Reminiscipackage

I stumbled across the most fabulous cache of photos of London's Liverpool Street station, taken in the very early 1980s (or possibly the late 1970s).


The exterior of the station was dominated by the bulk of the Great Eastern Hotel (the GER was noted for the quality of its catering and hotel services -- all now long-gone, of course: you'd be lucky to be able to buy so much as a cup of tea on most modern services).


The main approach to the station was down a long sloping taxi ramp:


Here's one of my photos to show some of the glories of the main train-shed roof, which still survives:


And here's how it used to be:


The station used to be a bit of a rabbit-warren, with dark, soot-grimed alleys and an extraordinarily complex system of footbridges which raised and lowered themselves over tracks, twisting through vast brick arches as they meandered from one side of the station to the other:


More walkways here, in a scene that illustrates the importance of parcels traffic (all of that is now transported by lorries):


Most of the mail travelled by train, too (again, it all now clogs up the roads):


The train shed was not a full-length job, and if you were in the wrong part of the train when you alighted you might face a soaking from the rain (one of the good parts of the redevelopment was the extension of the train shed, in the same style):


To minimise this possibility, the two centre platforms were much longer than the rest, cut deep back into the station concourse (another reason why it felt such a labyrinth -- not all the platforms ended in alignment).


The longest InterCity trains usually (though not always) departed from there -- the Hook Continental, an international train via Harwich to the Netherlands, and the named expresses into East Anglia (the Broadsman, the Norfolkman, the Easterling, the Fenman).


Despite that intoxicating glamour, Liverpool Street's main traffic was commuters -- thousands of them.


It was home to the famous Jazz Trains in the 1920s (the GER tried to prove that steam was just as good for operating an intensive service as electric trains. Surprisingly they largely succeeded).


That image (above) is, for me, immensely sad. It's of the high-numbered suburban platforms: the trainshed was demolished to allow a developer to build some gimcrack office block overhead, leaving the public to use this tawdry, lightless space:


Let's put that behind us and return to more glamorous things -- some glorious British Rail Mk2 carriages in an InterCity train are glimpsed at a platform, alongside a long line of empty BRUTE trolleys:


And here a pair of Mk2 InterCity coaches awaits the next turn of duty, showing that steam heating was still in operation long after steam traction had disappeared:


Let's finish with a treat -- this classical box on stilts housed the Station Master's office:


On the other side of the concourse there was a similar, larger, box housing the Europa Bistro, a restaurant overlooking the concourse and giving a fabulous view of the trains as they arrived or waited to depart.

I think the remodelled Liverpool Street is a bit of a soulless place compared to all that, notwithstanding its bright efficiency.

How's that?

I am so sorry for the inexcusably tiny size of this picture -- this man is a God and his image should be reproduced, at a minimum, at the size of a barn:


And sorry there is only one of him.

You can tell I'm smitten, can't you?

Tears to your eyes

I was very much taken with this fine chap -- nice open smile and all that. Cute.


Imagine my delight when I discovered that he also had a tiny winkie. But also my horror on contemplating the monstrous mutant winkie next to him.


For it turns out the story of the site from which I liberated these images is that some men -- like our lovely green T-shirted hero -- get off on being, er, bummed by the most enormous Godforsaken cocks in the world.


I am struggling to see the pleasure of this (possibly because my eyes are currently watering heavily) but he seems pleased enough, and is also kind enough to wave his normal sized todger at us.


And then things go horribly, horribly wrong:


No, I'm mystified. I can see the interest in a sort of Victorian freak-show way, but the sexiness?

I'm just thinking "Ow".

Ancient history

Exciting news today, that the earliest evidence of human settlement yet found in Britain is from a new site in Happisburgh, in darkest Norfolk. That's on the east coast of England in East Anglia (the rounded, sticky-out bit to the right). Here's a close-up:


If you can't find Happisburgh on that map, look for the caption that says "NORTH SEA" and it's just below the "E".

Oh, and (this being Norfolk) "Happisburgh" is pronounced "Hays-boro".

I know, I know.


Anyway, archaeologists have uncovered a spectacular set of early flint tools, all beautifully dated to either 850,000 or 950,000 years ago. That may seem like a big gap but there are good reasons for there to be two dates (trust me), and even the most "recent" of those dates is a good couple of hundred thousand years older than anything else yet found.

Incidentally, in that photo, above, notice the cliffs? So how can Norfolk be as flat as people say if it has cliffs, eh?

Anyway, an artist's impression has also been released:


Personally, I can't understand why releasing a painting of how a typical Norfolk family lives today has any relevance to this story, but I guess that's why I'm not a journalist.

