by John Healy
The smallest police station in London, ‘possibly in Europe’, is in Trafalgar Square. It has room for one or maybe two coppers, depending on how skinny these constables are. Inside there is a telephone, and a wall shelf on which to write up the daily notes. When the phone is lifted for an emergency, a flashing light comes on to attract nearby patrolling policemen, who would be welcome in an emergency, and they could rush to the square to assist their colleagues. There were always lots of angry political demonstrations held in this square and this unique structure has all round observation slots to make it easy to spot any trouble. I am told that there were times when a couple of prisoners were also held within this police box – what a handy holding pen. I belive that the circular police station was built in 1926, and is no longer used for its original purpose. The local council now use it as a broom cupboard. What a shame. Rumour has it that the extremely ornate glass light on top of this structure was once in a proud position on board Lord Nelson’s flag ship, the Victory.
Did you know that there was a ‘Left-Handed’ shop in Soho? It closed in 2006 due to rising rents and excessive parking charges. Don’t these people want any of those lovely old businesses to thrive? They are closing daily. What will we be left with? Very little, I think. This shop really did help the left-handed. In Ireland, the Gaelic for a left-handed person is a ‘kithogue’. I am glad to say that the ‘Left-Handed’ shop has now moved to the Internet, far from the reach of high rents and greedy parking charges. I actually believe that a very large portion of these rents will end up abroad, feathering foreign nests, and in no way will that help this country. These big organisations are getting out of control.
* * *
I was on the cab rank at Clapham Junction some time ago. I had not had, as they say in the cab trade, ‘a wrong un’ for some time, and there he was standing at my window. He looked like Albert Steptoe, except that he was well-dressed, and spoke fairly posh English.
‘Can you take me to Sutton, cabbie?’ he said to me.
‘Jump in,’ said I, and off we went.
When we arrived in Sutton I asked him where exactly it was that he wanted. He said, ‘It doesn’t look very much like Sutton.’ He then said, out of the blue, ‘Can you take me to Battersea?’ and named a certain pub. It was then that I realized I had a mentally ill person in the cab. I had to get back to London, so he may as well come with me, I just could not leave this poor old chap in Sutton. When we got to the pub we both entered, and the moment the landlady saw us, and my badge, she shook her head. I asked her, ‘What can I do?’ She said that I should take him to the police station. She knew all about this guy, and she also knew that he had no money. I could not leave this elderly man on the streets of London, so I took him to the local cop shop and handed him over. They asked me if I wanted him charged for fraud, I said, ‘You must be joking’. The police thanked me for my good attitude. So I left this poor old gent in their care. Even though I had been swindled I could not help feeling sorry for this senior citizen, who made me think, ‘But for the grace of God, there go I’. Four hours had elapsed and I did not even earn a penny. As Frank Sinatra said, ‘That’s Life’.
Two officers from that very same police station were in attendance a couple of years earlier when a car driver turned left and crashed into my cab. Regardless of the fact that there was a ‘No Left Turn’ sign, the cops said, ‘Sort it out between yourselves,’ and walked away. All I could do was take the car’s number plate, which was false, and the driver’s address. That turned out to be a cemetery in Tooting (but which grave? Ha,ha.) When I complained about the policemen’s behaviour, all I got was an apology. I suppose if I had got myself a good lawyer I may have received compensation. But there you have it.
In my twenty-seven years as a black cab driver, the odd fiddling punter has got into my cab, and when we get to the train or coach station they say that they have been robbed, or lost their wallet or purse. I have heard that story time after time. So what can I do? I give my address, and they say they will send the fare. In twenty-seven years, not one has ever sent me the fare that they owed me. I hear complaints about cabbies from the public, but it’s equal on both sides: ninety-nine per cent of punters and cabbies are honest. By the way, it’s the Lord Mayor’s ‘Transport for London’ who set the taxi tariffs, not the cabbie. Also the meter is offically sealed and cannot be tampered with.
