At the 126th Italian Parade in Clerkenwell
In spite of the volatile weather, alternating downpours with blazing sunshine, I set out (with my umbrella in hand) to Clerkenwell yesterday, where photographer Colin O’Brien invited me to join him at the Italian Parade that he first attended in 1946. For one Sunday each year, the narrow backstreets are transformed when the descendants of the immigrants who once lived in here in London’s “Little Italy” return to participate in a procession honouring Our Lady of Mount Carmel, and, such is their love for their culture and custom, they were not to be discouraged by a few drops of rain.
Growing up in Victoria Dwellings at the corner of the Clerkenwell Rd and Farringdon Rd, the Italian Parade was an annual fixture in Colin’s childhood and in 1946, at six years old, he marched in the procession as a little blond boy dressed in white – the picture of innocence – to celebrate his confirmation. Later, as a precocious child photographer, some of Colin’s first pictures were of the parade and when I saw these recently I suggested that he might like to return, a lifetime later, to photograph the event this year.
There is a certain magic that reigns on these occasions, when a Neapolitan atmosphere presides upon these London streets where for one day of each year, only Italian is spoken, and the recorded mellifluous tones of sentimental songs echo between tall old buildings towering over a full blown Festa taking place in the secret enclave of Warner St, between the major roads of Clerkenwell on either side. Here, on this special day in July, polenta is cooked in a barrel and served with sizzling sausages and Chianti, old ladies offer homemade cakes, veterans of the Alpine brigade from the nineteen fifties run a coconut shy and old friends meet to enjoy ceaseless embraces, recounting the passing years with sentimental delight.
Walking a little further, you come to Back Hill where the floats assemble and encounter those who will feature in the tableaux, all toshed up in robes thrown together from pairs of old curtains, with unnatural orange makeup applied to their skin and sporting bad wigs and dodgy facial hair, all to give an authentic effect of life in Biblical times. Like a fantasy sequence from some mid-century Italian neo-realist movie, I once saw Jesus step from his car with his crown of thorns already in place. And, as you weave your way through the alleys and byways on this day, it is not uncommon to glimpse angels in tinsel nighties fleeting in the distance.
I joined the hushed crowds outside St Peter’s in the Clerkenwell Rd as the dark clouds gathered overhead and three doves were released into the lowering sky. Then, in an explosion of glitter, came the procession of saints, borne aloft and bobbing over the heads of the crowd, each with their attendant retinue of dignified matriarchs from Woking, Aylesbury, Ponders End, Epsom and Hoddesdon – to name but a few of the Italian communities represented.
When the heavens opened and the rain fell upon us, a forest of umbrellas came forth and the saints were swathed in an additional layer of polythene robes, floating ethereally upon the breeze. And, since the commentator reminded us of the afflictions of these medieval holies, like St Rita of Cascia – the patron saint of the impossible – who suffered from a splinter of the cross lodged in her forehead, we were able to draw consolation that a shower of rain was an inconsequential discomfort by comparison. Yet there was an additional poignancy to the tableau of Jesus nailed to the cross, shivering in a loin cloth, as the rain poured down upon him, and to observe the devout concentration of those who maintained their static postures whilst holding trumpets aloft in frozen moments of religious transfiguration, seemingly oblivious of the wet.
With floats and marching bands, and the latest batch of newly-confirmed little children in white, the procession approached its climax, and along came St Michele with one figure raised heavenwards to a sky that was visibly lightening. Then, sure enough, as the figure Our Lady of Mount Carmel appeared, the clouds parted and a ray of sunlight descended upon the church, the catalyst for a spontaneous round of applause from the crowd and even for some, among the credulous, to wipe away a tear.
Once the procession had walked up Rosebery Avenue, down the Farringdon Rd and returned to Ray St, the Italian community had unified for another year in celebration of its common ancestry. It was time for the devout to attend mass, crossing themselves and dipping their fingers in holy water as they entered St Peter’s, London’s oldest Italian church. While for the rest, including Colin (who is a longtime lapsed Catholic these days) and myself, it was time to savour the temporal delights of the Festa before the rain came down again.
