Tag Archives: London

May 2026

Posted on June 3, 2026 | Leave a comment

Monday 18 May

This, I said to anyone of an Arsenal persuasion who would listen, was either going to be an amazing week or a bloody awful one. Two wins were needed to finish the job and win the league, the great grail, at home to Burnley on Monday evening and away to Crystal Palace on the final day. Or Manchester City drop points against Bournemouth and, with a win against Burnley, it was done. I had no idea, I just turned up at Bear Roundabout and joined in the singing as the buses went past in a fog of red smoke. I met Ted for a beer outside the ground and we shivered in the late Spring air, before enduring a 1-0 win. It wasn’t as tense as the West Ham away game – then again, nothing will ever be – but we were still one fluke from disaster. At full time I found myself saying ‘that might be enough’ to everyone around me. In my head, it would go to the final day. News of Pep Guardiola’s imminent departure leaked during our game. On balance, probably a good thing for us. At the very least, it sounded unplanned for them.

The pictures I have from this evening look very calm and restrained. Looking back they were a taste of what was to come. Though after the game everyone just went home.

Tuesday 19 May

There was no way I could bear to watch the City game. But I didn’t know what to do. First I went for a walk. Second, I got the kick off time wrong, so it turned out I’d paced around for the first half hour of the match. This was good. Then I started copying out a long passage from Beowulf. I suspect I was the only Arsenal supporter doing that. Then George shouted down that Bournemouth had scored. For a fleeting second the thought entered my head. This is it. Then I banished that and went back to Beowulf. I figured if the best happened, I’d find out via the cheers of the boys. As the game went on without further updates and we got closer I noticed Imogen tracking the game on her phone. She had suggested she might go and have a bath and I quietly asked her not to and to remain at the table. ‘What happens if it’s a draw?’ she asked, prompting a panic. Then she told me there were six minutes of stoppage time. Then City scored. There was only a minute left. I started praying out loud. Then one of the greatest sounds I have ever heard: Harry and George cheering, chairs being pushed back, Winnie running downstairs, pandemonium in the kitchen. Like thousands of other people I was sobbing as I am now again, writing this down. 

We put the TV on to see an on-screen banner proclaiming Arsenal were champions, and the City players looking downcast. I phoned Dad – who had no idea City were even playing and so was extremely delighted to hear we’d won the league, and Mum and Mick. More hugs, more tears. Bloody done it.

Imogen said her friend’s husband was going  to the stadium. Winnie said I had to do the same. The house needed to calm down for exams. I grabbed a scarf and ran down the street, immediately bumping into an Arsenal fan, then another group, people emerging from the night to pile onto the tube. At Archway the cars were already backed up, horns honking and people cheering. I ran down Holloway Road, twirling my scarf round my head, the noise around the ground hitting you way before you got there. For the second time in 24 hours I found myself next to the Ashburton Army drummer, the whole area around the stadium a sea of joyful people. I can’t describe it. Everyone cheering, smiling, hugging, fireworks going off into the night, thousands and thousands of people. All colours and all sorts. You couldn’t help but be proud of London that night. As the giant banner said ‘Party on the streets of London’ mocking the Manchester City attempt to requisition Panic by The Smiths. Sorry everyone but you cannot have The Smiths. 

I got the guy next to me to help me start the ‘You’ll fall in love…’ song for Big Gabi. It echoed across the crowd. The drummer started drumming along, it felt like half of Highbury was singing it. Four seasons of pressure blew away. It got more crowded, more claustrophobic, still very happy but a bit much. I know loads of people stayed for hours but I just needed an hour, then I needed to get home, to be ready for normal life on Wednesday morning. Along the way I rode a London chariot – a dented and wonky Lime bike – back up Holloway Road, more scarf-twirling and horn honking, what a laugh. Like everyone there I will never forget it.

Wednesday 20 May

For the remainder of the week I slept terribly. I wasn’t hung over, more on some kind of high where the prospect of getting out of bed and being in the world felt irresistible and logical. Having taken George to his exam I made some more calls to talk about the night before, or really just to say over and over that it had happened and how wonderful it was. At times like this I can be a complete cliche: a weight was lifted off my shoulders, I was walking on air, all was right in the world: just pure escapism. I went down to the ground again where Champions t-shirts were inevitably on sale. The queue was enormous even early in the morning. I chatted to a young Mum who was buying a load of shirts. She told me about her long away trips in the past. Another man expressed relief we’d done it, saying he thought we’d have blown it at Palace. I don’t think I agree. None of that mattered now. What was coming through was a trickle and then an avalanche of photos and videos, most fan-made, showing the joy from the previous night and contrasting it with the tougher times from the past 22 years. I went to the pond, I cried again. I cried a lot that day and have done since. In the evening Imogen and I sat in the garden and had a nice drink under the evening sky.

