05 November 2015
Blacked Out
by J.R. Thomas
Those of our readers who choose to walk around London, whether as part of their daily routine or as occasional visitors, will know that one of the greatest hazards they face is crossing the road. That’s not just if they decide to do an inter-pavement dash, keeping a weather eye open for the speeding van or swerving motorbike. Even finding a zebra crossing often does not help much; they are increasingly utilised in the French manner, with motorists, scooterists, and cyclists all weaving through the white lines on urgent missions which brook not a moment’s delay.
Nor is there a much safer passage at the traffic light protected junction. Here it is not the French way that imperils you, but the American way. We all know that Green means “Go” and Amber means “Go Faster” and Red means “Go Anyway”, at least for buses, white vans, racing cycles, and scooters. But London road users have adopted from across the water that sensible rule that turning left on Red is fine; and introduced the London variant, that turning right on Red is fine as well if there is a twenty yard gap in the oncoming traffic.
That sets the background. A cycle courier of my acquaintance – let’s call him Simon the Courier, a careful and considerate rider (I know this to be true) was trying to make a right turn on a central London street, along with the usual gaggle of scooters and a couple of cars, when bustling up the outside came a large black Mercedes saloon, very highly polished and with blacked out windows. It pulled directly across in front of the waiting and variously wheeled crowd. Simon the Courier, – I said he was a careful rider, not a wimp – pulled round the Mercedes and stopped in front of it, noting that it was being piloted by a uniformed chauffeur.
The chauffeur sounded the horn. Simon the Courier – I said he was a careful rider, not an angel – made a universally understood gesture and a robust comment on ownership of the roads. The Mercedes edged forward into the rear wheel of the bike. Stalemate and colourful language ensued. All the time, S the C was wondering who, if anybody, was concealed in the inky blackness of the rear seats. As the shouting reached a crescendo, the mystery was solved – there appeared the head of a well known television personality, a man of mature years, of suave and polished appearance, a gentleman, by his reputation from appearance on the universal viewing apparatus. Perhaps he was in a hurry to get to the television studios, maybe he had a train to catch, but he made some short crisp remarks, mainly centred on the vexed topic of road ownership and uncertain parentage (cycle couriers in particular), wound up his window (or, rather, no doubt, pressed the button that carried out that task for him), and returned to his private and obscured world. His driver returned to the controls, and all parties, no doubt grinding their teeth and cracking their knuckles, went on their way.
An everyday story, you might think, of too many people trying to move through too little space. But as Simon the Courier said when relating this tale (I am editing the gist of his conversation) “Why do people hide behind dark glass in this way; and had I noticed the number of large highly polished black limousines that now infest London?”
Why do they? It is part of the new London. So is the uniformed doorman at the Sloane Square shop – he is not there to open the door, though he might, once he has performed his lightening judgment as to your credit card limit and the provenance of your shoes. He is there to divide the welcome rich sheep from the rejected, the browsing only, the gawping goats. Another version sits all day and night in the little cabin at the entry to many a residential gated road. You are not going to wander down that smart street, marvelling at what heaps of money, indeed loads o’money, can buy.
Increasingly, even the guardian himself is not allowed in – replaced by electronics: gate, buzzer, security camera, a hot line to security on some industrial estate. His wife or sister is sitting at the desk of some smart restaurant, performing the same near instantaneous quality control, which decides if you might be admitted for overpriced sushi or whether you might find yourself better suited at Strada in the next street. And we won’t even venture to the airport…
We are becoming a society of the hidden few versus the excluded majority. No more Edwardian flamboyance proudly displayed, rich and poor crowded on the same platform, searching for the right seat class and climbing into the same train. No more proud plutocrats waving with both arms from Rolls Royces, leaning on the same bar, queuing up for the same loo’s. In 1994 in the Champs Elysee my companion was knocked over by a passer-by who turned out to be Jimmy Goldsmith. He picked her up and asked us to go for a drink with him, whilst a crowd gathered to admire this prince of business. We couldn’t join him, alas, and he walked off cheerfully into the crowd. It is almost unimaginable now to think of Bernard Docker’s financial descendants painting their fantastical motor cars with gold leaf – but Sir Bernard would have been horrified at having blacked out windows on his famous Daimler. The whole point was that he could be seen –from a great distance.
There are exceptions still, of course. The best example is race meetings where, in spite of the privacy possible in a box, most race goers, of every class and description, mingle by the parade ring and even more so by the bookies. Football also, my son was able to say “Hello Dave” to the Prime Minister seated in the row behind, two years ago, and got a handshake back. And Rugby even more than that.
There is something sinister about those over polished black cars with obscured windows, those Zil like slugs pushing their blacked out way through London streets. Lurking in a polished merger between a tank and the Batmobile will draw terrorist attention to you, not divert it. The English are not generally rude or aggressive; they have lovely manners and will shout witty greetings, not vulgar abuse. So wind the windows down, rejoin the human race, mingle with your fellow citizens, take pride in your fame.
Even better, get on the bus; you’ll probably get there faster, whizzing down the bus lanes – and the view from the top deck is unbeatable.
