Selling The Blackwall Tunnel Southern Approach

It's new, it's groovy and it's going to solve all your problems. Look - it's so funky we've even done you a cool leaflet in sizzling brown 'n' orange, with all kinds of amaaaaazing models and diagrams to show you just how fab it's going to be. The GLC is getting on down like the proverbial sex machine you always knew we were and we're going ape...

Ok, Flower People. It's 1971. The Age of Aquarius is dawning and Love is all around. And what better way to promote Peace to all Men than by creating a hip new motorway to link hands across the water, North with South?

The old Blackwall Tunnel, built in 1897, was created at a time when the best it could expect was the odd milk cart or horse-drawn omnibus. Fewer than 1,000 vehicles used it a day. By the Swinging Sixties all those camper vans and minis had forced the building of a second tunnel, opened 60 years after the first in 1967.

I'll get onto that another day (unless Tunnelbore beats me to it, of course...) for now, I'm more interested in a slim pamphlet that came tucked in between a bunch of guidebooks I bought as a job lot recently. One of those ephemeral leaflets that would have been distributed to houses in the area to let them know what was going on (much as we're getting - or perhaps not getting, ahem, leaflets about the Olympics) and by rights should have been thrown away. But it wasn't - and now, though pure fluke, I've got it.

It's a Greater London Council document about the proposed new Blackwall Tunnel Southern Approach Road (the A102 to us; Misery Alley to thousands of commuters.) Work had begun in 1967, but this leaflet was produced as an extra clarion call to trumpet the joys of the coming Saviour of The London Motorist.

It's a fascinating document for many reasons - not least the sheer optimism with which it's been written. There's no puff-piece from some councillor at the beginning - it relies on the excitement that such a project will surely imbue in every citizen by its very existence. I mean - who wouldn't want a new motorway running through their back garden? So it ploughs straight into the technical stuff. It gives, in far more detail than today's dumbed-down documents, snippets of how it will be constructed and what with.

Charmingly, one of the ingredients is ribbed concrete. Perhaps not your idea of Nirvana, but the pamphlet can hardly conceal its excitement that this is the very same material that had just been used on the new elephant house at London Zoo. In similarly excited terms we are told of exotic materials such as 'grit-blasted' and even 'fair-faced' concrete. Innovations such as electrical road heating on the Woolwich Road Flyover (blimey...) emergency telephones and traffic surveillance equipment would be installed. Truly a Seventies Dream.

This was quite a departure. The old Blackwall Tunnel approach was (unsurprisingly) Tunnel Avenue. Hard to imagine that that sleepy little backwater was once the artery that led to the gaping maw that is the tunnel today. The leaflet is at pains to describe the new route. It would "begin near the gas holders (note the plural there - TGP) in Tunnel Avenue...and from that point southwards it will take a new route for nearly two miles, bridging over Blackwall Lane and Woolwich Road and passing under the railway by Westcombe Park Station."

It was all a bit bewildering, especially for the good folks of places like yesterday's Aldeburgh and Fearon Roads. So they provided maps a-go-go. The one that has the road superimposed over an Ordnance Survey Map didn't want to scan, so I've included (at the risk of getting my head cut off - this is, after all, all Crown Copyright, gulp) a photo instead:

From what I can tell, there was some compulsory purchase and demolition (even today roads such as Farmdale and Siebert and Westcombe Hill feel curiously truncated) but once it got to the Peninsula, it seems to have gone over allotment land (if you look at old maps, there were acres of allotments even thirty years ago) before ducking back down to the old road - where those two once-glorious red-brick buildings now stand forlornly wondering whether there was something their best friends never told them...

But my favourite part of the leaflet is definitely the artists impressions. No computer graphics in those days. Oh no. We got proper drawings then - such as that orange delight of the underpass at Bramshot Ave (above) and proper models, made out of cardboard, sticky-backed plastic, toilet rolls and matchsticks. Here, just for Dazza, is the model of Woolwich Road Flyover, complete with attendant foot and railway bridges. Not quite sure where you'd be on this map, Dazza - probably just off it - but cute, isnt' it? I love the little trucks, myself.

For anyone on the northern end of Tunnel Avenue, here is the model of the Boord St Footbridge. Puzzled by the name? Boord St (or what's left of it) is just next door to the Gas Holder (note the use of the singular form - TGP) - I'll wager it's the street with the old school on it. Curly, huh?

Whatever this road turned into, they clearly thought at the time it was the end to all Thames crossings ills. It was an age of optimism. An age before Global Warming, OPEC embargos and Environmental Concern. And this leaflet, in its brown and orange livery, is a little part of that optimism. Hell - reading it, even I feel excited. So when's this all happening then?

Right Royal Car Boot Sale

Q: What do The Greenwich Phantom and HRH The Duke of Edinburgh have in common?
A: When they went to the Historic Dockyards at Chatham they were both really only interested in seeing one thing - the bits and bobs of the Cutty Sark that are currently in storage there.

To be honest I didn't really think they'd be in some place the public could go. And I certainly didn't expect to see them in the open air. For some reason I just assumed that they would be being kept in a warehouse somewhere obscure, under lock and key. But on a family day out to Chatham Dockyard I just had to ask where it was.

The answer is on a very dull piece of dock, in between HMS Gannet and the submarine HMS Ocelot. All lain out on the ground, surrounded by metal fencing, like a giant car boot sale. I actually passed the stuff twice before finding it - it just looks like a pile of marine scrap - which I guess in some respects it is.

One of the orange-boiler-suited chaps who show people round, told me that the Cutty Sark guys rang round all the dockyards looking for space. Most of it's here, but not all; it's in various places - some's even down in Portsmouth - which at least spreads the risk. And it is behind metal fence, and the whole site is locked at night. But somehow it just feels a bit - well - vulnerable, to me. After all, a chap in the Ropery on the same site said that a giant coil of 28" rope that was not even useful to HMS Ark Royal got half-inched this winter - and some of the Cutty Sark's parts are really quite small and must have 'souvenir' value...

But what I really find so odd about it all is that this is a museum with paying visitors - you'd think they'd make a bit more of it. There's no sign, no note on it to say that this pile of junk is part of possibly the most famous ship in the world. You'd think they'd cash in, give it a sign and perhaps have someone dedicated to showing visitors what there is and what's going on with it (complete with collecting box - they still have a few million to find...)

