Urban Myths no. 4: Spring Heeled Jack.

Spring Heeled Jack in Hendon (1)Spring Heeled Jack in Hendon. © Tim Turnbull 2014.

From the South Barnet Recorder*:

Dean and Jeanette Jackson were returning from a night out celebrating their son’s Ricky’s birthday party when they saw a mysterious figure darting across the A41 just north of Hendon.

Mr Jackson, forty, an office supplies salesman from Mill Hill, said: “I saw a man on the other side of the carriageway, a tall geezer wearing this big black cape and I reckoned he was going to a fancy dress do or something. I couldn’t see a car, but then he ran across two lanes, vaulted up the bank and vanished from sight – all in just a couple of seconds. He had no face as such, he was wearing a sort of mask that lit up like a toy robot. We were well baffled and voiced our startlement straight away. He was dead quick, and could jump like a Grand National champion.”

Mrs. Jackson, a beautician – thirty-seven – added: “Dean and I have slept with the light on for the past six nights. It is far and away the strangest thing to have happened to us since we moved to Mill Hill from Worcester Park. Every year something special happens on Ricky’s birthday. Last year it was the Pope, this year it’s Spring Heeled Jack.”

* Not real news item. However, Spring Heeled Jack was an urban myth of the Victorian era. A mysterious dark figure reported to be responsible for a string of attacks in the 1800s and known for his ability to leap great heights, was first sighted in Wandsworth in 1837 and given the SHJ sobriquet by the penny dreadfuls of his (or its) day. For further reading, see The Legend of Spring Heeled Jack.  

See also: The Supermarket Spider, Airport Caterpillars, The Discarded Artist’s Statement.

Tim Turnbull’s poems have appeared in these pages before; this is the first time he has contributed as an illustrator. See: Clapham Common Clowns, Black Cab Blues, Frankie Howerd, Robert GravesThe Last Squat in Hackney.


At least ten fanlights.

Doughty-St-cyclist smallerDoughty St., WC1. © David Secombe 2010.

Burned Georgian houses in Borough, London, 2010.Southwark Bridge Rd.,SE1 © David Secombe 2009.

Georgian house in Wapping, London, 2010Cable St., E1. © David Secombe 2010.

Albermarle Arcade, Mayfair, london, 2010Royal Arcade, Albemarle St., W1. © David Secombe 2011.

St Anne's Limhouse, London, 2010St. Anne’s Limehouse. © David Secombe 2010.

Jesus-Maiden-Lane smallerCorpus Christie, Maiden Lane, WC2. © David Secombe 2014.

Sidney-St-doorway smallerSidney St., Whitechapel. © David Secombe 2011.

Royal Opera House from behind the old police court on Bow St., LRoyal Opera House from Marlett Court. © David Secombe 2010.

Citroen DS, Waterloo, London, 2011.Citroen DS, Roupell St., Waterloo. © David Secombe 2012.

Edward Heath, 10 Downing St., election day, 1970Edward Heath, 10 Downing St., June 1970. © Angus Forbes 1970.

See also: Edward Heath’s Feet 

 


Traffic on the Lea.

River-Lea-under-flyoverRiver Lea towpath, under the East Cross Route. © David Secombe 2014.

A Sunday in May, on the towpath by the River Lea, just south of Lea Bridge Road:

Ding! … Ding! … Ding! … Ding! Ding! Ding!

The cyclist (mid-20s, jutting beard, sickly smile, deeply hittable face) steered his vintage eBay treasure inches between myself and my young son. Fifteen minutes into what was supposed to be a leisurely Sunday outing on the first really sunny weekend of the year and I was reduced to hissing violent epithets at various types of cyclist. Hipster cyclists, as above; Spandexed cyclists, often in entire family groups; unnervingly swift and purposeful cyclists with business on their minds; kids on mountain bikes; even a brace of fancy-dress cyclists, decked out in Edwardian gear – bowlers, waistcoats, plus-fours, spats – on authentically recalcitrant machines. Whatever their costume, they were all united by their fondness for those little silver bells, their peremptory tinkle an indication of assumed moral right. As a pedestrian on the towpath, on the Lea or a London canal, it’s hard to avoid the feeling that cyclists see you as merely a car-driver deprived of your vehicle. (Suggested collective noun: an entitlement of cyclists.)

