Leo Dooren’s website :- www.leodooren.com
Leo Dooren’s website :- www.leodooren.com
Leo Dooren’s website :- www.leodooren.com
This made my day; thank you all!!!!
We passed the 45,000+ viewers; a great achievement, not possible without your interest. Thank you all..
It’s great when you work on something and it turns out that visitors of the private Weblog come back to view.
This Weblog has no connection with the London Vintage Taxi Association what so ever.
I thank my our dear visitors, friends and readers and Thomas Dik who supports me technically.
If you can support us with reports/pictures, all are welcome! (address:- email@example.com)
I challenged the LVTA Committee on the absence of a
after Stephen Dimmock reported to the Committee members present that he was ‘confused’ and the Committee did not call for a fair hearing and the acting-chairman Gary Zylberszac declared finally ‘case solved’.(there was nothing to solve).
I was thus denied as Committee member at that time and as a paid-up member a fair hearing “the right to be heared”. (Audi alteram partem).
Since failure to conduct such proceedings violates the right to a fair hearing, the contested decision of the Committee should therefore already have been annulled on this ground.
Dear LVTA members,
I inform you that I asked the Acting- Chairman for a memberslist. That was denied due to privacy reasons. It is normal procedure to ask (by him) if members are willing to cooperate. I was not offered that possibility. Also he forgot that since 1998 untill April 2016 (!!!) I did(was good enough)to collect EU dues and keep the memberslists and corrected all mistakes made by the Membership Secretary frequently. In fact an abuse of the Privacy Law, each time. I always kept that fact ‘indoors”. I did send the updated lists to all Committee members as for them to be aware of what was going on. Stephen kept on ignoring my efforts. I even made up a special design showing all information of importance. It was ignored at all times by all. In fact nothing changed since 1998. It was and is a closed old boys network. I wasted my valuable time afteral.
I had wished myself to be able to write personally to cab friends my Adieu , as I am given no hope by my cardiologists, further operations a/o medicines changes will not help me anymore. In addition I suffer of several serious chronic deceases (MDS) which are uncurable.
That’s why I closed my Friends- and Paid-up Facebook accounts as a follow-up on leaving the membership. As I am denied a list of addresses, I use my own weblog/contacts to write to members.
Further demonising as done by some Committee members won’t harm me.
I retreat to my own loving family and friends.
Finally, I wish you the best, bye-bye, Hans
My last Waalwijk in 2015. After 12 yrs. organizing, no invitation in 2016. Adieu!
Picture by Leo Dooren
June 28, 2015 ·
British Autojumble Waalwijk
Met Kari, Pa Hans en Ma Hetty voor onze Black Cab. Was gezellig en mooi te zien hoe enthousiast men (mn Pa) is om deze iconen in stand te houden.
A few EU visitors are not on the group-picture as they were walking over the Auto Jumble grounds.
After 2016, some visiting EU members wrote me they did not find the ‘old pleasant culture of being welcomed non-existing and coolish’ and decided to leave the Association. Others said they still did consider to leave. I have not taken any position on this but I can understand what they expressed.
The EU meetings were started out of mutual emotions, growing friendships and mutual respect. That’s hard to replace. Under normal, experienced and fair administrative policy all this would not have happened. So be it.
I read this article and it is soo much as Hetty and I captured when being there (at several visits) that I felt to make you part of this well-written article about a special London taxi(cab) area in London.
With their consent, the text is by The Gentle Author and the pictures by photographer Sarah Ainslie.
Situated midway between Spitalfields and Bethnal Green lies Three Colts Lane. Although many years have passed since there were colts here, today there are many other attractions to make this a compelling destination, especially if you are having problems with your car – because Three Colts Lane is where all the motor repair garages are to be found, gathered together in dozens and snuggled up close together in ramshackle order. Who can say how many repair shops there are in Three Colts Lane? – since they inhabit the railway arches in the manner of interconnected troglodyte dwellings carved into a mountain, no-one can tell where one garage begins and another ends.
Three Colts Lane is where the lines from the East and the North converge as they approach Liverpool St Station, providing a deep warren of vaulted spaces, extended by shambolic tin shacks and bordered with scruffy yards fenced off with corrugated iron. Here in this forgotten niche, while more fences and signs are added, few have ever been removed, creating a dense visual patchwork to fascinate the eye. Yet even before I arrived in Three Colts Lane, the commingled scents of engine oil and spray paint were drawing me closer with their intoxicating fragrance, because, although I have no car, I love to come here to explore this distinct corner of the East End that is a world of its own.
