Rob: November 2007 Archives
The Tower of London has held a menagerie since the thirteenth century. It was a place where magnificent tigers, elephants and even polar bears cavorted for the pleasure of kings and queens. However, 800 years is a long time and the Beefeaters have not always managed to keep up such an impressive roster of animals. Here are the beasts that most disappointed the Royal crowds:
1. A parrot shouting 'Vive la France!'
2. A spider with six legs*
3. A moody little monkey
4. A fried egg in a nest
5. A pig's head on a pole**
6. A fairly hungry caterpillar
7. Richard Nixon
8. A goat chewing a Beefeater's sock
9. A shepherd's pie
10. Fred Bassett
*Historians now think this was probably just an ant
** After five years of bad reviews, the Beefeaters augmented this menagerie inmate by making it 'wink' every so often, via a simple contraption made out of fishing line. The new winking pig's head on a pole became one of the Tower of London's greatest attractions, drawing hundreds of thousands of visitors each year. Even Queen Victoria came to see it in 1859, although sadly she took offence at the pig's head 'getting fresh' and slapped it. The winking mechanism was irreprably destroyed.
1. A parrot shouting 'Vive la France!'
2. A spider with six legs*3. A moody little monkey
4. A fried egg in a nest
5. A pig's head on a pole**
6. A fairly hungry caterpillar
7. Richard Nixon
8. A goat chewing a Beefeater's sock
9. A shepherd's pie
10. Fred Bassett
*Historians now think this was probably just an ant
** After five years of bad reviews, the Beefeaters augmented this menagerie inmate by making it 'wink' every so often, via a simple contraption made out of fishing line. The new winking pig's head on a pole became one of the Tower of London's greatest attractions, drawing hundreds of thousands of visitors each year. Even Queen Victoria came to see it in 1859, although sadly she took offence at the pig's head 'getting fresh' and slapped it. The winking mechanism was irreprably destroyed.
(Photo: Tony Goulding, licensed under Creative Commons 2.0)
If they were laid out end to end, all the dildos from all the sex shops in Soho would form a vibrating plastic line stretching along The Mall from Admiralty Arch to the gates of Buckingham Palace - a distance of 1094 yards.
Laying dildos end to end along The Mall is technically treason, as Roy Castle found to his cost whilst filming a Record Breakers Christmas special in 1985.
Ceremonial Royal sex toys on parade at Princess Anne's wedding in 1973 - three years before the incident that led to their banishment from the realm.
(Source images: Michael Wilson, Alan Connor, Prometeo Rodríguez Lucero, licensed under Creative Commons 2.0)
Laying dildos end to end along The Mall is technically treason, as Roy Castle found to his cost whilst filming a Record Breakers Christmas special in 1985.
Ceremonial Royal sex toys on parade at Princess Anne's wedding in 1973 - three years before the incident that led to their banishment from the realm.
(Source images: Michael Wilson, Alan Connor, Prometeo Rodríguez Lucero, licensed under Creative Commons 2.0)
The 'fancy restaurant' to which Prince refers in 'Nothing Compares 2 U', the hit he wrote for Sinead O'Connor, is this Angus Steakhouse on Shaftesbury Avenue.'I can eat whatever I choose.'
Early in the morning of 20 January 2006, a commuter made an unusual
call to the emergency services. Hesitantly, he said he wasn't sure if
he was hallucinating, but he thought he'd seen a whale in the Thames,
just by Canary Wharf. He wasn't hallucinating. At 8:17 am, the
authorities confirmed there was indeed a whale in the river - the first
cetacean in the capital since Dalston Whale Pond was drained in 1973.
Sightings followed throughout the day. By nine o'clock, the whale was approaching the Millennium Bridge. By ten, it had come ashore and was seen flopping down the escalators at Charing Cross tube station. An hour later, it was spotted enjoying elevenses at a smart café on the King's Road, and by noon it had joined the queue for Madame Tussauds.
The London whale breaches outside Selfridges on Oxford Street
The whale caused a sensation. Londonders abandoned their desks to get a glimpse of the vast marine mammal, checking rolling news reports and using mobile phones to find out where it had last been spotted. There was something of a scramble in the media to name the whale. ITN and Sky both came up with 'Whalo', the BBC went for 'Mr Whale', but it was the Evening Standard's headline, 'WOLFENSTEIN THE WHALE', that stuck in the public imagination.
