More on London Underground lost station (Notting Hill) AND the mail rail -- sadly abandoned in favour of road travel

Further to my earlier post about the Old Vic Tunnels (reprinted at the bottom of the page) two more posts have been drawn to my attention - about London's lost subterranean world. To add to this we might add London's Citadels -- Wartime seats of Government in Westminster and Dollis Hill. But more of them Later.........
Two Blog posts about lost underground facilities From the excellent http://www.messynessychic.com/ ....

The Secret Museum entombed in the Notting Hill Tube Station

In "Nostalgia" on January 7, 2013 at 6:54 pm

Little do London tube passengers know as they travel through the maze of the underworld, what may lie just on the other side of a wall. As crowds of vintage and antique lovers leave the train at Notting Hill Gate for a day of treasure hunting at Portobello market, they’re probably unaware of the most secret vintage collection of them all.

In the late 1950s, the Notting Hill tube station underwent a major overhaul when the old lifts that transported passengers to and from the train platforms were abandoned and replaced with modern escalators. The passageways to the lifts were sealed off too and everything within them was subsequently frozen in time.

In 2010, some new routine works were underway when the sealed-off passageways were re-discovered after 50 years, revealing a mini museum of well-preserved vintage posters from the post-war era.

The movie posters, as seen in the first photograph, give us a more accurate estimate of when exactly the tunnels were sealed. The Horse’s Mouth and Too Many Crooks were both released in 1958. The old white tiling hasn’t held up too badly either and would date back to 1900 when the deep-level Central Line opened in the station.

Here we have two different plays being advertised, Around the World in 80 Days and one starring Rita Hayworth whose title I can’t quite make out.

The Ideal Home Exhibition, founded in 1908 is still going strong, more commonly known as the ‘Ideal Home Show’.

\

Toothpaste brand, Pepsodent is still sold in a few countries like India, Malaysia and Finland.

So the bad news is this place is so secret that for the moment, no one can actually access it. Once the lost passageways had been discovered and the Design & Heritage Manager of London Underground, Mikey Ashworth had photographed them for us, it was decided the posters and passageways should be re-entombed and left in isolation. “So please don’t pester the station staff as please do not pester the station staff as the posters are wholly inaccessible” says Mikey, “which is why they’ve probably survived 50 odd years!”

Still I’d be surprised if some urban explorers out there aren’t busy planning a way in.

I suppose the good news is riding the London tube might not be so dull if you know places like this still exist.

Photographs shared with the public by the London Underground. A full gallery can be viewed on Mikey Ashworth’s Flickr account.

London’s Subterranean Secret: The Forgotten Mail Train

In "Boys click here" "don't be a tourist" "shock me" on November 9, 2012 at 1:10 pm

As a former Londoner, born & raised, who thought she knew everything there was to know about the city, finding out that there’s been a secret Royal Mail underground train line beneath our feet for over 85 years was just a little bit shocking. A reader sent me a tip this morning about a group of urban explorers who had managed to infiltrate this notoriously hard-to-reach underworld. The Royal Mail’s underground ‘mini’ railway was used to take letters (and possibly workers) along the tracks to different station/sorting offices stretching from Paddington to Whitechapel. In 2002, it had become an uneconomical service, losing an estimated £1.2M a day, and quietly shut down.

For almost a decade, the abandoned stations and tracks have stood in silence; only empty mail trolleys creaking from the drafts, outdated telephones sitting on abandoned control desks, trains mid-track and frozen in time.

To the thrill-seeking explorers of Silent UK, the Rail Mail was “London’s final unconquered Grail”. With most remaining access points covered in concrete or tucked away in secured live postal depots, “it is without a doubt the Mail Rail sits at the throne of London exploration, laughing maniacally at the puny adventurers unable to even stare it in the eyes without bursting into flames. There is, and will never be anything like it again, its uniqueness forever unrivalled,” recalls the anonymous author at Silent UK. I suppose every city needs its secrets.

Relive about this extraordinary adventure into the London underworld with Silent UK detailing the full story behind the Mail Rail, how they infiltrated it and what they found. Hats off to the team for taking such a risk. Full article and MORE photographs HERE!

WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO THE MAIL RAIL??

Despite sitting as ghost stations and tunnels for almost a decade now, in October last month it was quietly revealed that an architectural firm’s plans for an underground mushroom garden north of Oxford Street have been shortlisted in a civic bid to find out-of-the-box ideas for bringing life back to abandoned industrial infrastructure.

Similar to the idea of the High Line, where derelict railways were successfully converted into urban parks in Paris and New York, architects of the Camden-based firm Fletcher Priest are hoping their linear subterranean fungal garden will soon become a reality.

Seemingly still trying to keep the existence of the old Mail Rail quiet, The Mayor of London, in conjuction with the Landscape Institute and Garden Museum, are still keeping plans rather hush-hush. My guess is they don’t want to encourage unchaperoned exploration of what is potentially a hazardous abandoned tunnel system.