Sunday 24 May

After a few days of more footage circulating on everyone’s phones, it was obvious Sunday was going to be a big day. The trophy presentation wouldn’t be until 7.00 at the earliest though, so a lot of time to pass before. I went into town on a couple of errands. Arsenal shirts everywhere. Euston, King’s Cross, completely mobbed. Tubes full of people singing. While some of these people were going to Crystal Palace and some were heading to pubs around the ground most people seemed to be out for a street party. We’d decided a while ago to watch the game at home and then go down to the stadium and Dad, breaking his general taboo of paying any attention to matches he is not attending, came round too. More toasts, then more tears and hugs, and then the boys and I headed down to the stadium. Or, more properly, a carnival walk down Holloway Road, a bounce around on Hornsey Road, and then home after an hour or so. It was intense, colourful, joyful, and exhausting. Clearly thousands of people stayed there for a long time and it looked fantastic and I am delighted for them. For me, we got it right. Astonishingly there was more to do this year, even now. The Champion’s League Final, and then win or lose that parade.

Midweek

The following week was initially a happy blur. A hot and sunny Bank Holiday Monday of nothing but basking, then the kids half term which is always disrupted when it comes to work. So football again to the fore, an ocean of videos, photos and conversations with friends in the Arsenal family. The signs of Arsenalism everywhere. Everyone wanted to know about the parade and make plans for where they’ll be. The suggestion was that a million people will attend. Barriers appear along a vast route through Islington that makes it seem possible that is an underestimate.

Towards the end of it the Champions League and Budapest started to rear its head. People travelling began their journeys, then arrived. Previous issues came back to mind. I was happy with the decision not to travel but also a bit glum not to have been there.

Saturday 30 May

On the day of the game Dad and the boys and I headed down to the Emirates for the screening. It felt more intense than I was ready for on exiting the Arsenal tube, compounded by the poor arrangements for stadium access. In a bid to stop anyone gaining access to the concourse around the ground who doesn’t have a ticket – with more than one eye on the parade – entry points were very limited and quickly came under pressure. There was still 40,000 people with tickets. This was the one point it felt a bit too big and threatening to get out of control. 

Once inside the atmosphere was manic. The sun was hotter than I’d expected, making for a sticky evening. The match swayed our way with Kai Havertz’s early goal greeted with complete delirium. It was very early. The team didn’t seem to quite mean to sit back but did so, and while that was fine against Burnley it was far more difficult to do so here. It was one of those European games where it felt like the referee gave the other side every decision and you start to think there’s something fishy going on. Maybe there was but the other side still played fabulous possession football, some of their passing was astonishing. The guy behind me made some very silly comments and was quite annoying. The people in front of us, older Arsenal fans, were silent throughout, messaging friends about what time they’d be back in the pub. Would it have been impossible for them to try to sing, or alternatively to have just stayed there? Apart from that it was a loud and tense evening. 

Writing now it seems unreal that we had good moments towards the end of extra time and had an equal chance when it came to penalties. Noise turned to silence when poor Gabriel sent his penalty over the bar like a rugby conversion and that was suddenly that. It felt jarringly instant, like when the music stops suddenly at a party, the lights come on and you’ve got to stop dancing. I couldn’t work out what the boys needed at that moment, I realised that they weren’t six and eight, and probably weren’t going to cry. Other peoples’ faces were rueful but also more upbeat than after previous losses. ‘Tomorrow we’ll wake up and still be champions’ I said to anyone who’d listen, shaking a few people’s hands. Another terribly organised exit from the ground. When we eventually got home I sat in the garden with Imogen and drank two pints of water and then the bottle of champagne we’d got just in case and thought more about tomorrow and the days before than the day that had just been. So no discourse here about the pain of penalty shoot-outs in the past and how this one relates to it. I was very not sorry I wasn’t in Budapest facing the exit from the ground and the journey home. I thought about friends who were there. Then I made plans for the parade the following day.

Sunday 31 May

This one: not mine. A still from @kaihavertz29 on Instagram

The bottle of happiness uncorked over this magical period was not going back in. So the parade was always going to be massive and joyful. It seemed like there was no other option. George and I left home three hours before and aimed for a spot on Seven Sisters Road, away from tubes, close to our route to the stadium. Getting there immediately hit a snag as the Northern Line was up the creek, so we detoured to Oakleigh Park, where a very full party train pulled in and took us towards Finsbury Park, somewhere not very suited to very full party trains and tens of thousands of people. So we got off at Harringay and walked for half an hour through relatively quiet streets, eventually getting somewhere else on Seven Sisters, where two hours before there were people waiting but it was possible to get a good spot. Peering down the road it looked like it was already very towards Holloway Road. Young and old people climbed on bus stops, balconies and rooftops nearby. A daytime rave kicked off on the opposite side of the road. Footballs were thrown back and forth. We played lots of rounds of guess the former Arsenal player which peaked at Gervinho. Lots more singing, especially the Eze and Gabriel songs. 