Colin O’Brien marches in the Italian procession in 1946
The procession photographed by Colin O’Brien in the early nineteen fifties from the flat where he grew up at the junction of the Clerkenwell Rd and Farringdon Rd.
Photographs copyright © Colin O’Brien
More photographs by Colin O’Brien
Colin O’Brien’s Clerkenwell Car Crashes
At the Rag Fair in Houndsditch
This Sunday – for a change – let us walk over to the ancient Rag Fair in Houndsditch.
In 1503, when Houndsditch was first paved over, it was already the haunt of brokers and sellers of old apparel. Ben Jonson refers to it in “Every Man in His Humour,” first performed at the Curtain Theatre in Shoreditch in 1598 – Wellbred: Where got’s thou this coat? Brainworm: Of a Houndsditch man, Sir, one of the devil’s near kinsman, a broker.
The anonymous writer of “Wonderful London: its lights and shadows of humour and sadness” 1878 has offered to be our guide, but beware, I am informed “there is an atmosphere about old clothes rather distasteful to the uninitiated nostril.” Yet we must accept the stench, because we shall have no other opportunity of visiting this lost market which disappeared over a century ago – superseded by the charity shops. vintage clothes stores and online auction sites of our day.
Summer and Winter and all year round, there can be found nowhere such an uproarious assemblage, such a scene of buying and selling, of bargaining and bating as takes place at what is almost the heart of the City of London – at the Rag Fair, in a triangular patch bounded by Houndsditch, Leadenhall St, and St Mary Axe.
At the back of the tall houses of the highway are the narrow ways, the filthy lanes and the the tortuous alleys, the open squares and the roofed-in spaces, the mighty domains of “old clo,” the headquarters of cast off habiliments, and of tatters and flinders, a shade too good for the rag merchants – coats, waistcoats, trousers, shirts, socks and stockings, and all manner of female skirts and frippery and finery, which have passed through the desperately ingenious hands of professional renovators and patchers and “translators” and cobblers, and made to appear as though fit for another spell of active service, or at any events, preferable to the utterly worn-out apparel of the poor wretches who come to the old-clothes fair on a Sunday morning to make their halfpenny bargains. And let it be understood that “twopence-halfpenny,” as it is used here, is not a figure of speech but a grim fact.
With the rest, we push our way through the dense crowds that throng Cutler St, and the Old & New Clothes Exchange, and Phil’s Buildings and Moses Sq. I can say to you that I had been hard up for a waistcoat – very hard up, I mean, of course – and had but fourpence in the world to provide the urgent requirement, I might buy one here and come away with three-halfpence to spare, with which to treat myself to a glass of beer on the strength of my bargain.
I might have purchased a pair of not so very shabby side-sprung boots for sixteen pence, and had I been in want of a tall hat, there is a vendor of these articles with a great bunch of them held above the heads of the mob at the end of a clothes prop – a judicious arrangement and one which saves them from collisions of a crushing and ruinous nature – and I might have fitted one to my head on the spot for the trifling sum of ninepence.
And then comes the oddest and, considering the enormous difficulties, the most wonderful part of the trafficking. In a dozen different spots, within twice as many yards, may be seen men and lads, provokingly scant of elbow room, struggling to divest themselves of portions of their attire and sell it, for all the world as though so many offhand pugilistic encounters were imminent, while others are down on their knees in the mire, fitting on the patched old boots, acknowledgedly but a few pence better than the wrecked rags of leather they are meant to supersede.
In due course, we find ourselves in the theatrical costume department. No matter what the newly fledged actor may be in search of he will find it here. Elizabethan “shapes,” “square-cuts,” burlesque and pantomime dresses, doublets, trunks, tights, fleshings, russet and velvet shoes, uniforms, swords, daggers, pistols and wigs of every description. To comic singers, this section of the Rag Fair commends itself as a very treasure trove when in quest of eccentric stage attire. Indeed, it is not uncommon for half a dozen of the most popular artistes of the music hall to be recognised in the Rag Fair on a Sunday morning.
Hither, too, come restaurant and coffee room waiters to buy themselves a dress coat when their old one has become too shabby for respectable service. Enterprising tradesmen, desirous of imparting an additional respectability to their establishment come also, to fit their errand boys with a cast off page’s suit.