Whale experts were concerned that the whale might become stressed in London, what with the crowds and dry conditions. Volunteers bravely approached Wolfenstein - an adult male more than forty feet in length - in an attempt to shoo him back toward deep water, or indeed any water at all. But the whale, now sporting a novelty policeman's helmet, seemed determined to continue sightseeting, and went on to visit the National Gallery and the British Museum, before becoming wedged in the turnstile of the London Dungeon.
Marine biologists tried to keep the beast alive, ladling water over his scaly skin and feeding him plankton flakes while a big crane was fetched, but to no avail. Late that afternoon, Wolfenstein slipped away, his last poignant moments captured by a Sky newscopter, his giant tongue still reflexively lapping at the Cornetto he had bought on the South Bank. By dusk, the Royal Navy were on the scene with an impromptu body bag made from a submarine cosy. A city mourned.
But never fear, the London Whale lives on: Wolfenstein's laminated skeleton now serves as a charming children's climbing frame in Regent's Park.
(Source images: Julian Robinson, Edgley César, licensed under Creative Commons 2.0)
Sightings followed throughout the day. By nine o'clock, the whale was approaching the Millennium Bridge. By ten, it had come ashore and was seen flopping down the escalators at Charing Cross tube station. An hour later, it was spotted enjoying elevenses at a smart café on the King's Road, and by noon it had joined the queue for Madame Tussauds.
The London whale breaches outside Selfridges on Oxford Street
The whale caused a sensation. Londonders abandoned their desks to get a glimpse of the vast marine mammal, checking rolling news reports and using mobile phones to find out where it had last been spotted. There was something of a scramble in the media to name the whale. ITN and Sky both came up with 'Whalo', the BBC went for 'Mr Whale', but it was the Evening Standard's headline, 'WOLFENSTEIN THE WHALE', that stuck in the public imagination.
Whale experts were concerned that the whale might become stressed in London, what with the crowds and dry conditions. Volunteers bravely approached Wolfenstein - an adult male more than forty feet in length - in an attempt to shoo him back toward deep water, or indeed any water at all. But the whale, now sporting a novelty policeman's helmet, seemed determined to continue sightseeting, and went on to visit the National Gallery and the British Museum, before becoming wedged in the turnstile of the London Dungeon.
Marine biologists tried to keep the beast alive, ladling water over his scaly skin and feeding him plankton flakes while a big crane was fetched, but to no avail. Late that afternoon, Wolfenstein slipped away, his last poignant moments captured by a Sky newscopter, his giant tongue still reflexively lapping at the Cornetto he had bought on the South Bank. By dusk, the Royal Navy were on the scene with an impromptu body bag made from a submarine cosy. A city mourned.
But never fear, the London Whale lives on: Wolfenstein's laminated skeleton now serves as a charming children's climbing frame in Regent's Park.
(Source images: Julian Robinson, Edgley César, licensed under Creative Commons 2.0)
Housed in the vitamin-enriched majesty of a former Victorian oat-puffing plant, this gallery holds the largest collection of paintings, sculptures and photographs of cereal mascots in the world - including the controversial Lucian Freud portrait of a neckerchief-less Tony the Tiger.
Tracey Emin's sexually charged Snap, Crackle and Pop, from the National Cereal Mascot Portrait Gallery's permanent collection
Tracey Emin's sexually charged Snap, Crackle and Pop, from the National Cereal Mascot Portrait Gallery's permanent collection
In 2003, Mayor Ken Livingstone invented the Oyster card - a credit-card sized piece of plastic that harnesses the power of clockwork and wafer-thin magnets to allow commuters to pre-pay for their travel on London's Tube, bus and zeppelin network.
Oyster card users simply press their cards against the 'no fuss' magnetic readers at the beginning and end of their journey, allowing them to pass swiftly through the ticket barriers with the ease of a top forensic detective slipping through the police line at the scene of a murder.
However, such convenience comes with a terrible responsibility - you must 'touch in' at the start and 'touch out' at the end of every journey. If you do not, Transport for London will summon one of nine St. James's Ticket Wraiths (SKILL 12, STAMINA 24) and dispatch it to your house. Probably the most eldritch of all London Underground staff, these fell, robed creatures materialise in commuters' bedrooms in the dead of night, looming over their victims and breathing out evil vapours from the very lungs of the Northern Line. The terrified Londoner must press their Oyster card against the apparition's face - which is a fully-functional magnetic reader with a wireless link to the main Transport for London database - or pay a £20 on-the-spot fine.
