by Craig Taylor
There was an awful lot of men in London in those days that quite liked guardsmen. All these wealthy men wanted the attention of these young troopers, these young soldiers, these guardsmen in their red jackets and plumes and bearskins. I thought, ‘This is an odd sort of carrying on.’ You’ve got to remember this was before they legalized homosexuality. In 1970 it was legal between consenting adults; prior to that it wasn’t. It fucking definitely wasn’t in the Army. I knew nothing. I thought homosexuality was a sexy word. I didn’t know what it meant. But then I also thought prawn cocktail was something you drank. My brother told me once, ‘I had a prawn cocktail.’ I thought, how can you fucking drink prawns? That’s how ignorant we were.
The more I got into becoming a regular trooper in the Life Guards, the more I got to know about what they called the Old Sweats, the blokes who had been about a bit longer. You started to learn a bit about what they called ‘tyking’. A tyke was a man who paid for your company. Like a guy pays for a woman – they were called tykes. What would happen was something like this. A good pal of mine was on £6 a week. He had to support a wife. He used to go with a barrister to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a real swanky part of London. They would cover themselves in oil or grease and they did Greco-Roman wrestling. My mate always had to lose, with the barrister kneeling on his shoulders with an erection. This is what I was told. For that my mate got twenty quid. When you’re getting £6 a week and someone’s spending an hour a week wrestling around on the carpet with a barrister, you got to say what the fuck’s going on here, it’s going a bit odd.
London does strange things to a soldier.
*
The first time I came down the Mall? Fantastic. I hadn’t fought a battle, I hadn’t fired a round in anger at anybody. But it was a great feeling. It’s the Queen’s official birthday. Everyone’s there to cheer her on, say lovely, happy birthday, all the rest of it. You’re one of eleven men riding down the Mall and the whole world is looking at you. You daren’t look left or right. I could see the Queen. In those days she used to ride. She would ride round the troops, the footguards, and go back to the saluting position. We would ride past her and we would see her up close and personal with all her medals and sashes on and all the rest of it. There were no smiles, obviously, she didn’t say ‘Hello boys.’ But then she would ride back and be immensely proud of her troops because we’d just trooped the colour for her and although it’s gone on the same every year, every year’s exciting.
When it’s all over and the Queen’s left the parade ground, the sovereign’s escort, which is the Household Cavalry, rides out. One division rides in front, one division rides behind. In front of that division are the massed bands of the brigaded guards, five regiments of guards. There’s five bands playing and they’re marching and they’re playing their music. In those days both sides of the Mall was absolutely thronging. You couldn’t get a razor blade between the people down the whole length of the Mall. People were shouting, waving flags, and you’re riding down the Mall behind the Queen and you’ve got your sword, your horse, your helmet. Unbelievable. You’re a movie star.
It’s diabolically hot. The leather skullcap used to shrink. As it got hotter you had to keep shaking your head, otherwise it grips so tight blokes pass out, blokes faint. And then it was over, you’d done it, you’d achieved, you’d done the Trooping of the Colour. You’d really made it. I suppose it’s like an Olympian standing on the podium. Even if it’s a bronze it didn’t matter. The flags went up, people cheered and waved, and you rode down that Mall. It was a fabulous, fabulous feeling.
BRUCE SMITH
On Big Ben
I’ve always been drawn to London. Always. Why is that? Was it Ben Jonson, the playwright, who said, ‘When a person’s fed up with London, he’s fed up with life’? I believe that, I really do. There’s just something about London, it’s addictive.
In the 1980s I was living in Hertfordshire, in Potters Bar, and you didn’t really get Class A drugs there. You would now, of course, but then I had to come to London to score my drugs. As soon as the crack of dawn, I wouldn’t even clean my teeth, I’d get on the train to King’s Cross. If I hadn’t got the money, I’d borrow it from someone, beg, steal or borrow, whatever. It’d be commuter time and if I was high, great, it would be a lot easier. If you’re sick and you’re clucking, it’s not a very good thing to do, to get amongst other people. But you find a way, so I’d get up to here, to King’s Cross. It was a very good place to score drugs.