But architect Nick Worley at Fletcher Priest says the dark, damp, environment of the abandoned tunnels is perfect for sporing toadstools, puffballs and edible mushrooms.

“The idea was to have a linear park with a restaurant at either end serving dishes made from produce grown in the park,” says Worley. “Mushrooms were a natural fit.”

Is London ready to reveal one of it’s greatest secrets?

via Westend Extra

This photograph comes from Flickr user Richard Pope who seems to have infiltrated the Mail Rail in 2006. He seems to have stumbled upon an old passenger cart in the abandoned mini railway, showing that mail wasn’t the only thing traveling through those tunnels! My guess is this gem was probably removed before Silent UK’s expedition last year. Hopefully it’s safely stored away and we’ll one day see it in a museum.

Thanks to Silent UK and Richard Pope for being such bad-ass explorers!

Also special thanks to my reader who sent me this incredible tip, and thanks to all readers that often send me the interesting things they come across for my bed time reading!

Old Vic Tunnels Director Says Venue Will Close

Old Vic Tunnels say


Hidden beneath Waterloo Station lies 30,000 square feet of unused railway vaults, a labyrinth of mystical tunnels. Fast becoming London’s leading underground arts venue, The Old Vic Tunnels lies in an excellent location; close to both Waterloo and Lambeth North underground stations and London’s Southbank. Five cavernous tunnels including a purpose built screening room create a blank canvas for events such as theatre, live music, cabaret, cinema, album launches, photo shoots and just about everything else in between.

With a total capacity of 850 people and excellent meeting room facilities, we are one of central London’s largest venues. Unusual, edgy and full of urban chic The Old Vic Tunnels are a space like no other. Events in 2012 ranged from Rolf Harris’s pop up gallery as part of the BBC’s Jubilee celebrations, a fundraiser by the Bill Clinton Foundation, Mexico’s Day of the Dead Festival presented by Wahaca and Everyman Cinemas co-production of Saturday Night Fever.

We recently won the Big Society Award from Number 10 and the Royal Society of Public Health’s Award for an Outstanding and Innovative Contribution to Arts and Health Practice for new musical Epidemic.

From http://londonist.com/2013/02/old-vic-tunnels-to-close-this-month.php

BY FRANCO MILAZZO · FEBRUARY 21, 2013 AT 10:00 AM · 5 COMMENTS · ARTS AND EVENTS · REPORT AN ERROR ·

Will there ever be a venue like the Old Vic Tunnels again? It looks like the cult performance space will close this month after three years.

Artistic Director Hamish Jenkinson posted on Facebooklast night:

We have decided to draw our innovative project at The Tunnels to a close. The Tunnels was an adventurous and exciting project which started as a temporary event and performance space in 2009. Since then, The Tunnels earned a reputation as one of the most creative spaces in London. We have three great years to look back on, and are proud of the remarkable range of events and productions that we have presented in the space.

Located under Waterloo train station, the collection of five tunnels covering 30,000 square feet were discovered almost by accident. Jenkinson was at a Banksy exhibition in the legendary graffiti zone Leake Street in 2008 when, on a trip to the bathroom, fortune struck:

I went in and saw another little door further underneath Waterloo train station, so I kicked through, and wandered into a forgotten urban landscape that had been abandoned for 20 years. I got obsessed with it, I was like, ‘I have to try and find a ways of creating something magical in this space’.

The first show was a smash hit. Despite minimal publicity, 20,000 tickets sold in six hours for Punchdrunk’s Tunnel 228. Since then, there has been more performance art as well as a kaleidoscope of other cultural treats including circus, comedy, theatre, cabaret and art exhibitions. Celebs from President Bill Clinton down dropped in and there were balls and themed parties galore over the years.

Aside from the art, the Tunnels worked hard to bring on the next generation of young theatre makers through its award-winning Old Vic Tunnels Volunteers project. Those lucky enough to get a placement found themselves working in a variety of roles from front-of-house to community engagement and maintaining the OVT website. The scheme was recognised at the highest levels when it was given the Big Society Award in 2011.

This is not to say the Tunnels were perfect. The consistent and intriguing line-up and limited capacity of up to 850 people saw show tickets always in high demand. Finding the entrance could be an ordeal in itself, there was no phone reception once inside and those caught short in the early days had to make use of the Portaloos standing in for toilet facilities. The ambience was occasionally affected by the low temperatures and the rumbling sounds of the overhead trains.

In general, all this mattered not a jot to anyone fortunate enough to have a ticket to one of the events there. The unique nature of the Tunnels and, should this turn out to be true, its ambitious and eclectic happenings will live long in the memory.

Update: the Old Vic Tunnels website has been updated with confirmation that it will close on 15 March.

