Beside The Seaside

National Maritime Museum

I didn't know this was on until a leaflet fell out of my copy of Time Out. This keeps happening. It drives me nuts that I have to find out about a local exhibition through a London-wide advertising strategy, when I walk past the place virtually every day.

Admittedly once I knew about it and had already decided to go, there was a poster for the show just outside the entrance - but most locals don't make a habit of walking right up to the entrance of the museum. I know they have a limited budget - and they need to direct most of it at tourists, but it's our museum too and a poster outside the gates where people actually pass wouldn't break the bank, surely? (If there is one, I haven't seen it...)

Beside the Seaside is an exhibition of photographs in the little exhibition area that used to house the Titanic stuff. It doesn't quite deliver what it promises, but is still worth a visit, if only to see just how similar to each other British resorts looked around the turn of the last century.

The bulk of the pictures come from the Frith collection - when the company ceased trading in 1971, a large number of negatives found their way to the museum and this is an attempt to show a small fraction of them.

It's billed as "snapshots of British coastal life, 1880 - 1950," which I took rather literally - that it would actually be 'snapshots,' probably by amateurs, of holidays and fishing, piers and seaside rock, spread over that whole period.

Instead, it tends to be landscapes and portraits, almost certainly by professionals, mainly, it would seem, taken around the Edwardian period. And there's no denying it's interesting with some of the shots stunning indeed.

The pictures are grouped in geographical areas, usually one photo per resort/coastal town, and do really tell a tale of another world - grizzled fishermen mending their lobster pots, grizzled women, probably much younger than they look, gutting fish, ladies in long black skirts and crisp white blouses, gigantic hats perched on their heads, taking the sea air in groups, their nannies following at an appropriate distance with perambulators.

There is much to enjoy. I particularly liked the dapper gent in blazer and straw boater, drinking-in the exotic air at Torquay, surrounded by palm trees and cacti. And I definitely have to take a trip to Gravesend now, to find out what happened to that gigantic white castle of a building on the promenade.

There's some fuzzy footage of newsreels and a couple of train posters - presumably to keep to the promise of the period reaching to the 1950s - and a case containing some Punch and Judy puppets for no other reason than, it seems, they were worried the pictures alone wouldn't be enough of a draw.

But I don't get the feeling that hearts were particularly in this exhibition. For a subject that should be uplifting and joyful - everyone loves the seaside, don't they? - to me it has a curiously downbeat feel. It is neither a wholly photographic piece, nor a proper 'exhibit.' Was cash tight? I find that hard to believe - the NMM has to be one of the richest museums we've got. It is a temporary exhibition, of course, but it has the feel of a temporary exhibition. That it's just filling in while they're waiting for the main attraction.


And what is the main attraction? Don't ask me. You'll just have to wait for a leaflet to fall out of Time Out...

The London Nobody Knows

Slightly off-topic here, guys, but only slightly. The London Nobody Knows, as some of you will be aware, was a series of books and articles by Geoffrey Fletcher in the mid 1960s.

Fletcher was the Sinclair of his day. Writing not about Sixties Swinging London, but its dodgy, edgy underbelly. The seedy, seamy side. The poor side. Most of it talks about north of the river, although he does mention Greenwich as "not yet sufficiently explored architecturally," though he reserves praise for the junk shop in Spread Eagle Yard (now part of the restaurant) and Goddards (now the burger bar.)

Fletcher's prose is elegant and flowing, punctuated with line drawings almost as evocative as the writing. He's most at home in decaying music halls, decaying markets or with decaying, tragic people. The homeless, the chronic poor, the meths drinkers.

The books have been out of print for years, though they're not particularly hard to find second hand. But just released on DVD is the frankly surreal documentary written by Geoffrey Fletcher and narrated by James Mason in 1967.

Mason, in flat cap and tweeds, carrying a furled umbrella, wanders around 60s London, looking at the bits that Austin Powers missed. He visits bombsites, abandoned music halls, decaying Spitalfields houses, slums and miserable factories. It's in colour, but that colour is so washed out that the feeling of melancholy is almost palpable. Mason walks around markets, taking in the local characters, the goods for sale, the patter. He visits waterside factories (including a bizarre 'humorous sequence' about an egg-breaking factory, making fun of it, but never actually explaining what the hell it was (anyone who knows, do tell.)

By far the most distressing part is when he meets the people Fletcher's writing about. The people who still live in the slums. The has-been street performers. The down-and-outs at the Salvation Army shelter. The squabbling alcoholics, fighting over a bottle of meths (The PG rating is qualified by a warning "contains scene of a man drinking methylated spirits.")

This is a highly affecting film. I was really quite down by the time I finished watching its 45 minutes. Interestingly, despite his fascination with London's history and architectiure, Fletcher is in favour of those hideous tower blocks that by the 60s were springing up all over the place instead of ancient Georgian mansions, and warns us not to get too sentimental about the wrecking ball we see in full flow in the film (no warning about that in the PG rating...) but somehow, watching those kids playing in the streets of a war-devastated London, the 60s attitude, however depressing, is at least understandable.

Greenwich is mentioned only as a place where pirates used to be hanged - and even that not in name, but I think this is such an important slice of recent London history that I make no apology for including it here.

Bundled with it is the even more surreal Bicyclettes de Belsize - a sort of cross between Blow Up and Les Parapluies de Cherbourg. The thankfully-short 'cult film' is, as far as I can tell, about the hazards of bad cycling. Hip Anthony May cycles irresponsibly around the streets of Hamsptead, having two crashes in about ten minutes - once with a small girl on a trike who gets a crush on him. The second time, he goes headlong into a poster of a fashion model and gets a crush on her.

After a chase, a spurious fashion-shoot in Belsize Park (no David Hemmings - but there might as well have been) and a groovy party scene, it all ends happily ever after. I should also point out that there are only about two words spoken in the entire film. Everything else is sung. There are some extremely cheesy musical numbers, none of which are classics but annoyingly hang around the mind for hours afterwards, and some very dodgy miming on the part of the stars. Shut your eyes for the embarrassing comedy queue. Quite cringe-making.

What makes the film watchable is the location and the camera work. Hampstead seems to have largely missed out on the wholesale destruction the rest of London suffered and there's a lot of recognisable stuff. But for me, the aerial shots and the lingering long shots are the best bit. Even if you can't stomach the rest, do watch the opening credits - one long tracking shot which turns out to be the view from Anthony May's roof.

I'm not sure I'd agree with the jewel-box, which describes Bicyclettes de Belsize as "an absolute gem," but if you like tooth-edgingly sweet slices of lost 60s kitsch, this is your movie.

I've just found a groovy widget that allows me to recommend stuff if it's on Amazon. It will come in useful for a new section I'm in the middle of creating on Greenwich books and resources (though of course most Greenwich books and resources are out of print and therefore not Amazonable.) So I'm testing it out here:

Roberts-Free Zone

Sit down, Chris Roberts fans, I have some sad news for you. I have just received my copy of Greenwich Time, and although the whole household has combed through it, no one can find any photographs whatsoever of The Man Himself. In fact we can only find one picture of any councillor - Jackie Smith (of whom I confess I've never heard, so it hardly counts.)

It's a bit of a shock, I know. Going cold turkey - from up to seven pictures in one week to none at all could be quite upsetting for some vulnerable sections of our community and so far I have been unable to ascertain that the council have set up any kind of special counselling service to help people deal with the emotional fallout resulting from this decision.

