Drag Artists Against Trump
Contributing Photographer Sarah Ainslie & I were thrilled to go down to Soho on Friday to rendezvous in Great Windmill St with the celebrated Cheddar Gorgeous, who had just arrived from Manchester to convene a multifarious gathering of drag artists that she was leading in a protest against Donald Trump.
Despite the festive atmosphere, the purpose of the day was a serious one and, when the drag artists posed for their portraits, many assumed their most pugnacious expressions. Yet all broke into the sweetest smiles when I congratulated them on their outfits, before I enquired what they might say to Mr Trump if they were to meet him.
At one o’clock, in three-inch heels and with a face painted like Grimaldi, Cheddar Gorgeous led her forces in triumph out of Soho and into Shaftesbury Avenue beneath a dazzling sunlit sky. Demonstrating a sense of leadership worthy of Henry V, she advanced to Piccadilly Circus as a great cheer arose from her excited throng of followers and passers-by applauded in delight. They encountered more joyous clamour from the direction of Regent St as the main march arrived to meet them, filling the circus with a euphoric cacophony, and the two columns became one as Cheddar Gorgeous led the entire retinue off down the Haymarket towards Westminster.
I stood in Piccadilly Circus and watched the parade pass for the next hour. I found it an emotional experience to witness the crowds from every walk of life who had come together to assert their belief in a decent society. Despite the grim circumstances, it was one of the most hopeful displays of humanity I have witnessed and I shall not forget it in a long time.
Cheddar Gorgeous – “This is a country where we celebrate diversity and our community is offended by your policies that punish and discriminate against it”
Liquorice Black – “Trump needs to learn celebrate diversity not try to divide it socially, physically and through laws”
Anna Phylactic – “Why do you put so much hate in the world?”
Verry Cherry – “Sort out your own country’s problems before you come over here criticising us”
Marcia – “You would like to see us divided so your fascist policies can succeed but we have not forgotten Hitler”
Grace Anatomy – “Crawl back under a rock!”
Adam All – “Piss off, mate!”
Jack The Lad – “Fascist presidents aren’t welcome”
Liam Asplen – “Stop inciting hatred, you small-penised misogynist”
Beyonce Holes – “F**k off home!”
Glamrou La Denim – “You stole my bronzer!”
Mena Business – “You’re a pathetic old tyrant and you deserve to go to hell”
Will Jackson – “It’s my twenty-third birthday, so I’d prefer it of you’d not upstage me on my special day”
Photographs copyright © Sarah Ainslie
You may also like to read about
Mr Pussy In The Dog Days
With your help, I am producing a handsome collection of stories of my old cat, THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY, A Memoir Of A Favourite Cat to be published by Spitalfields Life Books on 20th September. Below you can read an excerpt.
Support publication by preordering THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY and you will receive a signed and inscribed copy when the book is published.
Click here to preorder your copy
The sagacious Mr Pussy
There is an exceptional hush upon the East End, with with the heat and the football conspiring to empty the streets of locals and tourists alike. The clouds hang heavy and the atmosphere is quiet, and my cat Mr Pussy divides his time between dozing on the bed and dozing under a bush. The pace of the city is stilled and Mr Pussy finds the climate conducive to resting.
Mr Pussy observes me with doleful eyes as I go about my daily tasks, too gracious to be overtly critical, yet he hopes that I might one day learn to appreciate the virtue of sitting peacefully for extended periods of time without other occupation, as he does. To this end, Mr Pussy waits patiently until a suitable opportunity when I am settled at my work before he approaches me. Arriving silently like a ghost, Mr Pussy reaches out a soft paw to stroke my forearm gently while I am writing, as a discreet gesture of companionship, drawing my attention without interrupting my activity.
Settling at my side and savouring the tranquillity of the hour, a purr of contentment emanates from him. And if my concentration should wander from my page, searching for a word or casting around to seek the direction of my thought, then I chance upon his hypnotic golden eyes, meeting my gaze with their fathomless depth and opalescent gleam. He has my attention. He has an infinite capacity for staring. He knows I am a novice and he is an expert at it. He knows I cannot resist succumbing to his superior mesmeric powers. He has me spellbound and I share his stillness. The house is empty and we are alone. We look at each other eye to eye, without blinking, to see who flinches first.