 

Old Vic Tunnels Director Says Venue Will Close

Old Vic Tunnels say 


Hidden beneath Waterloo Station lies 30,000 square feet of unused railway vaults, a labyrinth of mystical tunnels. Fast becoming London’s leading underground arts venue, The Old Vic Tunnels lies in an excellent location; close to both Waterloo and Lambeth North underground stations and London’s Southbank. Five cavernous tunnels including a purpose built screening room create a blank canvas for events such as theatre, live music, cabaret, cinema, album launches, photo shoots and just about everything else in between.

With a total capacity of 850 people and excellent meeting room facilities, we are one of central London’s largest venues. Unusual, edgy and full of urban chic The Old Vic Tunnels are a space like no other. Events in 2012 ranged from Rolf Harris’s pop up gallery as part of the BBC’s Jubilee celebrations, a fundraiser by the Bill Clinton Foundation, Mexico’s Day of the Dead Festival presented by Wahaca and Everyman Cinemas co-production of Saturday Night Fever.

We recently won the Big Society Award from Number 10 and the Royal Society of Public Health’s Award for an Outstanding and Innovative Contribution to Arts and Health Practice for new musical Epidemic.

From http://londonist.com/2013/02/old-vic-tunnels-to-close-this-month.php

BY FRANCO MILAZZO · FEBRUARY 21, 2013 AT 10:00 AM · 5 COMMENTS · ARTS AND EVENTS · REPORT AN ERROR ·

Will there ever be a venue like the Old Vic Tunnels again? It looks like the cult performance space will close this month after three years.

Artistic Director Hamish Jenkinson posted on Facebooklast night:

We have decided to draw our innovative project at The Tunnels to a close. The Tunnels was an adventurous and exciting project which started as a temporary event and performance space in 2009. Since then, The Tunnels earned a reputation as one of the most creative spaces in London. We have three great years to look back on, and are proud of the remarkable range of events and productions that we have presented in the space.

Located under Waterloo train station, the collection of five tunnels covering 30,000 square feet were discovered almost by accident. Jenkinson was at a Banksy exhibition in the legendary graffiti zone Leake Street in 2008 when, on a trip to the bathroom, fortune struck:

I went in and saw another little door further underneath Waterloo train station, so I kicked through, and wandered into a forgotten urban landscape that had been abandoned for 20 years. I got obsessed with it, I was like, ‘I have to try and find a ways of creating something magical in this space’.

The first show was a smash hit. Despite minimal publicity, 20,000 tickets sold in six hours for Punchdrunk’s Tunnel 228. Since then, there has been more performance art as well as a kaleidoscope of other cultural treats including circus, comedy, theatre, cabaret and art exhibitions. Celebs from President Bill Clinton down dropped in and there were balls and themed parties galore over the years.

Aside from the art, the Tunnels worked hard to bring on the next generation of young theatre makers through its award-winning Old Vic Tunnels Volunteers project. Those lucky enough to get a placement found themselves working in a variety of roles from front-of-house to community engagement and maintaining the OVT website. The scheme was recognised at the highest levels when it was given the Big Society Award in 2011.

This is not to say the Tunnels were perfect. The consistent and intriguing line-up and limited capacity of up to 850 people saw show tickets always in high demand. Finding the entrance could be an ordeal in itself, there was no phone reception once inside and those caught short in the early days had to make use of the Portaloos standing in for toilet facilities. The ambience was occasionally affected by the low temperatures and the rumbling sounds of the overhead trains.

In general, all this mattered not a jot to anyone fortunate enough to have a ticket to one of the events there. The unique nature of the Tunnels and, should this turn out to be true, its ambitious and eclectic happenings will live long in the memory.

Update: the Old Vic Tunnels website has been updated with confirmation that it will close on 15 March.

Photo by Mr Moss from the Londonist Flickr pool

Beaver Lake Cree and Tar Sands

Extraction from Myron Lameman on Vimeo.

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

A Tale of Two Markets (Smithfield Meat Market and London Fruit and Wool Exchange)

The City of London was fringed with markets - wholesale markets - that lent depth to the landscape character and identity of the place. Spitalfields (veg and flower) market and Billingsgate fish market left years ago. The Spitalfields Fruit and Wool Exchange has been given planning permission by London Mayor Boris Johnson, despite a unanimous decision by the local planning authority (sic) Tower Hamlets to reject the scheme. A final decision on an application to list buildings there as of historic or architectural interest, will be decided shortly... Smithfield meat market is the last to be retained - thanks to a campaign in the 1980s where porters rented each other desks in order to get votes in the City of London's then archaic property franchise. However, long-derelict buildings are to be redeveloped.... 

Republished below are two influential opinions (Spitalfields Life and Londonist) on the proposed schemes. Both have the same criticism, that proposals are dull. Not bad, just dull.  I suspect it is mourning the loss of variety and creation of a monoculture of boxed, air-conditioned, ground-scaper offices which the authors are displeased with. In the historic perspective, all things pass and so too will the enormous growth in financiaol services and the mediocre architectural expression of that growth.