I have to say that many will applaud this zero-tolerance attitude, and some may even point out that the paper seems to be pulling its socks up, but I feel that this measure is a little draconian.

My suggestion would be a softer regime. By instigating a "Pin Up Corner" (somewhere between the wheely-bins and the vast number of stories about small children gardening) Roberts addicts - and, indeed, all collectors of Chris-o-bilia could have their own section - without which the whole thing could go underground and become difficult to police effectively.

A specially-commissioned portrait one week, maybe; tougher images the next, for the hardcore mob (with accompanying Parental Advice warnings prominently-displayed on the previous page, of course.)

Perhaps Our Man sitting astride a Harley Davidson cuddling a kitten, or in action-pose standing on top of One-Tree Hill dressed as Neo from The Matrix ? Ah. I'm the only one that fantasises about that one then. The Phantom moves swiftly on...

I can just see the section now - lovely pictures - a heart-shaped one, perhaps, with dotted lines around it and a little scissor-symbol to make it accessible for all. Or maybe he could be wearing a chef's outfit and it could be combined with a healthy recipe for all the vegetables those kids are growing?

Or what about his own cartoon strip? A Marvel/DC Comics superhero-type thing? The Councillor. No - that's all wrong. That sounds more like a super-villain. Maybe a Photo-Love Story then? Let's face it. The possibilities are endless. We could have an annual freebie calendar - Chris with a beach ball, Chris with mistletoe, Chris as the Easter Bunny...

Or - if this is all too much of a temptation for people trying to kick the habit, perhaps he could be quietly inserted into one of the other pictures. Peeping from behind bushes, or looking through one of the windows of the available council houses for example. Searching for him could take all week and there could be a small prize for the first person to Spot The Chris.

Subliminal, eh?

Greenwich Time

I hadn't intended starting the week with a grumble, but the fluffy piece I was working on has proved to be, ahem, A Bit Long, and, given that Real Work awaits, it will have to hang on until tomorrow.

So in the meanwhile, I'd like to ask your thoughts on this.

Lord knows, I didn't vote for Boris Johnson. And yes, I'm scared. Really quite scared. But there's one thing I applaud him for. He's axed that godawful waste of innocent trees, The Londoner.

A grotesque puff-piece that gave virtually no information worth having and acted merely as one big photo-opportunity for Ken to show off, it is, IMHO, a good saving. I just hope he puts the money to good use.

But of course, this brings me to our own local waste of innocent trees. What on earth is Greenwich Time good for? Photos of Chris Roberts posing with a piece of litter over a waste bin. Photos of Chris Roberts with a group of schoolchildren tidying an old person's garden. Photos of Chris Roberts handing over a giant cheque to some charity. Photos of Chris Roberts shaking hands with some obscure 'community leader.' Photos of Chris Roberts on his own.

What does it actually do? What purpose does it serve that taking out a couple of pages in the News Shopper couldn't? There's no actual news. The features smack of 'filler;' the list of available council houses only goes to show how few there are and how needy you have to be to actually qualify to get one.

Even the addition of Tony Lord (I like reading Tony Lord and have missed him since I don't get The Mercury any more) smacks of desperation. Greenwich Council needs to face up to the fact that they don't have enough to say to warrant what I swear is a now-weekly paper (and if it isn't, it feels like it.)

Greenwich Time is an irrelevant waste of money, paper and Tony Lord. I would happily see it go and the money spent on something worthwhile. I don't care what. Something that would actually benefit the community.

What do you think? Do you agree? Is it an easily expendable extravagance?

But maybe you actually like it? Maybe you wait by the door for your regular fix of Chris Roberts piccies, ready to cut out and paste into your fan-album? Tell The Phantom...

BTW, as I was writing this I thought "I bet GreenwichWatch have something to say about this." And they do. Check it out here

Atlantic Worlds

National Maritime Museum

Since I STILL can't upload any pics (apologies to everyone who's sent me some absolutely amazing ones) and, given the, ahem, changeable, weather just now I thought I'd take a peek at an indoor thing to do this weekend.

Atlantic Worlds was, I am sure, advertised when it opened last year, but not round here. I eventually saw a poster at Bank tube station, and it's been a sort of periphery in my mind as a vague something to check out but the Maritime Museum often forget in their flurry to get tourists that some of them will come from locally. I see precious little advertising aimed at us.

Which is why it's taken me about 6 months to get round to checking it out. It is, in case you haven't really heard of it either, a major new gallery at the museum which, as the name suggests, deals with the Atlantic Ocean and Man's involvement with it. It's at the back of the museum on the first floor and it has two entrances. I'd recommend the left one as you come in - I'm a chronological kinda Phantom - get your ticket then take the left-hand fork, make your way past the rubbish water tank with floating things in it on your left and the gilded barge on your right (which, I noticed yesterday, no one's allowed to photograph) and go up the back stairs in front of you.

What I like most about this exhibit is that it's not interactive. There is nothing to press, no annoying flaps to lift, no obvious questions aimed at schoolchildren (or if there are, they're well-disguised.) This is a grown up gallery for grown up people, rather than always aiming at the lowest common denominator. It's sophisticated in its design and lighting, and follows a narrative, and though I could have taken a few more exhibits from out of their gigantic stores - space is all very well and good, but I've always felt that the Maritime Museum has a bit too much of it - it's a story generally well-told.

It starts out with the exploration and colonisation by Europeans of Africa and the New World - the first thing you see is a fab map of North America, a good half of which consists of unknown territory and California is depicted as an island. It follows into the trade that was brought between the various continents and the exploitation of the ocean itself (including one solitary case dealing with our fishing heritage - a woeful gap in the museum's collection - whaling gets more attention) and a slightly unnecessary large glass case with examples of the most common goods traded.

The major part of the exhibition deals with slavery (presumably something to do with the anniversary of the abolition last year) and the campaign against it. It's nicely done, only a tiny bit sensationalist - presumably the guillotine is to entertain the schoolchildren who have nothing to press - and not quite as worthy as it might have been.

The final part (or first, if you choose to be perverse and start at the other end...) is to do with the various wars and conflicts surrounding the Atlantic - cue General Wolfe & Co.

Actually, I've just read the leaflet, and apparently there are interactive installations - at either end of the gallery.I am happy to say I missed them.

This is a classy exhibit. It looks great, and there are some fascinating items. Ultimately there isn't really enough stuff there for my liking, but I'm an old-fashioned Phantom who loves clutter - point me at The Petrie Museum or Sir John Soane's house and I'm a happy spectre - and as galleries go this is 21st Century Adult.

Treasures of Tudor England

The Sixteen, Royal Naval Chapel, last night (sorry...)

It's officially called the 2008 "Choral Pilgrimage," but I couldn't bring myself to use a title that square on one of my posts. Why do classical artists have to continually shoot themselves in the foot by being so bloomin' po-faced all the time? I guess it's worse the other way - Nigel Kennedy with his 'punk' hairdo; a bunch of girls singing opera having to call themselves 'babes' to get gigs, but surely there's some kind of middle ground where classical music (and early classical music at that) can be cool.

Not that this was going to bother The Sixteen - arguably the country's best adult choral group just now. The place was heaving - clearly sold out, despite top-whack tickets shifting for thirty five quid a pop. And it wasn't all old crusties either, there were people of all ages (I'm guessing the proximity of Trinity College had something to do with it) so probably I'm the only person who thought the title cringe-making.

