Farewell to the Routemaster

Article by: Sarah Johnstone, January 2006

We might have a reputation for rarely talking to each other in public and possessing a stiff upper lip, but no one could accuse Londoners of being indifferent to the original red double-decker buses disappearing from our city streets.

The gradual replacement of the classic Routemaster model, with its open rear deck and good old conductor service, in favour of a modern, more 'accessible' fleet has been the subject of much serious debate. Discussion has tripped around equality, convenience, traffic flow, safety, speed and energy efficiency. However, on 9 December, 2005, the very last time the Routemaster would transport everyday commuters, the main concern for those of us trying to ride into history on the No159 was this: which one of them really was the last of the damn things?

I launched myself onto the rear running board of a 50-year-old design icon rumbling east along London's sclerotic shopping artery of Oxford Street.

Just after 12:10pm, the advertised departure time of the swansong service, I launched myself onto the rear running board of a 50-year-old design icon as it rumbled east along London's sclerotic shopping artery of Oxford Street. 'Is this the last one?' someone panted at the conductor. 'No, the second last,' the conductor replied, unconvincingly. 'The last one's just behind us, and there's a bus for the press just behind that. We're running half an hour late.'

Why was he telling us this? Was he trying to rain on our parade? And if he wasn't, wouldn't that just be typical for the gridlocked city that spawned the notion of waiting ages for a bus before three arrive at once?

Inside, there was more confusion and rumour. It was the last Routemaster; it wasn't the last Routemaster. It must be; it was bearing a wreath. 'You won't get on the last one, love,' a couple counselled, as I became convinced I should change buses. 'It's full of the dignitaries who are getting rid of them.'

I didn't want to join an open-top bus full of journalists, and I was becoming distracted by a commotion as we turned south onto Regent Street. Hundreds lined the footpaths, cheering and aiming cameras, Goths filmed us, the occasional police officer snuck a photo, and black taxis tooted their horns in salute.

'You won't get on the last one, love,' a couple counselled

Many Londoners became scornful when their once-loved mayor Ken Livingstone did a backflip, getting rid of the buses even after saying you'd have to be a 'dehumanised moron' to do it. This was the London-built bus whose graceful appearance had become a global symbol of the city. If its main fault was that it couldn't easily be boarded by people with disabilities, many wanted to know why no proper attempt was made to remodel it accordingly.

By 12:50pm, we were bogged down in rubbernecking traffic and a blaze of misguided publicity. The driver pulled over on Whitehall and, true to form, ran towards the Old Shades pub, yelling 'I'm just running to the toilet. Man, I'm dying'. Forget changing buses, I thought, this penultimate Routemaster seemed to be more fun.

'You've got to admit, it's a nice feeling to be here,' said fellow passenger Clint Williams, 35, as an unusually (for London) collegiate atmosphere broke out among our mixed bunch of bus-spotters, bag-laden shoppers, oblivious tourists and nouveau enthusiasts.

One thirty-something woman made fun of herself for bringing her camera. 'I said to my husband, "I hope you don't mind having a takeaway tonight; I'm a bit busy at the moment." Far better that he think that I'm having an affair than out watching buses'.

Another passenger, Don, 30, had told his employers they could sack him if riding the bus made him late for his afternoon shift.

Hundreds lined the footpaths, cheering and aiming cameras, Goths filmed us, the occasional police officer snuck a photo, and black taxis tooted their horns in salute.

By now we were starting to feel like minor celebrities, sitting in our 'people's Concorde'. The people's paparazzi were waiting for us on Westminster Bridge. Our bus slowed to walking pace, and then to a complete halt, as hundreds blocked the road to take its picture against the backdrop of Big Ben. Some of us became rather emotional at this point, before the bus broke free and continued rattling down Kennington Road. 'In many ways, this is really the last Routemaster', rationalised Kajal Patel, 28, 'as it's the only one going all the way to Streatham'. Maybe so, but both she and I alighted halfway, to watch the official final bus terminate at the Brixton bus garage. Hundreds of well-wishers and scores of police watched it carry its VIP passengers to its last, history-making, stop.

Oluwole Runsewe, the soon-to-be-redundant conductor of the second-last Routemaster, was off to finish his degree in international relations and get a job on the London Underground. I was off to catch one of London's new 18m-long 'bendy' (or articulated) buses and to hope it didn't spontaneously combust, as a few have.

I tried to console myself with the thought that refurbished Routemasters remain operating a tourist service on the No9 and No15 routes. Somehow, though, I doubt the experience will ever feel quite as good.