Photo by Lee Martin/Millennium
An atypical weekend: I spent much of it doing things. And, in doing them, I learned some things about my country and about myself that I had not known before. The first thing I learned was that if you are a pedestrian and wish to go on foot between West Hampstead Thameslink station and Lithos Road, NW3 – which takes about ten minutes – then you will find yourself in a kind of pedestrian hellhole that was last seen in one of the grittier policiers set in 1970s New York. The friend I was visiting called it “Death Alley”. I thought she was exaggerating; she was not. It set off in me a state of urban paranoia that I had not experienced since around the time the Jam released their e…
Photo by Lee Martin/Millennium
An atypical weekend: I spent much of it doing things. And, in doing them, I learned some things about my country and about myself that I had not known before. The first thing I learned was that if you are a pedestrian and wish to go on foot between West Hampstead Thameslink station and Lithos Road, NW3 – which takes about ten minutes – then you will find yourself in a kind of pedestrian hellhole that was last seen in one of the grittier policiers set in 1970s New York. The friend I was visiting called it “Death Alley”. I thought she was exaggerating; she was not. It set off in me a state of urban paranoia that I had not experienced since around the time the Jam released their excellent single “Down in the Tube Station at Midnight”. It’s funny, every time I go to London I think, “My, this place is changing,” and most of Soho now looks like Singapore, but Death Alley has not only resisted progress, it has been dragged into a doorway and had its face stomped all over with bovver boots, as they used to be called. I’ll wager that there are few pedestrian alleyways in London these days that are completely unlit. In the dark of a cold winter evening, it was quite the adventure.
The next adventure was the next day, when I went to see friends in Archway, north London. I arrived at the socially awkward time of 2.30pm, too late for lunchtime drinks and too early for evening drinks, but they had a plan: why don’t we go for a shortish walk on the heath – my heart sank – followed by a pint at the end of it? My heart rose again. Then the younger of the two, who happens to be the daughter of the older one, said, “Let’s go through Waterlow Park, and then have a pit stop at the pub before going on to the heath, and then going to the Spaniards Inn.” Then, for my benefit, she added, “It’s all downhill,” although as far as I could remember, the Spaniards stands at the top of a hill. Also, I was beginning to wonder what “-ish” was doing on the end of “short”. But two pubs sounded good, so we set off as dusk was beginning to fall because of faffing about.
At my school, we once had a history teacher, Mr Thornton I think it was, who had a tradition of inviting a class, aged 12 or 13, to a family farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Then he would divide us boys into groups of four and challenge each group to make the journey from the various different points he dropped us off at to a certain chip shop in Stroud, or somewhere like that, without being caught by him as he drove around in an ancient Land Rover. Imagine that: 24 boys with nothing but Ordnance Survey maps, a compass and a torch, in deepest Gloucestershire, jumping into hedges to avoid cars, in the dark. I don’t think you could get away with that today. That the winner got a plate of faggots and chips at the shop somehow doesn’t make it sound any better.
We all loved it, of course. And I was reminded of those happy days as we stood bewildered, in the gathering darkness, at a crossing in Hampstead Heath, miles from civilisation, let alone licensed premises.
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“This is meant to be your stamping ground,” K— said to me. I replied, “Yes, it used to be, but I would always go to another part of the heath, and in daylight, and in the summer, like a normal person.”
Well, we made it to the Spaniards. But my ordeal had barely begun. First I had to get back to Brighton, and I had forgotten that Thameslink and, it appeared, the Gatwick Express, had decided to start a social experiment in which people have to get to Brighton at weekends without using any trains.
So first I had to get from St Pancras to East Croydon. Then I had to run to another platform to get to East Grinstead. Then at East Grinstead I had to get a rail replacement bus to East Bogglington. Then I had to get a rail replacement skateboard to Jockstrap Magna. Then I had to get a rail replacement pogo stick to Tits St Mary’s, and finally a rail replacement snail to Three Bridges, where one could finally rejoin the 19th century and get an actual train stopping at all stations including Wazzocks, Muddy Ponds and Lower Buttocks, before finally getting into Brighton. I had thought Beeching had got rid of those. Oh, and I had to work out this route all by myself, as there were no helpful announcements at all. I got to Three Bridges just in time to see the last train for half an hour disappear into the blackness and I thought, “Enough is enough.” After a quiet and thoughtful cig in the car park I haggled with a taxi driver to take me to Brighton for 50 quid, a sum I could ill afford, but the thought of waiting another God knows how long, and with God knows how many surprises lying in wait for me…
At St Pancras I had asked why this was so. “Engineering works,” said the guard. Well, all I can say is that these had better be bloody good engineering works. And I don’t mean any old engineering works: I mean stuff that means the train can fly. Anyway, if you’re planning on visiting – or leaving – Brighton at the weekend for the next year or so, don’t bother.
[Further reading: Brooklyn has been swallowed by brand Beckham]
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