Clive Murphy’s Matchbox Labels
Clive Murphy, Phillumenist
Nothing about this youthful photo of the novelist, oral historian and writer of ribald rhymes, Clive Murphy – resplendent here in a well-pressed tweed suit and with his hair neatly brushed – would suggest that he was a Phillumenist. Even people who have known him since he came to live in Spitalfields in 1973 never had an inkling. In fact, evidence of his Phillumeny only came to light when Clive donated his literary archive to the Bishopsgate Institute and a non-descript blue album was uncovered among his papers, dating from the era of this picture and with the price ten shillings and sixpence still written in pencil in the front.
I was astonished when I saw the beautiful album and so I asked Clive to tell me the story behind it. “I was a Phillumenist,” he admitted to me in a whisper, “But I broke all the rules in taking the labels off the matchboxes and cutting the backs off matchbooks. A true Phillumenist would have a thousand fits to see my collection.” It was the first time Clive had examined his album of matchbox labels and matchbook covers since 1951 when, at the age of thirteen, he forsook Phillumeny – a diversion that had occupied him through boarding school in Dublin from 1944 onwards.
“A memory is coming back to me of a wooden box that I made in carpentry class which I used to keep them in, until I put them in this album,” said Clive, getting lost in thought, “I wonder where it is?” We surveyed page after page of brightly-coloured labels from all over the world pasted in neat rows and organised by their country of origin, inscribed by Clive with blue ink in a careful italic hand at the top of each leaf. “I have no memory of doing this.” he confided to me as he scanned his handiwork in wonder,“Why is the memory so selective?”
“I was ill-advised and I do feel sorry in retrospect that they are not as a professional collector would wish,” he concluded with a sigh, “But I do like them for all kinds of other reasons, I admire my method and my eye for a pattern, and I like the fact that I occupied myself – I’m glad I had a hobby.”
We enjoyed a quiet half hour, turning the pages and admiring the designs, chuckling over anachronisms and reflecting on how national identities have changed since these labels were produced. Mostly, we delighted at the intricacy of thought and ingenuity of the decoration once applied to something as inconsequential as matches.
“There was this boy called Spring-Rice whose mother lived in New York and every week she sent him a letter with a matchbox label in the envelope for me.” Clive recalled with pleasure, “We had breaks twice each morning at school, when the letters were given out, and how I used to long for him to get a letter, to see if there was another label for my collection.” The extraordinary global range of the labels in Clive’s album reflects the widely scattered locations of the parents of the pupils at his boarding school in Dublin, and the collection was a cunning ploy that permitted the schoolboy Clive to feel at the centre of the world.
“You don’t realise you’re doing something interesting, you’re just doing it because you like pasting labels in an album and having them sent to you from all over the world.” said Clive with characteristic self-deprecation, yet it was apparent to me that Phillumeny prefigured his wider appreciation of what is otherwise ill-considered in existence. It is a sensibility that found full expression in Clive’s exemplary work as an oral historian, recording the lives of ordinary people with scrupulous attention to detail, and editing and publishing them with such panache.
Clive Murphy, Phillumenist
Images courtesy of the Clive Murphy Archive at the Bishopsgate Institute
You may like to read my other stories about Clive Murphy
Clive Murphy’s oral histories are available from Labour and Wait
John Claridge At East London Liquor Co.
There is nothing like a glass or two of gin at nine-thirty in the morning to bring the mind into sharp focus, as Contributing Photographer John Claridge & I discovered last week when we paid a visit to the East London Liquor Company on the canal next to Victoria Park. It was the morning after the opening of John’s East End photography exhibition at The Society Club, but nevertheless we both arrived at the distillery, housed in a former glue factory, before nine – and thus the tasting that we were required to undertake as part of our assignment served the function of ‘the hair of the dog.’
At the stroke of nine, the distillery staff arrived and admitted us to their workplace. We were astonished by the spectacle of the tall copper stills extending to the roof at the rear of the building. These gleaming cylinders embellished with pipes and valves appeared to me like vast wind instruments awaiting giant jazz musicians to play upon them. It was a fancy dispelled by the unexpected pungent scent of grapefruit and lemon, as distiller Sam Garbutt set to peeling citrus fruit and suspending the peel in the warm still while the grain spirit was added. This vapour infusion is sufficient to impart an aroma of grapefruit to the London Dry Gin that is distilled here. I watched Sam as he hastily measured out the coriander, juniper berries, cardamon, angelica root and cubeb berries, concocting a heady mixture of botanicals.
