By now I was suitably ride-fit to be able to cover 60-90 miles a day and still stop off at the John Snow Pub* to demolish a couple of pints of Stella Artois before meandering via Piccadilly, Trafalgar Sq, Whitehall, Westminster (complete with the Westminster Bridge sprint), Albert Embankment, Vauxhall, The Oval, Brixton, Shower, Kitchen, Fridge, Lager…. Sleep. Repeat ad nauseam…
As the day-by-day calendar pages tore towards Christmas Day, a number of couriers decided that they had made their money for the month and started to pick & choose which days to work. I wasn’t in that space, in fact, the more pink dockets, the more likely I’d be able to make it down to Eastbourne for Christmas with at least a couple of presents.
So, whilst others started to embrace the festive season, I was splashing through oil covered puddles, jumping onto/off of pavements, sliding round Hyde Park Corner, hopping on the Circle Line (you could take bikes then), hacking my way up to Hampstead Garden Suburb and generally skidding round inner London. The major problem was the tourists who hadn’t worked out which way traffic came from and the part-time drinkers who hadn’t worked out how not to step into the road.
Everyone finally made it to Christmas Eve and I was all set to clock off around 4:30pm when the Slim Controllerä popped his head through the courier room hatch and said “Andy, 3 jobs for you in Westminster… all on your way home”. Fantastic, other than getting a delivery to my own home, this was the next best thing.
I popped the envelopes into my fluorescent Guardian Bag, bade farewell and Merry Christmas to the assorted post-room characters (inc. Chris the Slim Controllerä, Eddie Schwindling & Crazy Dave (who used to ride the Wheel of Death down at Southend wearing a white tuxedo and holding a red rose between his teeth - allegedly)).
With the sound of ring pulls being pulled and general guffaws echoing down the stairs. I slipped into reception and out into Soho. My bike was (as always) locked onto a parking zone sign. No flats, lights on and soon rolling through the pedestrians only (NO BIKES) epicentre of faux-Mod culture – Carnaby Street (#NOTwhatitusedtotbe). The ride down was suitably uneventful, nearly took out a pensioner stepping off the pavement outside the Café Royal, avoided a Financial Times liveried London Taxi and swore at a white van (with a St Georges Cross – even then a tell-tale sign) who got a little too close to the kerb (let alone me).
However, once I’d nipped over Trafalgar Square, memories of the mass CND march that culminated in The Pop Group playing ‘Jerusalem’ underneath Nelson’s malignant gaze filling my head, I was on Whitehall and heading to 10 Downing Street.
10 Downing Street, the real seat of power. 10 Downing Street, the head of the British Government. 10 Downing Street, where there be monsters. 10 Downing Street, Thatcher’s Den!
The Cenotaph twinkled in the damp night, illuminated by small spotlights, traffic reflections and the dull tangerine low glow of GLC street lighting. A couple of London life-stained bouquets of by now black paper poppies clung to the base of the memorial of those who served (and died). I swooped in front of a couple of red (Khaki under this light) buses and mounted the pavement.
As per my earlier journey to Buck House, I fully expected to be redirected to a postal out-house, where they could examine the contents of my incendiary Christmas cards (at least that’s what I always assumed they were). But no! A cursory glance from Constable Bootboy (at least that’s what I had always assumed that Met PC’s were called) and I was told to leave my bike against a wall near the gate** and to simply walk up and knock on the door.
Knowing not to bother to ask him to keep an eye on my bike (see Tea at the Palace), all would be well under the alert gaze of Inspector Bastard and his trusted crew of belligerent psychopaths. So, I set off down the street, my by now rather squelchy and knackered old black 10-hole DM’s*** making barely a sound.
I had expected a policeman at the door of no. 10 but no. So, I reached out but before I had had time to tap out ‘The Red Flag’ on the door, it swung open. I was greeted by a suited chap, in a rather ill-fitting suit.
“I’ve got a delivery for the Prime Minister”
“Thank you. I’m authorised to take that”
“Can you sign my docket please?”
“Ok”
“Do you also take deliveries for Number 11?”
“Yes”
And with that I stepped forward half in/half out, one foot on the doormat and saw the black and white chequered floor… I handed over the two envelopes.
One was marked for the attention of: The Right Honourable Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland Mrs Margaret Thatcher, 10 Downing Street. The other marked for the attention of: Mrs Geoffrey Howe, 11 Downing Street, London INNIT!
The chap in the ill-fitting suit, signed and handed back the dockets. I thanked him and glanced back into the hallway. Bodies were flying everywhere, trying desperately hard to look double busy, lest a member of the voting public (i.e. me) questioned their diligence. And to think that, if I’d been doing the job some 30 years later during lockdown, I’d be met with a chink of glasses and a prat in a party hat!
I stepped back and the door closed effortlessly behind me… 2 down and only one more delivery to go before. I checked it was still safe and it was. The neat calligraphy, the expensive vellum envelope and the hackle raising name… the Rt Hon. Edwina Currie, all still in place.
