The Knowledge of London (Part 7- the Final Stages... & a knockback)

Once you reach 21 Day appearances; the final stage of the Knowledge of London, you begin to see a light at the end of the tunnel.

You’re examined once every three weeks, and the time flows far quicker than those murky days when you were bogged down on map tests and 56 day appearances (having said that, the system is currently experiencing delays, which means those on the Knowledge are having to wait a lot longer than usual; 90 days in some cases. Interviews for new examiners recently took place, so hopefully this backlog will soon begin to clear up).

Once you’ve accumulated somewhere in the region of 9 points on the 21 appearance level, you know you’re near the end. If, on your next appearance, you manage to score a C, then that’s 12 points, and you’ve passed the final stage.

Your final appearance is also known as your ‘Req’; that being shorthand for ‘required’. In other words, the examiners are satisfied that you’ve reached the required level of Knowledge in order to qualify as a London Taxi Driver.

Receiving your Req is a magical experience. As the examiner leans across to shake your hand (something which, as a golden rule, they never do before this moment), and tells you that you’ve passed and made the grade, the sense of relief and achievement is overwhelming.

*

As autumn approached, I was finally on the 21s.

I’d had six appearances at the 21 day stage, scoring three Cs and three Ds. As I’ve described in an earlier post, you only get 7 goes at each stage. Fail to accumulate 12 points, and you have to start the stage all over again.

Scoring 3 Cs had enabled me to scrape 9 points together. However, the accompanying D grades meant that I only had one shot left. As my possible Req approached, my nerves and anticipation became unbearable.

My friends, family and fellow Knowledge colleagues told me not to worry; they were all convinced that I would score my C, topping my points up to 12, and thus receive the life-changing handshake to tell me that I’d graduated from Knowledge Boy to London Cabbie.

Although tense, I was inclined to agree with them. In thinking this, I was not being arrogant or over-confident. It was simply based on the fact that, in Knowledge circles and the London Taxi Trade, the Req is seen as a formality.

Knowledge students do get red-lined (sent back) on the 21 day level, but this usually happens after a few D scores. Once near the end, and only requiring three little points to complete the process, it is almost unheard of for the candidate to be red-lined.

I’d been on the Knowledge for over four years by this point and, in that time, I’d never heard of anyone failing when up for their req.

The final appearance is often a straight-forward affair, with simple points and routes being asked. Some students have even been asked to recite ‘Manor House to Gibson Square’; the very first Blue Book run which every Knowledge Boy and Girl knows inside-out.

My Req was scheduled to take part during an interesting period of the Public Carriage Office’s history.

After being based on Penton Street in Islington since 1966, the operation was moving to a new location in Southwark; the ultra-contemporary ‘Palestra Building’. 

This move transported the PCO south of the Thames; actually taking it back towards its original home which was on Lambeth Road, before 1966 (although from the 1850s up until 1919, it was based in an annexe to the Metropolitan Police Force’s New Scotland Yard. As with the rest of the London Taxi trade, it has a long history).

The Palestra is a very avant-garde piece of architecture. Built to house important departments for Transport for London, it is very much a working building; a hefty office block, with towering walls mainly consisting of glass, dotted here and there with pale-yellow panels.

The upper levels are formed of a large slab, which juts out over the lower floors, giving the building a top-heavy appearance. Tucked below this shining mass of modernism, in a corner of the broad forecourt, there is a white, streamlined, pod-like structure, which looks like something out of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001 A Space Oddesy. Here's a Palestra pic:

In short, the Palestra is a prime example of early 21^st Century London architecture.

Despite the contemporary design, the building’s title is of Ancient Greek origin; a Palestra was an arena used for training wrestlers and athletes. Considering one of the Palestra Building’s functions is to put Knowledge students through their paces, this is rather an apt moniker, and one I'm assure its victims can relate to. 

The Knowledge of London’s sparkly, new HQ is modern, colourful, air-conditioned and a temple to open-plan office space.

However…

Going there for an appearance is still a terrifying experience!

In fact, I think it is actually a more gut-twisting place than the old Penton Street office.  

The main reason for this is that the Palestra, with its governmental links, is an exceedingly security-conscience environment. Because of this, you have to go through the waiting room procedure twice!

I’ll explain my experience there, and hopefully I’ll be able to convey what the process at the new building is like.

*

It was the day (fingers and toes crossed) of my Req.

The PCO opens very early, and 21 day appearances are usually amongst the first appointments of the day. If I remember correctly, my appearance was scheduled for around 8.30am.

I woke up before 5am and, being October, it was a dark morning. My anxiety had reached drastic levels, and I’d probably had no more than three hours sleep. As I crept around in the gloom, the blue glow of Breakfast Television pulsing in the background to reassure me that the trains were running to schedule, I went through the same routine I’d been through many times before:

Shirt on; buttoned so tight it pinched the neck, the same dark, blue tie with red stripe, shoes soundly polished, hair tidy and brushed, chin void of stubble and splashed with aftershave. Score-card (by now teeming with blue or black biro representations of ‘C’s and ‘D’s- I never scored anything higher) securely packed on inside blazer pocket. Check, check and check again.

