1) Stand in Trafalgar Square Every year tens of thousands of New Year revellers are drawn mysteriously to Trafalgar Square as midnight approaches. They stand around beside the boarded-up fountains, just out of earshot of Big Ben, and nothing happens. Even in 2003, with the area rejuvenated as a semi-pedestrianised 'World Square', nothing will happen. The Mayor may have staged all sorts of diverse events here during the rest of the year but tonight he admits "The only thing to do in Trafalgar Square will be to get cold and wet". Cheers Ken.
2) Stand by the River Thames (dg's choice 1999/2000)
Westminster Bridge, that's the place to be. Right beneath Big Ben chiming twelve, and a grandstand view of Mayor Ken's real Hogmanay treat - a riverside firework display. Except that he'd rather you weren't here either. This brief display beside the London Eye is meant for global viewing, not for real Londoners standing out in the cold, so the police would much prefer you to stay home and watch your council tax going up in smoke on the telly instead. Cheers Ken. Let's hope it's more impressive than the 'River of Fire' four years ago.
3) Stand in a Circle Line train Ken's got one thing right this New Year - the tube will be running all through the night. This means you can attend any of the non-events in Central London and still get home without having to cram into a drunken nightbus. Instead you can allow the police to shoehorn you slowly onto an overcrowded platform waiting for a train that may not arrive until next year. Just make sure you're not under the Embankment at midnight rather than on it.
4) Stand inside the Dome Is it really a century since the eyes of the worldnation taxpayer were trained upon this upturned bowl by the Thames? Yesit is. Who could forget all those unfortunate celebrities stuck queueing at Stratford station, or the Queen trying to look excited as she shook hands with Tony Blair's vanishing credibility? I must admit I still rather like the Dome, sitting there spikes-to-the-sky at the tip of a desolate peninsula, doomed to an afterlife as the world's only billion pound bus station. But I have no plans to be there tonight for the last gasp of Winter Wonderland - an underpatronised overpriced fairground. No change there then.
5) Stand in a pub Any other night of the year you can stand in a pub for free. On New Year's Eve you have to pay £10 for the privilege, surrounded by a bunch of losers from your local neighbourhood eating mini sausage rolls from a luke-warm buffet. At midnight some greasy no-hoper will take advantage of the national thirty-second groping amnesty and plant a wet kiss on your unwelcoming cheek. The pub should be paying you.
6) Stand in a club (dg's choice 2001/02)
If you thought the pub was expensive, wait until you see what your favourite club is charging. All that ready cash is presumably essential to pay for DJ overtime and the twelve o'clock balloon drop. Try to spot the clubbers who've perfectly timed their pill-popping for a midnight high, and don't forget to feel sorry for the crowds still patiently queueing outside as the techno version of Auld Lang Syne bleeps out onto the pavement.
7) Stand around at a mate's party Accepting an invite to a New Year party always sounds like a good idea, particularly if you're getting desperate for at least some social contact this evening. Unfortunately the party will be attended by people you don't know who've only brought cheap booze and then insist on playing the naff compilation CD they've brought with them so that the TV's off when midnight comes round and you miss the chimes of Big Ben altogether, forcing everyone to raise an anti-climactic glass of sparkling wine five minutes late. Cheers.
8) Get out of London altogether (dg's choice 1998/99)
Hide away in a country cottage on a New Year break and you can miss all that unnecessary hubbub in the capital. There again, you do have to sleep under floral duvets, shiver with coin-in-the-slot Economy 7 heating and discover that all the tourist attractions in the neighbourhood have shut down until Easter.
9) Get out of the country altogether (dg's choice 2002/03)
Fly away, say, 6000 miles to the west and you'll find yourself in a totally different time zone. This means that midnight GMT will pass unnoticed by the locals somewhere mid-afternoon, and then you'll end up celebrating New Year somewhere around what's really breakfast time. It may be unnatural, but the firework display will be considerably better.
10) Sit at home on your sofa (dg's choice 2000/01)
So, looks like it's just a can of lager and that dire Scottish Hogmanay TV special for company. Try to spot which of the featured celebrities has died or been involved in a terrible accident since the show was recorded back in November. Then text all your friends pretending to be somewhere else rather more glamorous, whilst bemoaning the fact that nobody appears to have sent you any messages in return. But, smile, because you're not cold, you're not wet, you're not on a train, you're not surrounded by drunkards and you're not fifty pounds poorer. Happy New Year!
Lesson 1) Health: Make the most of what you have - it may not last.
Thursday July 3: "I've recently had cause to reflect on my good health, fingers crossed. Over the last two weeks a disturbingly high number of work colleagues and members of my family have ended up in medical establishments being told things they really didn't want to hear. Good health is something the fortunate amongst us too often take for granted."
Lesson 2) Friends: Make the most of what you have - it may not last.
Tuesday March 4: "Situation vacant: Best mate (London/UK/Europe)
Reason for vacancy: Previous post-holder emigrated to America today, to take up leading role with partner in expanding small business."
Lesson 3) Work: Make the most of what you have - it may not last.
Friday March 21: "When the next spring equinox comes round I expect I'll have been moved to a different office, in a different building, on a different floor, with a different view of London, probably of a brick wall or a basement knowing my luck."
Lesson 4) Hardware: Make the most of what you have - it may not last.
Thursday November 27: "My computer's hard drive died totally and completely on Sunday night. The good news is that the hardware has now been repaired and is ready to collect. The bad news is that every single byte of data on the hard drive has been completely and irretrievably lost."
Lesson 5) Boredom: Make the most of what you have - it may not last.
Monday May 12: "Some people can fill their days many times over, never finding enough hours to get everything done. They wake up, the day passes in a blur of hyperactivity, and hey presto it's time to go to bed again. For other people each day is a potential avalanche of boredom. A featureless morning stretches out into an interminable afternoon, leading perhaps to a non-descript evening, this prescription to be repeated daily."
The 7am puzzle: What's the longest word chain of numbers you can make? Each number in the chain must start with the last letter of the previous number. For example: TeNinEighThree contains 4 different numbers.
Only one-word unhyphenated whole numbers are permitted, and no number may be repeated. In the event of a tie, the greatest number of letters used wins.
Top single Mark Owen: Four Minute Warning (reviewed Aug 31) Yes, I know, I'm as surprised as you are, but it is.
Killer song, killer hook (killer subject matter).
Is there anything better you could watch on Boxing Day evening than a pantomime? Oh yes there is. Not to worry, I'd already set the video set to record The Office, so I was off to watch my 7-year-old niece starring in Norfolk's premier festive entertainment instead. Apparently there were some other semi-famous people in the show as well, although I never used to watch Bread so it was hard to be certain.
I was duly summoned to the front row of the upper circle to watch my niece take her very first faltering steps towards an Equity card. There she was milling around the streets of old Peking, folding clothes in Widow Twankey's laundry and parading sparkly treasure around the genie's cave. She was dead good, but then as an uncle I have to say that. She's also on first name terms with all the stars and a useful source of backstage gossip (last night Wishee Washee's trousers split on stage, so I hear). Thanks to her I was attending my first panto for almost 30 years.
Pantomime is a unique British experience. Nothing else mixes comedy, myth, romance and high camp with quite the same magic. If your career is on the way up, panto is something to fill in that worrying winter gap between Butlins summer seasons. If your career is on the way down, panto is a celebrity safety net, one last greasepaint refuge where you can still revel in audience adulation. Pantomime is also a very provincial artform. Nobody pantos in central London (hell, even Bonnie Langford can't get any closer than Guildford), whereas Norwich packs the audience in for a month.
From the poster outside you might have thought that the stars of the show would be the two actors from Bread and Corrie but oh no, the true stars of any panto are the dame and principal boy. Richard Gauntlett(Cannon And Ball, Time And The Rani, Beauty And The Beast) played Widow Twankey with camp aplomb, parading a series of outrageous dresses and winning over the crowd. Rikki Jay(Talking Telephone Numbers, Hamford County Primary School Nativity Play) as Wishee Washee combined an infectious cheeky grin with total audience rapport. The two of them wrote the show from scratch, ensured they got all the best lines and threw in deft ad-libs as required. Aladdin and his princess were merely sidelined romantic decoration. Perfect.
Highlights of the show included an acrobatic tumbling display, the lucky programme raffle and the finest Red Arrows formation display you'll ever see below 100ft. What's more there was actually a plot, never too far below the inventive silliness. Panto may not be high culture, but its enduring seasonal success provides provincial theatre with the essential financial lifeblood to survive. Long may it last. Me, I might even be tempted back next year, even if I don't get to hang around inside the stage door afterwards and accompany the star home.
12 unwanted presents
11 binbags of wrapping paper
10 toys without batteries
9 rainclouds drizzling
8 adverts for aspirin
7 furniture store sales
6 unopened boxes of chocolates
5 cold turkey dinners
4 extra inches on your waist
3 children playing
2 grandparents sleeping
and Aladdin at the Theatre Royal Norwich
On the day before Christmas... remember that Christmas is about The family
Mary leaned across the breakfast table. "I suppose we're going to have to stay with your family this year."