Confession time – I cannot deny that the temptation to meddle with all three of the envelopes, once they’d been handed to me, was immense. However, the desire to get the job done and get home was even greater. Also, I wasn’t entirely sure that a homemade Sarin attack was really practical, sensible or even ‘fair’. Whilst the moral dilemma rattled round and round inside my head (like ‘Crazy Dave’ on the Kursaal Wheel of Death).
I crossed Whitehall and slipped into the Parliament Grounds. I was directed to Incoming Goods’. PC Jobsworth greeted me with unconcealed distain – at last a copper one could take an immediate dislike to. We were both back on familiar territory. I proffered the envelope and he took a step back. “We can’t take any deliveries unless it has been scanned”. He explained. “and…. scanning is only open Monday to Friday 10am-4pm”. He smirked.
“Well, what should I do?”. I asked rather meekly.
“I dunno. Take it to the Post Office?”
I looked at the clock on the wall behind the very slappable face of PC Jobsworth. No self-respecting Post Office would be open at 6:40pm, at Christmas Time, on a Friday, with rainclouds gathering overhead, under this administration, at the height of Old Ma Thatch’s evil regime… I thought to myself.
“Oh well, fuck it”. I responded with all the maturity I could muster. I slung the envelope back in my bag, slung the bag over my shoulder, slung my bike back around, slung myself on the saddle and slung my hook… Back to Broadwick St, all locked up. Apart from a very miserable security guard.
The guard (Charlie? Charlie something… Himmler? Maybe not) reluctantly opened up and I asked him to sign for the envelope. He looked and pointed out that he wasn’t farkin’ Edwina farkin’ Currie. You couldn’t fault his logic – unlike his dress sense, haircut, body odour and extreme politics, all of which were grotesque and could be very harshly questioned. But his logic, in this instance was spot on. He would never be mistaken for being farkin’ Edwina farkin’ Currie!
Anyway, after 2 minutes of one-way (the wrong way) banter, Charlie (Chuckles? Von Bismark? Bormann? – it’ll come to me) finally signed the chit and I headed back out of the building.
I stood under the Carnabition Lights and wondered if the girl from Cosmo was still in the pub with the rest of the fashion desk. I went to tuck the pink slip away and only then noticed the signature ‘Edwina farkin’ Currie’!
I smiled to myself, at the same time as vowing revenge… the West End lights flickered again in the Soho rain puddles, the lost voice of Malcolm Owen echoed in my head…
“Lights are burning red and white
Lost on an island in the night
Rescue me or here I'll stay
A traffic island castaway…
…Out in the dark and on my own (shine on me)
I'm stranded here with no way home (shine on me)”.****
Back on my bike, my legs push again… Merry farkin’ Christmas!
Ends
*The John Snow was named after the renowned English Physician who made the link between a particular public water pump and a Cholera outbreak in that there trendy Soho. The particular pump was in Broad Street (latterly Broadwick Street) and the John Snow pub was located on the self-same corner.
I was initially drawn to the John Snow because I had hoped it was in honour of the finest fast bowler Sussex & England has ever seen (Ok, maybe The Burnley Lara, aka Mr Jimmy Anderson, aka Timmy Banderson - #tailendersoftheworlduniteandtakeover) has a decent claim to be above him. Nobody else though, nobody else.).
Anyway, it was my pub of choice for the first couple of years working in that there trendy Soho. Until Samuel Smith brewers took it over and shattered the lugubrious/down at heel ambience that we revelled in. The appearance of their rather ghastly Alpine Lager very swiftly led to a migration to The Old Coffee House (and that is a whole different story/history/blog/podcast/TV Series/Netflix Special).
** The gate at the opening to Downing St was a relatively new thing. Because I distinctly remember previously strolling back (well, speeding off my tits to be honest) from the Jazz Rooms at the Wag Club to get the Milk Train, via Whitehall and finding ourselves halfway down Downing St before Constable GBH asked us to turn around and toddle off home.
*** When I first became a courier, I was determined to not allow the job to compromise my style choices. So, first few weeks involved black only cycle gear with occasional band T-shirts slung over the top and Adidas Samba (when they were stylish and not worn by numpty PM’s). However, as nights drew in and rain accompanied the shrinking of daylight, I embraced a more practical dress-code and after a while my DM’s became perfectly adapted to the rough ‘n tumble tarmac action – especially when my breaks stopped working and I rode without brakes for 3 months and only braked by slamming my right foot down.
**** West One (Shine on me) – The Ruts
An ode to Soho (both beautiful and sinister). A top, top tune from a sadly short-lived band, due to the Heroin induced demise of singer Malcom Owen. The rest of the band were Paul Fox (guitar), Segs (Bass) and the incomparable Dave Ruffy (Drums). Gary Barnacle is featured on Sax too.