All the while the red smoke billowed out and the excitement grew. Then stewards walked in front of us and the buses arrived, noise ratcheted up further and I could see the outline of familiar players and the trophy. Rice, Timber, Saliba and Gabriel at the front. Saka holding the cup aloft, Calafiori hanging out the side looking immaculate, Gyokeres posing at the back. The women’s bus greeted equally deliriously, even the staff and other peoples bus getting huge cheers. And then gone up the road on the Tour de Islington. George did have to revise so we started to make our way home, eventually walking to Highgate tube. There were Arsenal shirts everywhere. To some extent photos and videos of the day do it justice, the crowd millions strong, on the streets and on rooftops, lampposts, everywhere and anywhere. 

I’m now sitting typing this on a rainy morning two days later. There’s the whole of summer to still go, but the past fortnight is inevitably the time that will sum it up. Hot, sunny and joyful. So much has been said about London showing its true face, a modern and multicultural celebration; dancing, music and happiness everywhere, a party everyone wanted to be a part of. That definitely happened. It also happened so immediately that it’s more present generally than everyone realised. But it also stayed around more intensely and for so long that it’s hard to think that we’re beyond the moment. It might be that the whole thing is just getting started. I hope so. But you also never know. This could never happen again. You’ve got to be a part of it. 

Being a part of May 2026 and being able to share it with everyone has been one of the joys of my life and I will always be grateful for it. 

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London by bike. Why?

Posted on October 10, 2015 | Leave a comment

Amsterdam is a beautiful, perfect cycling city. I escaped to it last week for a couple of days of work, savouring the sensation of emerging from Centraal station into the busy bike-filled streets. Complimenting everyone I met on the wonderful atmosphere for cycling, I mentioned the stark contrast between it and London. Cycling in London is, as a wise person once wrote, a contact sport. The friendly, clever international bunch of people that I was with shuddered visibly at the prospect of it. London, they concluded, was the worst place they could think of to cycle.

For a few days on returning from Holland I wallowed in the unpleasant contrast, stuck in a dream of cobbles, canals and those Dutch bike locks that render the bike immobile, but not immovable. Despite Boris Bikes and emerging proper bike lanes rather than lines of blue paint, this city presents a formidable challenge to anyone with the temerity to want to ride around it.Yet London is my city, and I cycle in it most days, and have done since I was able to. Something is missing from this picture.

The other day I was happy to find a copy of Jon Day’s Cyclegeography. It has been a serendipitous find. An account of his time as a bicycle courier, it is is a sort of Waterlog for London cycling. He describes with vivid energy the flow and challenge of the British capital from a bike. The tiny openings just a handlebar wide, lunatic weaving through traffic. The sudden space and vantages of the city’s bridges. It also lifts the lid a little on the life of a courier, which sounds as mental as I’d always imagined it to be. At one point I though that might be my dream job, were I a millionaire and had no need to worry about actually making any money. It is a terribly hard way to earn a living.

One of the reasons I’ve enjoyed the book so much is what he describes is so similar to most of my  lifetime’s bike riding. Yes, I’ve done some wonderful rides in southern Africa, the Outer Hebrides, Belgium and all over England, but most of the time it;s the daily grind into central London. I first started cycling properly to ride to school each day, a hateful ride along the pavement next to the North Circluar Road. One day aged 15 my wheel drifted into the guard fence and I found myself on the floor covered in cuts and very confused. With traffic rushing past there was little to do but get back on a wobble to school where I showed off scabs all day. When I started at Lonely Planet I rode over Muswell Hill and Highgate to Kentish Town, those rides bringing my first dust-ups with Highgate West Hill, still the great Alp of the imagination of the north London rider along with it’s haunted neighbour, Swain’s Lane. Invariably I ride in rush hour, with everyone else, with vans and trucks for company, trying to ignore how vulnerable I am in comparison to them.

It was these formative experiences that helped me to retain my sanity during endless rides to and from Gunnersbury earlier this year. Finchley – Golders Green – Cricklewood – Willesden – Harlesden – Acton. Through the rush hour. A candidate for the worst ride in the world if ever there was one, six times a week for three months. Hugging the gutter and dodging the potholes for 14 miles of traffic-choked suburban drear. I stopped doing the Gunnersbury run soon enough to retain some residual curiosity about the areas I passed through, not least the former Greyhound land of Queen’s Park, enough that Iain Sinclair’s London Overground gripped me as he trudged from one station on the ‘ginger line’ to another, passing from Willesden to Cricklewood with the same grey-faced horror/wonder that I had every day.

But I’m no courier. Jon Day’s tales of alleycat races across the city and a strange community of single-speed outsiders were glamorous and exciting, but never my world. Nor is the weekend club rider’s. Cycling in London is a solo pursuit. There’s no room for a partner or a conversation. Every other cyclist is out for the same patch of space that I am, so head down nudgey-nudgey beats  the camaraderie of rural rides. It’s also one that introduces you pretty quickly to the reality of the city. I’ve owned (by a quick tally) nine bikes in my life. Three are under lock and key right now. The other six were all stolen in London. All locked up at the time. There are thieves and bad people, and they’ll have your stuff. Switch your wits on.