Almost imperceptibly, Mr Pussy begins to lower his lids and I do the same. I follow along, as his supplicant. Our eyelids move in sync and we are nodding off to sleep, it seems. I might enter the feline realm, if I did not open my lids again momentarily – only to discover that his eyes are open too. It is a moment of mutual recognition. Mr Pussy was testing the quality of my will, exploring my susceptibility to mental control. Mr Pussy observes me. Mr Pussy is implacable, yet he wants me to follow his example. Mr Pussy knows how to be. Mr Pussy keeps himself. Mr Pussy seeks to be calm. Mr Pussy is always present in the moment. Mr Pussy is sufficient.
Equally, Mr Pussy is curious of me and the intriguing nature of my existence that revolves around things other than eating and sleeping. I am the object of his scrutiny, Mr Pussy is studying me. Mr Pussy is an anthropologist, living among those who are subject of his fascination. Mr Pussy’s research methods are unconventional, he thinks he may gain knowledge by osmosis if he sleeps close to me or he may imbibe understanding by lapping up my bathwater.
Not always an entirely conscientious student, Mr Pussy likes to contemplate his findings at length. Mr Pussy likes to sleep on it, and he is a grand master in the art of somnolence. Mr Pussy knows how to behave in these dog days.
CLICK HERE TO PREORDER A COPY OF THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY
Anyone that has a cat will recognise the truth of this memoir of a favourite cat by The Gentle Author.
“I was always disparaging of those who dote over their pets, as if this apparent sentimentality were an indicator of some character flaw. That changed when I bought a cat, just a couple of weeks after the death of my father. “
THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY is a literary hymn to the intimate relationship between humans and animals, filled with sentiment without becoming sentimental.
SPAB At Eastbury Manor
Kate Griffin author of the celebrated Kitty Peck novels, who works at the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, introduces this year’s annual working party held at Eastbury Manor in Barking
Lime-washing the lintels
Every year in high summer, the Society For The Protection of Ancient Buidings leaves its Georgian home in Spital Sq for one week to put its expertise into practice at a building in need and enlists a horde of volunteers to help for its annual working party. This week they are at Eastbury Manor in Barking, which is currently a hive of conservation activity where around a hundred enthusiasts are working on a variety of projects under the watchful eye of expert craftspeople.
Since it was established by William Morris in 1877, the Society has acquired more than a hundred and forty years of knowledge and experience in the care of old buildings. Director Matthew Slocombe told me, “In the past, we have visited a variety of locations including the cradle of the industrial revolution in Derbyshire, an ancient barn in Sussex and a medieval church at Greatham in Hampshire, so this year we are delighted to be working near to home on a building close to our heart and history.” The Society was a key player in the campaign to save Eastbury Manor from demolition in 1918, which made this invitation exactly a hundred years later irresistible.
The working party offers a rare opportunity to gain direct experience of traditional building skills in a collaborative environment and volunteers range from architectural professionals to those with a keen amateur interest, including participants as young as fourteen. This year’s activities include repairing the brickwork of the garden wall, lime-washing and renewing broken panes in the leaded lights. Carefully supervised, this work will help maintain the fabric for another century.
Yet a hundred years ago, the outlook for Eastbury Manor was quite different. It had declined from a grand Tudor mansion to a ramshackle farm and, by the middle of the nineteenth century, it was semi-derelict.
From its very beginning, the Society took a particular interest in East London, through connections with the East End Preservation Society set up by Arts & Crafts designer C.R. Ashbee. In 1894, while campaigning to save Trinity Green Almshouses in Whitechapel, he established the Survey of London to record the capital’s historic buildings and Eastbury Manor became the subject of an early monograph published by Ashbee’s Guild & School of Handicraft in 1917.