Until then, the cumulative changes are transforming the landscape of London, and decisions made without regard to Landscape Policy. It is not just that there is a democratic deficit  their appears to be a policy vacuum. London Landscape is being transformed by an accumulation of ad hoc decisions without applying a smidgen of rationality to the process. It would be hoped that the formation of the greater London Assembly and executive Mayor would have addressed this, but clearly not yet. this is in marked contrast to cities like Birmingham, that have created cultural districts with Symphony hall, Ikon Gallery and the Mail Box, on the western fringe of the city centre. It is about time the capital city took itself and its role seriously -- and we got our rights to PARTICIPATE in landscape policy formation, guaranteed by treaty http://www.official-documents.gov.uk/document/cm84/8413/8413.pdf

"to establish procedures for the participation of the general public, local and regional authorities, and other  parties with an interest in the definition and implementation of the landscape policies" Article 5c


View 2 markets in a larger map

In these pages we’ve long argued that what the area needs isn’t another paean to commerce and business, but a new cultural hub celebrating the Smithfield’s long and pungent history. That doesn’t seem likely now, particularly when the area is becoming a key transport nexus: a few years from now it’ll be where Crossrail and Thameslink meet, and property developers are circling. But Smithfield deserves better than the uninspiring vision dreamed up thus far.

http://londonist.com/2013/02/smithfield-quarter-plans-revealed.php (below)

From http://spitalfieldslife.com/2012/10/11/so-long-spitalfields-fruit-wool-exchange/

So Long, Spitalfields Fruit & Wool Exchange

OCTOBER 11, 2012

by the gentle author

After the proposal to demolish and redevelop the historic Spitalfields Fruit & Wool Exchange was rejected unanimously twice by the members of Tower Hamlets Council, last night the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, overruled them and gave the plan his blessing. Now, the sixty small businesses based there have to move out by the end of November to make way for the corporate office block that will take the place of the current building. Today I am republishing this account of my visit to the Exchange earlier this year.

Opening in 1929, when the volume of imported produce coming through the docks more than doubled in the ten years after the First World War, the mighty Fruit & Wool Exchange in Spitalfields was created to maintain London’s pre-eminence as a global distribution centre. The classical stone facade, closely resembling the design of Nicholas Hawksmoor’s Christ Church nearby, established it as a temple dedicated to fresh produce as fruits that were once unfamiliar, and fruits that were out of season, became available for the first time to the British people.

After sixty years as a teeming warren of brokers and distributors, the building languished when the Fruit & Vegetable Market moved out from Spitalfields in 1991 and there were no wholesalers left to cross Brushfield St and supplement their supplies of British produce from the auctions at the Exchange. Since then, around sixty small businesses operated peaceably from the building which through its shabby grandeur reminded every visitor that it had once seen better days.

Yet it was only a matter of time before the notion of redevelopment arose, and when ambitious plans were revealed over a year ago for a huge new building to replace both the Exchange and the multi-storey car park behind it – filling two entire blocks – a sense of disquiet was generated in Spitalfields, especially among those who remembered the uneasy compromises entailed in the rebuilding of the Market.

Few have been convinced by the homogeneous box that was proposed to stand in place of the Exchange and many were disappointed when the creators of such mediocrity dismissed the current structure as of negligible architectural worth. In fact, the Commercial St end of the Exchange building closely matched the window structure and red brick of the eighteenth century houses in Fournier St, while the facade mirrored Christ Church itself. Since then, a revised proposal has been forthcoming which retains the Brushfield St frontage facing the Spitalfields Market but is far from being a design worthy to face Nicholas Hawksmoor’s masterpiece of English Baroque upon the opposite side of Commercial St.

And so, before it vanishes forever, I went over to take a look around and savour the past glories of the City of London Fruit & Wool Exchange for the last time.

Ascending from the grand entrance, a double staircase worthy of a ballroom in a liner or fancy hotel leads you up to the auction rooms. Built as the largest in the country, seating nearly nine hundred people, these magnificent panelled chambers were each the height of two storeys within the building. Fitted with microphones, which were an extraordinary innovation in 1929, possessing elaborate glass roofs that promised to simulate daylight – even on dark and foggy days – to best illuminate the fruit, they were served by high-speed hydraulic lifts to whisk samples of each consignment from the basement in the blink of an eye. Too bad that a recent fire, occurring since the redevelopment was announced, meant they could never be visited again. Now the entrances to the most significant spaces which define this edifice are sealed with tape and off-limits for ever, while charred parquet flooring evidences the flames that crept out under the door.

Instead, I had to satisfy myself with a stroll around the empty top floor through centrally-heated corridors maintained at a comfortable temperature ever since the offices were all vacated two years ago. Everywhere I could see evidence of the quality of this building, from the parquet floors which extend through each storey, to the well-detailed brass fixtures and high-quality Crittall window frames that were still in good order. Within the building, hidden light-wells permit glass-ceilings to be illuminated by daylight upon each storey. Peering into these spaces reveals the paradoxical nature of this edifice which presents ne0-classicism to the street but adopts a vigorous industrial-modernism within, employing vast geometric shaped concrete girders to support the roof spans of the auction rooms below and arranging rows of narrow metal windows in close grids that evoke Bauhaus design.