I'd been desperate to go to this concert since I read about it in the ORNC listings (pick yourself up a leaflet in the Visitor Centre - it's not all face-painting for the under-fives.) Quite apart from the facts that I love early music, and that I love choral music and that The Sixteen are so very well-respected, it was the setting as much as anything that I liked the idea of. After all, short of performing in the ORNC car park (directly on top of Henry VII's chapel) they couldn't get much closer to the probable original setting for this gorgeous, home-grown sacred music. This stuff needs to be heard somewhere with a big acoustic; with high ceilings and wides aisles, somewhere you can feast your eyes as well as your ears during the event, so the car park was out, but the Naval Chapel was perfect.

I'd heard there was going to be a talk before the event and I rather hoped it would be a tying-in of the concert with Greenwich's past as a Tudor palace - considering we were sitting on top of it and all. It wasn't - it was the choir's two second basses who did a sort of classical equivalent of "the making of..." which worked rather well. They seemed relaxed and cheery, not too stiff, 'interviewing' each other - "So, what's your favourite moment in the second movement, then, George?" - and they told us good bits to look out for, which for a Phantom who hadn't actually heard of any of the three composers (for the classicists among you, Parsons, White and Tye) was very useful. Clearly the cheeky boys of the choir, they were fun to look out for later (in the very few moments I wasn't totally transported to somewhere that may or may not have been the Tudor idea of heaven.)

What can I say? It was sublime. Of course you've got to be into that twisty-turny, mellifluous sound that the Tudors liked so much (think Spem in Alium in miniature.) The music washes over rather than confronts and little patterns and motifs are repeated in different voices, resounding through the Naval Chapel and my phantsmagorical mind.

I sat back and looked at that fabulous ceiling (hence the pic, taken by Stevie, clearly lying on his back, though not actually during the concert, of course. A bit anachronistic, but the only bit of Tudor Greenwich that's left is either the undercroft or the water-house-thingy at the vicarage and neither of them seemed quite right) and allowed the music to filter through me. I knew none of it, yet it was all somehow familiar. Perhaps it was the fact that most of it was in the only bits of Latin I know.

The Sixteen are Discipline personified (though there was just the faintest glimmer of a smirk on their faces as they arrived back on stage after the interval. What do early musicians make jokes about? Rommelpot players, presumably...) Their timing is exquisite, their voices, ditto. A pal of mine who's in that world tells me the group's fiendishly difficult to get into, and I could tell that. Each of them was clearly hand-picked (even if some of their tailcoats weren't...) Of course I'd have like to see them all dressed in the original kit, but I guess they'd consider that to be play-acting or not taking the material seriously. A shame. I like a nice ruff as much as the next phantom.

Of course this was just a one-off, but given that the place was packed, I suspect they'll be back. Keep an eye out in the programme, and don't be put off by the name 'Choral Pilgrimage.' In the meanwhile, you could always reproduce the effect by buying a CD ,sticking it on your walkman and pacing around the chapel, looking up at the ceiling. Or, even lazier, just look really closely at Stevie's pic on the screen...

Blow Up

Michaelangelo Antonioni, 1966

A few weeks ago I went to see an artist friend of mine (in Bloomsbury, of course - how fabulous can you get..?) and was a bit put-out to find that he'd been on a pilgrimage to S.E. London and hadn't visited me. He explained that he'd had to go to Maryon Park in Charlton alone, so that he could get the full Blow-Up experience. A likely story... I trust that he was wearing slightly too-short tight white jeans, Chelsea boots and a heavy-lidded, vacant expression, though I suspect the fact that he went by train rather than in a convertible Rolls may have dampened the image.

I was far too embarrassed to admit to him that I had never, ahem, actually seen this seminal piece of 60s hip-o-rama, so I nodded sagely and made 'intelligent' local remarks,' most of which involved wittering on about Mark being able to take pictures of sheep there these days (what's worse - Bill tells me that it wasn't even the same Park - see Comments...) It wasn't going down well . What else was there to do, but quickly rent the DVD and do a spot of catching-up?

Watching it now, post-Austin Powers and High Anxiety, it's difficult to stop just the tiniest smirk from creeping around phantasmagorical lips. Let's face it - it's the ultimate Swinging London Sixties cliche - complete with guardsmen in uniform, funky shots of Piccadilly Circus with guys in mini cars and dolly birds in mini skirts. But it also says something really rather interesting as far as we locals are concerned. I'll get onto that.

David Hemmings's vacuous airhead photographer (apparently based on David Bailey) drove me nuts, with his floppy haircut and dark-circled eyes. Maybe it was the casual misogyny, maybe it was his (or Antonioni's) irritating habit of being sidetracked from the plot for the flimsiest of reasons - buying a boat propeller or romping with naked girlies in bits of sugar paper (some might argue not flimsy at all, of course) or smoking joints with his side-boarded mate Peter Bowles (Peter Bowles? Peter Bowles? How wrong is that?) But my artist friend was clearly impressed with it enough to trek out to South East London (and believe me that's a trek for him...) so I stuck with it.

Now I know it's all about the viewer and how they percieve the images they see before them - did the photographer actually witness a murder or was it all in his drug-addled imagination? The simple omission of the one scene that would prove it one way or another (the return to his ransacked flat after his non-discovery of the body in the cold light of day) is proof that Antonioni doesn't want the audience to know the literal truth. I know that it's full of the classic images of British cinema in the 60s and I know that it was cutting-edge for its day. Even worse, I know that I'm going to get beaten about my spectral tricorn by a good majority of you cinema fans - but frankly I was a bit bored.

It's almost certainly a case of what I call "Hitchhiker" syndrome. If you listen to the original radio version of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy now, it sounds horribly cliched. The modern listener has to take a step back and think this was the first. This is what all the other comedy sci-fis were based on. I'm sure that Blow-Up suffers from this - all the other 60s films/TV progs, doccos - and now spoofs - base themselves at least a little on Antonioni's creation. Certainly all the art fans I know love it for that very seminal quality and I enjoyed it in its own way too, I guess - to a certain extent for the spotting where other films had been inspired. My trouble is that I've just got myself too plot-driven these days, watching too much Hollywood stuff, and the sundry tangents started to get to me.

Note To Self: Must get back to watching more art movies.

Something Blow Up does do though, is show a quality that South East London had then, which seems to have been forgotten. Now maybe I am, as my old college lecturer would have said, "reading too much into this," but I'm beginning to think that places like Charlton and Woolwich were actually rather funky and alternative in their own ways - so very outre that they went full circle and became hip again. Charlton's not actually owned up to in the film - Hemmings's flat is in some anonymous mews in, what most would assume, is Chelsea - I have no reason to think it isn't - but Maryon Park is implied to be just round the corner, with a cool 'antiques' (read 'junk') shop on the corner. I don't know if that shop's still there, (I'm sure someone will tell me) but I'll wager it doesn't sell propellers, busts and stags' heads anymore.

Ok, it could have just been standing in for somewhere else, as Greenwich Film Unit is so keen to promote these days, but I get the feeling the funkiness went deeper than mere set-dressing.

I've been reading Iris Bryce's A Tree In The Quad, the sequel to her wonderful Remember Greenwich which, while not being quite as compelling as its predecessor, does describe a Woolwich which was, almost impossible to believe now, a hub for the late 50s/early 60s Trad Jazz revival, the radio and television shop she owned with her musician-husband a magnet for duffle-coated beatniks and beardy hipsters, and the various music clubs they ran together meccas for jazz afficionados. I'll get onto that book another day, but for now, maybe my artist friend was right. Maybe Blow-Up is more than a fabber-than-thou whimsy about a bloke who may or may not have witnessed a murder. Maybe, just maybe, it shows that all of London was cool then, not just the West End.