When World War I began, the Society was actively considering a better future for Eastbury Manor but the international conflict brought new threats. The war resulted in shortages of domestic materials, including timber, and by 1917 there was concern that the building’s panelling might be stripped out. In a stroke of bad luck, a lightning destroyed one of the impressive Tudor chimney stacks too. Further damage was caused when the army commandeered the house as a convalescent home. Yet, although this nearly proved to be the manor’s final undoing, it ultimately helped deliver its salvation.
Meanwhile, public recognition of Eastbury Manor’s importance was growing and the press called it ‘the Hampton Court of East London’ in 1917, even if the army had no qualms knocking it about. It was at liberty to do so, but fortunately an insider was present to look out for the house. That ‘insider’ was Society member Norman Wilkinson. In the army, he was a lowly lance corporal but in civilian life he was far more noteworthy – well-connected and a leading stage designer. His costumes for Twelfth Night at the Savoy Theatre in 1912 can be found today at the Victoria & Albert Museum.
Wilkinson appreciated the building’s beauty and significance, and he made it his business to encourage his commanding officer to ensure it was treated properly by supplying his own copy of the Survey of London’s monograph. His foresight bought time and allowed for a long-term solution to be found. After fundraising by Society and others to raise the £1500 required for purchase, a deal was struck with the owner and the house was passed to the National Trust.
Sadly, this did not include much of the surrounding land or the large barn and farmstead – all of which were lost to a housing estate in the twenties – but it was still a remarkable outcome. In 1918, the National Trust was still in its formative years and had only acquired a few properties. Taking on Eastbury Manor was a bold move that reflected its national importance and the deal proved to be the beginning of a long partnership between the National Trust, SPAB and Eastbury Manor. The Society put forward William Weir, one of its leading architects, to manage the repair for the National Trust, completed in 1920.
The Society had been in communication with Barking Council about the manor since WWI but it was not until the mid-thirties that they were prepared to take the bold step of securing a hundred year lease from the National Trust. In 1935, it was described as the “Real Civic Centre of Barking” when Barking Council acquired the lease on Eastbury Manor. This allowed Eastbury Manor a community function for the first time and it was opened with an exhibition of the English Arts & Crafts.
Ever since, this wonderful house has been an important focus for the people of Barking and this summer, exactly a century after it was saved, SPAB is delighted to play a continuing role in its story.
Learning bricklaying skills
Repairing the Tudor garden wall
Hugh Conway Morris, Limeburner
William Weir, architect of the repair of Eastbury Manor
Visitors to Eastbury Manor in 1935
Archive images courtesy of SPAB
Readers are invited to this Sunday’s free open day at Eastbury Manor. Visit between 11am and 4pm to see conservation in action and enjoy a range of family activities
You may also like to read about
At The Old Schoolhouse
Nestled beside the Lea Bridge in Clapton is this attractive old schoolhouse built of Kentish ragstone in the eighteen-forties by Arthur Ashpitel and gifted in perpetuity by his family for the education of the children of Hackney. Yet his splendid Grade II listed building, which was conceived in a spirit of philanthropy and constructed with good quality materials as an act of belief in the necessity of education, has fallen into neglect in recent years.
Next week, the old schoolhouse reaches a nadir in its fortunes when – in contravention of the wishes of the Ashpitel family – it goes up for auction to the highest bidder. In disregard of the benefactors, the building was first sold off in the twenties and its fortunes have spiralled ever since. So I write today in the hope that someone with vision and resources will read this and be inspired to rescue the forlorn old schoolhouse and cherish it as it deserves.
Battered wooden hoardings surround the site at present and you step through to be confronted by the imposing front wall which gives the impression of a chapel for learning, with its steep pitched roof, trefoil window and ogee arch. The entrance leads directly into the schoolroom which extends the length and height of the building with an attractive open roof of wooden beams and a large fireplace at the far end. Beyond lies modest accommodation for the teacher, extending over two floors liked by a single staircase. The dereliction of these spaces is pitiful when so many people need homes.