With traffic, lights, potholes and omnipresent danger, weekly miles are hard-won. My friend who lives in Wiltshire once expressed envy at the ease at which a commuter knocks out such a distance while making no impact on home life. He then hopped on this bike and rode off to the Cotswolds, or Salisbury Plain, or some other idyllic country spot. But I don’t want what he has either. I am hooked on the hard-to-explain delights of riding round home.

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Random brawls in medieval London

Posted on August 4, 2011 | Leave a comment

A History of London Life by R J Mitchell and M D R Leys is a lost classic of London historical writing, dating from 1963. It takes the reader on an admirable journey through the history of the city at street level, looking at Londoners and their lives through the ages. You can find it on abebooks. I am indebted to friends who picked up a copy for me in upstate New York, a long way from home but couriered with great thought and care.

Passages feel like a forerunner to the way that Ackroyd and Sinclair seem to effortlessly pull out breathtakingly obscure documents of London history. One of the best examples of this is a passage taken from the Londoners’ Pasttimes chapter, detailing a thirteenth century scrap that evidently got well out of hand:

Teams of Londoners played games among themselves and also against the neighbouring suburbs; in the summer of 1222 a wrestling match with the youths of Westminster had a disastrous sequel. The city men won, and a return match was fixed for a week later, but this time the Steward of the Abbey armed the home side so that the Westminster men set about the Londoners and caused many casualties. The irate Londoners went home to gather strength and, ignoring the advice of the Mayor, rushed to Westminster and pulled down the Steward’s house. When the Abbot came to complain they seized his horses, beat his manservants and stoned him out of the city.

The Abbot in question, if the dates are right, is either William de Humez or Richard de Berkyng (of Barking), most likely the former as Richard did not take his position until October. The High Steward of Westminster Abbey today is a ceremonial position held since June by Tory peer Lord Luce.

And what of the over-exuberant boys of the City, and of Westminster? Well, chances are they weren’t roughed up by their wrestling, which seems to have been an exercise in endurance grappling rather than the Giant Haystacks kind of wrestling we may think of today. That might also explain why the Londoners had enough about them to pull someone’s house down after a bout.

It might be worth considering next time you stroll down the Strand that both parties – and the aggrieved Abbot – would have stomped their way down the same route which was then a little more than a rural track.

In 1222 John III Doukas Vatatzes was crowned Emperor of Byzantium, the European discovery of America was still over 200 years away and Henry III was King of England. And in a small, thriving city a bunch of blokes had a good old scrap which got quite out of hand.

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London Swimming Review: Serpentine Lido

Posted on June 26, 2011 | Leave a comment

For a city with a generally unimpressive number of indoor swimming pools, London makes up for it with plenty of more surprising options for a quick dip.

Swimmers ready for the plunge at Serpentine Lido

I’ve written warmly (don’t let that word confuse you about the temperature) before about Highgate Ponds, with separate men’s, women’s and mixed bathing ponds. The latter is ideal for those of mixed sex. Nearby Parliament Hill Lido makes for a lovely alternative, and there are other marvellous outdoor lidos at Brockwell Park, Tooting, London Fields and Hampton. The last two are let down a little by being heated.

Paddling pool...

...and children's play area

Until this week, however, I hadn’t tried the most central of the lot. The Serpentine Lido, right in the centre of Hyde Park, promised a dip in untreated water in the heart of London. The Serpentine is a large man-made lake created in 1730 by the waters of the River Westbourne but now fed by the Thames. It’s a haven for bird life and is the sort of lake which you’d normally hire a boat to row on a summer’s day. Unusually there’s swimming here, and has been since 1930.

View across the Lido from the bridge. Yes, you really are in central London...

Unlike Highgate Ponds, which offer a wonderful and deliberately spartan experience, there’s plenty here to make you feel like your £4 entrance fee is well spent. There are changing rooms, lockers (20p, refundable) and, once you get upstairs, a large lawn, paddling pool and playing area for kids. Nippers catered for, swimmers cross a bridge over the path – attracting odd looks from tourists at the cafe next door in the old Lido building – and go down steps to the water’s edge. The lake has sloping sides, so diving’s a no-no, so there’s a jetty to stroll, then steps to descend. As it’s late June the water is a balmy 18c, and as there’s no-one else in the water there are a few onlookers gawking from the cafe ensuring no prevaricating on the water’s edge.

Once in, the water is lovely, fresh and cool, and with plenty of space makes for very relaxing swimming. If you’re doing back crawl or breast stroke you can take in some of the landmarks of London visible from the water – the London Eye and the Victoria Tower of the Houses of Parliament are two to look out for. Upon exiting (cold shower at the waterside), you’re back in the land of normal non-cold-swimming types very fast, especially if you hop on one of Boris Bikes conveniently stationed nearby. The warm glow from such a lovely dip will stay with you on your travels around the British capital.