Of course it just might mean that the murders in the 60s were all in South London...

*

Following this entry being originally posted, Stevie went on a pilgrimage of his own. It would seem that the park, still spooky, continues to throw up strange and unexplained images. Did Stevie really step back to Jurassic times, or was it all part of some spaced-out trip? We may never know...

The Blackheath Poisonings

Julian Symons, 1978

I'll get onto the TV miniseries of this another day - I've only managed one episode so far; the rest of it sits forlornly on top of the DVD player waiting its turn for a digital-spin.

What that one episode did though, was kick-start my reading of the book, which I'd bought from Amazon marketplace for 49p (it's been deleted for years) and found virtually impenetrable on first perusal.

It's an Edwardian murder-mystery -written in the 1970s. I should have seen a clue in that, but I didn't. Set in two fictitious houses on Blackheath, it follows the fortunes (and weedkiller-fuelled misfortunes) of a sprawling family that would today be labelled 'disfunctional.' Their fragile veneer of respectability is shattered when the first of a series of mysterious deaths is revealed as not necessarily having been from natural causes. As the young, politicised son of the family starts to suspect an arsenic-fest, he turns over a veritable "vipers' nest of secret vice" (not my words - it's from the jacket-blurb.)

The Seventies enjoyed a bit of an Edwardian revival. The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady sold by the wheelbarrow-load and Upstairs Downstairs was a national phenomenon (I'm guessing the televisation of The Blackheath Poisonings was a direct result of UD's success.) Holly Hobbie was a major fashion statement (thankfully neglected in the recent 70s revival) and Laura Ashley was at her peak. So I can understand why Julian Symons thought this was a good idea. That he turned that cosy, lacy-dress, formal-attire, old-colonial 'Teatime of the Empire' image on its beam-end is to his credit.

And, once you get past the first few chapters, it does rattle along. Symons was clearly an expert plotter, skilled at drawing character-sketches with few words and deft at seeding earlier chapters with important information the unsuspecting reader will need later to have any kind of chance of guessing whodunnit. Which is why I was puzzled at those first few chapters - an information-dump of backstory which today would be a little more subtley included in the main body of the work.

I stalled at those chapters, The Blackheath Posonings gathering dust at my bedside for several weeks as other stuff piled up around it. It was only when the DVD arrived (a typically pompous American syndication entitled Masterpiece Theater Presents... somewhat over-egging a rather thin pudding on first-viewing at least) that I thought I'd better give it another go.

The second time, having already ploughed through the backstory, it was all much easier. The Blackheath Posionings is not un-put-downable, but it is diverting and, unless you know the story before you start, I'll eat my spectral hat if you guess the culprit before the bitter end, though it will help if you start thinking with a 1970s mind rather than an Edwardian one.

In fact, it was getting perilously near to that end when I started to worry that it was going to be one of those infuriating mysteries where you're never told what went on or you're told some character who's never appeared before did it (yes Edgar-sodding-Allen-sodding-Poe, I mean you...) The eye-popping truth finally revealed in the very last pages is strangely satisfying, perhaps because it was, just about, hinted at earlier on, even if I didn't spot it.

So is it any good? Well, the references to Greenwich and Blackheath are always enjoyable, as is the story itself, if a little dated, but unless you see it in Halcyon Books for 49p I wouldn't suggest going out of your way to track it down. It is of its time. There are better mysteries written about this area.

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 own individual ways. Moskalenko has taken the time and effort to find the stories here, to imply, not lay-on thick, the personal worlds this funny little place provides a haven for.

Oddly, the hut itself is less of a character than I expected. Whether in the height of summer or under a sprinkling of snow, it's merely a meeting place for unlikely people to get together. Perhaps this is because the building itself is of a temporary nature - temporary to fit the transitory nature of the people who use it.

What impressed me most was the inclusion of Neil Rhind, of whom I am normally a HUGE fan. I adore his meticulous work, his devotion to Blackheath and its history, his detailed writing, his eloquent speaking. As the president of the Blackheath Society, he agreed to be interviewed for this film. Now this is an intelligent man. He must have known that whatever he said would make him look like a NIMBY - and he did it anyway. I admire him all the more for having the guts to do it.

That's not that I agree with him. I hear his arguments - he is big enough (and has the integrity as a historian) to admit that there has been a tea-servery (albeit not 24hrs) on the site since the reign of Charles II (indeed Moskaleko interviews an octogenarian who remembers drinking tea there in his youth) but complains that it looks appalling, creates a traffic and noise problem and is environmentally unsound. The Blackheath Society proposes, I understand from the people in this film, to spend £2m on 'improving' Blackheath - including a giant ridge of earth to disguise the A2, which would engulf the tea hut. Perhaps it's even true.

You know, I struggle to see what harm there is in this little shack. In recent years the owner's made an effort to tidy it up and pick up his litter - you'll find far more elsewhere on the heath. It's miles away from anywhere, it doesn't serve alcohol, and even the police in the film admit there's virtually no trouble. I've enjoyed a fair few cups there myself. Tuesday nights are a good time, when an entire youth club from Rochester make a pilgrimage to the shack. I haven't ever heard of any trouble from them. And I never leave without a chat with someone.

I find it quite telling that the two sides have never actually met in this dispute. And that Neil Rhind has been the only person brave enough to raise his head above the parapet. At a recent licensing hearing no other bugger turned up, so the licence went through, according to the owner. The BS gets almost apoplectic over this strange little half-world, and yet they don't actually appear to have really looked at it.

It seems to me that both sides need to move on now; to actually meet. The Blackheath Society has cash to spend, but the heath belongs to all, and that includes the people who use the hut. Surely there must be some way they can live together? Maybe the society could fork out some money to make the hut more attractive, rather than obliterating it? In return, the owners of the hut can make sure that the litter is always cleared up and that people park tidily.

One final thought, not totally disconnected. If there was to be a giant earthen ridge to shield the eye from the A2, would the Highways Agency see this as a good excuse to make it a dual carriageway? Just an idle ponder.

See Tea Time for yourself. You can buy it on DVD at the Pepys Visitor Centre (the best place I know for local history books) or, if you buy it at the 'ut itself, you get a free nice cup 'a tea with it...

Oh - and if you want a biscuit to go with it, try http://www.nicecupofteaandasitdown.com/

Remember Greenwich

Iris Bryce, Greenwich Community College Press, 1995

I hadn't expected much from this book. I'd passed it over several times in the Pepys Centre Tourist Information shop, having read various local 'memoirs' in the past and been underwhelmed by the writing standard and unexciting content. I was put off by the cover (aw, c'mon - show me the person who doesn't judge books by covers just a little...) with its dated font and annoying landscape format.

Once again I've been forced to eat humble pie. I bought this book on Friday and, despite a full weekend where I was staying with friends and supposed to be doing stuff with them, I just couldn't tear myself away from it. Iris Bryce is not just a natural storyteller, she has a story to tell.

Born and brought up in the centre of Greenwich in the 1920s and 30s, she came from a world where if you left your very street you were in foreign parts, dangerous and murky to a child who knew the hostility of poverty and the dangers of straying into the territory of a rival gang of kids.

