Humanity back from the brink

Route 44 (56 minutes – photos to follow)

It’s just one bus today, but that at least is one more than has been possible lately. Blame the rota man at work, but this is my first outing for a while and I’m now behind the run-rate if I wish to finish by May 1 2012.

My return is on the 44, a double-decker from Tooting to Victoria, where I am then to navigate the officialdom and security of the passport office to apply for a new one. It’s expired you see and while I’m not going abroad any time soon, tedious solicitors want to see it prove I am who I am ahead of any proposed house move. Christ, that might be the dullest sentence I’ve ever typed.

That is not an invitation to find better examples.

Anyway, look, it’s not summer anymore. Gone are the halcyon days of summer 09, when I was in the first flush of exuberance, the days were long and warm and the Australians were getting a beating. Now, at 2.30pm, the sun is already sliding down, casting an odd, amber light upon the city, which throws up long, ominous shadows of its own.

Still, winter should bring some new sights, with perhaps even a nice sunset or two.

The 44 would normally be full of schoolkids at this time as it wanders through Earlsfield towards Wandsworth, but this is half-term so instead I have five terribly, terribly lovely university students for company around me, discussing raves and skiing and horses, all of which are apparently insane. There is talk about a ritual involving setting fire to childrens’ backs and I’m not sure if they are talking about they’re private lives or Harry Potter.

They leave somewhere near Battersea, to be replaced by the matriarch from Hell, who lumbers up the stairs with her five petrified kids.

She instructs the youngest – I estimate about five years old – to sit next to me and he looks up at me with sad, nervous eyes. I smile back but am suitably chastened by the mother who glares at me as though I should be on the register. The kids daren’t move and look straight ahead as they sit in silence, all the fun in the world sucked from their young lives.

Two girls, who are sat slightly further back, then start ‘chattin’ shit’. They appear to be talking to someone on the other end of the phone.

‘She’s chattin’ shit mate. She loves you,’ says Whiny.

‘I ain’t chattin’ shit. It’s over,’ replies Screechy.

“She is chattin’ shit’

‘I ain’t chattin’ shit’

‘You are so chattin’ shit it ain’t true’

‘Man, that’s shit. I ain’t chattin’ shit.’

This continues for some time. To paraphrase Malcolm Tucker, ‘they are so dense that light bends around them’.

My third set of neighbours join me just before crossing Chelsea Bridge. They are three kids for whom the world remains a wonderful adventure.

‘We’re higher than that traffic light’, says one.

‘Yeah, but do you think we’re higher than that building?’ replies her sister.

‘Just shut up for a minute will you,’ interjects the mother.

It’s true, they should make it easier to give birth but harder to conceive. Either that or insist on some sort of entrance exam for parents. Still, it’s been enlightening and we are soon in Victoria.

I hop off and head straight for the passport office. In a shocking turn of events I have filled out all of the forms correctly and have the correct documents in my possession. Even more surprising, the man behind the desk is both helpful and polite and my faith in humanity, shaken after the last hour or so, is dutifully restored.

A gentle re-introduction to the buses then; three more to come on Tuesday.

Light at the end of the tunnel

I’m starting to forget what the inside of a bus looks like, it’s been so long. To cut a long explanation short, Mondays Tuesdays and Wednesdays are the only days I can get out, but for the last six weeks or so, my rota at work has fallen so that I’ve worked virtually every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

Hence, the slowdown. There is an end to my exile - I have next Wednesday off – so will be out again then. I have some catching up to do. May 1 2012 is the arbitary, self-imposed deadline for this venture and I have fallen behind the run-rate.

I suppose I just wanted to let you know I was still alive. If you care…

You can choose your friends…

• Route 337 (54 minutes)

It’s an unexpected return to bus action, suggested indeed by Kel, who is apparently keen to see what the fuss is all about and is at a loss for anything else to do on a slow Sunday. TDR was never going to complain. He can’t talk and loves buses.

In the end, the 337 is the obvious choice. It is the bus that features in the wedding photograph that hangs in our living room and runs from Clapham to Richmond.