Head distiller Tom Hills was taking a moment to consult his laptop in between supervising the beginning of the day’s distillation, which would extend over the next seven hours. “I’ve got a zillion things to do today,” I heard him say under his breath. No hyperbole for the man responsible for producing between five and six hundred bottles of gin and vodka every day at the first new distillery to open in the East End for over a century. Founded just two years ago and exporting around the world, the East London Liquor Company has already established a formidable reputation for the quality of its gin and vodka, with whisky to come next year too.
After the first flurry of activity, setting up the stills, the pace relented as the distilling process commenced and John had taken his photographs, so there was no option but to try each of the three varieties of gin and study their distinguishing characteristics.
I would not describe myself as a gin drinker, so I had no idea what to expect of the London Dry Gin but I was pleasantly surprised by its complex aromatic taste with citrus overtones, which quickly dispelled any memory of the familiar industrially-produced gin which is commonplace. This was something else altogether and, even at nine-thirty, I was fascinated that it was possible to distinguish each of the botanicals within the blend. By contrast, Batch No.1 was a drier taste with a hint of darjeeling tea which gave it ‘bite’ and complemented the citrus aroma. Batch No.2 proved to be the most complex of the three with all the botanical flavours in the foreground. I alternated sips from each of the different glasses in front of me to clarify these relative qualities in my perception and it was a satisfying achievement to have grasped the comparative nature of these spirits, thus filling an important gap in my education before ten o’clock in the morning.
Meanwhile, John Claridge was regaling the distillers with tales of his visits to the Jack Daniels Distillery in Lynchburg in the ‘dry’ state of Tennessee during the eighties, when he took intimate black and white portraits of the distillery workers, initiating a series of advertisements which run to this day undertaken by other photographers carrying on where John left off.
It did not take much persuasion to introduce the obligation – as a matter of courtesy – of trying the distillery produce to John. Composing his attention, he raised a glass of London Dry Gin slowly to his lips, took a sip and made an involuntary exclamation of delight. “This could turn me to drink,” he declared.
Tom Hills, Head Distiller
Sam Garbutt, Distiller
Chris Culligan, Distiller
Andy Mooney, Whisky Distiller
Photographs copyright © John Claridge
East London Liquor Company, Bow Wharf, 221 Grove Rd, E3 5SN
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In Search Of The Boss Of Bethnal Green
Julian Woodford, author of THE BOSS OF BETHNAL GREEN sent me in search of Joseph Merceron, the Huguenot, gangster & corrupt magistrate, to take photographs of the locations of his story today as illustrations for the forthcoming biography published by Spitalfields Life Books in November – and I present a selection of these pictures here captioned with quotes from Julian’s text.
Julian Woodford will be giving a lecture about Joseph Merceron at WATERSTONES PICCADILLY, W1J 9HD on Tuesday 8th November at 7pm. (Tickets are free but email piccadilly@waterstones.com to reserve a place)
There are only a few tickets remaining now for the launch party on Thursday 3rd November at 7pm in the Hanbury Hall, Hanbury St (Click here to reserve a place)
Birthplace of Joseph Merceron “On Sunday 29th January 1764, Joseph Merceron was born on Brick Lane, which formed the boundary between the parishes of Spitalfields and its eastward neighbour Bethnal Green. His parents were James Merceron, a Huguenot pawnbroker and former silk weaver, and his second wife Ann. The Mercerons had three other children: Annie, Joseph’s two-year-old sister, John, almost thirteen, and Catherine, eight, the latter two being the surviving offspring from James’s first marriage.”
“Joseph was christened at the local Huguenot church known as La Patente, in Brown’s Lane (the building and lane are now known as Hanbury Hall and Hanbury Street) just a short walk from his parents’ house. The Mercerons, like other Huguenot families in the area, clung tightly to their nationality. Joseph’s details in the register of baptisms – the first recorded at La Patente for 1764 – were entered in French, which many families still insisted on speaking out of respect for their ancestors.”
“On the corner of Fournier Street stands the Jamme Masjid, since 1976 one of London’s largest mosques. For much of the twentieth century it was a synagogue, and before that it spent a decade as a Methodist chapel. Originally, before a brief occupation by the London Society for Promoting Christianity amongst the Jews, it was a Huguenot church. High on a wall is the date of its completion, 1743, and a sundial with its motto: Umbra Sumus (‘we are shadows’).”
“The Merceron pawnshop at 77 Brick Lane was at the epicentre of this district, among a row of ramshackle buildings directly opposite Sir Benjamin Truman’s imposing and famous Black Eagle brewery. The Black Eagle was one of the largest breweries in the world. To those living opposite, the mingled odours of yeast, malt and spilt beer – not to mention the steaming output of the many dray horses – must have been overpowering, even by the pungent standards of the times. The noise, too, was tremendous, as the shouts of draymen punctuated the rumble of horse-drawn carriages and carts up and down the lane.”
