIProomsandVATontop.Youpaythroughthenosetobepartofthegroovy‘urbanexperience’,wheninlivingmemory itwas50p toexperienceEddieand theHotRods joyouslymurdering‘Gloria’inatinybarebarroompackedtothegunnelswithsweatpouringdownthe walls, beer on the carpets and piss overflowing in the invariably blockedbogs.

One ofmy favourite stories of nocturnal discovery at a pub gig involved theClarendoninHammersmith.OfficiallytheClarendonHotelandBallroom,notracesofthisvastEdwardiancomplexremain,wipedawaywhenHammersmithstationandroundaboutwascompletelyredesignedtoprovideasoothinglyblandshopping centre to look at while you sit in the eternal traffic jam. ThisBrobdingnagianboozerfavouredbythelocalIrishsatbetweenthetwobafflinglydistantentrancestotheTubestation:awarrenofrooms,oneofwhichbecameanotedvenueonthepost-punkpsychobillyscene.

One night while watching the Guana Batz or some such, a lady of myacquaintancewas pogoing and canoodling exuberantlywith amohicaned boyshe’d justmetwhenthey leanedheavilyagainstanolddoor ina farcornerofthe venue. It opened, and they fell into a full, ornate, intact, althoughapparently abandoned, Masonic temple, complete with raised dais and a redvelvetthrone.Let’sjustsaythattheytookthisuniqueopportunitytoengageinconsiderablymorethanaMasonichandshake.Andwhilewe’retalkingtemples,cananybodyconfirmthattherewasonceanetworkofMasonicmeetinghouses

atop the four grand buildings whichmake up the circumference of PiccadillyCircus?

You never quite knew what would happen on a night out in that oldLondon. Itwasamuchmorerandom, irrational, irregularcity, fullof surprisesand secrets, unpredictable, undiscovered, unreconstructed, splendidlyunderdeveloped.Itwasabreedingground,agiantpetridishwithpotholes.Inthepre-internetage, stuffhad time togestate in thegrimy,hidden recessesofthecity.

Oneofthemanyreasonswhytherehasbeennotrulynewindigenousyouthmovementinthetwenty-firstcenturyisbecausenothinghasthetimeandspacetogroworganicallybeforebeingexposedtothestultifyingglareofiPhonesandInstagram. Youth culture is like a fungus, it thrives in dark, dank places,basementsandmustybackrooms.Andbackin1976,amutantoffspringofthehighfashion,inner-cityfunkscenetypifiedbyCrackersandtheback-to-basicspub rock scene at theNashvillewas fermenting and bubbling away, about toblowthenightapart.Ihadtogetanewoutfit.

It would obviously be an exaggeration to state that everything that hashappened inLondon after dark since 1976was shaped by safety pins and theSex Pistols, but I am going to state it anyway. Too many words have beenwasted on the origins of punk. Suffice to say it was a fireworks display, apyrotechnicalexplosionofcreativityandangerandjoy,andrebellionandtruthand youth and beauty cascading across the sky of two undeniably great, yetdecayingandderidedcities;NewYorkandLondon.

Punkrocklituptheurbannight fora fewshortmonths,enablingusall toseeaglimpseofthefuture,anditsreverberationsandramificationsarestillfeltnow. Punk was a crashing three-chord restatement of the idea that themetropolisistheperfectarenaforgutter-upglory.Thecityasneon-litartshow.

In 1976, after the longest, hottest, steamiest summer on record, it just gothotter, especially at night. Small gangs of provocatively attired teens, mostfamously from Bromley, but also contingents from Ealing and Hackney, theAngel,BatterseaandtheBush,fromcouncilestatesandsquats,comprehensiveschools, art schools, hairdressers, boutiques and building sites, even a smallcoterie of the coolest kids fromBurntOak, could be seenmoving in peacockpacks.Theyclungtotheshadowsandtoeachotherforsafety,furtiveyetflashin a still violently judgemental town. These teen provocateurs, these snottypunks,wereontheirwaytoanightoutinthefuture.

The do-it-yourself, have-a-go, start-your-own band, brand,magazine, shop,nightclub, fashionhouse, record label ethos of punkwould lead inexorably tothe amazing revitalisation of run-down inner London. And if you follow thelogicandthelinethroughtotoday,ultimatelytothecorporatised,gentrified,alltoo homogenised Zone One we know now. Punks were proto-urbanentrepreneursinbondage,ledbyapairofmaniacallybrilliantboutiqueownersarmedwithsituationistslogans.‘Bereasonabledemandtheimpossible.’

Itwasn’tjustthePistolsofcourse,anideaasvirulentaspunkiscontagiousand soon there were scores of bands, foremost among them The Clash, TheDamned,GenerationX,SiouxsieandtheBanshees,TheSlitsandmyparticularfavourite lostcauseTheSubwaySect,allhailing fromdifferentpartsof town,each with their own ardent followings. Bands of fervent teen partisans, allheadingintotheW1wastelandundercoverofdarkforfunandfrolics.Let’sgopogo.

Ifwelookattheplacespunkoccurred,itisaveritablemasterclassinurbanregeneration.BydaytheKing’sRoadwasthelocus,especiallytheclothesshops;Sex,Acme,Johnson’sandBoy.ThrowinKensingtonMarketforschmutterandPortobelloforrecords,fromRoughTradeandHonestJon’s,andyouhaveWestLondon’smostdesirablepostcodescovered.

Thebriefcareerof theSexPistolsmapsoutaplanof thewayLondonhaschanged.TheylivedinarancidsquatonDenmarkStreet,leavinggraffitionitswalls, which has now been Grade II star listed and is currently the propertydevelopers’numberone target.Their firstgigwas justover theCharingCrossRoadinStMartinsSchoolofArt,whichwasreplacedbyFoyles’sswishliterarysuperstoreand luxury lofts.Later theyplayedCentralSchoolofArt,Holborn,nowcorporateoffices,andWestfieldCollegeHampstead,whichisflats.

The Pistols played at the Marquee on Wardour Street, which wasredeveloped as a Conran restaurant and luxury apartments, and round thecorner at the El Paradiso Strip Club on Brewer Street, now a Mexicanrestaurant,andatAndrewLogan’sriversideartstudioinButler’sWharf,whichhas long been a mecca for fine dining and multimillion pound riverfrontapartments.ClubBabaluontheFinchleyRoadwassubsumedbeneaththeO2ShoppingCentre,whiletheScreenontheGreeninIslington–thenaflea-pitprogrammedbySteveWoolley–hasremainedacinemabutisnowpartoftheupmarketEverymanchain.

They played at the Notre DameHall Leicester Square (beneath a bizarre

circularFrenchchurchwithaDanBrownishmysticalmuralbyJeanCocteau),whichisnowtheSohoTheatreandcomedyclub.Onlythe100ClubonOxfordStreet (Motto over the door ‘Forget theDoodlebugs and Jitterbug’) is still aswas,abasementoasisof lowdownrock’n’roll, savedfromclosurebycorporatesponsorship.Their finalLondongigwasout inUxbridge,whereFreddiecamefrom.

PunkcouldoccurincentralLondonpreciselybecausenooneelsewantedit.London found itsCBGBsonthecornerofNealStreetwhenAndyCzezowskiopened theRoxy club inDecember ’76.He took over a truly seedy little gayhauntcalledChaguaramas,whichcouldnolongerpaythemeagrerent,setinaformerfruitandvegstore,maderedundantbytheclosingofthemarket.

Going to see bands at the Roxy, wearing a mohair jumper from AcmeAttractions(soldtomebyDonLettswhowasalsotheDJattheclub),apairofarmysurplusstridesfromLaurenceCornerinCamdenTownandwinklepickers,deadstockfromBlackmansoffBrickLane,itfeltlikewalkingintotheopeningsceneofazombiemovie.Wewereliterallytheonlypeoplealightingat8p.m.onaMondayorWednesdayatCoventGarden’soxbloodTubestation.(Whichwasclosedatweekendsbecauseoflackofuse.)

The area was completely deserted. A ghost town, stripped out and eerilyquiet, the old warehouses emanating a morbid silence, the evacuated streetspeopledonlybyafewlocalshurryinghomeandold-schoolstreetdrinkers,directdescendants of the denizens ofHogarth’sGinAlley, probably unaware of themarket’sdemise.Pluslittlegroupsofuspunks,boundtoseeandbeGenerationXorTheDamned.

Thenafterasessionofcrashingtunesandflyingspittle,walkingthroughtheechoinghullof theVictorianmarket inbondagegear, speedingpastmidnightwith the ghost of Eliza from Lisson Grove, London felt positively post-apocalyptic. But it felt like ours.We had been bequeathed a former city, toshapeandmouldjustaswewereinventingourselves.Londonletsyoubecomewhoever you want, and we were remaking London in our image. Today theRoxyistheSpeedostoreandCoventGardenis,well,itiswhatitis.

The punk conflagration was short lived. I was only ever a teenage ticket,studying the faces; though I did end up splashed over the front cover of theMelody Maker after a night watching the Banshees at the Vortex. This wasanothershort-livedpunkclub,squattingacoupleofnightsaweekinCrackers.I

got into a theatrically dramatic argument with a certain drummer fromWembley.KeithMoon,who seemed ancientbeyond imagining,was out for anight of old-school hell raisingwith the punky pretenders, accompanied by ascribe of course. I told this pissed old bore I thought he was a has-been (ofcoursesecretlyIwasahugeWhofan),hetoldmehewouldsetfiretomyjacket.Photosweretaken,fleetingfamethefollowingThursdayensued.Theideathatitwaseasytogetintoprintwaslodgedinmybrain.MrMoondiedafewmonthslateragedjustthirty-two.

Myparticularfavouritenightofthethree-chordculturalblitzkreigwasintheColiseum,apaintpeelingporncinema inHarlesden.Skanking theatrically toPrince Far I booming from the speakers, before watching my favourites theSubwaySect sing ‘Everyone Is a Prostitute’,TheSlitsmake their chaotic butcoruscatingdebut,andTheClashintheirunbeatablyspleneticpomp.Pogoingto songs about theWestway, a wrap of sulphate inmy socks, feeling like I’dreally arrived in a new Lewis Leather’s bikers’ jacket and Seditionaries jeanswithsee-throughplasticpockets.Iwasseventeenandmycitywasarrayedbeforeme.Iwasabouttolearnabouthangovers.

JustasIgotlegallyoldenoughtogotoclubs,theRoxycloseddownandthepunky reggaepartypeteredout.TheClashwentoff to conquerAmerica, andthePistolswentinforaspotofstage-managedself-immolation,amidawaveofbaddrugsandnotverygood‘newwave’bands.Watching999intheNashvilleRooms surrounded by the kind of cartoon mohicans who would charge forphotosontheKing’sRoadsoonlostitsappealandforawhilethecityslippedintothemuteddoldrumsagain.ItwasalloverbeforeI’devenbegun.

The late ’70s post-punkmalaisewas spent slumbering in the slums, a voidfilledbymiserabalistnorthernbandsinlonggreengreatcoats;GangofFour,JoyDivision, Cabaret Voltaire, all gloomy, monochrome and suicidal Manctendencies. Ihated it. Life simply isn’t grimenoughdown south todomiserywithanyconviction.

Thesoundsofthiscityarereggaeandsoul,glam,grime,punk,funkandpop,upbeat,up-tempo.Fromthe2i’s inOldComptonStreetonwards, theLondonnighthasproducedaplethoraof larger-than-life,brighter-than-a-spotlightpopstars.TommySteeleandJoeBrown,CliffRichardandAdamFaith,MarkBolanandDavidBowie,andthePistolsandTheClashwereverymuchinthatvein.Early British punk, despite the gobbing and the grungy squats, was utterlyglamorous and joyously optimistic, coming from the gutters but looking up at

thestars.ItwasaLondonthing,andwhenitburneditselfoutsothecitysulked.ButsomethingfungalandfabulouswasbrewingyetagaininaSohobasement.

Whatbecameknownasnewromantic,theoutrageousoutburstofoverdressed,posing and preening youth which sashayed out of London’s club-land as the1970smorphedmiraculouslyintothe’80s,hasbeenportrayedastheantithesisof punk. But BoyGeorge and Steve Strange, Spandau Ballet,Marilyn, Sade,Wham,Bananarama,BlueRondo,AnimalNightlife,Ultravox,AdamAntandthat whole coterie of designers, dancers, directors,mountebanks,mannequinsandmanquéswhoemergedfromadodgywinebarcalledtheBlitz,oppositetheFreemasonsHallinGreatQueenStreet,wereessentiallypunkparttwo,whichwasreallyglampartthree.

DavidBowie,néeJones,bornofBrixton,BromleyboybutinventedasZiggyin Walker’s Court in Soho, was the chameleon thread linking all thesenocturnal shenanigans.Do it yourself.Create yourself. You better hang on toyourself.

Bowie’sdeathinJanuary2016ledtoanunparalleledoutpouringofLondonlove,becausewerealisedhewasour shiningson,ourcitymade flesh,andOhwhat pretty flesh. People of all ages gathering in Brixton to paint flashes ontheir faces and singhis songs, a celebrationofourDavid’s timelessmusic-hallartifice and shape-shifting genius. Bowie was the one ‘old timer’ the punksadmiredandemulated,whilethe’80sgeneration,mostofwhomhadbeenlikeme,teenagepunkspogoingattheback,wereunashameddisciplesoftheshamanStarman.EverybodylovedBowiebecausehewasresponsibleforallofus.

Thefirst iterationoftheneo-glammovement,whichwoulddefineLondonin the 1980s, occurred in late 1978on aTuesdaynight inBilly’s.Thiswas agrubbysubterraneanwarrenwithaglitterball,locatedbeneathabrothelcalledtheGoldenGirlsClubon the cornerofMeard andDean, ownedby a scarilyhumungouspimpbythenameofVince.

Itwasexplicitlylabelleda‘BowieNight’,runbySteveStrange,adelightfullystroppyWelsh shop girl in a forage cap who worked in PX, an experimentalboutiqueservingbigshouldered‘spaceCossack’tops,whichhadopenedinthestill-deserted Covent Garden. And the music played by his mate Rusty fromKilburnwasalmostexclusivelyBowie,Roxyandtheiracolytes.

AllLondonnightsinthe1980swereessentiallyBowienights.Mostnotably

theonewhenthemanhimself turnedupattheBlitzandMrStrangeandthecoolest crowd in town turned into gushing supplicants. I know I was one ofthem. That famed Covent Garden venue, a fusty wine bar opposite theFreemasons’ Hall, adorned with gas masks, tin hats and pictures ofWinstonChurchill, superseded Billy’s when Steve and Vince fell out. The Blitz hasbecomerightlylegendaryforthelavishganginsideandthelargequeuesoutside.BowiegotinbutJaggerdidn’t,notglamorousenough.

Likethe2i’sbeforeit,theBlitzwasacauldronoframpagingteenagelustforlife,withacriticalmassofwannabesuburbanoikslikemyself.Weemergedfromevery far corner of the city under the safety blanket of darkness. Braving theNumber19businourextravagantdressing-up-boxfineryandtheatricalslapforaTuesdaynight ofTeutonic electronicmusic andhighly charged flirting andnetworking.

The Blitz proved that all towns are small towns. The couple of hundredflamboyant teenage regulars who got in every week all knew each other.Allyoung,nearlyallworkingclassandskint,itwasincestuousandfabulous.Mostofthem fucked each other and chucked each other, but above all, despite thebitching and the backbiting, helped each other. Climbing up on elaboratelypaddedshoulders. Incurrentparlance itwasacommunity.Londonatnight iscommunal.

Thiswinebarwasourvillagehall,gossipyandrifewithrumour:‘Georgesayshe’s starting a band.’ ‘That little John Galliano said he’d make me a shirt.’‘We’vegotaroominasquatinWarrenStreetifyouwantit.’‘Fancywritingthesleeve notes for our record? Graham’s taking the photos.’ Crowding into thegirls’ toiletstosprayhair,takedrugsandtakeliberties,posingfuriouslyonthetinydancefloorandbitching,schemingandplottingwitheveryopenpore.Wewere pushing the pendulum, desperately trying tomake our city swing again.Anditworked.

Ifthe’70sinLondonhadbeentoughandferal,the1980swereextravagantandfebrile,certainlyifyouwerepartofthenightshift.Andthenightbegantoshiftandswing.

Amidall thoseswingingnocturnes,dayswereharderto locate,butthere isonemorningwhichremainsinthememory.ThatwaswhenfellowLSEstudentSteveDagger,Holborncouncilestatelad,persuasivesonofaFleetStreetFatheroftheChapel,insistedthatIhadtocometotheHollowayRoadofaSaturdaya.m.toseehisboysplay.HeevenmanagedtogettheWelshcontingentSteve

StrangeandChrisSullivanalong,neitherofwhomhadeverbeenglimpsedindaylight. I distinctly remember thinking, ‘TheHolloway Road on a Saturdaymorning?They’dbetterbebleedin’good.’

DraggingadozenorsoofLondon’smostferociouslyjudgementalandhung-overyoungscenesterstoNorthLondon’sleastattractive,permanentlydrizzlingthoroughfaretoseeanewbandwasdefinitelyagamble.ButthenDaggerknewthat his charges, the four he’d been to Owen’s School with and the good-lookingone,wereindeedgood.Theyhadacrapnamethough,TheGentry,sowe changed that in a gloomy old Irish boozer nearby, giving Spandau Ballettheir risibly perfect moniker. This was directly after their first-ever publicperformance in a dismal,malodorous rehearsal studio calledHalligan’s at 95–101HollowayRoad.

Halliganwasoneof thoseIrishblokeswithbadteethanda lovelyattitudewhohadacquiredastretchofDickensianslumterracesupbyHighburyCorner.JustuptheroadfromthesceneofJoeMeek’sinfamous,murderousbreakdownabovealeathergoodsshopat304.MrHalliganletbandsplayinhisslumforasmall fee,whilehewent off drinkingwithArthurMullard. Itwas raw, cheapandlocaltothelikesofMadness,ThePoguesandthenascentSpandaus,whoall rehearsedtheir racket inhisplacewhereall the roomswerepaintedblack.Littledidweknowthatthiswas,or ratherhadbeentheBlackHouse.Averydarkstoryindeed.

AdecadebeforethegenialHalligan,acertainMichaeldeFreitas,knownasMichaelX, aTrinidadian-bornNottingHill-based pimp andhustlerwhohadbeenRachman’srentenforcerturnedblackpoweradvocate,acquiredtheplace.Hewasn’tquitesonice,ashisothermoniker‘thearchbishopofviolence’mightsuggest.ButthischarismaticfirebrandwaspopularwithJohnLennonandafewotherguilt-riddenwhitehippies,whobecamehismainbenefactorsinaprojecttocreateanexclusivelyAfrocentricculturalcentre/hostel.Thiswas theBlackHouse,adubbed-upFagin’slairforMrX’scriminalactivities.

ThelocalWestIndianyouths,stillsufferingthecommonplaceracismofthe’70s,manyexcludedfromschoolsorwork,wereattractedtotheBlackHouseasahangoutandoccasionalsound.ScoresofWestIndiankidscrashingoutintheblack-painted,filth-strewnrooms,smokinganddancingintheyard.ButahardcoreofveryrudeboysindeedgatheredroundMichaelX.Mixingmilitantblackseparatismwithdrugdealing,extortion,robberyandatouchofN7voodoo.

Amuletswereworn, rituals performed. John andYokowere the only non-

black folks let in,andthey tookpart inabizarreexchangeofbodily solidsonthe roof, when they swapped a bag of their newly shorn hair for a pair ofMuhammadAli’s sweat-stained shorts, ina supposed fundraisingevent,beforeallappearingonTVontheSimonDeeshowtogether.Strangetimes.

MichaelXwasalsobusy raisingmoneyotherways. Includingkidnappingalocalbusinessman,puttingaspikedchainroundhisneckandtorturinghimfor£13 he supposedly owed. Not surprisingly the police finally intervened. DeFreitas/X fled to Trinidad where he was eventually hanged for murder. TheHollowayRoadstillfeelsdark.TheBlackHouse/Halligan’sisnowaburgerbar.

Thenightisthevanguardofurbanchange,it’swhennewvenuesandnewareas,the Hoxtons and Dalstons, Bermondseys and Brixtons, get discovered andcolonised,whentheprettypeopleandthecrazypeople,thesmart,sexy,desirouspeoplegather.Thenightiscontagious,itcatcheson,andasthe’80sunfoldedsothehabitofclubbingbecamemoreandmorepopular,moreandmoreplacestogo,moreandmorefabulously,franticallyhedonistic.

The litany of clubs that followed the Blitz is long and blurred, a decade’sworthofdecadencespentinHell,StMoritz,LeKilt,ClubforHeroes,LeBeatRoute, the Camden Palace, the Electric Ballroom, the Mudd Club, the DirtBox,Dial 9 forDolphin, the Limelight, theAfricaCentre, theWag.Oh theWag, what nights we had, Legends, Taboo, Raw, the Hug Club, the Office,IntensiveCare.Squatparties,payparties,houseparties,warehouseparties,bluesparties,afterparties,launchparties,rentpartiesandrent-boyparties.Iwasonceinvitedtoa ‘gay,rockabillybeachwearparty’andspentfartoolongponderingwhattowear.

All those clubs, those swanning, wanton events, were run by people youknew and who largely knew each other. London contained a core coterie ofentrepreneurial and piratical kids, wild and industrious, incestuous andinventive, a nocturnal freemasonry, knights of the night. ‘Greed is good’ hasbecomethecrasscatchphraseofthe’80s,andwewereindeedavariciousintheextreme,butneverreallyformoney.Weweregreedyforgoodtimesandthrillsandsexandclothesanddrugsandthatuniquelyurbancommodity,recognition;theultimateaimtobeaface.Ourswasanurbanavarice,tomakethemostofouryouthinourcityplayground,andourbashed-up,broken-downcitybegantorespond.

I ranaclubortwowithmystalwartWelshpalChrisSullivan, laterof theWag,wholivedforawhileinmymum’scouncilhouseinBurntOak.IdabbledatbeingaDJ,butmyspecialitywasplayingthewrongsideoftherecordatthewrongspeed.Blameitonthespeed.InnerLondonthenhadanalmostlimitlessstock of potential venues, from Toyah Willcox’s ‘Mayhem’ warehouse inBatterseatoaBattleshipontheThames.Spacesthatwerecheaporfreetohire,almostnorulesandnorestrictions.

The scuzzier thevenue, thebetter.TheDirtboxwas famed for seekingoutthe most run-down, low-down and dirty spaces for their rockabilly-amid-the-rubbleextravaganzas.Adodgysoundsystem,abigstackofbeerstoflogfromatrestletable,andprovidingyou’vegottherightpeople intheroom,thestreetelite,you’vegotyourselfagreatnight.Itwasalwaysallaboutthecrowd.AtonepointIrememberleavingmyflatwithaboxoftunestogotoaclubrunbymybuddies Spike and Neville, in a disused chemist on the Euston Road, whichdidn’tstartuntil4a.m.andwasrammed.Isthatthenightorthemorning?