Of course, we're hardly talking Yardies here. This is good old-fashioned intimidation, not gun culture. But childhood cruelty comes in many forms and the taunts of kids from a street only slightly more well-off than your own still cuts to the quick if you're the only one whose mother, even in a poor street, has to go to work to make ends meet. And to wander into the really poor areas was to risk the horrors of the 'witch' who sat on the step smoking a clay pipe or the docks, warehouses and scrap yards, with their seedy, shady 'other' worlds.

Where Iris Bryce's memoirs differ from so many stories of poor, working class lives in the 20th Century is the knowledge that, from a very early age, she wanted out of the circle of poverty that most considered their lot. She was a bright kid, something recognised by her teachers, but not her own family. Time after time she was given glimmers of hope - offers of scholarships and better education, time after time she suffered the despair of her father ripping up the letters that would better her life and throwing them into the fire.

This is no misery memoir though (BTW - has anyone noticed that places like Waterstones now have a special section for this dismal genre? I vaguely remember the title "Tragic Lives" sits above the section. I ask you - who on earth would search these books out as a matter of course?) Bryce's frustration is palpable but she never gives up for more than a few seconds, and it is that optimism that drives the book, and which kept me reading.

The detail about Greenwich is fine-tuned - enough streets, pubs and places namechecked to give a sense of real geography, but it is balanced with a strong storyline which although not always linear (hard to do linear when you're talking about someone's life, I guess) has a humanity about it. Even people like her father, an angry, violent man, are never painted totally black - there are moments of tenderness where it's possible to see the dilemma and perhaps even guilt Bryce felt at wanting to leave her 'lot' behind.

This is not a perfect book. But it is mainly sins of omission, rather than badly-written. Bryce repeats herself from time to time, but it's not something that really bothers me. Hell, I do it myself. What does get me, though, is that at no point is there any kind of biography of the author, and we are not given any start date for the story - forcing the reader to try to work out what period we're talking about. This vagueness makes the early part of the book shaky, as the reader is constantly trying to work out dates of gas-lamps, street name changes and electricity-arrival just to get a handle on when other things are going on.

My biggest problem with the book is its sudden end. Even a book that will have a sequel needs some kind of conclusion. Its whole conceit has been driven by Bryce's desire to leave her world, and at the end, she sort of does - she contrives to get herself conscripted into the ATS. But that's it. For a story so well-paced up to this point, it's extremely frustrating to turn to a blank page. No word on what happened next, whether she actually managed to break out of her cycle of poverty or even whether she ever returned to Greenwich. Even a "coming soon" teaser-note at the bottom would have sufficed. I found it extremely frustrating, lying in bed Sunday night, after a weekend of snatched paragraphs and sneaky peeks, to not actually find out 'the end.'

Of course the first thing I did yesterday was get onto the internet to see what I could find out about Iris Bryce and, after some searching, I have found out some of her story - she apparently married a well-known British jazz musician and went to live on a barge, writing several books about her life on the canals. There is even a follow-up to Remember Greenwich. I concede that she perhaps didn't know there would be a sequel when the first book was published - but a short biography at the end - even a few sentences - would have rounded-off the story without ruining the appetite.

I thoroughly recommend this book, whatever minor issues I may have with it. It would warrant a reprint - perhaps combined with the sequel, in a more attractive format, but in the meanwhile, I intend to quote liberally from this remarkable woman's story. It is as much a part of Greenwich's history as that of Henry VIII, Samuel Pepys and John Flamsteed.

Picturehouse Going Downhill?

I am a Grumpy Old Phantom today. Actually, to be more precise, I was a grumpy old Phantom a few days ago, but I didn't want to write cross stuff in the festive season (bad karma, you know...) and even writing about it now brings it all back...

Let me start with re-stating the fact that I adore Greenwich Picturehouse. I have often waxed lyrical about the fantastic facilities, friendly staff and squashy seats. It's even listed as one of my Favourite Haunts. Which is perhaps why I was so very shocked the other night when standards had seriously slipped. I don't know when this happened - it's to do with the Screening Room, which I hadn't visited for a little while, but had always considered to be the very best bit of the whole building.

Just to recap, the Screening Room is (was) the gorgeous little cinema downstairs, cosy and womb-like, with deep red curtains and soft walls, and individual armchairs that not only reclined but gave you a little foot rest - like the Parker-Knoll recliner of your dreams which made you forget that the screen was smaller than you get in some people's homes these days as you luxuriated in the closest equivalent to watching a movie in bed.

So there we were, a little bunch of us, all strangers, of course, waiting patiently for the end of the previous screening outside the curtains in what is now called "Screen Five" (where is Screen Four?) We were all bunched up so inelegantly because there are no numbered seats, and each of us secretly hoped to delicately muscle-in to our fave squashy armchair when we were finally let in. It wasn't ideal, but it was understandable - difficult to number armchairs after all...

The movie finished and the audience filed out. We diligently waited as the music ended. No one arrived, so being jolly British, we all hung around waiting for the usherette to tell us what to do. We waited. And waited. The lights had gone up, and the projectionist was clearly setting up to begin again. No one. Eventually, a brave soul decided to peek around the curtain without the permission of Authority. He disappeared, so the rest of us all piled in.

The shock was audible. The place was carnage. Less tumbleweed blowing around the deserted screen than drinks cartons, glasses, sweetie wrappers and general unidentifiable-but-you-don't-want-to-investigate-too-far kiddie-trash. And popcorn. Popcorn, popcorn everywhere, and believe me, not a piece you'd want to eat.

Ok - so they were short staffed and couldn't find anyone to tear our tickets or clear up. It's not the end of the world. But here's the rub. Brace yourselves, folks.

The squashy armchairs are gone. Gone, I tell you. Replaced with - how can I bring myself to say this - nasty mean, tip-up cinema seats from c.1965. Thin, narrow rows, close together and with not a reclining bit in sight. And to top it all, in this formerly plush, exquisite, coloured coded and designed room, still with its deep red curtains, they are the most disgusting mid-brown vinyl.

Now I'm not a fat Phantom. And these seats did accommodate my backside - but they could well be a bit of a huff and a puff for anyone a bit better padded than these seats are. Even if you're a skinny, if you're not quick enough with getting your elbows onto the thin chair arms and someone else's beat yours to it, they will be pinned into the insides of the seat for the entire movie. Luckily the picture I saw was a kids' film and short, but I won't be going back to that screen for a long, long time.

I might have expected this from another cinema chain. But the Picturehouse? I am seriously disappointed. It's clearly a financial thing - but are things really so tight that they had to do this?

Did you already know about this? Why didn't someone warn me? Please tell me the other screens are still the fabulous experience they were and that it's just this screen. Being the optimist I am, I really hope these seats are temporary while they are ordering new, even lovelier armchairs, but for the moment I seriously recommend you don't visit this screen.

You know what? I'm going to write to the Picturehouse and be a grumpy old Phantom at them too. I'll post any reply I get here...

A Christmas Carol

Greenwich Playhouse

I have been looking for an excuse to go to the Greenwich Playhouse for bloomin' ages, but nothing in the normal programme has really appealed before, so I was delighted to see that not only were they doing a classic Christmas story as a festive piece, but also that it was adapted by Brian Sibley (Who he? Remember that R4 adaptation of Lord of the Rings? Well, he...) Certainly enough to get me to climb the back stairs of what is now Bellushi's (is that not a dreadful 80s name for a bar?) and discover what Greenwich's other theatre has to offer.

