'London, building by building' chapter notes - Episode One: The Shield House
Below is the script that I wrote for the first episode of 'London, building by building,' titled 'The Shield House'. These videos appear periodically on YouTube. If you are already confused, then I suggest that you read my previous blog where I explain the concept of the channel in interminable detail.
I thought about making this video for a long time. I had a photograph of a building that I wanted to use, along with some vague concepts and a basic structure. In hindsight, I dug my heels in a little too hard creatively and should have played around more with the ideas and the presentation. That being said, I probably needed to make one of these videos and see a completed version before I could judge what worked and what I wanted to change.
Chapter One is presented as if it is an excerpt from book on London history. Consequently it holds the listener at arm's length. The second chapter course corrected and is an anecdotal first-person narrative with a bit more humanity. In the third chapter (which is taking a geological age to edit) I begin planting the seeds of the story that I want to tell. The fourth episode (which is currently in the planning stages and, if my present work rate is anything to go by, will likely appear in 2024) builds on this narrative and is a bit mad. I have an improvised special effect planned for that episode that may destroy my iPod Nano, though I am taking great care to ensure that doesn't happen.
Anyway, onto the script. Any bold text in square brackets is my commentary on the writing and what I was trying to achieve.
Chapter One: The Shield House
From the Shadwell tile beds, to the radio tower at Rontree.
I thought about making this video for a long time. I had a photograph of a building that I wanted to use, along with some vague concepts and a basic structure. In hindsight, I dug my heels in a little too hard creatively and should have played around more with the ideas and the presentation. That being said, I probably needed to make one of these videos and see a completed version before I could judge what worked and what I wanted to change.
Chapter One is presented as if it is an excerpt from book on London history. Consequently it holds the listener at arm's length. The second chapter course corrected and is an anecdotal first-person narrative with a bit more humanity. In the third chapter (which is taking a geological age to edit) I begin planting the seeds of the story that I want to tell. The fourth episode (which is currently in the planning stages and, if my present work rate is anything to go by, will likely appear in 2024) builds on this narrative and is a bit mad. I have an improvised special effect planned for that episode that may destroy my iPod Nano, though I am taking great care to ensure that doesn't happen.
Anyway, onto the script. Any bold text in square brackets is my commentary on the writing and what I was trying to achieve.
~
Chapter One: The Shield House
[Photo image of river barge crossing the Thames
The sound of waves breaking on the shoreline slowly fades in]
From the Shadwell tile beds, to the radio tower at Rontree.
From Breslin Hill to Boyer Rose underground station.
[With the exception of Shadwell (where there are, to my knowledge, no tile beds) none of these places exist. Again, with the exception of Shadwell (which is practically on the doorstep of the City of London) I was trying to come up with the kind of outlying locations that occupy the farthest reaches of the London Underground map; distant outposts of metropolitan suburbia that you might idly romanticise, but never actually visit. I imagine the radio tower at Rontree as a tall, unidentified pylon-like structure that might creep over the distant horizon as you approached the apex of the London Eye.
I conceived the Shadwell Tile Beds as being a layers of slate, submerged by the River Thames, but exposed somewhat at low tide. They were quarried by the Romans who used them for roofing materials. The slate beds were known to the Victorians who regarded them as a shipping hazard and who referred to them as “the Limehouse slant” on account their angle in relation to the bottom of the river. Bt the 1900s, the natural action of the current had covered up the slate in a layer of sand and silt. The beds were rediscovered during the 1980s when they were plundered by an unscrupulous but enterprising home decorator who sold the quarried stone as kitchen floor tiles to people with more money than sense. Even after the slate was brought under the protection of the law, ground poachers continued to stealthily extract small quantities of the material, mostly to feed a demand for replacement tiles.
Currently it is legal to gather the small pieces of the slate that wash up on the foreshore. This is known as Shadwell crumb. These fragments are either cut to an appropriate shape and then fitted tightly together to produce a composite tile comprising a tightly-seamed mosaic, or they are ground down to a powder which is then reformed.
In 2003, a local councillor was suspended from office, as well as receiving a (lenient) six month suspended sentence and a fine of £10,000, after it was revealed that they had appropriated local authority funding and resources to remove slate from the river, which they had used to redecorate their kitchen.]