"Sorry," said Joe, "but Caesar Augustus has decreed that all the world should be taxed, so all us Davids are off to Bethlehem for the duration. At least we don't have to stay with your awful sister Elizabeth this year. She's been childless for so long that her so-called miraculous pregnancy is all she ever talks about now. And at her age! It's no wonder her husband's been struck dumb."
Mary looked down lovingly at the rounded bump bulging through her blue dress. "Well, this little one was a bit of a surprise too. I don't know quite how He got there, given that we've never, you know. I still reckon it might have been that Gabriel bloke who sneaked into my bedroom nine months ago, he could have spiked my drink or anything. It's conceivable, anyway. I shudder to think what your in-laws are going to think of you shacking up with an unmarried mother. Do we really have to go?"
"Afraid so," replied Joe, "there's no escape. It's the law, you know. Everyone must return back to their families this December, no matter how much they might not want to. My dad Jacob will be there, and all the grandchildren, and everyone else he's ever begat. You know you'll love it really, especially the big family meal. I'm looking forward to tucking into some ox and ass, or maybe a nice leg of lamb. Then we'll all sit round in the afternoon and listen to Herod's speech."
Mary shuddered. "I've heard terrible things about what Herod does to young children. I shan't be letting him lay a finger on my baby, that's for sure. Assuming He ever gets born, that is. The last thing I should be doing in my condition is heading cross-country on the back of a donkey. Why I ever agreed to marry someone who can't even afford a proper horse is beyond me. And everyone'll be out on the roads, heading back home to see the family, it's a surefire recipe for gridlock. By the way, did you manage to find anywhere for the two of us to stay in Bethlehem?"
"No, sorry," said Joe, "the whole town is already jam-packed full. Sounds like a multitude of shepherds have flocked there for some major hillside gathering. I even called round all the inns down the high street, but there was no room. Never mind, I'm sure we'll be able to make some sort of stable living arrangements once we arrive. You'd better pack some nice warm swaddling clothes though, just in case we're caught out. Now, what are we doing about sending presents this year?"
"I'm sore afraid," said Mary, "that I missed the last post. Never mind, I've arranged for three couriers to deliver some gifts from the East instead. It's the usual tat, just something shiny and a couple of smellies, but it's the thought that counts. I just hope those men are wise enough to follow the directions I gave them - I only asked for the one-star delivery service."
Joe smiled. "I'm sure it'll all work out fine, for the sake of that baby you're carrying. It'll be His first Christmas and we want it to be special. God knows what we'll call the little devil."
"Jesus, I don't know," sighed Mary. "Just promise me we're not going to spend next Christmas with the in-laws as well. Maybe next year we should fly to Egypt instead..."
On the 2nd day before Christmas... it's time to eat, drink and be merry
Eat Turkey: Why do we always buy giant turkeys at Christmas? We have to battle with mega-sized giblets, we're forced to get up at 5am to start them cooking, we can't fit them into the oven (especially at 5am) and we end up eating turkey in a variety of forms (curry, salad, pie, risotto, etc) right up until New Year. Why do we buy them? Because anything's better than nut roast, that's why.
Sprouts: There's never any room on a packed festive platter to push these tiny balls of concentrated cabbage to one side. Maybe you could hide yours under that raft of parsnips you're not going to eat either.
Christmas pud: After that enormous main course comes this flaming dessert...
Christmas cake: ...and then stodge covered in bitter paste covered with sugar. Please no.
Party nibbles: Ten years ago your visitors would have been happy with home-made sausage rolls and cheesy pineapple chunks on sticks. Nowadays anything less than filo-wrapped king prawns and spicy nacho cheese flavour bites is social suicide. Beware.
Christmas hamper: If you can't face crowding into Kwik Save on Christmas Eve, why not ring up one of those nice companies who advertise mid-afternoon on Channel 4 and pay over the odds for a selection of not-quite-brand-name foodstuffs instead?
Atkins Diet: No stuffing is allowed, but you are allowed to gorge on turkey, bacon, sausage, more turkey and a thick slab of lard. Dieters are advised that major weight loss may well follow, but generally only following your funeral.
Turkish delight: Delicious, but if an old lady pops out of your wardrobe and offers you some, just say no.
Creme Eggs: only 3 days to go :o)
Drink The drinks cabinet: You'll need to buy one of everything, just in case. Apart from the wine, which you'll need just in cases. Don't scrimp, otherwise that neighbour with the unexpected rum fixation may never speak to you again.
Advocaat: Yes, sorry, there should even be one bottle of this right at the back of your drinks cabinet, just in case granny gets tipsy and wants a snowball. Maybe she doesn't realise that the bottle contains grape brandy and unpasteurised egg yolks as well as sugar.
Lemonade: No matter how well stocked your drinks cabinet, the one drink that's sure to run out first is the least expensive. Go on, buy six extra bottles this Christmas, it need only cost you a quid.
Champagne: If you're serving this at the start of your Christmas party, buy only the finest. If you're serving this at the end of your Christmas party, you'll get away with Pomagne instead.
Mulled wine: That's proper wine ruined by excessive spice and overheating. Nice though.
The pub: When you get tired of drinking at home, why not go out and drink the same alcohol at twice the price down the pub? The place is sure to be full of other people escaping from their families, so you'll have plenty to talk about.
The club: When you get tired of drinking down the pub, why not go out and drink the same alcohol at four times the price in your local nightclub? The place is sure to be full of other people going out of their minds, so it'll probably remind you of being at home.
Celebrity Xmas shopping tips Number 2: Dermot O'Leary Seen buying: "A Killing In Paradise" 1000-piece mystery jigsaw Published by: Lagoon Games, £19.99 Where: Purves & Purves, Tottenham Court Road Also buying: a basketful of trendy goodies that took 5 minutes to pack Paid with: a black credit card Comment: my Christmas is complete
On the 3rd day before Christmas... the arrival of snow is anticipated
How fantastic it would be to wake up on Christmas morning, pull back the curtains and see the landscape covered by a thick layer of snow. All those nasty concrete outbuildings carefully blanketed, the footprints of robins scattered randomly across the lawn and Aled Jones frolicking in the lane with a couple of snowballs. Picture postcard perfect. We love snow at Christmas because it's the one day of the year most of us don't have to travel anywhere. We're already where we want need to be, the entire public transport network has already been shut down for the day and we couldn't drive safely anywhere after that pre-lunch sherry anyway. Any other day of the year and we'd all be cursing the nightmarish collapse all all local services but, on December 25th, 's no problem.
Will there be a White Christmas this year? Well, no, sorry, there won't. Even this morning, when snow was actually forecast, the streets of London remain resolutely grey. Alas, a snowy Christmas Day in the UK is a rare event. Even rarer is a 'proper' white Christmas, rather than the 'a flake of sleet will do' travesty of a definition that the bookies now use. December's always been a bit early in the winter for snow (January and February are rather more likely), and global warming threatens to make the entire 21st century a bit late in the millennium for snow too. White Christmases were rather more common here during the 'Little Ice Age', back when the Thames used to regularly freeze over, but the last London Frost fair was held as long ago as 1814. In the future any light sprinkling of white across the capital is far more likely to be the result of terrorist-induced nuclear fallout.
Only ten of the last Christmases in London have been white. That'd be 1916 (sleet), 1927 (snow, falling and lying), 1938 (sleet, but 15cm of snow lying on the ground), 1956 (snow), 1964 (snow), 1968 (sleet), 1970 (snow, falling and lying), 1976 (snow), 1996 (sleet) and 1999 (sleet). You may also remember a white 1981, but that year doesn't officially count because no snow fell on Christmas Day itself. Me, I remember 1970 well enough, which may be just as well because if I were any older I probably wouldn't be able to remember a proper white Christmas at all. Alas, today's children have probably missed out on seeing one for good.
On the 4th day before Christmas... the Christmas number one is announced
Well, what do you know? The 2003 Christmasnumber one is Mad World by Gary Jules. Excellent! I was championing this audio jewel on diamond geezer as far back as October last year, noting "Somebody release it please - it could be huge." I'm well chuffed finally to have been proved correct. This spine-tingling Tears For Fears cover version first came to public attention over the closing credits of the film Donnie Darko and has been track 1 on my mp3 player ever since, but the song remained resolutely unreleased until this week. Gary has just beaten The Darkness into second place and (ha!) those bland Pop Idols into fifth. It's also the second time a cover version of a 1982 New Romantic classic has topped the charts at Christmas (see also Only You by the Flying Pickets in 1983). Mad.
To celebrate this rare triumph of taste over tat, here's the diamond geezerChristmas Number Ones Lyrics Quiz. Can you identify these Christmas number one records from their lyrics? Every Christmas number one from the last thirty years (1973-2003) appears once on the list. (Why not annoy the family and print out the quiz for use over Christmas - printable version here) All answers now in the comments box, or by clicking on the question numbers, or full printable list here.
1) any way the wind blows
2) a ray of hope flickers in the sky
3) look for a rainbow in every storm
4) no dark sarcasm in the classroom
5) the reddest rose I'll always bring you
6) what about sunrise? what about rain?