Arthur Ashpitel was born in Hackney in 1807, the son of architect William Hurst Ashpitel who as Surveyor to the Parish of St John played a significant role in the development of Hackney in the nineteenth century. Arthur was educated at Dr. Burnet’s School, which is now Sutton House, before training as an architect under his father. In 1845, he built the church of St Barnabas at Homerton and his career was notable for distinguished architecture in the creation of public buildings with a social purpose. Arthur was buried in 1869 in the family tomb in the churchyard of St John-at-Hackney Churchyard.
The old schoolhouse was once part of the everyday lives of the boatmen and bargees who made up the floating population of the River Lea – known to the Victorians as ‘watergipsies’ – providing free education for children with transient lives. A bell hung on the side of the building facing the River Lea to summon the pupils to their classes.
In recent years, Clapton Arts Trust has been in negotiation with Vision Homes, who own the old schoolhouse and developed the adjoining site, resulting in a commitment by the developer to lease the building to the Trust for use as a River Heritage & Arts Centre. The Heritage Lottery Fund supported a feasibility study, but this spring just as the Trust was poised to submit a full bid to the Fund for restoration – and despite a petition of over a thousand local people – Vision Homes obtained planning permission to redevelop the old schoolhouse into two flats and then put it up for auction.
There are public viewings today between 2:45 – 3:15 pm and on Tuesday 17th July 12:30 – 1pm
Click here to learn more information about the auction on Thursday 19th July
The teacher’s house
Main entrance
The schoolroom
The schoolhouse before the land at the rear was redeveloped and the hoardings went up
The Old Schoolhouse, 142 Lea Bridge Road, Clapton, E5 9UB
You may also like to read about
David Prescott Of Commercial St
David standing outside 103 Commercial St in the mid-sixties
Growing up in the large flat above the Spitalfields Market at 103 Commercial St, with school and the family business nearby, David had run of the neighbourhood and he found it offered an ideal playground. One day in the sixties, David leaned out of the window and made his mark by spraying painting onto a flower in the terracotta frieze upon the front of the nineteenth century market building. Astonishingly, the white-painted flower is still clearly discernible in Commercial St half a century later, indicating the centre of David’s childhood world.
No wonder then that David chose to keep returning to his home territory, working in the Spitalfields Fruit & Vegetable Market until it closed in 1991. These days, he is amazed at the changes since he lived and worked here but – as long as the white-painted flower remains on Commercial St – for David, Spitalfields remains the location of his personal childhood landscape.
“Albert, my grandfather, ran fruit & vegetable shops down in Belvedere, and he used to come up to Spitalfields Market with his horse and cart to buy produce. So my father ‘Bert and his brother Reg decided to start a business in a little warehouse in Tenterground. Upstairs, there were prostitutes and men in bowler hats would come over from the City and look around, circumspect, before going upstairs.
They traded as R A Prescott, which was the initials of the two brothers, Reginald & Albert, but also my grandfather’s initials – which meant they could say they had been going over a hundred years already. They started in Spitalfields in 1952 but, when I was born in 1954, my father took the flat over the market at 103 Commercial St opposite the Ten Bells. Mickey Davis, who ran the shelter at the Fruit & Wool Exchange during the war lived in the flat below, but he had died in 1953 so we just knew his wife and two daughters.
I went to St Joseph’s School in Gun St and I loved it because all my friends lived nearby, in Gun St and Flower & Dean St, and I went to the youth club at Toynbee Hall. I used to walk through the market and everyone knew me – and since my sister, Sylvia, was six years older, they always teased – asking, ‘Where’s your sister?’
We never locked the doors except when we went to bed at night. One day, we came home and found a woman asleep in the living room and my dad sent her on her way. I used to climb up out from our flat and take my dog for a walk across the roof of the market, until the market police shouted at me and put up barbed wire to stop me doing it. Our mums and dads didn’t know what we were up to half the time. We made castles inside the stacks of empty wooden boxes that had been returned to the market.