The guy (whom I had to seek out - he certainly wasn't hanging around the stuff) told me that work has been done on it - especially the cabins (not that you'd notice it just yet) and people are interested - when The Duke of Edinburgh came to unveil a sculpture he was far more interested in making them show him round the Cutty Sark stuff (hooray - a royal patron who actually cares about their cause...)


And I really think that everyday visitors (and Phantoms, natch) would want to see it too - as it is I'd say that 99% of them will be just walking straight past this right-royal jumble sale, without even noticing it. I mean - I know the Dockyard's being paid for it - but this isn't the Big Yellow Self Storage Company looking after a couple of old wardrobes and some skiing gear here - they're missing a trick. It's all in full view - and yet somehow it's invisible.


But whatever. The main thing is that it wasn't on board the ship in Greenwich last May. And for that I am grateful. And there seem to be chalk markings everywhere so that the jigsaw will go back together again easily:



One other interesting thing about Chatham Royal Dockyard for Greenwich-o-philes (apart from the Chatham Chest) is that the guy also told me the giant 18th Century brick-built Dockyard Foundry (which has to be 150m in length) and which is being restored now:

will, by 2010, house the National Maritime Museum's collection of model ships. Apparently whenever a new ship is built a model HAS to be made of it - and the NMM holds them all, currently in storage. We will be able to see them soon, thanks to a £13m lottery grant.

But don't leave it that long - do give Chatham a visit. The guy told me (before he got called away to deal with a double-parked steam engine - I kid you not) that very sunny days like these are generally quiet because everyone goes to the coast instead...

The Nelson Pediment

King William Court, The Old Royal Naval College

I always find it a bit odd that one of the best bits of The Old Royal Naval College is tucked away in a side-court so you actually have to seek it out rather than it being on display for all to see. It's huge (40ft x 10ft) - but frankly it feels a bit like an afterthought. And, to some extent, I guess it is.

Nelson was (and remains) Britain's most important naval commander, but he died after the ORNC had been finished and all the good spots for splendid pediments were already taken. They had to shoehorn him in somewhere, though, so he's round the back of King William Block - you have to go right into the courtyard and look back on yourself to find it.

It was created in 1812 by Benjamin West from his 1807 painting The Immortality of Nelson, held by the National Maritime Museum. Coade Stone and many coade-connoisseurs reckon it's the finest example of sculptures in the material. West, by the way, is most famous for his painting The Death of Nelson (he specialised in the heroic demises of famous naval leaders it appears; he also depicted General Wolfe's last moments) in the Maritime museum and of course he was responsible for the giant piece above the altar in the Naval College Chapel, but in the actual execution of the pediment, he worked with Joseph Panzetta, who worked for the Coades for 26 years. It took the pair of them three years to create and West got paid a thousand pounds for his design - considerably more per foot than Sir James Thornhill got for the Painted Hall. That's Inflation, I guess. The Coade factory received £2,584, but I doubt Panzetta saw too much of it.


The main figures are of Britannia, complete with trident and helmet, receiving Nelson's body from Neptune. On either side various creatures and godlets, maritime and otherwise, writhe from their Coade-stone bases. It's all very symbolic, though I'm not sure of much other than the obvious Sea-god- Britain-ruling-the-waves-dead-hero stuff. Somewhere I've seen a little key; a line drawing of all the figures with explanations of their meanings, but I can't for the life of me remember where.

Horses, spare cannons and balls, what looks like a sinking ship (though it could be some kind of fortress - it's not the most clearly defined bit) and tablets picking out highlights from Nelsons career all jostle each other for space. I particularly like the three maidens holding Brittania's coat and Union (Jack, presumably, since it's maritime) flagged shield while she's got her hands full.

The best way to view the pediment is from just below the lamp post in King William Court, but the most romantic way to see it is from the window of the little side-annex off the Painted Hall, dedicated to Nelson. It's usually shut unless you go on a guided tour, but don't forget to have a peek out of the window if you take an official walk.

Call Box of Shame

I was just about to write about this neglected little corner of Westcombe Park - and what a sad little area it was, when Serendipity sent me a mail from Methers, who at least made me giggle - even if really it's no laughing matter...

This little nook - on the corner of Dinsdale Road and Vanbrugh Hill - should be lovely. It's sheltered, there's a sweet little bench and a phone box there. It should have an air of bucolic charm, half way up what has to be one of the steepest hills in Greenwich (and let's face it, we have a few to choose from) - an opportunity to take a break and catch your breath while looking out over London. What it actually is amounts to Tag City - a mess of inarticulate daub; a scream of frustration from a voice that has realised it has nothing to say.

I'm not totally against street art - at its best it has a dynamism and visceral quality that lends it a power and gives its purveyors a means of communicating through a vibrant artistic medium. But this - this has nothing. No merit, no power, and worse - no hope.

The people that create this have no vision of their lives as anything more to look forward to than the fumes they can breathe from their marker pens. For a few short seconds while they're wielding a spray can, they can feel they have a purpose before sinking back into the anger that will prevent them from becoming anything.

"Look, World. I am skilled enough to take a cap off a pen and point it at a stationary object. I am dextrous enough to make a mark. Respect me."

And what for the rest of us? To get angry ourselves? Or to get even? How about a bit of both? Methers sent me this photo - with a most convincing 'notice' from Greenwich Council:

Let's take a closer look, eh...

Methers notes "who ever made the sticker made a very professional job of it. The colour, the typeface, everything looks authentic. It couldn't be a strange attempt by the council to try to put the taggers off, could it?"

Who can tell. But I can't help thinking that he has a point when he continues

"I know someone would probably be upset by this, but I do think of asking BT to take the phonebox away. There's another one just down the hill for anyone who needs one, and it just seems to attract graffiti and vandalism. Am I being an old misery? Could we make it a lovelier spot, with another bench and some nice plants?"

Excellent idea. Any volunteers?

St Alfege's Church Tower...

...in a parallel universe. An alternative world where, during the building of an alternative Nicholas Hawksmoor church in an alternative Greenwich, the cash didn't run out when they got to the roof.

It goes like this. The magnificent St Alfeges - the church of the Tudor Court, of Thomas Tallis, of Samuel Pepys, gradually fell to pieces when Royalty abandoned Greenwich and though it was occasionally patched up, it finally got so bad that on one particular dark and stormy night in 1710 the nave fell in.