I had been warned by so many people the place was utterly minute that I was actually surprised by the size of it - not as small as everybody had made out - but still hardly The Palladium. It's clearly an old garret that's even unsuitable for putting bunk beds in as part of the St Christopher's Inn chain of hostels, but perfectly useable as a baby theatre. It has seats three quarters of the way round for this show, put on slight risers so everybody gets a reasonable view - better in that respect than somewhere like Blackheath Halls which is all on the same level and a poor view if you're stuck at the back.

There are lovely little features like the original twisty iron supports across the ceiling - and less lovely features such as the very strong smell of mothballs - though actually for this show it was such perfect Odorama that I will be prepared to eat my words if someone tells me it was part of the set.

Talking of which, that set was great. Bare brick wall and bits of old tat, improvised into various things during the action - simple and absolutely ideal for the piece. There was something of Dennis Severs* attic rooms about it - the most honest feel for A Christmas Carol that I've ever come across. And I'm counting Patrick Stewart, I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue AND the Muppets in that...

But onto the show. Eight actors on a stage that small is pretty impressive stuff and in a theatre that can't seat more than about 60 people, some of whom will be concessions, I don't even want to think about what they must be being paid - and for that kind of remuneration, you might expect some pretty piss-poor acting. I am happy to report that it's excellent.

Scrooge is a triumph - both furious and funny at the same time - I bet he's played Malvolio a few times... His fabulous pomposity is offset by the gravitas of Dickens himself (a character-addition that could have backfired badly but doesn't) who follows the characters around like a fourth ghost. The supporting cast charges around (and I mean charges around - personally I would have removed the Blakies in their shoes on that wooden floor) being all the other characters. Not one of them lets down the pace or the feel and despite the cast-of-thousands character changes, there is never any doubt who anyone is.

The costumes, though clearly fashioned from cheap fabrics, are nicely put together so that they work really well (even if one of the girls needs to put a couple more hooks & eyes in hers - something of which she is, thankfully, aware, wearing a nice black vest underneath, just in case...)

It's an unsentimental production - despite the sugary qualities of the original - not a sprig of holly in sight - and yet, somehow, it manages to bring a deep sensation of good cheer to a cold loft of a theatre. And, a good thing, given the proximity of the cast to the audience, it bears up well to close inspection. The ghosts, each of them puppets, are deeply creepy and affecting - as is young Tiny Tim, who is in no way 'cute.' His puppet is, frankly, a bit scary - and yet it works - we care about this tiny, ugly figure, because the actors do.

I have no idea how they manage to put on a show of this quality in a theatre this small, but hey - I'm not going to delve too deep. I thoroughly recommend you take a chance and get a ticket for this festive-without-being-cloying seasonal show. Probably a bit scary for tiny tots, older children should be fine - and it's good grown-up fare too.

http://www.galleontheatre.co.uk/


* If you haven't come across Dennis Severs House - do it NOW. Don't think. Go to http://www.dennissevershouse.co.uk/ (turning off your blocked-pop-ups) and book a slot for their "Silent Night" installation. It's just not the same any other time of year. Not suitable for kiddies.

Dick Whittington

Greenwich Theatre

I've been looking forward to this show ever since last year's extravaganza which was the best this hardcore pantomime enthusiast has ever seen (and yes - that does include Les Dawson as the nurse in Babes in the Wood...) And the same writer/dame as last year boded well for this year's effort. I was delighted to see that the guy who played the King last year was back too. I was very slightly (though unnecessarily in this particular case) worried by the closest that Greenwich Panto has ever come to "celebrity" performers (a dangerous route in my humble opinion - unknowns have to work harder which usually produces better performances) in the two young leads - rejects from two of those 'find-a-star-for-a-revival-of-a-safe-family-musical' programmes.

I was surprised at how quiet the theatre itself was - I know it's early in the season but I'm sure last year was much busier at even this time in the run. Half-full, I'd have said - which after last year's triumph was staggering. As it was there was a respectable number of brownies and other sundry tots, but generally far more adults than kids - which did, at least, have the benefit of everyone knowing what to do in the way of audience participation.

Dick Whittington is probably my favourite panto - and though the plot is as thin as the ice on the O2 rink that's never a real problem in this art-form. Need a spot of padding in panto? Add a slop-scene or a song. And there are a LOT of songs, mainly 80s favourites, well-chosen for the characters and very well-sung. Familiar cliches and knowing nods to even more familiar cliches work well and slick choreography milks every film/TV/advert/music/popular culture reference in the book.

It's wonderfully local - set in The City of London "via Greenwich," ahem, there is a fantastic frontcloth with a view of "Olde Greenwich," complete with Observatory and, er, Canary Wharf. Sadly, I think they must have spent the entire budget on that frontcloth (and Dick's Mum's utterly fabulous wardrobe) as the rest of the set is, frankly, a disappointment - unexcitingly designed and averagely executed. Does that matter? Not really when you've got great performers, but pantomime is all about spectacle and the set is a big part of that glamour. This one smacked of am-dram.

The performances don't, though. All of them are excellent - from the wonderful fairy who belts out Motown numbers in between ringing her magic Bow bells to a very sweet cat and the camply-wicked King Rat who minces about the stage with comedy rodents. Even the chorus guys are solidly good. Dick's Mum, Mrs Wilhelmina Whittington, is a superb dame - and great with the kids - but we all knew that anyway. Her best frock was, I think, either Dolly Parton, Gospel Singer or Sexy Harem Siren - but there were so many others saucy outfits (even if none was as saucy as the Heinz Soup get-up last year) it was difficult to decide. My fave character of all, though, was jolly Alderman Fitzwarren whose merry-old-soul persona is perfect for pantomime. Long may he play at Greenwich.

The two lovers are good actors and great singers, with loads of energy. They made extremely personable leads. But the ingenue roles are, frankly, a bit of a poisoned chalice in panto. My absolute favourite moment last year was definitely the lovers' song (usually the worst moment in every panto - the cue for dozens of small children to troop out to the loo) where the whole thing was totally sent up by naughty upstaging from the comic characters, taken to a whole, sublime new level. This year, possibly because Alice and Dick are such good singers, it was played straight. It was nice - very nice, in fact - but I missed the comedy.

So - is the show any good? Well - yes, actually, it is. I laughed and laughed and laughed - so much so that my face was still hurting by the time my (rather large) party got to the restaurant afterwards. If I hadn't seen last year's I'd have even said it was brilliant. There are a few slow moments - but it's early in the run and they will get slicker - and I could have taken a spot more slop in the slop-scene. But this is still a great local panto and an excellent way to get into the festive mood. Get your tickets now.

Clash of the Titans

"Big" King Tut v. "The Emperor"

Round One: British Museum. Round Two: The O2

A heavyweight cultural clash this season sees two hitherto undisputed champs take on each other in the London ring for the first time.

In the Blue Corner we have relative newcomer "Emperor" Qin Shihuangdi, whose fanbase, the barmy "Terracotta Army" will literally follow him to the ends of the earth. Discovered in 1974, he's received rave reviews and his sheer size should prove an interesting match for Big Tut.

Warming up in the Red Corner we have the perennial crowd favourite, King "The Boy" Tutankhamun. Still in good form after 3,000 years; some pundits have noted he's looking a little flabby around the midriff these days. We've seen Tutmania before - can he pull it off again?

Get your front row seats now to watch these two heavyweights slug it out to the death...

Dong! Round One:

The First Emperor

Form: Unknown. Only discovered in 1974 and no major exhibition in Britain before.

Weight: 20 figures + sundry grave goods.