Thank-you-for-slowing-down© David Secombe 2014

Not that long ago, this stretch of the Lea was a backwater; and the landscape still offers those with a taste for brownfield-rural the opportunity to participate in an Ian Sinclair-ish topographical narrative in a lush setting. There are overgrown meadows, deserted municipal sports facilities, mysterious structures to negotiate, structures often covered in an abundance of picturesque graffiti (whilst photographing the uncharacteristically polite cyclists walking their bikes under the East Cross Route, I noticed a young man posing his girlfriend for snaps on the other side of the decorated pillars). Of course, this riverside has been ravaged in recent years by the Alphaville of the Olympic Park, and the new residential developments that line the western bank south of Lea Bridge are testament to the burgeoning popularity of East London-lite: Hipster London, Foxtons London, Fatuous London.

DSC_4375-Lea© David Secombe 2014.

Yet somehow, the houseboats remain aloof from it all; and the beauty of the Lea leads to daydreams of buying one, the idyll of having your very own piece of river within (distant) earshot of the churning city. A friend of mine has his own boat, a proper sea-going job, which he occasionally sails from Lowestoft to Limehouse Basin, where he moors it as his London base. This always struck me as simultaneously butch and civilised, an impression only slightly marred by a desperate call I once received from him en route, somewhere near Sheerness, asking if I’d heard the Shipping Forecast because his radio was broken. Several of the vessels moored on the Lea have all the appurtenances of the riverside ‘luxury apartments’ touted by Foxtons and their ilk, and it is not too exotic to imagine some of them actually sailing somewhere. A London houseboat might be the nearest thing to bucolic living anywhere within the M25; but a cursory inspection of some of the more ramshackle examples give one pause. More than a couple appear to be actually sinking, invoking thoughts of Viv Stanshall’s houseboat foundering on the Thames near Chertsey. A houseboat is not a very safe place to store a life’s work, and much of Viv’s life sank with The Searchlight. Even if your boat is watertight, there are other dangers: Malcolm Hardee drowned in Greenland Dock during a drunken attempt to access his houseboat after a night out. (Eddie Mirzoeff has just pointed out to me that Penelope Fitzgerald’s Chelsea Reach-moored houseboat sank not once but twice in the early 1960s, inspiring her Booker Prize-winning novel Offshore.)

Longboat-&-mask© David Secombe 2014.

Still the temptations persist … walking south, we encountered a riverine barbecue-cum-jam session, two barges lassooed together, a party of expert folk musicians playing together in an atmosphere of easy familiarity and home-brewed ale. I’m generally allergic to the claims of folk music but even I was charmed and wondered whether the water offered a better way of life for those in the know … but only a few yards further south, jungle was being played at industrial-noise level from a flat in a new block, obliterating the reels from upstream and putting paid to idyllic wonderings. Any remaining notions of hippie-ish promise were soon trashed as we reached the East Cross Route, where the aggressive post-Olympic new builds proved demoralising enough for us to turn back. Perhaps there is no such thing as a backwater in London any more; a sage with a tin of spray paint helped articulate this thought by stating the obvious on a bridge …

Lea Bridge, London, May 2014© David Secombe 2014

Back at Lea Bridge, the Prince of Wales was doing brisk business as football played on the TV. A massive new development is under construction on the north of the Lea Bridge Road. For real peace, you have to go further upstream, way beyond Springfield Park and up into Tottenham Marshes; if you moored there, maybe you would have a shot at a life of tranquility. If you saw a naked cyclist, it would be someone who did it every day. And that would be fine. Just an unpretentious houseboat, not too big, easy to manage through the locks, kitted out with obsolete technology – VHS tapes, audio cassettes – and overflowing with old paperbacks you could read by paraffin lamp. You know where to find me …

houseboat-rain adj© David Secombe 2014.

… for The London Column.

See also: Before the Blue Wall.


Ten Old Men.

pensioner©DavidSecombeWoolwich. © David Secombe 1998.

 

190ae65e9dc5ace132d2c4282ae14b7eKing’s Cross. © Tim Marshall 2013.

 

Bowls©DavidSecombeFinsbury Circus. © David Secombe 1998.

 

8402dc4edc75ba1455d8ef46a0200b8038 bus. © Tim Marshall 2012.

 

ClaphamClapham Common. © David Secombe 1998.

 

d8234a761aef02bde0bd005b43ae2f2038 bus. © Tim Marshall 2011.

 

Tramp-fire1Spitalfields Market. © David Secombe 1990.

 

98f40c41bb9b0953260eae26302ab291King’s Cross. © Tim Marshall 2013.

 

7a6072a8b39c09733ad2e5f60e7222beKing’s Cross. © Tim Marshall 2013.

 

Victoria Way, Charlton, London, 1998Charlton. © David Secombe 1997.

 

See also: 38 Special, King’s Cross Stories, Underground, OvergroundDeep South London, Spitalfields Market, Park Life, Ten Imperatives.

 


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