Greenwich by now was quite poor and the parishioners petitioned for some of the Coal Tax, which they'd been paying for the past 40 years to pay for the rebuilding of St Pauls Cathedral after the Great Fire, to be given to them for a new church. They got their way - but the act passed in 1711 for fifty new London churches underestimated the cost of a large government building project (sound familiar?)

Certainly there wasn't enough in the coffers for St Alfeges to have Nicholas Hawksmoor's designs built exactly as he wanted them. The governors took the plans for the main, classical-style building but, after shaking the parish piggy bank as hard as they could, sent the tower/steeple plans back.

Hawksmoor stuffed the tower plans back in his pocket, shrugged and went on to the next project. In a spot of masterly architectural recycling, when he got the commission for St George's In The East, he dusted off the plans for St Alfege's, added and subtracted a few bits and bobs and passed them off as brand new. So it could be said that the splendid Shadwell church has Greenwich's cast-off tower. Or, more depressingly, that The East End could afford a steeple when we could only press snotty noses against the glass of Hawksmoor's shop window.

Whichever, we did finally get a tower - in 1730, designed by John James. I have heard sniffy comments made about this one being too 'fancy' for Hawksmoor's austere building, but me, I think it looks just fine. And it's got a clock, so yah-boo-sucks. We all know what it looks like, so instead of a straight photo, here's Theatre of Wine's glorious version created for last year's Advent Windows:


St George's has a chequered history, especially in the 1850s when a rector introduced 'Romish practices' and demonstrations ensued - men with barking dogs marched into church wearing hats and smoking pipes and chucked rubbish at the altar to the sound of catcalls and horn-blowing and much Unpleasantness ensued.

Both churches came off badly in WWII. I'll come to St Alfege's another day, but poor old St George's was so damaged that only the outside (a curious, slightly Italianate but nevertheless very London building) is left - inside, a post-war version squats unobtrusively behind its white stone walls.

It was a nice day yesterday so I took a little trip to see it. It's on the south end of Cannon Street Road, about five minute's walk from Shadwell DLR and it's got a little park around it. If you do the same, it's worth wandering around the area to see the remaining buildings around Cable St (and the fabulous Wilton's Music Hall.)

Workshops for the Blind

Benedict asked me about this so long ago that I'm embarrassed to admit that I've only just got to it today. He says:

"I am always intrigued by the old bits of carved masonry that sit in the Clock Tower Market area. There is a sign saying they were from the old Workshops for the Blind. Do you know any more?"

The Phantom replies:

I've not been able to find out huge amounts, but here's what I've gleaned so far. They were set up in 1877 as Workshops for the Blind of Kent by the fabulously-monikered Major-General PJ Bainbrigge, R.E. It started out with 15 blind workmen (I can't find any evidence of women)

It seems to have been pretty much where the horrid Ibis Hotel is now (God, I hate that chain,) and the various ornate bits of masonry that lie around the place are indeed from the old workshops. I can't find any pictures of its exterior, though there is one of the interior in Mary Mills's book Greenwich and Woolwich at Work, showing a large tiled room with various men in shirtsleeves making wickerware - baskets, shopping bags and chairs. There's a letter in an old edition of Greenwich Industrial History Society's bulletin from Beryl Mason, whose father worked there. She talks about a shop attached to the workshops where people could buy the baskets.

The business grew slowly - from 20 workers in 1911 to 41 in 1930. I suspect there may have been an increase, too, after WWII. I can't quite work out when the business was moved to Eastney St - what is now Feathers Place, but when it did, they branched into making mattresses and rope 'fendoffs' for ships. According to Beryl Mason, who visited her father at the workshops, they worked in the cold and dark - saving on lighting - (though as far as I know blind people feel the cold as much as anyone else...)

By the 1970s, blind people were finding work in the sighted world and demand for specific jobs 'for them' was falling. When the workshops finally closed, the foreman, a 'local character' known only as 'Jim,' started a basketware shop in Greenwich High Road. I have no idea where it was.

So there you have it Benedict. Bet you'd forgotten you asked that one...

Two Museum Stores

Whatever's on display in any museum is only ever going to be a fraction of the stuff it holds. There just isn't the space.

Sometimes they can get round the problem by having rolling displays - the Fan Museum does it, for example - the ground floor stays the same, but upstairs the displays change, so it's always worth coming back.

Other places that don't have the portability of folding fans have to keep their collections much more static. I guess it's hard to move a rather moth-eaten stuffed walrus too often. So museums have stores - and not always in the most obvious places. Take the Horniman, for example. The actual building is in Forest Hill (and well-worth a day trip, especially if you like stuffed walruses) but their "Study Collection Centre" is actually that rather sinister-looking ex-school on Greenwich Peninsula. I used to look and wonder at that place for years before I found out what it was - all manner of nefarious goings-on, most of them along the lines of The Long Good Friday danced through my imagination, but I guess I'm rather glad that it has a much sweeter purpose.

Behind those metal-grilled windows and steel fences, I imagine rows and rows; a whole host, indeed, of stuffed walruses, all waiting their turn to be allowed a spot in the limelight. I once tried to get a visit there, but with no luck whatsoever. You have to be a bona fide stuffed walrus expert - or at least someone who's studying them.

Funnily enough, the museum that I might have assumed it was a store for, The National Maritime Museum, has its stores scattered around all over the place. They are very cagey about it, admitting only to "a number of storage outstations in South East London."

They have to admit to the two they own the freehold on - an old RAF store in Kidbrooke, at the end of Nelson Mandela Road, and the "architecturally interesting" Brass Foundry, possibly designed by John Vanbrugh, in Woolwich Arsenal (curiously, they don't actually own the freehold on either the main building of the NMM or the Royal Observatory, which as their men in grey suits noted "had no realisable value to the museum." Thank God. Maybe they didn't mean it to come out quite as though they were going to flog off some of the space for apartments or a shopping mall, but don't you think that that phrase looks as though someone had actually thought about it?)

Ploughing through a load of extremely dull financial reports, I read that they had intended to get rid of the store in Kidbrooke in 2006, but the 2007 report seemed to imply they hadn't done that yet. Maybe they changed their minds. My problem is that that kind of document boggles my eyes and I may well have missed something - so any further info would be gratefully accepted. And of course with that massive donation they've just had, things may change again.

I did find a somewhat ominous phrase in the report, which I would be grateful if someone who knows about museum policy and strategy or is familiar with the mysterious "1934 Act of Parliament" could reassure me upon:

"A disposal programme is now also underway in parallel with discussions within the UKMCS (United Kingdom Maritime Collection Strategy) which includes work on collection interface revision and the Secretary of State has recently approved the first set of collection disposals all in accordance with the 1934 Act of Parliament."

