Richard Butchins's Blog: Angels stand corrected... - Posts Tagged "charing-cross"
Extract No.2 "Waterloo Sunset"
Another very short extract. I am just setting the scene. The next one will come with a "warning". It's going to get very dark...
I cross Waterloo Bridge; the pavement is three large and two small paving stones wide with a pretty gully of eight-inch bricks between the two foot square and fifteen inch square slabs. On my left are the Houses of Parliament – the Palace of Westminster to give it its proper name. In front of them is Charing Cross Railway Bridge with its new footbridge alongside it. I have always thought Charing Cross Bridge is the most romantic of London’s bridges. I used to love the old soot-stained, blackened footbridge running alongside the railway bridge, and the way that you could watch the trains as they drifted in and out of the station, through the struts of the bridge they flowed like an old movie, stuttering and jittering in and out of Charing Cross.
I remember, as a child, watching them at dusk with the lights inside the carriages flickering past. In those days I was highly visible, a small child glued to the railings staring at the trains snaking past, oblivious of the drop to the dark rushing waters below. Passers-by would stop and check to see if I was accompanied by an adult or that I was not lost, or any number of worthwhile things.
A monochrome bridge. A black and white movie. A steam- wreathed symbol of love. Now, however, the white masts of improvement that signify the new footbridge – out with the old and in with the new – they’ve dissipated the bridge’s romantic mystery. The soot and smoke washed away by New Labour, replacing the work of the past with the fury of the future. The steam has evaporated and the scene is in a beautiful nouveau colour, all romance denuded by a downpour of modernity with a massive full stop at the end of the bridge: the Millennium Wheel, like some child’s Meccano construction with its pods of tourists slowly rising and tumbling through the sky like flies in test tubes.
I cross Waterloo Bridge; the pavement is three large and two small paving stones wide with a pretty gully of eight-inch bricks between the two foot square and fifteen inch square slabs. On my left are the Houses of Parliament – the Palace of Westminster to give it its proper name. In front of them is Charing Cross Railway Bridge with its new footbridge alongside it. I have always thought Charing Cross Bridge is the most romantic of London’s bridges. I used to love the old soot-stained, blackened footbridge running alongside the railway bridge, and the way that you could watch the trains as they drifted in and out of the station, through the struts of the bridge they flowed like an old movie, stuttering and jittering in and out of Charing Cross.
I remember, as a child, watching them at dusk with the lights inside the carriages flickering past. In those days I was highly visible, a small child glued to the railings staring at the trains snaking past, oblivious of the drop to the dark rushing waters below. Passers-by would stop and check to see if I was accompanied by an adult or that I was not lost, or any number of worthwhile things.
A monochrome bridge. A black and white movie. A steam- wreathed symbol of love. Now, however, the white masts of improvement that signify the new footbridge – out with the old and in with the new – they’ve dissipated the bridge’s romantic mystery. The soot and smoke washed away by New Labour, replacing the work of the past with the fury of the future. The steam has evaporated and the scene is in a beautiful nouveau colour, all romance denuded by a downpour of modernity with a massive full stop at the end of the bridge: the Millennium Wheel, like some child’s Meccano construction with its pods of tourists slowly rising and tumbling through the sky like flies in test tubes.
London Bridge ain't falling down....no fair lady
This is my London - my loved and loathed London....enjoy this extract from my novel Pavement.
The view from London Bridge is its usual magnificent self. I stand and gaze: To the east there is Tower Bridge, a Victorian cake decoration, a marzipan fantasy of a bridge. It’s a ridiculous confection set across the river but like all confectionary, pleasing to the eyes. The original walkways high up above the road bridge were haunts for pickpockets and prostitutes after it opened in 1894, and had to be closed in 1910; it’s all grist to the tourist mill for the “most famous bridge in the world ”.
Beyond that I see Canary Wharf blinking in the distance like a giant dumb bird. In front of the toy bridge is HMS Belfast all bristling with guns and bedecked with flags. An aquatic hedgehog of destruction and another museum to the love affair we have with institutional murder.
I cross to the west side, the lowering sun glares in my eyes and catches the ripples of dull yellow river water as it flows in reverse into the heart of London. I can see the old Post Office Tower sticking up like a chewed pencil thrust into the ground. As I stare at the water I realise that the river is the perfect place to dispose of the body once I have cut it up into small pieces. I can just scatter them to the water and the fish, crabs and other underwater creepy-crawlies will do the rest. As long as the flesh is small and the bones broken and crushed, no-one will ever find anything.
I have walked along the little beach by OXO Wharf and the shingle is covered in bone fragments. I should do it easily on a Saturday morning as there will be no workers, and it will be before the tourists are out, just the invisibles and returning party and club goers, and they are too off their heads to bother some crazy ‘homeless guy’ with his bags feeding the invisible ducks on the riverside.
The view from London Bridge is its usual magnificent self. I stand and gaze: To the east there is Tower Bridge, a Victorian cake decoration, a marzipan fantasy of a bridge. It’s a ridiculous confection set across the river but like all confectionary, pleasing to the eyes. The original walkways high up above the road bridge were haunts for pickpockets and prostitutes after it opened in 1894, and had to be closed in 1910; it’s all grist to the tourist mill for the “most famous bridge in the world ”.
Beyond that I see Canary Wharf blinking in the distance like a giant dumb bird. In front of the toy bridge is HMS Belfast all bristling with guns and bedecked with flags. An aquatic hedgehog of destruction and another museum to the love affair we have with institutional murder.
I cross to the west side, the lowering sun glares in my eyes and catches the ripples of dull yellow river water as it flows in reverse into the heart of London. I can see the old Post Office Tower sticking up like a chewed pencil thrust into the ground. As I stare at the water I realise that the river is the perfect place to dispose of the body once I have cut it up into small pieces. I can just scatter them to the water and the fish, crabs and other underwater creepy-crawlies will do the rest. As long as the flesh is small and the bones broken and crushed, no-one will ever find anything.
I have walked along the little beach by OXO Wharf and the shingle is covered in bone fragments. I should do it easily on a Saturday morning as there will be no workers, and it will be before the tourists are out, just the invisibles and returning party and club goers, and they are too off their heads to bother some crazy ‘homeless guy’ with his bags feeding the invisible ducks on the riverside.
A newspaper feature on my book and me !!!
The Camden New Journal ( a London Paper ) interviewed me ages ago and I had forgotten it ever happened and then it came out the other day....here's the link here it is It's a book about London in a way. Hence the article - have a read....
Angels stand corrected...
I have to have a blog...the site told me, my publisher told me, my publicist told me, and even my turkish barber told me, as he was administering the finest of close shaves. So I thought I had better
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