Performance: Beautifully displayed in The Round Reading Room. Each warrior fabulously presented and close enough to (almost) touch. Fabulously displayed and well-lit. Scholarly but entertaining. Emphasis on life at the Imperial Court, including leisure and bureaucratic figures as well as the more famous military images. Clerks and musicians, animals and birds supplement the more famous terracotta soldiers. One of the most memorable parts is the contrast between the first figure - a crouching archer - and the last - a modern replica coloured as it would have originally have been. An extraordinary experience.

Extras: Large screens with filmic representations of the life of the First Emperor.

Rounds: Takes about an hour and a half.

Odds: Entry - £ 12 adults, children over 16, £ 10 Children under 16 free

Memorabilia: Classic British Museum mementos - t-shirts, mugs, books etc.

Knockout? Absolutely.

Verdict: The future for this guy is exciting indeed. Only a tiny part of the Terracotta Army itself has been unearthed so far; and virtually none of the rest of Qin Shihuangdi's funerary world. The man himself still rests under a giant earthen pyramid, allegedly sleeping in a temple surrounded by rivers of mercury. For now, though, this exhibition is outstanding.

Ding-ding. Time Out. Take out that mouth guard and enjoy a slice of orange, a magic sponge or one of those nice sandwiches in The Great Court.

Dong! Round Two:


"Big" King Tut

Form: The full collection of Treasures visited The British Museum in 1972 and smashed all box-office records. Crowds queued around the block to file past the famous funeral mask.

Weight: Far fewer items from the actual tomb of the boy king this time, bulked-out with treasures from lesser-known royal figures. The golden mask is, notoriously, not with the tour ('tour' being a good word for this spectacle; the man is given full rock-star treatment) but there is a fabulous miniature coffin, executed in perfect detail, to contain the royal liver, specially preserved some three thousand years before George Best thought he'd cut out the middleman and pickle his own liver pre-mortem. What the little golden sarcophagus lacks in stature it makes up for in detail - an absolutely stunning exhibit.

Performance: Surprisingly good. I was expecting a slick, highly-commercial, slightly tacky experience and it is certainly aimed at the crowds. A 90-second trailer (sorry "introduction") for the exhibition, voiced by Omar Shariff, bodes worryingly, the first few moments being more akin to a cross between a chillout lounge and a Disneyland ride. As the great doors open and everyone crowds round the first exhibit, the heart sinks. Is it going to be like this all the way round?

Actually not. After that first scrum, the crowds do disperse (a little - there's no way this is ever going to be a private view but it's nowhere near the crushes that you get at exhibitions at the V&A or Tate Britain) and the pieces have been laid out so that visitors can get all the way round each cabinet, further lessening the pressure. The labels are repeated at the top of each cabinet, so people waiting can read the notes first.

The exhibition looks good - not quite as cool as The First Emperor, but clear and simple. Much of the upstairs part is artifacts from other royal tombs - including a gold funeral mask and coffin from one of Tutankhamun's aunts. The Egyptians, like the Chinese, needed models of people to do their work for them in the afterlife, but they were more concerned with quality not quantity. The First Emperor had thousands of life-size clay figures; the Egyptians were happy that their shabtis were about a foot high, but they wanted them to be made of gold and precious stones.

The end of the upstairs part looks so much like the end of the exhibition that it produces a slight anticlimax. Happily this is showbiz and there is a finale downstairs - the climax of the exhibition, even if it's the audience that gets to do the walkdown. It's down here that the real treasures begin - the stuff that most people come for. Again it's well-displayed to make the most of the space. The final room is based around items actually found in the wrappings of the king, with a projected image of the absent coffin showing where each item was found.

Rounds: Takes a couple of hours.

Odds: A whopping £ 15 /20 adults (weekdays/weekends) £ 7.50/10 Children

Memorabilia: Generally pricey but reasonable quality. But some rubbish too. Tut tat includes a tissue box holder where the hankies come out through Tutankhamun's nose,£29.95, coffeepot baubles, £25, 'Mummy Putty,' £4.95, a sarcophagus CD rack, £240, single chocolate lollipops, £8.95 (no, really)and my favourite, a Zahi Hawass (not Indiana Jones, no, not at all) hat, £45.

Knockout? Yes. Definitely worth a visit.

Verdict: If you're patient, you can see all the exhibits well - it's busy, not ridiculous. The music, which reminded me of computer-game soundtracks (if you know Neverwinter Nights then it's just like the desert scenes) is not as irritating as I had expected - after a while you can forget it's there.

Overall winner: Difficult. Both are huge blockbusters, both hugely entertaining. If I had to choose, probably The First Emperor. But don't choose. Empty your piggy bank and see them both.

London Irish

Zane Radcliffe, Bantam, 2002

Warning - Spoilers included...

Next in my Great Greenwich Readathon is London Irish which, despite the title, is largely set in and around Greenwich Market. It's the very blackest variety of comedies - lots of laughs ( until you get used to the main character Bic he's intensely annoying - the sort of wag that if you get next to him at a pub you find yourself chewing your arm off to get away from. Once you understand him, though, he's very loveable) but plenty of gruesome, lots of grim and a big dollop of yeuch. It's also a rather sweet love story.

The book toddles along quite nicely at first, the only bump in comedy proceedings being the big shock that Radcliffe inserts at the end of each chapter. Even when you start to realise that a shocker at the end of a chapter is just how he writes, quite what the shock is is always - well - a shock.

It's set, as modern Greenwich books seem to be, in 1999, just before the Millennium (though it is, importantly, published in 2002.) Bic's brother's working (or not working) on the Dome, and the eye of the world is just beginning to crank round to South London for the celebrations. Of course this means that the eyes of international terrorists are also on Greenwich and the story revolves around mistaken identity, misplaced blame and misunderstood actions.

My biggest problem with the book - highly enjoyable though it is - is that it is centred around an event that never happened. Now, if this was a small thing that the world wouldn't notice, I wouldn't be bothered about it. Most stuff that happens in novels doesn't in real life, and long may it continue to do so. But an international terrorist bomb that obliterates The ORNC, The Cutty Sark, Greenwich Market and several people that are big enough (even if fictional) to be missed? Hmm.

Of course it could be me who finds it hard to deal with something so huge that never happened. I spent most of the novel wondering how the evil plot was going to be foiled; what clever ploy Radcliffe would use to make it resolve so that it came back to what we all know really happened. When it wasn't resolved and the terrorists succeeded, I felt somehow cheated - that Radcliffe had moved the metaphorical goalposts by changing History without letting the reader in on the joke. It's the literary novel equivalent of a murder mystery where the author gives you a selection of suspects and then tells you that it was a totally different character that hasn't appeared before (yes, Mr Allan Poe, I mean you... )

My other big 'iffy' thing was the use of coincidence - a series of events that are so unbelieveable that they would only work, ironically, if this was actually real life - those things where people say "You couldn't make it up." Too right. It's really hard to include HUGE coincidences in fiction and get away with it. In some respects Zane Radcliffe almost does - his charm and joi de vivre as a writer get him off many charges. But in my humble opinion he pretty much literally doesn't get away with murder.

Don't get me wrong. I thoroughly enjoyed this book. It was a quick read - I couldn't put it down. But ultimately it left me with a slightly empty feeling, a sensation that somehow he hadn't played quite fair with me.

I know that other people here have read this book. What do you think? Am I being hard here? Should I lighten up? It is just fiction, after all. He made it up. That's what novels are about. Or is the fact that The Old Royal Naval College, The Market and The Cutty Sark are still standing (well - only just in the latter's case) make London Irish the comedy equivalent of The Murders in the Rue Morgue?