Thosebrightnightsshoneout,sirencallingyoutogoout,fullonoutandoutout,noexcusesaccepted,noprisoners taken.Be there to thebitterendorbeterrified that you were missing out, because you probably were. The endsometimesinvolvedaruntoWillesdenLane,whereLondon’sonlyknownall-night off-licence would sell you a case of under-the-counter lager. Or else itoccurredinatinyroominSoho,withabarelightbulb,abrokenpooltable,atransvestitewithbadmascara,andamanwithaMalteseaccentinacamelcoat,tellingyouabouthisgangsterfilmscript.Sometimesofcourseitendedinbed.All thegoodstuffgoesonatnight.Andsomeof thebadstuff too.Therewaslotsofbadstuffoutthere.

Idistinctlyrecallbeingbothfascinatedandterrifiedasasmallboybyoverheardmod talk of purple hearts and dexys. ‘Uppers and downers, either way bloodflows.’ Iwasboth attracted and repulsedby thevampire imageof thepusher-manlurkinginPiccadillyshadows.Butofcoursetheclichéofthedemonicdrugdealerluringhispunterscouldn’tbefurtherfromthetruth.Dealersarefriendsoffriendsinbasementflats justofftheHarrowortheHollowayRoad.Dealersare hard to pin down and always late.Dealers are popular people in a bar atnight.Dealers runout.Londonwasplayinghard, fuelledbypillsandpowders,lotsof funwashad, lotsof fun– trippy, ecstatic,voluble, amiable,passionate,

whirling,gurningfun–untilitwasn’t.Goldenbrownrippedthroughthenightinthemid-’80s,inveiglingitselfinto

veins, turning good people into tragic, deceitful bores in thrall to muffled,melancholic half-light. (R’n’B took on a sinister newmeaning: itwas a shorthandforrocksandbrown,crackandheroin.)Toomanyfriendsweremiredinthe sicklymiasma of addiction, locked inside the dragon’s den.Most escapedand regained their souls, a couple never did. The night is a dangerous andseductiveplace.

AndsoonallLondonseemedtobeseducedbythenarcotic,eroticpowerofnocturnal activity. Bright young things lighting up the firmament, creativescavorting,supermodelsinSoho,actorsandpopstarsindesignerduds,flashlightflash,stretchextravagance,paparazziinHoxton.BloodyHoxton,howdidthathappen?Thisearlyclosing,noiseabating,drearilyconservativeandcensoriouscitywe’d inheritedwas certainly swinging again, thewastelandswerebuzzing.Thenitstartedraving,dancingtoadifferentdrug.

Ecstasystartedoutasanuptownsexaid,aglamorouslovedrugthatfuelledmany a mass fumble in a Manhattan loft. But once it was allied with therepetitive beats, the repetitive beats, the repetitive beats of house music, itrockedthehouse,orratherthesweatyoldgyminBermondsey.Shoomwentthenight, an onomatopoeic rush of MDMA-driven euphoria and inchoate idiotdancingwhichtransformedgrizzlyMillwallbeermonstersintoloved-uphippiesinKickersanddungarees.ThesecondsummerofLoveinSE1.IwentdowntoShoominaGaultiersuitandsawthefuture.Iknewitwouldendupinafield.

Thelate’80sravescene,withallthosejollyorbitaljapesleadingtheoldbilla merry dance round a farmyard somewhere beyond the M25, was probablyenormousfun.Iwouldn’tknow.Iwasnowensconcedinanexclusivemembers’clubinDeanStreet,mydancinglargelydone,mydistasteformudandill-fittingclothesreconfirmed,moaningaboutthemoderngeneration,showingmyage.

Intruth,ravewasthelastgreathurrahofBritishyouthculture,thelasttrulynewindigenous,inclusivescene,whichshapedthemusic,clothes,attitudesandlives of its many millions of adherents. And it helped reshape our city,broadeninghorizons,bringinginHackneyWickandWembley.ButI’vealwaysbeenanurbanelitist,atleastatnight,amodatheart;theSceneclubinHamYardnotGlastonburyinGloucestershireforme.

Bythe’90sLondonhadstartedtohaveitlarge.TheMinistryofSoundwasthe first signofwhatwas to come.Avast, swish, corporate, branded,money-

makinghousemusicmachine,inaformerbusgarageintheElephant.Foundedby a property developer called Palumbo, it’s a been-there-bought-the-T-shirt-and-the-CD-and-all-the-merchandise-with-the-logo franchise.Welcome to theera of humungous super-clubs. (Anything described as ‘super’ is instantlydubious.)With superstarDJs paidvast sums topumpout predictably four-on-the-floor anthems for the huge crowds who now wanted a part of the party.Clubbingasmassentertainmentandbigbucksbusiness.

London by night is now open for business.Wide awake, busy, bustling, wellorganised, safeandwell-servedby transportand,bizarrely, fruit andveg.Whoactually buys bananas or cucumbers at 3 a.m. from all those shops onGreenLanes?Comparedtothecurfewandthedrawncurtainsofmyyouth,Londonisnowagenuinelynocturnalcityalloverthecity.TheWestEndisfulloftourists,theNorthisgorgingonbourgierestaurantsandbars,theEastisswampedwithEssex ‘bridgeand tunnel’ searching for thehip inHoxton,while theSouth isproper hip, scuzzy, impermanent, inspiring: afrobeats in Lewisham anyone,grimeinCroydon?Londonnowissaturatedandsophisticatedafterdark.Yetitcanstillthrowuptheoccasionalsurprise.

I now only get tempted out to watch jazz, still in thrall to the baffling,beautiful alchemy of improvisation. A jazz night usually involves strollingthroughSohotoRonnie’sorthePizzaExpress,noddingtotheregulars,noddingmyheadsagelyatahornsoloortappingmyfeettosomepoly-rhythmsbeforeretiringroundthecornertomyclubforanightcap.

Butrecentlytheairhasbeencracklingwithsuggestionsofascene,afussthathastobeseen,agroupofbrilliantyoungplayers,takingthisdifficultoldman’smusicandremakingitafresh.YetanotherUKjazzrevival,atleastthethirdinmylifetime,thistimeblendingthebeatsofafrobeatanddrumandbass,dubstep,garageandgrime,with someproperout-there instrumentalism. Jazzbutnotasweknow it; jazznot jazz.Playedbyproper twenty-firstcenturyLondonnameslike Nubya, Yussef, Shabaka, Zara and Moses, in places like Peckham, NewCross andTottenham. It’s happening again, and it could onlyhappenhere. Ihadtogowitness.

The Total Refreshment Centre is typical, perfect. An unmarked, bareconcrete, low-ceilinged, windowless joint behind a car wash in StokeNewington, the ideal place to see this scene.Payingmy sick squid entry to a

grinning,wide-eyedgirlonthedoorandgettingarubberstamponthebackofmy hand, I felt simultaneously ancient and alive, entering a room filledwithyoung,contemporaryLondon.

The atmosphere was crackling. Energy, energy, laid back but bristling.Dresseddowninthatverydressedupway;therewereafewbeardsbutalsoafrosandcropsandlocks,beaniesandberets,dashikisandguayaberas,anklesago-go,loafersnosocks.Thereweregirls,lotsofgirlsatajazzgig,unheardof,andeveryhumanhueeasyintheirskins,withaprevalentmoccatoneandamultilingualhum blending Spanish and Italian, Ghanaian and Nigerian, Jamaican andJafaican, all rinsed through current London chatter, amiable and admirable.Cockneynotcockney;jazznotjazz.

Itwas as if all thoseBenetton advertshad finally come true.TheDJ spunvinylofcourse,butplayedtoowithacomputer,mixingandmouldingancientandmodern, the tunes inducing nods and shuffles from the groovy, groovingcrowd. A truly inspiring, smiling, polyglot, pretty, interracial, gender equalyoungLondonateasewithitself,dancinggentlytosomebrokenbeats.Sippingfromtwoquidtins,comparingworkwear,smilingattheoldmaninthecorner.

And then the band came on, sprawling, electronic, acoustic, jazz not jazz,greatyoungplayers,playingwithgreatskillandeasyenthusiasm;kidssteepedinthetraditionbutfreetofloataboveit.Trulymodern.Andthecrowdstartedtodance, and the girlwith the curlyhair blowing tenor started to soar, and thebrilliant drummer snapped staccato rim shots in a grime style that could onlycomefromhere,fromthesestreetsandthesepostcodes,andthekeyboardsboypunched percussive fills and this beautiful hybrid could only come fromhere,fromnow,fromdeepdownLondon.

Andtheroomwasmovingasone,andIwasoneofthem,lostintherhythm,totally in themoment, dancing to jazz in an impromptunightclub in away Ihadn’t done since Art Blakey’s ‘Night in Tunisia’ rang out on a night inCamdenTownbackin’85.

Iallowedmyselfasmile.Ifeltsoproud.GodIloveLondonatnight.

Jesus’sBlood

EveryChristmasEveIplay‘Jesus’sBlood’.IthasbecomeanalmostsacredritualonmyradioshowthatthelastrecordfeaturedbeforeweheadhomeforthefestivitiesisGavinBryars’s touching, slightly disturbing orchestral accompaniment to a homeless mansinging a simple homily to the redeeming power of Christ’s corpuscles. Althoughtechnicallynothingtodowithyuletide, it isatimelyreminder tousall,especiallyme,that this great city exactsacost. It is cacophonouswith thevoicesof the lostand theweary,yetusuallywedonothearthemabovethehubbub.

ThestorybehindBryars’splaintive,achinglybeautifulpieceisaninterestingone.Hewasdoingfieldrecordings–ifyoucountthepieceofgrassinfrontofStJohn’schurchoppositeWaterloostationasafield–foradocumentaryabouthomelessnessinLondonin 1971.One of the recordings, of aman known only as ‘the tramp’, captured thisfellow,hisvoicefrailandethereal,yettunefulandstrangelycompelling,quietlysingingthisrefrain:‘There’sonethingIknow,forhelovesmeso,Jesus’sBloodneverfailedmeyet.’

Weknownomoreaboutthesingerorthesong,butBryarsknewthatitwouldmakeapowerfulpieceofmusicwhenloopedalongsideafullorchestra.Indeeditdoes,soulfulandemotional,andmylistenersknowitheraldsthattimeofyearwhenwearesupposedtothinkofothers.Butwhatarewesupposedtodotherestofthetime?

Thehomeless,therootless,thestreetdwellersanddrinkers,thetrampsandvagrantsof old,arepart of the everyday experienceof life inametropolis.But theyarealsoabarometer, a way of discerning how the economy is doing, how parts of the city arefaring.NowthatLondonisatrulyglobalmetropolis,andthosewhoseekslendershelteron its streets cancome fromfarandwide, it isalsoabarometerofhow theworld isdoing.Andit’sawayofascertainingwhichparticularpoisonismostpopular.

MyfirstrealmemoryofagroupoftrampscamewhenIstayedatmycousinIan’sprefabonFishIslandinBow,backinabout1969.Wewerenomorethannineorten,andwentoffonanadventurearoundSpitalfields,whichlookedlikemanybombshad

hitit;whichofcoursetheyhad.TodaythisareaiswhatlocalartistsGilbertandGeorgecall‘themostmodernplaceonEarth’.BackthenitwasstillviciouslyVictorian,withasombre,‘endofdays’atmosphere.

Therewas an air of dreadful loss hovering over those cratered and crumbling oldstreets.Shroudedinadoomysilence,almostbereftoflifesaveforalargehuddleofwhatseemedlikeancientcreatures,bedraggledanddishevelled,oldcoatstiedwithstring,skincakedwithgrime,voicesaflamewithvividpinkmadness.

Sitting around a burning brazier in themiddle of the road shouting and cursing,these were ‘methies’; imbibers of methylated spirits, openly swigging their bottledaddiction.Andseeingthem,hearingthem,smellingthem,terrifiedme.Ihadnightmaresabouttrampsforyears,hauntedbytheimageofthosegrizzledoldgeezersonthestreetsofthefareast.Inmydreamstheywouldcatchmeandturnmeintooneofthem.AndofcourseLondoncandothat.Slip,andLondoncandothat.

Astimeprogressed,soIsawsuccessivewavesofdamagedstreetsouls.InBurntOakinthelate’70stherewasagroupofgluesniffers,kidswhosuccumbedsocompletelytothelureofatinofEvo-Stikthattheylivedintheirownfilthina‘cave’underthebackof the high street behind where Tonibells was, their sticky faces ‘black as Newgate’sknocker’.ThenitwastheshamblingjunkiesofStGiles,afterthattheemaciatedKing’sCrosscrack-heads,alwaysagitated,angular,darting,desperateforapipe.Everycityhasitscollateraldamage.

Butinthe1980sadifferentkindofhomelesspersonemergedonthestreets,intheunderpasses,inthesquaresandparksandfieldsanddoorwaysofmytown.Theywerethecasualtiesofneo-liberalism,caught inthenot-so-friendlyfireofThatcherism.Manyofthemyoung,notyetravagedbuthollowedoutbyhardtimes.Yousteppedoverthemastheyslept.

TheStrandinparticularwasadormitorybynight,everydoorwayoccupied,buteverythoroughfarewasawastelandoccupiedbythelonelyandthelost.Andtheymadevastcommunalencampments.Lincoln’sInnFields,oneofLondon’sloveliestspots,wasTentCity,averitableshantytownofhundredsofhomelesspeopleinpermanentoccupation.Just over the river inWaterloo,where the Imax isnow,wasan evenmoreprecariouscommunityofhumanflotsamlivinginthelabyrinthineunderpassesoftheroundabout.ThiswasCardboardCity,atrulydesperatecollectionhuddledtogetherforwarmth.Bothweredemolishedinthe1990s,theirinhabitantsscattered.

Sometimes,though,oneofthecharactersoftheroadgainsapermanentplaceinourcollective heart. Most areas have their local street ranters or bedraggled eccentrics;CamdenTownhasscores,fromtheStetsonwearing‘right-stonedcowboy’toMerlinthemagician and the disco granny, but none are amatch for Little Jimmy.Howwe all

lovedLittleJimmy.Not technically homeless, Jimmy lived with his old mum Edie in a Dickensian

tenementblock,butspentallhistimeprowlingthestreetsofEC1,theveritableKingofClerkenwell.Under four feet tall, of indeterminate age, but very determined views, hehatedbadparking,orindeedanykindofparking.Jimmywasavigilante.

Allday,everyday,Jimmypatrolledhispatchwithanotepadandpencil,haranguingcar drivers, shouting, waving, directing traffic, guarding yellow lines like a zealot.Everybody knewLittle Jimmy and knewnot to get on hiswrong side. For generationsJimmyruledEC1.

Thepoliceweremorethanawareoftheirfreelanceco-workerandsupposedlykepthisbackfromthewrathofenragedmotorists.ButlocallegendhasitthattheyoncehadabigproblemwithLittleJimmy.TheQueenMotherwascomingtoopenanewlibraryonTheobald’sRoad,andtheyjustknewthatJimmywouldn’ttolerateherlimousineparkinguponhisterritory.SotosavetheQueenMumfromLittleJimmy’sire,theylockedhimupinacellforthedurationoftheroyalvisit.Buttomakeupforittheyapparentlyfedhimintheircanteenforyearsafterwards.

Jimmy,sadly,isgone.Thetents,sadly,areback.

Who’stheBestDressedManinLondon?

The answer to that question is actually quite easy, except he’s not often in London.CharlieWatts,drummerwithTheRollingStones,breederofArabianthoroughbredsonhis estatedown inDevon,andowner of the greatestwardrobe ever created fora jazzfanaticlorrydriver’ssonfromWembley,haslongbeenacknowledgedastheconsummatestylist.

Lookatpicturesofhisbandfromeveryperiodand it’sCharliewhostandsoutbydoing less and doing it just so, never flash, or rather never too flash.Mick is greatlooking,Keithlooksgreat,butCharlie,whocandoSavileRow,candoIvyLeague,candocountrysquireandcityslicker,scoop-necked

casual and high-buttoned formal, has looked effortlessly immaculate for nearly sixdecades. I once saw him walking along Frith Street towards Ronnie’s where he wasplayingwithhisjazzband,andIalmostweptattheunderstatedyetpinpointprecisionofhisattire.Sorryforbeingsoppy,butitwasbeautiful,aperfectSohomoment.

Bryan Ferry comes close in his soft-shouldered Anderson& Sheppard. BillNighy,taking lunchonhisownwithabook–always inanavysuit–always inCecconi’s.Paul Smith emerging from the RACClub after hismorning swim looks right;DavidRosen,whoknowsLondonbetterthananyotherman,hasthebestcollectionofloafersintown;JeremyKinginhisslate-greyBristol411isimmenselyimmaculate.

There is indeeda certain group of gentlemenofa certainageanda certainback-story,allself-mademen,whokeepthetraditionsalive.ButCharlieisunchallenged.HekeepsahouseinSouthKenandstaysthereafewtimesayear.Iaskedhimoncewhathedoeswhenhe’sintownandhesaid,‘ItakeaTurkishbathandIvisitmytailors.’Andhemeanttailorsplural: ‘Youhavetohavetwo,andyoutell themboththeotherone’sbetter.’I’vehadloads.

Gettingyour firstwhistlemadeat the local tailorswasalwaysariteofpassage,acoming-of-agemoment.Itwasabigdaywhenamanfirstthrustatapemeasureupyourteenageparticularsandaskedyouwhatsortof fabricyouwanted.Igotmydebutsuit

fromShepherd’sBush,adisastrousattempttolooklikeRodStewartinhisbottlegreenTommyNutter on the cover ofNever aDullMoment. Since then I’ve tried an oldJewish fellow round theback ofAltabAliPark inWhitechapelwhodidaniceMaxBaerback.Ivisitedapart-timesoulDJinabasementinFitzroviaforthatsleek ’60slook. I went Soho Sam and I’ve spent fortunes with such exalted names as Kilgour,FrenchandStanbury,NickTentis,MarkPowellandTimothyEverest.

I’vebeenbespokeandI’vetriedmade-to-measure,therewasevenatimeIfellfortheready-to-weardesignertrapandgavemymoneytoflightyItaliansonBondStreet.I’vegotawardrobe full ofwhistles, someof them thirty years old, butall ofwhich still fit–well,nearly.YetstillIfeeltheneedtogoonceayearandhaveawordwithmymanwithapininhismouth.Whichthesedaysmeansatripoverthewater.

TheSavileRowexperienceisunrivalled,sumptuous.Therichwealthofexpertise,theélanofthepremises,theexactitudeoftheprocessandofcoursetheundoubtedexcellenceof the finished garment, but also unfortunately the exorbitant expense. I still loveamblingalongtheRow;aspotofwindowwatching.Itisliketwistingthefabricoftime,beingtransported,notsomuchontrendasbeyondtrend,ageless,timeless.JustlikeElizawantedtobea‘M(a)yfairLady’inherLissonGroveaccent,soIloveplayingthemanaboutMayfair,butIcannolongerjustifythepricetag.

ForaquarterofthecostIcanheaddowntheWalworthRoadandspendanhouror

sowithGeorge.WetalkfrogmouthpocketsandEnglishversusAmericanvents,discusspitchedlapelsandwhethertheoriginalmodernistswouldhaveeversportedturn-ups:hesayno,Isayyes.MarkBaxtermightjoinusandtryandflogmesomenewband,bookor movie project he’s involved in. Ed Gray the painter, one of London’s finestchroniclers,isalsoaregular,oftenpoppingbyjusttochewthefat.There’sawholelittleSouth London scene based around George’s tiny, dishevelled half-a-tailor’s shop, in ascruffymoneytransferandkebabhouseparade,justupfromtheElephant.AndIamhonouredthattheyletmebepartoftheirgangoccasionally.

GeorgeDyerisaWest-IndianLondonerwithanaccentjustsouthoftheOldKentRoad,a tapemeasure roundhisneckandameasuredmanner,whichbrings tomindgentsofold.Heiskindandconsidered,heknowswhathe’stalkingaboutandalsowhathe’sdoing,whichismakingyoufeelgood,becauseyoulookgood.Mostofhisclientsarein the mod mode: Paul Weller and Martin Freeman can both be seen among thepicturesofhispunters,whichadornthecrowdedwalls.Buthecanturnhishandtoaconduitcutoradrapebackifnecessary.

EveryhighstreetwouldoncehavehadaGeorge–theywerepartofeverycommunity–buttherearen’tverymanyleft,andhislittleshopnowfeelslikeathrowback.Itwaswith great pride that I first took Alfie, thenMaude, to the deep South to get someschmuttermade.Theyneedtoknow.

AnditwasgoingtoseeanotherGeorgeonenight,alsoonFrithStreet,thatIrealisedjusthowfarandwideararecraftsmanlikeMrDyernowspreadshis talents. ItwasGeorgieFamewhowasplayingRonnieScott’s,andasusualitwasagreatshowfromoneofourfinest.ButratherthanwatchingthebandIspentmostofthenightstudyingthe punters’ attire, counting the amount of George Dyer suits sitting in that room. Istoppedjustshortofadozen,happythatsomeoneiskeepingthelookalive.

CHAPTERSEVEN

LeavingHome

AuntNell,whowasmarriedtomymum’sbrotherJack–ahandsomedesertratwithafinemoustache,neverseenwithoutatie,rodeamoped,workedforthegas board – passed away aged ninety-one about a decade ago. She’d beensomethingofabeauty,anoteddancerattheHammersmithPalais,friendofAlBowlly, quite a catch for a chap fromWhiteCity, always talked a bit posherthanus.Nellneverreallyrecoveredfromthelossofherbelovedhusband,themanshealwayscalled ‘My Jack’,and finally just slippedaway in thehouse inChiswickthey’dlivedintogether.

Onthedayofherfuneralthereweren’tthatmanypeoplepresent,asuresignthat you’ve lived a long life, outlivedmost of your friends; but the remainingfamilymembers anda fewkindlyneighbours gatheredat thehouseafterwardsfortheobligatorycoldsausagerollsandwarmwords.ItwasthenthatsomebodytoldmesomethingremarkableaboutAuntNell,whichis thatshedied intheveryroominwhichshehadbeenbornmorethanninedecadesbefore.

Thishadbeenherparents’house,andsheandJackhadtakenitover,onlyever renting, foranentire (longand largelyhappy)existence inone terraced,two-up two-down – extension on the kitchen, nice little garden – Edwardiansemi, in a quiet side street in Chiswick. She never left home. That was hermanor.ThatwasherLondon.Thatwasherlife.

There can’t be many people, in a city as fluid and dynamic as ourcontemporarycapital,whohavestayedputforanentireexistence.Peoplemovearound. They arrive here and flit about, switch postcodes, cross rivers, climbladders,swapflatsharesforflats,flatsforhouses,fleetothesuburbsormakeitto the centre.Many come for a few years after college to try andmake theirname,theirfortune,theirfamily,thenbuggeroffagaininsearchofbiggardensandsmallmortgages.Somesuccumbtothespuriousideathatthisisnoplacetobring up kids,who surely need a fewmore sheep and a little less diversity to

prosper, soheadoff to somedrearywhite-breadmarket townandwait for theonebusaweek.

