NoJo
Happily Marred
- Joined
- May 19, 2002
- Posts
- 15,398
The Last Routemaster From Golders Green
I’ve been staying over at my mother’s house, while she recovers from an operation. I lived in that house until I was eighteen. It’s a big semi-detached house on a main road, near the Bus Station.
When I used to come home from school, I would hope that there was traffic; because if there was, chances were that the bus I was riding would be going slow enough for me to jump off right outside the front gate of my house, saving me the 200 yards walk back from the bus stop. I’d crouch on the “landing stage” at the back of the bus, hanging onto the pole, and swing right out like a motor cycle pillion, getting ready to jump, ignoring the signs posted on the landing telling me that “PASSENGERS MUST ONLY ALIGHT AT STOPS, AND WHEN THE BUS IS AT A STANDSTILL”.
These were the RouteMaster buses, as famous a London tourist sight as the Buckingham Palace guards, and a lot cheaper to sit on. The conductors, often old, grey-haired Jamaicans from the “Windrush” – they were invited over in the 1950’s especially to staff London Transport – were dignified and lugubrious. Many of them were as knowledgeable as Taxi drivers about the streets and places along their routes.
But over the years, the Routemasters with their daredevil landing stages have been gradually replaced by a new fleet of buses. Ugly, rectangular boxy shaped things, they are, compared to the rounded corners of the Routemasters.
No doubt their engines are more efficient; they probably emit less carbon monoxide too. And I guess, being new, they break down less often and are cheaper to repair. But probably the main reason, that they’ve replaced the Routemasters is given away by the name everybody knows them by: “One-Man Buses.” No conductors. And no conductor’s wages. And they don’t have landing stages. They have doors operated by the driver. So, no more kids flying off the back off the buses and causing grief for London Transport’s legal department when they get the hospital bills.
Today, as I stood trapped on the "One-Man" bus right outside my mother’s house waiting for it to crawl the last 200 yards to the stop, I see a crowd of people lining the road. They’re all of a type: Deformed. Male. And they all have cameras. Photojournalists?
When I get off I ask one of the men what’s going on. “ee ha hus”, he tells me. Then I notice his deaf-aid. Eventually I find out that they’re all waiting for the last RouteMaster to leave Golders Green Bus Depot.
These guys, who make trainspotters seem socially adept, are all chatting cheerfully and chomping on ham sandwiches. Two of them compare notebooks, lists of chassis numbers. Forget the big numbers on the front of the bus. Bus spotters recognise each individual bus by sight, whether it’s a currently running the number 8 route or the 88.
Finally, it arrives at the bus stop. It’s a number 13, bound, as it has been every day for the last 51 years, for Piccadilly Circus.
It’s been given a new paint-job; it glows bright red in the clear Autumn sunshine. Immediately it fills up with Bus Spotters, who scramble for seats and then call up their mates on their mobile phones proudly. The bus waits at the stop like a prize racehorse, posing for photographs.
Eventually it moves off, slow and serene. I get a sudden urge to jump on it. Just for the hell of it, I do.
I’ve been staying over at my mother’s house, while she recovers from an operation. I lived in that house until I was eighteen. It’s a big semi-detached house on a main road, near the Bus Station.
When I used to come home from school, I would hope that there was traffic; because if there was, chances were that the bus I was riding would be going slow enough for me to jump off right outside the front gate of my house, saving me the 200 yards walk back from the bus stop. I’d crouch on the “landing stage” at the back of the bus, hanging onto the pole, and swing right out like a motor cycle pillion, getting ready to jump, ignoring the signs posted on the landing telling me that “PASSENGERS MUST ONLY ALIGHT AT STOPS, AND WHEN THE BUS IS AT A STANDSTILL”.
These were the RouteMaster buses, as famous a London tourist sight as the Buckingham Palace guards, and a lot cheaper to sit on. The conductors, often old, grey-haired Jamaicans from the “Windrush” – they were invited over in the 1950’s especially to staff London Transport – were dignified and lugubrious. Many of them were as knowledgeable as Taxi drivers about the streets and places along their routes.
But over the years, the Routemasters with their daredevil landing stages have been gradually replaced by a new fleet of buses. Ugly, rectangular boxy shaped things, they are, compared to the rounded corners of the Routemasters.
No doubt their engines are more efficient; they probably emit less carbon monoxide too. And I guess, being new, they break down less often and are cheaper to repair. But probably the main reason, that they’ve replaced the Routemasters is given away by the name everybody knows them by: “One-Man Buses.” No conductors. And no conductor’s wages. And they don’t have landing stages. They have doors operated by the driver. So, no more kids flying off the back off the buses and causing grief for London Transport’s legal department when they get the hospital bills.
Today, as I stood trapped on the "One-Man" bus right outside my mother’s house waiting for it to crawl the last 200 yards to the stop, I see a crowd of people lining the road. They’re all of a type: Deformed. Male. And they all have cameras. Photojournalists?
When I get off I ask one of the men what’s going on. “ee ha hus”, he tells me. Then I notice his deaf-aid. Eventually I find out that they’re all waiting for the last RouteMaster to leave Golders Green Bus Depot.
These guys, who make trainspotters seem socially adept, are all chatting cheerfully and chomping on ham sandwiches. Two of them compare notebooks, lists of chassis numbers. Forget the big numbers on the front of the bus. Bus spotters recognise each individual bus by sight, whether it’s a currently running the number 8 route or the 88.
Finally, it arrives at the bus stop. It’s a number 13, bound, as it has been every day for the last 51 years, for Piccadilly Circus.
It’s been given a new paint-job; it glows bright red in the clear Autumn sunshine. Immediately it fills up with Bus Spotters, who scramble for seats and then call up their mates on their mobile phones proudly. The bus waits at the stop like a prize racehorse, posing for photographs.
Eventually it moves off, slow and serene. I get a sudden urge to jump on it. Just for the hell of it, I do.
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