In 1994, I was waiting on the Northern Line in Warren Street station when a tube train pulled in, packed with Deadheads. The doors opened and a sea of tie-dye spilled onto the platform. The hippy horde wasted no time in setting up tents, bead stalls and nacho stands. A few fans and their dogs pitched another tent on the tracks, directly in front of the train, and began jamming on guitar, flute and bongos, while their appreciative brethren twirled around on the spot.
The exasperated driver left his carriage and fought his way through a barrage of attempted hugs by men, women, children and goats in woolly hats. I cursed as I followed him up the escalator, realising I’d have to walk all of eight minutes to Goodge Street for a pint in the King & Queen. Apparently, the tube driver quit soon after and pursued a new career.
His name? Chris Whitty.