But let us not tarry here. Around the three sides of this emporium of old clothes are long pegs literally groaning under the weight of old coats which have seen better days, but which for aught one knows may have been worn by the wealthiest in the land. At all events, many betray evidence of having been made by a fashionable snip. In front of these, on a raised platform, are piles of vests and inexpressibles, neatly folded up, as if they had just been handed down from the shelves of a clothier’s stall.
We have picked up more slang in the course of a couple of hours study of life and character around the City Clothes Exchange than could be gleaned during a month’s residence among the costermongers of Hoxton and Bethnal Green. But then, the Rag Fair is scarcely where one would expect to become imbued with lofty ideas.
“Old boots and shoes are brightly polished, doubtless to conceal their defects.”
Phil’s Buildings & Clothing Mart consisted of four houses, two on each side, packed to the roof with old clothes of which a large proportion were put on sale and disposed of in the mart on Sunday mornings.
The Rag Fair in Houndsditch drawn from the life by Paul Renouard
Dealers in the Rag Fair drawn by A. Van Assen, 1793
Images copyright © Bishopsgate Institute
You might also like to read about Richard & Cosmo Wise, Rag Dealers
The Bollywood Dancers of Whitechapel
As a Summery languor settled upon the dusty streets of Whitechapel, I dropped in on the Bollywood dancers rehearsing for their new show which opens next week, where an entirely different energy prevailed. While out on the pavements people drifted like sleepwalkers, in the rehearsal studio members of Flex FX – Britain’s top Bollywood dance troupe – were dancing like demons, leaping and kicking up their heels for joy, and twisting and stretching their limbs to the pulsing music in an audacious display of overwhelming exuberance.
“This is our masterpiece. We want to show you Bollywood like you’ve never seen it before!” promised Naz Choudhury, the impassioned leader of this barn-storming crew who have played the Albert Hall, the Royal Opera House and Wembley Stadium. Such is the success of his company, that Flex FX have become a full-flown commercial enterprise reaching a popular and enthusiastic audience. And they are currently working towards a show at the O2 arena next year in which – turning the tables – they will bring Bollywood stars from India to perform in their production. Derived originally from Hindi cinema, Bollywood dance has undergone a metamorphosis in London, encountering the variety of dance genres and styles that exist here, and emerging as a more complex hybrid with an enlarged vocabulary of moves, and greater creative potential.
It was Naz who had the courage to raise the game, breaking away from the traditional amateur dance scene when he decided that his company would not perform at weddings, the prime venue for most Bollywood dance groups. Instead, he focused upon instilling a rigorous precision of moves in his dancers, to raise the technical standard of performance beyond that expected in Bollywood films. At the same time, he trained his dancers as athletes to encourage a more energetic approach, switching between contrasted styles. The outcome is a sharper, more volatile style of dance, moving between Bollywood, Street Dance and Latin within a single extended piece of up to ninety minutes of choreography. “It’s about showing everyone what we can do!” said Naz plainly.
Key to the development of the company was the arrival of the willowy Leena Patel, principal dancer and assistant choreographer, who studied Indian Classical Dance since the age of eight. Her trained presence at the heart of the company provided a core around which Naz could choreograph. “I’ve never felt so exhilarated in my life,” admitted Leena, her eyes sparkling with delight,“We want to prove that Bollywood can be as good as Contemporary Dance and Ballet.”
When Naz was thirteen, he joined a youth dance company in Brick Lane at the Kobi Nazrul centre and he has worked for the last fourteen years – the last ten as a full-time professional – to reach this moment where now, at twenty-seven years old, he is the director of his own dance company with a major reputation and a wide audience.
It is a long way from the black and white photograph below, taken twenty years ago by Phil Maxwell who lives across the hall from Naz Choudhury in Whitechapel. In the foreground of Phil’s picture, the young Naz is emerging from the lift at the head of a group of children, while in the background the logo of the National Front is written upon the wall. The children appear unaware of the writing behind them and Naz is pictured as an undefined figure emerging into another space.
The development of Bollywood dance and the transformation it has undergone in Britain, absorbing and meeting other styles, to emerge re-energised and triumphant is emblematic of Naz’s own personal journey. Through dance, he has reassessed and reinvented his own culture to create something new that reflects the world as he finds it. And Phil Maxwell’s photograph exists today as a poignant counterpoint, reminding us that Naz Choudhury’s story is one of the triumph of joy over hatred.
