Old fashioned street sign. Classic Design. Not used anymore. Of course.

Walking on Lavender Hill

April 04, 2020 by Tim Robson in London, Architecture

“I commute into Clapham Junction everyday. My office is a twenty minute walk up Lavender Hill and Wandsworth Road.”

— Tim Robson - Bang The Beat!

Lavender...

The word lavender conjures up those sun drenched, hazy fields of Provence. Or perhaps some choppy, warm-toned, Impressionist masterpiece. Or is it a section of a busy thoroughfare in South Central London? Yes, it’s probably the latter. For years this road, this feeling, was my beat.

One thing you won’t find much of on Lavender Hill is, well, lavender. Maybe some discarded pizza boxes, plenty of rubbish strewn waste bags, an upturned supermarket trolley or a decaying Christmas tree thrown onto the street. But not much lavender. The shrub that gave this area its name has gone. Long gone.

The green fields of Lavender Hill. Picture TR

My entrance and exit point to this urban dreamscape is Clapham Junction railway station. Not sure what a junction is, but as to the Clapham part, well, that’s a little bit of historical postcode snobbery. A fib. It’s in Battersea. And Battersea is working class. Full of engineering and manufacturing works back in the day. Less so now. Maybe we could rename it Lavender Junction? Help shift those new million pound apartments, no?

There’s a pub. There’s always a pub, isn’t there? The Falcon is pretty special though. One of those big pubs you only get in London. The ones dripping with large baskets of flowers, partitioned rooms and back lit smoky glass. This one sports a famous horseshoe bar (the UK’s longest apparently). I don’t drink there though – nor the Slug and Lettuce next door. However, the facilities are unguarded and handy so I was pretty much a regular.

So up we go, up Lavender Hill, ambling wistfully through these London fields. Past the retail splendour of Arding and Hobbs, sprinting past Fitness First, KFC and numerous Lebara money transfer shops where bored staff sell cheap booze and fags, whilst conducting mobile phone conversations that sound important, but probably aren't.

There was a girl once. There's always a girl, behind the memories, driving the words. We were students at South Bank University further up the A3036 on Wandsworth Road. The campus is now closed and converted into a Tesco Express and Pure Gym. I used to catch the Number 87 bus down Lavender Hill to Clapham Junction. If I was more observant, as I sat on the bus all those years ago, I would have noticed a local oddity – a genuine London eatery – the Pie and Mash shop. The historian and the Englander within me likes the fact that this relic of old London, of its working class eating habits, is still there. I like that. I’m a fan; pie and mash and gravy for £4. Treacle Pudding and ice cream or spotted dick for £3. I don’t go near the eels or the liquor (eel and parsley sauce). It's cheering though to know nestling amidst the numerous Thai, Indian, Italian, Japanese, Chinese and assorted other restaurants there is an authentic London eatery. But for how long?

Continuing on we get Battersea Library, the police station but, most wonderfully (and where most of the drivel on this website was written) the Grade 2 listed building that used to be Battersea town hall but now doubles as Battersea Arts Centre. They used to build beauty, those Victorians, you know, put the effort in, and make buildings things of wonder and aspiration.

“Kate and I are meeting in Battersea Arts Centre. I’m late. I scan the bar. At a corner table is a woman who bears a passing resemblance to Kate’s online dating profile.”

— Tim Robson: The Bottle and the Sock

However, money was always an issue, even in the 1880’s. None more so than The Church of the Ascension, a big, bold - God is terrible, God is almighty, repent ye sinners - church at the top of the hill. It’s a massive stone structure with Byzantine influences by way of Carcassonne. It should have been adorned with an equally gigantic phallic tower but the original architect pissed the money away, was eventually sacked and so he church was completed sans spire. Nerdishly, I own a copy of the original architectural plans from 1875 and framed, they adorn my living room.

French / Byzantine architecture meets Victorian brick shit-house, muscular Anglicanism.

“There’s a tramp whose regular perch is the low surrounding wall of the Ascension of the Lord Church on Lavender Hill. Kicking back with his can of strong lager, he likes to shout abuse at the passing world. His favourite trick is surprise; hunched harmlessly over his carrier bag one minute, and then, as though roused from sleep, pouncing like a lion the next.”

— Tim Robson - About Twenty Minutes

And then we're walking downhill. Go past - hurry! - The Crown pub. One time, as I was leaving, I witnessed some ritualised urban ballet as two drug dealers squared off to each other out on the street. Held back by their various women folk screaming, "Leave it out Jon, he's not worth it!" I waited for my Uber to take me to the station as the performance played out. Don't know who won. It's probably on YouTube somewhere.

This eastern part of Lavender Hill is all shit council flats and massed ranks of mopeds parked on the pavement outside nondescript takeaways. Let me explain lest you live in a town where cuisine laziness hasn't yet set in. Every eatery on Lavender Hill - and there are many, so many - has a fleet of mopeds waiting to transport to the indolent, the obese, and the time poor banker-wankers, their genuine, wood fired Neapolitan pizzas. This, children, is what decadence looks like. Fight, fight, against the dying of the light and cook from scratch you lazy bastards!

“We continue walking down Lavender Hill keeping our own counsel. Once again, our pace is well matched and we walk together, three feet apart. As we near the old Cedar pub, she slows.”

— Tim Robson: About Twenty Minutes

Lift up your eyes. There is beauty in the most unusual places.

There are many places on Lavender Hill that offer a 'massage'. Strangely they always want to massage - for extra, for cash only - those parts that don't often get massaged in - say - more mainstream establishments. Happy endings are promised. Not always delivered. I avert my eyes, clutch my pearls, lift up my skirts, and run from these places.

(And that paragraph - about happy endings on Lavender Hill - still sends me significant traffic to this website. I’m guessing here, but there’s probably money to be made from adult activities.)

And so, after a mile or so, Lavender Hill finishes at Cedars Road and hands the A3036 baton over to Wandsworth Road in a fistful of Tesco Expresses, coffee shops and Premier Inns in old temperance halls. We are now entering Lambeth and our story must end here.

What happened to Battersea? Abolished in 1965, apparently.

And so where does all this take us? An old London Street. Full of Victorian buildings. What signifies?