Now, I really don't want to turn into Conspiracy Theory Phantom. Can anyone help me here? What does "a disposal programme" consist of? What are they selling off? And why did I have to find it buried in a 60-page document?

The Pagoda

Pagoda Gardens, SE3

I was saving this entry until June (I'll explain why later), but Benedict sent me such a fantastic picture with his question that I've escalated it to now.

He asks:

On a rare morning of no responsibilities my partner and I went for an unstructured ramble around the not so familiar environs and - blow me down - gor blimey - I have never seen this before , but it's obviously been in Blackheath since 1800s. A Georgian Pagoda!!! What on earth is/was it?

The Phantom replies:

Astoundingly, just put the definite article in front of it and that's exactly what it is - THE Pagoda, Benedict. And no - it's not been there since the 1800s - it's been there since the 1700s - 1767, in fact. It was built for the Duke of Montague at a time when everything Oriental was fashionable. It was called chinoiserie - though that term was used for everything that came from the East, not just China.

In fact, if we're being honest, they didn't really much care about authenticity at all - it was the flavour 18th Century stylists were after, not the precise style. All they knew was that all the things they liked - from fabulous silks and exquisite vases to the tea being loaded from massive ships at East India Dock - came from this exotic all-purpose 'Orient.' Many country houses have a 'Chinese' room, decorated with dainty wallpaper, screens, bamboo furniture and porcelain.

And they built their summer houses - for this was what The Pagoda originally was - a grandiose garden shed for Montague House which, if memory serves, was at the South West corner of Greenwich Park, next door-ish to Rangers House - in what they assumed was oriental style, too. They used all the bits of Western building they liked, and just added funky bits and bobs, like curly roofs and moon windows that would make it look Chinese/Japanese/Whatever.

You can still see them from time to time - Heal in Wiltshire, for example, has a fabulous oriental garden with a delightful 'tea house' - more English than Chinese but when it's as pretty as that, who cares?

I have heard that the Blackheath Pagoda was used by saucy Princess Caroline of Brunswick though whether this was before or after the Prince Regent turfed her out of Montague House I don't know. It was certainly used as a hunting lodge though, by one Henry Scott, third Duke of Buccleuch.

The poor old place eventually fell into disrepair - the Victorians weren't that bothered by the oriental style, presumably too busy dealing opium to import flowers and vases. It got passed from pillar to post, even being used as a convent school at one point, I vaguely remember; its final indignity being London County Council building a housing estate right up to its gates over its once-massive grounds in the 1950s.

I don't know when the formal Oriental garden was built - presumably around the same-ish time as the house - any info on that would be gratefully received, though, as to me it looks quite turn-of-the-20th Century. But whatever the original gardens looked like, they didn't last long. It turned into a market garden at one point, covered with greenhouses, and finally became totally overgrown.

And this is where the June bit comes in. The present owners, the Coopers, discovered the dilapidated mansion in 1991 (what does that sort of thing never happen to me?) and renovated it to its current state. Luckily, they were also into gardening and started hacking back the dense undergrowth, where they found the old retaining walls of a formal water garden and they set about restoring it. It's now a fine, mature secret corner in classic British-Oriental style.

Best of all, we can actually get to see it - once a year in June, when they open it as part of the National Gardens Scheme. It's a lovely evening event, where you can wander round with a glass of wine in your hand, soaking-in the bright red pergolas, stone water channels, and exotic plants - wisteria, palms and lotus-flowers.

I try to get there every year - as much to admire the building as anything, (don't miss the wonderful, huge round windows...) and I will let you know the precise date when I've got my sweaty paws on this year's Yellow Book. Devote the entire evening to the event - there are two other gardens, each exquisite in its own way, within walking distance of the Pagoda, that most considerately coincide their openings.

I'm usually a bit wobbly by the time I've visited all three. Aw - c'mon - it's drinking-for-charity. It would be rude not to...

Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew...

...Cuthbert, Dibble and Grub.


Yes, I've made it to East Greenwich Fire Station. A building that has definitely seen better times. And yet, somehow, despite its reduced circumstances, it still manages to be a curiously elegant structure, waiting, perhaps for the return of glory days.


Just over 100 years ago, East Greenwich must have been a hive of activity much as the Peninsula has just been. The new school in Halstow Road had just been built, a library was just about to be announced as a gift from the American philanthropist Andrew Carnegie, and a whole bunch of new houses was going up - presumably to the great dismay of local people upset at losing Coombe Farm.


And in the midst of this, a brand new fire station was being built. The first stone was laid, according to the plaque on the front, by one J D Gilbert Esq., chairman of London of the Fire Brigade Committee of London County Council, on 18th July 1901, but apart from that info, I can find virtually nothing more about this building. All I can do is look at the place itself and try to work out how it operated.


It's a great-looking place - if you view it from Google Earth it's a curious truncated diamond, the car-park (presumably where the horses were kept) maintaining the shape. It's one of those places that the more you look at it, the better it gets. Now a frankly dodgy-looking 'hotel,' it's not easy to see that the obscure-windows at the little gabled front must have been where the appliance was stored, though the old cobbles outside remain. The front bit, although it looks connected to the rear, is only, apparently, attached by the walls around the outside. What was in that little roofed area upstairs? I have no idea - offices maybe. There doesn't seem to be any room for a pole.


I like to imagine the scene - presumably there are photos, though I've never seen any. All the jolly firemen, almost certainly made out of foam rubber and walking with a slightly stiff gait, lined up for inspection before being called out to a small blaze at Windy Miller's mill or Trumpton Town Hall.


Behind the front business-end, what can only have been the crew's live-in quarters rise in elegant red brick behind. Even these have lovely little touches - crenellated mansards, railings and faux-mullioned windows.


I don't even know when it stopped operating - unless I'm googling really badly I can't find anything at all about this place, and no book I own seems to mention it at all. Sadly it seems that Greenwich's everyday past is often forgotten in favour of her grander buildings. All I know is that in its present form, the Greenwich Hotel, this fabulous building is wasted. The sign outside boasts a bar and conference facilities - I can't begin to imagine the kind of conferences that would go there at present. It also boasts an 01 telephone number.