* * *
I was passing Wandsworth Prison one morning around 9am, when I was hailed by a newly released prisoner. He looked OK so I stopped and picked him up. This guy was glad to be out, and I was sure that he would not do anything that would put him straight back in the clink, so I felt safe. We started chatting, and he told me that he had been sentenced to twelve years for murder, ten of which was in the Isle of Wight’s Parkhurst prison, and the remaining two years in Wandsworth Prison. He also told me that his toughest time was the two years in Wandsworth. But, if you were a model prisoner in Wandsworth you could get anything sent in: fags, whisky, drugs, all sorts of stuff. He said, ‘It depends on who you know’. I am unable to substantiate any of this information as I don’t even know this fellow’s name. This ex-con told me that he went to the aid of his mother who was being abused by her live-in lover. He said that he had lost his temper, and stabbed the lover to death in order to protect his mum. I actually felt sorry for this poor fellow. It’s a natural action to protect one’s mother, but the judge did not think that way. I took him to the nearest public house so that he could drink to his welcome release. His mother was still alive, and he said that he was longing to see her, but the pint of ale was all that was on his mind.
I once picked up a man outside Battersea power station. He was a senior engineer in this unique building. He casually related to me that this was the largest single brick building in Europe. He further told me that the excess hot water was piped under the Thames to provide central heating for the council houses and blocks of flats in Churchill Gardens, Pimlico. What a great bit of engineering, otherwise the hot water would have been wastefully pumped into the river. I suppose it would have kept the fish warm. I am sure that all the heating bills went up when the power station closed in 1983. Battersea power station was built in the ‘Art Deco’ style and looks just like a giant upside-down table to me. The power station will soon be redeveloped, possibly by the Japanese, who I believe have futuristic plans for this slowly decaying structure. The building was used in the Monty Python film The Meaning of Life and has also appeared in Doctor Who, and many other films whose titles elude me.
Speaking of council houses, a housing councillor asked an Eskimo, ‘What do you think of the housing shortage?’ to which he replied, ‘I have not got igloo’. He may have mispronounced ‘a clue’. It’s only a weak joke.
* * *
I went on a last trip to central London in order to take a few more photos for this book. I was in Whitehall and I have never seen so many tourists, all taking photos of the splendidly attired troopers on horseback. A few took a picture of the three hundred-year-old clock behind the Guards, but they failed to notice a large black spot just at the top of the two o’clock numeral on this timepiece. This black spot denotes the exact time that the executioner’s axe struck the neck of King Charles I, severing the head from his body with one clean blow. I have often wondered if the victim can actually see the basket as his head crashes into the container. Surely there must be micro-seconds before the brain shuts down, and during this tiny amount of time this image is passed to the brain, and must show pure terror to the beholder. I read somewhere that the eyes of the severed head of the French Queen, Marie Antoinette, were open when it entered the basket, and these terror filled eyes rolled in their sockets for around ten to fifteen seconds. How horrible is that? Man has always been cruel to his fellow man, and this will never change.
I strolled up to the Houses of Parliament and took an awesome picture of the fierce-looking Oliver Cromwell’s statue. Cromwell was supposed to have said to a portrait painter that he wanted a c
orrect likeness of himself, ‘warts and all’. They say that this is where that saying comes from, but there is no real evidence of this story, but it does sound plausible. I must admit that the image looks very foreboding. I would not like to meet this man in a battle, look at the size of his sword. I’m afraid that I would have to take to my heels.
I then walked past the original Jewel House. They actually kept the Crown Jewels here for well over 300 years. In 1671, a Colonel Thomas Blood did actually steal the jewels, was caught, sentenced to death, and later reprieved by King Charles II. So the treasures were moved to the impregnable, and ever so fearsome Tower of London, where they have been safe ever since. If one looks at the photo of the old Jewel House, it does not look very secure. I certainly wouldn’t keep ‘my’ jewels there, such as they are.
