Resistance is Phutile

The Last Ride.

"A part of England is dying."

It was, perhaps, a little melodramatic.

The voice was that of one of the many camera-wielding enthusiasts crammed on the lower deck of the 159 this morning. Living in Streatham, south London, provided the opportunity to grab a ride on the last of the Routemaster buses.

Accompanying the air of nostalgia that was so tangible was the fog. This I entered upon leaving my house, thinking how reminiscent it was of the "pea souper's" that still blanketed London streets in the early days of the beloved Routemaster.

Along the route there were hundreds of photographers, and people waving; for a brief moment it felt like an insight into the world of the chauffeur driven celebrity. Just for a moment though, the cramped conditions of the regular public transport experience kept feet firmly on the ground (or bums firmly on seats, for the lucky ones).

Surrounded by the type of people society has condemned to be known as "anoraks", I found humour in their eager discussions of all things bus related. One of these guys stood out, as instead of taking pictures of any Routemaster that passed us on the other side of the road, he seemed more interested in snapping every person with a camera on the pavement.

Not that they all were on the pavement. Westminster Bridge took forever to cross not just because of the traffic congestion, but because of the vast numbers of fanatics running out in front of the bus taking photo's.

There was another contingent of fanatics too. I first encountered them at Marble Arch, then back at Streatham when I returned home on the last ever bus. Waving placards that read "we demand freedom from transport apartheid" and "good riddance Routemaster", were small but
hardcore groups of disabled people, intent on dancing on the grave of London's favourite bus.

Their presence sparked conflict, as many Routemaster fans and members of the press told the banner-wavers to piss off. "You've already won, why spoil this for the rest of us?" This was one particularly angry looking man at Marble Arch, I had to agree with him.

At Trafalgar Square, among the camera happy crowds, stood Tony Blair. He waved at me. Quite a nice surprise, I thought. But alas no, closer inspection revealed a man with a Blair mask, and a whistle and flute complete with red tie.

At Brixton we passed a huge crowd of schoolkids, waving Union Jacks and smiling happy little smiles. The female London Transport member of staff sitting on the seat next to mine shed a tear, caught up in the moment.

Then I heard it.

"A part of England is dying."

Well, maybe his anorak tendencies could be forgiven on this occassion.

posted by Phu @ 2:27 pm