What this place needs is a Greenwich equivalent of the Blackheath Preservation Society, which, if I have it right, was formed to bring back lovely old buildings to gloriously restored health and put them to a genuinely loved use. I know this isn't a Captain's House or a Tea Caddy Lovely, but it has a beauty of its own - and great potential. You won't hear me saying this very often but I actually think this place would make great apartments, with a lovely Something (TBD) in the front bit (suggestions for funky alternative uses on a postcard, please...) So it's a little close to the Blackwall Tunnel Approach and the flyover? Let's face it, it's no more so than most of the Peninsula...


I don't even care if it continues to be used as a 'hotel,' with the same inhabitants. Just not as it is - unloved and slowly crumbling to dust. The paint is peeling, the front closed and unwelcoming, the atmosphere around it miserable - when it needn't be. The slates on the roof are chipped and the bit around the back choked with weeds.

But look again. Greenwich 'Hotel' might be jammed up next to a major road intersection, but actually, there is a little patch of grass and trees in front of this once-pretty building - easy to miss just now, but with a little care, a patch that could be made into a tiny oasis before the madness of the roundabout/flyover ensemble. With a spot of investment this place could sparkle again and, surrounded by the newly-spruced Angerstein Hotel (another day, folks) and the Library (ditto) could bring to this forgotten little corner of East Greenwich a touch of renewed Edwardian glamour.

Sorry about the pic, by the way - I took it a long time ago - during one of the many road-up moments of 2007. However, Dazza has just discovered an old picture of when it was first opened. Just take a look at this:

John Penn and Widow Smith Almshouses

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Greenwich South St

I wanted a picture of these with the fabulous blossom that's in full bloom outside at the moment, but I made special trips twice and each time it was either too dark or bloomin' raining, and the pics in my collection are just not good enough. Then Benedict came to my rescue, rushing out this morning to capture in its finest moment this fab, almost Tudor-looking building with its royal-iced decorations and pretty little garden. Thanks Ben...

I'm talking about them today because David's been asking about them - he sent me a google earth link asking what they were and, to be honest, they're slightly easier to deal with than the other question he's asked (don't worry David - I'm onto it...) It's interesting to note from that aerial view that they appear to be a bit fur-coat-and-no-knickers - all front, and virtually no back. I'd appreciate it if any of you know what the rear of the place is like...

The Penn Family was one of the big Victorian clans of Greenwich. They were engineers - making cranes and treadmills to start with (not the sort you get in gyms - these were early 'generators' powered by slaves or convicts) but moving on to marine engines under the leadership of John Penn Jr, popularising the rise of the propeller. He even, apparently, perfected the compact oscillating engine - one or two of which are still used now.

They were very sociable. John Penn himself was the first president of the West Kent Microscopical Society, which doesn't seem to exist now, which somehow seems a shame, and he and his wife liked to hold large soirees at their house, The Cedars (not the one in Westcombe Park; this one was on Belmont Hill.)

Three years after John Penn's death, in 1884, his widow commissioned George Smith, who had already built Greenwich and Blackheath railway stations, to design some memorial almshouses in Greenwich South St. It was Smith's last major work and he clearly decided to use up all the ideas he still had left. There are parapets, arches, big chimneys - you name it, these cute little houses have got it.


Fifty odd years later, in 1930, a mysterious lady known only as Widow Smith was building some almshouses of her own, over in East Greenwich. I find it utterly amazing that this is not that long ago, and yet virtually nothing's known about her (I guess I shouldn't be surprised - I'm still marvelling that after much less time the secretive Amanda Hinge and unfindable Helena Pare Lydia Mott have so totally gone to ground...) and, if Mr Hitler had had his way, she would have been totally forgotten. Her almshouses were bombed to buggery in WWII, and even John Penn's delicious confection in South St was badly hurt. The two charities merged to repair the one mendable set of buildings, giving them their present name.

For more about John Penn, check the Greenwich Industrial History's site, where I also read about the fate of Cold Bath Street, which someone was asking me about recently (to my embarrassment I can't remember who.) It's now called John Penn St...

BTW Does anyone know the story of that sad-looking dark brick building next door? It looks very unloved - but could be stunning. Any clues?

Trident Hall

Park Row, SE10

Unbusy Ben asks:

Trident Hall at the beginning/end of Crane Street, what goes on in there ( I thought it was where sailors did their Christmas panto's) and who owns it?

The Phantom replies:

It's easy to walk straight past this unassuming 20th century building, its being sandwiched between Trafalgar Quarters and The Trafalgar Tavern and not being as 'pretty' as either of them. It's a secretive sort of place - not something that is talked about much, and as far as I'm aware not much at all goes on there now, but in its early days it was a veritable hive of activity.

It was built as a lecture theatre for the Naval College - and used heavily for that purpose, especially during the heady days after the introduction of the Department of Nuclear Science and Technology (ohhh, yes. I'll get onto that another day...) and all that Cold War stuff.

On a jollier note, yes, Ben - it was used as a theatre for entertainment purposes, so it's not beyond imagination that off-duty sailors donned the tights and wigs, slapping their thighs in the name of panto.

Malcolm Godfrey, who has written several books about Greenwich Ghosts, tells a creepy story about the place, when it was hired out to a local am-dram group in the late 80s. Eltham Opera were busy rehearsing for Oliver! when a couple of cast members were puzzled to see a gentleman in full costume, who was most definitely a bit old to be in Fagin's gang. He wandered through the auditorium and out through the back - except there is no rear exit...

When they mentioned the fellow's 'costume' - complete with tunic, breeches and a tricorn hat, it was noted that they had just described the old 18th Century uniform worn by the pensioners. Malcolm Godfrey points out that the hall is built on the site of the old maintenance yard and hospital workshops. Shiver.

And the owner? I can't be completely certain, but I have heard rumour of the worst. That it has been bought by Greenwich Inc for a hotel. In its current form it would be difficult to do much with it for that purpose, so I have a horrid suspicion that it will go the usual route of being razed...

Nelson's Jacket

Katrina asks:

Where is Nelson’s Jacket? I’m doing the Knowledge -it's a test question. Answer given 'Park Row SE10' – but where?

The Phantom replies:

Unless this is some obscure naval term, I can only assume that the question refers to the jacket Admiral Lord Nelson was wearing when he was fatally wounded at the Battle of Trafalgar. It's in the National Maritime Museum, though why that's given as Park Row, I'm not quite sure - I always assumed the address was in Romney Road. The side entrance is in Park Row - maybe that's where cabbies have to do the drop-off.

