Tyla Fergusson-Platt and Rhyia Clark embark on a perilous adventure to visit every stop on the Northern Line. They will be deep diving on one unique location at each area, bringing you a comprehensive look at the best places to see on the Northern Line.
Camden, Pete Doherty’s watering hole, the home of H.G. Wells alien escapades and now Rhyia’s place of reckoning…
We had to find the real Camden, away from the cheap Banksy Tees and the knock off London tat. Our destination? A Camden institution, a heralded history laden homage to the past glories of yesteryear. Where else but The Camden Assembly? What confronted us was beyond either of our imaginations. We had walked back in time to 1980, to cheap Paul Weller haircuts, Fred Perry polos and a faint sense of masculine tension.
It was time for Rhyia to fly the nest, to find her own way in the sprawling metropolis. I set her a task. The idea was too find the real community of Mods, find out what makes them tick, get inside those musical brainboxes. I suggested to find a friendly face and conduct an impromptu interview, right there and then. She looked apprehensive but took the bull by the horns like the true adrenaline junkie she was. Instead of picking a friendly face, she decided upon the complete opposite, an unfriendly one. And that is when she spoke to bald, Fred Perry man (unnamed for reasons that will later become clear).
She sat looking bored staring into the middle distance, with eyes glazed over. Bald, Fred Perry man recounted his days of youth, comical celeb stories and historical tit bits, that would send your head spinning.
We got absolutely nothing from the interview. Just a half-baked, half-remembered fact that Rhyia recounted with the enthusiasm of Pat Butcher. This old Mod would go back to his wife and kids, and excitedly tell them around the Christmas table how for one day, he was a star, interviewed by some obscure travel magazine. Little did he know that Rhyia showed more excitement for the Wetherspoons we passed along the way.
We left before the Mods saw through our journalistic façade. But wait my umbrella. I ventured back into the swirling mess of suits and boots. In the corner of my eye I saw a figure running at full speed outside the historic pub. I checked my watch. 3.5 seconds. I was over the Gen Z time limit.
The Swirling Mass of Suits and Boots
I felt old, like butter spread too much bread. Like Fred Perry mans bloated, high blood pressure face. I needed a holiday, a long holiday and I didn’t expect to return…for at least 20 minutes. We went to find our youth, the days of sticky floors, spilt drinks and unwarranted stares. And what better place than a sordid late night kebab shop.
I ordered my record breaking 1000th cheesy chips, which was met with aghast by my travel companion. ‘Cheese? And Chips?’. In Cambridge, where Rhyia is from, the mobile telephone is slowly being introduced to this land before time. Cheesy chips though was a step too far for this beleaguered traveller. I sighed heavily, loud enough that the table next to us turned around.
But what had we achieved? What had we learnt from this tourist trap? Very little as it happens. But we left with a deeper existential angst that Camden was slowly but surely being eaten alive by the corporate behemoth. Places like The Camden Assembly are some of our last links to the colourful history of this once vibrant community. We believe it is important to shine a light on these last bastions of cultural legacy, to keep them alive and buzzing like the days of the distant past.
I laughed out loud although Fred Perry still make descent hear and Weller is a style ikon