Gold again
The longest stretch of straight tunnel in the system. 50/1.4
I departed the underground near my beloved fleet, tithed to the false prophets on route and met well my fellows for the evening: Jd the Prudent, stoop master and teh Otter. Together at the street corner clothed to ill our shimmering cred provided simple insurance against the mere common folk and a metaphorical bible in the pocket against the barking irons of those who pop first and ask later.
Invisible though we were to the commoners the stakes stacked high against us; the realistic outcomes I imagined would see us either spilled or snapped. The latter of course would begin with an intimacy with the iron bracelets and conclude with a voyage across the seas to do my forefathers proud. I doubt the tradition has fallen out of fashion for the right candidates. Our anxious shuffling only delayed the inevitable.
Recurve
Gas, power and comms tunnels below London. Sketch.
The nervous fiddle faddle drifted away as we snaffled the most weighty and cumbersome of our props and sauntered as the blue collars do when remunerated by the hour. Towards a nest of sorts we wandered, past sleeping drones in their neat rows beside the bitumen. The nest appeared quiet and dark so we arranged the props in a manner to swell the breast of Pythagoras and made good our injection into a little known artery of this old city.
Like the veins beneath your skin below every town, city and metropolis lie an invisible network of conduits flowing with the nutrients on which the city feeds. Water, gas, power, communication - all crucial to the city's vitality. Cut off these services and the city would collapse in days as resources dwindle, society fragments into tribes and lawlessness takes hold. Katrina reinforced the notion that society is only a few days without food, water and power away from anarchy.
Cable Splay
London is incredible, who would have thought. Velvia
Could you survive a week without gas, power and water? Could you find water without a tap, food without supermarkets? Like the tattered newspaper blown down the deserted high street your money is worthless, a remnant of a time more civilised and orderly. What basic survival skills can you offer your family? will you burn your beloved possessions for warmth? When your meager food supplies dwindle will the flesh of your fellow man fill your gullet? What items can be bartered with the rising gangs in exchange for food and water? Will they take your spouse and children if you defy them? Maybe they'll take you.
We've grown up in a society where the basics of human survival are totally removed from our daily lives. Our homes and workplaces are dependent upon services we know nothing about providing for ourselves. At the city's fringes these services spread like capillaries but closer to the heart they begin to consolidate. Tonight we walked inside these pulsating arteries surrounded by the lifeblood of a metropolis.
Concrete surprise
Unexpected side tunnel, breaking away from the gorgeous brick trunk. Velvia 100.
The tunnels are a hive of intertwined pipes and cables which arc across the tunnel, then dive through the brick walls into building basements. The bright rainbow colours of fibre cabling contrast against one hundred and fifty year old brickwork; similar bricks to those used by Bazalgette for his immense sewer system. Thick layers of grime and dust coat the old rusty gas mains in which workers have left their names and various industry jabs. In millions of years will the phrase 'BT fucks goats' be used to judge a lost civilisation's wit and genius? Fluorescent lights at 10 meter intervals cast fuzzy green tinged shadows through the vine like cables, throwing deformed shapes across the walls that few will ever interpret.
For hours we walked, heaving upwards against emergency exits that never opened - they're all locked tight from above with steel padlocks the size of your fist. Preventing entry is evidently more important than allowing a hasty exit. Perhaps the owners of this infrastructure are finally admitting it's not so dangerous after all. Certainly not dangerous enough to be locked into.
No Exit
Like all the emergency exits, they're locked tight from above. Unless you know the way, you're not bouncing in, or out, of this system.
We had marched from the heart to the brain and back again through 150 years of infrastructural history, while firmly planting a flag upon something I believe is unexplored. No matter how relaxed you become while inside an exit into central London spikes the heart rate every single time. In a mere moment you move from your sanctuary into the hectic fray and expose yourself to the bobbys, the cameras and a populace bombarded by advertising campaigns to love, spy and report thy neighbour. Trust the cred, trust you belong and do not falter in that belief for a second. We cracked our exit then stepped out proud, confident and invincible.
Recognise
Who runs this town from the underground?