Incidentally, this was the second Olympic venue I’d been able to try out, having test-rafted the Canoe Slalom course at Lea Valley Watersports Centre in May. I’ll upload my report from this over the next few days. The Serpentine will host the 10k open water swimming race, which, having managed a few lengths of the 110m buoyed area, sounds like incredibly hard work.

Keen swimmers may wish to join the Serpentine Swimming Club, a hardy gang of enthusiasts who use the facilities right through winter.

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An early summer visit to Craven Cottage

Posted on May 22, 2011 | Leave a comment

Craven Cottage
In one corner stands the cottage, unique
A reminder of an earlier age
An age before the violence
Before the air was full of vile oaths

Opposite, sits the brash new stand
Overlooking the Thames
Smug, expensive, empty
There’s an electronic scoreboard to gaze at when the play gets dull, which isn’t often
Fulham play an attractive brand of football
£4.50 to get in* and the beer is great

Three English Football Grounds by I, Ludicrous

I, Ludicrous may have written these words in 1987 but I’m sure Craven Cottage would get a glowing write-up again today should the boys decide to pay another visit**

In one corner does indeed stand the Cottage (rear view)

As football in London goes it doesn’t get much better than an early or late season trip to Craven Cottage, the home of Fulham. There’s lots to enjoy about coming here: the lovely walk through Bishop’s Park, with the green, narrowing Thames to your left; London’s oldest football stand fronting the Stevenage Road entrance to the ground; the prospect of a waterside beer at half time and the old-fashioned layout which generally ensures a large and vocal away following.

One English football ground (Stevenage Road Stand to right of picture)

The most recent addition to the attractions of the area is surely the oddest sight at any English league venue. The statue of Michael Jackon, erected by Fulham’s owner Mohammed Fayed, is a long way from the usual bronze effigy of ex-legend found at Old Trafford (Best, Charlton, Law), Elland Road (Bremner) and the Britannia Stadium (Matthews). For starters it’s in colour, and secondly, Michael Jackson may have attended a few Fulham matches but he was hardly known for his extensive Panini sticker collections. No matter, says Fayed, who walks on water in these parts after bankrolling the club into the Premier League and returning Fulham to the Cottage after converting the ground to all-seater for the start of the 2004-5 season. It gives travelling fans a giggle, which is no bad thing as they’re much less likely to come away with a result than they used to be. Fulham are no mugs at home and are an established Premier League club. Not bad when you consider that Fulham were second bottom of the entire Football League in January 1996, and lost away to Torquay United, the one team below them. Cha mon indeed.

For various reasons I failed to get a photo of the statue – there are plenty here – but some waggish Arsenal fans’ song, produced below, raised a smirk:

Your statue is shit
Your statue is shit
It should have been Jedward
Your statue is shit

A large and vocal away following, today

The other famous feature of the ground is the Cottage itself. This unique pavilion is as old as the Stevenage Road Stand and dates from 1905. Legendary stadium designer Archibald Leitch put it up after forgetting to build changing rooms into his plans for the ground. I’ve never been inside but I hope they bring you cucumber sandwiches and tea at half-time.

Earl's Court platform indicator...

...and Putney Bridge station's elegant facade are two things to keep an eye out for on the way

*It costs rather more than £4.50 to get in to Craven Cottage these days. The beer is cold, which remains shamefully the best you can hope for inside any football ground in Britain.

**In fact, of the three grounds reviewed in the song, Craven Cottage is the only one still standing. Burnden Park and The Den, the homes of Bolton Wanderers and Millwall, have both been replaced by modern all-seater stadiums. Fulham FC kept their terracing later than any Premier League club to date, with standing in the Stevenage Road paddocks and at both ends until the end of the 2001-2 season. I paid the ground a visit in 2001 for the first time since 1994 when Arsenal visited, coming away with a 3-1 win that was closer than the score makes it sound. As with other visits to grounds with terracing it weren’t like the old days.

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A grand theft at Westminster Abbey

Posted on April 27, 2011 | 2 comments

The eyes of the world are on Westminster Abbey, the pivotal location in the history of royal London, England and Britain for over 1000 years. So old is the Abbey that England did not exist when it was founded in the era of Mellitus, Bishop of London from 604-619. It was built on an island that is no longer extant, known as Thorn Ey or Thorney Island, created by the dissipating channels of the now-buried Tyburn river. Fancy a dip in the Tyburn today? It’s waters tip into the Serpentine, site of open-water swimming at the 2012 Olympics and open to the public for bathing during the summer months.

Westminster Abbey: built on cheerless marshes

The Abbey’s handsome west towers, designed by Nicholas Hawksmoor and built between 1722 and 1745, are one of the more recent additions to this Gothic wonder that, rightly, ranks highly on most London tourist itineraries. Like other icons of the capital, many Londoners pass by frequently, vowing one day to brave the crowds, then never do. They’re missing a treat. Monarchs like Henry V, Richard II and Elizabeth I are interred here, along with Chaucer, Newton, Kipling, Handel and Dickens. An afternoon in the company of the greats of Britain can only be a fascinating one.