Hairy transports of delight

This is just too delicious:


A rather talented photoshopper takes photos of manly porn stars and then adds hirsuteness, publishing before and after pictures.


This man is an utter genius!


If I was a fairy with a magic wand (no sniggering at the back) I'd be tempted to do exactly this -- to spread the magic of body hair all around me (this next chap, for instance, now looks utterly glorious):


I'm not so sure about the porntaches, though, or about some of the tackier tattoos.


But overall this is a genius idea and I want to marry the artist as a reward.

I'm sure he'll be thrilled.

Not so Super now

This symphonic machine is, of course, British Rail's InterCity 125, the High Speed Train.


Introduced in 1975, and still the world speed record holder for a diesel powered train, these glorious machines form the backbone of long-distance services between London and the West Country, as well as into the Highlands of Scotland. But they're getting to the end of their working lives and the previous government launched a programme to build a replacement.

Can I introduce the Agility Trains (= Hitachi) InterCity Super Express?


This project has been insanely managed by DfT, and the value for money even by their own measures has declined from "extremely high" to "moderate/high" borders as the specification has been changed.

A devastating report has just been published which trashes the fundamental ideas behind the project.


Unfortunately, I need a bit of time before I can post about it -- there are too many juicy morsels to miss -- so this is just a taster. Think of it as a trailer for a forthcoming feature. A feature that has so far cost tax-payers £20 million in consultancy fees, and the train manufacturing industry around £50 million in bidding and engineering costs.

Just wanted you to know.

Sticking the, er, sandal in

My lovely friend Tot F has been bemoaning the emergence (or perhaps that should be the re-emergence) of the Roman sandal as a fashion object.


"There are many things to miss of ancient Rome", she opined; "their sandals are not one of them".


She is, as always, correct.

These shots were taken at the Roman amphitheatre at Nimes.


It's an impressive structure -- a deep bowl carved out inside so that the scale of it surprises you when you walk in from the outside.

Of course deeply unpleasant things were done here, as can be seen on the racks of postcards outside the arena:


I mean, why on earth would anyone make grown men fight in nappies? Those Roman johnnies were particularly perverse.

Anyhow, as my eye was gliding over the heroic stones of this graceful architecture, they happened to alight on this astonishing chap:


There, kitted-out in authentic Roman tunic, exposing acres of manly thigh, was some sort of Gladiatorial fluffer.

I don't think I need to point out that he is the one standing on the right in this next photo, but I will, just for the avoidance of doubt:


You get a much better view of the tunic (or, rather, mini-skirt/rompersuit combo) from the back. Let's just get a little closer to that manly musculature, just for a moment...


Anyway, the point is -- and I think we can all agree on this -- that the tunic worn by Roman gladiatorial fluffers is, in fact, a veritable work of art, and one which I personally would like to see returned to the catwalk (and the men's outfitters) post haste.


Incidentally, I stumbled across those two fluffers a bit later -- what a coincidence! -- in a different part of the arena. I had not been furtively following them around, while they struggled to get away from the leering pervert with the camera.


Quite enough of all that old stuff -- just an opportunity to reiterate that my friend Tot F knows about what she's banging on. No question.

Cyber stalking is such fun*

Remember this chap from a couple of days ago?


What am I talking about? How could anyone have looked at those images and not had them seared into their memories?

I'm delighted to report that the same kind, anonymous reader has now supplied two further Reciprocating Motion World Exclusive (TM) photos for our viewing pleasure -- first up, a delightful profile:


I should confess that that's actually a crop from a much larger image (the crop is intended to enable you to focus on his finer features without being overly distracted. As if anything would distract you from him and his glorious winkie).

But the original image also has a delightful cameo featuring this Sussex student girl, who is obviously as attracted by the perfection of his bum as, er, I am:


And here's the second Reciprocating Motion World Exclusive (TM), giving us a close-up of that most perfect feature:


I think I am in Heaven.

With thanks, again, to my kind, anonymous reader.

* Although remember, boys and girls, that -- in real life -- stalking is a horrid crime. Don't do it. Stay safe, now. Night night.

Snap

I'm having a bit of a thing for tall men, at the moment.


It was a ... well, let's just call it a chance encounter, the other day, that seems to have recalibrated my height desires.


The man in question was nothing like the fine chap depicted in this fistful of fun, being rather nicely muscled. Very nicely muscled, in fact.


But that is not to decry those of us who have a less muscley and, perhaps, more natural musculature.


But now I feel as if I am being unfair to the lovely man featured in these images, by not giving him my undivided attention -- distracted as I am by happy memories.


Although in that last picture I do hope he hasn't broken his penis. That would be awful.