Travelling into central London on the already packed commuter train, people’s elbows in my face as they sought to read the Metro newspaper in yoga-like positions, it felt as though I were a child about to experience my first day at school all over again. This feeling was nothing new- every build up to an appearance felt the same.

Despite the all too familiar nerves, I was still highly curious to see the PCO’s new home. 

It's very easy to get to; Southwark Tube station is directly opposite, which is most convenient. However, that morning I would have preferred it to be some distance away- I’ve always found a brisk walk does wonders for easing a restless stomach!

Arriving at the Palestra Building is rather like entering the lobby of a large, modern chain hotel. The entrance hall, especially first thing in the morning when people are arriving for work, is bustling.

Passing the swarms of people, you make your way to the check in desk, where the smartly-suited staff check your appointment card and provide you with a security badge, which you have to pin to the lapel of your suit.

And then the waiting begins.

The first stage takes place in a large space next to the check in desk; an area sporting long rows of sofas; chairs which are soft, yet surprisingly uncomfortable at the same time (although the discomfort can probably be attributed to nerves).

As you wait, other Knowledge candidates arrive. Soon, the waiting area is dominated by anxious, smartly suited, trainee London Cabbies.

After some time, a representative from the Public Carriage Office emerges from the upper echelons of the Palestra. 

Armed with a register, they call out names of those due up. Candidates who have had the audacity to arrive early have to remain until the next call. Being left behind probably feels rather like missing the last US helicopter to leave Vietnam’s Saigon in 1975.

Once under the control of a PCO rep, you are escorted to one of the Palestra’s many lifts. Just like at the old Penton Street office, most of the candidates are too nervy to talk, and the journey is conducted in shuffling silence. Of course, the silence is even more pronounced when you actually enter the elevator; a public space which is notorious for encouraging muteness.

Once up and on the required floor (I can’t remember which exactly now, I think it may have been the 4^th or 5^th), the second round of waiting begins.

You now find yourself in an broad, open plan office with potted plants, water-coolers and a long set of bookshelves containing magazines, books and periodicals; although I’m not sure if any Knowledge candidates ever feel relaxed enough to leaf through any of these volumes. 

Similar to downstairs, a waiting area has been set aside for Knowledge Boys and Girls to bide their time in. This new area is slightly smaller, and bears a passing resemblance to the waiting room as seen in BBC1’s ‘The Apprentice’; the ante-chamber to Lord Alan Sugar’s intimidating lair.

This was all rather novel, but the process was pretty much the same as it had been at Penton Street; sit, twitch your knees up and down and experience debilitating nausea.

As always, I had a small canister of ‘Rescue Remedy’ in my pocket, which I would take out regularly, and spray into my mouth liberally. I think it helped somewhat, although it may have just been a placebo. It was probably due to the fact that it tasted a little bit like whiskey that it helped to sporadically calm my nerves.

Whilst waiting, I managed to get talking to another Knowledge Boy. He too was up for his Req. In whispered tones, we wished each other luck, and assured each other that our Knowledge apprenticeship would soon be over.

One by one, the people around me were called in by the examiners.

My turn seemed to take forever, and all manner of feelings coiled and twisted within me. 

In order to maintain my spirits, a jumbled version of the theme tune from the Sylvester Stallone classic, ‘Rocky’ passed through my mind, followed by the ‘Eye of the Tiger’ anthem, which was in the third instalment of the boxing movie franchise (and a much better Rocky episode too, cos’ the baddie- ‘Clubber Lang’- was played by 80s icon, Mr. T). I put these contemplations down to hitting the Rescue Remedy too hard.

Finally, my turn came. It was the same examiner who had once asked me what his name was. I had no idea back then, but I certainly knew now.

I followed him towards the new, unfamiliar office.

Like the rest of the Palestra, the new cubicles were fresh and modern, with smart office-type chairs and walls made from smoked glass, thus allowing a good deal of privacy for you to make a wally of yourself in. The walls seemed a lot thinner though; I could just make out the muffled voice of a Knowledge Boy next door; “leave on the left Strand, Comply Trafalgar Square, leave by Whitehall….”

There were no formalities. In a dead-pan tone, the examiner asked me the first point. I can’t remember what it was exactly now, but it was exceptionally obscure and my stomach froze.

“Sorry, Sir…”

“No, how about Oswyth Road?”

My brain began to seize…

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Tenbury Court?”

“No..sorry, Sir I can’t see it.”

My face began to flush and burn, but there was no let-up in the viciously vague points the examiner asked.

“The Linnean Society?”

“No, Sir.”