From the top, I descended through floors of long windowless corridors lined with doors, where an institutional atmosphere prevailed, hushing the speech of those stepping outside their offices as they enter these strange intermediary spaces that belong to no-one any more. My special curiosity was to explore the basement which served as a refuge for the residents of Spitalfields during the Blitz. It was here that Mickey Davies, an East End optician known as “Mickey the Midget,” became a popular hero through his work in improving the quality of this shelter. It had gained the reputation as the worst in London, but later acquired the name “Mickey’s Shelter” in acknowledgment of his good work. As a shelter marshall, Mickey witnessed the overcrowding and insalubrious conditions when ten thousand people turned up at this basement which had a maximum capacity of five thousand. He organised medical care and recruited volunteers to undertake cleaning rotas. And, thanks to his initiative, beds and toilets were installed, and even musical entertainment arranged.

The vast subterranean network of chambers has been empty for twenty years now – gloomy, neglected and scattered with piles of broken furniture. Although partitions have been fitted to create storage rooms – where, mysteriously, Rupert Murdoch recently installed his archive – the Commercial St end of the building remains open and forlorn, with concrete pillars adorned by graffiti. Fruit packers marked off batches of produce in pencil on the wall here, and amused themselves by writing their names and making clumsy doodles. In this lost basement, it is still possible to imagine the world of Mickey Davies, where thousands once slept upon the floor while the city burned outside.

From Brushfields St, the City of London Fruit & Wool Exchange appears implacable – yet I discovered it contains a significant part of the hidden history of Spitalfields that will shortly be erased, to leave just an empty facade.

The central staircase, worthy of a ballroom in a liner or grand hotel.

One of several light wells, lined with Crittall windows and permitting daylight to reach lower storeys.

Looking out towards Crispin St from the rear of The Gun.

Washing room in the basement.

As many as ten thousand people slept here every night while taking shelter from the London Blitz.

Nineteen forties graffiti portrait from the basement.

The telephone exchange.

State of art auction room in 1929, lit by a glass ceiling offering “artificial daylight” on foggy days.

Fruit & vegetable auction

An entrance to the Auction Hall, now sealed permanently after a recent fire.

The broken pediment at the top of this frontage mirrors Nicholas Hawksmoor’s design of Christ Church.

The Exchange in 1929. It is proposed that only this frontage be retained in the redevelopment.

View of Christ Church from the top floor.

You may also like to read about

At the Fruit & Wool Exchange, 1937

Mickey Davis at the Fruit & Wool Exchange

Fruit & Vegetable auction photograph courtesy of Stuart Kira

Other archive images courtesy of Tower Hamlets Local History Library & Archives

From: http://londonist.com/2013/02/smithfield-quarter-plans-revealed.php

Smithfield Quarter” Plans Revealed

BY DEAN · FEBRUARY 15, 2013 AT 9:30 AM · 9 COMMENTS · LATEST NEWS · REPORT AN ERROR ·

Full details of a plan to redevelop the derelict western buildings in Smithfield Market into a restaurant and retail space, alongside new offices, have been released.

Rebranded, inevitably, as “Smithfield Quarter”, the £160m development, by the architect John McAslan + Partners (who recently completed the well-received new concourse at King’s Cross station) proposes turning the fish market, poultry market and general market, which sit at the western end of Smithfield and have been disused for a number of years, into boutique shops and restaurants. The plan also introduces a series of 20m high office buildings within the market’s existing footprint.

Built in the 19th century by Horace Jones (who counted Leadenhall and Billingsgate markets, along with Tower Bridge, on his resume) Smithfield has long been under threat. While the meat market still operates, the three disused buildings have led a perilous existence; then-communities secretary Hazel Blears rescued them in 2008, nixing a particularly hideous office development that would have seen them demolished. Yet the new designs have also proved unpopular. Save Britain’s Heritage is fighting against the development, describing it as “[playing] fast and loose with the building’s historic glass roofed market halls” and offering merely “a nod towards conservation”.

We can see their point. Compared with Covent Garden, which was sensitively restored in the 1970s and still retains much of the charm of its fruit and veg-selling past, the clinical designs above could be located anywhere, and have nothing of buildings’ faded but palpable grandeur. That such an uninspired design comes from McAslan, whose firm  has experience in this field, is particularly disappointing: their redevelopment of the 19th-century Roundhouse in Chalk Farm, for example, was widely praised for marrying the old with the new.

In these pages we’ve long argued that what the area needs isn’t another paean to commerce and business, but a new cultural hub celebrating the Smithfield’s long and pungent history. That doesn’t seem likely now, particularly when the area is becoming a key transport nexus: a few years from now it’ll be where Crossrail and Thameslink meet, and property developers are circling. But Smithfield deserves better than the uninspiring vision dreamed up thus far.