At the time, I was with this woman who was working as a graphic designer for a soft-porn publisher in Soho. Like me, she had a habit, she was using heroin. The area had this kind of like Bohemian feel about it. There’d be pubs where there would be artists and poets and these guys hanging round and they’d be basically getting out of their heads, not on booze, but on Class As. I loved it.
In Charing Cross Road there was a notorious chemist that was used just for one thing: to buy your syringes and get your prescription drugs. There’d be all the usual things in there which chemists would sell: soaps and what have you, but nobody entered there for anything other than prescription drugs or syringes. So you go to this chemist. You score. You get your syringe. What do you want to find next? If you were lucky you’d find a McDonald’s, but you’d go to the public toilet, so you’d go to Piccadilly Circus toilet and you can bet no one went there for the purpose of relieving themselves. They’d go in there to fix. I remember the first time I went in there, I think I was about 26, 27, and it was just people standing around fixing. There were junkies who’d been at it for years, maybe 50, 60 years old, and their veins would all be worn down. So they’d be fixing up in their groin right in front of you. Today, if I walked into a toilet I’d be appalled by it, but then it was like, wow. Look at this guy having a hit there in front of me, quite openly. To an addict, it’s as welcoming as a beautiful blonde woman in the party giving you the come-on.
No personal details, he says quickly. He drinks coffee in King’s Cross. Occasionally he plays with the zipper on his fleece.
I didn’t think I had a problem, but there I was shooting up all different kinds of stuff – whatever you’d put in front of me really. The denial was so strong, I’d be looking at some old guy shooting up into his jugular or in his groin, you know, and I’d be thinking, I’m young, I don’t hang around here much, I just get the drugs and go back to my girlfriend’s office in Soho. We’d have a hit in the comfort of this office and I’d think, mmm, I haven’t got a problem because here I am in an office, got a beautiful girlfriend. You know, I’m kind of working.
I finally quit in 1989. Early in my rehabiliation I was offered a flat in Russell Square. It was a first-stage treatment place for recovering addicts. I stayed there for eighteen months and then they said, you’ve completed the course, you’ve been a good boy, you’ve stayed clean, we’re going to give you a council flat, social housing. And I said, fantastic, where’s it going to be? Expecting somewhere like, I don’t know, Mayfair or Clerkenwell, somewhere nice. You’ll never guess where they said: King’s Cross. They gave me a flat in a street which was full of really sleazy hotels, junkies and drug dealers.
I’d wake up in the morning and the first thing I’d see would be a deal going on, or there might be a prostitute going about her business in the middle of the square. It was quite common to turn a corner and there might be a hooker there giving a blow job to a punter. It was that bad. Or you’d be stepping over a junkie. I’ve done some pretty desperate things, but one day I saw this street addict bend down and fill his works with water from the gutter. I don’t know if he was cleaning his works out or using that water to shoot up with, but either way that’s pretty bad. That was right outside where I was living, and I thought, my god, I’m so pleased I quit taking when I did, because we call that a ‘yet’ in recovery – it’s something we haven’t done, but it’s out there waiting for you if you continue.
In all these years, I didn’t spend a great deal of my time with my head up.
I’d just see a lot of London’s pavements. It’s like that old song by Glen Campbell, ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’. I knew every dirty rotten crack in the sidewalk, you know what I mean? I knew where they led to. You’re oblivious to buildings around you, really. If they served a purpose in as much as that building had something to give you, maybe you might take an interest in it, but I’d be oblivious to like, I don’t know, anything like aesthetic, anything beautiful. I’ll give you an example: Big Ben. Wonderful big clock, but I never gave it a second look.