By now my head was down, shaking slowly. I couldn’t believe what was happening; I’d been so close to achieving my goal moments before, but I now felt as though I didn’t know a single thing about London.

“Albion Walk?”

“Sorry Sir….I don’t know."

I must have been asked around 15 points of this obscure nature. 

When we eventually landed upon two points which I somehow managed to recall, my brain was so pounded, that I made a complete mess in describing the ensuing routes between them. By then however, I wasn’t really bothered; I knew I’d failed.

After what felt like an eternity, the examiner etched a ‘D’ onto my score card. 

Handing it back, he said that I needed to get out onto London’s streets more; my knowledge of London’s points wasn’t good enough. There was no mention of the fact that I’d only been three marks away from passing, nor did the examiner even tell me that I’d been redlined.

As I left the office, I had an inkling how Stallone's Rocky Balboa must have felt when he first fought Mr T's Clubber Lang back in 1982.

I had to make a visit to the booking out desk, where my next appointment would be arranged. Never before had I experienced such a disheartening experience. I was dumbfounded, dazed. Handing the card over to the booking-out attendant, I managed to ask;

“Have I just been redlined?”

The office fellow put his glasses on and quickly scanned my card, toting up the Cs and Ds.

“Four D’s… yes, you have.”

With that, he picked up a red biro, and struck a line through my previous marks, erasing several months of hard work  in one swift go. It was back to the beginning of the stage. 

Taking all stages into account, I’d accumulated 33 points but I’d now had 9 wiped off. Failing to achieve those last, 3 little marks had ended up costing me an enormous amount of time and money. By this  point, all I wanted to do was go out and start cabbing; to begin my career, be a working man and achieve some dignity. That simple pleasure had been denied, and I felt ill.

At Penton Street, you were at liberty to exit the building as soon as you’d booked out. Not so at the Palestra though. With its high security regime, you have to wait until enough of your group have returned from their appearances, so that you can be escorted back downstairs and out of the building.

After my soul-destroying blow, I just wanted to get out of the place. As it transpired, I had to wait over 20 minutes, rocking back and forth, feeling sick. Exiting through the glass wall seemed like a favourable option.

The Knowledge Boy I’d been speaking to entered the waiting area, smiling broadly. He gave me the thumbs up and nodded. I shook my head and explained what had happened. He couldn’t believe it.

When I finally made it back to the lobby, my father was waiting there, along with a good Knowledge friend of mine who had recently passed. Both were anticipating good news.

“I got redlined.”

“What?!”

My cabbie friend thought I was joking. It took some persuasion before he accepted that I was actually being serious.  

Walking outside, the Autumn morning was fresh and beginning to brighten. However, my psyche at that low moment was quite the opposite.

We were approached by the small groups of Knowledge schools’ point collectors. They too were flabbergasted about what had happened; they’d never known it before. When I told them the points I’d been asked, they too struggled to pin-point them.

Later that day, when the revision sheet was published, a number of the points I’d been asked appeared as ‘unknown.’ This rare label meant that the points were truly elusive; the point collectors didn’t known them, nor did the Knowledge school  tutors. The points had never been asked before, and therefore appeared on no database. Nor could they be tracked down via researching the A-Z or internet. 

In short, their location was only known by the examiner, and a tiny handful of London’s 7 million odd inhabitants.

I’ll  never know why I was pushed back at the final hurdle.

As far as I was aware, I’d always behaved myself on appearances, I’d never questioned any decision and, although far from being a genius, I felt that, after 4 and a half years intense study, I was familiar enough with London to pass the process.

Having said that, the frustration and tough times experienced whilst on the Knowledge are excellent training. When I look back on it now, I can see why the examiners behave in such an eccentric manner.

They are emulating real-life passengers.

When working as a London Taxi driver (indeed as in any job that involves close contact with the public), the majority of people you meet are wonderful- polite, patient, understanding and friendly; just as the examiners can be.

However, you’ll sometimes get the odd fare who seems intent on spoiling your day!

I’ve had passengers who’ve told me my routes are bad. That I shouldn’t have taken that street. That I’ve added unnecessary money to the meter. Passengers who get muddled up with their location, or who don’t know where they’re going at all. People who test your patience and good nature to the very limit.

I’ve had people banging on the Perspex divide, asking me what on earth I’m doing. I’ve had drunks mumbling nonsense at me and I’ve had people slump asleep- just as an examiner pretended to do on one of my appearances!

I’ve also had the insult which infuriates London Cabbies the most:

“How can you not know? I thought you were supposed to take a test?”

Oh, if only they knew!

Whilst on appearances, experiencing the occasional insult or undisguised contempt from the examiner, you behave yourself, bite your tongue and learn not to sink to that level. This acquired skill then transfers itself when you enter the real world of ferrying patrons around.

You see, as well as being a test of your London expertise, the Knowledge is also an analysis of your temperament.

To be continued….