See LiamCH’s series of photographs taken in and around Smithfield Market

 Photo of General Market by dartar

Savage Messiah: Deptford dérive--March 2012--report--part 1

Savage Messiah: Deptford dérive--March 2012--report--part 1:


View Larger Map

  DEPTFORD DRIFT Top deck of bus, watching , closed shops with yellow lights ,, dusty palms, offices broken down with clutter.

Thinking  of that back room., brutalised , blackened, eyes shut with bruises.

Wanting it. In there. Steeped in a sordid morass.

Tower bridge. South of the river,, you are in another territory, out of the grasp of the East, that maze of biography where faces loom up one after another.

That little snarl off Tooley street,, narrow cobbled lanes, gantries, riggings, spars,…

You push through lunchtime crowds—

 postmodern pastiche,, 80s docklands.. a surge of people until  you reach that imperceptible boundary where heritage London dissolves and leeches into Bermondsey, that dank repository of ghosts.

You peer through fences at vast empty factories, rubble and wasteground, these are places you’ve ventured through before,

 1997//2003//2006//2009

 there are echoes of those times now, you slipping in and out of intensive states,, torn in different directions..

 feeling lost somehow, you’d forgotten how that felt but it returns, that anxiety of only being half wanted..

You remember the catclysm before, the destruction, self willed and immediate, you remember the elaborate way he’d sought to avoid and attract it, the desire to pull you into a vortex. , chamber after chamber.

,,  reappearing suddenly, after all these years, a bold presence, saying all the things you wanted to hear.

 Bermondsey,,  The Angel , concrete platform opening next to Thames.

Blistering heat,, intense June.

England shirts, burnt tattoos, 

faces crimson six pints in.

29 degree heat,,, camaraderie turning destructive, becoming heat stroke, sickness, lurching into blindness, violence,,,

you walk past and you absorb it,, feel the tension and want the visceral hit.

Dissipates in Southwark park.. back to now,  Spring pushing into March… no one here yet,  London close at hand, its monuments and markers visible but you walk through revenant territory,,

 London has taken you.

, clutter and ornaments,

fake flowers, wishing wells,,,,,

 you want to sneak in, round the side, like a cat.

You remember walking down here,, back then, and this being the beginning of little pockets of viciousness…

You remember the shrieking, the blood in the street,

You think how there are only ever constellations of moments never linear sequences---

Pulled back to the Thames, 

crosses,  monuments, sandblasted white,,

 glaring cenotaph. A bench with white emulsion thrown over…

you think it should be black and you want that, you will it into being. Black paint hurled all over,, a slick coating, viscous, flung at walls, monuments, scorched circles on the dead ground.

You think how you would feel if you saw that, you think it would make you cry, overwhelmed that at last there was someone else---

You pass Greenland dock,you think of the ghost canal, those walks from Elephant to Deptford,

,,,,

that nexus of dissolution, a loss of self.

Absenting yourself from the life you had ended up with. That walk, the sprint at the bottom of the lifts to Burgess park , tearing up a diagonal path, desire lines slipping under foot. The promise of more, down the canal path,,  .

 you wanted it, the blood, in your mouth.

Violet light, warm on the skin—

fragrance is in turns translucent and seductive. The top notes are a combination of floral powdery notes, with hints of peony, lychee and springtime freesia. The airy, flirtatious head notes drift away to reveal the richer and more sensual side of the rose. This is accompanied by heady magnolia and lily of the valley, as well as subtle intimations of warm amber and elegant cedarwood.

 

Heart notes

Iris Absolute, Lilac, Hyacinth, Wisteria Blossom, Heliotropine

Top notes

Orange Blossom, Pink Pepper

Your escape bid. You hated that estate , the cloying atmosphere,,it didn’t want you to leave.

. through burgess park, expanse of waste,  bulldozed memories... through that razed labyrinth ,,  forever imbued with rushes and pangs,

Him. back again. November 2011. Uncanny return. Strange it should happen now. already loaded. Intoxicated-- But he got to me. 15 years ago, a spur, to start this heady journey , of becoming., this. . 

 Outside. . He looks older. But still him.

That knotwork of bombsites, the weekly run ins with the NF in 2002,, a malign Easter. Dark pubs , Golden Lion,, hatred seeping out on to pavement. You went in a couple of times,,

got leered at by bawling hordes,,

  felt the dirt and the dust,, the smeared glass,, and the blood about to spill,,—

You remember the transit van, how they swerved on the kerb and tried to wrestle you in. 

Pepys estate,, the destruction of the labyrinth,, the attempt to sanitise . You wonder about the mind that could want the grid,  could reject the shadowy maze for the brightly lit avenue.. you think of the unravelling and the risk,,  the blood and the anguish worth it all for the intensity and desire ..

Pub yard, chalky ground and pink dust, black circles scorched---

… you crave those alleys, hidden bolt holes, you want the rookery, to drop through levels, climb ladders and shadowy roof tops..