In recovery I found myself living in Brazil for four years. I was teaching English as a second language and some of the most common questions you’d get are, so, you’re from London, have you ever seen the Queen? Have you seen Buckingham Palace? What’s Big Ben look like? They ask you these kinds of questions. There was a student who was studying architecture and he used to talk about Big Ben to me. He’d say, Big Ben’s a beautiful clock, isn’t it? And I’d say, is it? I don’t really know. I’ve never really looked at it. It wasn’t until I came back home four years later. I was driving round Big Ben, I had my sunroof open, I had my wife and kids in there, and I looked at Big Ben and it was as if I’d looked at it and seen it for the first time. I thought, fucking hell, he’s right, it’s a beautiful clock. And it’s the first time I’d really actually seen it. A big phallic building, four wonderful clockfaces, you know, gold, shining, all lit up and I thought, how comes I never saw this before? The reason is because I spent a great deal of my time with my chin on the ground.
When I lived in Brazil I used to think, my god, I’ve got to get back to London soon. I’m missing it and I’d come back here and I’d find myself walking round the streets and seeing things I took for granted before, like Big Ben, knowing it was there, but not really being aware of its presence. The difference is I’d come back from Brazil and I’d be looking at Big Ben and it would be as if I’m touching it and I’d be looking at it and I’d be counting how many dials it’s got on there. Maybe it’s something in me, I don’t know.
There’s so many addicts out there who won’t quit taking drugs because they believe there’s no hope. Big Ben is like a symbol of hope to me. Every time I see it, it represents some kind of hope to me. It’s like a spirit, an embodiment of my recovery.
PHILIP AND ANN WILSON
On the Tower of London
PHILIP: To become a yeoman warder, you must have served twenty-two years in the armed forces, have reached the rank of staff sergeant or above, and have been given an exemplary recommendation. I am at the Tower of London to entertain and inform; and, when my day is over, I don’t have to go far to see my wife: we live in the Tower. We’ve got a village green, a doctor living beside us and plenty of neighbours. But no one believes we actually live there. ‘What’s it like?’ ‘Have you got electricity?’ We hear all of that. And try ordering a pizza. We share the staircase to our flat with the public, but it’s very private up here. Our grandchildren think we live in a castle. In some ways we do.
ANN: It is a bit strange coming through the Tower with shopping bags. We’ve heard about the ghosts. I’m not so interested in history, but it’s seeped in over the years. People ask about the Tower and I somehow know all the answers. I couldn’t think of a more unusual place for us to be. We’ve even had murder mystery parties here. It’s been an interesting journey that’s brought us here. When I first met him, there were these three army men in a pub. Two of them were very tall – most men serving in the Guards were, back then. I thought, ‘Well, as long as I don’t get the short one in the middle with the ginger hair.’ I did. We were married five months later. I made the right choice. We’ve always had good banter, since we were first married and he was stationed in Berlin. We still chat when he gets in. His yeoman uniforms do take over the house. The full one has tights and knickerbockers. He’s a bit of a clothes horse, too. He likes his bow ties. He’s got more cufflinks than I’ve got earrings. But I get a cup of tea in bed every morning before he leaves to guard the Tower.
TIM TURNER
On ‘Londin’
People sometimes ask me, ‘Oh, so where are you from?’ I say, ‘Oh, I’m from Londin.’ They can’t hear it when you say it but it’s not the same place. It’s a subtle difference but it’s very important to understand it, especially if you’re not from here, especially if you’re just passing through. It’s a different word. It’s like when you move here you’re introduced to this charming, attractive person, well versed in history and up to date with all the music, and you decide to meet up, but when you get to the pub their really odd twin sibling is sitting there instead. You can see the similarity but you just think, wait a minute …
What is my life like in the city of Londin? I get on the Tube at Elephant and Castle. I get off the Tube at Bank and go to work. The next day I get on the Tube at Elephant and Castle. I get off the Tube at Bank and go to work. The next day I get on the Tube at Elephant and Castle. I get off the Tube at Bank and go to work. The next day I get on the Tube at Elephant and Castle. I get off the Tube at Bank and go to work. I don’t think I know what an elephant is any more, I can’t really summon a mental image of an elephant. I hear that word and I just start walking towards work.
I’m hated. I work in finance. I wear a collection of terrible ties. My work is constant. If I describe it in any detail I will literally have to fall asleep, I will just have to put my head down on the table and sleep and hopefully dream of another kind of job, a job where I never once have to say the word ‘mortgage’.
