When I moved up to London in 1988, the whole Acid house scene was moving like a Womble* and as such things were starting to look a little brighter and more alive. I initially moved into a squat just off the Walworth Road. I’d taken an adidas holdall full of clothes (all very Dexy’s), a rusty 40-year-old camp bed and a relatively new Peugeot mountain bike.
The mountain bike was to be my sole means of income for the first six months. I’d signed up to work for Olympic Couriers (based in Wimbledon) but I was working out of Broadwick Street Soho from the National Magazine Co. offices. The aim was simple - to try and work there until a role in the post room became available. In the meantime, I would be battling against the London traffic, English weather, errant pedestrians and unrealistic expectations.
NB: At that time being a cycle courier in London had the second shortest life expectancy (out of wartime) of any UK job occupation. North Sea divers being the only ones who were more likely to be rushing through the pearly gates quicker than a sideswiped courier being bounced down Commercial Road.
Some days I’d simply be cycling round the West End, dropping various treats to Soho ad agencies, on others I’d be going from Holland Park to Limehouse then up to Hampstead Heath, all for the sake of a pink docket that equated to a still to be determined value.
It was a fantastic way to immerse myself in the city. From Lincoln’s Inn Fields to the wrong end of the Fulham Palace Road, from the foot of Brixton Hill to Suicide Bridge at Archway. My jobs took me all over the place.
Like most workplaces, there was a hierarchy amongst the couriers. Top of the heap were those ‘serious cyclists’ who rode proper Road Bikes (think WIggo on MDMA), they were by far and away the quickest and were ideally suited for work outside of the rabbit warren of West One – especially the long legs out to Canary Wharf or Blackheath or Hammersmith or North Finchley etc.
The next down the pyramid were the Muddy Fox crew, gnarled old/young/indeterminate mountain bikers (invariably White Rastas) attached to ad agencies who never knowingly went the right way up a wrong way street, never stopped at a red light and who could spin their Fox on a Stella bottle top – they knew short cuts that still have yet to be invented.
I was in the third group, accomplished bike riders, unafraid of traffic, relatively fit, working out of a dedicated media company, could read an A-Z and negotiate Oxford Street in the last shopping days before Christmas rush hour. I cycled round, in, and indeed out of the capital for over half a year and survived with barely a scratch. Unlike some of those in strata 4-8… who found the pace of A-Z life somewhat harrowing.
In fact, I was sent on five occasions to pick up a package from a fallen associate, including taking the package from a bloodstained courier bag as the hapless courier was being wheeled into the back of an ambulance in front of Marble Arch. Her sit up and beg shopping bike mangled into the shape of a rather brutalist Jean Tinguely tribute, propped up against a post box.
Nearing the end of my time (that job in the post room had actually materialised) I arrived in the office (just off Carnaby Street, pop pickers!) having collected the Red Star parcels from Kings Cross (just like every other morning). Chris, the slim controller asked me matter of factly if I wanted to go to ‘Buck House’. I shrugged my shoulders. He repeated ‘Buck House, you know on The Mall’. I wracked my brain but for the life of me I couldn’t think of a single pub on The Mall, let alone one called Buck House!
Chris stared in disbelief; “Buckingham Palace!”.
“Oh, of course”…
It was a wait & return job (the holy grail in the courier universe at that time). I’d picked up a fair bit of experience and was comfortable taking the most direct routes (wrong way up one-way streets, pavement riding, step gliding and general rule bending). Anyway, I got the wait & return docket and headed to the heart of the British Empire, resplendent in my relatively new ‘I am Kurious Oranj’ t-shirt, battered black cycling leggings and new batteries in my Sony Walkman.
Down through Golden Square, by the back of the Café Royal, Piccadilly, Haymarket, Charles II St, across Pall Mall, Waterloo Place, Duke of York monument, down the steps, between the ICA and The Royal Society and swing right up The Mall and heading towards Buckingham Fucking Palace (BFP) – all soundtracked by the JTQ (James Taylor Quartet). Full speed ahead, swung round the Victoria Memorial and straight to the front gate.
I’ll be honest and fully confess that I was expecting to be sent round the back to the tradesman’s entrance. Much to my complete surprise the rather ruddy faced ‘Bobby’ at the front gates (straight out of Ealing Comedy Central Casting) pointed at a door at the right end (as the hoi polloi look) of the main façade. “Just go to that door over there, sonny”. The Jim was left off, shame.
Somewhat in disbelief, I got back on my bike and cycled directly over to the door, some 10 metres from where an Irish Guard in full bearskin and red tunic etc stood. I managed to throw in a small skid, sending a little gravel across the red footway – no reaction! I looked for a bike rack – no bike rack! I looked round and decided to simply prop my bike against the front of the Palace. I thought about locking it and then asked the guard if he wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on it for me instead – no response!
Before taking that fateful first step into BFP, I looked back and noticed quite a large posse of Japanese tourists (I recognised the ubiquitous JAL shoulder bag), loitering in front of the black & gold railings.