Butif,likeme,youarefromhere;ifthisisallyou’veknownandwhatyou’reused to in your bones, you have nowhere else to go.We’re not just passingthrough, it isn’t a stage of our lives or a phasewe’re going through, it’s a lifesentence:we’reLondoners,borntothetumult.Thoughwestillhavetofindourplace.

Idoknowplentywho’veleft,ofcourse,mostofmyownfamilyarescattered.MyeldestbrotherBarryhaslivedinNewEnglandforfortyyears,whileReggiemade his life in Hemel Hempstead, part of the diaspora of working-classLondonerswhowerepushedfurtherandfurthertotheedge-lands.Theyneversomuchlefttheirhometownasextendedit,makinglargeswathesofnot-quite-rural Essex, Kent andHertfordshire into little Londons in exile. That’s oftenwheretheoldaccentsurvivesandtheoldculturethrives.But it’salwaysbackinto town for the football, the pubs, the shopping, the restaurants, the craic.Their grown-up kids wondering sadly why they no longer live in fashionableDalstonorBrixton,HaggerstonorBermondsey.Whatwentwrong,Dad?

Plenty of the elders have cashed in and retired to the coast. Off toEastbourneorBournemouth,tospendtheirlastyearsgazingatthewaves,whileremembering fresher, friskier days on the Portobello. Too many youngerLondoners, appalled at preposterous property prices, unable to make it workhere,havealsopackedupandshippedouttosea.SettlinginBrighton,Hastings,Margate;becomingDFLs(down fromLondon)making themostof it,makinglittleenclavesinthosecoastaloutpostscomealivewithmetropolitanbrio.

And the first thing theyall tell youwhenyoumeet them ishoweasy andquick it is to return,how short the train journey isback to town. Iknow thelook hidden in those nearly convincing eyes, it’s what the Portuguese call‘saudade’: a longing for your former land. London is in their blood, which isthickerandricherandsaltierthananyseawater.

*

I left London a couple of times, spent some time in twoother great, teemingportcities.Iwasyo-yoingbackandforthtoNewYorkintheearly1980swhenitwastrulythemostearth-shatteringcityonEarth.IwasfilingreportsforTheFace,DJing inDanceteria, swanning inArea, practising survival skills on theLower East Side and watching hip hop explode out of the South Bronx. I

graduatedfromafreezingloftonPittandDelancey,viaAvenueAtoGramercyParkwithakey.ThenshethrewmeoutandLondonbeckoned.

Later there was an extended sojourn in Barcelona, beginning in 1986,watchingthatelaborate,elegantbutqueruloustowncomejoyouslybacktolifeafter forty years under Franco’s suffocating shroud, while living with a fieryCatalanbeautyandwritinganovelsetinSoho.Thatwasthestartofalife-longloveaffairwithmySpanishmistress.ThelureofIberiahasbeenaconstantpull:elemental and poetic, brutal and romantic, so saturated with light and darkcompared to London’s relentless sheets of grey. I frequently run off south toindulgeher.ButIknowitisonlyadalliance,neverdoubtI’llbebackhome.

NewYork andBarcelonawere both exhausting and exhilarating, but eventhose two great cities veered towards parochialism forme.Londonalways feltmore rounded, more outward-looking, more worldly. All that history and allthat novelty; a rock of solidity and a springboard of creativity, ensuring youalways have to know what’s happening here. The unique blend of past andfuturemakes foracompellingpresent.All townsaresmall townscomparedtomine.

Thereisactuallyacertainmaimingmelancholy,aburdentobearforcomingfrom this city, because deep down you know all the other options pale bycomparison.Theonlywayisdown,everyotherurbanexperienceisdiminished;everywhereelseisless.IfaLondonerhasleft,youknowtheyknowthey’veleftsomethingbehind;they’velostsomething.

I’mnotsayingLondonisbetterthaneverywhereelse–anditcertainlyisn’teasier. Of the places I have visited, Paris, Venice, Seville and Prague areprobablymorebeautiful,Romemoreancient,NewYorkandHongKongmorebreathlessly thrusting. LA is more . . .Well, actually LA is more sunny andmuch more vacuous, what Raymond Chandler brilliantly described as ‘72suburbs insearchofacity’.PersonallyIcan’tstandtheplace,couldn’t findit,buttheydomakemovies,soloadsofLondonersrockupthere.

Istanbul is just as intriguingly historic and vibrantly contemporary asLondon; perhaps our closest kin. Mexico City is magnificently mad andincrediblycultured–atrulyprofoundandthrillingmetropolis.Berlinischeap,charismaticandcreative,fulloftechnokidsinblackbutstillrecoveringfromitstraumas. Tokyo is bafflingly (to me, boringly) modern. I’m told Lisbon andShanghai are currentlyhappening.But really, comeon, compared tohere, allthesetownsarealongwayoff.

Londonisdoomedtobedeemedthecentreoftheearth.ArneSaknussemmshouldhave just headed toW1. I don’t know if this is a permanent position:pendulumsswing,zeitgeistsshift,contendersrise.MaybeonedayanAfricanorAsianmegalopoliswill emerge, aswe becomeVienna, a dotage city frozen informer glories, yearning for long-forgotten empireswhile scoffing cake.But inglobalterms,Londonhasbeenparamount,oratleastsluggingitoutforthetitlewith New York throughout my lifetime. And since Manhattan went zerotolerance, minimum creativity, maximum moulah, London has been prettymuchtheundisputedchamp.It’shardtoleavethechampionoftheworld.

Butitsprimacyisunderthreatasneverbefore,besiegedfromallsides–andfrom inside. Brexit, which was little England’s revenge on its overarching,liberal,polyglot,world-beatingcapital,threatenstocutusoff.MakingLondonisolated, denied the vital blood transfusions immigration brings, while thecorporatevulturesfromFrankfurtandParishoverovertheCity.

Propertydevelopersthreatentopriceandblandusout,sellingtheirsoullessapartmentblocks toabsenteeownersandtheir retailunits to identikitchains;renderingwhole areas ghostlike, butwell suppliedwith scented candles.Doesanyoneknowanyonewho lives inNineElms?Anddoes anyoneknowwherethenext generationofmusicians and artists and entrepreneurs and scallywagsaregoingtocolonise?DoesanyoneknowwhereBarkingsideis?

Wealthitself isachallengeandLondonisa farwealthiercitynowthaninmy childhood days. Poor cities are dynamic; they change easily, frequently,growing, morphing, striving, improving, but rich ones are frozen by theirinvestmentinthestatusquo,atrophiedbyaffluence.Thepoorhaveenergy;therichhaveinertia.

IchuckledrecentlywhenIsawayoungmanwearingabaseballcapbearingthelogo‘MakePeckhamShitAgain’,butitisn’tfunny.Theyoungneedslums.AndIdonotmeantwentyblokesfromSloveniacrammedintoagardenshedinEnfield.That isnotanopportunity: that is a crime.Whenyou’re startingoutoutsidethefamilyhomeinLondon,whetheryou’vecomefromnearorfar,whatyourequireaboveallelse is somewherecheapand ideallycentralenoughthatyou can take advantage of the capital. Remake this city afresh for yourgeneration,insteadofwatchingitfromafar.

Youdon’twantluxuryapartments,gymnasiums,conciergesandendlesspoxycoffeeshops,unlessperhapsdaddyisrichandyou’vejustarrivedtotakeapost

atGoldmanSachs.YouwantWithnailandIwithagoodsupplyofCamberwellCarrots.

Findingyournicheinthisgiantjigsawofacityisnevereasy.Andwhenyoucome from here there’s another big question: ‘Where you from?’ When aLondonerasksthatofanotherLondoner, it is loaded, itpinsyoudown,marksyou out. It’s not the same question as ‘Where do you live?’ which can betransient, just fornow. ‘Where you from?’ is something you can’t easily shakeoff. The actual form the question traditionally tookwas, ‘Where you out of?’You’reactuallyaskingwhichmouldmadeyou,becausethedifferentpartsofthecityareshorthand;brandedbythepostcode.

AboyfromBurntOakisimmediatelyaverydifferentpropositionfromonefromEdgware,thoughtheymaybeseparatedbyjustastreetortwo.Paddingtonis not the same as Bayswater, which is definitely different to Hyde Park.Peckham is not Dulwich, or at least it wasn’t until recently. Islington isIslington, but the Balls Pond Road is a long way from the Angel. Smalldistancesmakebigdifferences.CrossRegentStreet fromSohotoMayfairandyoutraverseanunseenborder,enteranotherrealm,breathealtogetherdifferentair.AMayfair ladyandaSohogirlareworldsapart.AuntNellwasChiswick;UncleJackwasShepherd’sBush.Thatwasamixedmarriage inWestLondonterms.

Ofcourse,classplaysabigpart inthis.ComingfromSouthLondonisonething, but do you mean Southwest, or Southeast? Barnes or Bermondsey?RichmondorRotherhithe?Literallyaclassapart.Althoughthelineshavebeenblurred by gentrification, London is still a stratified, hierarchical city. But it’smorethanjustwhereyoustandontheelaborateBritishhousingladder.

Differentareashavedifferentcharactersandcreatedifferentcharacters.Weare indelibly shapedbyour specificneighbourhood, raisedby a village.So forexample, if Imeet somebody out of, say, Pimlico, I figure I know a bit aboutthem.Chances are they’reChelsea, though they probably don’t go anymore:toocorporate, tooSurrey.They’revery likely tobe smart, intogarms,becausePimlicohadabigmodcohort,whoallhungoutinthesameyouthclubs.TheSmallFaceseven lived there.Despitecoming fromacouncilestate, theymaywellworkinthe‘creativeindustries’–photographers,designers,orelseinhigh-endretail.BecausetheproximitytotheTateandtheKing’sRoadononesideandtheWestEndontheothermeantopportunitiesabounded,thoughthere’safairfewcabdriverstoo.TheyknowLondon.

Abod fromPimlicowill probably have a partner fromPimlico: it’s a verycliquey,close-knitplace;passportsandallthat.Andchancesaretheywillstillbethere.YoucanmaybetakePimlicooutoftheboy,butit’sreallyhardtotakethegirlorboyoutofPimlico if theycanpossiblyavoid it.Theywillcertainlynevercrosstheriver,whichtheycouldseefromtheirwindow,becausedespitetheSWpostcode,PimlicoisardentlynorthoftheThames.Batterseaisanotherworld,whichtheydon’tmuchlike.

IlikedwhereIwasfrom.TheWatlingEstatehadbeenagreatplacetogrowup,Iwasintenselyproudofbeingacouncilestatekid–andIcouldn’twaittoleave.GettingthisboyoutofBurntOakbecameamission.Theancestralhomelandshovered overme, tauntedme, and I knew I wasn’t going to stay put on theperiphery.Ihadalwaysintendedtoaimfortheheart,eventhoughatthattimeinnerLondonwasstillviewedprimarilyasaplacetofleefrom.Iwassearchingforhome.

IdistinctlyrecalltellingMrMigliofromtheBetaCaféinBurntOakthatIfancied living inClerkenwell. I had discoveredEC1while studying innearbyHolborn,and fallen in lovewith itswindingcobbledstreetsandsteep, storiedalleyways,buthelookedatmeasifIwasinsane.Hisfamilyhaddoneeverything

toescapefromwhathesawastheslantedslumsofLittleItaly.‘WhatdoyouwanttogothereforRobert?It’sadump.’SomanytimessinceI’veheardthatresponse,whetheritisJewishfamiliesin

bighouses inMillHill aghastat theiroffspringaspiring toWhitechapel, Irishfolks cursingKilburnormyownmum’s swift dismissal ofNottingHill: slums,they’reallslums.

Backin1980Iwastwenty-oneandsearchingforthekeystoanydoor.Thetimehadcomeformetoflythecoopandgettingaflatwasrelativelyeasy.YoucouldrockupatCapitalRadioontheEustonRoad,wheretheyadvertisedflatsharesonaboard in the foyer.Orelseyou justbought the firsteditionof theStandard(yesyouhadtobuythemthen)fromablokewithafoghorncryoutsidea stationas early aspossibleonaThursdaymorning.You ringedanadvertortwowithabiro,went toaphoneboxwithabag fullof tenpencepiecesandprovidingyoucouldaffordtwenty-oddquidaweekyoucouldprettymuchpickwhereyouwantedtolive.

Chancesareitwouldbeashithole,butthat’sfine–that’sallyouneedandallyou reallywantwhenyou’reyoung. Iknowonepersonwho lived inEdithGrove in Chelsea for £18 a week, in the ’80s: a great address, but only coldwateravailable inthe flat.Another ina£22-a-weekbedsit inBayswatergotaweeklyboxofcornflakesputbythedoor,astheirtenancywasofficiallybedandbreakfast.Ihadneverevenmademyownbedorwashedmybreakfastbowl,butIwas justabout to forgomymum’sunceasing loveandovercookedvegetablesfor a place I’d found through a friend, in a crumbling old block onRoseberyAvenue. Fifth floor, no lift, one room with a kitchenette, and a toilet andsharedbathupthehall.WhensuddenlyIfellinloveandintosuburbanWoodGreeninstead.

Thegirl inquestionwas ahalf-Nigerian,half-Essex former fashion studentfromStMartins,whowas residing in a run-downbutperfectlyhabitable, andindeedadmirablyorderedhouse inWoodGreen,N22. Ihadneverknowinglybeen to that part ofNorthLondon inmy life, certainlyhadnodesire to livethere,untilImetthisextraordinaryforceofnatureinNewYorkonthenightBobbySandsdied.

Theoldlineabouttherestishistoryissortoftrue,becauseofcourseHelenFolasadeAduwouldgoontobecameoneofthemostfamoussinger/songwritersin British history. Only recently overtaken by Adele (from up the road in

Tottenham) as our most successful ever international female artist. But backthenSadewastryingtomakeitinthefashiongameandlivinginasemi-officialsquataspartofsomethingsnappilycalledtheNorthLondonShortLifeHousingCo-operative.SoafterarapidromanceIspentthe£80I’dsavedasadepositfora flat inClerkenwell on a broken 1950sRockola jukebox (which I somehowlaterlost)andmovedinwithherinstead.

TheNLSLHC,specialisedinreclaimingpropertiesowned,butleftempty,bylocal councils (of which there were legion) across a swathe of NortheastLondon.Theywereahangoverfromthe’70ssquattingmovement,stillfiredbyhippyidealismandsoggyroll-ups,butalsoasteelyabilityatbothbreakingandenteringandlegaltechnicalities.Theywereoldhandsandwiseheads.

Sade’s buccaneering older brother, Banji, who had his own squat nearby,specialised in the breaking and entering bit. He liked nothing more thanshimmyingoverapitchedroofatduskwithajemmybetweenhisteeth.Hedidjustthatonanoldabandonedfirestationthathadcaughthiseye.Whichwashandy,asjustafewmonthsafterImovedin,we’dbeentoldthatwewereabouttobeevicted fromtheWoodGreenhouse.Thecouncilhad finally foundthemoneytoprovidethehousewithaninsidetoiletanddoitupsothattheycouldlegallyletitouttofamiliesontheirwaitinglist,whichmeantwehadtomoveon.Fairenough.

The old fire station was on Conway Road, a near-silent, residentialbackstreetamile-and-a-halfsouth,justoffStAnne’sRoadinN15.Ahandsomeifneglectedthree-storeyred-brickEdwardianbuilding,withdoubleheightspacefor the fire appliances (the first in London with a petrol-driven engineapparently)onthegroundfloorandfourflatsabovewherethefiremenusedtosleep.That’swhereweweregoingtolive.

IthadclearlybeenemptyforaverylongtimewhenIclamberedclumsilyinwith Banji through the window he’d opened on his recce. The place wascovered incobwebsandthespidersthatmadethem;theonlybathwas inthekitchenandtheonlytoiletoutsideonthebalcony.Therewasnoelectricityandnoheating.Perfect.

This area of N15 is one of those in-between bits, a twilight zone, whichdoesn’treallyknowifitisSouthTottenham,GreenLanesorHarringay.ToofarfromaTube tobedesirable; too solidly residential tobehip. Ithad, and stillhas, a slightly forgotten air, with old hand-painted shop fronts and builders’yardswithnoobviouspurpose.Wechangedthelocks,connectedtheservices,

sandedthefloors,movedourstuffin(thatjukeboxwasabastardtogetupthesteepstairs)andinformedthecouncilthatwewouldpayratesandbills,strictlyfollowingtheNLSLHCguidelines.

A couple of pretty good years were spent there, and when I went backrecently to take a look, peoplewere still living in the flatswehad effectivelycreated. As Sade’s ambitions moved from fashion to music, and the placebecamea crashpad forherband,wehad some jolly times.Wealways gotonwiththeneighbours.Except forone lotofhairy, tattooed, leatherychapswhounilaterallymoved into an empty flat in the building and then proceeded torebuilda seriesofotherpeople’svehicles in their living roomto the soundofheavymetalandpanelbeating. I thinktheywerethereal targetwhenwegotnoisilyraidedbyasquadofarmedpoliceofficersonedawn.

That took a little explaining to the people in the houses around us.Theywere mainly Greek-Cypriot families with bequiffed sons and black-cladgrandmothers, but they accepted our profound apologies and protestations ofinnocencebecause they likedSade–everybody likedSade.Theextraordinarytolerance,evenkindnessofthelocalstoabunchofoddlydressedkidssquattingintheirstreetwasareallessoninurbanmanners.Thisisacityofliveandletliveandtheynotonlyletusliveamongthem,butoccasionallygaveusfoodandinvitedustofunerals.

In retrospect, theGreek-Cypriot communitywith their fanciful cake shopswere nearing the end of their Harringay hegemony, heading north, out toSouthgateandbeyond.Ironicallytheywereabouttobereplacedbytheireternalenemies,theTurks,withtheirsocialclubsandocakbasis,andtheirtwenty-four-hourgreengrocers,whichprettymuchdominateGreenLanestothisday.

TheyoungWestIndianragamuffinsfromthenearbyBroadwaterFarmestatemadetheareapulsewithareggae-drivenrude-boybeat,butyoucouldfeelthetensionontheneglectedandexcludedFarmrisingbeforeitfinallyblew.Therewas also an almost forgotten Irish community who drank morosely in theSalisbury, awondrously ornateVictorianGinPalace,which at that stagewasdown on its elaborate uppers. And neat, smart Indian couples who watchedBollywoodfilmsattheflea-pitcinemanexttothetypewritershoponTurnpikeLane.Thentherewasamassofindeterminate,slightlybrowbeatenTottenhamsupporting localswhomourned the loss of their dog track and their factories.OldLondonshowingitsage.

Theonlyrealdownsideoflifeinthefirestationwastheoutsidetoilet,ona

balcony off the kitchen. (I quite liked the bath being in there, taking a soakwhile keeping an eye on the pasta sauce is quite soothing.) Whenever thewinterthermometerdipped,thewaterinthebowlfroze,andwhilebreakingtheiceatparties isonething(andbelievemewehadsomeparties),breakingtheiceforyourearlymorningevacuationisanother.Thatwasexactlythesituationwhen Sade’s first record made it into the charts and she was summoned toappearonTopofthePops.Therecordcompanyhadsentalongshinycartopickher up, but the toilet had frozen again so she had to take a pee in a bucket.Therewasa limousinewaitingoutside the frontdoor,andwe literallydidnothaveapottopissin.

Thatsituationdidn’tlastlongthough,andnordidourrelationship.Moneyswept in and Sade moved to a swish new pop-star flat with smoked glasswindows overlooking the Victorian clocktower in Highbury. Although Iinitiallywentwithher, the strains of instant international stardom, includingpaparazziparkedpermanentlyoutside,werepullingusapart,andIfoundmyselfback at the fire station sharing with our gay mate Michael Smith. Otheradventuresensued,usuallyinvolvingspottypostmenstrewnalongthehall,butconditions deteriorated considerably and the aroma of amyl nitrate andunwashed socks hung heavy over the flat. Formy health and sanity I had tomoveon,andbesides,thiswasneverreallygoingtobehome.

ItissomethingofamythtosuggestitwasevereasytobuyahomeinLondon.Myparentsnevermanaged it, and I’mnot sure Iwouldhavedone if theNewMusicalExpresshadn’thandilylibelledmeoneThursdaymorning.Itcameaftera bout of flailing fisticuffs in the Camden Palace, which resulted in aninaccurateslurinthenexteditionofthatinkypopmissive.WhenSade’slawyerconfirmedthatinhisaugustandexpensiveopinionIhadindeedbeenlibelled,sheagreedtounderwritemylegalfees.ThankfullytherewerenonebecausetheNMEsettledoutofcourt,payingmylawyer’sbillandgivingmeenoughforthedepositonaflat,orratherhalfaflat.Butwherewasittobe?IwaslookingformyLondon.

Imusthave looked forallof twentyminutes.The firstplacewe sawwasatwo-bedroom1930s apartment on the fifth floor of a splendidly old-fashionedmansion block called Witley Court on Coram Street, between Russell andTavistockSquares,justupfromtheBrunswickCentreindeepWC1.Ifyouhad

askedmewherewouldbethebestplacetoliveintheentireworld,Iwouldhavesaidjustaboutthere.

IpurchasedthedrumwithmymateGrahamBall,adoubleclever,easy-goingEalingboywhoI’dbecomebestmateswithattheLSE.Grahamnowmanagedbandsandrannightclubs:BlueRondoàlaTurk,WestworldandWetworld,forthosewhoremembersuchshenanigans.Fifty-fivegrandbetweenus,50percenteach,plus600quidayearservicechargeforaninety-nineyearleaseonablockwherewewereatleasthalf-a-centuryyoungerthantheaverageresidents.

Thatwasalotofmoneyandalotoffigurestocopewith,butitwasalotofLondon. Parquet floors, Crittall windows, grumpy porter in an ill-fittinguniform,liftwithchinoiseriepanelsandcagesyouhadtocloseyourself,andasmellofovercookedcabbageinthecorridors:itwasmyideaofveryheaven.WewerenowallsettobecometheBloomsburyset.

N15 in the 1980s had been an area still drawn in 1950s black andwhite.WhenImade it toWC1–and it reallydid feel likeI’dmade it–westeppedstraightintothe1930s.

Apartfromafamousmediasociologistandhisinfamousex-villainflatmate,WitleyCourt was populated almost exclusively by old Jewish ladies,many ofwhom had fledNazi persecution inMittel Europe. Their partners long gone,they would float the carpeted corridors at dead of night in full make-up andfrayeddressinggownslikesomethingfromWhateverHappenedtoBabyJane.Somewould seek the company of a bald, blazer-wearing, Rolls Royce-driving, latemiddle-aged lothariowhowasmynext-door neighbour.The placewas full ofgossip and intrigue, andmynewneighbourswere full of great stories andgin.Mynewneighbourhoodalsohadstoriestotellandgintosell.