[With the exception of Shadwell (where there are, to my knowledge, no tile beds) none of these places exist. Again, with the exception of Shadwell (which is practically on the doorstep of the City of London) I was trying to come up with the kind of outlying locations that occupy the farthest reaches of the London Underground map; distant outposts of metropolitan suburbia that you might idly romanticise, but never actually visit. I imagine the radio tower at Rontree as a tall, unidentified pylon-like structure that might creep over the distant horizon as you approached the apex of the London Eye.
I conceived the Shadwell Tile Beds as being a layers of slate, submerged by the River Thames, but exposed somewhat at low tide. They were quarried by the Romans who used them for roofing materials. The slate beds were known to the Victorians who regarded them as a shipping hazard and who referred to them as “the Limehouse slant” on account their angle in relation to the bottom of the river. Bt the 1900s, the natural action of the current had covered up the slate in a layer of sand and silt. The beds were rediscovered during the 1980s when they were plundered by an unscrupulous but enterprising home decorator who sold the quarried stone as kitchen floor tiles to people with more money than sense. Even after the slate was brought under the protection of the law, ground poachers continued to stealthily extract small quantities of the material, mostly to feed a demand for replacement tiles.
Currently it is legal to gather the small pieces of the slate that wash up on the foreshore. This is known as Shadwell crumb. These fragments are either cut to an appropriate shape and then fitted tightly together to produce a composite tile comprising a tightly-seamed mosaic, or they are ground down to a powder which is then reformed.
In 2003, a local councillor was suspended from office, as well as receiving a (lenient) six month suspended sentence and a fine of £10,000, after it was revealed that they had appropriated local authority funding and resources to remove slate from the river, which they had used to redecorate their kitchen.]
Broadcasting from a canal barge, adrift on the current, one Thames-bend east of Tower Bridge, this is London, building by building: A scattershot dive into the architectural past and present of the English capital, undertaken one building at a time. I am your guide Sam Redlark.”
“This week we will take a look at the Shield House, in Islington: It's patriotic riverside origins, its vegetable-pelted, landlocked present and its uncertain future as a boutique gymnasium.
“This episode is sponsored by Turpins' Enamelling Paste. For a glossy, and long-lasting, chip-free veneer, accept no substitute. A free applicator with all one-litre tins, while stocks last. Available in branches of Satchwells Ironmongers. Or ask your local hardware store to stock Turpins' Enamelling Paste – the boilermakers' choice.
[I have no idea whether enamelling has ever played any role in boiler making. Let's say, for arguments sake, that enamelled boilers were an evolution of the decorative enamelled tea urns that were became fashionable in England following a visit from the Russian Royal Family, in 1902, when Tsar Nicholas II presented one to Queen Victoria.]
In the lobby of the London Guildhall, these is a wall plaque commemorating the metropolitan buildings that crumbled beneath the shadow of the Luftwaffe, during the early years of World War II. A notable omission from this memorial is the copper-cast statue of Lady Britannia, who for many decades, stood mute sentry over Bermondsey Docks. And who, at the moment of her destruction, under a barrage of German bombs, was transformed from a metaphor for British resilience, to a literal protector, saving Wellington Wharf from fiery destruction.
“Herbert Tueber, writing in his unintentionally psychedelic metropolitan travelogue: Reflections on a London Past (published in 1978 by Goswell Books) describes the statue as follows:
“ 'Erected in March 1902, on a windblown promontory, projecting from the southern bank of the river Thames, her reign was fated to be short. An unsung casualty of the blitz, now three decades absent from the shoreline, her memory pulled from the minds of Londoners by tidal waters.
“ 'Yet in her prime she stood one-hundred-and-fifty feet tall. A half-sized statue of English liberty, who gazed fixedly downriver, into a permanent racing headwind, focused in perpetuity upon the distant estuarial horizon of the Thames sea-mouth; Her gale-blown helmet-plume, riding a tide of wind-dragged curls; Her long, rain-greened dress pulled into elemental creases, mirroring the creased face of the river.
A dark monument, when first cast, later transformed by the English weather, to the lively roiling colour of the open sea. An unsheathed longsword, held in her lowered right arm, pointed outward from her waist in readiness. Her trident shaft bisected her heart from behind a kite-shield, bearing an embossed likeness of the union flag, and adorned along the top by a stone, bat-winged encrustation.
