Bugsy Malone (Part Two)

Hot-headed Bugsy makes his mind up

Don't mess with Bugsy or you'll wind up

Wishing you'd left well enough alone

He's a man, a mountain

He's a rolling stone

And will he leave you

Sad and lonely, crying

I couldn't say, but it's known

Everybody loves that man

Bugsy Malone.

(Lyrics from Bugsy Malone, by Paul Williams)

(The above shot isn't quite in keeping with the others in the series,

but you can't stop a boy from having fun!)

I couldn't resist splitting this set into two. The black and white images seem to tell a strong story, but the colour versions also have their own charm, and I especially wanted to feature the red phone-box, which is such an iconic part of our British heritage.
This phone-box in particular, stands on a street corner, just outside a pub, down the road from my Mum's house where I used to live. I grew up as part of a generation that took these for granted. Phone-boxes smelt of cigarette smoke (and urine), and were usually littered with chocolate wrappers and cigarette butts. Rural ones were out-of-order more frequently than they were connected, and more often than not, they would eat at least one of your coins, while you frantically pressed the 'continue call' button, listening to the ominous sound of clicking and beeping on the line, knowing you would eventually be cut off.

Despite the negatives, they still had their own unique, quaint character, and were at one time, indispensable. Having to wait to gain access to one wasn't unusual (especially near train stations or in town centres, where there was nearly always a queue). As a teenager, if I needed to make a phone call during the day, I would walk down the road to this phone box, armed with 10p and 20p pieces, because the cost of using a home landline before 6pm was too expensive. It never occurred to me as a child, that one day they would become a rare sight.

This phone-box still stands on the pub corner, where it's been my whole life. But a year ago, as I was walking the dog with Little Ro, we popped in to investigate. I discovered that although the phone was still there (and at that time, there was still a line, albeit a dead tone), it was no longer in commission, and would never again make or receive another phone call. The phone box itself has been 'adopted' by the local council (for the cost of £1, as part of a scheme that attempts to retain these cultural icons for future generations). But it will no longer be maintained, and should it become more vandalised or derelict than it already is, I don't suppose the council will care enough to repair it.

Little Ro loved playing with the phone, as all toddlers do, and I decided to do a photo shoot there, but I left it a while. Yesterday, having decided to shoot there, I had a sudden panic that the phone box would no longer be standing (as so many have been removed since they were decommissioned), or that the outfit I had planned for this shoot would no longer fit. I was relieved to find the phone-box surviving, and Little Ro was more than happy to cooperate by dressing up for the occasion.

The phone is no longer working, and there is now no dial-tone - not even a dead one. Only silence. We are fortunate that most of the glass is still in place, so this phone-box remains relatively in tact. I do wonder if even vandals now think better of destroying the last remaining phone-boxes, now that they are a comparatively rare sight (or perhaps its rural location has preserved it, and vandals are not so discerning as I give them credit for).

Anyway. Apologies for the rambling post. The demise of this iconic British symbol got me thinking, and I'm glad I photographed it when I did - while I still can. Long may it remain.