7) do the fairies keep him sober for a day
8) it'll be cold so cold without you to hold
9) digging and mixing, having so much fun
10) it's the season, love and understanding
11) with logs on the fire and gifts on the tree
12) nights when we sang like a heavenly choir
13) I want a man not a boy who thinks he can
14) the beat of the drum goes round and round
15) long time ago in bethlehem so the holy bible say
16) bittersweet memories, that is all I'm taking with me
17) throw your arms around the world at Christmas time
18) five years later on you've got the world at your feet
19) she always is a friend to you and she's a friend to me
20) I believe in angels, something good in everything I see
21) have you ever seen a girl for whom your soul you'd give
22) the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had
23) wonder if you'll understand it's just the touch of your hand
24) candlelight and soul forever, dream of you and me together
25) little things I should have said and done I never took the time
26) now we have been through the harvest winter has truly begun
27) I'd like to go back one time on a roller coaster ride when life was just a game
28) don't you know we've come too far now just to go and try to throw it all away
29) although he's unconventional in hue his philosophy of life will steer him through
30) we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two and then I go and spoil it all
On the 5th day before Christmas... it's the last posting date for first class mail
It's your last chance today to send a small piece of folded cardboard to somebody you've not communicated with since last Christmas. Better hurry then, because the last collection round your way is probably at noon-ish. Miss the deadline and your festive greeting will be stockpiled in a huge warehouse until mid-January, by which time the intended recipient will no doubt have crossed you off their Christmas card list for good.
It was Sir Henry Cole who sent the world's first Christmas card exactly 160 years ago, using the new Penny Post. Sir Henry thought his friends would appreciate a three-panelled card depicting a smiling family bearing the inscription 'A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to You'. He did not, so far as we know, send them pictures of an obese Santa stuck down a chimney, a robin smothered in glitter or Homer Simpson pretending to be a reindeer. As a reward for his good taste, Sir Henry went on to become the first director of the Victoria and Albert Museum.
The Royal Mail now moves over a billion Christmas cards each December. That's because there's still nothing to beat receiving a real card through the post rather than some feeble virtual greeting, not least because it's very hard to cover your mantelpiece with emails. And the annual Christmas card tally remains the indisputable annual barometer of your popularity and social standing. If you receive more cards than you send, your place in society is assured. However, send out more than you receive and the level of your insignificance is made explicitly clear. (Note to self: sent 67, received 23, give up now).
Each year friendships are extended by the exchange of Christmas cards. People we once knew, echoes of former lives, their continuing existence is confirmed by the arrival of a small envelope. If you're really lucky there's one of those thrilling "What a year it's been..." family newsletters tucked inside, full of births, holidays and operation scars. This means that you never have to pick up the phone and ring the other person because you know that everything you'll ever need to know will be safely documented in next year's missive. Of course, the other person's card always arrives the day after you sent yours, so the brief scribbled note inside your card (Congratulations!) can only react to last year's news (I became a grandfather...) rather than the latest bombshell (my wife left me and the doctor had some very bad news...).
So let's all remember Sir Henry Cole this Christmas because it's thanks to him that we remember everyone else. Although I suspect there'd be a whole load more forests still standing if he'd never bothered.
Congratulations, you are the 50000th visitor to this website... ...and number 50000 arrived from here, about half an hour ago. Fifty thousand visitors eh? Thank you all for coming, thank you all for reading, and thanks to all those of you who link here. Must be a good time for my semi-regular 'league table' of top linking blogs, ordered by volume of visitors clicking here from there:
It's disappointing that three of the top 10 have stopped blogging, two veryrecently, but reassuring to see some fine new entries creeping into the top 20 (at 15, 18 and 19). A special hello to the blogs that appear in the list because their owners have been making regular daily visits here for months and months - thanks, much appreciated. And, if you're interested, here's how the chart continues: 21222324252627282930. Point, click, and read. (No call girls knowingly featured)
On the 6th day before Christmas... the Blue Peter Advent Crown is almost fully lit
5.00 Jaunty version of 'Barnacle Bill' complete with snowflakes, distant sleighbells and disturbingly moden graphics.
5.01 Hello and welcome to a very special pre-Christmas edition of Blue Peter. Later in the show GrinningBoy1 will be telling you all about what pandas do at Christmas, and OverexcitedGirl2 will be jumping off a flying sleigh without a parachute. But first...
5.02 Oh look, our Bring and Buy sale totaliser is still flashing less than halfway up the totaliser. Never mind, we always hit our target in time for the first show of the New Year. In the meantime please keep selling your old tat for our appeal, and you might want to start saving up your stamps and silver paper for next Christmas just in case.
5.05 Here's a lovely decoration you can make out of an old cereal packet, three plastic lemonade bottles and some pipecleaners, except that somehow the ones you make at home never look quite as good as ours do they?
5.09 And don't forget to save all the excess glitter on some newspaper so that you can reuse it again next year.
5.10 Look at all the lovely Christmas cards you've sent us this year. We're going to pretend they're all artistic masterpieces, particularly this one obviously drawn by 5-year-old Tim's Dad.
5.12 Here's GrinningBoy2 with one of those stories of days gone by that ValerieSingleton always used to do so much better.
5.17 And you can read more about this dull Victorian woman in our latest Blue Peter annual. Why not try to collect the full set?
5.18 Now I'm going to light the third candle on our Advent crown. If you're going to make one, do remember not to use those infammable plastic coathangers won't you? We've put the instructions on our website, just to try to make this 1950s design appear somehow modern and trendy.
5.20 Here are lots of boring objects from an exhibition in a London museum that you can get into free if you're a Blue Peter badge winner, although we realise that's a fat lot of good if you live in Kilmarnock.
5.23 Don't forget to join us next week when we'll be singing our favourite Blue Peter carol (odd years Hark The Herald, even years O Come All Ye Faithful) accompanied by the near-death Chalk Farm Salvation Army Band, trying to look enthusiastic as we open a few miserable presents round a Christmas cake made of dog food.
5.24 Credits roll over cute shot of Kari and Oke the cats, yawning.
Congratulations to the winners of the Guardian's second British blog awards:
Best design: The Big Smoker - designed by two London non-smokers, includes both stuff and things.
Best use of photography: NYCLondon.com - a showcase of sharp black and white snaps.
Under 18: A Teenager Blogs - about life and Leeds and gigs and footie and life and and crisps.
Best specialist: The Diary of Samuel Pepys - unfortunately Mr Pepys is unable to be here to claim his award.
Best written: belle de jour - the diary of a London callgirl, it's BlogWorld's very own red light district.
Judges' Award: LinkMachineGo - an impressive list of webby links, with an emphasis on the comic.
Expect a heateddebate...
On the 7th day before Christmas... here's the Underground Christmas story
1 One day, while Mary was still slepping, the Angel of the Lord visited her. Mary fell to her Neasden looked up. The Angel told her she Woodford have a baby who'd be Wapping important.
2 Mary-lebone and husband Joseph had to go Upney to Bethlehem, also known as Park Royal David's White City. Mary on a BlackHorse Rode because she was Leyton in her pregnancy.
3 There was no Morden room anywhere down the Old Street, but one innkeeper Maida Valeable the stable round the back. Baby Jesus was Holborn there surrounded by Barking animals.
4 High in the Hillingdons, abiding in the Southfields, there were Shepherds Bush watching over their flocks by night. And lo the Angel of the Lord came upon them, so they got off their Arsenal and walked the Mile End into Bethlehem to see the baby.
5 There came three Blackfriars from Dagenham East, following a star. They brought gifts of Golders Green, Farringdon and Moorgate. On the way they stopped off at a Mansion House to meet Kings Cross Herod.
6 Herod couldn't StanMore of this. It was enough to Turnham Green with anger. "Kill, Burn the children!" he cried. But baby Jesus and his parents had already escaped Northwood, far beyond Zone 6.
December 17th 1903: The WrightBrothers make the first ever (powered, manned, heavier-than-air, controlled) flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Orville is the world's first aeronaut in a short flight lasting just 12 seconds and covering 37 metres. (A century later, this is still further than Concorde will ever fly again.)
1903: North-west Essex is full of prettyvillages, where only birds fly. Several of the pretty villages are suddenlydoomed.
1909: Louis Bleriot becomes the first asylum seeker to sneak into England by flying across the Channel.
1914: The Great War is the first to be fought in the air as well as on the ground. Alas, war is now looking up.
1927: Charles Lindbergh makes the first ever flight across the Atlantic, and discovers jetlag.
1938: AmeliaEarheart disappears mysteriously on her last round-the-world-flight (well, it would be, wouldn't it?).
1944: Global conflict inspires the invention of rocket technology. Some good may come of this, but not yet.
1957: The Boeing 707 enters service. EasyJet reserve first refusal on the ageing aircraft in 40 years time.
1961: Yuri Gagarin becomes the first person to see how pretty the Earth looks from space.
1969: The Boeing 747 makes possible mass passenger transit. Majorca is in big trouble, but doesn't realise yet.
1969: Man lands on Moon. Man takes photos. Man picks up a few rocks. Man drives around a bit. Man buggers off home again.
1976: Concorde makes its first commercial flight. Joan Collins and David Frost arm-wrestle for the front first class seat.
