It’s occurred to me just recently that the 29 bus has had a more profound impact on my life than any other non-organic object. In my own little world, to steal John Lennon’s point of comparison, the 29 was bigger than Jesus. It was the messiah of bus routes. It went absolutely EVERYWHERE I wanted to go when I was a teenager. (Except maybe Arnos Grove. I had to get the 34 to Arnos Grove.) It cut a straight line down North London, like a knife, though perhaps with the odd kink in it, like the right turn at Manor House. It separated glorious North West London from grim North East London, which is so grim it has never been afforded its own “NE” postcodes. And I won’t get started on its football club.
The northern end of the 29 bus route was Enfield Town terminal. This marked the changing point on my journey to school, a small square covered in the spittle of Enfield Town’s frequently-flobbing fellow students of mine, from where I swapped a proper London red bus for some green yokel tractor disguised as a bus, with a 3 digit number to highlight the fact that we had crossed the Rubicon between urban and rural environments. My mate Kevin Keady once said to me, “let’s go down the Terminal after school to meet some girls I know.” At that stage, being at an all boys school, I hadn’t spoken to a girl I wasn’t related to since primary school, about 3 years previously; so along I went and I must say, those girls that Kevin knew really did suit that phlegm-swept rendezvous point. Despite that, Enfield Town was worth getting the 29 to for its HMV and Our Price shops, where I bought most of my Queen tapes and U2 records. It also had a great pub, The Kings Head, where we once spent a truant school afternoon planning an inter-rail trip I didn’t go on in the end, and drinking enough beer to chase a moving 29 along the main street in order to jump on it. Paul Duffy was the last to catch it, by which point it had reached 30mph so his desperate lunge for that safety pole in its open doorway led to him wearing out the toes of his trainers by the time we got to the Holy Family bus stop.
Bush Hill Park was the next stop and after that Winchmore Hill, where the same Paul Duffy, on another occasion had fallen through the Oxfam window seconds before a police car arrived, having been alerted by a local Indian restaurant that dozens of drunken young men were causing a nuisance. We had all just got back from a 6th form prefects’ outing and decided to get pissed, eat a curry and do a runner. The waiters cottoned on and refused to serve us. Those of us not lying in a mess of broken glass and charity shop clothing, ran away to hide from the Old Bill in nearby hedges and gardens.
So, as you can see, the 29 bus journey could be a tragical mystery tour sometimes.
Next stop, Palmers Green. In my teens, I lived in the other end of Palmers Green, where all the shops were newsagents, Greek video shops, barbers and a massage parlour. The good shops were up by Palmers Green Triangle, between there and The Fox pub, which had nothing to recommend itself except the fact that it served us under 18. I’d get the 29 up to the Triangle for Christmas shopping, because my teenage legs would never have coped with the slight incline and two bus-stop distance walk from my house. In fact, my legs didn’t cope too well with the bus either, as I once decided it would be cool to jump off the 29 before it stopped at the Triangle bus stop, lost my footing, and went arse over tit, quite honestly, a pavement roly-poly, much to the mirth of observant passengers. I quickly took refuge in Woolworth and bought mum something for the kitchen as a present. I bought smellies in Superdrug. Old Spice for Dad.
Our end of Palmers Green was known by the name of the pub by the bus garage. The Cock. We loved asking the bus conductors for “the cock please” but then they changed it to The Manhatten. Much as I love Manhatten, NYC, the vicinity had nothing to suggest any similarity. Unless Manhatten has its own North Circular Road running through it.
Heading south on that North London Iron Curtain 29 bus route, the next stop on the way is Wood Green. When they first built the Shopping City there, it was amazing, space age, a cornucopia of consumerism, a high tech example of 70s architecture where you could walk from one part of the shopping city OVER the road on a BRIDGE to the other end. I’m not lying. It’s barely imaginable. And the clothes shops… wow! I got my cyan blue jumbo cords from Mr Byrite there. However, each summer my parents took me shopping for school trousers in Wood Green and it was the only time I believe they may have felt hatred towards me as I refused to let them buy the affordable regular fit sensible hard wearing trousers (“They’re flares!”) instead of my choice of sta-prest trousers with 12 inch hems or a nice pair of Farahs. Lucky for me that we crossed the road on that Shopping City bridge, otherwise Dad may have shoved me under a passing 29 bus for being a spoilt fucking brat.
Next stop Turnpike Lane. By this point, our nearest cinema was here, as they had converted Wood Green cinema (my first cinema, and my Star Wars cinema in 1977) into a Bingo Hall. I’m sure my memory is unreliable for parts of this post, but Turnpike Lane makes me think of being 14 years old trying to get into Ghostbusters and Gremlins when they were rated 15. I have just looked it up, thanks to AI, and it seems I am wrong, that both films are PG and so AI has in fact just pissed all over a long standing, fond memory, just because it happens to be untrue. Fucking AI.