As I explored the area, I began to understand its parameters and itsparticulars. Iwalkedthearea remorselessly,buzzing tocall suchaplacehome,waggledancingmyterrain.TotheeastwasGray’sInnRoad,tothesouthHighHolborn, to thewestTottenhamCourtRoad, to thenorth theEustonRoad.Thisinstantlybecamemymanor,butIneverquiteknewwhattocallit.

Thatdepended largelyonwho Iwas trying to impress.For literary types itwasBloomsbury,butequallywecouldlayclaimtoKing’sCross,whichsoundedmuchmorestreet,orHolborn,whichiswhatthelong-termlocalsinsistedupon.ThishadbeentheLondonBoroughofHolborn, thecapital’s smallest,until itwas amalgamated with St Pancras andHampstead to formCamden in 1968.

TherearefamilieswhohavebeenHolbornitesforgenerationaftergeneration.This area ofWC1 is actually a collection of very different micro-villages.

Theyareconnectedbyanauraof timelessness,whichhangs inthemuted flatlight, and a ragged blanket of charisma covering this still tangiblyGeorgian/Victorianquarter.Somehow,eventodayithassurvivedtheravagesofjangly modernity. Despite a clumsy spruce up of the Brunswick, it still isn’tgenerally swish or smart; still feels unreconstructed. And when I walk againthose soft, stealthy streets and those inviting but largely unvisited squares Iproudly called my own, its rakish charm seeps into me and I fall instantlysmittenonceagain.

ThisiswheretheWestEndlookseast,whereDickenswalkedthenightandFoundlings rued theday. It isVirginiaWoolf inGordonSquare and sheep inCoram’s Fields (where adultsmust be accompanied by children at all times).Cab drivers in their Russell Square shelter and businessmen rutting in thenearby bushes, Gay’s the Word. The Brunswick’s brutal geometry hard-byHandel’s harmonious symmetry. Dodgy geezers from the Peabodies, drinkingalongsideeagerundergradsfromthecolleges.

StrollthesestreetsasIdidsooftenandyouwillencounterHoratioNelson’sundertakersandUncleHarry’sbookmakers,Lutherans,Quakers,theSocietyofFriendsandtheFriendatHand.TheDuke,theLambandtheFryer’sDelight.TheEthicalSocietyandtheSwedenborgians,RedsinRedLionSquare,NazisinArgyle Square, Gandhi in Tavistock Square. The Children’s Hospital, theItalian Hospital, the Horse hospital, the Queen’s Larder, the old Dairy, theMazzini and Garibaldi Club, John Nash’s plaque and Paul Nash’s plaque.CondorCycles, ConwayHall, CongressHouse, with Epstein’smasterpiece inthecourtyard.SenateHouse,whichHitlerhadearmarkedforhisheadquarters,DickensHouse, PushkinHouse, Sir JohnSoane’sHouse, theEgyptian rooms,myflat.Ilivednearmummies.

Thetwograndestedifices,theneoclassicalBritishMuseumandthestrippedmodernismofSenateHouse,withitsnotoriousroom101,werecut-throughstoWitleyCourtfromtheWestEnd.Iwouldmakeapointofpoppingintoseeatotempoleorasarcophagusonmywayhome,beforepointedlywalkingthroughCharlesHolden’sgrandartdecoentrancehall,starofsomanyepisodesofPoirot,andapublicrightofwayevenatnight.Itfeltspecialjustbeingthere.

Throughout theareawasa large,often forgotten,communityofLondoners

of all kinds. The elegant mansion blocks in Bloomsbury proper, up towardsTottenham Court Road, were generally posher. Bob Marley lived in one ofthem, but some were council-owned and really run down, the bookishbohemiansmixingwithnervouslookingasylumseekers.

North,overtowardstheCross,butstillsouthoftheEustonRoad,werethewildlandsofStPancras.Thiswasmadeupofaseriesofsprawling,gloomy,darkred-brickcouncilestatesinvariousstagesofdecayandpubs,loadsandloadsofpubs. The most broken of the blocks were squats full of Scots, rampagingCaledonian punk rockers whomade their chosen boozer, the SkinnersArms,therowdiestI’dknownsincetheBaldFacedStaginfullflight.

Other blocks, like the labyrinthineCromer Estate behind theTownHall,were still peopled with occasionally grumpy old-time locals. Chelsea boys,drinkingintheBootandreminiscingaboutKennethWilliams’dad’sbarbers.Inamongst them, an emerging population of brightly coloured Bengali familieswereplayingstreetcricketandopeningsaristores.Thethreegroupsseeminglyco-existedbyfailingtonoticethattheothersexistedatall.

TheBrunswickCentre,attheendofourstreet,nowhailedasamasterpiecerepletewithaWaitrose,wasthenadesolatewastelandofemptyshopunitsandoverlooked, under-appreciated concrete; a windswept brutalist vision with abizarremetallic-claddisco-pubwheretoothlessjunkiesboughtandsold.Butjusta little south and eastwas the gloriousGeorgian enclave of theRugbyEstateanditselegantmaindrag,Lamb’sConduitStreet.Herewasastillvibranthold-out tribe of sagacious old London families who had lived in these streets forgenerations.

Gregarious, generous, but guarded, these were proper old Holbornites: Ialways felt like an interloper in their presence. Somewere of Italian descent,members of the mysterious Mazzini and Garibaldi Club on Red Lion Street,where Iwouldpeer through the letterboxat thepristine1950s interior.Theytook part in the procession at St Peter’s, had terrible tales of familymembersinternedduringthewarandexcellentpackedlunches.IwastaughttodrivebytheScuolaGuida,theItaliandrivingschoolonClerkenwellRoad,whichcouldaccountforalot.OtherswereIrish;almostallwereCatholic.

Theyworkedtheflowerstallsandfruitstalls,didsceneshiftingintheWestEndormined the last seamsof FleetStreet gold.Someducked, others dived.They bought Stone Island and Smedley from a shop run by a pair of localcharactersonLamb’sConduitStreetandimportsoulrecordsfromCitySounds,

wherePeteTongonceworked,onProctorStreet.TheyallknewA.France&Son,whohadorganisedLordNelson’ssendoff,wouldonedayburythem.

Stevewas one such local boy.Born and bred in thePeabody buildings onHerbrand Street, schooled at St Joseph’s in Macklin Street, where thesubterranean playground is unique in all London, he followed the Arsenal,deliveredcopiesoftheStandardfromastripyvananddrankeverySundayinmylocal,theMarquisofCornwallis.Untilhedidn’t.Wewereneverclosefriends,butapintortwowhiletalkingaboutGeorgeGraham’sdourdefensivestrategiesor Peter Storey’s criminal escapades was a pleasant weekend diversion, and ImissedStevewhenhedidn’tshowupforafewweeks.

Whenfinallyhereappeared,Iaskedcasuallywherehe’dbeen.Helookedassheepish as the ewes grazing round the corner inCoram’s fields. I thoughthewasgoingtotellmehe’ddoneabitof timeforsomeminortransgression,butinsteadhesaid,‘Imetagirlandwe’vemovedoutofLondon.’Irealisedhewasfeelingratherashamedofsuchapostasysoenquiredwherehewasnowlivinginasnon-condemnatoryamanneras Icouldmanage.His reply stayswithmetothisday,asheshamefullymuttered,‘Putney.’

If anywhere feels like that elusive beast, ‘real’ London, Bloomsbury is it.Drenched in Dickensian apparitions and bookish aspirations, thisneighbourhood goes about its business, lives its life, amid abarrageof touristsand visitors and the highest urban concentration of students on earth. Aconstantchaotichumofbewildermentandwonderringsarounditsstreetsandsquares, yet somehow it remains sane, gentle, grown-upand shabbilygracious,itsdenizensdeeplyingrained.

IspentthebestpartofadecadeinWC1andalmosteverydaytherewouldbesomesortofminormemorableincident.OneoccurredalmostthirtyyearstothedayasIwrite,onthenightof15–16October1987tobeprecise.Thatwasthenightof thehurricane thatneverwas,or rather thehurricanewhichwas,buttheweatherreportinsistedwasn’tgoingtobe.Ididn’tevennotice.Yougetrathergoodatsleepingthroughnoise ifyouliveina flatoverlookingWoburnPlace,withnodoubleglazing,soIsnoredrightthroughMichaelFish’smanifestnightmare.

NextmorningIawokewithmythenparamour,theSpanishladyI’dmetinBarcelona,whowasvisitingLondon.WewalkedoutandintoRussellSquarein

searchofbreakfasttoseeasceneofalmostpost-apocalypticdevastation.Silent,still,thecalmafterthestorm,butwithdebrisstrewneverywhereandtreeslyingprostrateontheground.Itlookedliketherehadbeenahurricane.

Oneparticularlyproudoldashatthesouthernendofthesquarewaslookingespeciallytragic,sprawledacrosstherailings,uprootedandcontorted,andaswegotcloserwecouldseeanelderlygentlemanstandingbyit,tearsrunningdownhischeeks.Weaskedgently ifhewasOK.Heexplained thathe livednearbyandfornearlythirtyyearshadcome,mosteveryday,toreadonabenchintheshadeofthisparticulartree.Hecalledithis‘friend’andwasmourningthelossofsocloseaBloomsburycompanion.

Anothermorningeventwhich sticks inmymindoccurredat theother,atthatstagelessliterary,endoftheneighbourhood.Itwasacoupleofyearsafterthehurricane,andadifferentgirlfriendandIwerestandingontheEustonRoadin King’s Cross, waiting for a bus north to go and see some friends in StokeNewington.ItwasdefinitelyaSundaymorningbecauseI’vealwaysthoughtthatwhathappenednextwaspossiblyasignofGod’sgenerosityontheSabbath.

Thebusstopwasdirectly in frontofahugebuildingsite,nexttothethenderelictStPancrasHotel,whichhadbeenthereformostofmyadultlife.ThiswouldeventuallybecometheBritishLibrary,apieceofarchitectureassplendidinsideasitiswretchedoutside.ButatthisstageitwasjustagiantholenexttoaGothicruin.AllwasquietasthetwoofuswaitedfortheNumber73busonafine,bluebutblusterySundaymorning.

The only other people within sight were a pair of African ladies in fullflowingheadgear,dressedintheirfinery,presumablytogotochurch.Perhapsitwas theirprayers thatwere answered,because suddenly therewas cashmoneyfloating in the air. Five, ten and twenty pound notes blowing in the breeze,emanating fromagap inthetarpaulin-clad fencearoundtheLibrarysite. Inastrangelysilentdream-likestate,thefourofusweregrabbinghandfulsofnotesfor aminute or two,manna from heaven. Then the bus duly arrived andwedutifullyjumpedonboard,dazed,delighted,acoupleofhundredquidbetteroff,butwithfreemoneystillfloatingawaydownthestreet.

I’ve thoughtmany times about what really happened thatWC1morning.UnlessitactuallywasanactofGod,chancesarethemoneywastheill-gottengains of a local pimp/pusher, ofwhich therewere plenty.At this timeKing’sCrosswastheplacemostrankwithsexanddrugsintheentireland(andsomerathergoodrock’n’rollattheWaterRats),bothopenlyonsaleinthemiddleof

thestreetinthemiddleoftheday.Gangsofgrislyblokeslinedupoutsidethepostofficeoppositetoproffercrack,smackoranythingelse.Iwasonceofferedablowjobbyasorry-lookingladypushingapoorchildinapramat11o’clockinthemorning,aboutahundredyardsfromthatbusstop.

SoIcanonlyassumethatoneofthebigdealerswasholdingalargestashonaSaturdaynightwhenhefelttheneedtohidehisbagofcashbehindthatfencein rather a hurry, perhaps with plod on his tail. Drug dealers don’t do earlymornings,sohehadn’tyetcomebacktoreclaimit,whenthewindwhippedupandnotes, likesomuchsweetstreetmusic,weresent floatingthroughtheair.Wehadaverygoodlunch.

Bloomsburybackthenwasredolentwithsecrets,andthickwiththedustymotesof sedition and spying. It was a hotbed. There were meeting halls andcommunity centres and book fairs and congresses and conferences, with thatmix of superannuated students, perpetual revolutionaries, old comrades andyounghotheads.However,thegrandinstitutionsoftheBritishstatewereneverfaraway.

ConwayHallinHolborn,homeoftheEthicalSociety,wastheepicentreofagitation,with thegreat leap forwardprophesied in itsmainhallmostnights.ButIusedtochucklewhenthemilitantvegetariantypesinthemeetingsboughtchipsfromtheFryer’sDelightnextdoor,asitcookedtheminbeefdripping.

Our local bookshop, just round the corner from the flat on MarchmontStreet,wasGay’stheWord,whichasthenameimplieswasprettyspecialist,butverymuch part of the community. They were the oldest LGBT bookshop intown; a rather serious, veritably venerable institution, where marginalisedgroupsof all kindsmet in theback room roundapiano, including thosewhosupported the miners in their struggle and became immortalised in the filmPride.

Theywerepitchedagainstthemightofthestatewhentheshopwasraidedat the height ofMargaretThatcher’s anti-gayClause 28 hysteria.Doorsweresmashed in, itsdirectorschargedwithconspiracy,and tomesby such seditioussouls as Tennessee Williams, Gore Vidal and Armistead Maupin wereimpoundedasevidence.‘I’vealwayswantedtobeseized,’saidMrMaupinwhenherecalledtheeventsof1984onmyradioshow.Theplacebecamearealcausecélèbre and localswere still rightly proudof the stand the shop took and the

support they received. It’s hard to be anything but tolerantwhen you live inWC1.

NextdoortoGay’s theWordis theMarchmontCentre,acommunityhallwherelocalgranniescongregatedforcrosswordsandmacraméandmother-and-baby sessions took place. But this being Bloomsbury, it was also where theStalinistSocietyandtheAnarchistFederationbothmet,thankfullyondifferentdays.

Iactuallywenttoacoupleofanarchistmeetingsthereoutofcuriosityandwas amazed tomeet a remarkable old girl known as theMakhnovistGranny.ThissweetlyancientEasternEuropeanlady,whoserealnameIlaterdiscoveredwasLeahFeldman, spoke falteringEnglishand fluentRussianandYiddish. Inan incredible life, full of adventure and tempest, shehad fought for theblackflag, against both the reds and the whites, alongside the legendary anarchistguerilleroNestorMakhnointheUkraineduringtheRussiancivilwar.ShehadbeenatKropotkin’sfuneral,smuggledarmsintoRepublicanSpainandnowsatwithherhandbagonherlaponchillyWednesdaynightsinWC1plottingthedownfallofthestate.ItwasveryBloomsbury.

Iwouldnotbesurprisedto learnthattherewerespooks inthosemeetings.Keepinganeyeonpeople,drinkingstrongteaandpreachingstrongpoliticswasa longstanding tradition in those parts. Lenin had been regularly spied uponwhenheliveduptheroadinPercyCircusandwasknowntosupintheWaterRats,longbeforeOasismadetheirLondondebutthere.

There’salsoastoryofaBritishagenthidingforhoursinacrampedcupboardintheupstairsroomatthesadlyvanishedCrownandWoolpackpubonStJohnStreet.Hehad to eavesdropon ameetingofVladimir Ilyich andhis commiecomrades, only to find that the entire meeting was conducted in Russian, alanguagehedidnot speakawordof.So itwasnoreal shockwhenIwas toldabouttheSovietspydropandthecameraconcealedinthebrickroundthebackofCoram’sFields.

Alwaysknownas theFoundlings to the locals, thishadbeen the foremosthome for abandoned babies in Victorian London, with so many terrible andbeautifultalesofitsown.NowtheFoundlingMuseum,youcanseetheswing-gatecontraptionwhere the swaddling-wrappednewlyborncouldbeplacedbydespairingmothersandswunginsidenevertobeseenagain.ButthestoryIwastoldcentredondeliveriesofadifferentkindinatinyalleywayatthebackofthefields,wherethetenniscourtsaretoday.

This is a little used cut-through known only by locals – and, it seems,Russian agents and their British counterparts. A rubbish bin by a tree wasapparentlyadeadletterdropforSovietspiestoleavetheirseditiousmissivesenroute to Moscow. But because Oleg Gordievsky, the KGB chief, had beenturnedandwasworkingforMI6,theyknewwhatwasgoingonandhadplacedasecretcamera ina fakebrick in thewallopposite tomonitorexactlywhowasdroppingwhat.AsIregularlyusedthatcut-throughtoheaduptoamate’shouseinIslington,Icanonlyassumethesecretservicehavemeonfilmandonfileasafellowtraveller.

Anotherlocalsecretspystoryonlycametolightmanyyearslater.Weweretalking on my radio show about much-loved London signs. The illuminatedLucozademasterpiece,whichheraldedyourarrivalbackfromHeathrowontheelevated A40 near Brentford, was a perennial favourite. Many also fondlyremembered the strangely compelling Veneer of the Week, which used toappearonalargeshedbytheeasternfringesoftheNorthCircular.Itadvertisedthe wares of Shadbolt’s veneer suppliers with an ever-changing paean to thedelightsofCrownCutAmericanWalnutorStraightCutBurrVavona.ThensomeonementionedtheFancyCheesePeople.

Thiswas a prominent, flamboyantly 1950s-style sign emblazoned in yellowonthe sideofa squat, scruffy,permanentlyclosedbuilding. Just to theeastofBloomsburyat27FarringdonRoad,asitflowsdowntowardstheThameswiththe Fleet river raging beneath it and theHolbornViaduct above. It actuallyread‘Crowson&SonsLtd:TheFancyCheesePeople’andenlightenedarathergloomystretchofroadtothenorthofSmithfield.

WeallravedaboutitsfantasticfontandwonderedwhathadbecomeoftheFancy Cheese family. Then a caller, who in classic radio fashion wished toremainanonymous, toldus that27FarringdonRoadwas theexactaddresshehadtosendhis formstowhenheappliedforagraduatejobwithMI5.Othersconcurredandlocalstoldoflightsmysteriouslyonintheapparentlyabandonedbuilding and strange comings and goings from the back entrance.One callerevenclaimedtohaveseenFancyCheesevansloiteringoutsidewithantennaontop.Not long after our conversation, the entire buildingwas demolished andthebeautifulsignvanished.Ihopeitwasn’tbecausewehadblowntheircover.

I was incredibly lucky to live so centrally at a timewhen theWest End and

Sohowasverymuchthefocusofthecity;whenitwasstillours.ThewalkfromBloomsbury into town becamemy almost daily perambulation, and I becameacutely attuned to the tiny changes in atmosphere from street to street. Iadopted the Londoner’s tactic of weaving, always swerving themain, straightstreets; partly to avoid the hordes (tourists throughout theworld stick to theobviousandtravelinstraightlinesinpacks),butalsobecausethebackwaysarealwaysmorecompelling.

Kingsway, High Holborn, Aldwych, New Oxford Street, Charing CrossRoad,EustonRoad:thesewide,noisomethoroughfareslinedwithgrand,blandEdwardian architecture, are ponderous and serious. They are also unmarkedboundaries:crossthemandyouenteramarkedlydifferentzoneoneitherside.Unlessyou specificallyneed something fromoneof their shops, it’snatural todeviate away from them into the succour of the backstreets. They don’t feelright.HasanybodyeverstrolledNewOxfordStreetforpleasure?

Thisisbecausethosewide,cheerlessboulevardsareinterlopers;impositionsuponLondon’snatural flow in thenameofmetropolitan improvements.Theyweredrivenmercilessly throughancientsettlements ina frenzyof turn-of-the-century rationalisation and sanitisation, a slum clearance/social cleansingfervour,whichrobbedusof someofourmostvividandvisceralenclaves longbeforetheLuftwaffe.

Itooktowalkingtheoldways,tryingtoenvisagethisearlier,moreintricateandintenseLondon.Crookedandconvoluted,crampedandpolluted,butfullofthe urban intensity, intimacy and authenticity we now value so highly.Howmuchwouldthoseslumsbeworthnow?

Perhaps the greatest losswas one I first sensed as a student at theLSE.Atemple to twentieth-century rationalism, its largelynondescriptbuildingswereclearlyplonkeduponamuchmoreancientplot,contestedbytwisting,cobbledroadsandtheoccasionalDickensianremnantamongtheblandlecturehallsandoffices. At the northern end of the area, beyond Lincoln’s Inn Fields, is anintriguingly obscure alley. The Ship public house dates back to the sixteenthcenturyandatinydog-legcalledNewTurnstileistheonlysurvivingsignthatthiswasonceaTudordrovers’routetothefields.ItwasalsotheentrancetotheClareMarket,perhapsourgreatestlostredoubt.

Thiswasa shambles,overflowingwith fleshand fish,cowhousesandtripedressers, butchers and costers, including a kosher section in the small Jewishghetto.ClareMarketwas one of the last survivingmedieval enclaves, too far

west for the Great Fire, which by the end of Victoria’s reign had become ateeming, shaming slumofmurkydead ends and topplingTudorhouses full ofthehustlinginner-Londonpoor.Smelly,noisy,livelyinsomanyways,itwasapositiveprovocationtotherational,imperialmind.Soitwaswipedcleanaway,withthebloatedstodgeofEdwardianKingsway,oneofLondon’scoldest,mostclinicalhighways,drivenrightthroughit.Whatvandalism.

ClareMarketsurvivedonlyinacoupleofstreetnamesandanLSEstudentmagazine.ButasIwalkedthestreetsjusttothewestofmyBloomsburyhome,heading habitually for sweet Soho, somy urban antennae became attuned toanothernotoriousslum:adesperaterookery,whichdespitebeingallbuterasedbygenerationsofplannersanddevelopers,hadsomehowseepedback intothestreetsof1980sLondon.The theoryofpsychogeography, aspostulatedby thelikesofPeterAckroydandIainSinclair,wasmadesuppuratingflesheverytimeIenteredthedarkinnardsofStGiles.

Today,amuchshrunkenStGilesisrigidlycircumscribedbyNewOxfordStreet,CharingCrossRoadandShaftesburyAvenue;atinyin-betweentriangleoflandusually avoided en route to elsewhere. But all of those were new roads,specificallycreatedforslumclearanceschemes,firewallserectedtocontainthespreadofpoverty.

Before thosewide,dull roadsexisted,StGileswouldhavebeen larger, lessconfinedanddefined,araggedblotbleedingintoBloomsbury,SevenDialsandSoho. Think of Centre Point, Seifert’s soaring ’60s masterpiece, as the darkheartof thispivotal crossroads,with the spireof thechurchofStGiles as itssoul.Ispentmanyhourssearchingforitsspirit.

ThestoryofStGilesisallsuffering.Aseepingbog,aleperhospital,aplaguepit, a gallows, a sunken well into which the poor and luckless fell; this waswhere the hopeful became the hopeless. The bubonic plague began here andcountlessshortlivesendedhere,boundhandandfoot,andboundforTyburn’sfatal,finalblessing.