1981: The Space Shuttle Columbia ushers in a new age of less-than-thrilling going-nowhere accident-prone space travel.
1995: Deep Vein Thrombosis is invented in a laboratory by far-sighted lawyers.
2003: Pioneer 10 sends its final message back to the Earth from 7¾ billion miles away, heading for the stars. We've come a long way in 100 years.
On the 9th day before Christmas... the shops are full of people buying rubbish
There comes a day whe you finally have to grit your teeth, knuckle down and head to the shops to buy stuff for Christmas. Yesterday I succumbed, even though it meant squandering 4% of my annual leave entitlement merely to avoid the weekend crush. And so I spent the afternoon trawling the West End, trying desperately to find some presents that other people might find borderline acceptable. I no doubt failed, but other people do always seem to prefer being bought something to being bought nothing, even if that something is rubbish. And there's certainly plenty of rubbish around to be bought, all stuff that you'd never ever buy for yourself, and you'd never dare buy for anyone else unless it was Christmas.
Oxford Street was full of of other people who weren't working, all seeking that elusive perfect Christmas gift. I pity the someone somewhere who's going to wake up to a fake Rolex on the 25th, or the DVD of some film that ITV's screening on Boxing Day, or one of those tiny 'gift' books with three words on each of fifty pages. Shoppers bustled by, some with the full set of designer carrier bags, others with only a bemused frown. Stores prayed that some of the passers-by would stop, come inside and part with large amounts of money. A couple of policemen mopped up a pool of blood from the road where an inattentive shopper had wandered into the path of some unexpected traffic. In Berwick Street market the sprouts were almost as big as the fake glass baubles. Christmas approached, inexorably, just 125 shopping hours to go.
A brand new Tesco Metro store had just opened, part way down Dean Street on the way into Soho (see eye-catching poster adverts here). This was launch day so management were standing outside offering free mince pies and red wine to passers by in a vain attempt to make the store look busy. A row of bored till operators sat at the checkouts with nothing to do but gawp (they'd be more than welcome at my local Tesco which appears to be five times the size but with half the staff). I had a '£3 off champagne' coupon thrust into my hand (the chilled bubbly section is noticeably larger than the area selling milk), but declined to use it. Wouldn't have been much use to the closest residents either, those who live in the local shop doorways.
But yes, in the end I did manage to buy my family some presents that hopefully aren't rubbish. I hope they've managed the same, because I'll need at least one present to read/play/devour on Christmas afternoon to get me safely through the third screening of my niece's new Barbie Swan Lake video. And apologies to the rest of the family - while I was in Tesco I did buy Mum that CD. All rubbish is relative, it seems.
On the 10th day before Christmas... the race for the Christmas number one record begins
They're in the shops this morning, the top contenders for the most talked-about singles chart of the year. Who will top the Christmas charts next Sunday and live forever in a festive hall of fame? And can we stop the nation's pre-teens from buggering everything up again? Before we get too carried away, let's not forget that the Christmas number 1 is usually trash. For every Don't You Want Me there's a St Winifred's School Choir, and for every Stay Another Day there's a Mr Blobby. Can we fix it, or will we end up with something stupid? But I'm dreaming of a non-trite Christmas.
Out today: Mad World (Gary Jules): I've already waxed lyrical about this particular song, so let's hope the rest of the public do too. The original was first released in the year Renee and Renato larded over the Christmas number one position. Time for this haunting track to wreak revenge, I think.
Happy Xmas (War Is Over) (the Idols): Cynical bland manipulative cheesy saccharin shite. Sorry, I don't like this cover version very much. The original is currently number 33 in the charts - there's no justice is there?
Signed Sealed Delivered I'm Yours (Blue featuring Stevie Wonder): Smash Hits top pop totty attempt to boost sales by linking up with a superstar who last had a top ten hit in the year Shakin Stevens was Christmas number one.
Ladies Night (Atomic Kitten): Yet another cover version, as the three pop minxes attempt to get their career out of a hole again. In their hands the Kool and the Gang original sounds more like a night out overdosing on vodka spritzers.
Proper Chrimbo (Bo Selecta): They're having a laugh aren't they? Oh yes, so they are, and deliberately too. A proper novelty record for once.
I Love Christmas (Fast Food Rockers): And you thought Steps were dead? Sadly not. Primary-coloured dance routines for 7-year-olds. I hate I Love Christmas.
Christmas Time (Dont Let The Bells End) (The Darkness): Lowestoft's finest camp it up for Christmas (and manage to slip in a sly reference to bell ends). Freddie Mercury (Xmas 1975, 1991) would be proud. Destined to be played in Top Shop every December from now on, and rightly so.
Out last week: Changes (Kelly and Ozzy Osbourne) (no 1): It's not quite Nancy and Frank Sinatra is it? I had the misfortune to see Kelly at Knebworth in August. Ozzy had the misfortune to see Wexham Park Hospital on Monday.
Santa's List (Cliff Richard) (no 5): It wouldn't be December without a hit from Cliff. Pity it has to be this one, which sounds llike the blandest bits of all his old festive hits mixed together.
Have a Cheeky Christmas (Cheeky Girls) (no 10): The sadly-more-than-one hit wonders continue to prove that you can flog a dead horse. These two talentless sisters entered the chart yesterday one place above Madonna (whose new single appears to be an immaculate misconception).
Make Way For Noddy (Noddy) (no 29): In 2001 we suffered the Tweenies in the Christmas Top 10, in 2000 Bob The Builder, and in 1997 the Teletubbies. Thankfully Noddy doesn't seem to have inspired the nation's four-year-olds into record shops in quite such large numbers. Do let the bells end, please.
On the 11th day before Christmas... the decorations are going up, how many can you spot?
In the house • A set of fairy lights, impossibly tangled and seemingly defunct (5 points)
• A set of fairy lights that work first time (100 points)
• An artificial Christmas tree that drops needles to make it look convincingly real (50 points)
• A real Christmas tree that still has any needles left by Boxing Day (25 points)
• An Advent calendar that still stops at the end of Advent (10 points)
• An Advent calendar that doesn't contain tiny slabs of cheap chocolate (50 points)
• An Advent calendar that does contain at least one religious picture (100 points)
• A full set of IKEA candles (20 points)
• A pine cone stuck to a squeezy bottle because Blue Peter said it would look festive (5 points)
• A window covered in spray snow that you'll never ever scrape off come the new year (10 points)
• A paper chain that falls down in the middle of the night and sets off the burglar alarm (25 points)
• A sprig of mistletoe hanging directly above the very spot where your auntie is standing (-30 points)
In the street • Multi-purpose lights strung across the High Street that have been there since Divali, through Eid and on into Christmas (40 points)
• The council's threadbare attempt at a municipal Christmas tree, drooping folornly in a concrete precinct, decorated with three peeling baubles and some vandalised fairy lights (30 points)
• Snow-topped plastic lanterns and other Victorian-style illuminations hanging out of place in a 1960s shopping arcade (20 points)
• A neighbour's house covered by fairy lights, drawing huge crowds of onlookers and draining the National Grid (-20 points)
• One of those 7-candle stepped menorah things gleaming from every single window down your street (50 points)
• A house with the curtains wide open to show off the christmas tree to the street outside, but also inadvertently revealing the occupants shagging on the sofa (500 points)
On the 12th day before Christmas... the nation goes shopping, stocking up on toys
Toys aren't what they used to be. They used to be exciting bits of lovingly-crafted metal and plastic which we opened with eager anticipation on Christmas morning, then played with non-stop until next Christmas. Now they're just overpriced bits of metal and plastic which children play with once on Christmas morning, then hide in the cupboard until Mum chucks them out next Christmas to make room for the next lot. Or maybe they've always been like that. To see how toys have really evolved, here's a (highly-clickable) list of the British Association of Toy Retailers annual Toy of the Year awards. How many of these were you given? (and what the hell were they thinking in 1978?)
Me, I think I had a genitalia-free Action Man, and I definitely still have a Spirograph somewhere. My brother and I smashed up a whole caseful of Hot Wheels cars by running them endlessly down a set of plastic yellow tracks - they'd be worth a fortune by now if we'd left them in their original boxes. We must have had a ton of Lego, and the scary couple on the Mastermind box never used to frighten us off playing. Coming rather more up to date, my nephew overdosed on the Toy of the Year last year, and no doubt he'll still be looking back at his set of overpriced spinning tops with misty-eyed nostalgia in thirty years time. And I wonder which of this year's High Street contenders will be crowned King of the Toybox for 2003?
Thanks for coming to visit last week. You'll be glad to know that the bathroom floor is still clean and that a thin layer of dust has yet to reappear along the skirting board in the hallway. It may be chilly outside but my geraniums continue to bud and bloom spectacularly on the balcony, and the Christmas cacti are following suit indoors. I've now received a stunning total of four Christmas cards, two from the family, one from San Francisco, and one from that bloke I went to university with who now lives up in Norwich. I really should buy some Christmas presents at some point, if only any of us knew what we wanted.
