The Bridges of London: Part II
By Bill Gallacher, March 2, 2007

Gallacher continues his walk From London's Tower Bridge to Kew Bridge, thinking about what it means to be British in 2007.

Among the reasons advanced to explain the Strange Case of the Overvalued Pound is the continuing desirability of London as a place for foreigners not only to visit but to invest in property (or real estate as it is called in North America).

 Fueled by a massive influx of dubiously generated funds from the former Communist bloc in Eastern Europe and sustained by the wealth of an endless parade of oil-saturated, dissolute Arabian sheiks who wouldn’t know an oilrig from the Eiffel Tower, the price of property has doubled here in the last four years and shows no sign of slowing its frenetic rise. All of which leads to another modern-day London conundrum: The Strange Case of the Self-fulfilling Prophecy, whereby, if a commodity (housing, in this case) is observed never to decline in value, there is obviously no risk in buying it. But what is happening now—that is really rather different from before─is that first-time house buyers have effectively been driven out of the market, a consequence being th
at the present market can be fairly compared to a hot air balloon kept aloft by super-heated gasses; a balloon that could come crashing to earth if the burner is ever switched off. For the moment at least, the ‘paper’ game goes on, creating, ironically, in this putatively egalitarian country—surely the antitheses of everything that socialism is supposed to stand for—a tremendous inequality in wealth.

Because of the housing bubble, London’s citizenry (and all the British to a lesser extent) has been cleaved into two distinct classes: Those who have gotten rich (on paper, anyway) simply by dint of having owned their houses from who-knows-when, contrasted with the unlucky who have always, either through choice or circumstance, been renters. The country has also split along age lines: rich, middle-aged, or older, benefiting at the expense of the young. Glimmerings of what the future might hold—such as what has already taken place in California—have yet to be taken seriously over here, or even, for that matter, in our own little Mexican enclave of San Miguel de Allende. Meanwhile, the manic dance goes on as fear-induced latecomers mortgage their souls to the devil. Well, this is not really my business and, if I keep on with these idle musings, I will never reach Kew Bridge before dark. So, with belly filled and spirit uplifted, it's time for me to brave the elements once more.

Outside the tavern, the wind is as strong as ever, but the rain has stopped. So, at least I can see where I’m going. In its infinite wisdom, the London City Council has created the Thames Walking Paths, one on either side of the river, along the entire waterway contained within the metropolitan area—and well beyond. With London being essentially a low-rise city, these pathways by the water, in combination with the many bridges, provide the determined hiker magnificent, untrammeled vistas of many of London’s great historical landmarks, none more so than on the two-mile stretch from Blackfriars Bridge to Lambeth Bridge. At Waterloo Bridge, the next on my crossing list, the Thames begins one of its great bends to the south, and it is on this bend that it becomes clear just how much the city of London is shaped and influenced by its river. Now that the rain has stopped, not even the howling wind and the glowering sky can dampen my exhilaration as, one by one, the city’s famed landmarks come into view. From Waterloo Bridge, you can look northwest to Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square, north-east to St Paul’s cathedral, and due east to Tower Bridge with Canary Wharf rising beyond. In the southern distance, Big Ben looms over the ‘mother of parliaments.’ Looking south from Cleopatra’s Needle on the northern embankment, one sees a skyline dominated by London’s newest and largest landmark, the London Eye, which today sits idle, immobilised by the stormy conditions. This is surely the world’s biggest Ferris wheel. It is, for sure, the world’s most expensive to ride. For about US$30, you can enjoy one—yes, that’s one—revolution, ensconced in one of its glass pods. The whole trip takes about one half-hour to complete. Many locals perceive the Eye, second only to Madame Tussaud’s Waxwork Gallery, as London’s biggest ‘rip-off’ in a city that specializes in the art. For all that, on a normal day, there is a crowd about half-a-mile long waiting to get on.

In the few weeks I have been here, I can’t help but notice that some completely strange (to me) words have crept into the popular British vocabulary. Two countries divided by a common language is how Churchill once described Britain and America. To be sure, we (the Brits) have always had a specialised semi-slang vocabulary, virtually unknown on the other side of the Atlantic, except possibly to aficionados of the humour of Michael Myers or Benny Hill. I mean, what would Americans know of sods, punters, poofters, wankers, gormless twits, bollocks, fags and grotty knickers? Would they know if they were feeling chuffed or knackered, or if they were being offered nosh or nookie? Of course not. And it is not only in traditional slang that the British vocabulary has always been singular. For example, we have usually favoured the evocative over the euphemistic. In Britain, jobs are never eliminated, they're axed, and people aren’t laid off, they’re described as made redundant, as if to emphasise their new-found stat
e of uselessness. A totally messed-up situation is invariably referred to as a shambles. (Exactly why shambles, clearly a plural noun, should take the singular article is a mystery even to the Oxford Dictionary). Words like these have been around a long time, but a distinctly new vocabulary has emerged since I left.

American visitors wishing to penetrate British ‘new-speak,’ as well as ‘old-speak,’ might well take note of the following usages, now heard regularly on the BBC (that supposed arbiter of correct English). Someone who is behaving awkwardly, or perhaps having a tantrum, is being stroppy. (The source of the word is obstreperous). Stroppy has become so popular that it has evolved into a noun, as in throwing a strop. Going the other way, the noun shambles has given way largely to the adjective shambolic, possibly inspired by Michael Myers’ shagadelic. Now widely used, and also completely new to my ears, are naff meaning inferior, to blag meaning to bluff, bung meaning a bribe, tat meaning junk and chav meaning low-class. Not to forget the three current favourites of the Great Inarticulate: brilliant used as a catch-all for anything the user admires, and now so trite that its original meaning has been lost; thingie, used to identify anything the identifier is too lazy to specify; and worst of all gobsmacked meaning 
to be taken by surprise in an unpleasant way.

To check on whether my memory was failing me, I went to the British Museum Library to consult the long version of Oxford Dictionary (which gives the date of origin of a word, plus a great deal more) and was relieved to find that the ‘unknown’ words had all entered the language, post ‘60s. While poring over the volumes housed in this most magnificent of buildings, where many of the great literary figures of the last two centuries created their masterpieces, I came across a most amazing invention—unless it was my over-active imagination at work. I can only describe it as a ‘shoosh’ machine, and it works like this: Whenever and wherever any kind of chattering threatened the peace of this hallowed dome, a ‘shoosh’ sound would materialise out of the ether and be directed with seemingly uncanny, laser-like precision at the offending chatterers—and with instant effect, I might add. The British Museum, along with most other major London museums, is ostensibly free to the general public. I say ostensibly because in or
der to enter these places, you must negotiate a ‘Suggested Donation Box’ manned by a uniformed employee who has clearly been trained in the power of suggestion by the Ministry of Boring Stares. Suggested donations are posted in all the major world currencies and could scarcely be called bargains. I refuse to be intimidated.

Rounding the bend of the river after Waterloo Bridge, you come upon Hungerford Railway Bridge, which has recently been revamped with a pedestrian walkway that is a favoured spot from which to take pictures of oneself in front of the London Eye. From there, the Thames Walkway continues, on what is now the east side of the river, to Westminster Bridge, which, when crossed east to west, leads directly past the Houses of Parliament. Here you are forced to detour away from the river, but, by way of compensation, the path leads past magnificent Westminster Abbey. I think briefly about going in, but, at US$25 for the privilege of edifying soul and spirit, I decide to pass on by. Time is pressing, and I can hardly afford to stop if there is to be any chance of making Kew Bridge before dark, which at this time of year descends about 4pm.