A few years back I read an article proclaiming New Cross, in (not too) South-(not too) East London, as the “New Shoreditch” (this one? I can’t remember…). Nowadays I would probably roll my eyes and mutter caustically about lazy journalists’ clichés because, frankly, everywhere is the New Shoreditch if it isn’t already the New Dalston or the New Peckham and fast on its way to being the Old Harlesden or the Old Old East Ham or wherever is next slated for hipsterfication. But back then it sounded rather exciting, and a friend and I decided to go on an adventure one evening and laugh in the face of beards and fixies and microbrews or whatever awaited us there.
Of the places we went to I have little memory, although I recall the Rosemary Branch where we sat at the bar with an assortment of derelicts who flirted with the Thai barmaid and insisted we play the battered old piano. We also visited the Royal Albert, which I have since been back to and can recommend more firmly for its cosy décor, nice beer and spicy, chewy sticks of pepperoni that suddenly seem to be all the rage in these sorts of places. Despite the nearby presence of self-consciously “creative” Goldsmiths College, replete with Will Alsop’s famous squiggle on its visual arts building, neither of us felt even the faintest resonance of Shoreditch.
If anyone thinks this is a rather pub-heavy introduction, I would politely point out that the whole bloody neighbourhood is named after a pub, supposedly. The same goes for Elephant and Castle, Angel and Royal Oak. But, I admit, if we’d visited in the daytime we might have focused on slightly different things. Such as the splendid 1905 façade of Deptford Town Hall (now occupied by Goldsmiths) that, with nautical motifs and naval figures including Nelson and Sir Francis Drake, commemorates the area’s history as the site of the Royal Dockyard and a nexus of exploration and trade. One trade, in particular, stands out: according to this article by Goldsmiths anthropologist Paul Hendrich, the jolly-looking ship at the top of the ensemble is actually a slave ship. Hendrich grappled with the fascinating question of whether and how Goldsmiths should take responsibility for the events immortalised on its building. His writing comes across as thoughtful and sincere. Tragically, he was killed in a road accident in 2008.
Another, less bittersweet architectural gem, is the row of 18th century houses on Tanners Hill in Deptford (where exactly New Cross becomes Deptford, I wouldn’t like to say). One of which belongs to W H Wellbeloved, Butcher and Home Made Pies. Across the road is a tiny record shop and café, imaginatively called Vinyl. I popped in there this morning and got a puzzled greeting from a slightly spaced-out man with straggly hair and a proper sarf London accent and I asked him if he did iced coffee.
“Erm, yeah I can do that. How do you want me to make it? Everybody seems to have a different idea about iced coffee… Yeah the toilet’s downstairs. I haven’t cleaned it yet though. Sorry, I’m two hours behind this morning cos we had a gig in here last night… Yeah, we have ‘em most weekends. It’s kind of usually quirky stuff. Not a rehearsal but not exactly a gig either.”
I was charmed by the whole thing. Meanwhile, the real heart of Deptford is round the corner on the narrow, pedestrianised high street that hosts a thrice weekly market which I fell in love with about a year ago. On Saturdays it’s a glorious tat-fest – I certainly wouldn’t come here for the retail opportunities – and a feast for anyone remotely interested in watching their fellow humans. There’s a shop called El Cheap Ou where, amid the tinned food and discount coffee I once listened to three old men badmouthing Prince Andrew:
“He goes around the world selling arms…”
“…and shagging underage girls.”
“It’s not right, he spends thousands of pounds…”
“…And now he’s Vice Admiral of the Fleet. Vice Admiral of the Fleet!”
There is a strong white cockney demographic here, many running bric-a-brac and clothes stalls, but there are also butchers and fishmongers staffed by the standard London melange: Afghanis, Pakistanis, Indians, Jamaicans, West Africans. One fishmonger has a wall devoted to packets of smoked shrimp and dried catfish and, at the far end, about fifty hooks on which hang bags and bags of dried stockfish. With their jaws open they make a villainous sight, second only to the fetid-looking smoked catfish (also sold here) in a list of “Terrifying fish I never want to eat”.
Even on Deptford High Street there are wisps of the “New Williamsburg”, with cafes like the Waiting List, where Vacant Young Things serve you lattes in jam jars and a poster reading “Hate your job? Start a Co-op” pins down the zeitgeist neatly. Things become a little seedier as you reach the north end of the street, with tired old pie and mash shops, a couple of nail bars and a truly frightening-looking pub called the White Swan. There is also a cluster of Vietnamese restaurants, all of which actually seem to be frequented by Vietnamese diners which is a good sign.
Beyond the high street you enter a world of run-down housing estates, sad little parks and even sadder boarded-up pubs. Nobody would call this area the New Anywhere, although interestingly, one of the four towers of the Pepys Estate became the subject of a BBC Documentary after it was sold to Berkeley Homes and converted into high-end flats. Of course, the tower that was sold was the one right next to the river, and sure enough, there is a thin lip of riparian luxury that forms the northern edge of Deptford, a lovely but slightly sterile pie-crust over the rich stew of life below.
The musings of Jonathan Galton 