From Russia with love,
ds
The longest stretch of straight tunnel in the system. 50/1.4
I departed the underground near my beloved fleet, tithed to the false prophets on route and met well my fellows for the evening: Jd the Prudent, stoop master and teh Otter. Together at the street corner clothed to ill our shimmering cred provided simple insurance against the mere common folk and a metaphorical bible in the pocket against the barking irons of those who pop first and ask later.
Invisible though we were to the commoners the stakes stacked high against us; the realistic outcomes I imagined would see us either spilled or snapped. The latter of course would begin with an intimacy with the iron bracelets and conclude with a voyage across the seas to do my forefathers proud. I doubt the tradition has fallen out of fashion for the right candidates. Our anxious shuffling only delayed the inevitable.
Recurve
Gas, power and comms tunnels below London. Sketch.
The nervous fiddle faddle drifted away as we snaffled the most weighty and cumbersome of our props and sauntered as the blue collars do when remunerated by the hour. Towards a nest of sorts we wandered, past sleeping drones in their neat rows beside the bitumen. The nest appeared quiet and dark so we arranged the props in a manner to swell the breast of Pythagoras and made good our injection into a little known artery of this old city.
Like the veins beneath your skin below every town, city and metropolis lie an invisible network of conduits flowing with the nutrients on which the city feeds. Water, gas, power, communication - all crucial to the city's vitality. Cut off these services and the city would collapse in days as resources dwindle, society fragments into tribes and lawlessness takes hold. Katrina reinforced the notion that society is only a few days without food, water and power away from anarchy.
Cable Splay
London is incredible, who would have thought. Velvia
Could you survive a week without gas, power and water? Could you find water without a tap, food without supermarkets? Like the tattered newspaper blown down the deserted high street your money is worthless, a remnant of a time more civilised and orderly. What basic survival skills can you offer your family? will you burn your beloved possessions for warmth? When your meager food supplies dwindle will the flesh of your fellow man fill your gullet? What items can be bartered with the rising gangs in exchange for food and water? Will they take your spouse and children if you defy them? Maybe they'll take you.
We've grown up in a society where the basics of human survival are totally removed from our daily lives. Our homes and workplaces are dependent upon services we know nothing about providing for ourselves. At the city's fringes these services spread like capillaries but closer to the heart they begin to consolidate. Tonight we walked inside these pulsating arteries surrounded by the lifeblood of a metropolis.
Concrete surprise
Unexpected side tunnel, breaking away from the gorgeous brick trunk. Velvia 100.
The tunnels are a hive of intertwined pipes and cables which arc across the tunnel, then dive through the brick walls into building basements. The bright rainbow colours of fibre cabling contrast against one hundred and fifty year old brickwork; similar bricks to those used by Bazalgette for his immense sewer system. Thick layers of grime and dust coat the old rusty gas mains in which workers have left their names and various industry jabs. In millions of years will the phrase 'BT fucks goats' be used to judge a lost civilisation's wit and genius? Fluorescent lights at 10 meter intervals cast fuzzy green tinged shadows through the vine like cables, throwing deformed shapes across the walls that few will ever interpret.
For hours we walked, heaving upwards against emergency exits that never opened - they're all locked tight from above with steel padlocks the size of your fist. Preventing entry is evidently more important than allowing a hasty exit. Perhaps the owners of this infrastructure are finally admitting it's not so dangerous after all. Certainly not dangerous enough to be locked into.
No Exit
Like all the emergency exits, they're locked tight from above. Unless you know the way, you're not bouncing in, or out, of this system.
We had marched from the heart to the brain and back again through 150 years of infrastructural history, while firmly planting a flag upon something I believe is unexplored. No matter how relaxed you become while inside an exit into central London spikes the heart rate every single time. In a mere moment you move from your sanctuary into the hectic fray and expose yourself to the bobbys, the cameras and a populace bombarded by advertising campaigns to love, spy and report thy neighbour. Trust the cred, trust you belong and do not falter in that belief for a second. We cracked our exit then stepped out proud, confident and invincible.
Recognise
Who runs this town from the underground?
From Russia with love,
ds