“And with clear, cold eyes
And newly acquired candour,
I sift these departing delusions;”

— Tim Robson - Delusions

Well, everything. And nothing. From the confident Victorian public buildings, to the sturdy 19th Century housing for the workers, to the bold and confident Anglicanism. To the many, many cultures that have taken root here, left their mark on the shops, restaurants, through even the pizza delivery boys that criss-cross unknowing across this urban thoroughfare. To the pubs, open and closed, converted or renovated, silently bearing witness to wars and coronations, disasters and triumphs. History shines through, hiding amongst these stones, these relics, peeping shyly from under the brim of modernity. The breath of London, old London, still blows gently in this cityscape. And if you look hard enough, you will find some lavender. Yes, even on Lavender Hill.

All pictures of Lavender Hill, Tim Robson February 2017. Article revised April 2020

Snow hits the Artesian Well, Wandsworth Road. A dead pub of Clapham

The Dead Pubs of Clapham

Battersea Arts Centre

December 29, 2019 by Tim Robson in London, London Walks

After three and a half years, I’m leaving my office on Wandsworth Road for Westminster. Three years of working in a repurposed brewery surrounded by dead pubs. In Clapham… Or was it Battersea?

WelI; I worked on the cusp of both districts. Basically Clapham is south of the Lavender Hill / Wandsworth Road axis whereas Battersea is north, next to the Thames.

It’s wise to be precise. For example, Clapham Junction train station has the motto, The Heart of Battersea above its main door.

Geography aside, what do I remember about this area?

Lavender Hill of course; I walked this bugger twice a day for three and a half years! As I’ve written elsewhere on this blog, I can probably trace in my head every damn step from Debenhams in the West to Sainsbury’s in the East. This trek is aptly described by one of my favourite writers:-

“It’s approximately 2400 steps from one end of Lavender Hill to another. I walk one way in the morning, and the other in the evening. From Clapham Junction to Wandsworth Road, from Wandsworth Road to Clapham Junction twice a day, five days a week. This is my Lavender Hill. ”

— Tim Robson A Star on Lavender Hill

The beginning of Lavender Hill - Photo TR

Though there is bustle and many small shops, Lavender Hill was a place to walk along, to get from A to B without stopping. An exception to this would be that fine piece of Victorianara - Battersea Arts Centre (BAC) housed in the old Town Hall. Here, in the Scratch Bar, over a beer or a wine, I composed some of this very site’s best blogs. Always happy when composing in public, BAC provided a home for my ever-elusive muse for a couple of years.

Many was the night I sat and jockeyed a Mac typing spiteful little blogs, dashing off mean spirited diatribes about the posh twats with their elaborate beards and facial jewellery sat around me talking bollocks about politics. Highlight was probably Second Thoughts a story written about BAC and the online dating scene. A modern classic. What wasn’t a classic is ‘The Dead Pubs of Clapham’ a pig of a short story that I never finished. In fact, it was the title I liked, much, much more so than the actual story itself. Hence me reusing it for this blog celebrating the area. But let me give you a flavour of this deservedly obscure tract:

“A dead pub always makes me sad. There are plenty in Clapham. The dead pubs of Clapham. My journey to the station passes many. VE day. The Coronation. 1966 World Cup. The Falklands. And there they stand, not even with the fig leaf of being converted into a Cheap Fried Chicken outlet or a chichi furniture shop for hipsters to waste a grand on a fucking chair.”

— The Dead Pubs of Clapham - Tim Robson

The Artesian Well, The Mist on the Water, The Prince of Wales, The Victoria, The Cedar. All dead. Dead in 2016 and dead in 2019. The Dead Pubs of Clapham.

One amusing side note to Lavender Hill. In my published ode to this urban highway, I mentioned en passent the many oriental massage parlours dotted on the road where you can - allegedly - get a happy ending massage. A small but reliable number of hits to this blog to this day come from Google searches seeking rub and tug merchants on Lavender Hill. And then they click on this blog where I prattle on about fourth century Roman emperors and obscure Stones tracks. Sorry guys, go back to self-service.

But let’s leave Lavender Hill and massages aside. From where I was based, atop Silverthorn Road, my walks could either take me down the hill to Battersea Park or up the hill to Clapham Common. Down was literally down, a bit shit, loads of Harry Brown type estates, a mishmash of railway tracks, car dealers under the arches, grimy off licences, obscure train stations and finally the wondrous urban space that is Battersea Park. I’ll miss it.

From my office window I used to look down on this city scape, an outlook dominated by the ever changing face of Battersea Power Station. It’s now surrounded by tall towers and modern glass investment flats for international money. Soulless, nondescript, anywhereville. The power station itself got buried in these modern intrusions. However, from my new vista in Westminster on the other side of the river, it looks great; the shitty towers and modern embellishments are merely supporting actors not co-leads. I suppose it’s all about angle and perspective which is about as deep as I get, children.

Battersea Power Station - recent past. Doesn’t look like this now.

Up the hill and into Clapham where million pound houses give way to eight million pound houses (gorp at Macauley Road if you want to check them out). What do I remember about this side of the tracks? I didn’t walk on the Common much. Obviously the Trinity Church stands proud on the east side near the tube station. In these days of ignorance and lack of knowledge about British history, the significance of this 18th Century church is lost on most of the present day passers-by. But it was here, of course, where the so-called Clapham Sect used to meet and plot the abolition of slavery. We should celebrate this stuff more.

Talking of churches…

No ramble through Clapham is complete without mentioning Graham Greene and his wartime novel The End of the Affair set in and around Clapham Common. One of the scenes is, of course, set in the church of St Mary’s which dominates the eastern end of the Common. From my window at work for a couple of years I used to gaze at the spire half a mile away. My photo (left) rather inadequately represents this local landmark which survived the Luftwaffe bombing the area but who’s spire got somewhat wrecked by an errant friendly barrage balloon.

Another memory, ever present and ever changing is the schtick of the local Romanian beggars outside the tube and Sainsburys Local down The Pavement. For a while accordions were the fashionable must-have accessory for the enterprising beggar. Tuneless whirly-gigs were played evoking, well what exactly? Smokey Roma camps back home? Belle epoch Champs Elysee? Fuck knows. However, accordions now seems so very 2018. The begging community have reverted to the classic shake and a shimmer with hand outstretched and a single word ‘please’ dragged out pitifully. And who could forget the daily ‘conferences’ on the waste land beside the tube station, where the area’s street workers gathered to compare takings, discuss tactics, and split test new methods of appeals.

Then there are the pubs.

