Disgressed

There’s a big collection of old Tube posters here. Many of them are splendid, like those by John Hassall, who also produced the famous Skegness is so bracing. There’s a lot of avant garde stuff, including a poster by Man Ray; in fact I suspect that even some of the posters which look appealingly quaint now looked pretty modernistic in their time.

It seems clear that the adventurous nature of these posters and the high aspirations they embody arise from a tradition which the Underground somehow established for itself, and expressed through modernistic but attractive buildings, its elegantly simple typeface, and its celebrated schematic map as well as through posters with high artistic standards. I’m not quite sure how this tradition got started, but it’s easy to see how it continues to have an influence although the management of the Tube has surely been through some fundamental changes in the last century or so. Just as an advertising agency taking on the Guinness account is going to feel under pressure to produce something a bit special, a designer working for the Underground must be aware of the notable benchmarks established in the past.

There’s something paradoxical about a tradition of modernism. I think this is noticeable at Westminster station. The total reconstruction of the station at the end of the last century as part of the work on the Jubilee line extension is rightly celebrated: the exposed engineering and industrial-brutal lack of overt decoration give the whole thing an agreeable science fiction air, which is perfectly in tune with the Tube tradition of combining modernism with practicality and popular appeal. It is genuinely a nice experience to arrive on the Jubilee line deep in the bowels of the earth and make your way up the succession of escalators, even on a Monday morning (and I’m speaking from personal experience).

And yet… It’s modernistic, but isn’t it somehow a retro kind of modernism? Those porthole lights in the sides of the escalators – I don’t think that was ever actually done in the thirties, but it looks straight out of the ocean liner aesthetic which I think was current back then. Some of the features, such as the hanging lights, definitely look late twentieth century, but the overall effect is much older; if we’re in a science fiction world, it’s more Metropolis than The Matrix.

But then Metropolis was probably a better film, really.

The other day I caught a trailer on the Today programme for an item on Costing the Earth about how various bugs or insects are becoming more common in the UK. Apparently this includes a big increase in the number of bed bugs, some of which have taken up residence in the cosy seating of the Tube and other forms of public transport in London. The increasing numbers are partly attributed, inevitably, to global warming, and partly to the increasingly wide ban on various kinds of insecticides. Nobody mentioned DDT, but I have heard it argued that if everything is taken into account, even that notorious substance actually did more good than harm overall.

An expert called David Cain, who I think was speaking on behalf of bedbugs.co.uk, said that certain areas of the tube system were particularly affected.

“So, you would really check your clothing if you’re travelling through the East End?”

“If I was travelling through the East End, I wouldn’t be sitting down at all.” he replied, darkly.

That seems a little odd: the District line trains that run through Mile End also rattle through Westminster and Earl’s Court (and much the same is true of the buses). Perhaps when the train reaches Aldgate East, the bugs rise from their seats, and with a cheery wave, get off.

“‘Scuse me, gov: we don’t go no further than this. That’s why they call this place Allget Out, ennit?”

I think I can foresee one consequence of all this, though. I’m sure even now in that vast thirties block at St James’s Park where the Tube is administered, someone is taking careful note.

“Look at this, Simpkins – bed bugs. Don’t the scorpions eat the little beggars? I suppose that’s too much to hope for. Well, I think we have to be seen to respond to this one. How about reviewing our procurement arrangements? Next time we get some new rolling stock, remind me to reduce the number of seats again and not to order any upholstery. We’ll go for a few plain moulded plastic perches, in future, I think. Yes, it’s cheaper, but that’s really not the point. Health and Safety after all, you know.”

I’ve often said that there should be another way into Hackbridge station. As it is you have to drag yourself up over the railway bridge with heavy traffic whizzing past your ear, down the stairs on the other side, cross the car park,into the station and along the platform to a point about ten feet from where you were five minutes ago. On the return journey it’s even worse: along the platform, cross the tracks on the footbridge, out of the station, cross the car park, up the steps, back over the tracks on the railway bridge with heavy traffic…etc. There’s even a kind of abandoned set of metal stairs which once would have allowed you to get directly onto the platform from only halfway up the railway bridge. And the land there is being redeveloped anyway: a short path and you could walk directly onto the platform from Beddington park, without ever going near the road.

I’m sure other people feel the same. It’s nearly always been on Hackbridge bridge that I’ve had the more bad-tempered encounters (The old lady with the dog, for instance: one day for no reason it barked at me: ever since she gives me a frown whenever we pass. Perhaps she’s confused and thinks it was me that suddenly barked at her. Then there was the man who insisted on riding his bike on what is a pretty narrow footpath as it is. And ringing his bell at me so I should get out of his way. Or there was the old man with white hair. He looked pretty much how I imagine Ben Gunn, if we can admit the idea of Ben Gunn wearing a blue plastic jacket and trainers. He would stand there blocking the way at the top of the bridge, apparently gazing into the far distance – looking for a bus? The cheese delivery? – and then turn round with an expression of utter, helpless incredulity at the idea that there should be someone who had walked up the path behind him and now wanted to walk past. Like yesterday.) of my daily walk to and from the station. I’m sure we’d all be happier and much less glaring people if we could just saunter through the trees and gently onto the platform.