The Knowledge of London (Part 6- Appearances and studies)

Many appearances, especially the early ones, were rather bizarre affairs.  

Each appearance lasts for around 10-15 minutes, but that is more than enough time to give your brain a thorough sauté.

On my second appearance, I was in the waiting room as usual, when my name was called. If anything, I was even more nervous than the first time, as I now had an idea of what to expect and had been warned by the examiner on that occasion that the process would only get tougher.

“Mr Jordan, please.”

“Yes, Sir.”

At this point of course, having little experience of the PCO, I had no idea whom each examiner was.

Which is why I was rather puzzled by the examiner’s first question…

After taking our seats, the examiner ignored me for a considerable length of time. At first, he shuffled and arranged several piles of paperwork for no apparent reason. He then proceeded to gaze idly at his computer screen, slowly gliding and clicking his mouse. For all I knew, he was looking at a price comparison website.

I sat there feeling awkward, not saying anything- another unwritten rule whilst on an appearance is that you do not speak unless spoken to. A small, framed photograph of the examiner’s wife, taken in soft-focus, stared back at me from the desk.

Suddenly, the examiner decided to speak.

“What’s my name?”

It took me a moment to register this question. I had no idea what the examiner’s name was; I’d never met him before. All I could do was apologise.

“I’m sorry, Sir… I don’t know.”

“Ok” replied the examiner with a smile, “rule number one on The Knowledge- I’ll never ask you anything you don’t know.”

I nodded eagerly.

“So,” he continued, “what’s my name?”

Now I was truly baffled. I stuttered and apologised again.

But the examiner had already moved on.

“Highgate Private Hospital?”

I rejoiced; it was a nice, straight-forward point.

“View Road, Sir.”

The examiner made no reply. He stared at me whilst tapping a pen up and down in his hand. His silence and failure to confirm my answer quickly led me to believe I’d given the wrong address. Squeezing my eyes, I began to cycle through the other roads in the area.

“Not View Road….” I muttered…. “erm... Denewood road? North Hill?”

“Highgate...Private...Hospital…” the examiner repeated, slowly putting emphasis on each word. 

By now, my brain was in a real fluster. I had no idea where the hospital was.

"Sorry Sir.... I don't know."

“You just said it…” my interrogator stated, “View Road.”

“Oh….”

Despite this surreal appearance, I somehow managed to score a second ‘C’.

*

Something similar occurred on my third appearance.

As I followed the examiner into his office and before I’d even had a chance to take a seat, he was already barking out my first run.

“Right. Elephant and Castle Station, and from there we’ll run it to St Martin’s Theatre.”

“Elephant and Castle Station is on London Road, Sir.”

As I sat down, the examiner walked to his desk and, still standing, leant over his desk with a puzzled look, carefully scrutinizing a map, his eyes bunched up like a short-sighted person who'd lost their spectacles. 

“No… that’s the tube station.”

(Just to clarify, there are TWO Elephant and Castle Stations- an Underground one and a British Rail one, more or less opposite each other!)

“Oh, sorry Sir. It’s Elephant Road then.”

Still looking at his map and not at me, the examiner simply replied,

“No, not that one.”

Once again, my brain began to scramble. These were two major points and, as far as I knew, I’d given the correct roads no problem. But the examiner was saying I hadn’t. With a mixture of dismay and bewilderment, I began to name other roads in the area, hoping to stumble across the correct one.

“St George’s Road, Sir?”

“Nope.”

“Erm…Elephant and Castle Circus?”

“No, no… you've already said it- London Road. I wanted the tube station. Come on; let’s get going- St Martin’s Theatre.”

On this appearance, I made a number of mistakes; the biggest occuring on a run in which I chose the wrong route to traverse around Hyde Park. 

Once my runs were complete, the examiner wrote at length in my file. He then gave me a brief lecture, telling me that he’d given me a ‘D’; so no score.

“You can’t be making mistakes like that,” he explained, waving his hands around animatedly. “If I gave you a ‘C’ today and you get another one next time, then you’d be on 28 days wouldn’t you? And you’re not good enough for that yet. Anyway, take it on the chin. Learn from it.”

As he handed back the scorecard, the examiner gave me a quick wink.

Whilst these appearances were odd and threw my mind off track, the examiners themselves were perfectly hospitable. 

However, in some cases, they could be pretty hostile!

On one particular appearance, the examiner took great pride in ignoring me. He asked me the runs and, as I called, he immersed himself in paperwork, neither looking at nor listening to me.

At one point, however, he picked up a book… which he proceeded to hurl across the room. Smacking a wall, the book dropped to the floor, clanging a metal waste-paper basket as it did so. I did by best to ignore the disturbance, and continued to recite my given route.

After this agitated display, the examiner then pinched the point where his nose joined his forehead and, with great weariness in his voice said;

“You’re not very good are you, Mr Jordan?”

“No, Sir… sorry, I’m having a rather bad day today.”