Naz Choudhury, Director of Flex FX
Phil Maxwell’s photograph of Naz Choudhury as a child leaving the lift in Pauline House, Whitechapel, where a National Front logo had been drawn.
Readers are invited to the premiere of Bolly Flex at the Hackney Empire next Saturday 3oth July at 7:30pm – a ten pound discount will be given on top price tickets if you mention Spitalfields Life when you make your booking.
Watch a short film of Bolly Flex by clicking here
David Dupre, Grand Master Chimney Sweep
“My father was a master sweep,” explained David Dupre with a cocky flourish of his brush, “He taught me everything he knew, and I’ve learnt more – that’s why I am a grand master sweep, self-qualified.”
The nature of the sweep’s profession, going into people’s homes to sweep their chimneys and seeing all the diversity of human life, yet at the same time being reliant upon no-one, encourages a propensity to free-thinking and breeds an independence of spirit, and David is the unapologetic possessor of both. “People don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” he informed me unequivocally.
On the day David Dupre left school, he came home in his school uniform at midday and his father was waiting for him in the kitchen to ask, “What are you going to do, David?”
“At twelve o’clock, I was in my school blazer, by one o’clock I was in my dirty overalls – and I never looked back.” declared David recklessly, with a crazed grin, after he had swept my chimney yesterday. “He was a hard man to work for, my father. He’d look at me when he was standing there with his brush up a chimney and he’d say, ‘What are you going to do?’ As if there was anything I could do at that moment.” continued David with mixed feelings of respect and frustration,“If there was a spanner out of place in the van, he blamed me for it. But there was nothing he wouldn’t do, I remember him climbing down the inside of a two hundred and seventy foot chimney in his seventies.”
Of French Huguenot descent, David’s father was born in South Africa and became the head chef and boiler stoker on a Merchant Navy vessel – “that was back in the days when the butcher was also the doctor,” explained David helpfully. From there he travelled to Yorkshire where he met an old man who taught him to be a chimney sweep, and that is all David knows. “He was an elusive man, he didn’t say much,” admitted David, ‘When I was fifteen, he was pushing sixty. He lied about his age and worked till eighty-three. He told me, ‘If I can’t sweep chimneys any more, I’ll put my head in the oven.’ And one day I went round and he had burnt his head, because he had tried to kill himself but the oven was electric.”
Significantly, David’s earliest memory of his childhood in a tenement in Brady St, Whitechapel, is how his mother used to put a scarf round his neck as a baby to protect him from the soot in the days of the London smogs. Yet it was the smoke of coal fires that created his family’s livelihood as well as a public health problem, both of which have declined since London was declared a smokeless zone and coal fires were banned.
“I made a lot more money in the eighties and nineties than now. In 1987, I was making a couple of grand a week. I could do ten or eleven chimneys in a day if the calls were close together…” recalled David, his eyes shining in swanky delight, “I’ve been in grand homes that chimney sweeps built in the nineteenth century. They were loaded! Before central heating existed to heat water, all the fires were going all the time and they used to sweep chimneys every three months. People have no idea now, they think you don’t ever need it done again.”
Relishing his distinguished pedigree and status as a free agent, David also appreciates the social mobility that goes with it. “I’ve swept the chimneys in Buckingham Palace and Kensington Palace, lovely places and the Royal staff are very pleasant people.” he confided to me in a whisper of patriotic veneration, “I remember going to the grand house of an Admiral in Whitehall with my father and they treated him with such respect. It was ‘Mr Dupre this’ and ‘Mr Dupre that.’ I’ve worked for multibillionaires and for those who are so poor I’ve given them money. But, if you see me out of my overalls, you wouldn’t think it was me. I drive a nice big yankie car and I wear expensive clothes, because I’ve earned it myself.”
