I adore the Columbia Road man. Dissimilar to the Vitruvian man, the Columbia Road man is awash with imperfections and contradictions. In the depths of East London he stands. Humbled by cobbled stones and velvet leaves, he shuffles from foot to foot.
Columbia Road hosts a weekly flower market, which hosts Columbia Road man, and delights many with romantic connotations of tulips and daisies, of chrysanthemums and roses. Bracing the wind, bends, concrete and bricks, the full-blooded Columbia Road man sweats and hollers. He screams, “Two for a fiver!” above the noise of girls licking cupcake icing, the tapping of those rifling through vintage records, the bubbling of hot boiling sausages and the whispering of young wealth deciding on which Eames chair to buy. Weaving his deep voice through the humming vibrations of a klezmer three-piece band, the Columbia Road man holds up his tulips and yells, “Two for a fiver!”
He is all Cockney, like Eliza Doolittle but with a head of silver wisps, a bulging beer belly, tats running down both arms, and a strict uniform of cotton black vests. Don’t think Eliza is half the flower seller that Columbia Road man is.
The most unlikely of characters on this dainty, brightly-pollon-coloured street, the Columbia Road man emulates everything I love about Columbia Road, nay (yes, nay) cockney London. The big giant, who sells us pretty flowers, is made so beautifully quaint by where he stands. And what he stands for. And, what he considers the rules; one must be Lock Stock and Mr Darcy at all times.
He reminds me of another.
On one of the first evenings I arrived in London over two years ago, I sat alone in a pub, which was full and overflowing with soccer fans watching a game. With absolutely no idea about the sport, but enjoying the atmosphere, I sat with my cider next to an elderly gentleman. This small elfish Liverpudlian character screamed repeatedly at the screen ‘Fuch you! You Karnt! Fuch you!’ Then, as if he had acknowledged what he perceived as an embarrassing display of uncontrollable anger, he turned to me every time and said, ‘Aw, I am so sorry for that lovey. I am so sorry. Really sorry for using bad words lovey.’ The night continued where the Liverudlian would swear profusely at the screen and then turn to me (completely unphased) to apologise. Swear and repent, swear and repent, swear and repent.
To me it became clear, just like the Columbia Road seller, the Liverpudlian elf was the quintessential English working class man. A socially constructed Y chromosome that holds together real dark brutish behaviour with mother taught gentlemanly niceties. A man whose chivalry, not to be confused with misogyny, comes as naturally as eating potatoes and ordering a pint. A tradition of working class men who make this country so terrific.
Columbia Road man and Liverpudlian elf, two grey haired elders of English society, sat at the pub side by side.
Columbia Road man: Yesterday, I took out that bird I met at the market.
Liverpudlian elf: Aw, nice. Did you fuch her?
Columbia Road man: No, we walked through the hills of Hampstead Heath and shared pimms overlooking the city. She is a smart girl and so sweet.
Liverpudlian elf: Aw, that sounds just lov-erly.
Columbia Road man: It was.
Liverpudlian elf: (Bright eyed) Did you show her Kenwood House and swim in the lake?
Columbia Road: I was going to, but I saw a Man United fan who was bloody well asking for it so I gave the twat a black eye and I took her to the pub.
Liverpudlian elf: Fuchin’ Man U.
If you are ever in London on a Sunday morning there is no other option but to find Columbia Road. It is, without doubt, the best microcosm of this greater city. The street is wondrous, adventurous and delicious with fried food, bright flowers, Mark Ronson look a likes, dairy rooms, 1960s furniture and untouched buildings. The smells, tastes and colours are intoxicating. It is, by far, my favourite place to be in London.
And don’t forget to spot the Columbia Road man.
Image credit: Pim Geerts