The examiner let out an exasperated, weight of the world on his shoulders kind of sigh.

“If I were a passenger in your cab, I’d be pretty, damn dizzy by now wouldn’t I? You’re going around in circles.”

“Yes Sir… sorry.”

On another occasion, the same examiner pretended to fall asleep!

*

Some of the worst appearances were the ones when you couldn’t answer any of the posed questions. Quite a few times, I can remember sitting there, being bombarded with obscure points, none of which I’d seen, heard of or remembered.

“Santa Maria del Sur Restaurant?”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Abu Dhabi House?”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Ok, how about the Azerbaijan Embassy?”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Prince of Knowledge Apartments?”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Hmmm.... Haverstock Street?”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“No? Haberdasher Street?”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“The Chartered Institute of Public Finance and Accountancy?”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“*Sigh* Mortons Hotel?”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Nayland Hotel?”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Where’s the smallest police station in London?”

Luckily that one I did know, as my Grandmother had mentioned it a week or so before!

“Trafalgar Square, Sir- on the south-east corner.” (It’s a hollow pillar with a door and window, now mainly used as a broom cupboard, but there is still a police phone in there!)

*

Although on the appearance stage, that does not mean your exploration of London stops. If anything, it intensifies.

Yes, you’ve completed the Blue Book but, as I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, that is merely the basis; the bare bones of what you need to know. Right up until the day you pass, you have to keep out there, driving around the metropolis; looking for points, checking roads, brushing up on your weaker areas. 

The way I see it, the learning never really stops- even now, as a fully qualified cabbie, I’m always spotting new places and picking up on nifty little shortcuts.

There are even a number of Knowledge schools in London, where you can attend lessons and revise with fellow students. The main schools employ ‘point collectors’; Knowledge students who stand outside the test centre (now at the Palestra Building in Southwark) in all weathers.

The point collectors are vital. When you’ve finished your appearance, you go up to the collectors and- provided you can remember- tell them what places and routes you were asked. Armed with this information, the schools produce a sheet, usually published everyday around lunchtime, listing as many questions as possible. These sheets can be collected in person, sent by post, or emailed to Knowledge students (for a small fee of course), and are a vital revision tool.

The most important accessory owned by every Knowledge Boy or Girl is a large, laminated A-Z map of London. This, along with the constant driving and scouring, enables you to really get familiar with London’s roads and layout. As time goes by, the image of this map slowly engraves itself upon your psyche. 

It may sound corny, but with such deep immersion, it feels like London really does become a part of you. Most students become very attached to their map, spending many long hours with it. I’ve still got mine; here’s a pic:

When not driving, you spend the majority of your time with the map. If you have a call over partner (a fellow Knowledge student with whom you revise), you meet up and, using the recently collected point sheets, take it in turns to call runs whilst your friend draws your route on the laminate map with a chunky whiteboard marker. 

Once the route is recorded, you spend time discussing it; “you could have tried this”, “do you think this street is more direct?”, “you wouldn’t use that route in rush hour,” and so on.

I was lucky enough to have two call over partners but, when alone, I would call over solo; recording my runs into a Dictaphone, then playing it back, listening to my strangely unfamiliar voice, drawing the route I’d described onto the map- before promptly tearing my hair out when I’d discovered I’d gone the wrong way!

When you study the Knowledge, it consumes your life. 

You eat, breath and sleep it. I’d frequently have dreams (or nightmares?) about roads and maps, dreams about being in a taxi, driving passengers around .

So intense is the Knowledge process, that it actually makes your brain grow (although I hasten to add, that is not in the style of the bulging head as sported by the ‘Mekon’ in the 'Dan Dare' comic strip. The growth is cellular and microscopic!)

The part of the brain in question is known as the ‘Hippocampus.' This name comes from the ancient Greek phrase for 'sea monster'; something which, with its curved, sea-horse like shape, this area of the brain somewhat resembles. 

The Hippocampus deals with navigation and, when you plunge yourself into studying London’s streets, this section of grey matter is exercised like a muscle.

Whilst studying the Knowledge, I actually took part in a study related to this. 

Responding to an appeal for volunteers, I went along to the National Hospital for Neurology in Bloomsbury. After taking part in a series of memory and navigation exercises, I was slid into a brain scanner; a long, narrow tube, bathed in a dark, purplish-blue light.

As I lay there with my feet poking out, huge magnets rotated around my head, mapping my brain. The magnets created such a loud, grating roar, that I was required to wear ear-plugs.

It was a claustrophobic experience, but having the opportunity to view snapshots of my brain was utterly fascinating! You can read more about the study of cabbie’s brains at the following link:

http://www.wellcome.ac.uk/News/Media-office/Press-releases/2008/WTX050443.htm

To be continued….

The Knowledge of London (Part 5- Appearances)

The ‘Appearance’ stage of The Knowledge of London process is a long, drawn-out, nerve-wracking affair.