Possessing the necessary diminutive stature and tenacious energetic nature for a sweep, David ran up the stairs in my house with his brushes in an old golf caddy. Once he had slotted all the poles together, he asked me to go outside and check the brush was sticking out. And, sure enough, when I reached the pavement and peered up at the stack, there was David’s brush, like a strange cartoon flower growing out of my chimney pot. Climbing the stairs again, I found that David had made short work of the job, which he had completed with strenuous determination and was already cleaning up when I returned. “My father designed the screen I place over the fireplace, most sweeps use a cloth,” he told me as he worked. “And all my brushes are specially made – I’m very particular about what I use. I’ve got the Inland Revenue to pay. I’ve got my advertising to pay, they stole the magnetic signs off my van – why would they do that? I’m just a chimney sweep.” he mused. Then, before I knew it, he tossed the vast steel drum of his vacuum cleaner over the shoulder and was barrelling off down the stairs again.
Once the job was done, it was time for the serious business of catching up, with David breaking the dramatic news that since he last swept my chimney, he got divorced from his second wife and found true love with a new fiancée. “It was the first time in my life I had a drink,” he confessed – with eloquent understatement – speaking of the stress of the divorce, before his change of fortune. “I didn’t think I’d ever be so happy, I’ve got this lady in my life now that is my life ,” he disclosed, “She’s amazing, she does my cooking!”
It was a moment to take stock, and I was favoured to hear David Dupre’s assessment of his existence as a grand master chimney sweep. “I’ve been working now for twenty-seven years and I’ve never had an action against me. I’m happy with my job, though I am a bit gutted that the work decreased by seventy-five per cent.” he said, pulling a long face, “But even if I won the lottery tomorrow, I’d still be sweeping chimneys.”
“At twelve o’clock on the day I left school, I was in my blazer, by one o’clock I was in my dirty overalls – and I never looked back.”
The Temperance Sweep from John Thompson’s Street Life in London, 1876
Save the Duke of Uke!
With his dark-eyed charm and dapper retro-tweeds, Matthew Reynolds is a popular character in Spitalfields, celebrated for opening Britain’s only ukelele shop The Duke of Uke and making a glorious success of it. Where once Hanbury St was a mere walk-through from Spitalfields Market to Brick Lane, in the five years since the Duke of Uke opened it became a destination, and as a result classy brands like Grenson and YMC have now opened shops there too.
Yet this transformation means the Duke of Uke will have to leave, as landlord Spencer Sheridan refuses to renew the lease, taking the opportunity instead to capitalise upon this new-found fashionability by installing another business that will deliver higher returns.
In fact, the lease ends next Monday 18th July and, although Matthew Reynolds has been searching all year, he has not yet found a place to go, but – as events came to crisis this week – Paul Belchak, the agent acting for the landlord, managed to secure three weeks grace until 4th August. In the meantime, Fifth Anniversary Benefit Concerts are taking place this Thursday, Friday and Saturday in the crypt of Christ Church, Spitalfields, and these promise to be very special events as some top musicians gather in tribute to the Duke of Uke.
Countless times, over these past years, I have walked down Hanbury St to discover excited crowds pressing their faces at the window of the Duke of Uke. Impromptu concerts became frequent events as the ukelele revival gathered pace, as more people bought ukeleles, and more were given ukeleles as presents, and more took ukelele lessons at the shop, and more fell in love with their ukeleles, and more formed ukulele orchestras. With a recording studio in the basement and nightly ukelele classes in the shop, the Duke of Uke became the centre of a certain joyful world as umpteen passersby, like myself, were seduced by the magical twangling of strings echoing down Hanbury St.
Running his business without any investors or capital behind him, Matthew Reynolds has put his heart and soul into the Duke of Uke. An inspired teacher and a born master of ceremonies, Matthew embodies the playful magnanimous spirit of the Duke of Uke, somehow managing to sustain the beautiful endeavour and keep himself too. We all owe a debt of gratitude to Matthew and he needs our help now, because a new shop will require a significant deposit and there will be the costs of the move itself – funds which he does not have. So the concerts this week are an opportunity for everyone to show their appreciation and raise money in order that the Duke of Uke may continue.
This is an important moment for Spitalfields, because the Duke of Uke is one of many small businesses that by their distinctiveness contribute to the quality and appeal of the neighbourhood. These people now find themselves challenged by landlords who are eager to maximize their incomes after many lean years. It means that independent traders need to band together to support each other and we, as the community, must support our local shops. Meanwhile, the Duke of Uke still needs to find alternative premises.