Halloween at Charlton House

Four Hundred Years in the Making...

When I saw the flyer for this, I leaped upon it. A ghostly walk around Charlton House in the dead of night where "trained actors, designed to scare" (anyone else find that phraseology amusing?) would jump out at you from dark corners and terrify the living daylights out of you? It was either going to be fantastic or utterly rubbish. Either way, this was An Event For Me...

We chose the last tour of the evening, starting at 11.00, and arrived in plenty of time so we could enjoy a ghoulishly green custard tart and an entrance hall draped in spiders' webs. The staff were clearly enjoying themselves immensely - as was a large gaggle of extremely giggly teenage girls, all dressed for the occasion in mini skirts and sparkly hen-night devil's horns. I never did work out how many of them were having a birthday that evening, but spirits were very high indeed.

I was a bit worried at first that they'd made the group size too large for any kind of enjoyment, but actually part of the lunacy was manifested in the large number of people all shuffling round together. A terrifying woman with the loudest, shrieking-est voice I have ever heard, all torn metal and glottal-stop, gathered us together. I have no idea why she was wearing a headset microphone. Perhaps she was trying to reach an audience on Mars. That voice seared through my brain and stays with me - along with her eyes - those creepy contact lenses that make you look like you've got no irises.

By this point the girls were jumpy - very jumpy. As we climbed the stairs behind the creepy housekeeper, they nudged and budged each other, but they weren't scared yet. They weren't even scared when she left us with a very short, masked character carrying a scythe who took us into the first room.

I'm not going to tell you exactly what goes on on the tour, because despite the fact that this was intended as a one-off for the 400th anniversary of the house, I can see this turning into an annual event and if any of you plan on going it will be totally spoiled if you know what's coming.

What I will tell you is the way I enjoyed it - entirely through the increasing hysteria of those teenage girls. Once they started screaming, they just didn't stop. Egged on by each other - and the fact that the actors (sorry, monsters) quickly worked out which people to target - they became almost uncontrollably delirious, screaming at a level that made the scary housekeeper' screeching sound like a lullaby. At one point I was caught in a pincer-movement of two sets of squealing girlies trying to get away from the clutches of two monsters and got a bit crushed, which I confess actually raised my own terror level. Death By Teenager is a frightening thought indeed. With each new room, as each new interpretation of horror was unveiled, they just went more berserk. They were certainly getting their money's worth.

For the rest of us, well, there were moments that made me think that under the right circumstances I could be a bit creeped-out, but those girls just made the whole thing extremely funny.

At times, and especially towards the end, the energy dipped a little, and I would recommend that in the future the actors don't speak directly to the audience - as soon as any of them opened their mouths (with one glorious exception) the magic was lost - they were just not commanding enough to instill any kind of fear in anyone who wasn't half-cut, half-dressed or half-witted. The monsters who kept schtum were actually quite menacing. Those who introduced themselves just weren't. Not that the screaming girls noticed. By now, they were terrifying each other.

So it was unfortunate that there was a hiatus before the big finale, during which at least half the party were heard whining "I wanna go toilet..." In that holding-pattern while the end was nigh, the atmosphere started to sag. It was well set up (a spot of dry ice and a fog machine would have put the cherry on the cake) but by now our screaming teenagers were beginning to sober up.

They weren't interested in the final Mr Big ghoul (perhaps an echo chamber effect would have given him the gravitas he needed,) though they did begin to build up steam again as the scene began. Trouble is, hysteria makes for clumsiness and, as they scrabbled in their mania to get away, one fell over. Several others fell over her. So the final part of my particular evening was witnessing a good-old-fashioned Charlton ding-dong as her mates rounded on the monsters concerned.

As about half the audience left, I didn't hear the entire fracas, though I did hear the immortal line
"Well you didn't 'ave to scare 'er..."
Ahem. Wasn't that precisely what they were there for?

Unfortunately our 'trained' actors had obviously missed the lecture where, however provoked you may be, you don't throw a queenie fit when a good half of the audience are still in the house. By now, we just wanted to get out, but our way was blocked by at least one pissed-off 'trained' actor throwing a wobbly about the teenage girls, who had disappeared anyway. The strip lights were turned on and although a couple of ghouls gallantly tried to keep the atmosphere going, by now it was over. We walked home in virtual silence, the moment killed stone dead after so much laughter.

There is a lot going for this event, and I'll happily accept that what I experienced was teething troubles. Once they've got the pace issue dealt with and one or two people have taken anger-management classes this will be fantastic entertainment. As it is, 25 of the 30 minutes are already great. Look out for it next year. Just don't tell your teenagers...

Walking Ghostly Greenwich Parts 1 & 2

Malcolm C. Godfrey, Time For Greenwich, 2004

I guess if anyone was qualified to write a book about Ghostly Greenwich, Malcolm Godfrey fits the bill, having been the last resident of The Lieutenant Governor's Residence in the Old Royal Naval College. He has always been interested in the supernatural and his role as Hospitality and Events Manager at what he claims to be the most haunted spot in Great Britain (a tough call IMHO - but you need to be bold when you're writing a book) meant that he, his family or friends were personally witness to several of the chilling events he describes. Does this make it even more authentic or slightly flaky? Well, I always say a tale is in the telling - and Malcolm Godfrey is clearly a raconteur...

If I'm honest, it does feel a teeny-tiny bit on the flimsy side. Of the two books, the first, about The Old Royal Naval College, is the most substantial. It's an easy, quick read, entertaining (if only for the typos,) and has a ring of personal conviction and enjoyable anecdotal evidence. Most of Greenwich's ghosts seem to be benign - either slightly sad - or even downright friendly. Several of the stories describe kindly spectres helping out with chores or keeping a watchful eye on things.

Where the book comes into its own are the little historical asides that Godfrey throws in almost, seemingly, by accident - several things I had neither read nor heard anywhere else. He is uniquely placed to know choice details about the building and function of the place and I wonder whether he might have been better employed writing a lighthearted history of the ORNC buildings (maybe he should think about that next.) I get the feeling that it's ever-so-slightly 'padded,' with descriptions of creepy places that don't actually have any supernatural history or sightings but send shivers down your spine anyway - but if a book's enjoyable, it doesn't really matter if its course alters from time to time.

The second book, which deals with Greenwich at large, "From Deptford to the Dome," is equally easy to read, if even lighter on 'ghostly' substance - but yet again has fascinating nuggets of historical detail and some curious photographs that stand up on their own for pure historical interest. Sometimes places don't need an actual ghost to give you the creeps and Malcolm Godfrey is very good at raising the fear temperature (just as the ghostly temperature drops) whilst telling stories about places that you'd not instantly associate with spirits. And just as he can make places that have no supernatural connotations feel phantasmagorical, he's equally (and frustratingly) good at not telling us the exact address of a haunted house because the present owners are unaware of the place's history. Now that's storytelling...

How much of it do I believe? Well, in the cold light of this sunny Monday morning, absolutely none at all. But stick me in the haunted skittle alley alone at midnight...

Birdman

Mo Hayder, Bantam, 1999

Several warped individuals recommended this psychological thriller as being set in Greenwich, but I confess I had prevaricated on the grounds that "I couldn't find it in the local bookshop" ( a feeble excuse, I know, but I am a sensitive soul) until The Phantom Webmaster found it in a booksale an