The talk of three unfeasibly trendy fashion students dominates the carriage on the train to Clapham Junction. I am sat opposite the male – let’s call him ‘Amazing’ - with a tired TDR in my arms as he holds court. His two female friends – ‘Brilliant’ and ‘Wicked’ – gush about someone called Grace. She is a genius, apparently.

‘I bought a book the other day,’ says Brilliant.

‘Oh well done,’ beams Amazing, without a trace of irony.

‘Yeah, it was from a pound shop.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yeah, it’s called ‘Juno and Juliet’, and yes I only bought it because it had Juno in the title.’

Amazing proceeds to outline the plot and I ponder if anyone will notice if I start pounding my head against the glass until blood starts to drip. In any case, as Clapham Junction comes into view, TDR has had enough and has fallen asleep so we leave the fasionistas to their fluffy little world and under sunny skies make our way up St John’s Road to the start of the 337, which arrives promptly and we take our seats downstairs.

Within a few minutes, the nature of this quest seems to have dawned on Kellie, who is struggling with the pointlessness of it all and is expressing her feelings in the way she knows best – ridicule and baleful derision – and her barbed comments begin to cut deep before we have even reached the bottom of East Hill into Wandsworth.

Nothing like support from your family.

It doesn’t help that progress is funereal, but once we are through Wandsworth, the pace picks up along the unofficial south circular, which, unlike the North Circular, which is double carriageway for the most part and therefore earns capitalisation in my book, the version south of the river is simply a series of linked High Streets and rarely offers serene progress.

Today we are relatively lucky though and it dawns on me that we are in effect travelling through all the areas in south-west London where we cannot afford to move to. Putney, Barnes, Sheen all drift pass.I suggest to Kel that she might enjoy it more if she joined me on a route she doesn’t know. This is all familiar turf. She agrees, but insists she is pleased to have come.

Still, she is even happier to see Richmond arrive in under an hour and Thomas wakes up just as we alight. he has missed the entire ‘adventure’.

His immediate irritation at this prevents me from getting a photo in front of the bus, so I shall have to return. Kellie makes it plain that she will have no part in such a return and is thinking of only one thing. Lunch.

We eat on a bench by the river and then, on the 371 back to Kingston, Thomas vomits all over me. Twice. His feelings are now clear.

So nice to have the support of your family. Still, one more down.

Back back back, sort of

I’ve been off the buses for a couple of weeks. The first was a break with the family but the second has seen me bogged down in flat stuff as we prepare to put it on the market.

To that end, we are looking at houses today, only TDR’s car seat is bust so the 131 and 213 shall be coming to the rescue. I’ve already done both routes but shall think of it as a refresher course ahead of a return to action next week.

Nerding it up in the East End

Routes 108, 241, 309

“So, do people think you’re a bit of a nerd?” says Adrian as we wait for the 108 outside Lewisham station.

Rather a loaded question considering we’ve only just met, but I agree. People do think I’m a bit of a nerd, but I put that down to them entirely missing the point. He nods. Adrian represents the first ’stranger’ to accompany me on the buses, having contacted me several weeks ago to express his interest and from our brief communications, it’s obvious he understands the concept and why I am doing it.

So why, within five minutes of leaving Lewisham, I am convinced he is already having an absolutely horrific time and regretting his decision to come with me? My response, as we trundle through Blackheath, is to over-compensate by talking too much when all he probably wants to do is sit back and enjoy the journey. I really need not have worried.

“Someone told me that if you go east from Shooters Hill, you don’t reach higher land until the Urals,” he says. “But I’m really not sure that’s true, so I’m going to do some research on that.”

Adrian, who has a fetish for cafes and restaurants named after places of the world, is a perfect companion. Happy to experience the mundaneness of the journey for what it is whilst making cute observations. “Why is Harry Redknapp talking about the recession in that advert?” I have no answer for him.

Most of the day is to be spent flirting with the A12, the dual carriageway that runs north-south through the heart of the East End and submerges into the Blackwall Tunnel before emerging south of the river as the A102 next to the Dome. After navigating the Dome, which remains the very symbol of Labour’s Millennium folly despite its resurrection as the O2 Arena, we head north into the tunnel.

