A trip to Number 10 (AKA A day in the life of a Cycle Courier #2)

I’d been riding the obscene streets of Soho (and surrounding environs) for around 5 months and Christmas was approaching like a Routemaster in a cycle lane. The good offices of the National Magazine Company were spreading vast amounts of Christmas cheer and it was an excellent time to be working out of Broadwick Street. A torrent of work, delivering numerous Christmas cards, chichi tat and well wrapped (and securely Sellotaped) bottles of Le Plonk du Jour from early morning to early evening. 

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. 

 

 

Tea at The Palace (AKA A day in the life of a Cycle Courier)

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 19^th 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

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #2

"This is the day your life will surely change..."

The various 7" singles that comprise the jukebox have been lovingly chosen over the last 50+ years. A surprise selection of The The's "This is the day" adds a delicate hint of melancholy quite early in proceedings (everyone knows that the real pub melancholy hour is from 3:30-4:30pm).

Meanwhile, the first Guinness isn't hurried as today there is plenty of time. In fact there is time to go to the bar and buy a packet of mini cheddars, taking a glance at the newspaper rack (all copies ironed) and surreptitiously taking a copy La Gazzetta dello Sport back to the table. Even though my Italian is very sketchy, fortunately the language of Calcio and grand tour cycling is universal.

The debate about whether a pub needs a television to be good or not is irrelevant. The key is, who is in charge of the remote control? Thankfully, today it is the turn of the Cecil (MCC member and ex-member of the Angry Bridgade). When Cecil (my friends call me Cec' you can call me Sir) Hedges has the remote then we are guaranteed a whole day's play of uninterrupted Test Match Cricket with the sound muted (unless a batsman is approaching a landmark score). The added advantage of this arrangement is, if you have missed any session of play then Cec can regale you with all the details, not least because he completes the pubs ball-by-ball scorebook in a meticulous fashion.

"Whatcha gonna do about it..."

Ah yes, the Small Faces on the jukebox and the mood lightens. First pint finished, the preview of Sampdoria's chances for the coming season completed, along with a retrospective on Marco Pantani and the mini cheddars done... the hum of SoHo traffic reduced by the sound of the Darlings of Whapping Wharf Launderette.

"I want you to know that I love you, baby
Want you to know that I care

I'm so happy when you're round me but I'm
Sad when you're not there
Sing the song now

oh yeah
(Whatcha gonna do about it?) tell the truth
(Whatcha gonna do about it?) she's so nice
(Whatcha gonna do about it?)

I want you to give your sweet, sweet kisses
Want you to hold me tight

I want you to come whenever I call you
And let me walk you home at night..."

Lockdown - Day #23

The taste of another Kronenbourg night reminds me where I am, not alone in a single bed. Dressed, out and up the steps back onto Marine Parade. Back over the rode giving the flying fists of The Crown & Anchor I wide berth.

The tide is inching back, the gulls are hopping from bin to KFC box. I can clearly make out the miles of anti-landing wire & wood rolling along the beach. All the way from the threat of Operation SeaLion to VE Day.

Six young men in two different bands, split into two teams and yet another rusted can of Pepsi is converted into an Adidas Mondial. A blur of tartan shirts, Levis and chukka boots. A brace of bikes stolen from outside the town centre Library are leaning gently against the dark blue railings. 

Final score: Hip Troop 13 v 12 Aztec Camera... 
(Based on time-honoured last goal stands tradition)

Dreaming - How I should live!

I should be living by the sea, only watching the BBC. Sitting on a 1950's sofa, whilst wearing Bass Weejun loafers. I should be painting angry self portraits, I should be riding a 1940's bicycle, listening to old blues on a battered dansette or grooving to hip tunes that I haven't written yet.

I should be living a purer life of honest endeavour with a beatnik wife. I should be writing stuff that rhymes, instead of stuff that wastes your time.

I should be living like this.

The Soho Cycle Society

The last bicycle shop in Soho apparently closed a few years ago. It was located at no.36 Great Pulteney Street and was owned and managed by Paulo Garbini. His shop had renderings of two miniature penny-farthing bicycles mounted on the facade and they are the only remaining trace of a fantastic cycling oasis.

When I was cycle courier I would regularly pop in to get new inner tubes, pumps, locks etc and admire the beautiful cycling shirts and wonderful bikes that seemed to hang from the ceiling as if by magic.

Le Tour de France

What has the Tour de France got to do with England? Lots actually. One of the things I miss about England is Europe! Being able to pop over for a weekend at the drop of a beret.

The Tour shows France in its best light, whether that light is shrouded by striking farmers, clogged up roads, bad driving, good weather, beautiful scenery, amazing wines or not!

The racing itself is astonishing, anyone who has gone down Box Hill without using breaks can testify to the potential danger of cycling - you don't need 250cc of Vespa between your legs to do some serious damage to flesh and bone!

So, all hail the greats: Merckx, Hinault, Indurain, Armstrong and every mad crazy domestique, sprinter, multi-coloured jersey wearing one of them!