If you have you been affected by a visit from one of Transport for London's St. James's Ticket Wraiths or are having trouble paying your fine, call the Mayor of London's office on 020 7983 4100.
Oyster card users simply press their cards against the 'no fuss' magnetic readers at the beginning and end of their journey, allowing them to pass swiftly through the ticket barriers with the ease of a top forensic detective slipping through the police line at the scene of a murder.
However, such convenience comes with a terrible responsibility - you must 'touch in' at the start and 'touch out' at the end of every journey. If you do not, Transport for London will summon one of nine St. James's Ticket Wraiths (SKILL 12, STAMINA 24) and dispatch it to your house. Probably the most eldritch of all London Underground staff, these fell, robed creatures materialise in commuters' bedrooms in the dead of night, looming over their victims and breathing out evil vapours from the very lungs of the Northern Line. The terrified Londoner must press their Oyster card against the apparition's face - which is a fully-functional magnetic reader with a wireless link to the main Transport for London database - or pay a £20 on-the-spot fine.If you have you been affected by a visit from one of Transport for London's St. James's Ticket Wraiths or are having trouble paying your fine, call the Mayor of London's office on 020 7983 4100.
As the Second World War began with fears that German bombers would menace the capital, Churchill's government drew up plans for mass evacuation. The huge logistical exercise began in November 1939 - almost 1.5 million adults were taken by train and bus to live with families in the safety of the countryside. Children remained behind - small and nimble, Churchill reasoned, they would be harder targets for German bombs to hit.
The youngsters were trained to keep London running all by themselves, filling every role except for the few jobs that only adults could do, such as reviewing the theatre or fetching things down from high shelves. Office workers, train drivers, zoo keepers - all these jobs were done by the under-fifteens.
Henry Heath, eight, photographed outside one of his 23 London factories
This strategy was not without its problems. Work in one accountancy firm ground to a halt when its wartime boss - six-year-old Neil Follett - sent a memo to all staff warning of "a tiperiter monster" loose on the second floor. By 1941, for the first time, Britain was a net importer of rusks, and to this day, bathtime is technically illegal in Bethnal Green.
However, all in all things went very smoothly, and indeed London's wartime economy was at its healthiest since 1929. But the situation was very different in the countryside, clogged as it was with bored, shiftless adults, forever getting under the feet of their unwilling hosts. The displaced grown-ups became such a nuisance to the important activities of farming and food production that Churchill was forced to evacuate them again - this time to the Isle of Wight where they were put to work "making sandwiches for the Front".
The adults were finally allowed back in London in June 1944, gladly taking back their old jobs; although for most, proper work didn't resume until September that year, by which time all the jam had been hosed off their desks.
(Source images: Frankie Roberto, Owen Blacker, licensed under Creative Commons 2.0)
The youngsters were trained to keep London running all by themselves, filling every role except for the few jobs that only adults could do, such as reviewing the theatre or fetching things down from high shelves. Office workers, train drivers, zoo keepers - all these jobs were done by the under-fifteens.
Henry Heath, eight, photographed outside one of his 23 London factories
This strategy was not without its problems. Work in one accountancy firm ground to a halt when its wartime boss - six-year-old Neil Follett - sent a memo to all staff warning of "a tiperiter monster" loose on the second floor. By 1941, for the first time, Britain was a net importer of rusks, and to this day, bathtime is technically illegal in Bethnal Green.
However, all in all things went very smoothly, and indeed London's wartime economy was at its healthiest since 1929. But the situation was very different in the countryside, clogged as it was with bored, shiftless adults, forever getting under the feet of their unwilling hosts. The displaced grown-ups became such a nuisance to the important activities of farming and food production that Churchill was forced to evacuate them again - this time to the Isle of Wight where they were put to work "making sandwiches for the Front".
The adults were finally allowed back in London in June 1944, gladly taking back their old jobs; although for most, proper work didn't resume until September that year, by which time all the jam had been hosed off their desks.
(Source images: Frankie Roberto, Owen Blacker, licensed under Creative Commons 2.0)
This 7-hectare patch of lush tropical jungle owes its existence to Willesden's unique microclimate.