There is a delay because of an over-sized vehicle. Suddenly, a voice pierces the air from outside, but from exactly where we cannot see. The voice is most polite and he patiently guides us through like four year-olds. “Yes, the white van, if you pull into the right hand lane, there you go, now if the lorry behind could let the four cars behind it past, that’s it. Okay, thank you for your patience. Have a safe onward journey.” Eerily Orwellian, but acceptably so, given that we are now making good progress under the Thames and heading straight towards Stratford, which continues to prepare apace for its grand moment as Centre of the Universe in a little under three years time.

I celebrate my 50th route with a 60p Crunchie, but we don’t hang around in Stratford, preferring instead to hop on the 241, a double-decker which is to take us back south to Canning Town, a rundown area buffeted up against the Thames originally developed in the mid-nineteenth century to house the labourers of the coal wharves and shipbuilding works.

The highlight of the journey is undoubtedly two hardened east end policemen getting on, coming upstairs and discussing the merits of Miss Congeniality 1 against those of Miss Congeniality 2. Either the East End isn’t what it used to be, or they are talking in code.

The 241 drops right down alongside Excel, from where you can look west along the river towards Canary Wharf and beyond. However, far more excitingly, Adrian has revealed himself as something of a plane-spotter and the sight of a couple of planes lumbering overhead on their way into City Airport has him all hot under the collar.

But not nearly as hot as on the 309, which is to carry us north-west through the residential rabbit warrens of Tower Hamlets to Bethnal Green. Despite it being around 19 degrees, the driver has the heaters blasting out on full and its oppressively hot. The route itself is a busy, twisting, grinding trek through some of the most impoverished areas of the city, with shabby housing estates depressingly framed by the shiny unapologetic towers of Canary Wharf, where bankers continue their derivative-based bonus-fuelled wankery having failed to learn a single lesson from the last two years. In their shadow, the people who helped bail them out continue quietly about their lives. The juxtaposition is marked.

One estate displays its own riposte to the current malaise. ‘Capitalism Is The Crisis’ proclaims the huge graffiti.

Progress is interminable, not helped by several traffic works and Adrian is getting decidedly restless. “How much further?” he asks. “Five minutes,” I lie. Bethnal Green, the poorest area of London in Victorian times and once-upon-a-time stamping ground of the Krays, finally arrives. We pass York Hall – home of East End boxing – on our way to the London Chest Hospital, our final destination.

Adrian is clearly relieved and on the walk back to the tube station we pass the Museum of Childhood. Adrian recommends a look.

“Bethnal Green has a certain character and that place is a welcome antidote,” he says. So, we say our goodbyes and I take a look inside. The elegant structure – albeit with a modern extension on the front – was part of the original V&A building in South Kensington and was moved in the 1860s in a bid to bring art to the East End. I snoop for a bit, but make a note to bring TDR when he’s a bit older. Hell, this time next year, he’ll be doing the buses with me, cultivating the next generation of nerd.

Super Model

I’ve never taken the No 14 to Epwood. I don’t think it falls within tfl’s remit. It actually runs through Southpool in the district of Bekonscot, which is a delightful and insanely detailed model village out near High Wycombe. Thomas absolutely loved it.

The attention to detail is stunning, like a step back to a bygone age, both in terms of days out – there used to be so many model villages in the UK – and in its content. I want to live here…

Anyway, I’m out on the proper buses on Monday and I shall have a partner. I have never met him before and his name is Adrian. I know two Adrians. On of them co-presents that gloriously obtuse show on weekday evenings on BBC One and the other broke my leg playing football. So hopefully, it’ll be third-time lucky. Either that or I’ll be dead this time tomorrow.

If I don’t send word by Monday evening, release the hounds.

Showboating down Route 11

How could any woman say no?

Routes 11, 344 (2 hours 12 minutes)

Route 11 is a marquee route. One for the show-reel. It’s stunning.