I remember there was was a guy with a large bump on his head who used to shout and chase us. It would start on Brick Lane and end up in Whitechapel. There was another guy with a tap on his head and one who was shell-shocked. These poor guys, it was only later we realised that they had mental problems.We threw tomatoes, and we put potatoes on wires and spun them fast to let them fly.
In 1966, me and my pal Alan Crockett were in ‘The London Nobody Knows.’ They said, ‘Do you want to be in a film? We want you to run down the street and pile into a fight.’
My dad died of lung cancer when I was fifteen in 1969, but my mum was able to stay on in the flat. He got ill in April and died in August in St Joseph’s Hospice in Mare St. I left school and went to work with my uncle. By then, Prescotts had moved over to 38 Spital Sq. They weren’t part of the market, they supplied catering companies with peeled potatoes and they bought a machine to shell peas and were the first to offer them already podded. I worked with my elder brother Michael too, he set up on his own at 57 Brushfield St, but then he moved to Barnhurst in Kent and bought a three bedroom house. I became a van boy at Telfers, I used to leave home at half past two in the morning to get to Greenwich where they had a yard, by three to start work.
In 1972, we left the flat in Spitalfields and moved to a house in Kingston, and I worked for Hawker Siddley – they trained me as an engineer. But I missed the market so much, I had to come back. I got a job with Chiswick Fruits in the Fruit & Wool Exchange and then I went back to Prescotts. I was working at the Spitalfields Market in 1991 when they moved out to Leyton, but it was’t the same there and, by 2000, I’d had enough of the market. In those days, you could walk out of one job and straight into another. I must have had thirty to forty jobs.“
R A Prescott of 38 Spital Sq
David as a baby at 103 Commercial St in 1955
David at five years old at his brother Michael’s wedding in Poplar in 1959
David with his mum, Kathleen, playing with the dog in the yard at the back of the market flat
David’s sister Sylvia, who went to St Victoire’s Grammar School in Victoria Park
David is centre right in the front row at St Joseph’s School, Gun St
In 1966, David and his pal Alan Crockett were in ‘The London Nobody Knows.’ This shot shows Alan (leading) and David (behind) running down Lolesworth St.
Christmas at 103 Commercial St in 1967
David’s mother Kathleen and his father ‘Bert on holiday in 1968
David stands on the far right at his sister Sylvia’s wedding at St Anne’s, Underwood Rd, in 1964
David leaned out of his window and sprayed paint onto this flower in 1964
Looking south across the Spitalfields Market
Spitalfields Market empty at the weekend
Spital Sq after the demolition of Central Foundation School
The Flower Market at Spitalfields Market
From the roof of Spitlafields Flower Market looking towards Folgate St
Clearing out on the last day of the Spitalfields Fruit & Vegetable Market in 1991
David stands in the Spitalfields Market today beneath the window that was once his childhood bedroom
You may also like to read about
East End Beanos
A beano from Stepney in the twenties (courtesy Irene Sheath)
We have reached that time of year when clamminess prevails in the city and East Enders turn restless, yearning for a trip to the sea or at the very least an excursion to glimpse some green fields. In the last century, pubs, workplaces and clubs organised annual summer beanos, which gave everyone the opportunity to pile into a coach and enjoy a day out, usually with liberal opportunity for refreshment and sing-songs on the way home.
Ladies’ beano from The Globe in Hartley St, Bethnal Green, in the fifties. Chris Dixon, who submitted the picture, recognises his grandmother, Flo Beazley, furthest left in the front row beside her next door neighbour Flo Wheeler, who had a fruit and vegetable stall on Green St. (courtesy Chris Dixon)
Another beano from the fifties – eighth from the left is Jim Tyrrell (1908-1991) who worked at Stepney Power Station in Limehouse and drank at the Rainbow on the Highway in Ratcliff.
Mid-twentieth century beano from the archive of Britton’s Coaches in Cable St. (courtesy Martin Harris)
Beano from the Rhodeswell Stores, Rhodeswell Rd, Limehouse in the mid-twenties.