“The Bobbin pub lies hidden on a side street near Old Town in Clapham. The area, suggesting unflashy old money, is flush with inner city mansions, tree lined roads festooned with Land Rovers and X5s, gardens tended by minimum wage labourers, constant daytime building works as the inhabitants add subterranean swimming pools and climate-controlled wine cellars, but quiet at the weekends as the residents retire to their country piles in Wiltshire. There’s an abundance of leonine men of a certain age wearing red trousers sporting trophy wives.

Twats.
”

— A Star On Lavender Hill - Tim Robson

And there was one barmaid. I’ll miss her. If I asked what her feelings were on my departure I’m sure she’d just smile shyly, push a strand of hair away from her face and say, as she had many times before, “What would you like to drink?”

Literally cannot turn it off. In Clapham. Or Battersea.

London Walks : A Guide

September 12, 2019 by Tim Robson in London Walks, London

Too many people just get on a tube and so miss overland London. The stories, the streets, the layout. The full pie and mash.

So I started writing a series of articles recently about London Walks that I enjoy. Reading them you get some history, walk past some landmarks, learn some obscure stuff, and most definitely find some great pub recommendations. All are illustrated with some great pictures taken along the route!

To remind ourselves, here are links to the various walks:

St James's - Haymarket to Victoria Station

Lavender Hill - Up and down this Battersea highway

London Bridge Circular - Old and new London

Harrods to Victoria Station - Belgravia, mews and embassies. Hidden pubs.

Look out for some new walks coming soon!

Laters

London Walks 3: The Haymarket to Victoria Station

June 07, 2019 by Tim Robson in London, London Walks

(All photos Tim Robson May 2019)

I was stood on The Haymarket a few weeks ago, slightly confused. It was busy and buses and tourists passed in front of me as I tried to recollect where exactly American Express’ old offices used to be. I mean I should know this. I used to go there all the time. Damn it! I’d even closed the bloody office down and moved all the staff kicking and screaming to Blackfriars.

And yet I wasn’t sure.

Back in the day (the ‘day’ being mid 90’s) I used to come to the Haymarket all the time. Unlike my lazier colleagues, I walked between Victoria Station and The Haymarket. They took the taxi. I still do this walk now when possible. On your own two feet you get to know a city better than stuck in a traffic jam. It’s healthier and better for the environment. And they call me a Climate Change denier! I’m green but not red children.

Heading down the Haymarket from Piccadilly Circus take the first right onto Jermyn Street. Now Jermyn Street is probably my favourite street in London. For those that don’t know, it’s packed full of high end men’s shops - shirts, suits, shoes, barbers, colognes; cheeses even. There’s even a couple of pubs for you to stop and review your purchases.

And Fortnums. Never been in, to be honest. Well… There was that one time.

Jermyn Street is primarily known for its shirt shops. Nothing demonstrates more the casualisation of work clothing over the last twenty years than the decline in my purchases of posh shirts. I used to have a wardrobe stuffed full of them - Pinks, Charles Thywhitt and the branded suits and heavy silk ties that completed the banker-wanker look. No more. Now I’m all polo necks and polo shirts. So whereas once I would walk along Jermyn Street looking for bargains, now I pleasantly uninvolved.

Never miss The Three Crowns pub though.

I do occasionally pop into Church’s shoes. To look around obviously. No spare half a grand lying around in chez Robson for footwear these days. I’ve bought some of their shoes in the past and, in a velvet bag in the garage, I still have a sleek pair of black Oxfords I wheel out for formal occasions. Seems so 2000’s.

Jermyn Street; a pissed Big Issue seller lies amidst Jones and Church’s shoe shops. Maybe he’s saving for a new pair?

One shop I always pop into and frequent online is Taylors of Old Bond Street. Yes, on Jermyn Street. Don’t ask. I’ve used their Sandalwood aftershave for about 20 years. Yes, ladies, that is the manly and yet fragrant smell you can’t place and yet can’t get enough of! If you like male scents and potions, soaps and shampoos, razors and creams, this is a great shop to spend some time. Tell them Tim sent you and ask - no insist! - for a ten percent discount.

Shaving brushes and stuff. Lots of sandalwood smells.

At the end of Jermyn Street, turn left and walk down St James’s Street past wine merchants, cigar shops, high end restaurants and private members clubs. “What club are you a member of, Tim” I hear you ask. I stare at you for a second or two, shake my head and move on.

Under the St James’s Palace’s arch, across the Mall (look up, look down) and then into St James’s Park. It’s small but perfectly formed. Follow the path down to the bridge on the lake. Get your phone out for one of those iconic shots looking towards Whitehall / Horse Guards Parade.

People; I’ve had my times in St James’s Park. I remember there was this French girl I was keen on, years and years ago. Unprompted, she invited me for a walk one lunchtime. “Wow - she likes me!” I thought. As we walked around this beautiful park - it was summer and the skies were blue and all was well with the world as I tried to pluck up the courage to ask her out - she proceeded to tell me how she’d secretly got engaged to some other bloke. FFS. But I also remember another night with another lady - also in St James’s Park - but that, dear readers, shall be a story that remains untold in a public forum. Well, I may have weaved it into one of my best selling books with a thinly disguised character who resembles me reenacting what happened that night near the kids’ playground. In St. James’s Park. Always classy.

Out of the park, along Birdcage Walk and for the tourists amongst you, past Buckingham Palace. I usually cross over at this point and walk on the right hand side of Buckingham Palace Road. Queen’s Gallery, side entrances, back doors.

A little diversion I’ve started taking on my way back to Victoria Station is via Victoria Square, a quiet oasis of pretty houses and a quiet green space hidden just yards away from the bustling A3214. A shimmer and a twist and you get to The Goring Hotel. Maybe some refreshment in plush surroundings? Yeah, why not; I’m worth it. Its expensive but pretty cool. Freebie posh nuts with your Gin and Tonic. A place for a secret rendezvous perhaps. Fortified you’re ready for the push to Victoria Station and, invariably, home to the South Coast.

Give it go. Either way. It’s the best of London, you know.

And thence to Victoria Station via Buckingham Palace Road. I worked in this area for years. It was my manor (guv?). It’s been a building site for years and only now is it finally taking shape. So it’s all changed from my days of suits and ties and - probably - thinning hair. There’s new buildings, new shops, a whole new workforce grabbing sandwiches to eat al desko and fresh batches of tourists always changing, always the same. Always in the way.