When I expressed my regret to Matthew Reynolds that after five years of hard work and all the goodwill he has engendered, he should be rewarded by being pushed out – he nodded sagely and raised a smile. “The goodwill is reward enough in itself,” he said, showing grace in moment of vulnerability.
Ukelele practice photographs © Sarah Ainslie
You may like to read my original profile of the Duke of Uke
The Knickers of Spitalfields (Part One)
Madame Bordello shows off her knickers
Spitalfields Life contributing photographer Sarah Ainslie & I set out to explore the knickers of Spitalfields, but we soon discovered it was such a large and voluminous subject, comprising an infinite variety of design and reflecting the multitudinous quirks of the human libido, that we were overwhelmed with a slew of scanties and spoilt for choice of pants, and we knew we needed to seek professional help.
Still glowing from a couple of hours circuit training, luscious blonde, Michele Scarr, welcomed us to Bordello in Great Eastern St where she has a magnificent display of panties to delight the eye and gladden the heart of all lingerie lovers. You never know what you might discover rummaging around in Michele’s drawers and closets, she has all manner of frilly and lacy things, some that would not look out of place on a Christmas tree and other that are so diaphanous and revealing that they are barely there at all. Michele’s wardrobes stuffed with exotic underwear offer sophisticated amusement for those who have outgrown Narnia and such is the insatiable demand for fancy pants in Shoreditch that her stock changes every two weeks. These are fast moving undies.
“I worked in the City for twenty years as an investment banker, but I was never really happy and I always dreamed of opening a lingerie shop of my own,” confessed Michele, who took voluntary redundancy and opened up Bordello three and a half years ago. “It’s a boudoir,” she explained enthusiastically, spreading her arms wide with the extravagant brio and grace of a burlesque dancer, “for entertaining girlfriends and lovers, preening and dressing up – it’s a female space and it’s about the empowerment of women.”
Just fifty yards along Great Eastern St, we plunged down a deep dark staircase into the basement premises of Great Expectations. As we descended the metal staircase, it was as if we were entering the lower depths of a secret military installation but instead we found ourselves in the United Kingdom’s largest fetish store for men. Leaving the feminine world of satin and lace to enter the masculine arena of leather and rubber, we exchanged the frippery of the boudoir for the hardware of the dungeon.
Yet, in spite of their fierce looks, the muscle hunks who preside here were softly spoken and greeted us sweetly. “We have been part of this community for thirty years,” revealed Colin Dixon, the manager, who had just come from fitting a customer for rubber suit, “I adore this job, it’s not paid terribly well but I enjoy coming to work each day because it’s always different – and we get to know our customers intimately when we are taking their measurements.” Colin asked me to inform readers that a bespoke service is available for rubber and leather wear, and repairs can also be carried out should boisterous activity cause your gear to get split or torn.
We learnt that it is no accident the biggest fetish store is here at the edge of the City of London. “You’d be surprised how many corporate types go to work wearing a pair of rubber pants under their suits,” confided Colin with a twinkle in his eye, “A significant number of our customers are high-flying City people.”
Over in Hoxton Sq, we dropped in next on Sh! Women’s Erotic Emporium where unaccompanied men are not admitted except on Tuesdays between six and eight. Joanna Wierzbicka, the flirtatious manager, was fulsome in her advocacy of sexual diversity among her customers, “All kinds of women and their lovers are welcome here, transgender women as well.” she confirmed batting her eyelashes. Offering knickers for sale with the context of sexual exploration, Joanna is proud to offer a vital service to the local media and creative industries,“Quite a lot of them drop by after work to pick up a few things for the night,” she informed me with a knowing smile.
It was on leaving Sh! Sarah & I realised that, admirable as each of these three underwear outlets were in their distinctive ways, perhaps, in the fervour of our quest to investigate knickers we had favoured the exotic at the expense of the quotidian. This epiphany inspired us to return South and pay a visit to the good people at City Lingerie Ltd in the Whitechapel Rd where they sell thrifty underclothing in bulk.