While you were here you commented that BowChurch looked rather lost sitting in the middle of the road after dark, and wouldn't it be nice if they illuminated it at night so it stood out a bit and looked pretty? You'll be delighted to hear that this week local residents appear to have done exactly that, with a set of powerful spotlights now lighting up the outside of the church. It's rather pretty actually, and it looks like it's permanent and not just for Christmas. Next time you're down, I suspect you'll be impressed.
My microwave oven died at the weekend, and it was strange trying to remember how to cook everything without one. I must admit that jacket potatoes taste considerably better out of the oven rather than the microwave, but I'd forgotten just how slowly they cook so I nearly went out for a bag of chips instead. On Tuesday I could wait no longer and went out and bought myself a new microwave from Argos up the road in Stratford. It wasn't easy lugging a huge heavy box home on the bus, but thank goodness it's a door-to-door service. Within half an hour I had the new cooker plugged in and immediately spent two minutes heating up a mug of soup. With the microwave now most definitely switched off, I disappeared back to my computer for a warming drink...
A couple of minutes later there was a sudden loud fizzing noise from the kitchen, like the sound of a miniature firework display. I rushed back down the hallway just in time to hear a small pop and to see grey smoke billowing from the top of the brand new microwave. I managed to unplug the smouldering furnace, stop the smoke alarm from rousing the neighbours and reset my main fuse. I've not been having the best of luck with electrical stuff lately have I? Still, your apple pie warmed up a treat in the conventional oven. On Wednesday I went back and bought a replacement microwave (different make and model) which involved lugging the new deathtrap back to Stratford on rush-hour public transport and waiting around in every different queue Argos had to offer. I'm not convinced I'm going to find the special one-touch-lamb-joint-defrost button particularly useful, but at least the new microwave hasn't burnt the house down yet.
I hope you're both well, and that your kitchen appliances aren't trying to kill you. See you again in under a fortnight.
"Piles of grinning Santas on newsagents' floors herald the birth of the double issue Radio Times, that essential entertainment guide to the 14 days of Christmas. Can you spot where Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is hiding this year? Grab a pen, grab the family and plan your festive viewing, even though you know you'll all end up playing some interminable board game instead, missing that great film, that hour-long sitcom and that utterly crucial soap episode. Ah, if only anyone knew how to set the video. But don't worry, because they always repeat these Christmas specials in August anyway."
... and that's one of the 12 Blogs of Christmas you should find in the latest edition of Web User magazine (out today, all good newsagents, some bad newsagents, etc). The magazine version has alas been heavily edited (nay, halved) from my original to fit into 17cm² of page, as I suspect have the submissions of my fellow contributors, but you can read all the full versions online here.
What's on BBC1 this Christmas Day? pre-10am Shows for working class kids who didn't have many presents to open.
10.00 The religious bit, live from Milton Keynes, which is somehow very zeitgeist.
11.00 That fun but over-repeated cartoon about Robbie (Williams) the Reindeer.
11.35Morecambe and Wise, back from the Seventies when they were Christmas.
12.40pm Mr Disney wrongly thinks Tigger, Pooh and friends have American accents.
1.50The News, except there isn't any, apart from a grim house fire in Scotland.
2.00 Let's see how Andi Peters buggers up the Christmas Day Top Of The Pops.
3.00The Queen shows her holiday snaps and namechecks the Commonwealth.
3.10Dale Winton takes over Noel's dreams-can-come-true sugarfest nightmare.
3.55 Anne Robinson fills a scheduling hole by presenting the Weakest Compilation.
4.25 Oh dear, it's Stuart Little, that squeaky clean mouse with a cheesy tale.
5.50The News again, except there still isn't any, apart from a celebrity obituary.
6.00 Kat and Alfie's EastEnders wedding fails to go smoothly. There's a surprise.
6.40 Festive edition of the sitcom My Family... or just look beside you on the sofa.
7.10 A variety special, if you think Will Young is variety and Posh Spice is special.
8.30The News, except there still isn't any, apart from an update on Kat and Alfie.
8.40 More EastEnders, or turn over to ITV for the nightmare global-sized Pop Idol.
9.20 The last ever Only Fools And Horses. No, honest, they really mean it this time.
10.35 From Peckham to Beckham, or at least Ronni Ancona's Big Impression of her.
11.20The Thomas Crown Affair, but sadly the 1999 remake of the 1968 classic.
1.05am The other religious bit, squeezed to 5 minutes, hidden in the early hours.
1.10Airplane, but it's only the sequel, so Shirley it's not worth staying up for.
2.35News 24, struggling to make no news fill an entire channel. Merry Boxing Day.
Cup Routes: the capital celebrates Bus O2: Marble Arch - Trafalgar Square
Location: London central
Length of journey: 1½ miles, 80 minutes
Forgive me if I report on just one more bus journey. The service on this particular route is appalling - passengers crawl through central London at about one mile an hour. The space available on the bus is wholly insufficient - travellers are left waiting ten-deep on the pavement. The fare to board the bus is out of most people's reach - one gold piece. Conditions on the bus are inhumane - there's no roof and passengers are forced to stand in freezing conditions throughout the journey. And the frequency on this route is abysmal - you wait 37 years and then three buses turn up at once. But yesterday this shambolic service was the most popular bus route in the country.
You'll remember England won the Rugby World Cup a fortnight ago by outperforming a handful of serious countries, some comedy also-rans and a few South Sea islands. It's not often we defeat the rest of the world at a sport we invented, so how better to celebrate than going for a short bus ride one cold grey midweek lunchtime. Three quarters of a million people turned out all the same, thronging the streets of the West End and blocking off all the shops. A trio of open-topped buses set off from Marble Arch at noon, the squad in the first, management in the second and media in the third. I thought I'd catch up with the procession as it passed through Piccadilly Circus.
Every space along the route was packed with people - office workers, beery rugger types, cheering pensioners and schoolchildren who really should have been elsewhere. It was impossible to tell when the bus was coming, the curved buildings of Regent Street blocking off the view and four helicopters drowning out any approaching cheers. Eventually the cheers drowned out the helicopters and the first bus edged into sight. The crowd went wild (well, wild-ish) and waved their free Evening Standard flags and Daily Mail placards. A mass of cameras, camcorders and mobile phones were raised into the air, simultaneously capturing the view and blocking it. The team breathed in the adulation and waved the shiny gold cup in the air. I think they smiled, but they were too small to see.
As the bus disappeared behind Eros, the crowd started to ebb away. Many of us poured down the sidestreets to intercept the bus again further down Haymarket. A bit of judicious squeezing saw me much closer to the action, ready for Jonny Wilkinson's second coming. I was now surrounded by ecstatic rugby disciples, a fire in their belly and a song in their heart (Swing Low Sweet Chariot, naturally, over and over and over). This time I saw the cup and the players close up, and even recognised someofthem. Nice suits, lads. Team coach Clive Woodward waved enthusiastically at me - me, the hardened rugby refusenik from school. I suspect he was waving at anybody by this point. Light showers of shredded paper fell from a few office windows, and the parade passed by again.
Trafalgar Square was absolutely packed - a bit like it used to be with pigeons, but with people instead. Had this been an anti-war protest, the police would no doubt have tear-gassed everyone by now. It was impossible for us latecomers to squeeze in far enough to see either of the giant TV screens, let alone the approaching buses. Loudspeakers broadcast a BBC commentary across the crowds, so at least we knew what we were missing. I left before the unctuous speeches began and headed off down the Mall, a good half hour ahead of the team, and against the continuing flow of of human traffic. I can't get excited about rugby, even if we are quite good at it. But, good try lads.
Some stuff I was too bussy to mention last week: • diamond geezer gained its own favicon last week. That's the tiny 16x16 pixel playing card icon you might be able to see in the URL bar above, or if you bookmark this site. Or you might not. I've uncovered a few other blogs with favicons, including burnt toast, meish, blue witch, warming up, linkmachinego, oddverse, my ace life, planarchy and imperial doughnut. If you'd like to join the ten of us and get an icon, you could try out this site - it's nearly (but not quite) simple to do.
• The cynically festive 'Tis The Season has returned, for one month only. Catch it while you can. • Less than a week after I mentioned the largest prime number so far discovered (213466917-1), some student only goes and discover a prime number that's even larger. The new record breaker is 220,996,011-1, which at over 6 million digits long is more than 50% longer than the previous largest. Full geeknews here, here and here.
• Less than a fortnight after my computer commited suicide, now it seems my microwave has decided to go the same way. It lights up, it turns, it buzzes, it pings, but nothing actually gets hot. Can anyone remind me how saucepans work again? • So, what happened in the second week of All New Top Of The Pops? It was back to the normal half hour, kicking off with another cover version from Big Brovaz, then a soulless duet featuring Sting (who first had a hit before the presenter was born), two videos from Vicky Becks (alas the ensuing phone vote didn't allow us the option of neither song appearing on next week's show), two completely pointless Osbournes (nul points), and lighter-waving blandness from both Gareth and Will. Alas, Bottom Of The Pops.
• The government is considering giving 16 year olds the vote. According to ITV viewers, the Record Of The Year 2003 is Mandy by Westlife. I think the latter is all the evidence needed to stop the former.
So, what have I learnt from a week spent aboard seven of London's buses?