The jacket was sent to Lady Hamilton after Nelson's death, and despite members of the family wanting it back, a letter found in the pocket meant that she got to keep it. Actually, she ended up on the skids and gave the jacket to a certain Joshua Smith to clear a debt just before her death. Prince Albert bought it from Smith's widow for the staggering sum of £150 and gave it to Greenwich Hospital.

It's a fascinating garment - not least because it's so very tiny. When we think of great men of history, somehow we tend to think of physical giants, but Nelson was really only average for his day - which is generally smaller than we are. It's dark blue with gold epaulettes, dainty and has a brown stain in the left shoulder where the bullet went right through it.

Interestingly, I read an article on the ethics of conservation recently that focused on those stains. Apparently, after a while, the dried blood started to fade, so Victorian museum curators decided to sex them up a bit with some red paint. The ethical question is "when does the history of an object end?" Basically that boils down to whether or not the Victorian curator's painty daubs are also part of the garment's history now and whether they should be stripped away by a conservator or kept as a monument to historial 'preservation.'

Any more Knowledge teasers on this bright and breezy Friday afternoon?

Crane Street

SE10

One of the few streets left in Greenwich which really has a feel of what all of it used to be like In The Olden Days. It crosses the meridian, which of course the pubs that back/front onto it use to great advantage. "The first/last pub in the West," proclaims a sandwich board outside The Yacht.

It's a funny little passageway - for a street so short, it manages to pack an awful lot into it. It's part of the Thames Path, though the view of the river's a bit blocked there. It is possible to see it if you're inventive though...

Narrow and often on the dark side, its ancient flagstoned pathway, still with its old open drain down the middle, just invites nosey parkers to peer into the windows of the tiny cottages on the south side of it - most of the owners have cottoned onto that and have installed thick net curtains; I can hardly blame them. They have no front gardens to speak of but often have sweet little window boxes or fill up the tiny troughs in front of the houses which bring a breath of colour into the grey brick. I'd put them at mid 19th century but I don't really know.

On the other side of that part of the street two pubs slog it out. There used to be several more along that stretch, but were swept away in the mid 20th Century. The two that remain are the Trafalgar Tavern and the Yacht, a deceptively modern looking hostelry which has deeper roots than it might look - at least 300 years, though of course the current building isn't nearly so old. It was once called The Barley Mow - a pub name which seems to be dying out faster than others - am I completely wrong to think that The Hill was once the Barley Mow too? There's one listed as being in "Green Lane" in mid-Victorian times. And of course Gordon Ramsay's Narrow was the Barley Mow until about a year ago.

But I digress again. Also down that part of the street is a contender for the Phantom's Favourite Front Garden - a house backing onto the Thames, whose owners clearly adore living there. It's not a garden at all - but the collection of tubs, planters and window boxes is a joy to see. If you've got a rubber neck, and you can get into the Curlew Rowing Club next door (they opened it up for the Thames Race last year) you can see what they've done to the back of the house - a delightful area, wooden-decked, for all the right reasons and adorned with the kind of love that only true river-lubbers have.

The rowing club is supposed to be the oldest on the tidal Thames. I've always wondered whether there's rivalry between the North and South banks of the river - the Isle of Dogs has a club next to the foot tunnel. I find it amazing that there are enough people who want to freeze and sweat at the same time in such a small area but hey - it takes all sorts. The large double gates that open onto the riverbank for them to drag their boats to the water are a good place to be nosey.

Further up the street, a couple of lovely old pubs (from their photographs) were demolished to create modern buildings. I am sure they give their owners great pleasure and a fantastic view...

So what's with the name, Crane Street? It's pretty obvious, actually. There was a crane there for hundreds of years - from at least 1730, there to load and unload ships.

Trinity Hospital

Paul asks

What's happening to Trinity Hospital?

I know there were redeveloping the back of the hospital, but yesterday we walked past the main (front) entrance, it looked dilapidated: piles of leaves blown up against the front door and gate, the pathway to the front door (through which you could often see that gorgeous internal courtyard) all sad and neglected, with two-foot high weeds growing in-between the kerbstones.

Do we know what's happening? Even if they've changed the main entrance to the back, why are they allowing this gorgeous facade to become so neglected?

The Phantom replies:

I noticed this the other day when I was taking my American friends for a lightning tour of Greenwich's highlights and those leaves made it quite clear that the door hadn't been opened since Autumn. I confess I'm not really worried yet though. If memory serves, they never open that door during the winter months. Presumably it's such a wind tunnel that, given the choice between that and a side door or the back entrance, they can hardly be blamed for denying us a lovely view. It was a shame for my visitors as the 'secret' glimpse through the railings is one of the loveliest sights in Greenwich, but I'm not going to panic until those leaves are still there in the Spring.

While we're on the subject though, I guess now is as good as any to take a closer look at this dear little almshouse. Of course Greenwich is hardly short of them - we have at least four - but this has to be the prettiest.

It was founded, despite the date on the front (1616) in 1613 by Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton, and comes with a curious caveat. On the outside, by the door that's presently covered in leaves, a sign says that it is home to "21 retired gentlemen of Greenwich." So far so good. But not completely accurate. Only 12 of the "decayed" pensioners, "become poor by casual means and not through his own dissolute life" were to be from the local area. Eight more decrepits (the other one must have been added at a later date) were to come from Shottesham in Norfolk - a left-field concept at the very least.

If the last decayed gentleman in Shottesham happened to be a "common beggar, drunkard, whorehunter, haunter of taverns or alehouses" or if he was an "unclean person infected with any foul disease, blind or so impotent as he is not able;" even worse if he were "an idiot" or unable to say the Lord's Prayer, the Ten Commandments and the Creed "without book," he was out. But that still didn't mean to say that any more Greenwich decayed gentlemen got a look in. The net was just widened to include the Norfolk village next door, Bungay.

Simple enough reason - it was Howard's birthplace. It was his party and he decided who was invited...

The bit you can see from the river walk (the cute bit) isn't as old as it looks - it was rebuilt in 1812 in Strawberry Hill Gothique style. And very gorgeous it is too. But if you're looking for old, you're going to have to hope they open that centre gate in the summer, where the 17th Century Courtyard is just lovely. It's a cloister-style, with an ancient wisteria growing around the columns. In the middle is a twinkling fountain and usually some geraniums dotted around. Very Mediterranean, but somehow also very British. The pic's a bit dark - click on it to make it a bit sharper.