You think it's the only life you could ever have ,, and you know you can never change.

It’s all or nothing,, the intensity in everything, when you draw you obsess, it becomes  you,,, with love, with the drink… no half measures, a refusal to accept a shadow life… you know it makes it difficult,, you’ve seen other people mould themselves to adapt, you never have,,,many have wanted you punished for it..

but you punish yourself.

The Dog and Bell, you haven’t been in for years, its different since the smoking ban,  feels more stark somehow but then you’re sober,  this is your first drink of the day. You’re hungry but they’re not doing food, you have a bag of crisps, some days this is all you will eat, other times you will feast,, scarcity and abundance, your whole life.

You drink and feel better , dislocation giving way slightly though returning in sharp pangs at reminders of idiot drunken blabberings,,, you think how, when you’re really fucked you become your own writing, experimenting with ideas and phrases,, testing dialogue, reactions…

You feel a bit fucking stupid when it comes back in the yellow light of daytime drinking,, you bury your head in your hands.

that room above the pub,, crenellated tower above the street.

Your room. Pink in the dusk, amber lighting your face , pink lipstick, gold eyeshadow…

Backcombing  hair, wondering which  current will be activated next,, because there are so many, tangled and interwoven,, some pulsate , electrical charges sparking in crepuscular light.. others are ivory chambers, cool as marble, waiting to be walked through.

…  twists and turns, baroque curlicues in acid neon, electric pink,,, you never know which one will spark up when you walk out, onto the High Street,, Deptford,

that Vietnamese restaurant ,, you walk down stairs to a basement where men sit in a fug of tobacco smoke fucked on whisky,, you hear a disembodied wailing, MTV early 90s,, dry ice, disco floor,, they look at you as you pass,,, then back at the screen, faces blue, flashing pink and violet,, singing, discordant, away from each other,, away from the music.. to themselves,, …

You feel that boldness again, the shock of spring, an assault on the skin, chalky white in the sudden glare..,, you smear fake tan, cocoa butter, feel the margarine slick across your chest, your back.  You remember his hands on your waist, how he made the pleasure surge through you--

, red nail polish— black marker pen on your arms--

Deptford high street,, mist burnt off in the heat,, crowds surging out of Iceland, Bookies, into pubs, standing outside smoking, shouting,,

Tanners Hill, congregating under fucked up murals, neolithic stones.

into New Cross, you like the seething nature of it,, you feel the possibilities,,  lights,  magenta, amber,, you wonder what might happen,, feels like anything could, always

tidal , shifting….

interwoven crowds on pavements, criss crossing A2,,

, Montague closed,, keep going to Peckham,

the Red Cow,, mirrors, red banquettes,, you wish you'd had some smack before you came in here---  flashbacks to other times..shreds of September,,,that long hot Autumn., you and J and Robbo and a crew on the Isle of Dogs,,,, everyone sitting outside pubs,  hot Saturday afternoon. Whitechapel, kicking off against EDL,, it all goes mad and you have to get out. You text him and tell him you’re going to walk from the Island,, crossing under the Thames to Greenwich and down through Deptford and New Cross.  He wants to see you, there’s a crew of them and they’re waiting for you in some estate pub in Peckham, the Red Cow. 

He waits out front on the pavement , hanging around smoking with that smile on his face,,  hands around your waist pulling you towards him.

A massive construction site, the residues of a lost brutalist estate-- you’d seen it from the 23rd floor of that tower block---

, blade bone,, tanned hips---

  dark hair // dark eyes,, flashing that look,

 all kicking off, across WHITECHAPEL—NEWHAM—STRATFORD-----

Firing signals,, cross purposes, multiple intent----

, fires going up,,, destruction round  Stratford City—

The pub is rowdy,   packed,  heaving with  crew,,,, you get a fuss made of you,, cuts , black eyes—you feel the blood oozing from a bust lip, his kisses,,, rum and cokes, lager,,, ,,  falling off benches, screeching and laughing,, you think you  need to catch up fast…he goes to the bar for you,, you feel intoxicated ,, him,, this scene, ///the present more vivid than the past….

always going to be some fallout because god knows you  couldn’t contain it,

a smokescreen

 …excitement,, sexual thrill,, the face ,, promise intensifying----

 you’d known a lot of men but none of them had really been able to handle you, not like him…you’d met your match and it was the biggest turn on you’d ever known.

 there would always have to be collateral damage……

and things are accelerating now.

The pavement is crowded, he steers you back inside ,,, you  watch the riots kicking off on the big screen ,,,  you sit snug in the corner,,,he is next to you, pressed close as the crowds mill around, laughing , shouting, spilling beer,

,the  carnivalesque loopiness,,

all happening again,,,

Second phase…

Second wave,,,,

Monday 6pm,  the pub  looks abandoned.  It feels weird, like a waiting room… not how you remember it, the chaos, the carnage, the blood on the walls.