Each body shop presents a cavernous entrance, from which the sounds of banging and clanging and shouting emanate, every one attended by the employees, distinguished by their boiler suits and oily hands, happily enjoying cigarettes in the sun. Yet standing in the daylight and peering into the gloom, it is impossible to discern the relative size and shape of these garages that all appear to recede infinitely into the darkness beneath the railway arches. An investigation was necessary, and so I invited Contributing Photographer Sarah Ainslie to join me in my quest to explore this mysterious parallel universe that goes by the name of Three Colts Lane. And many delights awaited us, because at each garage we were welcomed by the mechanics, eager to have their pictures taken and show us the manifold splendours of their manor.
There is a cheerful spirit of anarchy that presides in Three Colts Lane, incarnated by the senior mechanic with his upper body under a taxicab, who, when we asked gingerly if we might take pictures of the extravagantly vaulted narrow old repair shop deep beneath the arches, declared,“It’s not my garage. Do as you please! Make yourself at home!” To outsiders, these dark grimy spaces might appear alien, but to those who work here it is a zone where everyone knows everyone else, and where you can spend your working life in a society with its own codes, hierarchy and respect – only encountering the outside world through the motorists and cabbies that arrive needing repairs. My father was a mechanic, and I recognise the liberation of filth, how being dirty in your work sets you apart from others’ expectations. The layers of grime and dirt here – in an environment comprised almost exclusively of small businesses where no-one wears a white collar – speak eloquently of a place that is a law unto itself.
Starting at the Eastern end of Three Colts Lane, the first person we met was Lofty, proprietor of the A1 Car Centre, who proved to be a gracious ambassador for the territory. “Some garages, they just want to take the money,” Lofty declared in wonder, his chestnut-brown eyes glinting with righteous ire at the injustice – like a sheriff denouncing outlaws – before he pledged his own personal doctrine of decency, “But I believe it’s how you treat the customers that’s the most important thing, that’s why we are still here after twenty-five years.” And proof that Lofty is as good as his word was evident recently when seven hundred customers signed a petition saving the garage from developers who threatened to build student housing on the site.
We crossed the road to shake hands with Nicky at the Coborn Garage, admiring the fresh and gaudy patriotic colour scheme of red, white and blue, and his decorative signwriting that would not be out-of-place on a gipsy caravan. Under the railway bridge and down the road, we encountered Erdal and his nephew at Repairs R Us, where we marvelled at the monster engine from a Volvo truck that Erdal rebuilt and today keeps as a trophy by the entrance of his tiny arch. Further down, we met Ahmed, a native of Cyprus who grew up above the synagogue in Heneage St and has run his garage here for twenty-eight years. At the corner, across from Bethnal Green Station, we were greeted by Ian & Trevor, two softly spoken brothers who have been here twenty years repairing taxis in a former a scrap yard, still retaining its old weighbridge. We all squinted together at the drain pipe head dated 1870 with the initials of the Great Eastern Railway upon it, declaring the history of the site in gothic capitals, before Ian extracted a promise from me to come back once I had discovered the origin of the name Three Colts Lane.
Apart from calendar girls adorning the walls, the only women we glimpsed were those who restricted themselves to answering the telephone – barely visible in tiny cabins of domestic comfort, sheltering their femininity against the barbaric male chaos of the machine shops. But then, strolling down a back lane and passing one of the governors in a heated altercation with a quivering cabbie who had innocently scraped his Daimler, thereby providing the catalyst for an arresting display of bullish masculinity, we encountered Ilfet. With a triumphant mixture of self-assurance and sharp humour, Ilfet has won the respect of her male colleagues in the body shop, wielding a spanner as well as the next man. A bold pioneer in her field and stirling example to others, I was proud to shake the hand of Ilfet, the only – or rather – the first female mechanic in Three Colts Lane.
Growing bolder, we ventured deeper to discover the paint shops and frames where taxis were hoisted up for major surgery. We left daylight behind us to explore the furthest recesses of the dripping vaults, lined with corrugated iron, where a fluorescent glow pervaded the scene of lurid-coloured motors crouching in the gloom. We had arrived at the heart of Three Colts Lane, vibrating to the diabolic roar of the high speed trains passing overhead, whisking passengers in and out of London, oblivious to the hidden world beneath the tracks.