“The judge had ordered the execution to take place several miles away at Tyburn, the usual site of such events in London, but the master weavers – keen to dispose of Valline and Doyle in front of their own community to discourage further loom cutting – lobbied successfully to change the location to ‘the most convenient place near Bethnal Green church’. Several thousand people assembled outside The Salmon & Ball to see Valline and Doyle hang. Bricks and stones were thrown during the assembly of the gallows. They protested their innocence to the end, but to no effect. Doyle’s last words were enough to ignite an already explosive situation. As soon as the hanging was over, the crowd tore down the gallows and surged back to Spitalfields…”
“On 26th October 1795, Joseph Merceron donned his magistrate’s wig and robes and climbed the steps of the imposing Sessions House on Clerkenwell Green for his first Middlesex Sessions meeting. This was a world away from Brick Lane. The Sessions House, built in the aftermath of the Gordon Riots, was awe-inspiring and was said to rival any courthouse in England.”
“St John on Bethnal Green was built by the eminent architect Sir John Soane but budgetary constraints led to his grand design for a steeple being aborted, replaced with a stunted tower of particularly phallic design that rapidly became a source of bawdy amusement throughout the neighbourhood. Merceron was outraged. Announcing that the design had ‘mortified and disappointed the expectations of almost every individual’, he ordered Brutton to write to complain. The task put Brutton in an acutely awkward position: how to explain the exact nature of the problem? The vestry clerk’s literary skills were tested to the limit as he described the tower’s ‘abrupt termination in point of altitude’ that made it ‘an object of low wit and vulgar abuse’.”
“All the great and good of London’s East End were there. Twenty thousand people, packed six deep in places along the Bethnal Green Road, had turned out to see the cortège on its way to St Matthew’s church. Just before one o’clock the procession arrived, at a sedate walking pace. The jet-black horses, with their sable plumes, were blinkered to prevent anything from distracting the stately progress of the hearse. Merceron was the original ‘Boss’ of Bethnal Green, the Godfather of Regency London, controlling its East End underworld long before celebrity mobsters such as the infamous Kray twins made it their territory. His funeral at the church of St Matthew, Bethnal Green – the very same church where the Krays’ funerals would be held more than 150 years later – reflected his importance: it was by far the biggest event to take place at the church since it was established in the 1740s.”
Tomb of Peter Renvoize “His closest ally and childhood friend, Peter Renvoize, was repeatedly elected as churchwarden for much of this period, from which position he helped Merceron pull off his most audacious financial coup yet. Bethnal Green’s share of the government relief grant was £12,200, equivalent to almost three times the annual poor’s rates raised by the parish. Having obtained the money, Merceron appointed himself chairman of a committee, with four of his closest associates, including Renvoize, to manage its distribution. What happened next is difficult to determine. But it is clear that, five months after the government had advanced the funds, there were several thousand pounds sitting in Merceron’s own account.”
“As for Joseph Merceron, lying buried in the shadow of the vestry room he dominated for half a century, there is one last strange episode to recount. In the afternoon sunshine of Saturday 7th September, 1940, as millions of Londoners sat down to their tea, the ‘Blitz’ began. Bethnal Green suffered terribly, and in the carnage St Matthew’s church took a direct hit from an incendiary bomb. Next morning it was a roofless, burnt out shell, but two gravestones survived the bombing intact. The first, outside the main entrance to the church, is that of Merceron’s old friend Peter Renvoize. About twenty paces away, a large pink granite slab, surrounded by a low iron rail in the shelter of the south wall of the church, is the grave of Joseph Merceron and his family. He spent a lifetime cheating the law, somehow it is fitting that he should have cheated the Luftwaffe too.”
“Merceron Houses, erected in 1901 by the East End Dwellings Company on land formerly part of Joseph Merceron’s garden in Bethnal Green.”
CLICK HERE TO ORDER A SIGNED COPY OF THE BOSS OF BETHNAL GREEN FOR £20
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The Fish Harvest Festival
Today we preview the annual Fish Harvest Festival which will be held tomorrow at St Mary-at-Hill
Frank David, Billingsgate Porter for sixty years
Thomas à Becket was the first rector of St Mary-at-Hill in the City of London, the ancient church upon a rise above the old Billingsgate Market, where each year at this season the Harvest Festival of the Sea is celebrated – to give thanks for the fish of the deep that we all delight to eat, and which have sustained a culture of porters and fishmongers here for centuries.