Haymarket to Victoria. Or Victoria to Haymarket. Try this walk. You get to see lots of London sights, experience much, stop for a bite or drink, or both or neither. Whatever. Great in summer, bracing in winter, charming in Spring but best in Autumn. It’s Tim’s Haymarket to Victoria nostalgia trip. Roll up. Roll up.

To see other London Walks - click here.

London Walks : London Bridge / Blackfriars circular

March 17, 2019 by Tim Robson in London, London Walks

Now this is a proper London walk. We take in ‘olde’ London, new shiny London, industrial London, latte sipping beard and tats London. Some history, food, great buildings, bridges, boozers. I’m calling this my Southwark Shuffle (for no other reason beyond it’s in Southwark and who doesn’t like alliteration?).

I return to this walk time and again. It’s vibrant area and so the landscape changes in subtle or huge ways at what seems to be an increasing pace. That didn’t always seem to be the case.

Back in the mid 90’s I was doing a Masters degree in property. I may have mentioned this fact before but formative experiences are the most vivid in retrospect. I had a term paper to write where the brief was to work up a development on the South Bank of the Thames. I suggested a mixed leisure and office development in Blackfriars overlooking the river. My professor shook his head at this and said I was talking bollocks, and like some late night pre Uber taxi driver, told me no one wants to go south of the river. Idiot. But who was right mate? Me or him? Yes, Me. That’s who.

But - old scores aside - let’s look at my path for this walk shall we?

Now; not every walk has to lurch from pub to pub but it’s rude not to suggest a couple of stopping places along the way. And this walk has great pubs, historic pubs; pubs the conjure the past with each passing pint. We’ll get to that but first, we must have a starting point. And, in this case, it’s also our ending point as this is - wait for it - a circular walk!

So, we start at the extensively refurbished London Bridge Station. Guy’s Hospital tower used to be the tallest kid on the block but now, the Shard muscles itself over all it surveys. This redevelopment has kicked off a spate of similar, smaller, innovative designed buildings throughout the area. As far as I can see, the casualties to make way for this frenzy of new build have been crap 50’s and 60’s concrete office blocks. Good.

Walk straight down from the station onto that historic thoroughfare into London, Borough High Street. Opposite is Southwark Cathedral and Brough Market - we’ll get to those later - but for now, you need to turn left heading south. About quarter of mile down the road is one of London’s hidden gems, the galleried ex-coaching in, The George (pictured opposite).

It nestles in a little side street off the main road. This part of London is full of alleyways and passages and it’s possible to cross the space time continuum back to Tudor times. I was shown this pub by a lady friend many years ago. Thanks! Its worth this little diversion from our main walk for a picture and maybe a pint (though if you’re drinking this early into the walk it’s all going to get messy. Best to come back here later.)

And so with a swift shimmy northwards, we get onto Southwark Street going east-west. About 20 years ago I used to walk to walk down this very street every day so it’s nostalgic but getting less so. It has changed from then to now. This is a street that is, in many respects, unlovely - there are no great landmarks gracing it, the buildings were warehouses and industrial units and now, it hosts increasingly bizarre glass office towers and residential units.

You can still spot some ex-warehouses of Victorian vintage on the street. See the examples in the picture to the left. Now converted to cafes and flats, you can still make out where the pulleys used to haul up goods.

One interesting building is the grade 2 listed ex Mernier chocolate factory which is now a theatre and art gallery of the same name. It’s kind of a stunted, fatter version of the Flat Iron building in New York. It’s probably the best of the old buildings on the Street. You can grab a drink there apparently - I’m guessing some wanky free trade coffee served by a ‘barista’ with a beard. Joy!

Newer, larger and experimental glass buildings are springing up all around Southwark Street but their appearance is welcome; they replaced dreadful post war concrete boxes that defined cheap and seemed designed to crush the spirit for those walking without and those working within. At least the new buildings are vibrant and quirky.

And so we get to Blackfriars Road. Here, the area between the bridge and Southwark Jubilee Line underground station is festooned with new buildings, loads of restaurants, take aways and pubs. It didn’t used to be that way. As I’ve hinted, I worked in property in the mid-90’s. I acquired a building on Blackfriars Road for a large multinational company. In my business case, I took several photos of the area including the then unfinished Southwark Jubilee Line station. Take a look at the pictures below - the top one I took 20 years ago and the second one is the same view in 2018. Interestingly enough the view doesn’t seem to have changed that much (beyond a new skyscraper in the background on the left).

Southwark Jubilee Line Underground being built early 1999. Photo Tim Robson

Southwark Station Sept 2018 : GoogleMaps

A quick drink in the reassuringly dreadful Prince William Henry and then back up Blackfriars Road towards the river. We’re going to walk along the Thames path for a while back towards London Bridge. This stretch of the walkway is pretty historic with many attractions - views across the water to the ever expanding number of towers in the City, St Paul’s Cathedral, London Bridge, The Millennium Bridge, The Cutty Sark, The Golden Hind, Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, The Tate Modern. There’s almost too much to see, too much to absorb. One way you might digest your surroundings is in the ancient pub, The Anchor, overlooking the Thames. Apparently Samuel Pepys watched the Great Fire of London from here. Before the pub burnt down the next year.

So onto Southwark Cathedral and Borough Market. Was it two years ago when those pieces of shit went on a rampage here? Unbelievable. But I’m glad the market is as great and trendy and crowded as normal. Plenty of places to get snacky food around here - hotdogs for me, thank you. And then we’re on Borough High Street again and walking back to London Bridge station for the tube or train that takes us to our next adventure.

Yeah, the ending was slightly rushed. I’ve been writing this article - seemingly - for months. Once discipline has gone, can it ever come back?

Anyway, more regular content starting next week and probably more London Walks. My next one is London Victoria to the Haymarket. Must do it again and take some pictures. But this Southwark Shuffle is a great walk for me. Is it me just talking about my past? Dunno. Try it.

London Walks : Harrods to Victoria Station

February 03, 2019 by Tim Robson in London, London Walks

This is a favourite walk I’ve been doing for years - essentially a stroll through one of the posher parts of London, some mews, hidden pubs and lots of embassies! Takes about twenty to thirty minutes depending on how slow you walk. If you stop in the nearby pubs - and there are nice ones on this route - then this time can easily stretch to a full afternoon.

My walk from Harrods to Victoria Station; note the interesting mews diversion down Kinnerton Street - to find The Nags Head and the Wilton Arms.