TherookeryofStGileswasthefavelaofthedoomedandthedamned.Butaswith somany slums, itwas somanyhomes.Theurban story told timeandagain,of arrival anddisappointment, countrybumpkin, IrishandAfrican, thenotedblackbirdsofStGiles, rubbingmore thanshoulders together,creatingamongrel creed, dying but also living and breathing and breeding here in this

teemingtownincarnate.WhenStGileshadsufficientlyshamedtheburgeoningbourgeoiscityandwas finallyrazedinthe1850s,manyof its inhabitantswerepushedfurtherwest,findingthemselvesintheclaggyshantiesofNottingDale,wheretheywerejoinedbyacertainFreddieElmsafewyearslater.

TodayStGiles isapityetagain:Crossrailhascutdeepuntil itbleeds.Allbut obliterated by theworks, Renzo Piano has imposed a tacky kindergarten-colouredblockuponit,thesurvivingremnantsofitsalwaysstuntedHighStreethavebeenmaimedandobscured,itscircussmashedapart,thelastlabyrinthinetwistsofitstaletorndown,erased.Nomercygiven,norespectshown.Theydonotwantyoutoknowthisplaceeverexisted,asifthestainofgenerationshastobescrubbedaway.Butstill.Butstill,crossfromsingingSohoovertotheotherside and the darkness descends, themiasmawraps itself around you. You canstillfeelStGiles.

My first noted night in the rookery involved dancing naked in Seifert’ssplendid,nowremoved,fountains,whichstoodinfrontofCentrePoint.ItwasthefinaleofmybrotherReggie’sstagdoattheAstoria,overtheCharingCrossRoad,whereCrosse&Blackwell’spicklefactoryhadoncestood.ThebasementcontainedasoulclubcalledBusby’s,wherethenightbeforehiswedding,abiggroup of BigOak – the older lads fromBurntOak – and littleme, drank toReggieElms’sfuture.Bymidnight,tinyteenageRobertElmswasdrunkenoughtofullydisrobeandleapintoCentrePoint’smurkyshallowwaters.Ineverquitelivedthatdown.Butnordiditputmeoff.

Arriving at Tottenham Court Road Underground station, admiringPaolozzi’s mural, up into the subway, past the retching bogs and out into StGiles’sthrilling,fetidairwashowsomanygloriousnightsinmyLondonbegan.I knew nothing then of history, hadn’t even heard of the rookery, but wasalreadyattractedtosuchfecundbadness.Thosepublictoiletsinthetunnelwerespectacularlydodgyandseedyinawaywenolongeraccept.Renalofsmellandvenalofintent,likeprisonkhaziswithaddedloitering.Theywereapt.Asyouwalkedpastasicklystranger,hemighthaveaskedyouifyouhave‘aworks’hecoulduse.Theyoftendid.

Oncedubbed‘theHolyLand’becausesomanyofStGiles’sinhabitantsweredevout Irish Catholics, the handsome St Patrick’s Soho Square was builtspecifically for their salvation. Throughout the 1980s, directly opposite thechurchon theeastern junctionofTottenhamCourtandCharingCross, fromthe station entrance to Denmark Street, was where supplicants of the opiate

faithcametopray;theirhabitslong,theirstigmataondisplay.Where once plague sufferers had pleaded for alms and lepers had painfully

decomposed amillennia before, so bits fell off the scarredbodies of the junk-sickened.WhereoncehadbeenHogarth’sGinLanewasnowsmackalley.

Living in adjacent Bloomsbury, I passed here all the time, at all hours. Iwould see them saddest in the mid-morning, arriving, waiting, shaking;scabrous,skinnymethadoneactorsplayingthepartofHogarth’swretchesinthistragictableau.WithallLondontochoose,whatmadethemgatherthere?Theyprobablyhadn’t readAckroyd,yet theywere ineluctablydrawnto thispreciseplaceofancientwantasifbyamagnetpullingthemthroughtimetothisspot,wheremiseryissodeepinthesoil.

Iwould stand andwatch, repelled and fascinated; could seewhen a dealerhadarrived.Suddenlythesedamagedandwearysouls,normallysoshufflingandlifeless,wouldbecomeagitated,animated,scurryingoffintotherookerytoscoreandtofilltheirachingveins.Heyheywe’rethejunkies.Thiswastheirmanor.

Yet touristswouldwalkblithelyby:bookish typeswouldhead to theotherendofCharingCrossRoadtomorewholesomedealers;guitarnerdswouldturnintoTinPanAlleytoplaythesolo from‘SmokeontheWater’. IwouldwalkintothechurchyardofStGilesitself,tomuseonitsmanymysteriesdatingbackto the eleventh century; the torturedCatholicmartyrs and the swinging cut-purses. I would peer into the peerless interior,maybe stop in theAngel nextdoorfor ‘Onefortheroad’,assomanycondemnedmenhaddoneenroutetoTyburn.

Amid the scant remains of St Giles, there is a lovely little garden. ThePhoenix:bornofabombsite,keptverdantbyvolunteers,whereofficeworkerscancanoodleoverlunch;asignofhopespringingfromdespair.Thereisalsoalittlerowofhumblecouncilhousesbuiltinthe1980swhereluxuryflatswouldsurelynowstand,atinyLondoncommunity, inanoasis, inaswamp.I loveithere,butthenIlovedtheswampandevenspenttheoccasionalafternoonwiththealligators.

DenmarkStreet’splaceinBritain’smusic-bizhistoryisunique.Thiswasourtiny Tin Pan Alley, the dishevelled home of avaricious music publishers forgenerations.Elton Johnwriting ‘YourSong’ inanupstairs room,DavidBowievirtually camping out there to get noticed, hit after hit, hype after hype.Instrument shops on ground level, publisher’s offices and small recordcompanies above, rehearsal rooms, nightclubs and tattoo parlours round the

backinDenmarkPlace;thelastoftheenclosedseventeenth-centurywarrenstosurvive.

LaGiaconda,thecaféwheresomanyfabulouspopplotswerehatched,wasperfecttositandwatch.ButacoupleofdoorsawaywastheTPA,orTinPanAlleyClub,oneofthosedodgy,closeddoors,afternoondrinkers,whichusedtoaboundinLondonwhenthelicensinglawsinsistedpubsmustshutafterlunchandaftertenthirty.

Iwas first taken to theTPAbyoneof themanymusicbizbottom feederswho hustled their way roundW1, back whenmoney was flowing; Rizzo in asatin tour jacket. I certainly never became a regular: that would have beendeeplydeleterioustotheprospects.ButonceitwasestablishedthatIwasdownbylaw–koshersotospeak–theoccasionalknockonthedoor,followedbyacoupleofhoursensconcedinascenefromacheapBritishversionofGoodfellas,wasanentertainmentandaneducation.Thoughtherewasalwaysanedge,theunsettlingsensethatitcouldallgoabitJoePesci.

StGilesGreekwasthenameofthecriminalslangspokenbythelow-downdenizensoftherookeryintheeighteenthcentury.Morethantwohundredyearslater, the geezers who frequented theTPA spoke a vivid argot all their own.These were men who had been around the block, on the wing, over thepavement,throughtheslips,underthecounter,behindthejump.

I would literally struggle to understand a word as a collection of scalpers,bilkers, blaggers and drummers, jigglers, dippers, but definitely no fiddlers,conversedintheirconvolutedcombinationofrhymingslang,backslang,prisonspeak,Romani, and justwantonly bizarre obfuscation. ‘I just punted a pair ofsnidebriefstoabiceoflukerichardsforacarpet,’saidahappychapwho’dbeenworking tickets over the road at theAstoria.Tookme an age to decode thatone.

I have no idea how many of these funny, dodgy, label-laden, Coronaquaffing,occasionallyscary,alwayslairymenwerebonafidebadpeople,buttheyweregoodcompanyuntilthecharliekickedin.Most,Isuspect,justworkedtheangles;someofthemworkedthehotdogs.

OvertheroadfromtheTPAatnumber18DenmarkPlace,whichlinksStGiles High Street and Denmark Street, the very heart of the rookery, was ashabby old three-storey building, with green metal double doors that wereusuallylocked.Butitregularlyopeneduplateatnightwhenthehotdogboys

had done their rounds. These were themenwho pushed thosemetal trolliesroundLondonsellingsausagesandburgersyoureallywouldn’twanttoeat,onillegal pitches at tourist sites and outside clubs around town.They stored thetrolleys and the tins ofwhatever theywere selling in this building.A shabbystorehouserumouredtobeownedbythesamepeoplewhoownedtheTPA.Noonereallytalkedaboutnumber18much.

The Astoria and the Tottenham Court Road toilets and the Centre Pointfountains and the TPA and the Giaconda and the junkies and 18 DenmarkPlacehaveallgonenow:toomuchhasgonenow.StGiles’sscarssacrificedfortheLizzieLine,torndownforablandnewstationentrance,whichsitspreciselywhereIdancednakedatastagdo.Aclumsyglasspyramid,whereoncemusicand money were made, deals were shaken on and swiftly forgotten, wheresmackheadsscoredandshot,wheregobbyvillainsdrankbottledbeerindesignergearandgenerationsofpisspoorLondonersbeforethemekedoutalifeandtoomanyweresentencedtodeathbyhanging.Deathhangsheavyhere.

We’re told Crossrail is necessary to keep Londonmoving, though turningReadingintoawesternsuburbofthecityandpouringmillionsmorepeopleintothecentreoftowneverydaywillhaveconsequences.Ithasalreadytakenawayanother little slice of what we thought of as our own, turning an intimate ifoccasionallyintimidatingenclaveintoatackyno-manslandofwheeliesuitcasesand bemused out-of-towners.Demolishing one of the remaining slivers of theold,storiedWestEndandreplacingitwithashinyreceptioncentre,withglasspyramids and high definition touchscreen ‘entertainment portals’, feels like aslighttothepast,adisservicetohistory.

This is yet another attempt to eradicate the often terrible but alwayspowerfulstoryofStGiles.Butwillitworkthistime,orwillthedarkpastworkitsway up through the concrete and glass, like the fingers of the living dead,risingfromashallowgrave?For18DenmarkPlaceandwhateverreplacesitwillalwaysbehauntedbywhatoccurredthereononenightinAugust1980.

Dreadfuleventshappenhere.Plagueshappenhere, firesand floodshappenhere.WheretheDominionTheatreisnowwasoncethesiteoftheHorseshoebrewery,amemorywhichwaskeptaliveas recentlyas the1980s,when therewasapubcalledtheHorseshoe,whereDJPaulMurphyopenedthefirstofhisfamedjazzdanceclubs.IsawJayHoggardplaythereonce.Butonthatexactsite

on17October1814,avastvatofbeerexploded,leadingtoapositivetsunamiofporter flowing down into the rookery: 9,000 barrels of foaming darkhooch, awavefifteenfeethigh,rushingintoovercrowdedbasements,whichledtoeightdeathsbydrowning,someofthemchildren.Ifthegindidn’tgetyou,thebeerwould.OnlyinStGiles.

Iwouldoccasionallyfindmyselfdrowninginbeerinalate-nightbluesinoneoftheroomsaboveDenmarkPlaceinthelate ’80s.ItwasacluborganisedbyPhilDirtbox,alegendarynocturnalhost,thelatestinalonglineofimpromptushebeens,whichcolonisedanyavailablespaceinW1.Somewhereinthebackofmyundoubtedlyaddledbrain,Iknewthenthatweweredancingveryclosetodeath. For I hadheard tell of JohnThompson.Have youheard of John ‘TheGypsy’Thompson?

BeforeHaroldShipmanGPtookhisdubioustitle,JohnThompsonwasthemostprolificmassmurdererinBritishhistory,toppedonlybyDoctorDeathinthenumber of peoplehe topped.He is still arguably themurdererwhokilledmostvictimsonasingleoccasion,andithappenedinlivingmemory.Yetalmostnobodyhas ever heard ofMrThompson, a notoriousmanwithnonotoriety.BecausehisterriblecrimeoccurredinStGilesanddreadfulthingshappeninStGiles.Whatdoyouexpectifyougothere?

Itwasthatbuilding,18DenmarkPlace,wherethehotdogstallswerekept,aramshackle structure that dated back to the old rookery itself. In 1980 itcontainedtwounregulated,illegalclubsonitsupperfloors.OnthetopwastheSpanishRooms,orElHueco,‘thehole’,andbelowitRodos,ortheColombianclub,bothaccessedbyholleringupforakey,whichwouldbethrowndown.Astheir names suggest, they were used by the large community of Spanish andSouthAmericanswhoworkedbynight,oftenaswaitersintheWestEnd.ButitwasalsofrequentedbythemyriadLondonerswhodidn’twanttogotobed,andmaybefanciedsamplingsomeofSouthAmerica’smostfamousexport.Itwasaportofcallforpeopleofthenight.

ThatFridaynightintoSaturdaymorning,JohnThompson,alocallow-life,would-begangster,gotinarowoverthepriceofaginandtonic,gotthrownoutbutwouldn’tletitrest.Hetookaminicabfromoneofthelocalkiosks,drovetoapetrolstationinCamdenTown,boughtacanoffuel,returnedtotheSpanishrooms, poured it through the letter box and lit a match. Within a fewunimaginably diabolical moments, thirty-seven people were dead, as flamesragedandracedandravagedthroughthoserooms.Somesurvivedbyclamberingovertherookeryrooftops,usingguitarsfromtheshopnextdoortosmashopenwindowsandlockedfireescapes;thirty-sevendidnot.Manyofthosewhodiedwereneverevenformallyidentified,leftjustburnedbones.

ForyearsIspokeaboutthisfire,toldpeoplethestory,oratleasttheversionof it I knew, as therewas so little information. Iwould always thinkof thoseincinerated souls every time I passed by their unmarked resting place. Noplaque,nosign,nonothing.Itwasasif,likeStGilesitself,therewasadesiretoentirelywipe itaway,pretend sucha terrible thingneverhappened justa fewyearsagoinourshinynewcity.Butitdid.

I heard from amanwhose brother-in-lawhad died in the conflagration, ayoung lad from Ladbroke Grove who had gone into town with a mate on aFridaynightlookingforthecraicandendedupintheHole.Hisspargotawaybyclimbingoverroofs,buthenevermadeit.ThefamilymemberIspoketowassosaddened,andstillangeredandbemusedbythefactthatthiswholeterribleevent– thebiggestmassmurderon a singleoccasion inBritishhistory–had

beenforgotten:thoselivesaswellasthosedeathshadbeenforgotten.Truth is, even at the time, this terrible crime went almost unreported.

Probably because many of those who died were people of the darkness:foreigners, undesirables, illegals, what one paper called ‘pimps, lesbianprostitutes, screechinghomosexualqueens,hashdealersanddroopingaddicts’.TherewerealsoarchitectsandnursesandboysfromtheGrovehavinganightout.I,too,wasoutthatnight,overtheroadinaclubinsafeSoho,preeningandprancinginmyprettyNewRomanticgear.Therebutforthegrace.Thenightisadangerousplace.

But they haven’t quite been forgotten.A journalist called SimonUsbornedid some painstaking research and gathered what scant information exists,gettingtogetherrelatives,andeventuallyorganisingamemorialservice.IttookplaceinthechurchofStGiles,ofcourse,wherethemartyrsandthelepersareremembered, too, and maybe those who died that night were somewherebetween the two. There is talk of a memorial plaque on the new Crossraildevelopmenttohonourthoselostsouls,butwhetherthefuturereallywantstoacknowledgesuchatormentedpastremainstobeseen.

AndnowanotherlittlebitofStGilesanditshistoryhasdiedtoo,sacrificedto development, to Crossrail and clean lines and clean sheets and balancesheets. But can you ever really get rid of a stain? St Giles, patron saint ofcripples,lastredoubtofthehopelessremains.

Thompsondiedhandcuffedtoahospitalbedontheanniversaryofthefirein2008.He’dbeennabbedninedaysafter theblaze,drinking inabar100yardsaway,asstupidashewascruel.

TheBrigadistas

‘Theywentbecausetheiropeneyescouldseenootherway.’EverytimeIreadthatinscriptiondownbytheriverIchokeupalittle.Eventypingit

outjustthenmademefeelsimultaneouslysadandintenselyproud,becauseIknowwhatit means. I know even more what it meant to the men and women, many of themLondoners, youngandstrong,whoheard thecallandwithopeneyesandclearmindsheadedoff to sunny,dusty,deadlySpain to fight forwhat theyknewwasright,manynevertoreturn.Imetthem,Iknewthem;Iadoredandadmiredthem.Nowtheyarealldead,notonelefttotelltheirtale.Sowemust.

Those fine, true words, originally written by C. Day Lewis, adorn a humble buthandsomebronzesculptureonaplinthon theSouthBank,honouring the2,100menandwomenwholefttheseshoresin1936tofightforfreedomandagainstfascism,withtheInternationalBrigadesintheSpanishCivilWar.It’sinJubileeGardens,apatchofgreenrightbytheever-revolvingfripperyoftheLondonEye.

I havenothing against the bigwheel, but it is indicative of theway inwhich theriversidehasbeenDisneyfied.TheSouthBank,nowthepremiertouristpasseggiato,usedtobestaunchlyworkingclass;factories,breweries,powerstationsandcouncilestates.It’swhytheFestivalHall–‘ThePeople’sPalace’–wasplacedthereontheproletariansideoftheriver.It’swhyit’sstillapt,ifalittleincongruous,thattheoldcommiesandtheraggedleftiesandthearchanti-fascistsmeetthere,atthatmemorialeveryfirstSaturdayinJuly,toclenchtheirfistsandsingtheirrousingsongs.AndIamalwaysamongthem.

IbecameentrancedbySpainasbutaboy.Myfirstevertripabroadasasixteen-year-old took me to those merciless skies, blue, bleached bone-white towns, parched andstripped,austereyetripe,hard,rich,aplaceofbloodandduende.ThespellSpaincastovermehasneverwavered;itismyotherplace.IhavelivedinBarcelonaandMadrid,andhaveahomenowinCadiz.Istillfeelfireinthescaldingair,stillunderstandwhythoseyoungpeoplewentallthoseyearsago.IhopeIwouldfightforSpain,butIdon’tknowifIambraveenough.

Myfirstbrushwiththeproud,braveBrigadistaswasbackinthe1990swhenafairfewwerestillhereamongus.Threeofthemcameonmyradioshow,totalkabouttheirannualremembranceceremonyat thatstatuebytheriver.TherewasDavidLomon,aformer rag-and-boneman fromHackney,a Jewish ladwhohad first fought fascistsatCableStreetandwasnineteenyearsoldwhenhevolunteeredtoheadtoSpainandpickupagun.LouKenton,aStepneyboywhose familyhadfledpogroms in theUkraine,anotherveteranofCableStreet,whorodehismotorbiketoAlbacete,whereheswappeditfor an ambulance and worked as a medic on the front line, later he served in themerchant navy on the arctic convoys. The third was Sam Lesser, another son ofHackney, born an orthodox Jew, but converted to communism during his early anti-fascist struggles.He was among the first thirty British volunteers, and found himself

defendingMadridinoneofthebitterestbattlesofthewar.LaterhebecameajournalistfortheMorningStar.

IwasinaweoftheseLondonmen,oldnow,humble,wise,butstillstaunch.IlovedhearingtheirtalesofBruneteandJarama,thepoliticaldebates,thehowlingshells,howthey lost somany comrades butnever lost their passion or their conviction: they knewtheywereright.TheseweremenwhohadfoughtalongsideDuruttiandDoloresIbárruri,whohadlivedthehistoryIonlyreadabout.Iaskedthemmanyquestions,andatonepointIsaid,‘Doyouknowifyoukilledanybody?’

IthinkitwasDavidLomon,smallandhardofhearing,whospoke,lookingatmeasifitwereaverynaivequestion.Tothisdayhisanswersendsshiversdownmyspine.

‘DidIkillanybody?OfcourseIdid,many,theywerefascistsandIhopetheystayeddead.’

From thatmoment on I knew I had to knowmore of these remarkable people. Idiscovered the International BrigadesMemorial Trust, the IBMT, who look after thememoryofthe15thBrigade,theBritishunit,andwhoorganisetheirannualmemorialceremony. At my first July event there were probably seven or eight veterans present,including a couple of the incrediblewomenwho hadmade that fateful journey. JackJones, the trades unions leader was there, so was fierce Paddy Cochrane in hiswheelchairandhisberet.Andwhenthetimecametosing,theyclenchedtheirfistsandroared ‘The Internationale’.They said theywantedTories to hear it over the river inWestminster.

The proudest moment came in 2009 when all surviving International BrigadememberswereawardedSpanishpassportsbythenow-democraticgovernment,keepingapledgemade almost seventy years before. In a ceremony at the Spanish embassy, SamLesser, thenninety-four years old,madea speech inwhichhe said in fluent Spanish,‘We’vetakenawhilebutnowwe’vecomehome.Buttherearethoseofuswhodidnotcomehome,whosleepunderthesun,thesoilandtheolivetreesofSpain.’

Infact,over500BritishvolunteersgavetheirlivesfortheRepublic,andtimetooktherest.IwashonouredtobeaskedtomakeaspeechdownbytheriveroneJulyandspokeofmyundyingadmiration,andofhowalthoughwelost,wefinallywonafreeanddemocratic Spain.At the end ofmy speech, Sam Lesser, then one of only threemenstanding,cameuptoaskmeaquestion.

‘RobertElms,areyouthesonofAlbertElms?’Yes,Ireplied,amazed,asmydadhaddiedfiftyyearsbefore,andIhadnevermet

anybodyoutsidetheimmediatefamilywhoknewhim.Samlookedmeupanddown.‘AlbertElms,thebuildingsitetradesunionist.Hewasagoodcomrade.’

CHAPTEREIGHT

FindingHome

Wemetinthemiddle.Actually,wemetyearsbeforeinanightclub,whenshewalked downstairs looking preternaturally elegant. She married a very goodfriend,Iwasbestman,theyhadakid.Theygrewapart;westayedclose,wefellin loveandgotmarried in the registryofficeon theMaryleboneRoad,wherepop stars frequently wed. I didn’t have a best man. The registry office iscurrently closed for refurbishment, but twenty-four years later, ourmarriage isstillupandrunning.Westillliveinthemiddle,whichisanexcellentplacetobe.

Whenwegottogether,mywife,Christina,andherdaughterAlice,wereinaflatinBelsizePark,whenIwasthirty-sixandstillsharingwithGrahamBallinBloomsbury.Itwasfinallytimetogrowupandsetuphomesomewherewithmynewfamily,butwhere?ShelovedtheproximityofHampstead,theHeathandall that; I thoughtanywherenorthof theEustonRoadwas thesuburbia Ihadescaped from.Sowe split thedifferenceand settledonCamdenTown. Itwasgenerallynotconsideredaverygoodideaatthatstage,whichispreciselywhyitwasaverygoodideaindeed.

We’dbothmadeabitoutoftheflatswesold:thepropertymarketwasinoneof itsperiodic slumps,mortgageswereeasy tocomeby,and sowerehouses inareas still considered a bit dodgy bymost.We hadn’t yet got to the point inLondonwhereplaceslikeHackneyandBrixtonweredeemedfairgamefor‘nice’people, and although Camden Town wasn’t quite Murder Central, thereputation of the areawas pretty scuzzy: there was amajor drugsmarket, thestreetswereprettylivelyandplentysaidwewerecrazytomovethere.

