Kelvedon Hatch

I've had, for as long as I can remember, a morbid fascination with nuclear war. It is something to do with the terrific yet terrifying beauty of the mushroom cloud combined with the finality of nuclear war really being "it". Chances are that global nuclear conflict would kill you outright. If it doesn't, then you'll probably wish it had done. Don't believe me? Check out The War Game. Or Threads. Or, if you want something lighter in a film genre that is darker than dark, try The Day After.

One of the things that fascinates me is desperate attempts to try to make sure that society survives a nuclear war - as detailed in The Secret State by Peter Hennessy. There are various government bases in the UK designed for the government to run and hide in should the balloon go up. Yep, in the event of civilisation evaporating underneath a mushroom cloud, the government will still be functioning. After all, at the end of the world, it is vital that we have continuity of government. 

Yesterday, via a leaflet in a B&B, I came across Kelvedon Hatch Secret Nuclear Bunker. Of course, I had to visit it. Although the "Secret" claim in the title is a little out of date. Secret venues don't tend to advertise in B&Bs. And the road signs around the Bunker looked a little like this: 

Not that secret, then, really. 

Anyway, the "Secret" Nuclear Bunker really is in the middle of nowhere. Which I suppose is the point. But the venue now is simply one of the most curious "tourist attractions" I have ever been to. 

I don't know what the owners wanted to achieve with the bunker, but walking around it was a surreal experience. The entire facility was filled with incredibly belligerent signs, warning that you had to take a tour "wand" (basically a dull as ditchwater commentary on what you were seeing), and that if you left through anything other than the main exit you would be charged £25. This was compounded by signs saying that if you hadn't reached a certain point in the commentary, then you were going too fast. And then, just to make it all a little bit more like The Village, there were constant warnings that "they" were watching you via CCTV.

The signs also warned of very lifelike dummies. This, presumably, was acid irony as the dummies in the building were rejects from Primark and, more often that not, lacked limbs. So you had white dummies with bad wigs sat at consoles or in bed, with no arms or legs. Sometimes, the lack of hands was rectified by rolled up newspapers. Which is about as convincing as it sounds. Perhaps the owners were making  a point about mutations through nuclear radiation. However, I suspect that they were simply too cheap to pay for real dummies. 

The tour ended in a laughable gift shop and canteen. Where you could get a cream tea with a free tea. After all the signs warning that they were watching you, and that bad behaviour was paid for through fines, everything - including the entrance fee - was paid for through honesty boxes. Presiding over the whole thing was a sweet man who also happened to be the oldest and frailest man ever. The whole thing was incredibly surreal, and I was left thinking that those running the Hatch had no idea what they had bought, no idea how to run it or market it, and no money to do anything with it anyway. 

Yet even the piss poor presentation of Kelvedon couldn't detract from its grim power. The place stank of stale air endlessly recycled through a hyperactive air conditioning unit. I can only guess at how bad it would have smelt with the maximum number of 600 people in there. Seriously, 600 people in a venue the size of a supermarket. Living, breathing and shitting (in chemical toilets) with little food and little water. Those ministers who previously ran departments with vast HQs would be reduced to working at a wooden desk with a phone. And the Prime Minister's room was smaller than my room at uni - and just as grotty. In the event of nuclear war the people hemmed in to this tiny little hell would be in a larger than normal coffin. They'd be trapped, living on top of each other, simply postponing their inevitable deaths. 

A nuclear war isn't winnable. Despite its numerous and glaring flaws, the Kelvedon hatch makes that very clear.