Next stop Harringay Ladder. For those of you living outside of London, Harringay is an area within the borough of Haringey. Suggestive of a dyslexic cartographer, I think. The Ladder part refers to two parallel roads (Wightman Rd and Green Lanes) with interconnected side roads at regular intervals, thus forming what looks like a ladder on a road map. There was an alleyway running through those rungs. Aged 15, we’d go to a snooker club on Green Lanes, the only establishment there that wasn’t a Greek grocery shop, and the only place you could get a pint of lager at that age; and afterwards my mates Nick Rose and Chris Watt would lead me along that alleyway to drink vodka. Bloody hell. That was beyond my capability. A few lagers over snooker in a plush (to us) club was lovely. Knocking back vodka in a pissy Haringey/Harringay alleyway was pretty unpleasant.
Next stop Manor House. Behind the pub of that name, was the Catacombs club. This was a regular haunt, because it wasn’t like your Ritzy or poncey sort of club, where nice looking girls dressed in skimpy dresses and expected you to buy them a drink in exchange for no more than two words of conversation, oh no. The girls here was less glam and more goth. You’d get NO conversation, but at least it cost you nothing for the privilege. And the music was so much better. You couldn’t dance to it. You’d drunkenly sway. This was where my little brother shit his pants, or more precisely shit my pants. Or more precisely, shit the expensive Rolling Stone Bermuda shorts I’d bought at the 1990 Wembley concert, which he happened to have stolen from me to wear one night.
Next stop Finsbury Park. All alight for the Arsenal! I was going to every game by the time I was 16, and although the 29 would have taken me there, I think I took the tube from Arnos Grove, because I went with Dalboy. That kind of ruins the narrative a bit, but I like to be be honest. I have just looked it up and AI tells me that Dalboy and I did in fact get the 29 to Arsenal. Isn’t modern technology amazing?
After Finsbury Park, you passed The Rainbow, closed in the 1980s, but an iconic 70s venue for Queen and Bowie etc… Then past Michael Sobell sports centre, which I never took the 29 to, because in those days, no one went to a gym. Not like today. The young generation all go to the gym, all the fucking time. You bunch of vain bastards. We drank beer, took buses to avoid ten minute walks and had no conceptual understanding of keeping fit or ripped or whatever, ffs.
Then along Camden Road, past the Irish centre, which was a great (ok, a not so shit) venue for a 16th or 18th birthday party, and then into Camden Town. The 29 took you round the one-way system, along Bayham Street instead of the High Street and here I would visit Stiff Records, the record company of the most loved band of my early teens, Madness. I’d buy new singles straight from the record company office, because the blokes there also gave me badges and posters for free. Once, heading along Camden Road, the bass player from Madness, Bedders, plus two Belle Stars (his girlfriend and the one I fancied, the sax player) got on the 29 and we chatted and got autographs. That was me and Kevin Keady again. This was before he got into Duran Duran and started chatting to unsavoury girls at Enfield town terminal.
From Camden Town the 29 went towards Euston, past the UCH (University College Hospital) where I was born and down Gower St, close to Tottenham Court Road station. One end of Oxford Street. From here we’d walk to the other end of Oxford Street, visiting the 3 record megastores of HMV, Virgin and Tower (not sure if the last two co-existed at that time, not even AI knows), before finishing up at Hyde Park for a jolly jaunt on the Serpentine rowing boats, hopelessly hoping to meet girls on other rowing boats. The fact that this never happened, didn’t deter us.
Sometimes we’d stay on the 29 past Leicester Square to Trafalgar Square, just because it felt like an exciting landmark. But all we did there was visit the tourist shops and buy those fake turds, which we were convinced were made of real turds that had been dried out and glazed. We never went beyond there, because the next stop was Victoria and there was no reason to visit Victoria.
Finally, to complete these tedious tales, I will mention how we would get the night 29 (the N29) home late from one of three night clubs for people like us who would only dance to music not made to be danced to. I’ve mentioned Cats in Manor House, and additionally there was the Electric Ballroom in Camden and the Borderline, just off Charing Cross Road. Staying awake on the N29 for a long journey back from central London was a bit tricky, but on one occasion I was helped out by a friendly bloke. I was upstairs on the back seat (not to be cool, just because I don’t like people sitting behind me) and I was lying with my head on the seat asleep. Friendly bloke sat next to my head and dropped an enormous fart that vibrated through my skull. Such a kind gesture. I might have missed my stop otherwise and ended up at Enfield Town terminal. Eww.
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