Pants are available here from as little as one pound a pair and what they lack in style they make up in economy and volume. Yet the speciality is the bras that line the walls from floor to ceiling to such spectacular effect. Mr Ali, the genial proprietor who has been in ladies’ underwear for over twenty years, told me that an incredible three thousand bras pass through his hands each week, pointing out “The City Bra” which is his triumphant best seller, a pure cotton brassiere that retails at under ten pounds. “One day somebody left me some bras to sell,” he recalled, casting his eyes fondly upon the stack of crates of bras that filled the rear half of the shop, “And I thought,’The bra business is different.’ Now we are our own manufacturer and wholesaler.”
“It’s hard for ladies to find the right size,” he declared with a sympathetic shrug, “I enjoy satisfying my customers, they really appreciate it if they can get a bra that fits them at a bargain price.” Although modest and unassuming by nature, Mr Ali is a local hero to the women of Whitechapel.
It had been a long afternoon of underwear and Sarah & I had cast our eyes upon a lot of pants, but even as we reluctantly concluded the first day of our survey, we realised we had barely scratched the surface of the subject, and took comfort in the knowledge that there are still plenty of knickers yet to investigate in Spitalfields.
Practical styles at City Lingerie in Whitechapel with an emphasis on comfort and insulation.
Joanna Wierzbicka at Ssh! shows off her flamingo knickers.
At Bordello.
BJ at Great Expectations shows off his colourful jocks.
Racks of fancy scanties at Ssh!
Michele Scarr, also known as Madame Bordello, with her closet of satin bridal lingerie.
The economy range at City Lingerie.
Wardrobes of classy knickers at Bordello.
A hundred and fifty thousand bras pass through this man’s hands every year at City Lingerie.
Sassy frippery at Bordello.
Bargain pants at City Lingerie in Whitechapel.
Photographs copyright © Sarah Ainslie
At the Eton Mission Rowing Club
Robert Hall, member since 1952
Nestled beside the cut of the River Lee in Hackney Wick is a beautiful rowing club with an atmospheric old club house and a magnificent history, which the 2012 Olympics is threatening to squeeze out of existence. Starting originally in the London Docks in 1885, and then given a home on the River Lee by Eton College, generations of East Enders have learnt to row here, winning a distinguished array of medals and prizes for the Eton Mission Rowing Club.
If you should require an advocate for the benefits of rowing, look no further than club member Henry Allingham who rowed here from 1909-14 and then returned from fighting in the trenches to row again from 1919-22. He came back in 2006, as the oldest man alive, to celebrate his one hundred and thirteenth birthday at the boathouse. And I can understand why, because the boathouse is filled with treasured old wooden boats and the slipway is flanked by buttercup lawns on either side, where blackberries grow over the fence and Moorhens nest at the river bank. The Eton Mission Rowing Club is a kind of paradise, but unfortunately it faces the site of the 2012 Olympics.
After it survived the loss of a generation of rowers depleted by the First World War and its club house was strafed by enemy fire in the Second World War, the club is now facing the autocratic caprices of the Olympic Authority. The bright-eyed Club Secretary Tim Hinchcliff welcomed me graciously when I visited last Sunday, yet an air of imminent apocalypse prevailed. “The way I see it, they’ve decided what’s good for us,” he told me, widening his eyes in disillusion,“We’ve never had any input into the plans.” Along with the other members, he is bracing himself for next Monday, 18th July, when the bulldozers move in to dig up the club’s lawn and demolish a storage shed, in preparation for the building of a bridge for the media to access the Olympic site on the other side of the river.
In spite of the rhetoric of consultation, the club was presented with a fait accompli by the Olympic Authority in the form of a Compulsory Purchase Order for a significant slice of their property. “The area’s too small now for all the things that we need to do,” confessed Tim in disappointment. The pitiful irony of such destructive action by a body set up to encourage sport is not lost upon the long-term members of the Eton Mission Rowing Club, who have endured an atmosphere of uncertainty since 2005 when the idea was first mooted – discouraging rowing crews who require an assurance of continuity for years ahead. And, while the precise nature of the Olympic plans – whether for a footbridge or a road bridge – have remained frustratingly uncertain, the nadir is set to arrive next year when the river is closed for security reasons and the rowing club will be forced to shut down for the Summer of 2012.