Taken on the way to Southend, this is a ladies’ beano from The Beehive in the Roman Rd during the fifties or sixties in a coach from Empress Coaches. The only men in the photo are the driver and the accordionist. Joan Lord (née Collins) who submitted the photo is the daughter of the publicans of The Beehive. (Courtesy Joan Lord)
Terrie Conway Driver, who submitted this picture of a beano from The Duke of Gloucester, Seabright St, Bethnal Green, points out that her grandfather is seventh from the left in the back row. (Courtesy Terrie Conway Driver)
Taken on the way to Southend, this is a men’s beano from The Beehive in the Roman Rd in the fifties or sixties in a coach from Empress Coaches. (Courtesy Joan Lord)
Beano in the twenties from the Victory Public House in Ben Jonson Rd, on the corner with Carr St. Note the charabanc – the name derives from the French char à bancs (“carriage with wooden benches”) and they were originally horse-drawn.
A crowd gathers before a beano from The Queens’ Head in Chicksand St in the early fifties. John Charlton who submitted the photograph pointed out his grandfather George standing in the flat cap holding a bottle of beer on the right with John’s father Bill on the left of him, while John stands directly in front of the man in the straw hat. (Courtesy John Charlton)
Beano for Stepney Borough Council workers in the mid-twentieth century. (Courtesy Susan Armstrong)
Martin Harris, who submitted this picture, indicated that the driver, standing second from the left, is Teddy Britton, his second cousin. (Courtesy Martin Harris)
In the Panama hat is Ted Marks who owned the fish place at the side of the Martin Frobisher School, and is seen here taking his staff out on their annual beano.
George, the father of Colin Watson who submitted this photo, is among those who went on this beano from the Taylor Walker brewery in Limehouse. (Courtesy Colin Watson)
Pub beano setting out for Margate or Southend. (Courtesy John McCarthy)
Men’s beano from c. 1960 (courtesy Cathy Cocline)
Late sixties or early seventies ladies’ beano organised by the Locksley Estate Tenants Association in Limehouse, leaving from outside The Prince Alfred in Locksley St.
The father of John McCarthy, who submitted this photo, is on the far right squatting down with a beer in his hand, in this beano photo taken in the early sixties, which may be from his local, The Shakespeare in Bethnal Green Rd. Equally, it could be a works’ outing, as he was a dustman working for Bethnal Green Council. Typically, the men are wearing button holes and an accordionist accompanies them. Accordionists earned a fortune every summer weekend, playing at beanos. (courtesy John McCarthy)
John Sheehan, who submitted this picture, remembers it was taken on a beano to Clacton in the sixties. From left to right, you can seee John Driscoll who lived in Grosvenor Buildings, Dan Daley of Constant House, outsider Johnny Gamm from Hackney, alongside his cousin, John Sheehan from Constant House and Bill Britton from Holmsdale House. (Courtesy John Sheehan)
Photographs reproduced courtesy of Tower Hamlet Community Housing’s Collection
You may also like to read about
Crudgie, Motorcyclist
Behold the noble Crudgie!
I have been hoping for the opportunity to catch up with Crudgie ever since we were first introduced at the Fish Harvest Festival, so I was delighted to accept his invitation to meet at that legendary bikers’ rendezvous, the Ace Cafe on the North Circular.
Over six foot six in height, clad head to toe in black leather, with extravagant facial hair trained into straggling locks and carrying the unmistakable whiff of engine oil wherever he goes, Crudgie makes an unforgettable impression. Crudgie’s monumental stature, beady roving eyes and bold craggy features adorned with personal topiary, give him the presence of one from medieval mythology, like Merlin on a motorbike. Yet in spite of his awesome appearance and gruff voice, I found Crudgie a warm and friendly personality, even if he does not suffer fools gladly, issuing fearsome warnings to pedestrians not to get in his way.