“ 'At Britannia's left flank, a reclining lion was posed rising to alertness, on its front legs, its gaze drawn to the far-off approach of something, lost to the human eye within the bustling panorama.
“ 'This unlikely pair, birthed from the London clay, now lie in state beneath the silted foundation of the river.'
[I own a lot of early-mid 19th century London guides, many of which I acquired from the then-dilapidated church of St Barnabus, in Dartmouth, which had been converted into a second-hand bookshop. It was an interesting and somewhat foreboding place, with broken Fisher Price toys dangling, like mangled effigies, from the railings of the stone staircase leading to the entrance. The mouldering interior was dominated by chaotic piles of toys, vintage magazines and old records, none of it in terribly good condition. By far the most organised part of the church were some ramshackle bookshelves that had been arranged into a miniature labyrinth. The church has since been restored. For a while I believe it was an Italian eaterie called 'Dartmouth Apprentice,' where the long-term unemployed were retrained as restuaranteurs. There was a murder there in 2015, and I think that it may have closed since then.
One of the London guides that I acquired from St Barnabus (I wish I could recall the title) opens with the writer recalling a ride in an omnibus around Piccadilly, or possibly Trafalgar Square, during which a young girl informs him that she makes a decent supplementary income from allowing gentlemen to fumble around in her undergarments on such journeys.
Guidebooks have become more respectable since those days ('The New London Spy: A Discreet Guide to the City's Pleasures,' published in the mid-1960s was perhaps the death knell). However, I do miss the unfiltered eccentricity of this generation of long-dead writers and the way they were willing to engage with London at eye level. Contemporary guides, even the good ones, tend to hold both the reader and the city at arm's length.
The fictional 'Reflections on a London Past' by the equally fictional Herbert Tueber, is my tribute to these books.]
“A poignant and stirring quote there from Herbert Tueber.
“Unlike a great many of the curiosities mentioned in Tueber's London guide, that are, at best, unfounded rumours, the statue of Britannia was, at one time, firmly rooted in reality. It was constructed from a beaten-copper skin, loosely wrapped around a coade stone core. And it once stood on an artificial peninsula, overlooking the river docks, east of Tower Bridge.
“His description fails to mention one of the more intriguing features of the statue: A compartment, concealed within the left breast, behind the shield, that contained a small urn. This vessel is said to have housed the combined ashes of the hearts of Queen Victoria, and her consort, Prince Albert.
“Tueber's allusion to the statue's final resting place, is sadly accurate. On the evening of Sunday, the second of February, 1941, a volley of ordnance, dropped by German aircraft, which would have undoubtedly destroyed the warehouses on Wellington Wharf, narrowly missed its intended target. The bombs detonated against Britannia's shield, toppling the monument, which sank into the soft mud of the riverbed, where it has remained ever since.
“The 'bat-winged encrustation', described by Tueber, that adorned the top of the shield, was not strictly a part of the statue, but rather an ornate balcony rail, bordering a small patio. This raised section of the plinth was accessible via a steep staircase. It was used, primarily, as a lookout point by workers on the wharf, to spot vessels approaching from downriver, allowing time to mobilise the warehouse crews.
“Astonishingly, this stone embellishment survived the explosion that sank the statue. It was catapulted by the blast onto neighbouring Traylor Wharf, where it struck the stairs leading to the water with such force, that they were split down the middle. If you visit Traylor Stairs today, you can still discern where the wet-cast stone was poured in to seal the gigantic crack. The shield-head was apparently so heavy, that the team of men, who were sent to remove it, instead gave serious consideration to pushing it down the final few steps, and into the river. Fortunately, sensible heads prevailed. The crest was salvaged, and was subsequently transported, by omnibus, to the gardens of Grays Inn Square, where it was repurposed, as an adornment to a raised flowerbed.
“In 1947, the architect, Robert Cressy, was granted permission, by the government, to incorporate the shield-head into a new building, that he was planning to construct on the fringes of Islington. He promised that the piece would take up a prominent position within the facade. Work on the building commenced in 1949, and was completed by 1951. Cressy House, to give the holding its formal title, occupies a commanding vantage point, facing onto the busy bend of Apperly Road - one of the conduits that funnel traffic, to-and-from the west-end of the capital.
