Here’s my weekly column from today’s newspaper, by the way. I have the feeling this could become a pretty big issue in Middle England.
As a resident of the London Borough of Greenwich, I am proud to live in a place stuffed with historic landmarks – buildings around which has swirled the eddy of Our Island Story.
Such as, for instance, the McDonald’s in Woolwich. Forget the Royal Naval College. It was the rather humbler environs of Powis Street, SE18, that witnessed – on November 13, 1974 – an event of far more importance in the shaping of modern Britain, the opening of the UK’s very first Golden Arches.
As you can see from the first menu, it was actually pretty expensive – 43p for a burger and 97p for a Quarterpounder With Cheese was quite a lot of money in 1974. But nothing, nothing could stop grease-starved Brits’ stampede for the Big Mac.
Thirty billion discarded plastic drink cups later, the restaurant is holding a special 35-year birthday celebration today to mark the historic event. Woolwich’s MP Nick Raynsford, the Mayor of Greenwich and someone even wackier and more famous than either of those two characters – Ronald McDonald himself – will be dropping in to the party.
It’s all here on the excellent Twitter feed of the restaurant’s manager, Taimoor Sheikh. Share and enjoy!
In the Friday the 13th movies (all eight of them – or possibly nine, I lose count) this is traditionally the day for mass teenage slaughter at high-school summer camps across America. London, however, is killing off something altogether more deserving.
Today, surely co-ordinated by some higher power, sees the long-awaited demise of two small things that made the capital just that bit more tiresome, that bit more dumbed-down. Just after noon, the very last Amy Winehouse and Peter Andre stories will appear in the very last issue of London Lite. Only the cat-litter trays will miss it. How can anyone else mourn a publication that cannot even spell its own name?
And just after 1am tonight, no doubt with memorial-issue Lites swilling around each of their floors, fifty or so bendy buses will die lonely, late-night deaths in parking bays somewhere near Hackney. Weeping crowds will not gather to mourn the historic event. Tickets for the last run will not change hands for large sums on eBay. A special bendy heritage service will not be operated for tourists.
The buses are from route 38, the first major service to be liberated from bendies and a key beachhead in Boris Johnson’s jihad to clear London of the invaders by 2011. There have already been two (entirely trouble-free) conversions of shorter routes, the 507 and 521.
In its new, double-deck guise, the frequency of route 38 will increase dramatically from tomorrow, and the number of seats on the route will more than double. But I predict that a few misguided nostalgics will still try to resist the march of progress. Much as certain Right-wing newspapers hark back to a 1950s golden age which never really existed, some Londoners still yearn for their own imaginary, vanished Arcadia – Ken Livingstone’s mayoralty. Moaning about the death of Ken’s bendies is the North London Left’s equivalent of complaining that the rot set in when women started wearing trousers in public.
The rest of us, however, can simply appreciate the rare spectacle of a politician, Boris Johnson, honouring a promise on which he was elected.