Of course I knewCamdenTown fromDingwalls and theMusicMachine,RockOnRecordsandRedorDead.ButIdidn’tknowtheelegantlywide,tree-lined terraceofearlyVictorian, flat-fronted,half-stuccoedhouses, interspersedwithbomb-damaged fill-in council flats, thatwas about to becomeourhome.

Runningparallel to the railway line intoEustonat the southern(MorningtonCrescent)endofCamdenTown,itisclosetothecrazinessyetadistinctplaceapart.

Inthefewbriefminuteswespentdecidingtobuythehouse,Iwasrenderedoverwroughtbywroughtironrailings,Londonstockbrick,highceilings, floor-to-ceilingsashwindowsandpanelledshutters.Aproper,listed,Londonterracedhouse,albeitonewhichhadbeenprettybashedabout.Thiswasaconsiderabledistancefromacouncilhouse inBurntOak.Iwasabouttoownandlive inapartofourcollectivestory.Iwasabouttocommitthesinofpride.

But a short while before we actually took possession of this run-down,choppedup,muckedaboutbutstillstrikinglyhandsomehouse,whichwelivedinasabuildingsiteformanymonths,alltheportentsofdoomanddangerwererealised. Our about-to-be next-door neighbour was mugged and stabbed by ateenager within 200metres of his front door and camewithinmillimetres of

dying. Because his wife was the Director of Public Prosecutions, it was a bignational news story, and my wife was understandably jittery about our newhome,especiallyasshewasnowpregnant.

As we lugged the boxes of records and books up the short flight of steps,policehelicopterswerehoveringoverhead,andIremembersayinguneasilythatifwedidn’tlikeitwecouldgosomewhereelse.Ihadmovedhereforlovebuthadno idea just howmuch Iwould love this placewhichwould becomeourfamilyhome,ourmanor,ourLondon.

ThankfullyJohnnextdoorsurvived,andisstillJohnnextdoor.ButthefactthathiswifeDameBarbarawastheheadoftheBritishlegalsystemprovideduswitha fewmoments.TwomembersofOasis, thisnewband fromManchestereverybodywastalkingabout,sharedaflatinthehousedirectlyontheothersideof us, while Noel lived opposite. So we were a physical buffer between wildBritpoppartiesandtheheadoftheBritishlegalestablishment.

Therewasalsopermanentpolice surveillanceonourhouseasBarbarahadlocked up numerous felons and they feared revenge. Watching the old billwatchingusmadeusfeelsimultaneouslyuneasyandsecure,andmadesomeofmyold scallymates verynervous indeed aboutvisitingourdrum.At leastweweren’tlikelytogetburgled.

We hired a hippy gardener who toured the area inmilk floats painted inRastafariancolourstoplantupourtinygarden.AfewweekslaterIwasstandingtalking toDameDPPover the fencewhen Inoticed somemysterious lookingfungipokingoutofourpots.Irememberhopingthatthebiglawchiefnextdoorwasn’taufaitwiththesightofpsilocybin.AtthatstageIhadnoideaofthelinkbetweenourstreetandoneofthegreatpsychedelicmomentsinBritishculturalhistory–‘mythumbshavegoneweird’.Onceensconced,though,Iwouldlearnalotaboutthepastofourfuturehome.

Like somuchofLondon, our streethas been something of a roller-coasterroad. It ispartofadistinctenclaveof similar roadsbuilt in themid-1840s, inthehoneymoonperiodofVictoria’s reign, andhas goneup anddownandupanddowneversince.Theproductofaspeculativebuilder,thesehousesandtheevengranderonesonMorningtonCrescentitself,weremadefortheemergingmiddleclasses,orwhatoneoldlocalcalled‘thecarriagetrade’.

WithitsproximitytotheRegent’sParkandtheWestEnd,thisshouldhavebeenanaffluentarea–andperhapsforawhileitwas.Butthesmokeandnoisefrom the nearby railways was always a problem, steam trains smothering thehouses in layers of soot and cinders, blackening the stucco, stinging the eyes.ThearrivaloftheUndergroundin1907,plusalargeinfluxofIrishimmigrantsdroppedoffatEuston,drovetheareafurtherdownhill.Andwhenthemassive,Egyptionate, Carreras Black Cat cigarette factory replaced the communalgardens in front of Mornington Crescent in the 1920s, any remainingrespectabletypesevacuated.

One sign of the decline is the fact that themews at the end of our roadwhere those carriage horses had been kept became a paint factory. That wasknockeddowninthe1970sandisnowcouncil-runshelteredhousingwhereoneof the residents plays melodious but melancholy polkas and tangos on theirgramophone.

Very like theNottingHill Freddie first rockedup in,CamdenTownwentfrom well-to-do, to down-at-heel in a rapid decline. Poor immigrant familiessupersededthemiddleclasses,whofledtotheoutersuburbs,andthesegenerousfamilyhomesgotsubdividedintomultipleoccupancydwellingsforthetransientpoor.AlbertStreethad fallenso lowthat someof theseoncegracioushomes,quite possibly ours, had been ‘flop houses’. These were rooms of last resort,whereitinerantnavviescouldrentaspotonaropestrungfromwalltowallandflopoutforafewhours,beforeheadingbacktothebuildingsiteortheboozer.

This was when Camden Town first developed a reputation as home to thefightingIrish.

Thehousenext door to ours,where theOasis people lived and the famedMicktheFishstillresidesinthebasement,isoneofthelastsurviving‘roomstorent’establishments in the street. It isownedbyaGreek-Cypriot family,whowerepartofanothermajorwaveofmigrationintheearly1950s.

TheGreekOrthodoxcathedral,whereArchbishopMakariosoncepreachedtocrowdsofthousands, is justaroundthecorneronCamdenStreet.Theverylastlittleoldladyinblacksadlypassedawayrecently,buttherearestillacoupleoflocaltavernassellingtiredtarama.

The loveliest reminder of our neighbourhood’s Cypriot past isGeorge thecoffeeman.Thiswonderful,ancientyetagelessfellowinadun-colouredcoatonDelanceyStreet, still sorts, roastsandgrindshisbeansdaily, amida tiny shopfullofhessiansacksandanachronisticmachinery,ashehasdonesincethe’70s.Thealmostnarcoticaromaofhiscoffeeshroudsusall inasumptuousfogthatheraldshome.

By the late 1960s, a new type of person washed up in NW1, although ifyou’veseenWithnailandI,you’llknowwashingupwasn’thighontheirlistofpriorities. Perhaps it was the proximity of the Roundhouse with its hippyhappenings.CamdenLockalsohappenstobeuptheroad,withitsplethoraofsplit-knee loon-pantpurveyors,head shops andmusicalpit stops, so akindof

hippy, actory, arty, literary type soughtoutcheapdigshere.Among themthemanwhowasI.

InterviewingwriteranddirectorBruceRobinsonyearslater,ImentionedoffairthatIlivedinCamdenTown.Heaskedwhere,exactly?Itoldhim,andhesmiled. It turns out he’d lived a dozen or so doors to the north with VivianMacKerrell:thereallifeWithnail.Thewholesplendidfilmhadbeenbasedontheir adventures in the street.Thiswaswherehis thumbswentweird, lighterfuel was drunk and theCamberwell Carrot was smoked.He’d even been theman who got the trees planted. One stoned night, Bruce wrote a letter toCamdenCouncilcomplaining thatonly theposhpeople inPrimroseHillhadtrees,andtheyrespondedbyplantingtheplanes,whicharestilltheretoday.WehavealottothankMrRobinsonfor.

TheghostofWithnailstillmovedamongus,andtherewasapalpablearomaofshabbychicandsecond-handfurniturehoveringoverthestreetwhenwefirstmovedin.

Beryl Bainbridge lived down the roadwith a stuffed buffalo;A.N.Wilsonworea liturgicalberet; JazzyBhadahostofmotorsparkedup;DylanThomasevenhashisplaquefiftyyardsawayonDelanceyStreet,wherehe’d livedinacaravaninthegarden.Thereweredrunkenoldphilosophersandafewsurvivingsuperannuated music biz types with too-tight trousers, long frizzy hair and ageneral air of arty ennui. Oh, and Madness: you always saw members ofMadness.

Ahandfulofthehouseswere–andstillare–ownedbythecouncil.Youcantellbecausethedoorsareallpaintedblack.Therearealsoacoupleofcouncilhostels nearby, and two houses up towards Parkway are knocked together tomake a home for lost girls. It’s a halfway house, a shelter for teenage femaleswho’vebeenkickedoutoftheirfamilyhome,sometimesbecausetheyarewithchild.Youseethemsittingtogetherinthestreettalking,whiletheirwhey-facedboyfriendswaitnervouslyonthecornerforakiss.

AnotherhouseinthestreetisakindofunofficialreceptioncentreforSouthAmericans.OriginallyitwasforrefugeesfleeingPinochet’sChile,butnowitisfull of all kinds of cheery Latin types, carrying guitars, holding great parties,making great neighbours. They give me another opportunity to practise mySpanish.

There’sacompellingbookcalledTheLondonCountyCouncilBombDamageMaps1939–1945,whichchronicles exactlywhere theLuftwaffe landedadirecthit,but it isn’t hard to work out. There are half-a-dozen blocks of flats at thesouthernendofthestreetinthelow-rise,four-storey,red-brick,post-warsocialhousing style, which correspond exactly to the map. And it isn’t toocontroversialtosaythattheGermansdidusafavour.

Thecombinationofbigprivatehousesandcouncil flats in the same streethasensured that,asgentrificationhas slowlychangedthenatureof theplace,we still have a genuinelymixed communityhere.Noisy familieswithkids onbikes,boysonmopeds,girlsonhormones;working-classfamilies,manyofthemold-schoolCamdenTown,someofthemexoticnewarrivals,interspersedwiththeartyarchetypes.ThatcombinationisoneofthethingsthatmakesLondonsospecial.

Soisseeingthemaninbrown.In among the regimented, stylistically Georgian uniformity of the terrace,

thereisoneodd,high-Victorian,gothic-stylehouse–alldarkbricks,pointyroofandarchedwindows–andarowofsimilarlystyledartists’studiosleadingoffit.ForyearsIsawaslight,bald,elderlyman,alwaysinabrowntweedsuit,walkingtowards the studios every morning – every morning without fail, sometimesclutchingacarrierbag.Wewouldnodashewentby,butIhadnoideawhohewas.

Itwasliterallyadecadeorsobeforethepennydropped,andIrealisedthathe is thechroniclerof theCrescent,maestroFrankAuerbachno less.Oneofourgreatest livingpainters,Frankcamehereaspartof theKindertransportofJewish children fleeing theNazis in the ’30s. He has obsessively painted thestreetswhere he found sanctuary time and time and time again: a lifetime ofchiaroscurolovesongstohissalvationinCamdenTown.

I love seeing Frank going to work every day from my front window, ornoddingtohiminthestreetashewalks,nowslowly,by.AglimpseofFrankisoneofmyfavouritethings.Ihaveneversaidmorethantwowordstotheman,buthe is – tomy eyes –morewelcome andmorewondrous a sight than anyflockofbirdsorprettypastoralscene.HeisAlbertStreet.HeisLondon.

AsIreferredtoinChapterTwo,whenmydadfirstsettledinBurntOakwithhis family, it is saidheapplied thepubtest to see if theWatlingEstatewasa

decent place to live, and it only just passed. He would have had no suchprobleminCamdenTown.Thereweresixboozerswithinatwo-minutestrollofourfrontdoorwhenwefirstmovedin,anddoublethatwithinfive.

Let’s see howmany names I can remember: the Victoria, the Crown andGoose, theSpreadEagle, theSheephaven, thePigandWhistle, theEdinboroCastle, theWindsor Castle (blimey that was rough), the Dublin Castle, theMorningtonArms, theGoodMixer, theMotherBlackCap, theCobden, theCamden Head, the Camden Stores, the Beatrice, the one next to CamdenPalace with the green tiles. There was also the heavy metal pub called thePurpleTurtle,butIneverwentinthere.Theremayhavebeenmore–certainlytherewere loadsmore ifyouventuredover towards themarket.Eightonthatlisthavesincevanished.

The heyday of the famed Camden Town drinkers had been back in the1950s and ’60s when the massive Irish population used the locals as socialcentres and second homes. Some of those rollicking old Irish pubs were stillroaring,albeitfaintly,whenIfirsttookmyplaceatthebar.ThelocalnewspaperstallstillstockedalltheIrishregionaltitles:theWaterfordNews&StarandtheRoscommonHerald.TherewasashoponArlingtonRoad,inthefrontroomofaterraced house next to the Catholic church, which sold Irish records andmusicalinstruments.ThiswasstillIrishtown.

You could hear those bodhráns and penny whistles played in the Stag’sHead,anauthenticAthlonepubovertowardsChalkFarmwherethecraicandthecéilíweredamngood.Arebelsong,apintofGuinnessandaPogueortwomakes for amighty time, and thediddle-I tuneswere reeledoffdeep into thelocked-innight.Ohwhatheadacheswerehad.

TheStag’sHeadandthemusicshopandthepapersaregone,allgone.OnlytheIrishCentreremains, stillgoing inabigoldhouseupbyCamdenSquare,still feeding theelders, still teaching theyoung todance, stillholding literaryevents, stillholdingon.Keepingalive thememoriesof theghostsofpenguinspast.

PenguinIslandisthelocalnameforthepedestrianintersectionoffiveroads,which come together in front of Camden Town Tube station, where thesubterraneangents’ toilets are.Back in theday, thatpedestrianplotwouldbefilledofaSundaymorningwithscoresofeagerIrishfellows,freshoutofmassinOur Lady of Hal round the corner on Arlington Road, all dressed in their

regulationSundaybest–blacksuitsandwhiteshirts.Massingtogether likesomanymonochromeAntarctic birds, thesemen fromTip andTyrone,Meath,Mayo andMonaghanwerewaiting for the 12 o’clock bell to sound.When itdid, theywouldmigrateenmassetothepubs,whichstoodonall fourcornersbefore them, waddling rapidly to the bar like a colony of penguins with aferociousthirst.Lovethosemen.LovethoseproudIrishmen.

Theycalledit‘CamdenTownwheretheroughliedown.’Youwouldstillseetheoldboysbackthen, inthestreetbehindthebingohall, the lonely fellowsliving in thebare cells ofArlingtonHouse, the largestVictorian spike in thecountry.This gauntanddauntinghostelhasbeendoneup, tourists stay therenow,but it cannotescape itsmelancholy.Thiswaswhere somanybig strongfellowssawthemselvesshrinkandwitheroverthelonelyyears.Veinedoffaceandwearyoflimbtheysatoncornerscradlingabottle,oriftheywereflush,satforhours imbibing the shabbywarmthof theGoodMixernextdoor.Suppingpoison,quietly telling tales and singing songsof theold country as their livesdrainedintoCamdenTown.

Then theMixer became the home to a different type of singer. Blur andPulp,OasisandAmy,standingwiththeoldboysbythebar,addingaveneerofauthenticitytoslummingrockers,postmodernironyminglingwithmenofiron.ThoseIrishchapshadcomehereinthe’50stobuildthiscity–manybuiltlives,theirkidsdoingwellanddispersing,buyinghouses,movingon,butsomenevergotbeyond themuddy trenchand themagneticbar stool.CamdenTownwasawashinunshedtears.

OnParkway,which is now almost exclusively chain restaurants and estateagents, the scuzziestof theboozerswas theWindsorCastle.Thiswasaproperroughhousewherethedrinkingmenandwomenslumpedonstainedseats,thesmellofurineoverpowering, thechaosof livesunravelling. It keptnoknownhours,norobeyedanylicensinglaws,andwasagreatplacetogowhendeeplydrunk and in need of an incomprehensible conversation with an inebriatestranger.ButtechnicallynoneoftheIrishladsshouldhavebeenintheWindsorCastle: theDublinCastle, a hundred yards up the road,was their nominatedredoubt.

TheCastlesofCamdenwereawonderfulpieceofsocialhistoryenshrinedinnomenclature.TheWindsorCastle for theEnglish, theDublinCastle for theIrish,theEdinboroCastlefortheScotsandtwo,thePembrokeCastleandtheCaernarvonCastle, for theWelsh.These placeswere established in themid-

nineteenth century when navvies or navigators from all four corners of thekingdomwerecuttingthecanalsandlatertherailwaysthatlaceratethisarea.

So to keep apart these rambunctious and thirsty fellows, and stop thembrawlingandfightingagainsteachotheronaFridaynight,eachnationalityhaditsowncastleandkeep. Justup fromthePembrokeCastle isapubcalled theEngineer,whichshowedthatclassaswellasnationalitywasafactor.Thiswasthepubforthebossesandthesuperiorsort,nosoiledworkclothinginthere.It’sstillposhtoday.

But theWindsorCastlehas gone.Nodoubt it needed a little love, but atsomepoint theyejected the lastof thepissheadsand reopenedas ablandbarcalledNW1.Acenturyofstoriesjettisonedinfavourofapostcode.Thatlastedacoupleof yearsbeforeclosingdownandmorphing intoa fauxFrenchchainrestaurant.Commercetrumpinghistory,moneyovermemories.

The ultimate irony for the Irish pubs of Camden Town was when theBeatriceonCamdenHighRoad, anotherdecidedlyold-schooldrinkinghousewhichstillgavesuccourandsuppingspacetothelastofthelocalIrish,closeditsdoorstobereplacedbyanO’Neill’s.ItwasnowoneofachainoffauxIrishpubscompletewith fakeGaelicroadsigns, tweeCelticnicknacksandnotanactualIrishmaninsight.

Butmyrealsadnesscomesfromthefact‘our’pubhasgone.TheVictoriawasaclassicLondonlocal,burieddeepinthebackstreetsnearourgaff,overlookingtherailway line.A lovelyoldcurvedmahoganybar,agardenat thebackandthesweetestviewtothePostOfficeTowerfromthebenchesoutthefrontonasunny day. Run by an engaging if enjoyably unpredictable landlady, ScottishAlison, themoroseBulgarianbarmanwhocould locate any footballmatch intheknownworldonthesatelliteTVandhis flamboyantlygayand impossiblygood-looking co-worker who attracted admirers from miles away. My step-daughterAliceworkedbehindthejumpforawhileandsodidmanyofthelocalteens. There were rocking lock-ins of a Friday night and chilled afternoonsreadingthepapersandgossipingwiththestaff.Itwastheperfectpub.

SomehowtheVictoriamanagedtominglealltheusuallydisparateelementsof our local community. The bookish sorts and the hardened drinkers, thepunkyposeurs,thePolishbuilders,theskinnykidsfromthefashionmagazines;KateMossandhermobhadpartiesthere,alongsidethepostmenfromthelocalsortingoffice.Whenacrackdenopenedinanemptycouncilflatovertheroad,adelegationfromtheVictoriamadesureitclosedagainprettyquickly.

Asafamilywehadourbigmomentsthere,birthdaysandcelebrations,andwhenmymumdiedjustuptheroadatUCHherwakewasheldintheVictoria.The remainingmembers of the old Elms clan gathered at that venerable bar;unclesfromtheBushandtheGrove;peopleIhadn’tseenforagesandassumedlost in Acton; ageing aunties brought up from the coast. I held my brotherReggie’shandinthatpubandweptquietly.Thenitclosed.

There’samomentineveryever-changingLondonmicro-communitywhenitisinbalance.Whenthenewcomersandtheoldtimers,theestatedwellersandthehouseowners,thehipsters,theofficeworkers,thebuildersandthebrokers,theeasternEuropeans,theAfricansandthelesbianscanallstandsidebysideatthebar.

I ventured out to Homerton a while back and wandered into a vast oldVictorianginpalace,whichhadclearlybeentakenoverbypiercedandbeardedtypes.Thiswas theabsolute front lineofHackneygentrification,and I fearedfortheworst.ButoverinonecornerweretheJamaicanladsplayingdominoes,therewasagroupoflocalmotherschatteringoverwhitewine;acoupleofwideboyswereplayingpoolandthebeardypeoplewereontheirlaptops.Thereweresignsupforboththeyogaclassesandthedartsleague.Iorderedapintandsatdownandmarvelledat thescene. Iwantedtohugthatpub,because itwas inbalance. Itwas the newLondon and the old London rubbing along. Itwas aparagon, and I wanted it to stay like this forever. I also wanted theVictoriaback.

Itclosed.ManyofthoseCamdenTownpubsclosedbecausenotenoughofthelocalcommunityusedthem,andcriticallybecausetheywereworthsomuchmoreasrealestatethanasdrinkinghouses.Ourareahaschanged.Muchslowerthanmost,muchlessthansome,butitcreptoffwhenweweren’tlooking.Thepeoplebuyingthosehousesnowarenotreallythetypestowanderintoapublichouse for a pint.They live their lives privately, have their children educatedprivately: they are international, internal; you rarely see them, living behindtheirimmaculatelykeptfacadesorintheirburlycars,theirprovisionsdelivered,theirproclivitiesunknown.

The newcomers are decent people, I’m sure. They’re successful people,certainly: smart gay couples with small neat dogs, French families with smallneat children,Americans, people in finance, people in theCotswolds for the

weekend,Tuscanyforthesummer.Notastuffedbuffalobetweenthem.CamdenTownisstilladmirablyscruffy,butitispublicsqualormaskingprivatewealth.

Everyone who owns a house in my street now is a millionaire more thanonce,andanyonewhobuysonehasthatkindofcashtospend,andthenplentymore todo itup to theirexacting standards.Butwhatdoes thatmean?Whathas this incredibleKlondikeofbricksandmortaractuallymeant?Well, ithastheoretically enriched a generation of Londoners beyond anything we couldhaveimagined.

Ifyouwereluckyenough,orsavvyenough,tohaveboughtahouseoraflatininnerLondonatanypointfromthe1970stotheearlytwenty-firstcentury,you have been catapulted across the economic classes. But if you didn’t, orcouldn’t,yougotleftontheothersideoftheravine,withallthebridgesburned.Andifyousellupandleaveforaperiod,youain’tnevercomingback.Familiessplit,communitiesfractured,generationsdivided.

AndwhilewewereallsecretlyconsultingZoopla,revellingineveryhundredgrandonthepricetag,boastingatdinnerparties,asifthepreposterouspropertyinflationwere somegreat skillwehadacquired,noone thought to askwhereourkidswouldlive.It’saquestionIcan’tbegintoanswer.

Likemost, I am still baffled bywhathashappened, still don’t really knowhowwegothereandwhobuysalltheseplaces.WhohasthreemillionpoundsforaformerflophouseinCamdenTown,oramillion-and-a-halfforarailwaycottageinKilburn,orhalf-a-millionforaone-bedroomflatinBrixtonwherenocatcouldeverbeswung?Don’tevenaskhowmuchahouseinNottingHillwillsetyouback.Iguessitisself-perpetuating:yousell,youbuy;amoney-go-round.Don’tknowwhereitwillend.