I’m not living in a London of big pleasures and tourism and Russian billionaires and Saatchi Galleries and the London Eye, but Londin. I guess it’s a cross between London and Londis, really. You’re not exactly at Waitrose, you’re not even at Sainsbury’s, you’re not even at Tesco. It’s a bit shit in Londin, but there are little pleasures, like walking very quickly and listening to my headphones; like the taste of that ready-made pasta they sell at M&S, with chunks of feta the size of miniature golfballs; or like the big southbound platform at Angel station. There’s so much room on that one platform. I was there the other day and I thought to myself: why did they make this platform so ridiculously big? It’s wonderful. It was like I was on holiday in Londin. You could run up and down it, ride an animal up and down the platform. Ride an elephant. Elephant! Watch, I’ll start walking to work. I’ve said the word: elephant.
I had a friend who used to live in South London but she moved back to Huddersfield a couple of years ago. She called me the other night and told me she’d joined a choir. I said to her: a what? She said: a choir. It was like a word beamed in from another galaxy. Why would she be in a choir when she could spend that time working? How would ‘singing in a choir’ even work? Why would she even think of stepping away from her desk? I suppose I could join a choir if they held their rehearsals in the aisle of M&S where they keep their takeaway pasta meals. I could just swing by during dinner time for about three minutes before going back my desk and then sit there and hum, but otherwise … I suppose there are choirs in London. Maybe one day they’ll start one in Londin. The Londin Men’s Choir.
Then I had this image of me trying to sneak off to a choir rehearsal or something, something in London, sneaking towards London from Londin, and just about getting past this enormous sleeping beast, just like tiptoeing past. But then the Elephant awakes. And then the Castle awakes beside it – tag team! – and the two of them block my way. You can see it, can’t you? With his trunk, like, swinging down. I don’t know what the castle would do. Can castles be aggressive? I guess they can when you play chess.
I’m going to move to London some day. When I’m rich and have finally cashed out and don’t have to ever, ever, ever again say that I work for a bank. I’m going to cut all my work ties into little pieces and throw them in the Thames and then I’m going to take all this money I’ve earned, all the money people think I’ve earned while selling my soul, and I’m going to move from Londin to London. I’m going to go up to Elephant and Castle for
the last time and get on the Bakerloo Line and travel north. I’m going to go to Westminster Abbey and the London Eye and when I’m in one of those pods going up to look at the city, some tourist from Munich or Idaho will say to me: oh, is this your first time in London? And I’ll be all like, yep. And you know what? London is everything I expected it to be.
He is called away to a table surrounded by men in suits, covered in empties. He nearly forgets the tie he’s left coiled by the salt shaker and the menu. He’s left behind a small stack of pound coins and an empty glass.
EARNING ONE’S KEEP
RUBY KING
Plumber
I came to London to go to dancing school. It was the early Eighties and I was the first black girl at my college. And I came to London deciding I was gonna be a huge star. I remember walking down Oxford Street going, ‘I’m going to be a star. Excuse me: I’m going to be a star. I’m gonna be … Excuse me: I’ve arrived.’ [Laughs.]
But the funny thing is, after the first week I was on the phone crying to my mother going, ‘I hate it, everybody’s horrible.’ Because I couldn’t cook! Couldn’t cook, didn’t know how to do anything. When I lived at home, I used to cook for my family, and do Sunday roast, and do all of that kind of stuff, I’m the youngest of six. And I came to London and I had to do everything myself. I lived on roast chicken and roast potatoes, that’s all I could do, because you could put it on one plate and put it in the oven and hope for the best. So after a week I’m [sobbing voice]: ‘Please let me come home …’ and it was like, ‘No. No. This is what you wanted, you wanted to go to dancing school’ – because I’d gotten in to dancing school – ‘and stay.’ And she said, ‘Try and stay until half-term. If you don’t like it after half-term, then you can come home.’ So I stayed up until half-term and I came home, and I was like, ‘Yeah, I need to go back.’ And she was right. I never went home since.
