FROM A CLUBMAN S CHAIR

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXXVII, Issue 19804, 21 May 1934, Page 10

FROM A CLUBMAN S CHAIR

BY TRAIN ACROSS THE CHANNEL HOMES WITH SOUNDPROOF WALLS (Specially written for “ The Timaru Herald ” by Charles Martin.) LONDON. April 5. You tuck yourself into your wagonlit bed at Victoria, and you wake up next morning for coffee and rolls as the train rumbles into the Gare du Nord at Paris. That is how some of us will be setting out on our summer holiday next year, when the Channel train ferry comes into service. Like the Channel Tunnel, it has been talked about and written about for years; and now, at last, it is really coming. One of the ferries is actually built and launched, and two more are on the way. Romance and Discomfort. Thus is the Channel crossing to be robbed of its discomfort and its romance. Even the most sophisticated of English travellers still feels a little thrill of adventurousness when he boards the Channel boat. No matter how often you have done it before, there is still a flavour of romance about this way of leaving England. But where is the romance in a train ferry? No more good-byes to the white cliffs of Dover; you will be sound asleep (so the railway company promises) as your train slips noiselessly from the dock to the ship. No more pacing of the deck during that interminable hour between Dover and Calais. No more rushes for the gangway. No more grumbling as irreverent hands ferret in your baggage to see whether you have dared to bring a packet of English cigarettes into France. In Heavy Seas. All these things are to be smoothed away while you slumber; and your luggage will be searched in a more leisurely and gentlemanly way as the train speeds towards Paris and breakfast. But there is one new seafaring experience in store for us. What does it feel like to lie in a train tossed by seas such as only the villainous English Channel knows? The designers of the ferry-boat have done their best to eliminate roll —but no shipbuilder yet has defeated the Channel. You may sail round the world with a steady stomach, and then be sick between Dover and Calais! “ Hub of the Universe.” “Non-stop Variety” announces a notice in huge letters of light above the London Pavilion in Piccadilly Circus. Yet this week the non-stop variety will stop. Everything in the “Pav” will stop; for the housebreakers are waiting, pick in hand, to demolish its interior and turn it into yet one more “super cinema.” So Piccadilly—“hub of the universe,” as Londoners boast—is to suffer one more change. The old Pavilion, where two generations of music-hall stars have performed, is to follow the Empire and the Coliseum and become a talkie palace. Fifty thousand pounds is to be spent on making it one of the finest in London. A Cosmopolitan Rendezvous. Though only about fifty years old, the Pavilion holds more London memories than many a more venerable building. The promenade at the back of the circle used to be the rendezvous of smart men-about-town and visitors from all over the world. Many a wandering Englishman, home after years of roaming, met old friends promenading there between the turns. And what turns they were! Marie Lloyd, of immortal memory, and Dan Lcno; George Robey, a veteran still with us; and earlier still Belle Bilton and the Great McDermott—the Pavilion knew them all. Soon we are to see there famous talent in another sphere, for one of the first pictures to be shown in the “super cinema” will be Charlie Chaplin’s long-awaited new film. Noiseless Flats. No one glancing down the long list of flats to let would think that London had a housing problem—not, at any rate, in the higher price ranges. There seem to be dozens of half-empty blocks of “luxury” apartments. Yet more and more continue to be built. The latest project is for a big new block opposite Harrods stores. A novel feature here is that the walls of all the flats are to be sound-proof. So that if you are one of those people whose nerves suffer when your neighbour plays a piano or a gramophone, or forgets to turn off his radio, you will be able to find perfect peace here. The architect is the same man who designed the sound-proof studios at Broadcasting House. Of course there will be built-in refrigerators and all the latest electrical devices for cooking, heating and cleaning. And in these days it seems hardly necessary to add that the new block will be crowned with a roof garden. The garden paths will have panels of glass, through which light will be admitted to a large covered courtyard below. Taxi Language. My notes last w r eek on London cabs and taxis have prompted a correspondent to send me some of the strange names by which various districts are known to the taxi fraternity. City Road is City Road to you and me, but to the taxi-driver, for some odd reason, it is known as “Spion Kop.” Personally, I have never noticed that the Euston Road is particularly draughty—but the taxi-men call it “The Cold Blow.” “The Pill-Box” is good enough for Harley Street, and Victoria Station is easily recognisable under its soubriquet of “Victa.” “Elsie” is perhaps the neatest of all; it denotes the County Hall, headquarters of the L.C.C. But you would never guess the whereabouts of “the Mount.” My correspondent tells me it is Sloan Square, where fares used to be so scarce that the cabman often remained “mounted” on his cab a long time. Unpopular Coins. One often hears people advocate the abolition of the threepenny-bit, which must be the most unpopular of all coins in England. Those one sees in circulation are generally pretty old, and I had imagined that no new ones were being minted. Yet this week I read that the Mint has struck nearly six million. Who wants threepenny-bits? The answer is: Scotsmen. It is they who keep the Mint busy turning out these unpopular coins. London does not want them; but Scotland (joking apart) clamours for them. The Scottish banks regularly take from 50 to 80 per cent, of all the threepennybits struck by the Royal Mint.