In Piccadilly (Knightsbridge end), there is a strange object called the Porter’s Rest. Around the late 1700s the porters from Covent Garden would be carrying in excess of a dozen loaded baskets on their heads. So the local do-gooders erected what looked like a giant, long bench seat so that the porter could rest without putting his load on the ground. He would never be able to lift the baskets from the ground back on to his head, but with the bench at shoulder level, it’s easier to just bend the knees, move the baskets on to the bench, rest, reload, and then continue his journey. The Porter’s Rest could accommodate about ten basket loads at one time. (See photo in plate section.)
I continued my London walk, and arrived in the very upmarket Eaton Square, where I came across a blue plaque to Vivien Leigh. She was a Hollywood legend in the old films such as Gone With The Wind with Clark Gable, A Streetcar Named Desire, Waterloo Bridge, and so on.
As I was walking down Whitehall, I could not resist taking a photo of a couple of rare red phone boxes. I wonder how much longer they will be there.
* * *
I am now heading for one of the world’s most famous department stores, Harrods. This store is actually in Brompton Road, and not in the street called Knightsbridge, but it is in the area affectionately known as Knightsbridge. There was a time when this store had a strict dress code, no soldiers in uniform, no flipflops or bare midriffs, and definitely no shorts. Today, the rules are a bit more lenient, but it still has the no shorts policy.
Henry Harrod started his business with a small shop on the site. He was a tea merchant, and soon expanded the store to be the largest department store in Europe. I was informed that in the early years the store could take you from the cradle to the grave, they would even supply the coffin, plus the service. Harrods employs up to 4,000 workers. The food hall would knock one down with its fabulous aromas making one’s mouth water. Some people who cannot afford to shop in this high-class store just buy the famous green carrier bag, shop elsewhere, then they go home swinging the full-up, prestigious bag so all the neighbours can see. That sounds like the ‘fur coat and no drawers’ theme.
This fine store has been there since 1884, and boasts the very first escalator. A cuddly toy bear was purchased by a certain A A Milne for his son who was called Christopher Robin. He named the bear ‘Winnie the Pooh’, and then came the famous Winnie the Pooh stories. Harrods is worth a visit even if it’s only for the green carrier bag.
Just around the corner from Harrods is Hans Place. Here at number 23 there is a blue plaque dedicated to the novelist Jane Austen. She lived there in the year 1814. This talented lady wrote Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility among many others. If we walk further along Brompton Road we come across Beauchamp Place (pronounced Beecham Place). It is well over 200 years old, and is one of the most fashionable places in London. People from Princess Diana to Kirk Douglas have been seen here. In the early 1800s an upper-crust shopper would have an armed escort to protect them from ‘footpads, ruffians and murderers’. But nothing changes, the low life still turns up now and then. A poor old jeweller closed up after being robbed three or four times. He was there for years, and then he said that he had had enough. He feared that the next time he may be shot dead.
* * *
I was surprised when I read an article about one of the largest meat markets in Europe, Smithfield. The article said that during the plague this area was a large open field. As the plague deaths were mounting, they buried over 50,000 victims here; what an enormous number of expired human beings to bury, presumably in mass graves. Also on this site up to 300 people were burnt at the stake in religious persecutions. What a bloodthirsty place this was in days of yore.
The market is a great place to visit today. Just before Christmas is the best time to experience the exciting hustle and bustle. Do you think that if the people of this meat market dug down deep enough they would find bones? And would the plague virus still be active? Incidentally, the porters of this meat market are called ‘bummarees’. What a strange name.
Chapter 44
Going back about twenty years, I remember being on the rank at Paddington Station, third cab in line, when two Americans ladies came to my window and asked to be taken to the London Palladium. I said there were two cabs in front of me, to which they replied, ‘But one is red and the other is blue and yours is black’. They went on to say, ‘We were told to only use black cabs in London’.
By this time the two taxis in front were gone, so the Yanks got into my vehicle. I explained that the term ‘black cab’ is an affectionate term that refers to all licensed taxis, no matter what colour. These ladies had been in London for about a week and had missed out time and again by waiting for a ‘black taxi’ while they watched lots of coloured cabs drive by without hailing them.