When I first visited this area of London, during the mid-1990s, The Shield House, as it had become known locally, was a perennial target of casual vandals, who would attempt to pelt the stone crest with fruit and vegetables. This custom, was started by members of the Gaudium Society,
in Soho. It was intended to commemorate the deflection of the German bombs from Wellington wharf, by Britannia's shield, and took place on the anniversary of the air raid. Thanks, in large part, to both positive and negative coverage in the London press, the activity soon gained a more public footing. By unspoken mutual consensus, it expanded to incorporate other holidays of national importance, such as St Georges Day. The tradition has even, unfortunately, found its way into some travel guidebooks. This has made The Shield House an unlikely target for tourists, who will often plead ignorance, when efforts are made to point out to them, the signs, requesting that visitors do not to throw objects at the building.
For many years, matters were not helped by the presence of a street market, on neighbouring Suckling Lane. The fruit and vegetable stand, which was run by Alfred Fishpool, and which had been in the same family for five generations, became a ready source of ammunition for those wishing to target the shield head.
The conservatoire, that occupied the Shield House between 1955 and 2012, predictably suffered many broken windows. In 1982, the owners unsuccessfully attempted to sue the Fishpool family, arguing that the produce they sold was responsible for the majority of the damage, that had been inflicted on the building. When the market on Suckling Lane closed in 1997, Fishpool relocated his business to Camden Market, a few miles north. The stall remains there to this day, under the management of his granddaughter, Louisa – a former oncology consultant at Guy's Hospital, who fancied a change of career. In the market's absence, the bombardment of The Shield House continued unabated, with fruit and vegetables apparently being acquired from other venues.
“Following the closure of the music school, which had been in decline for several years, the Shield House was occupied by an outdoor activities store. When the business folded, two years later, in 2014, the property stood derelict for half a decade. In October 2019, it was purchased by the William Blackall Leisure Group, who have plans to convert it into a boutique gymnasium. This will entail the construction of a new building behind the iconic facade of its predecessor. These plans have drawn concerns from architectural conservationists. They claim that the facade relies too much upon supporting walls, within the main structure, for its integrity, and may collapse, if they are removed.
[The photograph of the building that, for the purposes of this film, assumes the role of The Shield House, was taken somewhere on the fringes of Islington, in the general vicinity of Kings Cross St Pancras Station. Around this part of London you can throw a stone and break the window of a great piece of vintage architecture. It is very easy to take such abundance for granted; to let it all just run past the eye unacknowledged. Sadly many of these old buildings are falling prey to the scourge of facadism – a ghastly practise in which the frontage of a structure is preserved while the remainder is demolished. The surviving facade goes on to provide an illusion of antiquity to whatever functional and unlovely creation has been raised up behind it. Any wanderer around London will occasionally encounter these free-standing slithers of outmoded bricks and mortar, partially screening-off a construction site.
There is a very nice building at number 152 Wardour Street, in Soho, that used to be a music school and thereafter became a Youth Centre Shop, where I once purchased a pair of walking boots. On the top floor they had installed an artificial trail where you could field test footwear on a succession of simulated terrains and gentle, undulating surfaces. I recall studying the interior detailing of the rooms and thinking 'this is too good for retail.' Following the closure of the Youth Hostel Shop, the building made a partial to return to its former function and is now a Yamaha musical instrument store.]
“As for Britannia, two attempts have been made to raise her from her watery resting place, beneath the soft bed of the river Thames. The first occurred in June, 1955, when a pair of dredgers failed to drag the statue into shallower water. More recently, in 1997, a plan to winch the statue onto a floating platform, also failed. During this attempt, it was discovered that tidal forces had shifted the resting place of Britannia a further 17 metres downriver, in the approximate vicinity of Bishops Lane Stairs.
Margaret Goodey (who stood as an independent candidate for the 2015, Stepney, council by-election) promised that if she was voted into office, she would spearhead the recovery of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert's ashes, from the compartment in the statue's left breast. Evidently voters did not regard the proposed salvage operation as an important issue, as, on polling day, Goodey trailed behind the rest of the pack in last place.
At the time of this recording, Britannia remains under the Thames, in slow tidal transition towards the sea.