Unless they are a Knowledge genius, the average candidate will have to go through many appearances before they are considered good enough to drive a taxi, and are awarded with their little green badge.

I personally had to undergo 27 appearances.

When on appearances, there are three stages:

56 Days

28 Days

21 Days

These numbers indicate the number of days between each appearance. So, as you progress and your Knowledge increases, the examiners will test you on a more frequent basis.

For each appearance, you are awarded a mark- an A, B, C or D.

An A is worth 6 points, a B 4 points, and a C 3 points. If you get a D, that’s null point!

As you go along, hopefully scoring, the points add up and, once you’ve accumulated 12 marks, you are moved onto the next stage (“receiving your drop” as it’s known in the trade). C’s and D’s are the most common marks. So, say for example you had four appearances in which you scored a C, that would equal 12 marks, and you’d move on to more frequent exams.  

There is an almost mystical ‘Double A’ award, which allows you to pass a stage in one go, but these are ultra-rare, the sort of thing you’d imagine Indiana Jones to covet! I’ve only ever heard of two or three people gaining that score.

As I mentioned a moment ago, you have to accumulate 12 marks in order to progress…. However, there is a potential stumbling block- you only get 7 attempts in which to earn them. If, after 7 appearances you have not scored the required amount, you are ‘red-lined’. This means you have to begin the stage all over again; back to the drawing board, start from scratch.

Red-lining is very common (it happened to me, as I’ll talk about later). As you can imagine, being red-lined is soul destroying. It makes your tenure on the Knowledge even longer, your goal seem even more remote.

If you get red-lined twice in a row (which does happen), it’s even worse, as you’re pushed back another stage! So, for example, you could be on 28 days, hoping to have the 21 day stage in your sights soon. However, get two red-lines on 28s, and it’s back to 56’s! If you get red-lined twice on the 56 day stage, then its back to the preliminary written, map test!

Appearances create all manner of feelings and emotions; fear, bafflement, frustration and despair to name but a few. If you score, they are also capable of producing huge joy.

As I’ve mentioned in an earlier post, the majority of my appearances were held at the old PCO offices on Penton Street in Islington. Every visit to that place was a gut-wrenching affair.

The appearance begins before you even leave home- you have to ensure that you are immaculately groomed and in your smartest suit; every single exam has to be treated as a job interview. Candidates can be refused their appearance if they do not look dapper enough.

Once at Penton Street, you had to go up to the main reception desk and gain permission to go up to the Knowledge department.  I remember once having a very early morning appearance. It was a dark winter morning, with water sluicing down thrown the chilly air. Eager to get into the warmth, I pushed the door open and walked in. I was promptly thrown back out by one of the PCO’s less cheerful employees.

“We’re not open yet; that’s why the sign on the door says closed.” 

The sarcasm in her voice was heavier than the rain outside.

“Oh… but the door was open.”

The woman tutted and rolled her eyes… but I didn’t respond further and went back out into the cold. At the PCO, you have to be on your best behaviour; any attempt to question or complain is viewed as trouble making, and can lead to you having an even tougher time on the Knowledge.

Once allowed in, you had to trudge up several floors; often with numb legs and a sick feeling in the stomach. You then reported to the ‘Knowledge booking in’ window, where you presented your little score card. 

The reception desks at the PCO all looked rather authoritarian, with their heavy wooden surrounds, and stern, black and white placards. Once booked in, you walked out, around the corner and into the waiting room. On the way, you passed a snack-vending machine, but at this stage food would be the last thing on your mind.

The waiting room was very similar to that of a dentist’s. It was narrow, with chairs on each side and a coat-stand in the corner. The air was always very overpowering; a thick, sickly sweet smell caused by over-zealous air-freshener use.

The wall that ran parallel to the corridor outside was completely covered in a huge map of the Greater London area. This was an awful psychological torment; it made you realise the enormity of your task, and always threw up doubts in your mind. You’d often find yourself glimpsing at it, catching sight of a tiny street or road and thinking… can I turn right out of there? Is that one-way? What’s the name of that hotel near there? And so on. A lot of Knowledge students preferred to sit with their back to this giant chart.

The waiting room was always an intense place, it felt as though the walls had absorbed the accumulated fears of all knowledge boys and girls who’d passed through. 

Candidates were often silent; there was very little talk and, even if there were chatter, it was very hushed. Most people sat, growing numb, looking down at the worn carpet, nervously jiggling their knees up and down. 

I once saw one poor soul clasp his mouth and hurry over towards the toilets, which were thankfully opposite the waiting room’s door. (However, using the toilet was risky after you’d booked in- if you answered a call or nature, or indeed felt the need to vomit, you’d better hope that your name wasn’t called whilst you were in the lavatory. If you weren’t in the waiting room upon being called, the examiner could refuse to see you that day).

