End of the Routemaster Era

“On average, six people die each year, falling from a Routemaster.” The conductor on the 38 laughed, then scolded himself. “The problem is the survivors. They sue us.”

I sat upstairs, right at the front, a large window onto London from one of the few surviving Routemaster journeys. In another sense, the 38 was a personal journey. My family have lived at various points along this route since the 19th century and one even paid his dues as a conductor. As luck and prosperity ebbed and flowed, my ancestors moved with the times, but be it tram or bus, they were never far from a 38. As we creaked from Clerkenwell to Holborn, as east became west and the streets more moneyed, my ancestors petered out and the bus started to fill.

There has always been something archaic about Routemasters; the two-man crew, all those cramped seats, that bone shaking suspension. They are almost toy-like, capturing the era before Oyster cards and plasma screens. Like veterans of a certain age, every year their numbers have grown thinner, but they’re not leaving without a bang and last October, a body of enthusiasts got together to organise a festival in North London.

“Basically, it’s a tank without a gun barrel” said a man in a ‘Routemasters Forever’
t-shirt as I walked through thin winter sunshine in Finsbury Park. This was considered insightful, judging by the vigorous nodding it produced. Lined up smartly on a bluff were hundreds of Routemasters. Green prototypes stood polished to perfection and rubbed shoulders with later models clothed in adverts, “Back the Olympic Bid”, “Jubilee” & “Harry Potter”.

From above, on the café terrace, the buses did look like tanks, unarmed and far from dangerous, but impressive, as if drilled into line. Parked at the end of one row was an early 38, one of the first to ply this old tram route in the 1950s. A sprightly young man suggested a tour. His enthusiasm was overwhelming and his manner insistent. “I bought it cheap, put in a new gear box and added the interior myself.” The last statement didn’t register until I peered into the upper deck. Instead of ripped seat covers and incomprehensible graffiti lay a bed and pretty rows of floral curtains. “This is where I sleep,” he added, unnecessarily.

The festival attracted a devoted and knowledgeable crowd but that wasn’t enough for some. Two red-faced men were arguing, “No, Martin, it terminated at Holborn.” Martin wasn’t having any of it, “John, the 14 terminated at Holborn, the 27 went to Ludgate Circus.” John looked like he wanted to punch Martin and punch him hard. You had to be passionate too.

Back on the bus and near the end of the journey, the 38 was a buzz of activity. Along Charing Cross Road and Shaftesbury Avenue, every stop in traffic signalled a new game of musical chairs; soundtracked by car horns and the incessant chatter of west-end streets. Impatient locals skipped through traffic and jumped from moving platforms. Tourists joined in the challenge, photographing their accomplishments. It takes practice to ride a Routemaster but in this blame culture era of no win-no fee litigation, a passenger is only a mistimed leap away from swapping a bus journey for an ambulance, with the lawyers hot on their heels.

Even among Routemasters, the 38 has its own identity. Squeezed snugly between the 3 and the 8 logo sits a small heart with a story attached. “The heart is the shape of the route, from Clapton to Victoria,” explained a booming voice at the London Transport Office. I floated this theory to several conductors along the route. All laughed.

The heart-shaped route was an urban myth. In fact, the bus traced a path that resembled no recognisable shape; a kind of jagged lightning bolt, like an addition added by hand to illustrate a broken heart.

The conductor shouted “All change” as the bus snuggled into Victoria Station. I careered down the narrow stairs and stumbled onto the platform. No recorded message told me to stand back while clever doors beeped open. The only voice belonged to the conductor. “Careful”, he said.