The Shield House remains in planning application purgatory, while the local authorities debate whether its facade can stand up to the weight of the future, that has been rested upon its shoulders.”
[The Crossrail development is a large-scale railway project that is currently underway in London. It has already changed the character of parts of the city, as result of the demolition of old buildings, but also due to rents rising around areas where new stations will eventually be in operation. In Soho, the project has claimed two legendary music venues – The Astoria and The Borderline.]
“I have been Sam Redlark. Next time on London, Building by Building, I will examine the caged tableau of the garden of Eden, at St Lidwina's church, in Holborn, and discuss similar examples in other churchyards, elsewhere in the capital.
Until then, goodbye.
[While I write and fine-tune one episode, I am usually also making notes for the next one. Annotations aside, this script barely amounts to five pages. The script for Episode Three (which is, a the time of writing, currently being edited) runs to 17 pages.]
[The sound of the waves gradually fades during this paragraph and is gone by the end]
[Photo image of The Shield House]
“This week we will take a look at the Shield House, in Islington: It's patriotic riverside origins, its vegetable-pelted, landlocked present and its uncertain future as a boutique gymnasium.
“This episode is sponsored by Turpins' Enamelling Paste. For a glossy, and long-lasting, chip-free veneer, accept no substitute. A free applicator with all one-litre tins, while stocks last. Available in branches of Satchwells Ironmongers. Or ask your local hardware store to stock Turpins' Enamelling Paste – the boilermakers' choice.
[I have no idea whether enamelling has ever played any role in boiler making. Let's say, for arguments sake, that enamelled boilers were an evolution of the decorative enamelled tea urns that were became fashionable in England following a visit from the Russian Royal Family, in 1902, when Tsar Nicholas II presented one to Queen Victoria.]
[Pause]
In the lobby of the London Guildhall, these is a wall plaque commemorating the metropolitan buildings that crumbled beneath the shadow of the Luftwaffe, during the early years of World War II. A notable omission from this memorial is the copper-cast statue of Lady Britannia, who for many decades, stood mute sentry over Bermondsey Docks. And who, at the moment of her destruction, under a barrage of German bombs, was transformed from a metaphor for British resilience, to a literal protector, saving Wellington Wharf from fiery destruction.
“Herbert Tueber, writing in his unintentionally psychedelic metropolitan travelogue: Reflections on a London Past (published in 1978 by Goswell Books) describes the statue as follows:
“ 'Erected in March 1902, on a windblown promontory, projecting from the southern bank of the river Thames, her reign was fated to be short. An unsung casualty of the blitz, now three decades absent from the shoreline, her memory pulled from the minds of Londoners by tidal waters.
“ 'Yet in her prime she stood one-hundred-and-fifty feet tall. A half-sized statue of English liberty, who gazed fixedly downriver, into a permanent racing headwind, focused in perpetuity upon the distant estuarial horizon of the Thames sea-mouth; Her gale-blown helmet-plume, riding a tide of wind-dragged curls; Her long, rain-greened dress pulled into elemental creases, mirroring the creased face of the river.
A dark monument, when first cast, later transformed by the English weather, to the lively roiling colour of the open sea. An unsheathed longsword, held in her lowered right arm, pointed outward from her waist in readiness. Her trident shaft bisected her heart from behind a kite-shield, bearing an embossed likeness of the union flag, and adorned along the top by a stone, bat-winged encrustation.
“ 'At Britannia's left flank, a reclining lion was posed rising to alertness, on its front legs, its gaze drawn to the far-off approach of something, lost to the human eye within the bustling panorama.
“ 'This unlikely pair, birthed from the London clay, now lie in state beneath the silted foundation of the river.'
[I own a lot of early-mid 19th century London guides, many of which I acquired from the then-dilapidated church of St Barnabus, in Dartmouth, which had been converted into a second-hand bookshop. It was an interesting and somewhat foreboding place, with broken Fisher Price toys dangling, like mangled effigies, from the railings of the stone staircase leading to the entrance. The mouldering interior was dominated by chaotic piles of toys, vintage magazines and old records, none of it in terribly good condition. By far the most organised part of the church were some ramshackle bookshelves that had been arranged into a miniature labyrinth. The church has since been restored. For a while I believe it was an Italian eaterie called 'Dartmouth Apprentice,' where the long-term unemployed were retrained as restuaranteurs. There was a murder there in 2015, and I think that it may have closed since then.