 

As you sat waiting, an examiner would appear at the door every so often and call a name. There are around 12 examiners at any one time, and they are a very varied bunch. Some are cold, calculated and down-right scary! Others are extremely friendly and helpful (although, strangely enough, they’re the ones who seem to ask the toughest questions!) One or two seem to enjoy playing the odd practical joke.

Hearing your name called was always guaranteed to get the adrenalin going. 

Upon being summoned, you’d answer “yes Sir/Madam”, and be up like an automaton. You’d then follow the examiner down the corridor…. aptly nicknamed ‘The Corridor of Fear' by Knowledge students, due to the inevitable feeling one felt whilst walking along it.

Some examiners would use the journey along the Corridor of Fear to create intimidation. 

I remember on one of my early appearances trying to keep up with the examiner as he briskly hurried all the way to the end of the stretch. Along the way, there were several fire doors, which he took great delight in letting swing back in my face as he breezed through them.

On another Corridor of Fear walk, an examiner asked me for my scorecard as I stood up in the waiting room. In order to keep the precious card clean and tidy, I’d made a small plastic wallet in which to keep it. Having seen that I’d taken this precaution and clearly cared about the scorecard’s condition, the examiner proceeded to grip the card in his hand and scrape it along the wall, all the way to his office.

On another walk, the examiner in front of me decided to take his time ambling very slowly. His lethargic pace threw me, and I ended up treading on the back of his leg! I was horrified, and mumbled apologies all the way to his office. Needless to say I was awarded with a ‘D’ that day!

The examiners’ offices were, unsurprisingly, foreboding places. 

Each one contained a large, dark wooden desk behind which the examiner sat, emulating the sort of feeling you’d have if you were a badly behaved schoolchild, and had been sent before the Headmaster. The desks contained an upright board; a sort of book stand, upon which the examiner would often have a London map book perched. 

I've drawn the sketch below in order to give you some idea of what the Knowledge student's view is like when on an appearance (please note, the examiner in the drawing is not based upon anyone in particular!)

As the Knowledge candidate, you had to perch on a small, uncomfortable chair. Moving or re-arranging the chair is forbidden. On one particular appearance I experienced, the examiner had placed the chair about three times further from its usual spot; right at the other end of the room. This ensured that I struggled to hear him, and I had to crane forward and raise my voice when speaking; very awkward indeed.

On my very first appearance, I struck lucky. Naturally, I won’t mention any names, but this particular examiner was very popular with the Knowledge students. She was fair, friendly and good at putting you at ease. After an informative, introductory talk, the examiner said:

“As it’s your first one, we’ll go easy on you. Be warned though, it will become tougher… OK, let’s see how you get on.”

I watched as the examiner slowly leafed through a book of points. The anticipation was unbearable and my mouth had quickly turned dry. Suddenly, the examiner said:

“We'll start at Grafton Square.”

I froze…. And my spirits sunk. 

For the life of me, I could not place Grafton Square (I kick myself now every time I pass Grafton Square- it’s just north of Clapham Common).

I looked down, shaking my head…suddenly realising that perhaps I wasn’t cut out to pass the Knowledge.

“No… sorry, Ma’am.”

“How about Maritime House?”

Again I froze… my brain became fuddled. An image presented itself to me… ‘Sea Container House’; the one that overlooks the Thames… no, that’s the wrong one. Then, amazingly, something clicked.

“Maritime House is on Old Town, Clapham Common, Ma’am.”

“Yes. And from there, let’s run it to the Caesar Hotel.”

“That’s Paddington, Ma’am… Queens Gardens.”

“Ok, off you go.”

So that was my first appearance run; Maritime House to one of Paddington's many hotels. As I called the run, I felt light headed, and wasn’t even sure if the words were coming out of my mouth…

“Leave Maritime House on the right Old Town, forward the Pavement, forward North Street, forward Silverthorne Road,  left Broughton Street, right Queens Town Road, comply Queen’s Circus, leave by Queenstown Road continued, forward Chelsea Bridge…. “ And so on.

As I called the run, the examiner peered over the top of her glasses at the map in front of her. As she did so, she picked up a piece of string, stretching it over the map, checking I was taking the straightest, most direct route possible. At other points, she would  jot down notes in my file especially, I imagine, to record my weaknesses and places which I did not know.

After stumbling through another few runs, I was amazed to be awarded a ‘C’. I was over the moon. The examiner gave me some very kind words of advice and support; words which stuck with me throughout my time on The Knowledge.

However, not all of the appearances I had would prove to be so pleasant!

To be continued…

The Knowledge of London (Part 4)

In my previous post, I wrote about a number of things which had a direct impact on me whilst out studying the Knowledge late at night. 

Most of the time, however, I was a mere spectator, viewing the gritty, late-night occurrences from the confines of my cramped Peugeot; the little car offering a kind of ring-side seat to the depravity of late-night London.

One of the most bizarre things I witnessed occurred early one Sunday morning in Hampstead; probably the last place in London you’d expect to see a violent act.