To be honest, in my teenage dreams*** I had imagined my first step into the Palace would have been proceeded by weeks of armed insurrection, volleys of rifle fire and a close brush or two with HMQ’s finest. I certainly didn’t expect after my second step to be greeted by a rather effete equerry in a grey coat welcoming me into the inner sanctum (5 times removed).
I handed over the envelope, FAO Princess Margaret (wait & return). I was then ushered into a plush room (all gold, white, beige & fawn) and offered a cup of tea. To which of course the appropriate response was, “Yes please”. The follow up question I didn’t expect. “Would you prefer Assam, Earl Grey, Darjeeling, Lapsang Souchong or English Breakfast?”. I went with the first one offered.
It arrived in the finest bone China cup & saucer with a small plate of biscuits too. I was living like a prince (without the attendant paparazzi civil list salary and impending sexual scandals). I checked the three clocks in the room, they all told the same time (tick). 10 minutes passed, the longer this lasted the better, the joy of wait and return (tick).
I scanned the paintings on the walls, some rather drab Scottish landscapes, dull washed-out skylines and rather angular looking horses parading before the gallops at some 19th Century point to point. Odd vases and ashtrays covered the numerous wooden tables around the edge of the room. The various soft chairs scattered around the room were not quite pristine but… hey, for a couriers waiting room they were good enough.
After 20 more minutes, I asked if I could use (and this is where I hesitated) the… er um WC? Toilet? Lavatory? Khazi? Bog? Shit-house? Loo?... I settled on Rest Room. Equerry no.4 (there had been a steady stream of virtually identical ‘chaps’), directed me to the Royal “Facility”. I was reminded of The Beatles sneaking a joint in one of the Palace bathrooms before receiving their OBE’s. Could this be the same? Most probably not but then again… the courier never knows… Cue unnecessary Beatles toilet puns**
Once I’d finished my ablutions, I returned to the waiting room, only to be informed by Eq.#3 that it shouldn’t be much longer to wait and to be asked if I needed anything? No, thank you. Sure enough 15 minutes later, Eq #2 flounced into the room and presented a fresh gold embossed envelope atop a silver tray, addressed for the attention of ‘Editor of Good Housekeeping’ magazine. I pouched the envelope, took a final look around the waiting room, said thank you to the Eq’s 1,2 ,3 & 4 and headed for the door.
The sun had broken through the, by now, ragged clouds. My bike was exactly where I’d left it. I hopped on, thanked the Irish Guard – no response! And pushed off the wall, heading back to where I’d come in. It was only then that I noticed a phalanx of Sony video cameras capturing my exit. What on earth would those flocking outside BFP have made of:
a) an unattended mountain bike propped up against the front of the palace?
b) A cycle courier in a The Fall t-shirt, sprinting away from an Irish Guard on what must only be ‘The Royal Mountain Bike’****
I naturally took the opportunity to ride no-handed***** and still wonder if the Japanese travellers look back at their old shaky video footage in their old people’s home in Osaka and chuckle at the Crazy Gaijin on the “Royal Mountain Bike”, all those years ago. I suspect not.
Ends
Sidebar Notes
* - Underground > Overground if you really needed to ask.
** - Beatles Puns - Happiness is a warm bum, Being for the benefit of Mr Shite, Day Crapper, Drippy, drippy shake! I want to wash my hands, Norwegian Log (This turd has flown))…. Etc etc. Any complaints, please send to Private Eye Magazine.
*** - The more revolutionary rather than obvious teenage dreams (#sohardtobeat).
**** - The first Royal Mountain bike was originally designed by the Duke of Wellington during his final few years when he lived in Walmer Castle in Kent. The iron design was sadly not completed before his death.
However, the design was bequeathed to Queen Victoria and she arranged for it to be built in the Iron Duke’s honour by Royal Jack-of-all-Trades Sir Humbert Raleigh (illegitimate descendent of Sir Walter). Sir Humbert’s first working model was built 1:3 and as such the Queen could not fit on the bike. She was not amused.
Sir Humbert was banished to Nottingham and not welcomed back to court until he had manufactured a 1:1 version – with a ludicrously wide seat to accommodate a broader rider. He painted the bike a traditional Nottingham Green, unfortunately due to a chemical reaction upon contact with the iron frame, the light green turned a match darker hue. The final effect was quite striking and is widely thought to be the inspiration for British Racing Green.
No contemporary record survives of how often Victoria rode the Duke’s contraption. However, the original bike is still on display in the Royal Cycling Squadron’s Archive, which is round the back of The Wheatsheaf, Cuckfield Sussex. (Open Bank Holidays Only – Knock three ties and ask for Cedric the Polisher).
Sir Humbert has often been accused of stealing the design for his own benefit but this, like so much of this sidebar is open to debate.
**** - My record no-handed ride was from Broadwick Street Soho to The Oval. A tidal wave of green lights and exceptionally light traffic aided this remarkable feat. The Guinness Book of Records were not contacted.
Ends