The market itself may have moved out to the Isle of Dogs in 1982, but that does not stop the senior porters and fishmongers making an annual pilgrimage back up the cobbled hill where, as young men, they once wheeled barrows of fish in the dawn. For one day a year, this glorious church designed by Sir Christopher Wren is recast as a fishmongers, with an artful display of gleaming fish and other exotic ocean creatures spilling out of the porch, causing the worn marble tombstones to glisten like slabs in a fish shop, and imparting an unmistakeably fishy aroma to the entire building. Yet it all serves to make the men from Billingsgate feel at home, in their chosen watery element – as Contributing Photographer Ashley Jordan Gordon and I discovered when we went along to join the congregation.
Frank David and Billy Hallet, two senior porters in white overalls, both took off their hats – or “bobbins” as they are called – to greet us. These unique pieces of headgear once enabled the porters to balance stacks of fish boxes upon their heads, while the brim protected them from any spillage. Frank – a veteran of eighty-nine years old – who was a porter for sixty years from the age of eighteen, showed me the bobbin he had worn throughout his career, originally worn by his grandfather Jim David in Billingsgate in the eighteen-nineties and then passed down by his father Tim David.
Of sturdy wooden construction, covered with canvas and bitumen, stitched and studded, these curious glossy black artefacts seemed almost to have a life of their own. “When you had twelve boxes of kippers on your head, you knew you’d got it on,” quipped Billy, displaying his “brand new” hat, made only in the nineteen thirties. A mere stripling of seventy-three, still fit and healthy, Billy started his career at Christmas 1959 in the old Billingsgate market carrying boxes on his bobbin and wheeling barrows of fish up the incline past St Mary-at-Hill to the trucks waiting in Eastcheap. Caustic that the City of London revoked the porters’ licences after more than one hundred and thirty years – “Our traditions are disappearing,” he confided to me in the churchyard, rolling his eyes and striking a suitably elegiac Autumnal note.
Proudly attending the spectacular display of fish in the porch, I met Eddie Hill, a fishmonger who started his career in 1948. He recalled the good times after the war when fish was cheap and you could walk across Lowestoft harbour stepping from one herring boat to the next. “My father said, ‘We’re fishing the ocean dry and one day it’ll be a luxury item,'” he told me, lowering his voice, “And he was right, now it has come to pass.” Charlie Caisey, a fishmonger who once ran the fish shop opposite Harrods, employing thirty-five staff, showed me his daybook from 1967 when he was trading in the old Billingsgate market. “No-one would believe it now!” he exclaimed, wondering at the low prices evidenced by his own handwriting, “We had four people then who made living out of just selling parsley and two who made a living out of just washing fishboxes.”
By now, the swelling tones of the organ installed by William Hill in 1848 were summoning us all to sit beneath Wren’s cupola and the Billingsgate men, in their overalls, modestly occupied the back row as the dignitaries of the City, in their dark suits and fur trimmed robes, processed to take their seats at the front. We all sang and prayed together as the church became a great lantern illuminated by shifting patterns of October sunshine, while the bones of the long-dead slumbered peacefully beneath our feet. The verses referring to “those who go down the sea in ships and occupy themselves upon the great waters,” and the lyrics of “For those in peril on the sea” reminded us of the plain reality upon which the trade is based, as we sat in the elegantly proportioned classical space and the smell of fish drifted among us upon the currents of air.
In spite of sombre regrets at the loss of stocks in the ocean and unease over the changes in the industry, all were unified in wonder at miracle of the harvest of our oceans and by their love of fish – manifest in the delight we shared to see such an extravagant variety displayed upon the slab in the church. And I shall be enjoying my own personal Harvest Festival of the Sea in Spitalfields for the next week, thanks to the large bag of fresh fish that Eddie Hill slipped into my hand as I left the church.