Sir Walter Besant, Victorian novelist, historian and a great Victorian who lived all but one year of his life (1836-1901) under the Queen’s reign, had plenty to say about London, and Westminster received special attention in his 1895 book of the same name.

A review of his biography of Sir Richard (Dick) Whittington noted “Mr Besant is an enthusiast about London, and revels in its archives, its traditions, its historic associations and its literary memories. He loves the town, not exactly as Dr Johnson loved it, but somewhat in the manner of Leigh Hunt or Charles Dickens.” That’s not a bad epitaph.

I’ve tried and failed to find a digitised copy of Westminster online, but found one at a second hand book sale and hid it from a lurking old man with a beard who was admiring it. That, reader, is how I have it now and how I can bring you this marvellous anecdote from it. I should point out that I did, at least, pay for it.

Inside is an anecdote which reaches through the centuries from 1303. At the turn of the fourteenth century Edward I, the Hammer of the Scots and the man who built the Eleanor Crosses along the route of the funerary procession of his wife Eleanor of Castile was King of England and had just signed a peace agreement with France which allowed him to focus on whacking those north of the border. His treasure trove, the Royal Treasury, was kept at Westminster Abbey, and was a pretty hefty hoard, having been built up to pay for his Scottish campaigns.

Edward I: not someone likely to be delighted to find out someone’s walked off with his treasure

Things were not going quite so well for Richard de Podelicote, a merchant, “probably”, Besant notes “an unsuccessful trader in foreign wares.” Unsuccessful, but not without cunning. Besant picks up the story:

“…he observed that the small gate in the wall which led from the Palace to the Abbey (at the door now by Poet’s Corner) was unwatched and neglected. At this time the King himself with a great army was on his way to Scotland: the palace was therefore deserted…the strictness of the rules about watching those who entered or went out was relaxed.”

The Chapter House at the Abbey

Podelicote broke in by placing a ladder against the Chapter House windows and, possibly with the assistance of whatever night-watch was in place as an accomplice let himself into the Cloisters. He proceeded to pilfer silver cups from the Refectory and, having reversed his route, hid for the rest of the night simply walked out of the Palace-Abbey complex the following morning. He spent the proceeds and came back hunting for a greater prize.

A bag of swag from the Refectory was one thing, but the Royal Treasury was, as Besant notes, “a far more serious job…the Treasury was a chamber with stone walls of great thickness, cemented firmly, only to be dislodged by being taken away piecemeal with infinite labour: and to carry out whole sacks and hampers full of treasure was impossible for one man unaided.” Then again, given the ease with which he pilfered the Refectory it can’t have been too hard to rope others in.” Besant goes to lengths to question whether the monks of the abbey were involved, and though there’s no evidence it would be remarkable, given what he was up to if he hadn’t at least paid a few of the residents off

This grand theft took place over several nights at the end of April 1303, exactly 708 years ago, the climax of months of diligent work to access the Treasury. His confession noted some of the booty: “pitchers, cups with feet and covers…a pitcher with stones…three pouches full of jewels…a great crucifix and jewels…two little pitchers of silver….spoons, saucers, spice dishes of silver, crowns, girdles and other jewels.” He took all this “out of the gate near St Margaret’s Church and left nothing behind within it.” And nobody stopped him!

As is sometimes the case, the facts of the discovery of Podelicote’s brazen theft of the finest treasure in England is not clear. Edward Longshanks, it can be assumed, was far from happy when he learnt about it in June. It must have been an interesting task for the messenger who broke the news to one of the most fearsome monarchs in history to do so.

Westminster suggests that “many of the criminals were caught in actual possession of the spoil.” but also says “the history of this wonderful case is unfortunately incomplete. The fate of the ringleaders is unknown…it is, however, quite certain they were hanged, most likely with pleasing additions to hanging which prolonged the ceremony and gave it greater prominence.” A load of monks were sent to the Tower of London.

With that, the doors of history slam shut and Podelicote exits stage left. Perhaps Princess Kate should watch that his ghost doesn’t whip the tiara off her head.

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Charing Cross and the centre of London

Posted on January 12, 2011 | 1 comment

London is full of interest, but where does it end and begin?

The capital’s edges are ragged, a straggly series of fizzling out suburbs and streets on the fringes of the Green Belt, sometimes escaping the London Orbital, at other times giving way to fields surprisingly early. Take the Northern Line to its north-eastern edges at High Barnet or, better still, Mill Hill East and you’ll see the countryside unfold around you. It’s a trip to the countryside for a bleep of an Oyster card.

Where it begins is only slightly easier to answer. Most schoolchildren, or at least those who’ve spent time on long car journeys, will tell you that distances to and from London are measured from Charing Cross, but what does this mean? After all, there have been roads and measurements from London for longer than there have been railways.