I was driving through North-West London, a few hundred yards from the ‘Royal Free Hospital’.

The ‘Royal Free’ as it is commonly known, was founded in 1828 by surgeon, William Marsden, as a kind of early precursor to the NHS- the Royal Free provided free health care for those who could not afford it.

William Marsden was born in Yorkshire, and came to London in 1815, at the age of 19, to study medicine. In 1827, he came across an 18 year old girl, lying on the steps of St Andrew’s Church in Holborn. The young woman was almost dead from starvation and disease, yet Dr Marsden could not find a place to take her for treatment. It was this tragic experience which led Dr Marsden to found the Royal Free Hospital; a truly worthy cause.

However, years later, as I was driving through the classy suburb of Hampstead, I saw a fellow for whom charity was clearly the last thing on his mind.

The man in question was wearing tight jeans and heavy boots, but was naked from the waist up; despite it being a crisp, cold morning. 

He was swinging a bat- a bona-fide, American baseball one- in his hand, whilst kicking at the front door of a respectable looking house. A terrified chap was peering from the top window, whilst his tormentor, with a face twisted in pure hatred, goaded him to “come the **** out.”

Going all over London at such unsociable hours, I witnessed my fair share of violence. 

One weekend, in the Turnpike Lane area of North London, I drove past a late-night kebab shop. With their boozed up patrons, such establishments are notorious for being flash-points of drunken brawling. Outside this particular kebab shop, I saw a group of four men, kicking their solo victim as he lay curled upon the floor. The attackers seemed to favour the upper area of their prey, and were stamping on his head with much gusto.

Perhaps the worst thing I glimpsed whilst studying The Knowledge was the aftermath of a stabbing. 

This occurred one night in South London; blue and white cordon, flashing blue lights and more blood than I’ve ever seen before; enough to coat several paving slabs, treacle in colour beneath the sodium-orange street-lamp glare. I have the utmost respect for those who have to deal with such occurrences on a regular basis.

Sadly, stabbings in London, especially amongst youngsters, have become commonplace in the news. Gun crime is not far behind. 

I heard gun-fire a few times whilst out studying London’s streets. One particular incident sticks in my mind- I was parked up by a large housing estate, clipboard on my knee whilst I jotted down notes on the local one-way system. 

Suddenly, in the still, night air, I heard the distinctive *CRACK* *CRACK* of bullets leaving a gun. It sounded rather too close for comfort, so I chucked the clipboard on the passenger seat and rushed off. As I hastily exited the area, I suddenly became concerned that I may have been witnessed speeding away from the scene, thus implicating me as a suspect in the shooting! 

Luckily, I had nothing to worry about. Gunfire seems to be pretty common in certain areas at night, and only becomes an issue when it actually strikes someone.

After over a year studying the ‘Blue Book’, being a witness to London's late-night brutality was to become the least of my worries. I’d finished the 320 runs, and was now ready to apply for the examination process, to prove that I knew London’s roads and buildings. 

The Knowledge of London examination process is well known amongst those who undertake it, for being a long, drawn-out, stressful, frightening process, and I was dreading every moment of it.

The thing to remember about the Blue Book is that it is a basis; a tool to get you exploring every required inch of London. Sure, it contains certain routes- such as ‘Manor House to Gibson Square’ or ‘Carlton Vale to Oakwood Court’, but these are mere stabilisers.

By the time you’ve completed the Blue Book and the ¼ mile radii, you should have a reasonable grasp of London; the idea is to get the map in your head. 

On an exam- or ‘Appearance’ as it’s known in the trade- it is very, very rare that you’ll be asked a straight-forward Blue Book route. 

In most cases, an examiner will give you any two points in London- no matter how obscure- and, using the map of London etched in your head; you’re expected to describe the straightest route between the two with as little hesitation as possible. Learning the Blue Book routes parrot fashion is nowhere near enough of what you have to truly know.

This is designed to emulate the actual job- for example, when you’re at traffic lights on Whitehall, in the evening rush hour, and a customer hops in asking for Warwick Avenue, or Camberwell Green, you’re expected, as a London Cabbie, to immediately know where the location is, and in which direction you have to head.

This is a skill which does not come easily; and it is something which is acutely honed by the examination process which, to put it simply, is an agonizing, migraine-inducing affair.

Even before you begin the verbal exams, you have to undertake the ‘Map Test’. 

This is a written exam, undertaken with fellow candidates in invigilated silence as you sit at little, wooden school-type desks. On the map test, you are given two maps displaying two ¼ mile radii from London. All of the text has been removed from the maps; no roads are labelled, no buildings or places of interest are indicated. 

On a separate sheet, a number of roads and buildings are listed, and it is your job to pin-point said places on the blank map.

If you pass this stage (and people do fail), then it is time to move onto the real deal…. the verbal, one-on-one exams….

Appearances.

To be continued.....