Under the cloisters are some wonderful old notices telling "The Poor Men" what they were expected to do - and, of course, what they were not expected to do. Carousing around town was definitely OUT. Presumably the retired inhabitants are allowed out after 6.00pm nowadays.

Until 1946, everyone had to wear a fancy uniform - they just wear it for special occasions now, mainly for the annual Visitation from the Mercers Company who took over running the hospital in 1621. The gardens at the back are ancient and leafy, though only the bit closest to the buildings has (very splendid) borders - the rest is very old trees, including a mulberry (James I again, with his bloomin' silly English Silk Trade idea) and a medlar.

They used to be much more extensive though. The thoughts of the pensioners when their principal source of income, their market garden and orchard, was grubbed up to make room for the gigantic power station 100 years ago are unrecorded, perhaps because they would violate at least one of the hospital's myriad regulations...


I visited on one of their special open-house days - they have fund-raising events from time to time - and I had a chat with some of the pensioners. (They don't include decayed Norfolk people any more - they got their own Trinity Almshouse in Victorian times - a Phantom day-out for the future, perhaps...)

It was just before the new buildings at the end of the garden had been started and they were excited. The current rooms were small, dark, cramped and damp, however picturesque they were on the outside. The new build (on land that was, frankly, the compost heap) meant that the same number of people could have a more comfortable retirement. I think they've done pretty well with the new build, but I haven't seen inside.

You know what, I won't talk about the chapel inside today. It warrants a post of its own.

The Phantom Finally Remembers.

Pah. Guidebooks. Now I know I have a hell of a lot of them,and some of them are quite old but for some reason I thought that one that wasn't even as old as the millennium would still be reasonably up to date. I spent a considerable amount of time wandering round the car park of the Old Royal Naval College looking for this baby, finally convincing myself that my map reading really was just crap.

I'm not quite sure how I got the tip-off that Sir Edwin Lutyens's memorial to the Royal Naval Division had been moved back to its original home in Horse Guards Parade Ground, but I wasn't going to rest easy until I'd seen it.

Of course it wasn't going to be that easy - of all the times I could have gone there, I had to pick half-past eleven on a Saturday morning. I could see my quarry - I just couldn't get to it. My view was this:

What I wanted to get at was the white obelisk right in the centre of the picture and, short of The Queen's Official Birthday, I couldn't have picked a worse time. So while this lot pomped away to the delight of hundreds of foreign tourists, I snuck around the back to get a closer look at the funny white needle-in-a-bowl.

Like all of Lutyens's work there is a simplicity about it that is eloquent - a basic obelisk in an unadorned basin on a plinth, leaving the words of Rupert Brooke to speak for it.

Blow out your bugles over the rich dead

There's none of these so lonely and poor of old

But dying has made us rarer gifts than gold

Apparently, according to an old drawing, it was supposed to be a fountain - the plinth actually has a lower basin to catch water so that the little faces at the base of the obelisk spat water into the bowl which overflowed into the base. I'm sure it was lovely - I wish they'd get it going again. There's nothing sadder than a fountain that doesn't work. There's a great photo of the memorial in 1934 here which looks like it has some water in the base.

Of course we were only ever borrowing this delightful little monument. It was dedicated in 1925 on the 10th anniversary of Gallipoli, more or less on the spot it's sitting in now but was sent to Greenwich while they were building the stupendously ugly Citadel in 1940, though only actually erected there in 1951. And I have to say, from the picture in my out of date guide book, it looked very peaceful there among the trees. It feels a bit stark back in its old home where it was reinstated in 2003 squashed in between the hideous Citadel and Horse Guards next door, a nice enough building, but one so busy the poor old fountain almost disappears:

What once stood proud at the front of the parade ground now hides shyly in a corner. Still. Prince Charles knows best...

The King's House

Sir Christopher Wren did such a great botch-job on what is now The Old Royal Naval College, that most people tend to assume it was all built at the same time. Truth is, one of the four main courts of Greenwich Hospital is considerably older than the other three, and it was only after eating a slice of humble pie (the recipe of which modern architects could use a taste) that Wren actually came up with what we have today.

It was all a bit of a mess, really. Duke Humphrey's Bella Court (now firmly underneath the lawns at the ORNC) had been subsumed into Placentia, prettied-up by Margaret of Anjou and enjoyed by sundry monarchs up to James I (or VI of Scotland, if you're being picky.) But by the time he was building The Queen's House for his wife (who most ungratefully died before it was finished) poor old Placentia was looking pretty feeble. James, being a weak and feeble type (accused by one contemporary of having 'spindly legs,' no less) found the maritime air of Greenwich too bracing and the damp worsened his aches and pains, so he upped sticks to Whitehall. Placentia sat and rotted. Charles I's wife Henrietta Maria found it more to her taste - but stuck to the Queen's House.

Cromwell sold off everything he could during the Commonwealth, and allowed his soldiers to vandalise the old palace to such an extent that when Charles II came to inspect what was left in 1661, it was a pile in the truest meaning of the word. The place was so neglected that the rusty old gates had to be broken open for him.

The Queen's House was to be finished - even if now Henrietta Maria was somewhat older - a sad Miss Haversham-esque dowager attended by twenty four gentlemen in black velvet. Her son just wanted a new place. Work began on 4th March, 1664. Samuel Pepys was most excited. "I observed the laying of a very great house for the King," he wrote, adding "which will cost a great deal of money."

Pepys was right on the nail, as always. John Webb, the architect, had a grand plan to build it as a grand, three-sided affair, but, in truth everyone knew it was going to be difficult enough to manage just the one.

Like many of Charles's Big Ideas, the King's House ran into financial difficulties almost immediately. It was a building site for bloomin' years. When Pepys came to stay in Greenwich on 24th August 1665, trying to get away from the Plague, he was planning on taking rooms in the palace, but had to content himself elsewhere, as it was nowhere finished.

After three years £26,433 had been spent, and it still wasn't complete. It didn't help that Charles was a veritable butterfly - starting projects all over the shop, then flitting onto the next - The Observatory being a case in point. By 1669, Pepys was used to there being nowhere for him when he came to Greenwich. He wearily wrote that it "goes on slow, but is very pretty."

The East Wing of the King's House was finally done in 1669. But by this point the world had moved on.