The answer is, of course, that the Charing Cross in question is not the station, but the cross itself. Edward I’s crosses, erected across England as a memorial to his beloved wife, plotted a route that terminated at Westminster Abbey. The last was at the then-hamlet of Charing, a pit stop for merchants, aristocrats and pilgrims moving from London to Westminster. Various sources suggest the explanation of the name Charing as deriving from Cher Reine (Dear Queen) is a misnomer, and that Charing more likely comes from Cerring, an Anglo-Saxon word meaning bend. A cross stood here until 1647, when it was torn down by iconoclastic Puritans. And it was from this point that distances were measured. The lovely mural on the Northern Line platforms of Charing Cross Station by David Gentleman depict the construction of the cross.

The Victorians, being well-intentioned and aware of their past, built a fine and over-large reconstruction of the Charing Cross which still stands in the forecourt of the station. It was designed by E.M. Barry who also came up with the plans for Charing Cross station. Stop and have a look when you’re next passing – it’s remarkably easy to miss despite its size, with taxis and London traffic roaring past. This cross, however, is not in the original location. By the time they got round to building the reconstruction another memorial to another monarch was in situ where Charing Cross stood. It’s still there, in fact: the equestrian statue of Charles I, guarding the entrance to Trafalgar Square from Whitehall. Charles I’s statue pre-dates Trafalgar Square and was built in 1675, standing in the Royal Mews. Today it feels very much like the centre of London, surrounded by honking traffic and overlooked by Nelson’s Column, the National Gallery and facing down Whitehall to Parliament.

Wenceslas Hollar's drawing of Charles I

However, if that same schoolboy who is passing time on long car journeys gets the map out and follows older roads from their inter-city origins through the M25, the circular roads and the old Ring Road deep into the heart of London he will discover something. Rather than stop at Charing Cross the A1 starts and finishes at London Wall. The A2 will come to rest in Borough, while the A3 and the A10, the old Cambridge Road, both terminate at the northern end of London Bridge, at the junction of Cannon Street and King William Street, the A3 crossing London Bridge to do so.

Central central London

Why do these roads reach their end at the junction of Cannon Street and King William Street? The answer is to be found on Cannon Street – once called Candlewick Street – in an innocuous-looking window behind a painted grille. Here is a chunk of ancient rock. The London Stone is of deep and unknown antiquity, possibly as old as London itself, and may have been part of a Roman building or the mile stone from where Romans measured distance all over Britain. You wouldn’t know it to walk past it today but the stone once occupied a place in the hearts of Londoners akin to how Scots feel about the Stone of Scone. The truth is lost, like so much of London’s history, in the mists of time.

We shouldn’t feel too bad though: no-one knew what all the fuss was about when John Stow was writing about London at the end of the sixteenth century.

Free the London Stone

I don’t know why the centre for measuring distance shifted west from the Stone to the Cross. At a guess, at some point an official designation had to be made for government administrative purposes and Charing Cross was chosen as it was near to both King and Parliament, rather than continuing with an ancient convention for its own sake. If anyone knows I’d love to know.

Other countries have interesting marks as their centre. Paris, and France, has Notre Dame Cathedral as Kilometre Zero, while the zero milestone in the United States is close to the White House in Washington DC. Rome goes for the top of Capitoline Hill. What’s the centre of your town?

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Spotted on the Regents Canal East London Line crossing

Posted on October 19, 2010 | Leave a comment

This probably counts as slow graffiti. I wonder what daring type managed to do this, dangling over the shallow water of the Regent’s Canal while on the lookout for trains?

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Silly ways to use the London Cycle Hire scheme

Posted on July 29, 2010 | 16 comments

The London Cycle Hire scheme, supported by a well-known bank, is almost upon us.As it needs a nom de plume, how about Velondon?

The purpose of the scheme, to replace short taxi and tube rides with jaunts on bicycles that are heavy and ugly enough to be undesirable to thieves, is laudable in the extreme and it is to be hoped that eventually the scheme can echo the knock-on effects of Paris’ Velib – of creating an unbreakable case for better cycling infrastructure, separated lanes and world peace between those on two wheels and four. We can dream.

That’s all well and good, but what silly things could you do with the idea of picking up a bike in one part of London and dropping it off in another? Here are a few ideas for Cycle Hire-related japes that – hopefully – won’t get you into trouble with the rozzers.

1. See how far you can ride on in half an hour before returning it to the same place. The first thirty minutes are free. Can you make it outside Zone 2 and back again without incurring a fee?

2. Take a mate in the magazine rack on the front. This looks better if rider and passenger have got a hood on and are riding the wrong way up City Road in rush hour swaying from side to side. If they get stuck, you simply dock the bike and leave them there and hope the next punter doesn’t mind too much.

3. Leave random notes in the spokes of bikes for users to find. It could be a way of setting up a blind date or, through the gradual accumulation of answers to geography questions, identify the London Cycle Hire scheme capital cities quiz king.