Big screen TV,

Deal or no Deal, genesis of looping superstitons ,..

Edmonds Heirophant,, cosmic ordering

,,,

 you feel like wrenching it off wall, even more than when NHS reform bill comes on the news, Lansleys face, you want to break that,, but it’s early , you’ve had two drinks,, .. what you feel is an easing off of the eerie darkness that’s been pushing you back since Sunday morning..

 you feel the blood begin to course through you .

He says things and then does something else,, you think of the neon, spaghetti junction viewed from above, interwoven fluorescent tubes, that’s what he is to you.

You don’t know where you are,, but the channel is activated , you are on the brink of the labyrinth again, this is the portal… the drift into Peckham is the immersion.

Rye Lane,,  sinking into  luminous tides of detritus, jagged stars,

 heads, hooves, bulbous eyes.

Smashed and burnt shops,, it’s all stirring again ,close at hand,,

 you know they think this is the vortex of terror, you know why they want to rip it all down, sanitise it.

You drift through the arcade by the station, roof caving in, blood on  floor. You step over scorch marks, heaps of shorn hair..

 railway arches,, temporary stop for cheap fix of strong alcohol/,, , dark rum, lime and ginger ..doesn’t matter that the place is full of the empty and ironic..   you are charged up,.,, lenses opening---

You think about earlier, heavy sentences being passed down, old bill trying to get crew on conspiracy charges,, some might think they’re closing in , you think it’s a reshuffling of the pack.------

Back down Rye Lane, noise, lights, cigarette smoke, --

vortex of Queens road,, you feel it, the pull//unmistakable now,, tension, intensifying..

You think of the blood and the smoke,, the fires raging, the roars and the shrieks, the dull, muffled roar as it approaches from two miles away./

Millwall… NF…class anger—hatred of Old Bill///over in Whitechapel there is still fighting,,

You return to New Cross.. you feel the hot night persuade him, melt his resolve,,

 he wants this, he doesn’t want this,, tangled neon glowing in the black,, head swarming with intentions, broken intentions,,

--- wanting/ rejecting/ wanting=====

White Hart, Rooms £25 a night, you think you should stay down here,,a hideout.. until you venture in and see the seediness has been stripped out,, smell of new emulsion, magnolia and chrome ,

the coldness of order creeping in,

you want to puke black bile over it

—you remember the red flock wallpaper, the seedy alcoves where you plotted and schemed,, kisses hot and frantic—

--Papa Legba--—//,

Edmonds fruit machine,

you want to smash that,, you have had three beers now and four shots of rum,, you are at that stage,, ready to destroy something,, but always holding back, enjoying that protracted moment of tension,, seeing how it will manifest itself,

in the destruction of this,

 whatever it is he might call it, whatever it is that is erupting in strange and beautiful formations,,, this shimmering black crystal.

Cross the A2. 

Hobgoblin. You always think it’s the worst pub in New Cross,  a grim assortment of punters… blokes in for a pint after football,, miserable old bastards staring at the wall. You wonder why you said to come,, they serve bad pints, the juke box is quiet but this is where it starts to crackle,, the multicoloured blitzing, 777, fruit machine sending out signs….

You know when you have reached an irreversible moment, when the terrain shifts and you exist out of time,, that this bears no relation to any other sequence, it exists now, for itself and of itself.. , you have been pushed and pulled, time looping and barbing,,

him wanting/not wanting///

You yearn for the dissolution , the rapid dissolve  into blinding and bruising… the skin on his back, on his arms, scratched, bruised,, your bruises coming up livid purple, mauves, lemon yellow on the skin—

There is only this ,, a plateau, outside of time,,  everything,.

, the flat of his palm on your lower back…

---

 New Cross hideouts,, alcoves glowing rose red, bottles of lager .

 Blistering heat, up to the roof, that interlocking tableaux of aerials and chimney stacks---

June 18^th, mayhem in the city.

. A flash of recognition. Ten years.

you like the pubs,

…dark corners.

Where your eyes could shut with the mess. Of blood, from the cornea, spanning across the white.

\

to that dissolute and tangled knot of Deptford.

Thse taverns.

You walk in.

Black dress.

 white heels.

table in the corner.. radioactive drink , glowing blue in the glass…

Juke box. White rum.

No filters. No barriers.

Most people were dull,/ you were used to drinking fast, to be pissed, so at least there might be some transgression to shred the boredom . You had always looked around and said who with? None of these could do it. Entertain you. Not really.

That or violence. But you would have liked both.

Sex first.

But then,,.,,,,

In a heartbeat it can happen.

You remember his hands on your waist, how he made the pleasure surge through you--

Top deck of the bus, watching , closed  shops with yellow lights ,, dusty palms, offices broken down with clutter.

 Thinking  of that back room., brutalised , blackened, eyes shut with bruises.

Wanting it. In there. Steeped in a sordid morass.

See also http://www.versobooks.com/books/1022-savage-messiah