Starting outside Fulham Town Hall, it quickly heads east up the King’s Road to Sloane Square into Pimlico, past Victoria and into Westminster. It circles Parliament Square before heading up Whitehall, past Horse Guards Parade and into Trafalgar Square. Then comes The Strand, Drury Lane and Fleet Street before heading into The City and St Paul’s, Bank and Threadneedle Street and terminating at Liverpool Street. It’s 73 minutes right through the heart of London and as such a little difficult to write about because it sails past landmark upon famous landmark. What is there to say about the Houses of Parliament? Apart from the fact I still think Big Ben looks like it’s made out of matchsticks.

Today though, it’s raining, so the shine is somewhat removed, even on King’s Road, which runs for about two and-a-half miles which runs from Fulham through the heart of Chelsea to Eaton Square, was a private road right up until 1830. Until then, it had been the road Charles II used to travel to Hampton Court, while George III liked to use it to get to Kew. These days, as befits its royal pedigree, it is largely full of boutique shops, beauty salons, art galleries and antique shops, or in some cases, a combination of all of the above. Only as you reach the eastern end of the road do more familiar high street names start to make an appearance.

Typical of King's Road

Then it is into the somewhat undefined area of Pimlico and past Victoria Coach Station, where many an hour was spent in my youth waiting for connecting National Express coaches on my way to and from University. I still have the top deck to myself as Westminster Abbey marks our entrance to Parliament Square, the sky a portentious (my dictionary insists this is not a word, but I disagree. I like it) deep grey.

But traffic is unusually light, so Whitehall is soon upon us, the government offices fronted by statues such as Earl Haig and Field Marshall Montgomery. War memorials standing proudly in the middle of the road. Horse Guards Parade is full of tourists as a man uses a mirror to check underneath a van waiting to enter Downing Street. Then it is right at Trafalgar Square onto The Strand and into Aldwych. The theatres of Drury Lane pass on the left before a familiar road is found. Fleet Street. Here, a man displays absolutely no chivalry by holding an umbrella over his head but not that of his female companion. I tut disapprovingly, not least because she is, well… I’ll leave it there. Anyway, this is at least the third time I have been up here and past Ludgate Circus to St Paul’s, but I love it. It reeks of history and gin-soaked press copy of years gone by. Then it’s past Bank and into Threadneedle Street, with Liverpool Street quickly arriving.

Yep, the No 11 is a tourist dream, surely no other route passes so many landmarks? It almost feels like cheating and there’s certainly not a great deal that can be added to the thousands of tourist guides that document these features. No, I said at the start of this quest that I would probably find meaning as I went, and it appears my calling remains with the mundane, the unseen and the unloved.

Liverpool Street has an interesting monument outside the entrance though. The Children of the Kindertransport serves as a mark of gratitude “to the people of Britain for saving the lives of 10,000 unaccompanied mainly Jewish children who fled from Nazi persecution in 1938 and 1939.”

Children of the Kindertransport

I take a look inside the station, it’s platforms well below ground level. Until recently it was the location of a T-Mobile ad in their current horrific campaign to hijack the very modern pursuit of flashmobbing. I have been to one flashmob, back in December 2004. It was a pillow fight outside the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. Everyone had to be there by 6pm, but were not allowed to have a pillow in view. Then, at 6pm precisely, about 300 strangers removed pillows from their rucksacks and started hitting each other for 10 minutes, much to the utter bemusement of American tourists. It was a glorious moment and it’s taken corporate wankers a few years to remove any sense of spirit from the whole enterprise. They’ll be onto parkour next.

Look at those eyes, ready to batter a stranger

Anyway, Liverpool Street is a grand old red-brick station and stands proudly in the shadow of the Gherkin and The City’s shiny towers thanks largely to a £65m refurbishment in 2000.

Liverpool Street Station

Liverpool Street Station concourse

My next route means a short walk around the back of the station, to pick up the 344, which is to take me back south of the river to Clapham Junction. Pleasingly, it is there waiting for me as I arrive and briefly retraces the route of the No 11 before sweeping down Gracechurch Street and past The Monument, where I spent a happy hour a few weeks ago. However, once it has crossed Southwark Bridge (the only route to do so) things rather get bogged down at Elephant & Castle, enhancing the grim junction’s bid for my least favourite part of London. I despise this place, from its savage architecture, bewildering subway system and constant traffic mess. Apart from the Charlie Chaplin pub, only the origin of its name can possibly hold any interest.