Buses are better than tubes: They go everywhere, there are more of them, they cost less, they're multi-storey, the view's better, they can drop you off at your front door, they stop more often, they can climb hills, they go to the shops, they go south of the river, they run through the night, they have numbers rather than names, you can start up a new route without a public enquiry and a 10-year delay, they're a London icon.
Tubes are better than buses: They go faster, they go more often, they go faster, they go further, they go faster, they avoid traffic jams, they go faster, there's more legroom, they go faster, they hold more passengers, they go faster, they're silver, they go faster, the passengers are younger, they go faster, the network is less complicated, they go faster, the map is a design classic, they go faster, they're a London icon.
Cube Routes: Day 7 x 7 x 7 Bus N343: Victoria - New Cross Gate
Location: London southeast, inner
Length of journey: 11 miles, 60 minutes
London is one of the few cities in the country where you can get home by public transport any time of the day or night. The tube may stop running just after midnight, but a red army of buses trundles on through the night, jam-packed heading out of town and virtually empty heading in. Over the last two years Mayor Ken has increased the number of nightbuses in London by 25%, and one of those new routes is the N343 running half-hourly through Southwark and Lewisham. Glamorous it ain't, but at least Peckham looks nicer in the dark.
There's a brand new bus station outside Victoria station, all gleaming perspex and streamlined lanes. Alas it's rather exclusive so the N343 has to start round the corner instead, outside the Apollo Theatre (home to West End smash Bombay Dreams). Appropriately the bus first heads East. Far too many different nightbuses travel the route between Victoria and Trafalgar Square, so I found myself the only passenger on board as we sped past Westminster Abbey and an illuminated Big Ben. Below Nelson's Column there were again lengthy queues for all the other nightbuses, but not for the N343. The only nightlife heading for Peckham was one bloke carrying a steaming hot pizza.
At last, at Aldwych, the route came into its own and several sarf-londoners herded on board. We crossed Waterloo Bridge with the Oxo Tower shining to the left and the new Golden Jubilee Bridges twinkling to the right. Pure pitch black magic. We headed along Bankside towards London Bridge, lonely security guards sitting illuminated in giant glass buildings along the way. Still not one drunkard nor one kebab nor one loaded weapon was on board. The nightbus got much busier at Elephant & Castle, at which point the average salary of the passengers on board suddenly halved. The backroads of Walworth were lined by long tall council cuboids, shoeboxes for filing away the London underclass. Several windows were still brightly lit, at least one waiting for the arrival of that now-luke-warm pizza.
The most annoying public announcement cut in every time somone pressed the button to request the bus to stop. "Bus stopping at next bus stop. Please stand well clear of doors." It was impossible to fall asleep with this female nasal whine repeating every two minutes, and I'd gladly murder the engineers who installed this un-sound system.
We passed through Burgess Park, the only place in Central London (zones 1 & 2) to be more than a mile away from any form of railway station. Round here the 343 bus route is the only local lifeline, at least until 2011 when a brand new tram service is due to pass through, linking Peckham and Brixton to Waterloo and Camden. I wonder if they'll bother to run a service at night. Peckham had pulled down the shutters before we arrived, just the odd club and takeaway still open down an iron-fronted high street. Late-night revellers were queueing at the bus stop, but it was very hard to spot where they might be coming from.
By now five different people had sat in the seat next to me, all of them heavily sober. Slowly the bus emptied as we plied the well-kept terraces of Brockley and Telegraph Hill, until New Cross came into view. The driver couldn't believe there was anyone still on the bus as we reached the end of the road, but at least I got off without having to press that dreaded whining button. End of journey number seven, my Cube Routes finally completed, and so I departed into the night. Bybus, of course.
Cube Routes: Day 6 x 6 x 6 Bus 216: Kingston - Staines
Location: London west, outer; Surrey
Length of journey: 13 miles, 55 minutes
"Get out of the road you dozy fuckin' idiot!"
We were still attempting to leave Kingston bus station when our driver let rip at a bemused-looking bloke trying to board our bus after the doors had closed. He was a charmer was our driver. Thirty seconds down the road we attempted a sharp turn into the main shoppingstreet. A mother was trying to cross the road with her three children, each of whom had been transformed into a jungle beast by some nearby council-sponsored face-painting scheme. She blundered into the path of the bus, then hurriedly dragged her little animals quickly back onto the pavement out of harm's way. Our driver burst forth again with another warcry like a big game hunter.
"Get out of the road you bleedin' dozy twats!"
Delightful. I was on safari aboard the 216, tracking the wild waters of the River Thames to the west of London. It's a long journey, and one of the few London bus routes to venture outside the boundaries of the capital, in this case penetrating deepest Surrey. Or is it Middlesex? Of all the seven bus routes I'm sampling this week, this was the only single-decker, which appeared to mean virtually no legroom for anybody over five foot six. I should have sued for possible deep vein thrombosis.
We crossed Kingston Bridge, the sun shining up from the sparkling river below, and sped through royal parkland to HamptonCourt. The riverside terraced house where ChristopherWren used to live is now neighbour to the Cardinal Wolsey pub (book your Christmas party here) and a traffic-clogged roundabout. A man with a smelly dog got on board and sat rather too close to my nostrils. We drove on into Surrey, upriver and upmarket - sailing clubs, exclusive residential islands, Kempton Park racecourse and Mail-reading couples out walking labradors. Sunbury Village with its narrow lanes and arty hotchpotch of cottages could easily have been in deepest Suffolk, except that there were three buses queued in the main street.
The view shifted as we reached the giant roundabout at the start of the M3, back into featureless semi-commercial suburbia. The bus detoured off the arterial road to visit a huge new Tesco superstore, picking up a doddery old man who shuffled slowly to the nearest seat. He was carrying two barely-filled plastic carrier bags, either all he could afford or all he could carry. The bus dropped him off two stops later - I guess he's forced to travel little and often.
We sped on through deepest Ashford, all diamond-lattice windows and nail bars, before sailing past the reservoirs of West London and inching into Staines. Just before our destination (at this week's umpteenth shopping mall) we halted unexpectedly on a bleak estate. Here we were treated to a new driver, a fountain of dreadlocks sprouting from the top of her head, who took five minutes to adjust everything just the way she wanted it. Meanwhile our old driver escaped into a waiting white van and pulled out into the traffic... directly in front of a honking car - the bleedin' dozy twat.
Cube Routes: Day 5 x 5 x 5 Bus 125: Finchley Central - Winchmore Hill
Location: London north, outer
Length of journey: 8 miles, 40 minutes
From Thatcher to Portillo, this is a red bus journey through a true blue world. The 125 winds its way through the lesser-known parts of Barnet and Enfield, from the constituency of the former Prime Minister to the former constituency of the man who never quite was. Margaret Thatcher once famously remarked that anyone over the age of 30 who was still using buses was a failure. I was here to prove her wrong. This whole area of North London looks like it was built in one go in the 1930s. It's comfortable suburbia, and the very essence of Betjeman's Metroland (except that the Metropolitan line is miles away). As a result all the houses are at least twice the size of the average shoebox that passes for a new home elsewhere these days, and all the better for it. They just don't build proper affluence any more.
I set off on this particular bus journey as dusk was approaching, little realising that I was about to take my life in my hands. The first bus stop looked so safe, so inviting, nestling between a nice Jewish school and a low-rise Catholic church. I took my grandstand seat at the front of the top deck - not difficult to arrange when there were only two of us on board. As we pulled away I heard the sudden sound of rapid gunfire to my left, although this turned out to be merely a low-hanging branch thwacking repeatedly down the side of the bus. A dented green Primera pulled out unexpectedly in front of the bus forcing our driver to slam hard on the brakes to avoid a collision. Dulcet tones could be heard yelling at the culprit from the driver's cabin downstairs, but alas I suspect the incompetent Nissan driver heard none of it. It was an inauspicious start to our journey.
Through North Finchley countless shoppers darted across the high street, risking their lives weaving between the semi-stationary traffic. At Tally Ho Corner two passengers boarded the bus wielding oversized curtain rods. In Whetstone a white van overtook us with both rear doors gaping open, a cargo of what looked like oil drums on show to the world, but a few honks from our driver prompted white van man to nip out at the next set of lights to slam everything shut again. In Oakleigh Park a selfish car driver parked illegally at a bus stop outside a carpet shop with her hazard lights flashing, then walked straight out into the path of our oncoming bus. We ventured deeper into suburban traffic-calmed streets, our driver now battling against countless road humps, traffic islands and mini-roundabouts, each originally designed to slow down vehicles considerably smaller than our own. Do they sell travel insurance for bus journeys? I'd gladly have signed up.
Finally we reached Winchmore Hill, somehow still in one piece. There was only me left on board by this time, which didn't seem entirely surprising given the circuitous and risk-packed route we'd taken to get here, and the fact there wasn't much to see when we finally did arrive. Our driver faced one final moment of danger when some idiot took a flash photograph of his resting bus, no doubt temporarily blinding the poor bloke. Sorry mate. It seemed safer to escape the area by rail rather than by bus. I tracked down the local overground station, only to find that this part of London merits merely two trains an hour, and so sat freezing on the platform until my deliverer arrived. Public transport's not what it was, you know. Me, I blame the local MP. Well, the old Finchley one, anyway - the residents of Enfield Southgate appear to have already Twigg-ed.
