By Tim Moore
A booklet that tells the tale of London because the thirties in the course of the 28 streets, stations and utililties of the Monopoly board. within the remarkable global of Monopoly it nonetheless basically expense -50 to shop for a home in Islington, you could stream round London with the shake of a cube or even park your vehicle at no cost. In don't move move Tim Moore, belying his popularity as a participant who constantly paid that -10 tremendous instead of take an opportunity, fearlessly tackles the true factor and alongside the way in which tells the tale of a video game and the town that frames it. Sampling the rags and the riches he remains in a inn in Mayfair and one within the previous Kent highway, enjoys caliber time with Dr Crippen in Pentonville legal or even lands up on the flawed finish of the Water Works pipe. And, fixing all of the mysteries you will have reflected while languishing in detention center and plenty of different you definitely would not, Tim Moore finds how Pall Mall acquired its identify, which 3 addresses you will not locate on your A-Z and why the sorry cul-de-sac that's Vine road has a unique position within the middle of Britain's such a lot winning Monopoly champion.
The stirring travelogue of 1 man's erratic growth round these 28 streets, stations and utilities, don't cross move can also be an epic and lovingly researched historical past of London's wayward development within the sixty six years because the release of the world's hottest board online game
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Extra resources for Do Not Pass Go: From the Old Kent Road to Mayfair
CHAPTER 2 Advance to Go FILTH-FACED STEVEDORES, bowler hats streaming out of Tube subways, milkmen pushing handcarts, dicky-bowed Bertie Woosters and plump old women waddling uncertainly through gaps between trams: as revealed by my trawl through the capital’s photographic libraries, few cities have ever more richly earned the flogged horse-corpse appellation ‘City of Contrasts’ as London in Monopoly’s year zero. In 1936 London stood on the threshold of the consumerist age, yet had somehow got its pelvis wedged in the Victorian porch out front.
It was a fight to the death, a game that was all about forcing your family and friends ever so slowly down on to their knees before mercilessly punting them into the gutter. And, best of all, those were real gutters, on real streets, a real city. I put in most of my Monopoly hours with my elder siblings. I was always the neatly streamlined racing car; my brother went for the dreadnought. My sister, clearly lacking self-esteem, was the dog or the old boot. At home we played on a sixties board almost torn in half along the fold; at my grandparents’ house we played on a wartime set with a cardboard spinner instead of dice (pity the SS officer who peered out of his Panzer hatch and copped six sides of Empire Bakelite in the teeth).
It smelt of Plasticine; a boss-eyed alderman glared down from his frame on the stairwell. The elderly archivist I’d spoken to had my material ready on a big oak table: three dusty cardboard boxes tied with cotton tape, very like those my grandfather used to have his laundered shirts returned in. ‘The Waddington files,’ he said, withdrawing immediately to a distant office. ‘Manufactured in Great Britain by John Waddington Ltd, Leeds’ was a phrase burned into my cerebral cortex. It was on the front of the box, and on the back of the rules, and I’d always known that if I wanted to get any closer to finding out why the London board was as it was I’d end up in West Yorkshire.