One of the London guides that I acquired from St Barnabus (I wish I could recall the title) opens with the writer recalling a ride in an omnibus around Piccadilly, or possibly Trafalgar Square, during which a young girl informs him that she makes a decent supplementary income from allowing gentlemen to fumble around in her undergarments on such journeys.
Guidebooks have become more respectable since those days ('The New London Spy: A Discreet Guide to the City's Pleasures,' published in the mid-1960s was perhaps the death knell). However, I do miss the unfiltered eccentricity of this generation of long-dead writers and the way they were willing to engage with London at eye level. Contemporary guides, even the good ones, tend to hold both the reader and the city at arm's length.
The fictional 'Reflections on a London Past' by the equally fictional Herbert Tueber, is my tribute to these books.]
[Pause]
“A poignant and stirring quote there from Herbert Tueber.
“Unlike a great many of the curiosities mentioned in Tueber's London guide, that are, at best, unfounded rumours, the statue of Britannia was, at one time, firmly rooted in reality. It was constructed from a beaten-copper skin, loosely wrapped around a coade stone core. And it once stood on an artificial peninsula, overlooking the river docks, east of Tower Bridge.
“His description fails to mention one of the more intriguing features of the statue: A compartment, concealed within the left breast, behind the shield, that contained a small urn. This vessel is said to have housed the combined ashes of the hearts of Queen Victoria, and her consort, Prince Albert.
“Tueber's allusion to the statue's final resting place, is sadly accurate. On the evening of Sunday, the second of February, 1941, a volley of ordnance, dropped by German aircraft, which would have undoubtedly destroyed the warehouses on Wellington Wharf, narrowly missed its intended target. The bombs detonated against Britannia's shield, toppling the monument, which sank into the soft mud of the riverbed, where it has remained ever since.
“The 'bat-winged encrustation', described by Tueber, that adorned the top of the shield, was not strictly a part of the statue, but rather an ornate balcony rail, bordering a small patio. This raised section of the plinth was accessible via a steep staircase. It was used, primarily, as a lookout point by workers on the wharf, to spot vessels approaching from downriver, allowing time to mobilise the warehouse crews.
“Astonishingly, this stone embellishment survived the explosion that sank the statue. It was catapulted by the blast onto neighbouring Traylor Wharf, where it struck the stairs leading to the water with such force, that they were split down the middle. If you visit Traylor Stairs today, you can still discern where the wet-cast stone was poured in to seal the gigantic crack. The shield-head was apparently so heavy, that the team of men, who were sent to remove it, instead gave serious consideration to pushing it down the final few steps, and into the river. Fortunately, sensible heads prevailed. The crest was salvaged, and was subsequently transported, by omnibus, to the gardens of Grays Inn Square, where it was repurposed, as an adornment to a raised flowerbed.
“In 1947, the architect, Robert Cressy, was granted permission, by the government, to incorporate the shield-head into a new building, that he was planning to construct on the fringes of Islington. He promised that the piece would take up a prominent position within the facade. Work on the building commenced in 1949, and was completed by 1951. Cressy House, to give the holding its formal title, occupies a commanding vantage point, facing onto the busy bend of Apperly Road - one of the conduits that funnel traffic, to-and-from the west-end of the capital.
When I first visited this area of London, during the mid-1990s, The Shield House, as it had become known locally, was a perennial target of casual vandals, who would attempt to pelt the stone crest with fruit and vegetables. This custom, was started by members of the Gaudium Society,
in Soho. It was intended to commemorate the deflection of the German bombs from Wellington wharf, by Britannia's shield, and took place on the anniversary of the air raid. Thanks, in large part, to both positive and negative coverage in the London press, the activity soon gained a more public footing. By unspoken mutual consensus, it expanded to incorporate other holidays of national importance, such as St Georges Day. The tradition has even, unfortunately, found its way into some travel guidebooks. This has made The Shield House an unlikely target for tourists, who will often plead ignorance, when efforts are made to point out to them, the signs, requesting that visitors do not to throw objects at the building.
For many years, matters were not helped by the presence of a street market, on neighbouring Suckling Lane. The fruit and vegetable stand, which was run by Alfred Fishpool, and which had been in the same family for five generations, became a ready source of ammunition for those wishing to target the shield head.