Idoknowthatsellingshinynewapartmentsinblandnewtowerstoforeigninvestorswhohaveno intentionof livingthereorevenrentingthemout isascandalofourage.IcalledupaboutaflatinanewdevelopmentinKing’sCrossonce, when we were having one of our periodical ‘maybe we should move’moments.The girl in the estate agents askedmewhy Iwas interested in theproperty.IsaidIwantedtolivethere;sheanswered‘Oh,that’sunusual.’

I also spoke toapropertydeveloperabout theapartmentsgoinguparoundBatterseaPowerStation.Thatbuildingisanabsoluteiconofourcity,asharedsymbolofoursmokypast,yetthoseapartmentshadbeenpromotedprimarilytothe Malaysian market as investments. When I questioned why they were sospectacularly expensive that no ordinary Londonerwould ever live there, the

marketing man said, sniffily, ‘You cannot expect ordinary people to live inprimecentralLondon.’

I’m sorry,butwhendidBattersea, fuckingBattersea (nooffenceBattersea)SWbloody11becomeMayfair?AndwhereareordinaryLondonerssupposedtolive?Reading?

Ithinkwe’reallangry.Andallthistheoreticalmoneywe’resittingonandlivinginonlygetsrealisedifwemoveout.Idon’twanttomoveout.Butwherewillmykids,AlfieandMaude,bothofthemborninthishouse,raisedinthisstreet, schooled in theseways, deep in this community, wherewill they live?Theydon’twanttomoveouteither.IspoketoayoungLondonertheotherdaywhosaidtheyhadbeenpricedouttothefareastofthecity.TheywerelivinginCanvey Island. Is thatwheremy proudCamdenTown kids will be forced tosettle?

Irememberaconversationwithmyyoungsterswhenweweretalkingabouttheirheritage.Tocallthemmixedisanunderstatement:theyareamagnificentagglomerationofEnglish and Irish, Jewish,RomanyandnowChinese, just toinclude thebitsweknowabout. Itwasmy littlestoneMaudewhosaid tome‘What does thatmake us dad?’ I replied, ‘Itmakes youLondoners.’And theywouldratherliketostaythatway.

Raisingchildrenherehasbeenatreatandatest.Wespentmanyhoursamongthe swings and roustabouts of the Regent’s Park when they were little, luckyindeedforsuchverdantlargesseonourdoorstep.Wetookthemtothezoo,andwhenwedidn’twanttopay, just stoodonthemoundintheparkandpeekedover the fence. We visited the great museums on rainy days, dragged themreluctantlytogalleries(allkidsarephilistines,buttheyloveartnow),wenttothe pictures on Parkway and to the theatre at the Tricycle in Kilburn everySaturdaymorning.

ButthenwealsohadCamdenLockjustuptheroad,wherethewaftofskunkandthewhisperedsongofthedealersisaconstantbackdroptoeverystroll.Weoncewalkedpastajunkieshootingupinhisgroininaphoneboxandhadtoexplain that. A lecture on the politics of the far right was delivered when askinheadwashurlingracistabuseatsomeSomalikids.

They learned to scan the horizon, butAlfie gotmugged a couple of timeswhenhewas inhis early teens.Hewas lucky,he lostonlyaphone, apairof

footballbootsand some innocence,buthegaineda trancheofpriceless streetwisdomalongtheway.Othersofcoursearenotsofortunate.OnthedayIwritethis,twoboyswerestabbedtodeathjustuptheroadinKentishTown,oneofthemthesecondmemberofhisfamilytodiebytheblade.

Learningtonavigatethroughthebooby-trappedmazeofurbanlifeisnobadthing. Nor is growing up in a place where one of your neighbours is anextravaganttransvestite,whoappearsincabaretatthegaypubroundthecorner(theBlackCap,nowtragicallygone)andanotherisAlanBennett.Itisaboonwhen your fellow schoolmates speak a fabulous forty-eight languages betweenthem,andaGodsendwhenyourpeerscelebrateeveryknownreligiousfestivalandtheirkitchentablesareladenwiththegoodiesoftheworld.SomelivedinHampsteadmansions,othersintowerblockswithbrokenlifts.

ItisveryCamdenTowntogotoschoolwiththeprogenyofpoliticiansandplumbers, musicians and physicians, caretakers and risk-takers, painters, andpainters and decorators. My son played football on the windswept, artificialpitchesatMarketRoad,wherethealways-shiveringairturnedbluewithcurses,but also elegant cricket at dreamyLord’s.Mydaughter did sweaty kickboxingunder the railway arches and sang in a choir at theRoyalAlbertHall. TheybothforgedIDtogetintoKoko.

One of themost memorable days in their early education came when wetook them one Saturday to a children’s theatre production involving flouncythespiansandflaccidpuppets.ItwasinatemporarysiteoverbythosefootballpitchesinIslingtoninaformerindustrialwarehouse.Therewereotherpop-upevents going on in the complex, including, we discovered later, the Londonfetishconvention.Sowhenafirealarmwentoffhalfwaythroughtheshow,twogroupswere evacuated into the same courtyard: herewere familieswith smallchildren,andhere,too,wereS&Mtypesinleatherchaps,spikydogcollarsandrubberbasques,allminglingtogether.Somestartedrecognisingeachotherfromtheschoolplaygroundor theworkplace,andstruckupconversations, thekidsblithelyranaround,clearlyunconcernedbyPrinceAlbertsandpeep-holebras.Iwasjustdisappointedwhentheall-clearsoundedandwehadtogobacktothebloodypuppets.Nobodycomplained.

Ialsomade suremymobgot toknowtheir localhistory. I’msure theygotbored rottenwhen I dragged them round toRoyalCollege Street to stand infrontof thePoet’sHouse,while I recited theastonishing taleofVerlaineandRimbaud. I actually went all theway toHarar in Ethiopia to see a Rimbaud

housebeforeIevenknewtherewasoneroundthecornerinCamdenTown.Thiswaswherethetwostar-crossed,absinthe-soakedFrenchlovers,inexile

fortheirhomosexualsins,rentedroomsandcametoblowsafteraslapacrosstheface with a wet fish bought in Pratt Street Market. Later, Verlaine shot hisyoungpunk-poetloverandtheysplitforever.ButnotbeforethewildGallicboygeniuswrote ‘ASeason InHell’,perhaps themostpowerful invocationof thecompelling horrors of life in nineteenth-century Smoke Town. Maude isstudyingRimbaudasIwrite.

Afewyardsawayfromwherethepoetslivedandlovedandfoughtoverfishis the old St Pancrasworkhouse.A grimbut always sobering reminder of ourownLondonrootsviaFreddieandElizaElms,borninthestricturesofVictorianpenury.OveronBayhamStreet, inahousenowblownaway, livedtheyoungCharlie Dickens, a boy boot-black, destined to become the greatest everchroniclerofthiscityweco-habit.Hewalkedthesestreets.MykidssharethisthickCamdenTownair, this very space,with theboywhowantedmore andthemanwhogaveusmorethananyother.ThisisDickenstown.

Up at the Roundhouse, I pointed out where Pink Floyd held their firstpsychedelichappenings,andwheretheirvanranoveragiantsix-footjellymadefor the occasion. I told them, too, of the catacombs beneath our feet, whichstretch all the way to Euston. I was taken down there once, into a beautifulherringbone underworld of Victorian ingenuity and engineering wheresubterraneanhorsesoncelived;afabulouslostcitybeneaththecity.

Ialsopointedout theRehearsalRehearsals studiowhere themightyClashfirsthonedtheir soundandcultivated their look.Splattering Jack theDripperswirlsontheircombatfatigues;living,sothemythologygoes,ontheflourandwater theyused to fly-post thearea,withpostersannouncing theirclamorous,glamorousarrival.PaulSimenonfellofftheroofoftheRoundhousesneakinginto see Patti Smith, who then briefly became his paramour.We all saw PattiSmith at the Roundhouse, remembering that she is evenmore obsessed withRimbaudthanIamandshe,too,madetheshortpilgrimagetothePoet’sHouse.

Rock’n’roll is part of the pavement; you step over it, bump into it. Oneevening,walkingbackfromtheshops,Igotrunoverbyit.LeeThompsonfromMadnessbackedhiscarovermyfeettryingtoparkoutsidetheDublinCastle,theninvitedustoasecretgigtocommemoratetheirfirsteverappearanceatthepubin1979.Wewerestillskankinghourslaterduringalock-inattheGoose.Oh what a night. Oftentimes we would see Mitch Winehouse’s bee-hived

daughterwalkingtothepub.Shewouldsmileatusandsayhello.Herfirsteverradioappearancehadbeenonmy show.Thenoneday, shewould smileatusandsayhellonomore:adarkdayintheTown.

Asmykidsgrew,sotheytookallthisin,tookitforgranted,knewtheylivedina placewhere people from all around theworld travelled to.When they toldothers that they came fromCamdenTownyou could see the sparkle in theireyes. Yet like everyone who lives here they were driven mad by it too. Thetawdrystalls,thetattytat,theincessantinsanityasyouwalkoutofthestation,the crowds, the crap buskers, the bloody jugglers, the standing gawpingstragglers in dreadful dreadlocks, the bemused families, the school parties, theout-of-townersandhander-outers,thechuggersandthechancers.Pleasegetoutofmyway;Iamtryingtogethome:ILIVEHERE;I’MFROMHERE.

My kids have lived all their lives in this vagabond barrio, used it as aspringboard, a starting point for their own nascent Londons. But they don’toftengooutatnighthere;it’stootouristy,toopricey,toomainstream.CamdenTownwasabigpartofthepunkstoryinthe1970s–itwasfunkyandjazzyinthe’80sandtheepicentreofBritpopinthe’90s,buttoday?Well,touristsstilllikeit.

You can still see examples of every teen trouser tribe, from skins to goths,steampunks to mods; they all take part in the brilliant parade, the livingmuseum of British street style, a mobile Madame Tussauds with mohicans.Therearestillclubsandbarsandbands,butthebuzzisn’there,theculturalaxishasshifted:firsteast,toShoreditch,Hoxton;thensouth,toBrixton,Peckham.Thegrimeandtheafrobeats,andthejazznotjazz;themoversandshakershavemovedon,leavingrockingCamdenTownasachimera.ThatjustleavesSoho.AndyoucanneverreallyleaveSoho.

TherecomesapointintheLondonjourneywhenyouclaimSohoasyourown.Thenamecomesfromanancienthuntingcry,andithasremainedtheplacetogo on the hunt. I recall walking what cab drivers call the ‘dirty dozen’, thetwisting routeof twelve turns fromRegentStreet to theCharingCrossRoad,withAlfwhenhewasmaybetwelveorthirteenyearsold,andhewastakingitall in. Eyes darting, ears primed, imbibing and absorbing, and as we strolleddownWardourStreethesaidtome,‘Ireallylikeithere,Dad.Itfeelsspecial.’

Ismiledwithprideandgavealittlespeechabouthowitisspecial,howthesefew streets making up the un-square mile represent the soul of our city, ourcollectivecreativeurge,ourhedonismandourhumanism,our shared senseofurbanexaltation.

All that is good and all that is splendidly bad in our cumulative Londonexperiencehas a placehere among thesemultistoried buildings and alleywayscrammedwithanecdotes:WilliamBlakeincubatingvisions;DeQuincyeatingopium;DylanThomasdrinkingwhiskey;JohnSnownotdrinkingthecholericwater;KarlMarxstartingcommunism;JohnLogieBairdstartingtelevision.Therevolution undoubtedly will be televised, probably on pay-per-view; and thepost-productionwilltakeplaceonPolandStreet.

Sohosetthebeat.Scoresofangsty,angularkidsinskinnyjeansstartedthewholeteencaperinthebasementofanOldComptonStreetcoffeebar.ThisiswheretheBritishpopscenefirstpercolatedupamidtheespressomachines,andAdamFaith,artfuldodgerextraordinairefromEastActonandmyfavourite-everfictionalcharacter,wasinvented.

It all happened here: naked ladies in the Windmill; Free French in theMinster;zootsuitsinArcherStreet;TubbyHayesintrouble;ZiggyStardustinTridentStudios.Everyturnhasataletotell,andasyougrowintothesestreetssoyouabsorbtheirpatternandtheirpatina.

I then told Alfie the dodgy mnemonic I’d been taught by a London cabdriver to remember the order of the grid: ‘Good ForDirtyWomen’ –Greek,Frith,Dean,Wardour. Idon’t thinkhehadacluewhat Iwas talkingabout. Ihopenotanyway.

TurningfromWardourintoOldCompton,bestexperiencedastwilightfirsttouches the sky, I still feel thatpulsing frissonof all possibilities.The lookofwonderonayoungman’sface,perhapsakiddowntotownforthefirsttime–maybehe’sgay,maybenot,whoknows,whocares?Nobodydoesandthatisthewonderofthisplace.

Thebig secretSohokeeps foryou is thatyoucanbecomeandbewhoeveryou sodesire.ThisLondon is anon-judgemental jungle, this ancientparish apetridishofallpersonas.YoucancometoSohotofindyourselforloseyourself,youcaninventandreinvent,dressup,playup,getpissed,pisspeopleoffthenpissoffagain.Youcangetondown,moveonup,honeyourbackstory,deviseyourdestiny.Noquestionsasked;noexcusesnecessary.Sohoinvitesyoutothe

party,fancydressoptional.Oratleast,itdid.MyfirstSohoexcursionswerebackintheoh-so-seedy’70s.Thenitwasall

Budgiejacketwideboysinspunkshops,bikerjacketknow-it-allsinrecordshopsand runners with round tins of film stock. The market was still shouting itswares,andthegirlswerecertainlyflauntingtheirs.TheDillywastherent-boymeat-rack, skinny lads leaning against the railings, pouting seductively, theirdancingbagsbytheirside.

Carnaby Street was mods and skinheads kicking off, Wardour Street wasrockers in the Ship before recording in heavy metal alley, Greek Street was‘retired’ actresses fallen on hard times. Meard Street was brothels, Walker’sCourtwasclippers,DeanStreetwasfunkyknittingandtwelve-inchers.Thiswasa scrappy, scruffy, butneon-bright tenderloinwith ‘models’ availableup everystairway, ‘dancers’ ineverycabaretandchancers ineveryboozer:sex,sex,sex;sell,sell,sell.

Therewerepeepshowsandtableaus,dirtybookshops,artybookshops,noshbars,acoupleofposhbars,mini-cabkioskssellingabitofgearandtailorssellinggearofadifferentkind.YoucouldfindtheItaliandeli,theFrenchchurch,theAlgerian coffee shop, the Chinese herbalist, the Swiss restaurant, the ThaimassageandtheGreekbarber.FrenchandGreekwerealsoadvertisedineveryphonebox.

Therewas theDurex shop inWardourStreet, theVintageMagazineShoponBrewerStreet,andBorovick’s for theneedlemerchantsonBerwickStreet.And then there were the clubs: strip clubs, drinking clubs, nightclubs,gentleman’sclubs,hostessclubs,gamblingclubs,gayclubs, trannyclubs,after-hours clubs, ‘Scandinavian’ cinema clubs, 50p membership to get round thelicensinglawclubs.Butabsolutelynoswankymembers’clubswhatsoever.

Therewere rumours of blokeswith clubs ormaybe baseball bats or coshesunderthecounter,asenseofvillainyunseen.Butprovidingyoudidn’tpushit,youwouldn’t know.Up in theMaltese social club on FrithStreet therewerestillmenalivewhocouldclaimtoknowwhatreallyhappenedtoboxerFreddieMills,founddeadinhismotorinthealleywaybehindtheAstoria.OrtellyoutheyhadseenReggieandRonniewithGeorgeRaftdowninChinatownbeforetheChinesecame,orevenJackSpotandAlbertDimesbladetobladeoutsidetheBarItalia.ThereisstillanunopenedmagnumofchampagnebehindthebaratRonnie’s,givenbyDimestoRonnieScotthimself,fromwhenthe‘oldplace’onGerrardStreet firstopenedin1959,supposedlytobedrunkwhentheclub

firstturnsaprofit.Soho is smothered in the folklore of glam gangsterism, but it’s all a front.

Onceyou’ve fallen in love,accepted itsmuckyadvances,given into itsgiddyembrace, Soho feels like the safest place on earth; thrilling, heady, scary butsafe,warm,cosseting,evenonthedarkestnight.Straightawayitfeltlikehome.Itwasours.

Technically Soho in the late ’70swas still the domain of the last lot, theblack-and-white, gin-and-tonic generation, as captured byDan Farson. TherewasGeorgeMellyandFrancisBacon,PeterO’TooleandJeffreyBernard,MurielBelcher and Molly Parkin, John Deakin and Lucian Freud, falling out ofNorman’sandupthedirtystairsintothebiliousgreenhelloftheColony,thenoutagain into thegutter.Geniusesandgiantsof art andactingand swearing,foulofmouth,brilliantofmindandopenofheart.IftheyfeltforamomentthatyouwereaSohosort,youwouldbeinvitedintotheirgrubby,glamorousworldand called every foul name imaginable. They had a bitter but genuinegenerosity.

AsaSohostriplingIwaspropositionedbyGeorgeMellyandMollyParkinon the same night: ‘Do you swing, darling?’ said Molly. I was given anastonishingadhocactinglessonbyPeterO’Toole,playingJeffreyBernard,andafewwritinglessonsbyJeffreyhimself.Bernard,bythisstage,bereftofoneofhislegsandalmostallhischarm,wouldinsultmeonaregularbasis,buttookagenuine interest inmywork.He gaveme occasional tips and frequent quips.One morning, drunk rotten already at 11 a.m., I chided him gently on hissozzledconditionat suchanearlyhourandhe said, ‘Elmsyoucunt,youmustunderstandInowleadanocturnalexistenceentirelybyday.’Pissedandpassedout by 5 p.m., it was occasionally my job to help push him back home in awheelchair to his council flat in a tower block on Berwick Street. JeffreyBernardwasunwell.ButSohowasdoingjustfine.

Nightafternightwe’dgo‘down,downpasttheTalkoftheTown’.MeetfirstintheSpiceofLife,ortheShip,ortheBluePosts,thenofftoLeBeatRouteortheKiltorStMoritzortheWagoranyoneofthescoresandscoresofnocturnalhaunts,manyofwhichcameandwentbytheweek.ButSohowasmuchmorethanjustadiscoplayground.Itwasoursharedground,ourcommonlandinthisvast,disparatecity.Itwaswherewecametogetherinmorewaysthanone.

Very few tourists entered the redoubt; there wasn’t much for them. Sohoback thenwas still secretive, furtive, hidden away, revealing its pleasures and

treasuresonlytothosewhoknewwhichalleywaytogoup,whichdoortoknockon,which stairs todescend,whichname todrop.LotsofLondoners tooweretooscaredortoostraighttogotoSoho,putoffbythequeersandthevillainsand the poseurs and the funny foreign-sounding stuff. Choosing to hang outtherewas like abadgeof cosmopolitanpride, a statementof urban intent.SoSohocontainedaself-selecting,self-promoting,self-satisfiedcliqueofgadaboutsandmisfits,andIfittedinperfectly.

Bythetimethe ’80shadreallykicked in, itwasanewgenerationcreatingtheSoho stories. JohnPearse andMarkPowellwere thenew tailors in town,dapper men who knew exactly which side you dressed. (Mark, who lives inWardour Street, once told me that he hadn’t set foot outside Soho for overthreemonths.)ChrisSullivanopenedtheWag;mymatefromthebathsOllieO’Donnell,LeBeatRoute.BoyGeorgehadaclothes shop inFoubert’sPlace;Black Market records and Sounds of the Universe were the cool places toprocure tunes. Alistair Little opened his restaurant, Fred opened Fred’s, PamHoggandPhilDirtboxandBernieKatz andPhilipSallonanda legionofmyfellownightclubcompatriotsopeneddoorsandbegantoputtheirstamponthestreets – or rather the dens – below and above them. Then they openedGroucho’s.

Itwasthefirstanditisstillthebest,butthereisnodoubtitwasalsothesymbolofthechangingfaceandfacesofSoho.Aclub,whichdespitetheoriginsofitsname, youmight actuallywant to join,Groucho’s premiered inMay 1985. Itwas the very centre of the decade and a pivotal point indeed. Formed bymembers of the media fraternity; publishers and writers, filmmakers andtroublemakers,fedupwithstuffyoldmale-dominatedmembers’clubswiththeirdress codes and arcane rules.The aimwas to create a placewhere the brightyoung things and the right old things could combine business with pleasure,whichisalwaysthebestcombination.Iwastheretheday itopenedandmostdaysfortherestofthe1980s.

TheGrouchoClub,housedinwhathadbeenGennaro’slong-closedItalianrestaurant,wasaportentofthenewlyemergingSoho:slicker,hipper,sharper–moreexclusive,moreexpensive,butjustasjoyouslydodgy.Foradecadeortwoitwasriotously,almostindustriallygoodfun.Alloftheexcessandexuberanceoftheagewasplayedouthere,andalistoftheplayersisprettyexhausting.

StephenFryandNoelFielding,JulieBurchillandZadieSmith,KeithAllenandLilyAllen,TraceyEminandDamienHirst, JohnLloydandEmmaFreud,Terry Pratchett andMelvynBragg,Alex James andRobbieWilliams,RachelWeissandRichardBacon...YBAsandBritpoppers,movieandmediamoguls,models,editors, luvvies,druggiesandstillenoughSohoflotsamtofeelsuitablybohemian.Longlunchesbecomingendlessnights,becomingblearymorningsinthe snooker room were legion and legendary, and tales of good times andappallingbehaviourrightlycelebrated.

MyownsmallbutnotedcontributiontoGroucho’s lorecameonThursday26February1987.Icanbesureoftheprecisedate,becausethatwaswhenweawoke to the announcement that two of London’s great old football clubs,Queens Park Rangers and Fulham FC, were about to merge and become aFrankenstein’smonsterofateamcalledFulhamParkRangers.

ThiswasessentiallyalandgrabbyapropertycompanyanxioustogettheirhandsonCravenCottage,Fulham’s lovelyriversiderealestate.(QPR’sWhiteCity ground, where this bastard hybrid would play, was still a long way fromgentrification.) This foul and unnatural coupling was presented as a faitaccompli: the teammy father lovedand I love in turnwas about tovanish. IreceivedanurgentearlymorningphonecallfrommyfastFulhamfriend,SpikeDenton,sayingwemustmeetattheclubtodosomethingaboutit.

We settled in the sofa in front of the old bar at just after 11 a.m. andeffectivelysatthereforsomethinglikesixteenhoursstraight,plotting.Itwasn’tjustourstaminawhichimpressed–epicsessionsinDeanStreetwerenotexactlyunusual–itwastheresultingbarbill.Foryearsthisrecordofourimbibingwaspinned up on the wall of the manager Liam Carson’s office as an exemplar.Betweenusweconsumedseventy-eightbottlesofBecks,abottleofchampagneand a club sandwich. We argue to this day about which one of us had thesandwich.

