LONDON PRIDE

Big Benn

By DAVID ROGERS

UNDOUBTEDLY this was the headline that the Postmaster-General was after. 'The Post Office Tower symbolises twentieth-century Britain in much the same way as Big Ben symbolised nineteenth-century Britain.' He flogged the point hard, saying, `This newer, bigger Big Ben cap- tures the spirit of our times.' Mr. Benn missed the headlines, and had to be content with, for instance, last Friday's Times: `Mr. Wilson Open. ing 619 Ft. Structure.' This was unfair. Anyone who can get the Prime Minister talking about attracting youth to science, with his head 600 feet up in the clouds, slowly revolving in little circles, deserves a better press than that.

The Post Office Tower, clearly seen from all over London, is difficult to find. In Cleveland Street they thought the entrance was in Char- lotte Street. In Charlotte Street a barrow boy who had been moved out of Mr. Wilson's way had his own comments on `the bloody tower,' and suggested I tried Angela's, the hairdressers. `They know the lot in there.'

`Well, do you know, that tower is all we ever talk about to our clients, but I've never heard where the entrance is.' A new god, dominant, but seemingly unattainable. A man in Whitfield Street was more helpful. `Lots of postmen stand- ing around in Howland Street.'

And in Howland Street' it starts to soar. I joined a party and with slow deliberation we toured the bottom floors. `This is a functional structure to augment television networks and telephone services between London and other large towns. This tower will provide a micro- 'White Strength!' wave link.' All the time the prospect of going to the top was temptingly dangled.

'You taking your party up?"Yes. What is it like up? Still misty?' I expect so. I haven't been up for four hours.'

Somebody asked, 'Is it the tallest in the world?' The guide paused. 'No,' uncertainly. 'No. I wouldn't say that. But at least it's the tallest in Britain, and that's something, isn't it?' We all agreed. We were anxious to get to the top.

After hearing that microwaves travel in straight lines and therefore the tower had to be 620 feet to avoid obstacles, we were banded over to a Miss GPO, who murmured, 'Are you going up?' We nodded. She leant closer. 'I have heard that on a clear day, with glasses, you can see Brighton.'

At last we were in the lift and all systems go. 'Twenty-nine floors. We are travelling at 1,000 feet a minute.' Through the centre of the trans- mitting apparatus floors we shoot skywards. The lift seems to shake. Miss GPO grins. 'Perhaps I ought to tell you that although we go up 620 feet, we only go down 26 feet into the earth.' When we get to the top we come out on a revolving restaurant floor. 'A long way down to get the wine,' said the captain of the lift. 'I hope you enjoyed your flight.'

Then we were there. The highest point in town. The Senate House peered through the mist. At last the one-way systems around London Uni- versity made sense. An ambulance, flashing blue lights, left the Middlesex Hospital and raced for Tottenham Court Road. And all the time we went round in a circle so that twice each hour we would look down on each London landmark..

'The restaurant will be run by Mr. Butlin,' said another Miss GPO. 'Above this will be a cock- tail lounge and kitchens. Then a gallery for aircraft warning lights, the lift motor room, and a forty-foot mast with a radar storm scanner.' We walked around, gazing down on familiar sights. 'We are sorry about the mist.'

Down the floors again. Past the aerials, open to the London eye, described as 'large horns and saucer-shaped paraboloids.' The guide was talking about the morning's opening. 'An' then he picked up this phone and spoke to Birming- ham, see. That was to show that it's not just like the Monument, but has a purpose.' He spoke proudly. 'The Post Office is a scientific-based industry.'

We left the longest, fastest lift in Britain. W1 was cold. The mist was closing in. 'Russian Moon Probe,' said the placards. At the corner of How- land Street someone I knew stopped me. He pointed upwards to the tower. 'You should have seen the fuss this morning. It was government by gimmick all right. A ruddy great telephone pole with ugly scoop-like objects at the top. Described by lean, practical, futuristic, whizz- kid Benn as, "Lean, practical and futuristic." Talk about gimmick . .

'Just a moment. I'm not Quoodle.'

'I know.' He indicated the paraboloids. 'But you're not saying that adds to London Pride.'