As we pulled out of the station, all traffic came to a sudden standstill. Apparently, a terrorist was priming a bomb in a top floor bedsit in Sussex Gardens. The device blew up in his face. I read later in the evening news that the bomber was deeply imbedded in the ceiling plaster and the police forensic team literally had to climb a stepladder and scrape off what was left of him. The good thing was that no other person was killed. The bad thing was that my two Americans got out and walked to the Palladium, so I lost the fare.
Another time in the same station I picked up a Chinese tourist. He said in broken English that he wanted to go to the Windsor Castle. I said to this Oriental gent, ‘I am very sorry, but it’s only ten a.m. and the pubs do not open until eleven’. He said, ‘Nooo, I no wan dink, I wan see wer king n’ queen liv, you take now, prease, Windsor Castle.’ That’s exactly how he spoke. What a great fare, all the way to the real Windsor Castle, but it’s a good thing that I mentioned the opening hours or he would have looked at the pub and said, ‘No very big castle, wer queen?’ As we drove away from the station I could not help thinking that this was my first Chinese takeaway of the week...
* * *
I was hailed in the Edgware Road once by five Middle Eastern ladies. Four of them were extremely petite in stature. The fifth was much larger and I thought she was the matriarch of the group because she held the purse and was the only one to speak. They all wore jet black burkas and were covered in black fabric from head to toe. I looked in the rear view mirror and all I could see was the whites of their stunning eyes in a background of darkness. It was a most unusual sight. I had the feeling I was driving around a small part of some lucky man’s harem. They asked to be driven to Berkeley Square. When we arrived at Berkeley Square, the large lady said, ‘We have come to hear the nightingales’. Well, I was well and truly flabbergasted. I explained that it was only a line from the Frank Sinatra song, ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.’
She thought for a few seconds, and then uttered ‘Oh’, and without hesitation said, ‘Take us to Shepherd’s Bush market’. I couldn’t help laughing with my mouth shut.
* * *
As a television engineer in the sixties I was once called to Down Street, just off Piccadilly. As far as I could make out, the flat was rented by Jackie Kennedy’s sister-in-law, and the First Lady was there. Apparently it was a clandestine visit about some family affairs and the press did n
ot even know she was in London. I suppose I could have made a fortune if I had phoned the newspapers.
I actually caught a brief glimpse of the First Lady of America when she threw a tiny, brief smile at me before disappearing into another room. I still treasure that little smile. She had her bodyguard close by her side and I was surprised that I was even let into the mansion flat without a proper security check.
When one of the greatest American presidents of our time was shot dead, Jackie waited out the proper mourning period and then married the shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis in 1968. I wanted to draw a cartoon of this lovely lady depicting her walking in a field full of donkeys, and the caption would have read ‘At last Jackie has got her “own asses”’. I do hope that I don’t have to explain that joke. I am a terrible cartoonist, so it never materialised.
Chapter 45
I was on the Harrods cab rank and while there was a lull in trade I began thinking back to a few years before when there was a terrible accident on this very spot. Two American tourists were window-shopping when suddenly a black cab came around the corner. The driver’s foot had got stuck between the brake and the accelerator and the taxi mounted the pavement and drove straight over the two unfortunates, killing them instantly. The vehicle ended up in Harrods’ window. I was told the driver was wearing sandals that may have been too big for him and the wide sole had got jammed between the accelerator pedal and the brake pedal. Imagine, coming all the way from America, just to get killed.
Suddenly, I was brought back down to earth by a tap on the window. It was a stunningly dressed lady wearing sunglasses. Before she could speak, I said ‘number “xxx” Eaton Place’. (I cannot reveal the number of this nice female’s flat in order to protect her privacy.) She then said, ‘How did you know that?’ to which I replied, ‘You are Joan Collins, are you not?’ She dropped her sunglasses a little, and said, ‘Yes I am’. She was slightly miffed that I had recognised her.