Butwhatisunarguableisthatitworked.Themergerwascalledoffandourindividual teams livedontodisappointus to thisday.Quitehowwesurvivedthe ordeal I’m not sure. We had pledged that Fulham Park Rangers wouldhappen‘overourdeadbodies’andseventy-ninebottleslateritverynearlycametopass.Twodays later, stillhungoverbeyondimagining,webothsattogetheronthepitchatLoftusRoadduringagameaspartofademonstration,withnobeerwhatsoever.

Thehedonismofthe1980sand’90sinSohowassomethingtobehold,andit

wassometimestoughjustholdingon.Buttherewasalsoapalpable,sometimesvisceral senseofcollectivecreativity,anexhaustingbutexhilaratingvortexofprojects. Magazines, movies and art, clubs, music and fashion, drinking andsnortingandtalkingandblaggingandbraggingandjustdoingwhatcityfolkdowhen you let them loose in the playground. It was corny old cool Britanniabeing born, butSohowas so far from cool as to be scalding, no place for theglacial, but it certainly felt like our place. It felt like this was ourneighbourhood, like we owned those streets. But of course we didn’t: PaulRaymonddid.

The success of theGrouchoClub in attracting the good, the bad and theprettyhadaknock-oneffect.Otherclubsopened,mostnotablySohoHouseinanoldknockingshoponOldComptonStreet.AlwaysknowninGroucho’sas‘theotherplace’,itwasdestinedtobecomeatwenty-firstcenturyinternationalempire, cashing in on the realisation that plenty of people want to feel likethey’re in with the in crowd and are prepared to pay handsomely for theprivilegeofjoiningtheparty.

Butitwasn’tjusttherashofprivatemembers’clubsspringingup,itwastherestaurantsandthebarsandtheboutiques,theswankyofficesandthehiphotelsreplacing thepeep shows and theclip joints, the subterraneannightclubs andthegrumpy,second-handrecordshops.ItwasSohogettingcleanedup.Sexwasgoing out of fashion – or rather on to the internet – and seedy was beingreplacedby greedy as rents rose and rose.Sohohadalwaysbeenaboutdesire,butnowitbecamedesirable.

The gay colonisation and standardisation of Old Compton Street wasanotherfactor.Ofcoursethishadalwaysbeenaqueerquarter,anobody-gives-a-fuck-who-you-fuck quarter, but suddenly it was codified; lines were drawn,flagsflown,neatmenwithfacialhairspendingtheircosy,rosypoundstomakeoldSohointoafacsimileofNewYork’sWestVillage.

Soho isn’tavillage; it’sanAlamo,a fortressunder siege fromthe forcesofconformity and all the better for it. But we began to let the defences down,invite in visitors, lure the tourists, the curious and the spurious, began to seeSohomorphintoCoventGarden.

Tomymindtherehadalwaysbeenanimplicitpact.Oncethefruitandvegwentandthefrou-froutouristtatarrived,CoventGardenwasforthem,butthatwas OK, because Soho was for us. Covent Garden was big-name brands andcommercialisation, people gawping and looking lost, sitting outside eating

overpricedfoodandbuyingcandles;Sohowasnot.Sohowasaplaceforthoseintheknow,whereoutsiderswereontheinside,wheretheinvertswereinchargeandLondonersruled.Itwasours.Butofcourseitwasn’t:itwasPaulRaymond’s.

The real issue is real estate. Paul Raymondmade his many fortunes fromsmut and invested it in land to the pointwhere he owned nearly half of theproperties in theSoho salient.Thenwhen it tippedover from seedy red-lightdistrict to central boutique location, his heirs set about maximising theirportfolioorwhateveritisbusiness-typepeopledo.

Sotheplacechangesevenmore.Thehardwarestoresandthehard-onshopsgetreplacedbysomethingaltogetherswisher,andthechainsattachthemselvesto every available lease. The ragged fruit and veg market gets trimmed andtamed,andtheancientmarketinfreshfleshvanishes.

Open,invitingglassfrontagestaketheplaceofsecretivedoorwaysandgaudyneon. International brands stake their place and suburban souls visit their‘clubs’.ProvincialcoachpartiesdroppedoffatmusicalsonShaftesburyAvenueturnthecornertominglewiththenicegaymen,whiletouristsandmanipulablemillennialsstandneatly inlineoutsidethelatest,no-bookingrestaurantravedabout on TripAdvisor. Suddenly, Soho, shorn of its always cosmetic badreputationanditsmessyexcesses,isforeverybody.ButisitstillSoho?

Wecan’treallyblametheRaymondsandtheotherpropertypeopleforthis.They’ve just ridden thewave.Wecan’tblameanybodybutourselves,becausethis contemporary tenderloin is a reflection of us. London gets the Soho itdeserves.Ifthisisreallyoursoul,thenitiswewhohavechanged.

All London now is more open, easy going and cosmopolitan, a liberalredoubt,sothereislessneedforadesignatedbohemianenclaveasanantidoteto little England’s oppressive rigidity. This is a more bourgeois, materialistic,conformist, corporate city, so we patronise the poxy coffee shops and theidentikiteaterieswiththeirfranchisemenus,webuyintothatlifestylemagazineboutiquebuzz.Thisisamoreordered,top-down,safeandpredictabletown,sowe don’t want rancid dumps full of dangerous artists, buccaneering one-nightentrepreneursorrip-offclipjointswithswaggeringgangsters,don’treallyfancybarrowboysorworkinggirlswithourfinediningandourprimeretail.WewantSohotobenice,likeus.

There aremore tourists and visitors then ever and they want to visit themythologically edgy red-light district they’ve read about in reviews. But toaccommodate them, the edge has been blunted, the sleaze has been all but

eradicated, andeven themyth is receding. It’s a red-lightdistrictwithno redlights, and the disturbing absence of the smell of semen andParazone,whichonce leaked from every neon bright alleyway. Sex has become a digitaltransaction,soyouwankoverakeyboard,buyyourdildoonlineandarrangeanassignationthroughanescortagencyorTinderorGrindrratherthanvisitaW1sexshoporadodgynightclubtomeetsomeoneforpotentialhow’s-your-father.

Sohotoday,withitsalfrescodiningandbusypavementcafés,itsdesignerbarswith muted lights and wafting music, its Michelin-starred restaurants andelegant minimalist boutiques, chocolatiers, patisseries and galleries, discreethotelsandflashsommeliers,hasbecomepositivelyParisian.Truthbetold,I’venevermuchlikedParis.

Itiseasytogetalittlemaudlinaboutourwoundedsoul.Easytounderstandwhythereissuchavociferous ‘SaveSoho’campaignandacollectiveyearningforlostguilt.ItiseasytoechothewordsofmymumonherUCHdeathbedandlament:‘ThisisnolongermySoho.’Andforthemostpart,itisn’t.

My Soho, like my London, like all our Londons, is slip-sliding away. ButthenIgothereandsomethingremarkablehappens.UsingthattrickwhichonlyLondon can pull off, it transforms itself. If I am in the right mood, and theneighbourhoodisintherightmood,suddenlySohohasn’tchangedatall.Morethananywhereelseinthiscity,thesestreets,repletewithsomanyapparitions,crawlingwithsomanycollectivememories,canstillbecometheplaceyoulongforittobe.Itcanstillbeasitwasandasitissimultaneously;itcanstillbeyourSoho,providingyousquintalittleandwantalot.

ItusuallyhappensonaFriday.Acoupleof timesamonth,earlyafternoonbefore the bridge and tunnel pour in for a night out, but when there’s a fairchancethatafewofthebodswillbeabout.

Ihavearoutethattakesintheremainingrecordshops,especiallythe‘secret’one upstairs onD’Arblay Street, where there will invariably be an oldmusichead or two chewing the fatwith JC.TheBlue Posts onBerwickStreet, theFrenchandNorman’sareboundtoprofferadisreputableacquaintanceorthree,maybeaSullivanoraSuggswithhismum.ImighthaveamoochforgarmswithMarkPowellorthePeckhamRyeboys,seeifanyoftheSouthLondonmobareup.

Then check theBar Italia and take a coffee,maybe a cakewithChristos,

watchthewaves,takethepulse,beforefinallygoingintoGroucho’stositatthebar and seewho occurs.Usually I’m back home before the offices have eventurnedout.Butoccasionally–thankfullyonlyveryoccasionally–theoldSohovoodookicksin,andIgetkidnappedbythestreets.

Thentheclockshavestopped,allbetsareoff;alloptionsareavailable.Thenightstartstoshineandthemischiefstartstooccur.Sohoisinitspompwhenyouare,itrespondstoyourdesires,repaysyourinvestment.Sohoissopreciousbecause, like gin, it is London distilled and concentrated, intoxicating,addictive,itisessenceofus.

Itmaybecomejazz, inwhichcaseIanShawwillprobablybeinvolved,andyouhad better call your insurers. It could be art, an opening or a happening,where Philip Sallon will probably arrive wearing a wedding dress and apoliceman’shelmet,ashedidwhenIfirstsawhiminSohowhenIwassixteen.Forsomeit’stheatre,butmorelikelyformeit’sfilm,perhapsashowinginoneofthose littlepreviewtheatreswithwarmredwineandnuts followedbydeepdrunkendebatewithanactorwithafauxcockneyaccent,adirectororacriticcalledSolomons.

Itmayjustbethatyoufindyourselfinverygood,verybadcompany;terrific,terrible,terrifyingcompanywholeadyouastray,perhapseventoPeckham.Getyour coat. Or else you barely move at all and the parade comes to you; aconveyor belt of fellow travellers, faces old andnew, butmost likely old, likeme.LikemySoho.LikemyLondon.

Oldlikeme.IknowIamnowchasingshadows,knowthiswondrouswarrenisnottheshameful,disgraceful,lustrous,lustfulplaceitoncewas,butthennoramI,thoughjustoccasionallywehaveagotogether.Andwhenwedoitfeelslikecominghome.

Thisismyhometown.Myhome,mytown.

Postscript

Londonplaysthelonggame.Just before I embarked upon this book, my wife bought me a birthday

present.Itisahistoryofthecityofmyobsession,calledOldandNewLondonbyoneWalterThornbury.Writtenin1872andpublishedinsixlarge,handsome,butdauntinglydenseandvoluminousvolumes.Iopenedthefirstofthousandsofpages of closely packed Victorian type and almost stopped in my tracks. Itbegins:

‘WritingthehistoryofavastcitylikeLondonislikewritingahistoryoftheocean–theareaissovast,itsinhabitantsaresomultifarious,thetreasuresthatlieinitsdepthssocountless.Whataspectofthegreatchameleoncityshalloneselect?...Perpetuallyrenewingandtoallintentsinexhaustible...OldLondonispassingawayevenaswedipourpenintheink.’

That’sprettymuchwhatIwasgoingtosay.Exceptforthebitabouttheink.Thosewords,writtenwhenFreddieElmswasfirstbecomingaLondoner,strucksucha chordbecause theyare just as true, just as apt, as I sit atmykeyboardnearlyacentury-and-a-halflatertryingtofinishmyoneslimtome.

Idon’twanttogetallbiblicalonyoubutitcertainlyremindedmeof(andIparaphrase), ‘What has beenwill be again, what has been donewill be doneagain, there is nothing new under the sun.’ Nor under sullen skies, whichhaven’t seen a glimpse of sunshine for weeks. This great grey city is stillunfathomable, the ocean is still in perpetual motion and old London is stillpassingawayaswewrite.

Alreadyawareoftheenormityandinherentimpossibilityoftryingtocapturean endless swirling sea, which ebbs and flows through the ages, and changesshapeandshadewitheverytide,IbecameevenmoreconcernedaboutthetaskIhadundertakenwhenIdiscoveredthatMrThornburyendedhislifeinalunatic

asylum,pennilessandmad.Thosehalf-a-dozen,mustyVictorianvolumesofhisarejustpartofmylibrary

ofhundredsofbookson the same subject.They’reallaroundme in the roomwhereIwrite,inspiringme,chidingme,tauntingme.Therearehundredsmoreto collect, and therewill no doubt be countlessmore to come.This city is asubject of limitless fascination, a place of infinitewords. If Paris is a town ofpaintersandNewYorkisacinematiccity,thenLondonisliterary.Wecannotstopwriting about it, reading about it, talking about it, precisely because it isimpossibletopindown.NoonecanhavethelastwordonLondon.

For,astheNewsoftheWorldusedtoboast,‘Allhumanlifeishere.’Thisisachurningseaofsouls.Itisalivingentity,anorganismthatsimultaneouslywasandisandwillbe;itisthesumofallitspastsandallitsparts,whichmeansallofus.WemakeLondonasLondonmakesus.EachgenerationreinventsnotjustthemselvesasLondoners,butLondonasthemselves.

Andtheplacewehavecollectivelyconstructediscurrentlyprettygood.Forthemostpart, itworks.Inmostwaysitisastrikingsuccess.Youcanmoanallyoulike,andwealllikeamoan,butinsomanywaysthiscityisbetterthaneverbefore.Ifyoulivehereandfancyswappingplaces,millionsofsoulsfromeverycorneroftheglobewilldosoinamoment.ThisisagoodmomentforLondon.Butofcoursependulumsswing.Wemustneverrest.

ThatLondon is once again a great globalmagnet is a signof our intrinsicattractiveness. Great cities, the crowning glories of civilisation, are a comingtogether, an agglomeration of human desires. The very fact that so manyhumans of every hue and every cry, every turn and talent, have wished andworked and scraped and schemed, some risking their lives tomake their liveshere is perhaps thegreatest compliment youcanpayanoldboy likeLondon.Theystillfancyus.

This modern urban success story has undergone what doctors call an‘autoresuscitation’,aLazarus-like leap fromthesickbedof1940sruinationand1970sstagnation.Afteryearsofdecline,depopulationanddisinvestment,ithasbeenrevivedbyakissoflife,thecumulativebreathofmoreandmoreandmoreofus.AndIlikethat,becauseIlikepeople.Ohcomeallyefaithless.

Of course that influx has brought pressures. The eerily, joyously emptyswathes of my youth have been filled in, replaced by built-up blocks andteeminghordesinalldirections.Therearenomoredebristoplayrun-outson,

preciousfewemptywarehousestoholdravesin,nounwantedcouncilhousesordisusedfirestationstosquatin.Theywereallremnantsofacityindecline.

Everythingismorecrowdednow,fromartgalleriestotraincarriages.Thereisnorushhour inLondonanymore; there is justone longcontinual rushandcrush.ButItakeacertainpleasureinthefactthatelevenmilesanhourwastheaveragespeedofahorse-drawnHackneycarriageinVictoriantimes,andalittleless thanelevenmilesanhour is theaverage speedofa typicalcar journey intowntoday.Youcan’thurrylove.

TheLondonlittleFreddiewalkedtowasamomentous,teemingmetropolis.The town my mum and dad courted in was crowded, noisy, polluted andcongested,justasitisnow,justasitshouldbe.Acabdriverstuckinamorassofroad works and construction jams once said exasperatedly to me, ‘London isgreat,butitwillbebetterwhenit’sfinished.’Butofcoursetheoppositeistrue,Londonwillbefinishedwhenit’sfinished.

In Chinese culture, which I have come to know a little, cranes areconsidered auspicious, lucky birds to see flying on the horizon, a sign ofprosperity.Well,inLondon,seeingcranesofadifferentkindontheskylineisaverygoodsignindeed.Thiscitymustbeaperpetualworkinprogress.

Butwehavetodotherightworkifwearetoprogress.AftertheFirstWorldWarwebuilthomesforheroes.PlacesliketheWatlingEstateandWhiteCity,whichhousedmeandmine,gaveusachance.AftertheSecondWorldWarmydadandsomanystrongmenandwomenlikehimbuilttheRoyalFestivalHall,thePostOfficeTower,theBrunswickCentre,TrellickTower...Nowweuseourenergiesandresourcestoconstructghosttowersforspeculators.ButLondonplaysalonggame.Allthosehundredsoftowersgoingup,boastingluxuryflats,will one day come crashing down. If the history of Notting Hill or CamdenTownisanythingtogoby,theywillbeslumsinafewyears’time.

Theblitzed-out,worn-out townmymumanddadmet andmarried inwasborn again through their sterling endeavours. People like my parents bornproudly of these streets and people like their neighbours arriving on boats inbeautiful suits to live in slums, to work and play and do and be done by,bequeathednewlives,newLondoners.Theyhaverefreshedandreplenishedandfor the most part infinitely enhanced this place. What heroes. What aninheritance.

And theLondonmykidshavebeenbequeathed isevenbetter in somanyways.Londoninmytimehasbecomeamuchmoreopen,hopeful,dynamiccity,

less reserved, less judgemental, more tolerant, more accepting. Alwayscosmopolitan, it has evolved into something beyond, something new andperhapsunique,thegreatestcityintheworld,becausealltheworldishereandwhat’smore,it’swelcomehere.Theyareus,wearethem;weareLondon.

For themost part, we get along prettywell, rubbingmuchmore than justshoulderstogether.Thisisthewesternworld’scapitalofmiscegenation.Thosebeautiful, resourceful mongrels of mine are typical twenty-first centuryLondoners.And their generation,kindandpositive,decentanddiligent, giveme–giveusall–greathope.

Butofcoursechangeisadouble-edgedsword,everygainaloss.Youcanbesimultaneouslybetterinmanyways,yetworseinothers.ThereismoretodoinLondon today but perhaps less fun to be had. This cool, easy-going town istougher to live in,harderworking,harsheron its poor,muchmore expensiveandexclusive,shamefullybanishingitsownfaraway.Wearemuchlessrigidlyclass conscious and deferential than before, yet muchmore painfully dividedbetween haves and have-nots. This genuinely gentler, less aggressive, moretoleranttowntoleratesitsyoungbeingstabbedtodeathindoorways.

This cool, gluten-free, artisan-produced city of ours can also be cruellyavaricious, materialistic and monetised. This city of individualistic, creativeentrepreneurswithinterestingfacialhairhasalsobecomecrushinglycorporate.UberGoogle.Our now beautifully designed,well-lit, tasteful town does blingandbrash likeneverbefore.Moneyhas left itsuglymark.London todaydoeshave no-go zones. Why would you go to Knightsbridge, Kensington or theKing’s Road? But then there are now so many great reasons to head toLewisham,WalthamstoworClapton.Ashape-shifterindeed.

This fracturedmultiplicityofcities isbaffling,challenging,but Iamup forthechallenge,lovingthenewwhilelamentingtheold,missingthefamiliarandthefamilialbuthappytopassthebaton.Run,kids,run.Iameagertoseewhatmy city becomes as the next generation reinvent it in their image. The longgamegoeson.

London can contain so many contradictions, because there are so manyLondons.Butmyoneisfading;Icanfeelitfading.Icannolongersmellitbythe river. I cannot leap from its open platform or dive into its seedy dens tolearnfromitsdenizens.Irarelyhearitsvoiceanymore;itsaccentiskeptaliveonlyingamblingadsandgangsterfilms;itsmoresanditsmodeslookmoreandmorelikeanoldblack-and-whiteEalingcomedy.

As I look around so many of my landmarks have vanished, it is gettinghardertonavigatebyeye.InsteadifIshutmymincepiesandtrytoremember,Icanseethemall.AndsoIendwiththese,thelostmonumentsofthecitythatmadeus.Thesewereplacesofgoodtimesandbad,oldtimes,whichoncewerenew;thehauntsofourforebearsandtheplaygroundsofouryouth,ourLondon.Doyouremember,canyourecall?

TheHammersmithPalaisWard’sIrishHouseBloom’sRestaurantTheBetaCaféMadameJojosTheAstoriaTheWagClubLaurenceCornerCompendiumWarrenStreetCarDealersCollet’sBookshopFleetStreetFleetStreetPrintersFathersoftheChapelNorlandGardensOrangeHillSchoolTheMazziniandGaribaldiClubWhiteCityStadiumWalthamstowDogTrackTheWatlingBoys’ClubTheGaltymoreDenmarkPlaceTheColonyClubTheFridgeJackStraw’sCastleTheToffeeAppleManTheMonkeyNutManTheGLCCountyHallWoolworths

ArsenalStadiumTheGeneralSmutsR.G.Elms&SonsGrooveRecordsBagley’sYardRay’sJazzTheAlbanianShopTonibellsTheScalaCinemaPimlicoSchoolClubRowMarketTruman’sBreweryCentrePointFountainsCheapoCheapoContempoDobellsDionysiusKebabHouseTheRoutemasterRobotTheIvyShopCrollaPXFinchleyLidoSohoMarketMillHillBathsKingsburyBathsDemobDubVendorModernClassicsTheHeygateEstateClippiesNippiesAldwychStationTheVictoriaFrestoniaRumours

TheRainbowTheMarqueeTheAcademyCinemaDaddyKoolTheBoleynGroundTheShelfTheClockEndTheMotherBlackCapSmokingCarriagesTheHoleintheWallTheOdeonMarbleArchTheAfricaCentreJimmy’sPolloTheNewPiccadillyTheBaldFacedStagColdBlowLaneMappin&WebbVeneeroftheWeekGamagesBatterseaFunfairBatterseaPowerStationBroadStreetStationWhitechapelBellFoundryABCBakerySportsPagesFlipTheLucozadeSignTheFancyCheesePeopleRosetti’sRockOnRecordsSwan&EdgarJohnson&JohnsonKensingtonMarketCooks’PieandMashCoventGardenMarket

TheDocksDockersPortersBlustonsTheEmbassyClubTheTPAGrenfellTowerAlbertandEileenElms

ListofPhotographs

Page4–AlbertandEileenElms,StJames’Church,Norland,1946

Page18–19–TheWestway

Page24–Shepherd’sBushMarket

Page33–Robert&Ian,theWatlingEstate

Page52–53–LatimerRoadStation

Page59–Topdeckfromthetopdeck

Page88–Theauthoraged6

Page147–TheFerreiraDelicatessen,CamdenTown

Page177–GirotheNaziDog

Page181–GreetHouse,thetruecentreofLondon

Page183–TheplaqueforthecentreofLondon

Page186–AweddingwithAuntDotandIan

Page190–1–Skarecords,includingRitaandBennie

Page222–GeorgetheTailor,WalworthRoad

Page229–Peckhamgirls

Page253–StGiles’Circusfromthebus

Page257–InternationalBrigadesMemorialTrustMonument,JubileeGardens

Page261–Robert&Christina,MaryleboneRegistryOffice,1995

Page263–MorningtonCrescentStation

Page265–TheCamdenCoffeeMan

Acknowledgements

Thankyouto:JamieByngforbeingbrilliant.HannahKnowlesforeditingwithcare,flairandwine.MybeautifulwifeChristinaforgracingmycityandmylife,shehasimproved

bothbyherpresence.

‘Thoroughlyenjoyableandilluminating’Observer

‘Anessentialbook’AntonyGormley

‘Funny,tragic,brilliantlyincisive’StephenFry