Picture to yourself, then my surprise and disbelief, almost comparable to that of an elderly pirate disturbed in his restless scanning of the cheeseless horizons of Mitcham, when a pile of leaflets appeared in the station proposing that just such a path should actually be built. Respondents were asked to tick some boxes to indicate their support or otherwise.

I’m afraid the station staff have not done much to support this excellent initiative. The leaflets were originally dumped on top of the free Metro papers: then put at the bottom of a deep plastic box on the ground in the corner furthest from the door. Come on, chaps – there should be people pressing these leaflets on passers-by the way the Round Table do with tickets for Guy Fawkes Night.

Would it be wrong of me to fill in a second form, sort of on behalf of one of the people who hasn’t had chance to do it for themselves? An old lady, say, sick of being barked at on a daily basis?

We recently returned from Spain, where among other places we visited the monastery of Santa María de la Rábida. There was something strange about the place, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on until after we had left.

The picture is of Christopher Columbus, one of a series which hang in the monastery. The odd square and circle shapes (which actually jut out from the surface of the canvas), curious distortions, and the disproportionate head and hands of the great explorer all appear to be part of the artist’s regular style, since all the paintings have similar features.

Columbus is strongly associated with the monastery. Initially, it seems, he attempted to interest the Portuguese in the idea of transatlantic exploration, but met with complete indifference. Giving up in disgust, he crossed the border into Spain, and stopped at La Rabida. Here, luckily, he met Francisco Jiménez de Cisneros – not only the Queen’s former confessor, but a politician of exceptional energy and determination: readily taking up the idea of a new, Western route to India, Cisneros was immensely helpful in getting Royal sponsorship and making the project happen. The three ships used on the first expedition were built and crewed in nearby towns, and it was from this south-western extremity of Spain that they set off.

The building, still very much an active monastery besides being a national monument and tourist attraction, is pleasant enough, with courtyards and rooms full of maps, scale models, and so on. One smallish room, where Columbus and Cisneros apparently spent a lot of time together planning the expedition, is apparently called “The Mother of America”, which seems a little excessive given that Columbus merely discovered the continent, rather than – I don’t know – somehow causing its actual gestation. But I suppose a bit of hyperbole is understandable. On our way out we passed through the tiny gift shop, featuring a smiling monk and an array of what must really be the dullest and least desirable souvenirs I’ve ever seen. Of course all souvenirs are giftoid in nature – things no-one actually wants or needs – but usually the full weight of their worthlessness only becomes apparent about two years later when you come on them covered in dust on the top of your wardrobe or somewhere. At La Rabida the magic shopping delusion simply did not operate and the stuff was visibly junk from the off.

A stroll down the hill took us past the gleaming new brickwork of the Foro Iberamericano – a kind of circular stadium. Some unredeemable moron had sprayed a first piece of graffiti on it. I don’t mind graffiti too much on surfaces which are already painted, but to do it on pristine brickwork seems to require another circle of Hell altogether.

Just across the road there are full-size replicas of the Niña, the Pinta and the Santa María, Columbus’s three ships.

“Hello!” said an enthusiastic guide as we made our way through the turnstile “Today the Serbians are in our village!”

I wondered whether she had a defective phrase-book. Perhaps she had picked up “100 emergency English phrases for Croats” by mistake.

“They are dancing!” she added – apparently this was really good news.

We smiled pacifically and pushed on towards the ships. At the base of the gangplank we were accosted by another guide.

“You know,” she told us, “Today we are being visited by a company of Serbian dancers. They are sponsored by the European Community. They are performing in our replica medieval village. If you hurry, you will be in time to see them.”

We thanked her and proceeded up the gangplank instead. The three ships make quite a striking spectacle, but it looks as if the enthusiasm ran out a bit when it came to mocking up authentic internal detail – they are basically hollow shells with a few dummy sacks and coils of rope thrown down here and there in a desultory manner.

“Let’s go and see the Serbians, shall we?” said Katharine. So we went to see the EC-sponsored Serbs dancing with horsewhips in the replica medieval village. All part of that authentic Columbus experience.

There were plenty of other visitors around, but there was something strange. It only struck me as we were on the road heading west again. Not a single American. Perhaps there were American tourists who for some reason remained entirely silent; perhaps by some statistical fluke we hit the only part of the day when no-one from the USA happened to be around. Perhaps word just hasn’t got around yet – in which case I can now feel I’ve done my bit. Look out for the Serbs.