A few years ago - before time began, before Land Securities redeveloped Cardinal Place in Victoria Street - I worked in Portland House. For those of you that don’t know, Portland House is a 1963 concrete skyscraper near London’s Victoria Station. If you’ve been in the area, you’ve probably seen it standing like an inappropriate erection menacing the surrounding area. However, it does have a good view from the top floors over the nearby private Buckingham Palace Gardens (Hi Queenie - put that bikini top back on).

I had a stressful job back in the early 2000’s. I know, I know, you weep for me. Occasionally though I would break the chains of my captors, shoo away the ravenous eagles pecking at my vitals, and head West (young man). I’d explore the quieter streets of Belgravia. So when my company moved to Belgrave House on Buckingham Palace Road a year or two later, I found I could walk to Harrods in my lunch hour. Once there I’d give my Harrods loyalty card a heavy work out. That’s how I roll. And so the Victoria Station to Harrods walk or - it’s more famous cousin - the Harrods to Victoria Station walk was born.

I retraced my steps recently, reminding myself, as I walked, of memories, memories of people and situations long gone but, as I turned familiar corners, not forgotten. For you see, whilst I often did this walk alone, I often didn’t. There was a girl once. There’s always a girl. But I’ll get to that.

As you come out of Harrods, turn away from Brompton Road, past the tube exit and into Hans Crescent. Latterly, this quiet road has become infamous as the place where that self-regarding idiot Julian Assange turns a whiter shade of pale inside the Ecuadorian Embassy. But also, marvel at the illegally parked limos littering the road. Clearly very rich people can’t be expected to obey petty traffic restrictions. They have to launder, sorry spend, their ill gotten gains in Harrods.

Turning right onto Sloane Street, we cross the road and idle past all the high-end shops no-one I know uses. Around the corner we get to the Jumeirah Carlton Hotel on Cadogan Place. It’s an ugly 60’s built hotel but very popular with rich people who like the nearby shopping. Here, if you linger, you can watch the rich go in and out, observe old men parade impossibly beautiful women - maybe to stock up on lingerie at La Perla next door - and then wonder, ‘why the fuck isn’t that my life?’

And across the road to Motcomb Street. I’ve always liked this little high street. There’s an elegant Waitrose, where, back in the day, I used to come to for lunch, buy some rolls, some ham, sun-dried tomatoes and make an al fresco sandwich in the open space behind the Pantechnicon across the road. Back in the mid 2000’s this was where old Roma ladies in shawls used to gather for lunch after a hard morning’s begging outside Harrods. It was quite the style back then; full East European garb, a walking stick, a shake and a shudder. Anyway, I’m pleased to report their various ailments seemed to be much improved by lunchtime as they discussed the day’s take.*

There’s just one pub, latterly called the anodyne The Alfred Tennyson but previously, the more spicy Turk’s Head. In either incarnation I never much liked it and, on my last visit, it seemed a restaurant masquerading as a bar. Anyway, I always turn left just in front of the pub and walk down the mews that is Kinnerton Street. Clearly I never go in Gordon Ramsay’s Petrus. Instead I head to the rather marvellous Nag’s Head and less marvellous but more spacious Wilton Arms.

The Nag’s Head has two bars; a tiny front bar - curiously low down - and a larger room down some stairs at the back. It didn’t allow mobile phones nor - as I found out - laptops. It’s a quirk but one I’m happy to abide by. I fondly think that much of Franco’s Fiesta was handwritten here. It wasn’t. That privilege goes to the bar in Burgess Hill’s Beefeater. A classy joint where you get thrown out for not wearing a football top.

Years back, I used to hold team meetings in the Nag’s Head, gaining the respect of my team by playing endless games of Shag, Marry, Push Off a Cliff. I usually ended up as ‘Marry’ which personally I’m okay with. I took a date there recently. Didn’t work out.

The pub almost next door - The Wilton - is a bit louder, a bit brassier. Outside in the summer it tends to be populated by Belgravia estate agents braying loudly about their latest deal. I’ve eaten here a couple of times. Nothing special. (2020 update: The Wilton is closed)

A twist and a turn and we’re on Wilton Crescent, one of those gorgeous arched stucco terraces that home old money, embassies and money launderers. When I make my millions, I think I might buy here. No, not a flat. A whole house. And then I could pop out to The Grenadier - London’s most difficult to find pub which is out back, in another mews. I’m usually too pissed to find it. It’s worth a stop. Tell Madonna ‘hello’ from me. I still remember that night in Ciprianis.

A white van on Belgrave Square January 2019. Tim’s skill as a professional photographer is called into question.

Into Belgrave Square and we’re now into serious embassy country. Armed police, CCTV, manic taxi drivers, diplomatic plates, Simón Bolivar statue. Then down Upper Belgrave Street. Usually I’m picking up the pace by this point because either I’ve got a train to catch or - more likely - I’m needing the loo. A good place to stop is another hidden mews pub - The Horse and Groom. There’s a couple of tables outside on the road, summertime this area in front of the pub gets crowded. It’s much quieter in the afternoons if you’ve snuck out for a cheeky half. Yeah, WTF is a ‘cheeky half’?

Now I’ve really got my head down and heading towards the station. Two points of interest. First is St Peter’s church. Now this could be either Upper Belgrave Street, Lower Belgrave Street or Eaton Square. Not a clue. Shame someone couldn’t invent software where one could look up these things - you know like a telephone directory but online. Anyway, it’s a pretty church in a vaguely temple type way. It’s the picture at the top of the page. And then we have The Plumbers Arms. If I’m heading in Victoria / Harrods direction this tends to be my first port of call.

The Plumbers Arms, Lower Belgrave Street. Lord Lucan not pictured.

Of course, it’s famous as the place where Lady Lucan fled to after getting whacked on the head by her soon to be missing husband (they lived opposite). The staff seem to have no idea about the history of their pub and look at me like I’m a nutter when I ask about it. Anyway, it’s a decent boozer, usually busy, not bad food. Good place to start but not end the walk.