William and Mary were on the throne. Mary wanted to turn the place into a seaman's hospital, and commissioned Sir Christopher Wren to design it. He came up with an enormous plan that would flatten both the Queen's and King's houses and create an enormous grid-affair of buildings. Mary would hear nothing of it - she wanted to keep the King's house - and the view from her own gaff. So Wren swallowed his pride, moulding his ideas and ego to fit what was already there.

I ask you. If Sir Christopher Wren could work with old, historic buildings already standing and make something new, vibrant, exciting and relevant out of them, why can't today's architects do the same thing? Take the - Victorian, say, buildings we have and adapt them for today's purposes instead of imposing their conceits and arrogance on us and insisting on razing what is already there to flatter their petty egos?

But I digress yet again. Back to the King's House.



It's serious stuff. Heavily classical - pediments, columns, rustications - and with no doubt about its instigator - Carolus II Rex enscribed in giant letters on the river-side. It's definitely best seen in blazing sunshine or, as photographed at the top by Stevie, by night, when its floodlit severity pays dividends against the black night sky. Inside is the Admiral's House (for another day) and Trinity College of Music (ditto...) The interior courtyard, still quaintly cobbled, feels more out-of-another-era than the rest of it, and always seems to have a snogging couple lurking in the shadows somewhere whenever I walk through. Aahhhh.

Don't you just take one look at Stevie's picture and think what a great place we live in?

Greenwich From The Air...

You may remember my mentioning my friend Ian who's a helicopter pilot - he was able to clear up the mystery of why there are always so many helicopters over Greenwich.

Although some of them are police guys tracking felons from the dodgier areas of town, and others are transport monitors checking out the state of the Blackwall Tunnel (and of course the really noisy Chinooks are MOD and can do what they damn please...) most of them are just circling round in a holding pattern, waiting for permission to enter central London airspace.

He promised me some photographs next time he was over Greenwich (and with a passenger - let's face it, I would have worried if he'd taken snaps himself)and he's come through with some doozies.

There are more, but for some reason (as with yesterday's pics of Nelson's funeral barge) they are refusing to load. I suspect it's a Blogger problem. Ho hum...

Romantic Greenwich

Well - it is St Valentine's Day, after all. And The Phantom is going all gooey on you. I am on a quest to find the most romantic place in Greenwich and I want your personal favourites. I don't care where it is - a restaurant, a quiet corner of Greenwich Park, round the back of the bicycle sheds - it just has to be romantic for you.

Lovely stories, Our Song-stylee, optional, but I am looking for geographical specifics. If it's Greenwich Park I want GPS co-ordinates (no, not really - a good description will do). If it's a cosy restaurant, which table is the best? A street? Which corner? The Picturehouse? Which seat? If it's Blackheath Tea Hut, I want to know what time of day/year you love most. If it's the bike sheds - well, ok, you can keep that one to yourselves.

I'm not necessarily talking about relationship-style romance either. Just a Greenwich place that really moves you to think lovely thoughts, that gives you a warm glow inside...

For once, I'll chip in with my own two-penn'orth later, but for now I'll leave you with this picture I took on my sewer-quest last week, of an alarmingly-pruned Leylandii, proving that even bad gardening can be romantic...

More on the Clocktower...

The latest in my quest to get buildings opened for Open House Day. I've had a reply from the guy at the Council who looks after such things, and has sent me the following:

The clock tower of Meridian House does indeed contain a viewing gallery with panoramic views .It was built (by Clifford Culpin & Partners) as part of the old town hall in 1937, seemingly for public access to view the Royal Naval College and the Thames.It must have been quite a sight with all the river traffic that existed then.

Such access ceased when the building was sold after the move by LB Greenwich to Woolwich.I saw the room in 1999 when the Greenwich Development Agency funded the repair of the clock. Following this I looked into the possibility of reviving public access but to no avail. It appeared that the room was on a sub-lease although not actually used. Access internally is an issue(I climbed in from the scaffolding!)

So. It sounds as though it's going to be a bit of a (literal) uphill struggle. But I'm not done yet. Watch this space.

The Blackheath Tea Hut

Or, The Phantom Jumps Down Off The Fence...

I've been meaning to write about the most controversial greasy spoon in Greenwich (well, ok, on the border) for some time, but the catalyst has definitely been Alexandra Moskalenko's documentary Tea Time, which has just come out on DVD and which will enjoy a screening at the Picturehouse on Feb 3rd.

It's a charming little docco - made by Moskalenko over four years, but actually covering the life of the hut during the span of one. What makes it such a fascinating subject is that it's open 24 hours a day, on the most windswept part of the heath, and yet it still attracts customers on a year-round, day-round basis.

And what customers. From the police and emergency services, cabbies and truckers, through bikers and carny-folk, all the way to families and tourists, this place has a little micro-community of its own. It attracts loners and insomniacs, drifters and misfits, businessmen and sharp-suits. All of whom muddle along together in that small, timeless world that a tea break provides from whatever else is going on in one's life. The film, perhaps wisely, concentrates on the human element of this South London institution, with interviews and long-shots, portraits and closeups, rather than giving us a history lesson. The music, especially, reflects this - from eerie out-of-tune pub-piano to the Ian Dury-esque At The 'Ut (you get a nice cup 'a tea...)

Perhaps it is the oddball, edgy quality of the folk who visit this funny little stall that makes 'ordinary' people like The Blackheath Society so angry about its existence. Their almost-disproportionate misgivings range from its being an eyesore, a blot on the community and a litter-magnet to being rowdy and environmentally damaging. A pick & mix shopping cart of complaints which perhaps conceal the real problem they have with such a place - that it's not 'within' Society - that it has an 'outsider' quality that can never quite be contained. A quality that lingers from the dangerous days of the Greenwich Fair, of Jack Cade's Cavern, of tumbling, and still hovers, like a slightly bad smell, whenever the circus comes to town.

What I like about this documentary is that it doesn't shy from these difficult topics. It represents the extraordinary lives of ordinary people - each has a story to tell, not least that of Nick, a regular, who, by sheer dint of personality, manages to become the central character. A damaged, almost lost soul, Nick manages to find a little stability in his world whenever he makes it up to the hut, and despite his tough appearance and sarf-London accent, slowly reveals himself to be a pussycat - an adorable figure who relies on the camaraderie of the motley characters at the tea shack to get him through a life that has seen much pain.

And that's true of all the regulars interviewed. They nearly all look menacing on the outside - some might even say hard - it's even implied that there indeed are one or two villains among them - but scratch the surface and they are charming - and articulate, too, in their