125 links • Route 125: anorak-level bus information
• Route 125: anorak-level route information
• Route 125: timetable
Cube Routes: Day 4 x 4 x 4 Bus 64: Thornton Heath - New Addington
Location: London south, outer
Length of journey: 8 miles, 30 minutes
There are two ways to get from Croydon to New Addington by public transport. Not that I'm quite sure why anyone would ever want to. New Addington is a giant council estate, more the sort of place you'd want to get away from. You can take the bus, as the locals used to do until 2000, or you can take the new tram. The tram is now by far the more popular route, and rightly so. Me, the rules said I had to take the bus instead.
My 64 journey started at Thornton Heath Pond, just north of Croydon. I didn't spot the pond anywhere, just a giant bus garage and a lot of big 1930s houses, but no doubt they all suffer from waterlogged foundations. It's only a few minutes down the London Road (one of 21 roads in the capital with that name), past the worryingly named Mayday Hospital, into the bustling centre of Croydon. We stopped off at the bus station so that I could be tempted into catching the tram instead (must... resist...), then skirted the enormous retail nirvana that is the Whitgift Centre. Armies of Christmas shoppers emerged, blinking, into the daylight with an armful of carrier bags and a still-warm credit card.
Outside East Croydon station the bus and the tram lined up as if for a race, competing for passengers. We lost. The tram scuttled off down what used to be a main road, heading for New Addington via the direct scenic route, while we headed for the hills. It's a bit of a shock to an East End resident like me to realise that London has contours, but the Croham Valley has them in abundance. Hills, tree-lined avenues, views, vistas, lovingly-tended rugby pitches... and above all money. Huge detached mock tudor mansions lined the roads, like little suburban empires, with the majority of front gardens paved over to accommodate the family's collection of gleaming cars. Might explain why nobody at all got on the bus, or got off for that matter.
We skimmed through Selsdon with its traditional parade of shops (one florist, no kebab shops), then on past contrasting estates of pebbledash and redbrick. Ahead of us was historic Addington Palace, which in the 19th century was home to the Archbishop of Canterbury. I once spent a day singing there, back when I was more a cherub than a geezer, so I was most disappointed to discover that this great house is now a sports club and 'perfect wedding venue'. At last the bus met up with those telltale parallel tracks again, and traffic lights suddenly switched to let the next tram glide ahead of us. A big bus/tram interchange has been built here in a field in the middle of nowhere, where local estate residents are supposed to transfer onto feeder buses. They don't, they stay on the tram and then walk home, so an army of unwanted bus drivers stands around beside the portakabin waiting for custom.
The 64 ascends its final hill before grinding to a halt beside a non-descript parade of shops, just beside the tram terminus. New Addington's not a bad council estate, as overspill estates go, but it is enormous and somewhat lacking in character. And lacking in railway stations, the nearest being a three mile drive away, which is why they brought Tramlink here in the first place. It's revitalised the area, bringing commutability to these former fields on the very outskirts of London. And yes, I returned to Croydon by tram. Faster service, comfier seats, more legroom, and a scenic switchback ride back through a rich swathe of forest. No wonder nobody takes the bus.
64 links • Route 64: anorak-level bus information
• Route 64: anorak-level route information
• Route 64: timetable
Cube Routes: Day 3 x 3 x 3 Bus 27: Chalk Farm - Turnham Green
Location: London northwest, inner
Length of journey: 9 miles, 70 minutes
London loves to go shopping. Chalk Farm residents go shopping at the big Safeway superstore, a non-descript brick warehouse tucked in beside the main railway line to Euston. It's Saturday morning and the supermarket is busy, the car park is full and the air smells of hot cross buns. The infrequently-departing number 27 bus, however, is empty, bar me and the driver. Just round the corner we pass Camden Market, a hypermarket of henna and hemp, where the pavements are packed and there's a rather different sickly sweet smell in the air. On past Camden's boxy terraces, past the legendary MorningtonCrescent tube station, down to the busy Euston Road. It starts to drizzle, and the top deck view blurs.
We head west, and it gets touristier. An Italian couple sit next to me, following the journey on a map, trying repeatedly (and unsuccessfully) to pronounce the word 'Marylebone'. There are queues of bored-looking tourists outside Madame Tussauds, and scores of plain-looking hotels on the approach to Paddington where all the shops sell food, postcards or currency. The bus slows to a crawl, attempting to negotiate narrow streets, taxis and endless traffic lights. Suddenly, round the corner from Whiteleys shopping centre, our driver flashes the bus's internal lights. We're not even halfway to the end of the route, but this is the signal that our bus is stopping early and we all have to get off. The Italian couple look bemused, and everyone else merely pissed off. It's a long long 20 minute wait beside a rainswept parade of shops before the following bus catches up and we can continue.
Next stop PortobelloMarket, at which point the packed bus nearly empties, such is the attraction of this weekly antiques-fest. Everyone's here to buy some hideous bric-a-brac and objets d'art, or to be seen doing so. It's not far to Notting Hill, where slightly posh twenty-something women are leading their reluctant boyfriends round an endless succession of boutiques. The road south to Kensington is lined by snooty antique shops, over-priced and under-patronised, but who cares when one sale pays the assistant's wages for a week. Shops, shops and more shops, right down the slightly more mainstream Kensington High Street into Hammersmith and yet another cluster of chain stores. There are more reputable places to spend money within this one square mile of West London than there are within the whole of East London.
Chiswick High Road beckons, every billboard along the way advertising the latest manufactured pop album due out just in time for Christmas. The bus speeds up, mainly because no car dare use the weekday-only bus lane, just in case they've guessed the date wrong. The futon showrooms and bistros pass by, the last few bag-laden locals climb off, and we pull up at Turnham Green in the pouring rain. The shopperbus has reached its destination, a respectable and varied high street I wouldn't mind living close to myself. But now, having watched everyone else spending their money all along the route, I sidle off home having spent nothing but my time.
27 links • Route 27: anorak-level route information
• Route 27: old map of the route
• Route 27: timetable
Cube Routes: Day 2 x 2 x 2 Bus 8: Bow Church - Victoria
Location: London east, inner
Length of journey: 9 miles, 80 minutes
Out of all the seven buses I'm riding on this week, this one's different. It's a Routemaster for a start, that much-loved old London workhorse, the bus with a conductor. These purring beauties have plied the streets of the capital since the sixties, although they're all now under threat from Mayor Ken who wants to ban pollution-guzzlers over 10 years old in Central London from 2006 onwards. The number 8 route is therefore due to be converted to dull boring one-person-operated buses sometime next year, boo hiss.
And the number 8 is also my local bus, the one that starts pretty much outside my house and heads through the East End, through the City, through the West End, through Mayfair and stops pretty much outside where I work. So, just to be different, I decided to take the bus to work one weekday morning, rather than speed there via my usual tube journey. Would it be a rush hour, or a slow coach?
I left home at the normal time and waited outside the fried grease shop for one of the number 8s that drip drip out of Bow Garage every six minutes. Hop onto the platform, climb the winding staircase and prepare for a cut-price sightseeing tour of London. We skirted the Bow Flyover, spent a minute chugging up the busy A12 dual carriageway and then threaded our way through the demolishable estates of Old Ford. By the time we reached Roman Road, only half a mile as the crow flies from our starting point, the bus was jam-packed full and sailing past the waiting queues. The conductor had no chance to check our tickets, spending all his time on the platform counting them all off and counting them all on.
London was busy waking up - kids heading to school, street markets setting up their stalls, fry-up breakfasts being wolfed down in tiny cafés, shop shutters being raised, and a bus full of EastEnders off to work. Lots of people alighted at Bethnal Green and transferred to the tube, and I could have saved a good half an hour if I'd joined them. Approaching Shoreditch we paused beside the newly-demolished Bishopsgate Goods Yard, now just a sea of rubble awaiting the northern extension of the East London Line. Our conductor was busy rushing around the bus like a restaurant waiter, guiding people to their seats and trying to find time to take their money.
It's all change as you enter the City of London. Shops become offices, poverty becomes wealth, cafés become sandwich shops, and everyone walks around with a laptop bag in one hand and a latté in the other. From one of the poorest council wards in the country to Threadneedle Street in just a couple of minutes, it's a sobering journey. At Bank Station I saw something I thought I'd never see again - a perfectly behaved queue of 20 commuters all waiting patiently to board the bus and not rushing forward in a free-for-all when it arrived. Elsewhere crowds of commuters swarmed the streets, more of them female the further west we travelled, out of the City and into Holborn.
We reached Oxford Street just before 9am, to find this one particular street still asleep. No trainers or stilettos on sale yet, not quite, so the pavements were half empty and so was the bus. Another red traffic light, and another, and another - I could have been at work so much quicker underground. We turned south into Mayfair, an area so exclusive that it merits just one bus route, which of course none of the locals would ever use. With all eight tickets on board now easily checked, our conductor finally had the chance to put his feet up. The last few passengers swung out onto Piccadilly, heading for Hyde Park Corner and Victoria. Me, I was late for work. I've learnt my lesson - buses are for short hops, not for end-to-end epic journeys. Next time, I'm tubing it.