4. Organise a flash mob style ride, where as many of the bikes as possible are undocked simultaneously and ridden around Regent’s Park, creating a kind of endless circle of riders.

5. Take one to Paris. Undock early in the morning, take on Eurostar and spend the day confusing the French by asking for directions to London landmarks. Take a photo for Boris.

6. (this one is quite a good idea I think) – create a way of logging the journeys each bike makes and invite riders to contribute stories of the adventures they had on them. To paraphrase Suede, after a few weeks all the love and poison of London will be worn into the grooves of these two-wheeled iron horses.

Anyone got any others?

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Stereolab at the Powerhaus

Posted on July 24, 2010 | 1 comment

Stereolab on stage – Laetitia Sadier and Tim Gane centre and right

For a band much-acclaimed for their eclectic and dynamic body of work, determined independence and massively collectible output, Stereolab are often overlooked on the list of great live acts. But this does them a disservice. For a time in the 1990s they were the best live band in Britain, and without them this period would have been a long, dull slog through the most dismal excesses of Britpop. Stereolab delivering us gig-goers from an unrelenting diet of Echobelly and Sleeper and this must be added to the list of reasons to hold them to the ears of our bosoms, or something.

Summer in 1993 was hot and concerts were sticky affairs. But my brother had picked up a copy of Peng!, Stereolab’s 1992 debut LP after a chance overhearing in a record shop and bought it home. He and I were quickly hooked by the way it rocked along in parts and grooved in others, intrigued by the French-English lyrics and, most of all, enthralled by the way the entire LP, like Stereolab’s entire output, relied only on one chord. The famous Chord X was employed throughout the bands career and across many excellent albums, but never in such a pure and sprightly way as it was on Peng! So when we spied their name in the small ads in NME a Friday night in Islington at the Powerhaus was in order.

Peng!

Neither of us could rustle up any idiot friends so it was just the two of us, unusually. Maybe this is one of the reasons I remember it so fondly. The Powerhaus occupied a site now filled with a Halifax and an All Bar One, and was one of the last remnants of a time when now hugely bourgeois Upper Street was more like the southern part of Camden High Street. It’s actually on a street officially called Islington High Street, where it segues into Liverpool Road. Other landmarks are London’s biggest news-stand and an always incredibly busy traffic crossing from Angel tube.

As still is my wont, we arrived stupidly early, before the first support had even sound-checked. Three bands for six quid. As Rocket Monkeys, like the other support band, Herzfeld heard from neither before nor since, played their set Matt and I were able to sit and talk with two friendly types sitting cross-legged on the floor of the venue. This couple, it turned out, were Laetitia (Seaya) Sadier and Tim Gane, the singer and guitarist and songwriting team behind Stereolab. Kids these days who can Twitter and Face-party Will Young or whoever it is the hell you like won’t appreciate the simple thrill of sitting and talking in this way. It felt like a treat then and it does now.

Hollar's view of Islington - Powerhaus not built yet

As the room filled Matt and I met more unusual people. First up, an older couple, already in the know about Stereolab called Dave and Wendy who we bumped into at all the best gigs for years to come afterwards. A Belgian called ‘Boods’ who pointed out London indie scenester Miki from Lush and invited us to a free gig at the old Rough Trade store in Neal’s Yard the following day that he never turned up to. It was rubbish. I’ve met dozens of people who claim to have seen the Beastie Boys play a punk set down there in 1993 when there were skaters moshing in Slam City Skates upstairs, but never anyone who yawned and scratched through the Hair and Skin Trading Company. Some things are secret for a reason.

The temperature was rising too. The Powerhaus was sweaty at the best of times and this was a near-aqueous evening. Stereolab came on and proceeded to play an electrifying set. They were always slightly too clever to attract a moshing crowd but everyone was dancing. Tim Gane’s pogoing as he played Chord X all night with a beatific look on his face was unforgettable. Laetitia and the late Mary Hanson, as beguiling a chanteuse as her partner in crime next to her, with a near-identical singing voice.

The show finished on a massive high with an extended version of Stomach Worm (on the setlist as ‘Jealousy’). It was a crashing, bashing, chordant mess by the end, as were the crowd. The Islington night air was broken by the shouts of minicab touts, the laughter of happy drunks and the noise of sirens.

Stereolab avoided the over-hyped and under-talented guitar rock scene of the 1990s and kept their credibility intact to this day. They would do perverse things: release albums with the same song played a slightly different way twice (‘We’re not adult oriented’ from ‘The Groop played Space Age Bachelor Pad Music’) and appear on The Word playing French Disko and then shy away from the fevered hype around this marvellous song. It was good but they made many better and seemed to loathe the idea of having a hit. They virtually gave away fantastic songs on limited edition 7-inches at concerts which now sell for hundreds. But Stereolab were a fabulous band then and remain so now.

The evening has long been a benchmark for excellent evenings out and for sheer musical exhilaration has never been bettered before or since.

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