The Victoria - hiding off Buckingham Palace Road

For we have one more pub. Now called The Victoria I’m sure it used to be The Princess Victoria back in the day when I used to go there. Needless renaming. It’s hidden down a mews - Phipps Mews - so tourists never find it as it has no entrance onto Buckingham Palace Road. I used to work in the next door office - Belgrave House where American Express and Google used to uneasily share the building. It tended to be the place we headed after a hard day’s toil. But that’s not why I remember it…

Back in the 90’s I attended South Bank University doing some useless Masters Degree. There I met a girl. Both of us had other attachments. I suppose we all have our secrets... We used to go into The Princess Victoria - as it then was - and make plans, organising the gloomy logistics of our affair. I don’t remember there being many laughs. And then a furtive kiss outside before I headed off back down to the South Coast and she went home to Hammersmith to another man.

“Whirling leaves catch at our coats
As we kiss in dark places
Careful. Suspicious. Alert
We make our final embraces
”

— Wintertime - Tim Robson

I raise a glass to the memory when I go in.

And then, cross the mayhem of Buckingham Palace Road to the Station - now thankfully liberated from the ridiculous three foot high fence that we all vaulted pissed trying to get our train. Some colleagues would mistime their jumps and end up sprawled in the road (yeah, you know who you are).

To conclude, do this walk either way. Do it in winter. Do it in summer. Do it sober and take in the great architecture, the sedate upstairs / downstairs history. Do it for the shops or exercise. Or have a great pub crawl in some great pubs with a sense of the past, with stories to tell, in places you wouldn’t normally find pubs without knowing. Do it for me. Or for an idea of me. Once.

More London Walks here

Outside the Victoria pub. There was once a wall where that white van is. No one cares.

*Fashions change. Here in Clapham you’re not considered a beggar unless you’ve got an accordion on which you bash out some meaningless tune.

Dating in Battersea Right Wing Style

August 17, 2018 by Tim Robson in Tim Robson, London

A Crap Date in Battersea Arts Centre

(A Star on Lavender Hill excerpt @Tim Robson 2018)

One of the problems of dating in Battersea, if you hold right-wing views, and I do - mildly and quietly - is that your potential date will be - by habit, by convention – culturally of the left. They’ve never met anyone like me, most are appalled I even exist. Therefore, I have a dilemma - to stay quiet and fail gracefully to progress the relationship, or to reveal my politics and be damn certain not to. I mostly choose the shorter path.

I’m also a bit of a nob. That doesn’t help.

Chloe and I met via some online dating agency. We agreed to meet for a drink in the bar at Battersea Arts Centre. So far, so Guardian Soulmates.

“Well Chloe, digital marketing, what does that actually mean?” I said with more bravado than tact.

Chloe looked disgusted, as though I’d demanded her best mate’s number. But the lure of being condescending proved too much. “I run word-of-mouth campaigns to organically connect brands with sympathetic networks and communities.”

“Yeah, all of that, love it - gets me a little stiff frankly - but what about digital marketing?” I laughed to underline that this was a joke. A slightly risqué joke perhaps, but still a joke between adults. On a date. Chloe though was a little younger than me and so treated life in an appropriately serious manner. Laughing at life’s absurdities is something the millennial generation appeared to have jettisoned. Shame; I used to like humour.

“Traditional marketing only concentrates on consumer relationships defined by the act of purchase. Digital marketing is about creating communities.”

“Communities that buy stuff?”

“That’s part of it.”

“So not very different!” I laughed, so alone.

“What do you do then?” Chloe asked somewhat perfunctorily. In my profile, I’d written some bullshit like skywriter or dream-maker. Basic pleasure model. I like to arouse curiosity even where none is merited.

“I manage accounts.”

“Who for?” she asked – interest momentarily piqued, itchy finger on a LinkedIn request.

“A small merchant acquirer.”

“What?”

“We sign up shops and restaurants to accept credit cards. Like this place. Means you can pay for my next drink with your Gold Amex!” Again, humour. Mistake. She heard the bit about her buying me a drink but missed the rest. Oh dear! No one gets me.

And then - how very quickly - Chloe’s participation in the conversation declined into monosyllabic disinterest. There was an overwhelming possibility of an early morning meeting. Or the unfortunate calamity of a sudden headache. Sadly, my dates often end with unexpected haste.

But I aim to please, to give a party bag to my departing ladies containing the full right-wing arsehole experience, to provide a cautionary tale to pass onto girlfriends over a bottle of Prosecco after a hard day creating organic, but brand-aware, communities.

“So, Brexit. Great result, eh? Finally, free from our European masters!”

Chloe was gone in less than a minute clutching her pearls. I think Wandsworth voted 98% in favour of remaining in the EU. If only a couple of boxes of postal votes hadn’t got lost, there would have been a ringing 110% endorsement.

I reflect on this date as I pass Battersea Arts Centre. My reflections are warm but never salutary. I repeat the same mistakes and fall too willingly into the same traps just as I walk the same route, encounter the same people, and have similar thoughts each and every day. On Lavender Hill.

Tim Robson warming up at Battersea Arts Centre

Lavender Hill - An Opening

August 15, 2018 by Tim Robson in London, Tim Robson

A Star on Lavender Hill (excerpt) - @Tim Robson 2018

It's approximately 2400 steps from one end of Lavender Hill to another. I walk one way in the morning, and the other in the evening. Typically I do this journey twice a day, five days a week.Through constant repetition, I can tell you the best places to cross the road, which coffee bars have the smallest queues, the most likely spots to encounter beautiful girls.

I can calibrate precisely the lateness of my train by the characters I meet as I begin my journey. If I’m early, for instance, I’ll pass a tall girl with the poise of a model striding through Clapham Junction Station concourse. Her long creamy hair is salon-perfect, clothes au courant, make-up professionally applied. She draws stares from those who see her for the first time, or those – like me – who hope to see her every day. Who she is and what she does is a mystery. My attempts to catch her eye and thereby swap a smile are coldly ignored. Being beautiful allows you to be dismissive with random strangers.

Often, as I walk up the right-hand pavement, I pass a young professional lady – twenty-five, twenty-six – who, in the glow of Debenhams’ window display, occasionally does return my smile. It’s a validation and I seek it out. But when I’m late, which thanks to my insufferable train, I often am, she’s gone already. I’ve observed that she catches a bus around the corner on St John’s Road at 8:45; anytime later than this means I miss her smile. What if we talked one of these days? Went for a drink? Became lovers?

These pleasant thoughts are driven from my mind though as I pass the Corner Stone Christian bookshop where some crazy Korean dances in the doorway. He’s there in all weathers, practising karate moves and raving in some weird English/Korean gibberish. Why this spot and why the elaborate performance is unclear but, all the same, I avoid the wild riddles of his eyes and instinctively move towards the curb.