Cube Routes: Day 1 x 1 x 1 Bus 1: Centre Point - Canada Water
Location: London southeast, inner
Length of journey: 6 miles, 35 minutes
The first bus in London begins its journey, appropriately enough, at Centre Point. It's London's 20th tallest building (well, it was last time I checked), a 35-floor concrete tower dominating the eastern end of Oxford Street. At its foot, up an obscure sideroad, a queue of number 1 buses wait to begin their journey from the middle of everywhere to the middle of nowhere.
I boarded the first bus outside Argos on a busy Saturday afternoon, clambering up to the top deck where there was the unnerving smell of fish. We headed east along mostly-deserted roads straight through Holborn and south towards Aldwych. A bespectacled librarian came and sat behind me, commentating on the view throughout the journey for the benefit of his Japanese lady visitor. He was keen to tell her that London's buses are amongst the most successful in the world, with passenger numbers back up at 1969 levels thanks to Mayor Ken Livingstone's ambititious Transport Strategy. I could have hugged him for making such a pertinent comment just two paragraphs into my week-long exposé of the capital's bus network, but he was an ugly old git so I thought better of it. He went on later to point out a market stall full of plaintains, or "crooked nanas" as he called them, so I think I made the right choice.
We crossed into South London over Waterloo Bridge, with one of the best views of the Thames spread out to either side (so long as you don't look too hard at the concrete mess on the South Bank). Passenger numbers picked up outside the ghastly Elephant and Castle shopping centre (pink, what were they thinking? and the range of shops inside is poorer than poor), and then it was on towards the Old Kent Road (rightly the cheapest property on the Monopoly board). At the Bricklayers Arms (a giant traffic square-about) we headed off into deepest Bermondsey (also poorer than poor), skirting the edge of the Congestion Charge zone.
There was the sound of shouting, nay yelling, from downstairs. The driver had forgotten to stop at the last stop, or maybe these two women hadn't pressed the button in time, but clearly the whole thing was now 'the other person's fault'. The driver inched the bus forward on a go-slow as the haranguing continued, before finally letting the harpies disembark and carry their Safeway carrier bags grudgingly back up the road.
It's not a long journey this one, so just a few more railway viaducts, street markets and one-way systems for the bus to negotiate. Straight past the new Surrey Quays shopping nirvana and on to our final destination at the new CanadaWater transport 'hub'. An oval glass atrium sits beside a new bus station, and atop a new tube interchange between the Jubilee and East London lines. Where once were the old Surrey Docks, this new bus station/station has made Rotherhithe an area where people actually want to live. So I'm told. And just a short bus/tube ride from where the real action is.
1 links • Route 1: anorak-level bus information
• Route 1: anorak-level route information
• Route 1: timetable
It's time for diamond geezer to spend a week exploring London, by bus.
London's a huge place, far bigger then the central zone most tourists see. I thought I'd get out and view some more of the capital from the best vantage point of all, the top deck of a London bus. And then I'd come back and write about what I saw. (Trust me, you can do this sort of thing when you're single. Nobody looks at you with a withering stare when you walk out of the house clutching your bus pass, as if to say "But you can't do that, it's pointless... and anyway, we have a bathroom that needs redecorating.")
Seven days, seven different buses. But which seven, there being more than 500 to choose from? I decided to follow a mathematical pattern (did you really think otherwise?) and selected all the buses whose route numbers were cube numbers. Cube routes. (You remember cube numbers... 1x1x1, 2x2x2 and so on. They're one of those bits of maths you learnt at school that are of absolutely no use whatsoever when you're older. Until today of course.)
So, seven routes, sort of picked at random, and covering the capital. I made all seven bus journeys during the last month, I took my camera with me, and this map shows where I went. Outer and inner, suburbia and urbia, north and south, east and west, upmarket and downmarket, rich and poor, day and night, but all 'London'. Hold very tight please, the first bus is about to depart.
What's on this weekend? Festival of Reading 2009 Fri 4th - Sat 12th December
Meet East End authors at Tower Hamlets' Idea Stores (including Dan Cruickshank).
1) Stand in Trafalgar Square
4) Stand inside the Dome
9) Get out of the country altogether (dg's choice 2002/03)
The 7am puzzle: What's the longest word chain of numbers you can make? Each number in the chain must start with the last letter of the previous number. For example: TeNinEighThree contains 4 different numbers.
Top single
The Daze after Christmas
On the day before Christmas...
100 (clickable) years of flight
Dear Mum and Dad,
Cup Routes: the capital celebrates
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London is one of the few cities in the country where you can get home by public transport any time of the day or night. The tube may stop running just after midnight, but a red army of buses trundles on through the night, jam-packed heading out of town and virtually empty heading in. Over the last two years Mayor Ken has increased the number of nightbuses in London by 25%, and one of those new routes is the N343 running half-hourly through Southwark and Lewisham. Glamorous it ain't, but at least Peckham looks nicer in the dark.
We passed through Burgess Park, the only place in Central London (zones 1 & 2) to be more than a mile away from any form of railway station. Round here the 343 bus route is the only local lifeline, at least until 2011 when a brand new tram service is due to pass through, linking Peckham and Brixton to Waterloo and Camden. I wonder if they'll bother to run a service at night. Peckham had pulled down the shutters before we arrived, just the odd club and takeaway still open down an iron-fronted high street. Late-night revellers were queueing at the bus stop, but it was very hard to spot where they might be coming from.
"Get out of the road you dozy fuckin' idiot!"
We sped on through deepest Ashford, all diamond-lattice windows and nail bars, before sailing past the reservoirs of West London and inching into Staines. Just before our destination (at this week's umpteenth shopping mall) we halted unexpectedly on a bleak estate. Here we were treated to a new driver, a fountain of dreadlocks sprouting from the top of her head, who took five minutes to adjust everything just the way she wanted it. Meanwhile our old driver escaped into a waiting white van and pulled out into the traffic... directly in front of a honking car - the bleedin' dozy twat.
Finally we reached Winchmore Hill, somehow still in one piece. There was only me left on board by this time, which didn't seem entirely surprising given the circuitous and risk-packed route we'd taken to get here, and the fact there wasn't much to see when we finally did arrive. Our driver faced one final moment of danger when some idiot took a flash photograph of his resting bus, no doubt temporarily blinding the poor bloke. Sorry mate. It seemed safer to escape the area by rail rather than by bus. I tracked down the local overground station, only to find that this part of London merits merely two trains an hour, and so sat freezing on the platform until my deliverer arrived. Public transport's not what it was, you know. Me, I blame the local MP. Well, the old Finchley one, anyway - the residents of Enfield Southgate appear to have already Twigg-ed.
The 64 ascends its final hill before grinding to a halt beside a non-descript parade of shops, just beside the tram terminus. New Addington's not a bad council estate, as overspill estates go, but it is enormous and somewhat lacking in character. And lacking in railway stations, the nearest being a three mile drive away, which is why they brought Tramlink here in the first place. It's revitalised the area, bringing commutability to these former fields on the very outskirts of London. And yes, I returned to Croydon by tram. Faster service, comfier seats, more legroom, and a scenic switchback ride back through a rich swathe of forest. No wonder nobody takes the bus.
Out of all the seven buses I'm riding on this week, this one's different. It's a Routemaster for a start, that much-loved old London workhorse, the bus with a conductor. These purring beauties have plied the streets of the capital since the sixties, although they're all now under threat from Mayor Ken who wants to ban pollution-guzzlers over 10 years old in Central London from 2006 onwards. The number 8 route is therefore due to be converted to dull boring one-person-operated buses sometime next year, boo hiss.
We reached Oxford Street just before 9am, to find this one particular street still asleep. No trainers or stilettos on sale yet, not quite, so the pavements were half empty and so was the bus. Another red traffic light, and another, and another - I could have been at work so much quicker underground. We turned south into Mayfair, an area so exclusive that it merits just one bus route, which of course none of the locals would ever use. With all eight tickets on board now easily checked, our conductor finally had the chance to put his feet up. The last few passengers swung out onto Piccadilly, heading for Hyde Park Corner and Victoria. Me, I was late for work. I've learnt my lesson - buses are for short hops, not for end-to-end epic journeys. Next time, I'm tubing it.
The first bus in London begins its journey, appropriately enough, at Centre Point. It's London's 20th tallest building (well, it was last time I checked), a 35-floor concrete tower dominating the eastern end of Oxford Street. At its foot, up an obscure sideroad, a queue of number 1 buses wait to begin their journey from the middle of everywhere to the middle of nowhere.
It's not a long journey this one, so just a few more railway viaducts, street markets and one-way systems for the bus to negotiate. Straight past the new Surrey Quays shopping nirvana and on to our final destination at the new Canada Water transport 'hub'. An oval glass atrium sits beside a new bus station, and atop a new tube interchange between the Jubilee and East London lines. Where once were the old Surrey Docks, this new bus station/station has made Rotherhithe an area where people actually want to live. So I'm told. And just a short bus/tube ride from where the real action is.
It's time for diamond geezer to spend a week exploring London, by bus.