Yet in spite of the dark clouds looming overhead, the members were enjoying the opportunity of taking their boats out on the River Lee last Sunday, as they always have done, and were eager to talk to me about the manifold wonders of their beloved club. As we stood together under the lintel commemorating the building of the clubhouse, “Presented to the Eton Mission Rowing Club by their President Hon Gilbert Johnstone in Memory of his Etonian Wet-Bob Brothers, AD 1934.”, I asked Tim Hinchliff, the benign custodian, why he took up rowing in the first place and he discreetly indicated the caliper on his leg. “It was the only sport that was open to me.” he admitted, with a dignified modest grin.
Two Robert Halls, junior and senior, father and son, were sculling together. Robert senior joined the club in 1952, an upholsterer by trade, he served his apprenticeship round the corner in Hackney Wick at George Henshaw’s factory – “I just walked in and said I wanted to learn a trade.” He brought his son Robert down to be a coxon at the age of eight and they went on to row together, reeling off the lists of championships they had won, as they carried their sculls out the the water’s edge. “We know how to win,” confirmed Tim, speaking with professional pride, “We didn’t put out a team that didn’t win.” Hale and hearty with cropped white hair and a wiry physique, thanks to a lifetime’s rowing, “No-one could race us in this country,” asserted Robert senior, sharing a grin with his son. “It’s only if it’s frozen over that it will stop us,” he added as they pulled away from the shore, gliding way across the water with a swish of the oars.
Tim told me the club gets more enquiries for membership from women than men these days, and they would like to provide separate changing facilities by building a narrow extension onto the remaining piece of land between the clubhouse and the new bridge. Unfortunately the compensation is not sufficient to cover this and all requests for assistance have been ignored by the Olympic Authority, even if this is their opportunity to leave the venerable club better, not worse than they found it.
“They have shown no clemency, no kindness, no thought for anyone else’s existence,” said Robert Hall senior, a member of the club for sixty years, his eyes glittering with emotion. I cannot avoid saying that the members of the Eton Mission Rowing Club deserve better from the Olympic Authority than this shabby treatment. Renovating the club house and supporting the club would be a way to ensure the continuity of their beautiful endeavour. It is shameful that fellow sportsmen be exposed to corporate disdain by the Olympic Executives, simply because they happen to be in the way of a master plan conceived without their involvement, when their noble rowing club should be celebrated for providing sporting facilities on an egalitarian basis in East London for over a century.
“Everyone is welcome here,” Tim Hinchliff emphasised to me as we made our goodbyes, ever hopeful and diplomatic, “We get quite a lot of people who are interested in rowing. Once people are here, we can get them rowing in half an hour.”
The Gilbert Johnstone Club House.
Gilbert Johnstone, founder of the club in 1892.
At the opening of the Gilbert Johnstone Boat House, 1934.
Robert Hall, senior & junior – “no-one could race us in this country.”
Bottomley Cup winners, 1914.
Henry Allingham, veteran of World War I and the oldest man alive, returned to his former rowing club in 2009 to celebrate his one hundred and thirteenth birthday.
Henry Allingham is recorded as winning second place in the gig handicap race in 1914.
Henry Allingham is fourth from the left in the second row of this picture of the members in 1911.
Robert Hall, junior & senior, set out to scull on the Lee.
Members’ photograph, 1913.
Tim Hinchcliff, Club Secretary.
Annual General Meeting, 1921
For years, the Hackney Otters took a dip in the Lee on Christmas Day to compete for a Turkey.
List of rowers who went to fight in World War I.
Annual General Meeting, 1914.
Robert Hall senior rescues a moorhen’s nest before it floats off down the Lee.
Eton Mission Rowing Club, 1911.
“I don’t like watching sport, I enjoy taking part!”
Robert Hall, senior.
National Amateur Rowers’ Associtaion Cup Winners, 1911.
National Amateur Rowers’ Association & President’s Cup Winners, 1913.
Annual General Meeting 1907
The assignment of boat house keys in 1923.
A cloud hangs over the Gilbert Johnstone Boat House in Hackney Wick.
You might like to attend the 6th Annual Coracle Race at the Eton Mission Rowing Club on Sunday 31st July from 3-6pm to show your support.