“I’m only called by my surname, Crudgington. “Ington” means family living in an enclosed dwelling, and “crud” is a variation of curd, so they were probably cheesemakers. There’s a place in Shropshire named Crudgington, but there’s nobody buried in the church with that name, nobody living there with that name either and nobody that lives there has ever heard of anybody called Crudgington. The shortened version of my name came about when I went to play rugby and cricket where everyone gets a nickname ending in “ie.” I’ve swum for the county, and competed as an athlete in the four hundred metres and javelin, as well.
I grew up in Billericay, famous for being the first place to count the votes in the General Election. My father was builder called Henry but everyone knew him as Nobby. I went into banking for ten years in Essex but I couldn’t get on with it, even though I was the youngest person ever to pass the banking exam. So then I went to work in insurance in the City, I worked for Barclays for ten years and played for their rugby team until they couldn’t afford to fund it anymore. In the nineteen nineties, I felt I was getting nowhere in insurance so I started motorbicycle couriering. I got a motorbike from my parents for fifteenth birthday, so I’ve always been a biker and I do thousands of miles on it every year, going to sporting events, meet-ups and scrambles.
It’s the camaraderie of it that appeals to me, meeting up with your mates, but unfortunately you are perceived as an outlaw. I have been stopped eighty-nine times in twenty-one years by the police. Apparently, couriers are the second most-disliked Londoners after Estate Agents. It’s because people get scared out of their wits when they are not thinking where they are going and a courier brushes by and gives them the shock of their life. People should look where they are going. If you are going to hit a pedestrian, it’s best to hit them them straight on, that way they get thrown over the handlebars. A few cuts and bruises, but nobody gets killed by a motorbicycle. Whereas if you veer to either side to avoid them, the danger is you clip them with your handlebars and it sends you into a tailspin, and you fall off.
I’m a member of the most important biker club – The 59 Club, set up by Father Bill Shergold in 1959. He was a vicar who was a biker, and he wanted to bring the mods and rockers together, so he opened up in a church hall in West London in 1961 and on the first day he had Cliff Richard & The Shadows performing there. Then in 1985, it moved to Yorkton St, Bethnal Green. It was open three days a week, and you could go in and have a cup of tea after work. They had a bike repair workshop for maintenance, two snooker tables and a stage where lots of bands performed. And once a year, you could go to a church service. They moved to Plaistow now, but everybody that was in it is still in it – it’s the largest bike club in the world.
There’s only a few British couriers left, most are Brazilians now. It used to be Polish until they earned enough money and all went back home. Once upon a time, there was a lot of money in it though it’s gone down thanks to technology, but the beauty is you can work when you like and you get to go interesting places that you’d never go otherwise. I’ve picked up the Queen’s hair products from SW3 and driven into Buckingham Palace to deliver them. I do a lot of deliveries for film companies and quite often I stay around on set to watch, especially if it’s in some interesting stately home that you wouldn’t normally get to visit. If I have to go somewhere on a journey out of London, I always take time to visit the museum or castle or whatever there is to see.
I’ve worked from nine until seven for years, but I’ve decided I’m only going to do nine thirty to six because I’m getting old. If I had independent funds, I wouldn’t be riding anymore. I haven’t missed a day in quite a few years and I’ve only ever had one week off in twenty years…”
When I arrived at the Ace Cafe, I saw Crudgie’s bike outside and I spotted him through the window, head and shoulders above his fellows. Inside, a long counter ran along one wall, facing a line of windows looking out on the North Circular, and the space in between was filled by tables, scattered with helmets to indicate those which were reserved by customers. Once Crudgie had greeted me with a firm bikers’ handshake, we settled by the window where he squeezed every drop from his teabag to achieve a beverage that was so strong it was almost black. A characteristic Crudgie brew.
Like the questing knight or the solitary cowboy, Crudgie has no choice but to follow his ordained path through the world, yet he is a law unto himself and the grime he acquires speeding through the traffic is his proud badge of independence. A loner riding the city streets with his magnificent nose faced into the wind, Crudgie is his own master.
Crudgie at the Ace Cafe on the North Circular. “- Like Merlin on a motorbike.”
You may also like to read
