London Calling.
London Walks connecting.
This… is London.
This is London Walks.
Streets ahead. Story time. History time.
Here’s a question for you.
What weighs three-quarters of a ton…
Is recognised all over the world…
Appears in millions of holiday photographs…
And was designed by the very same man who gave us Battersea Power Station?
Answer?
The humble red telephone box.
Or, to give it its proper name, the K6.
The most famous piece of street furniture in Britain.
Maybe the most famous in the world.
It’s as British as afternoon tea.
As recognisable as a bowler hat.
As iconic as Big Ben.
And like so many of London’s greatest hits, it began right here.
In London.
Its story starts in 1935.
Britain was celebrating the Silver Jubilee of King George V.
Twenty five years on the throne.
There were processions.
Thanksgiving services.
Street parties.
The capital was awash with bunting.
The General Post Office decided the occasion deserved something rather special.
Not a commemorative mug.
Not a medal.
A telephone box.
Only Britain could think like that.
They commissioned Sir Giles Gilbert Scott.
Already one of the country’s leading architects.
His brief?
Design a kiosk fit for the Jubilee.
The result went into production the following year.
Hence the name.
K6.
The sixth standard telephone kiosk.
And what a success it was.
About sixty thousand were installed.
Think about that.
Sixty thousand.
One of the biggest design rollouts in British history.
Almost overnight they became part of the national landscape.
Villages.
Market squares.
Seaside promenades.
Railway stations.
And, of course, London streets.
Now, here’s something that always makes me smile.
That charming little phone box…
The one children skip around…
The one tourists hug for photographs…
Weighs something in the region of three quarters of a ton.
Around sixteen hundred pounds.
Cast iron.
Built like a battleship.
If you ever wondered why they don’t blow away in a stiff breeze…
There’s your answer.
Everything about the design is quietly brilliant.
Look closely.
The proportions are just right.
Tall enough to feel elegant.
Small enough not to bully the pavement.
The windows flood the interior with light.
The roof has just enough flourish without becoming fussy.
And that dome on top?
That isn’t simply decorative.
Scott borrowed the idea from one of his favourite London buildings.
The mausoleum that Sir John Soane designed for his wife in the churchyard of St Pancras Old Church.
One of London’s loveliest little monuments.
Scott pinched the roof.
Shrank it.
And gave it to a telephone box.
That’s architectural recycling at its finest.
The colour?
Red.
Of course.
Today it seems inevitable.
But plenty of local councils hated it.
Too bright, they complained.
Too shouty.
Couldn’t they have them in grey?
Or stone?
Or silver?
The Post Office politely dug its heels in.
The whole point was that if you desperately needed a telephone, you could spot one from a long way off.
Visibility trumped delicacy.
Quite right too.
Now let’s talk about the man behind it.
Sir Giles Gilbert Scott.
One of those extraordinary figures whose fingerprints are all over Britain.
Liverpool Cathedral.
The largest cathedral in the country.
Battersea Power Station.
Those four magnificent chimneys.
Bankside Power Station.
Today we call it Tate Modern.
Cambridge University Library.
Power stations.
Churches.
Libraries.
Monuments.
And then…
A little red telephone box.
Funny, isn’t it?
His smallest building became his most famous.
There’s another lovely Scott story.
He wasn’t keen on publicity.
He dressed simply.
Worked quietly.
Preferred drawing buildings to talking about them.
He let the architecture do the talking.
And it still is.
Ninety years later.
What about today?
Surely they’ve all disappeared?
Not remotely.
More than ten thousand survive.
Many are protected listed buildings.
Hundreds remain in London.
Though, no question about it, some have emigrated. One of them has pitched in Massachusetts, in the back garden of one of my favourite walkers, a Harvard University English Lit professor.
But back home – here in London –
you’ll find them around Westminster Abbey.
Parliament Square.
Covent Garden.
Trafalgar Square.
St Paul’s.
Temple.
The City.
Indeed, there are probably more photographs taken of London’s red telephone boxes every day than there are telephone calls made from them.
Because hardly anybody uses them as telephones anymore.
Instead they’ve found new lives.
Miniature libraries.
Defibrillator stations.
Coffee kiosks.
Art galleries.
Tiny museums.
Book exchanges.
One has even become a little village fish tank.
Talk about a second act.
And perhaps that’s the nicest thing about them.
The technology they housed has become obsolete.
The buildings themselves have not.
They’re too beautiful.
Too familiar.
Too deeply woven into the British story.
So they’ve stayed.
Adapted.
Carried on.
Rather like London itself.
And there’s one last delicious irony.
Millions of visitors come to London every year.
They photograph Buckingham Palace.
Tower Bridge.
Big Ben.
The London Eye.
And then…
Almost inevitably…
They queue up to have their photograph taken beside…
A public telephone.
Only in London.
Only Britain could turn a telephone kiosk into a national treasure.
That’s London.
Where even the phone box has impeccable architectural pedigree.
See you tomorrow.