Between the library and the police station, they’ll be two yummy mummies, thirsty for quarter-shot lattes, wearing tight fashionable leggings, slowly pushing their baby strollers in tandem towards the Social Pantry Cafe. If I’m late, I'll struggle to get past their pavement-blocking phalanx of buggies and bags. If I’m on time, I’ll slip into step behind them, listening to their unvarying stories - children, husbands, other women - until they cross at the lights on Latchmere Road.

Tony Blair, Re-appearing Chimneys and Knee Breeches.

battersea arts centre

August 08, 2017 by Tim Robson in Architecture, London

I look out my window and see Battersea Power Station sporting four chimneys. I can remember last year when there was just one. In between I remember there being two and then, some time afterwards, three. Chimneys; they come, they go.

It's an exciting observation and I wanted to share it with you - fellow students of urban architecture.

Back when I had hair and the world was younger and kinder, I did a Masters Degree in some real estate related subject. Some right-on professor who put the tosser in the phrase 'complete tosser' was jerking off about the evils of worshipping buildings. Apparently, everything in the urban environment should be new, anything 'old' knocked down when a new fad comes into view. No idols. No memories. No sentimentalism. He was Corbusier's idiot son.

Architectural and cultural vandalism was very a-la-mode in the 90's. Remember that dickhead Blair ludicrously waffling about Britain being 'a Young Country'? Scrapping the Lord Chancellor's office because it was symbolised by wigs and knee breeches? He should have been impeached just for that particular stupid action. Let alone the illegal wars.

Professor Tosser would look out from his ivory tower on Wandsworth Rd and pontificate on the built environment he could see. BTW, I use the term 'ivory tower' loosely. It's more like a concrete tower. And the University building is now a Tesco Express which seems appropriate and very modish somehow. The Prof would riff on the poverty of Battersea around him and the ridiculousness of preserving that great white elephant - Battersea Power Station. A cesspit of chemicals, pollution and redundant bricks.

But, it remained. And remains. Though redeveloped it still maintains its facia. The bricks. It's dominance and, yes - count them! - it's four chimneys. As Bruce says:-

“I had a brother at Khe San
Fighting off the Viet Cong.
They’re still there, he’s all gone.”

— Born in the USA - Bruce Springsteen

Lavender Hill

February 25, 2017 by Tim Robson in London, Architecture

“I commute into Clapham Junction everyday. My office is a twenty minute walk up Lavender Hill and Wandsworth Road.”

— Tim Robson - Bang The Beat!

Lavender...

The word lavender conjures up the sun drenched, hazy fields of Provence. Or perhaps some choppy, warm-toned Impressionist masterpiece. Or it's a section of a busy thoroughfare in South Central London. Yes, it’s probably the latter.

My entrance and exit point to this urban dreamscape is Clapham Junction railway station. Not sure what a junction is, but as to the Clapham part, well, that’s a little bit of historical postcode snobbery. A fib. This is Battersea. Not Clapham, which is posh and a mile away. Battersea is working class. Engineering and manufacturing back in the day. Less so now. Maybe we could rename it Lavender Junction? Help shift those new million pound apartments, no?

There’s a pub. There’s always a pub, isn’t there? The Falcon is pretty special though. One of those big pubs you only get in London. The ones dripping with large baskets of flowers, partitioned rooms, and back lit smoky glass. This one sports a famous horseshoe bar (the UK’s longest apparently). I don’t drink there though – nor the Slug and Lettuce next door. However, the facilities are handy so I’m pretty much a regular.

There was a girl once. There's always a girl, behind the memories, driving the words. We were students at South Bank University on Wandsworth Road. I used to catch the Number 87 bus up and down Lavender Hill to Clapham Junction. If I was more observant, as I sat on the bus all those years ago, I would have noticed a local oddity – a genuine London eatery – the Pie and Mash shop. The historian in me likes the fact that this relic of old London, of its working class eating habits, is still there. I like that. But I don’t go in. Not a fan of eels unfortunately. But it's cheering to know it’s still there nestling amidst the numerous Thai, Indian, Italian, Japanese, Chinese and assorted restaurants.

Battersea Library, police station but, most wonderfully (and where this drivel is mostly written) the Grade 2 listed building that used to be Battersea town hall but now doubles as Battersea Arts Centre. They used to build beauty, those Victorians, put the effort in, make buildings things of wonder and aspiration.

“Kate and I are meeting in Battersea Arts Centre. I’m late. I scan the bar. At a corner table is a woman who bears a passing resemblance to Kate’s online dating profile.”

— Tim Robson: The Bottle and the Sock

However, money was always an issue, even in the 1880’s. None more so than The Church of the Ascension, a big, bold - God is terrible, God is almighty, repent ye sinners - church at the top of the hill. It’s a massive stone structure with Byzantine influences by way of Carcassonne. It should have been adorned with an equally gigantic phallic tower but the original architect pissed the money away, was sacked and the church was completed sans spire. Nerdishly, I own a copy of the original architectural plans from 1875.

“There’s a tramp whose regular perch is the low surrounding wall of the Ascension of the Lord Church on Lavender Hill. Kicking back with his can of strong lager, he likes to shout abuse at the passing world. His favourite trick is surprise; hunched harmlessly over his carrier bag one minute, and then, as though roused from sleep, pouncing like a lion the next.”

— Tim Robson - About Twenty Minutes

And then we're walking downhill. Go past - hurry! - The Crown pub. Last week, as I was leaving, I witnessed some ritualised urban ballet as two drug dealers squared off to each other out on the street. Held back by their various women folk screaming, "Leave it out Jon, he's not worth it!" I waited for my Uber to take me to the station as the performance played out. Don't know who won. It's probably on YouTube somewhere.

This part of Lavender Hill is all shit council flats and massed ranks of mopeds parked on the pavement outside nondescript takeaways. Let me explain lest you live in a town where cuisine laziness hasn't yet set in. Every eatery on Lavender Hill - and there are many, so many - has a fleet of mopeds waiting to take the indolent, the obese, the time poor banker-wankers, their genuine, wood fired Neapolitan pizzas. This, children, is what decadence looks like. Fight, fight, against the dying of the light and cook from scratch you lazy bastards!

“We continue walking down Lavender Hill keeping our own counsel. Once again, our pace is well matched and we walk together, three feet apart. As we near the old Cedar pub, she slows.”

