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Numbers 1-25

7. The viaduct at Kilburn

Architecture, Jubilee line, Metropolitan line, Numbers 1-25, Zone 2

Carrying the Underground high over what was once the Roman thoroughfare of Watling Street, and which now boasts a dual identity as both the A5 and Kilburn High Road, is a construction you can only really appreciate when you’re under rather than on top of the tracks – and preferably standing in the middle of a road:

What was once an enormous slice of self-aggrandisement on the part of the Metropolitan Railway is nowadays an enormous boon to an area that deals mostly in grime and grey.

It’s as if someone has smeared a palate of primary colours right across this monochrome municipal landscape.

The viaduct was built when the Metropolitan line was going through one of its many muscle-flexing phases; in this instance, a quarupling of the number of tracks all the way from Finchley Road up to Wembley Park.

I love the shamelessness of the design and the fact the company had ultimately no scruples in turning the edifice into a massive piece of self-promotion – albeit one of sparklingly bold and bright ambition.

By any measure – conception, intent, size, appearance – it’s a triumph.

6. The train indicators at Earl’s Court

District line, Numbers 1-25, Piccadilly line, Signs, Zone 1, Zone 2

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They’re technologically basic, they’re covered in bird droppings and the font is not as nice-looking as it used to be. But I can’t deny a part of me finds the train destination indicators at Earl’s Court persistently charming.

They undoubtedly generate and receive an equal amount of ire from the clusters of passengers that gather in disconsolate bunches at their base.

It’s essentially a love-hate relationship. There is the thrill, within seconds of your arrival, at seeing the illuminated arrow pop up next to your desired destination. But there is also the anguish of watching each station except your own flash before your eyes in a seemingly-endless sequence of vindictiveness – especially if you’re waiting for one of the less-serviced options, such as High Street Kensington or Olympia:

Sure, they have the appearance of being anachronistic. But it’s not as if they’re incompetent; they do precisely the job for which they are intended. And it’s not as if they’re redundant; the multitude of destinations available from Earl’s Court’s limited number of platforms requires something along these lines. Better to look functional yet understandable than flash yet incomprehensible.

Besides, they are an unequivocal tribute to and reminder of the vastness of the Underground. To Plaistow or to Parsons Green? Mansion House or Ealing Common? The curious and the carefree are spoiled for choice.

5. The bus station at Newbury Park

Architecture, Central line, Numbers 1-25, Zone 4

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Sometimes the most dazzling spectacles of London’s Underground aren’t found inside the stations themselves. Instead they lie outside, adjacent to or nearby their parent. They all have a relationship with the Underground, but aren’t part of its cosy nucleus. They range from bridges to walkways, from monuments to air vents, and from clocks to… bus stations:

The bus station at Newbury Park sits side-by-side with its Central line namesake, but dwarfs it utterly in terms of ambition and awe. It’s that most rare yet wondrous of things: a utility that is also a piece of art. Unsurprisingly it’s won an award, but not your trifling, two-a-penny sort of bauble:

Ah yes, the Festival of Britain: one of those events you sense became more than the sum of its parts only when it was over.

The bus station is the work of Oliver Hill, and it opened on 6 July 1949, just two years after this part of the Central line was electrified. Seeing the building grow to completion in post-war austerity-wracked suburbia must have been an attraction both bemusing but also – you hope – a little inspiring.

There’s a simple, almost childlike elegance to the building. It might be made of plain materials, but there’s beauty in the way it manages to combine easy functionality with grand intent. It’s also very homely. It’s the sort of place in which you’d feel happy to linger, which is just as well given its purpose.

The whole structure seems larger than it really is (always a good thing) and on the day I visited the roof looked close to scraping the sky:

It’s not quite Oliver Hill’s masterpiece; that can be found in Morecambe. But it’s undoubtedly the man’s most visited and valuable work. What a pity Newbury Park station itself can’t compete. But then maybe nothing could – or should.