The conservatoire, that occupied the Shield House between 1955 and 2012, predictably suffered many broken windows. In 1982, the owners unsuccessfully attempted to sue the Fishpool family, arguing that the produce they sold was responsible for the majority of the damage, that had been inflicted on the building. When the market on Suckling Lane closed in 1997, Fishpool relocated his business to Camden Market, a few miles north. The stall remains there to this day, under the management of his granddaughter, Louisa – a former oncology consultant at Guy's Hospital, who fancied a change of career. In the market's absence, the bombardment of The Shield House continued unabated, with fruit and vegetables apparently being acquired from other venues.
“Following the closure of the music school, which had been in decline for several years, the Shield House was occupied by an outdoor activities store. When the business folded, two years later, in 2014, the property stood derelict for half a decade. In October 2019, it was purchased by the William Blackall Leisure Group, who have plans to convert it into a boutique gymnasium. This will entail the construction of a new building behind the iconic facade of its predecessor. These plans have drawn concerns from architectural conservationists. They claim that the facade relies too much upon supporting walls, within the main structure, for its integrity, and may collapse, if they are removed.
[The photograph of the building that, for the purposes of this film, assumes the role of The Shield House, was taken somewhere on the fringes of Islington, in the general vicinity of Kings Cross St Pancras Station. Around this part of London you can throw a stone and break the window of a great piece of vintage architecture. It is very easy to take such abundance for granted; to let it all just run past the eye unacknowledged. Sadly many of these old buildings are falling prey to the scourge of facadism – a ghastly practise in which the frontage of a structure is preserved while the remainder is demolished. The surviving facade goes on to provide an illusion of antiquity to whatever functional and unlovely creation has been raised up behind it. Any wanderer around London will occasionally encounter these free-standing slithers of outmoded bricks and mortar, partially screening-off a construction site.
There is a very nice building at number 152 Wardour Street, in Soho, that used to be a music school and thereafter became a Youth Centre Shop, where I once purchased a pair of walking boots. On the top floor they had installed an artificial trail where you could field test footwear on a succession of simulated terrains and gentle, undulating surfaces. I recall studying the interior detailing of the rooms and thinking 'this is too good for retail.' Following the closure of the Youth Hostel Shop, the building made a partial to return to its former function and is now a Yamaha musical instrument store.]
“As for Britannia, two attempts have been made to raise her from her watery resting place, beneath the soft bed of the river Thames. The first occurred in June, 1955, when a pair of dredgers failed to drag the statue into shallower water. More recently, in 1997, a plan to winch the statue onto a floating platform, also failed. During this attempt, it was discovered that tidal forces had shifted the resting place of Britannia a further 17 metres downriver, in the approximate vicinity of Bishops Lane Stairs.
Margaret Goodey (who stood as an independent candidate for the 2015, Stepney, council by-election) promised that if she was voted into office, she would spearhead the recovery of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert's ashes, from the compartment in the statue's left breast. Evidently voters did not regard the proposed salvage operation as an important issue, as, on polling day, Goodey trailed behind the rest of the pack in last place.
At the time of this recording, Britannia remains under the Thames, in slow tidal transition towards the sea.
The Shield House remains in planning application purgatory, while the local authorities debate whether its facade can stand up to the weight of the future, that has been rested upon its shoulders.”
~
[The sound of waves breaking on the shoreline slowly fades-in. The image of The Shield House fades into an animation in which a fragment from the picture of The Shield House is dragged from the image into a mock-up of a museum label, where it assumes a different identity.]
[Photo image of the museum label fills the screen.]
Roman sundial
(fragment)
(approx 1st century AD)
Found July, 2015. Crossrail Stepney Green shaft site, E1
Museum of London
(currently undisplayed)
“I have been Sam Redlark. Next time on London, Building by Building, I will examine the caged tableau of the garden of Eden, at St Lidwina's church, in Holborn, and discuss similar examples in other churchyards, elsewhere in the capital.
Until then, goodbye.
[While I write and fine-tune one episode, I am usually also making notes for the next one. Annotations aside, this script barely amounts to five pages. The script for Episode Three (which is, a the time of writing, currently being edited) runs to 17 pages.]
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