— Tim Robson: About Twenty Minutes

There are many places that offer a 'massage'. Strangely they always want to massage - for extra, for cash only - those parts that don't often get massaged in - say - more mainstream establishments. Happy endings are promised. Not always delivered. I avert my eyes, clutch my pearls, lift up my skirts, and run from these places.

And so, after a mile or so, Lavender Hill finishes at Cedars Road and hands the A3036 baton over to Wandsworth Road in a fistful of Tesco Expresses, coffee shops and Premier Inns. We are now entering Lambeth and our story must end here.

And so where does all this take us? An old London Street. Full of Victorian buildings. What signifies?

“And with clear, cold eyes
And newly acquired candour,
I sift these departing delusions;”

— Tim Robson - Delusions

Well, everything. And nothing. From the confident Victorian public buildings, to the sturdy 19th Century housing for the workers, to the bold and confident Anglicanism. To the many, many cultures that have taken root here, left their mark on the shops, restaurants, even the pizza delivery boys that criss-cross unknowing through this urban thoroughfare. To the pubs, open and closed, converted or renovated, silently bearing witness to wars and coronations, disasters and triumphs. History shines through, hiding amongst these stones, these relics, peeping shyly from under the brim of modernity. The breath of London, old London, still blows gently in this cityscape. And if you look hard enough, you will find some lavender. Yes, even on Lavender Hill.

All pictures of Lavender Hill, Tim Robson February 2017

The Holy Trinity Church, Clapham July 2016

The Clapham Sect

Battersea Arts Centre

July 07, 2016 by Tim Robson in London

I work in South London, in Clapham. On Wandsworth Road. Just off The Common.

Surprisingly, although I did my Masters degree just down the road at Southbank University, I never really explored the area that much. My girlfriend and I used to take the tube north and wander around Pimlico, neglecting the wonders of South London.

I can put that right now. Battersea Arts Centre you know about already. I'm working on an article / short story called The Dead Pubs of Clapham which, well, talks about the dead pubs of Clapham. You'll like that.

Clapham Old Town is just a few minutes stroll from my office. And there lies, workmanlike and unshow-ey, The Holy Trinity Church. Splendidly set on the Common itself this eighteenth century evangelical church was the home of the Clapham Sect.

The Clapham sect - including William Wilberforce - used to meet and pray here. They were prime movers behind the Slave Trade Act in 1807 and the 1833 Abolition of Slavery Act. But not only did they drive the abolition of slavery in both Britain and her Empire but, with the establishment of the naval West Africa Squadron in 1807, Britain then used her considerable military muscle to stop the trade completely. Our navy was employed to enforce the abolition of the slave trade.

The church still stands in splendid isolation on the Common. If you are in the area (and it's a beautiful area) take a few moments to visit it, reflect and think of those who came before us who fought the good fight. And it was a hard fight. The easy thing would have been to do nothing. I'm sure most countries in the world have proud boasts, acts of enlightenment and empathy that are produced to show they are a great society.

But Britain has many. Many proud boasts. Standing on Clapham Common, passed daily by thousands of people, is a representation of one of them. We should talk about our past more and not through the unseeing eyes of today, the triviality, easy choices.

The landmarks series continues next week with my views on the pies at the Amex Stadium in Brighton.

The Lavender Hill Mob

April 07, 2016 by Tim Robson in Architecture, London

To supplement my earnings as a writer (cue laughter).... What? I don't make millions from my scribblings? Sadly no. Anyway, to supplement my earnings as a writer, I started working for a great, small company a couple of months ago. It's based on Wandsworth Road, London, just beyond Lavender Hill and close to Clapham Old Town / Common. Which means, I'm commuting again.

(Should I write a blog post about the frustrations of being a commuter, the appalling manners and habits of my fellow passengers? Maybe - right after I finish this novel I'm writing about a boy wizard in a school for magic, who has a dark past...)

My walk to and from work takes me past the Grade 2 listed Battersea Arts Centre. Formerly Battersea's town hall before absorption into Wandsworth, it's a beautiful late Victorian building. It's currently undergoing a renovation. I know this because the outside steps and pavement are being revamped as I write - beautiful slabs of stone awaiting to be laid. They're not doing it on the cheap. It's good this piece of heritage is in such good hands.

The restoration work going on April 2016

Anyway, it is my custom to stop here as I await my evening train and write the odd blog post (hello world!), pen hackneyed poetry - my new thing - or tweak a short story. The bar is a great space - the vibe of an old school refectory hall with parquet floor, mismatched furniture and flickering candles. I can people-watch the pre-theatre crowd as they tweak their beards or polish their nose rings.

Actually it's a bit more broad based than that (well, not much to be fair) but the clientele are a merry bunch, like the bar staff. A simple menu of rustic burgers (beef/jerk chicken/ pan fried humus or some shit like that) and sharing plates tempt the hungry writer... The plays my hipster friends are here to see however, all seem to be absolute leftie bollox - unchallenged, lazy victimhood-claiming rants spewed out to an unthinking Guardian reading audience. Perhaps I should go along! Or put my nob in a blender. Choices. Choices.

Amusingly, the beard who's sharing my table with his - not unattractive - date, is seriously over-reaching. He's wanking on about some Time-Out review of tonight's opus about whales (called Wails). Aside - I wonder if I could get a whale steak here? Probably not. Anyway - he's earnest in his denunciation of those global capitalistic, UKIP supporting whalers who are triggering the safe spaces of tuna or bearded twats or something. Blah Blah Blah. Probably Donald Trump's fault. Anyway, this seems to be working with his date who's nodding her head at his sage bon mots. Maybe I should update my routine, no?

Anyway - the wail of the curtain going up has moved my good friends from the table and I'm now alone penning sundry character assassinations. But - and this is the bit I want to leave you with - you can never close off a place, or shut out people just because you don't agree with them. I laugh at them and poke fun at them in a public forum because I live in land where to do so is part of our culture and I'm free to do so. And hideous lefties that they undoubtably are, what I share with them is SO much more than what I disagree with them about.

Everything is permitted in the UK unless banned. Other cultures and countries give you licence to do certain things. Think about it. There's a world of difference.

But I'm happy to be here in the lovely confines of Battersea Arts Centre and I'm glad even the lefties will have a good night with their righteousness to keep them warm. I think my earnest friend may well have something else to keep him warm!