St Mary-at-Hill was rebuilt by Sir Christopher Wren in 1677
Senior fishmongers from Billingsgate worked from dawn to prepare the display of fish in the church
Fishmonger Charlie Caisey’s market book from 1967
Charlie Caisey explains the varieties of fish to the curious
Gary Hooper, President of the National Federation of Fishmongers, welcomes guests to the church
Frank David and Billy Hallet, Billingsgate Porters
Frank’s “bobbin” is a hundred and twenty years old and Billy’s is “brand new” from the nineteen thirties
Billy Hallet’s porter’s badge, now revoked by the City of London
Jim Shrubb, Beadle of Billingsgate with friends
The mace of Billingsgate, made in 1669
John White (President & Alderman), Michael Welbank (Master) and John Bowman (Secretary) of the Billingsgate Ward Club
Crudgie, Sailor, Biker and Historian
Dennis Ranstead, Sidesman Emeritus and Graham Mundy, Church Warden of St Mary-at-Hill
Senior Porters and Fishmongers of Billingsgate
Frank sweeps up the parsley at the end of the service
The cobbled hill leading down from the church to the old Billingsgate Market
Frank David with the “bobbin” first worn by his grandfather Jim David at Billingsgate in the 1890s
Photographs copyright © Ashley Jordan Gordon
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The Last Porters of Billingsgate Market
Alice Pattullo’s Animal ABC
I am delighted to announce that Alice Pattullo‘s Animal ABC which was first seen in these pages last year will be published as a book by Pavilion next week, with a launch at House of Illustration in Kings Cross next Tuesday 11th October 6:30-8pm
A is for Armadillo who is short stout and round
B is for Beetle who stays close to the ground
C is for Crab who crawls on the sea bed
D is for Dove who likes to fly overhead
E is for Elephant who is anything but light
F is for fox who roams the city streets at night
G is for grizzly bear, a fierce looking fellow
H is for Hippo who is altogether more mellow
I is for Iguana a large scaly reptile
J is for jack rabbit who jumps mile after mile
K is for Kangaroo who takes hop, skip and bound
L is for leopard who moves fast across the ground
M is for Moth, a winged friend of the butterfly
N is for Nautilus who in his shell is quite shy
O is for okapi, our strange stripy friend
P is for polar bear who lives at world’s end
Q is for quail whose bright head feathers are fun
R is for Rhino who weights almost a tonne
S is for sloth who hangs and sleeps in a tree
T is for turtle who swims through the sea
U is for uakari whose face is small, wrinkly and red
V is for viper whose bite might leave you dead
W is for Whale, the biggest animal of them all
X is for Xantus who is remarkably small
Y is for Yak, like a cow with long hair
Z is for Zebra, so stripy you might stare
Copyright ©Alice Pattullo
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Alex Pink In Woolwich
Contributing Photographer Alex Pink moved across the river to Woolwich earlier this year and sent me this photo essay of his new manor, which inspired me to spend an afternoon with him last week exploring the contradictions of this fascinating place, caught between the industrial past of the former dockyards and the rapidly rising developments which foreshadow the arrival of Crossrail in 2018
Photographs copyright © Alex Pink
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Passing Trade
In recent years, Contributing Artist Eleanor Crow has been drawing and painting East End shopfronts and cafes, and an exhibition of one hundred of these watercolours entitled PASSING TRADE opens this Friday 7th October at Walthamstow Village Window Gallery, 47 Orford Rd, E17 9NJ. The gallery is a former ironmonger’s shopfront with all artwork visible through the window seven days a week.
Syd’s Coffee Stall, Shoreditch High St
Eleanor Crow made this set of watercolour portraits of cafes as a tribute to those cherished institutions which incarnate the essence of civility in the East End. “It’s because they’re individual concerns, often owned by families across generations who get to know all their customers,” admitted Eleanor, revealing the source of her devotion to cafe culture ,“I like the frontages because each is designed uniquely for that café with wonderful sign-writing or lettering and eye-catching colours. Some of these cafés have been here for a very long time and everyone in the area is familiar with them, and is very fond of them. They make the streets into a better place and are landmarks upon the landscape of the East End.”
E. Pellicci, Bethnal Green Rd
Savoy, Norton Folgate
Time for Tea, Shoreditch High St (Gone but not forgotten)
Dalston Lane Cafe
Paga Cafe, Lea Bridge Rd
Lennies Snack Bar, Calvert Avenue (Gone but not forgotten)
Marina Cafe, Mare St
Kingsland Cafe, Kingsland Rd
Grab & Go, Blackhorse Lane
Gina’s Restaurant, Bethnal Green Rd
Copper Grill, Eldon St
Billy Bunter’s Snack Bar, Mile End Rd (Gone but not forgotten)
Beppe’s Cafe, West Smithfield
B.B. Cafe, Lea Bridge Rd
Savoy Cafe, Graham Rd
A.Gold, Brushfield St
Arthur’s Cafe, Kingsland Rd
Cafe Bliss, Dalston Lane
Cafe Rodi, Blackhorse Lane
Rossi Restaurant, Hanbury St (Gone but not forgotten)
Eleanor Crow at E.Pellicci
Drawings copyright © Eleanor Crow
Portrait copyright © Estate of Colin O’Brien
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Eleanor Crow’s East End Ironmongers