One urban myth is that it relates to Infanta de Castile, usually said to be a reference to Eleanor of Castile, the wife of Edward I, but according to Michael Quinion:

The castle here is actually a howdah on the back of the elephant, in India a seat traditionally used by hunters. The public house called the Elephant and Castle was converted about 1760 from a smithy that had had the same name and sign. This had connections with the Cutlers’ Company, a London craft guild founded in the 13th century which represented workers who made knives, scissors, surgical instruments and the like. The guild used the same emblem. The link here is the Indian elephant ivory used for knife handles, in which the Cutlers’ Company dealt.

So, the explanation is as mundane as the landscape. Still, we trundle on and get a brief glimpse of Lambeth Palace, believed to date back to the start of the 13th Century and official residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. It was here in 1534 that former Speaker and member of the King’s Council, Thomas More, when asked to take the oath of succession by Henry VIII, refused to do so and was subsequently sent to the Tower of London. He was beheaded a little over a year later, his head boiled and placed on a pole.

A brief glimpse of Lambeth Palace

A shall return to the Palace for further delving at some point, but for now there are rather more modern security arrangements going on just up the river. As we pass Albert Embankment, a plethora of armed police have set up a checkpoint and are stopping random cars and dog-walkers. I sneak a couple of quick photos, aware that they probably wouldn’t be too chuffed to see me doing so, but my immediate thought is of bombdogs.

Checkpoint negotiated, the 344 continues its easy passage through Vauxhall, past the Power Station and Dog’s Home of Battersea to Clapham Junction. It chucks me out beside the Grand. After today’s grand proceedings, it seems appropriate.

Slight delay in service…

I had hoped to have the latest update done by now, but routes’ 11 and 344 proved to be so enjoyable on Wednesday that it’s taking me quite a while to write them up. The No 11, for example, takes in the King’s Road, Parliament Square, Whitehall, Trafalgar Square, The Strand, Fleet Street, St Paul’s and Threadneedle Street before terminating at Liverpool Street. It’s something of a glamour route, with a lot to write about and a whole host of photos to sift through. However, I haven’t had the chance to really give it my full attention yet.

It’ll be up over the weekend though. Then I’m back out on Monday, ready to sail through the half-century mark this time…

London hit by bombdogs

Chris Morris warned us of the dangers of bombdogs back in 1994. Please watch this – it’s funnier than almost anything that’s been on telly since.

Today, his vision looked to have become reality, as a special police security cordon was set up on Albert Embankment. Gun-toting cops were stopping random characters along the river for questioning, but from what I saw from the top deck of the 344 on Wednesday afternoon, they were mostly dog walkers. However, the security services are clearly taking the threat very seriously.

Gun-toting police wait for joggers and dog walkers

I love the fact there's a Duck Tours boat about to go past

All very exciting, and wonderful excuse to revisit my ‘The Day Today’ DVD. Full update on today’s exploits to follow later.

A well-crafted half-century

I’m heading out again on Wednesday and the three routes I take will help me to my half-century. It’s taken a little over three months, which is bang on schedule, and it’s been a steady innings so far. I got stuck on 40 for a while, but I’m overall I’m really happy with my progress and how it’s going. I hope you are enjoying the updates. I have a feeling they might evolve as I start to revisit places. Now that I’m properly into it, I feel less pressure to simply knock off the routes and prove (to who, I don’t know) that I am serious about it, so will likely spend more time in places and perhaps only do two routes in one day instead of three.

Next up though, I’m starting at Fulham Broadway on the No 11, which heads east to Liverpool Street, before getting the No 344 south to Clapham Junction. Then it’s a short hop on the 219 to Wimbledon and home. The only very dark cloud on the horizon is that the BBC assures me it’s going absolutely shed it down tomorrow, which would be a shame because the No 11 looks a cracking route, full of interesting sights. However, autumn is upon us and I am obviously going to have to get used to the wind and rain.