This spot at the Hampstead Tube Station was, for over 30 years, known as "Bob's Corner," for the man who ran the newsstand.
After his passing, a small plaque in his memory was erected here, reading as follows:
"IN MEMORY OF ROBERT BRADY. (BOB)
Newspaper vendor for 30 years at this location.
Known as 'Bob's Corner.'"
From the Melbourne Herald's Press-Reader OF AUSTRALIA (!) we found this lyrical column mentioning Bob Brady and the plaque: (
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"MELBOURNE’S LOST OPERA
Herald Sun 2 Aug 2008
Christopher Bantick
John Brack may have captured Melbourne with this portrait of robotics city workers in his celebrated painting, Five o'Clock Collins Street. But it is a strangely silent work. We do not hear the voices of the city. These were the newspaper sellers. The closest we get now are the few sellers of the Big Issue and those who sell the Footy Record at the G.
They do not have the guilt link rise of “final extra,” or “get your Her-ald.”
While the tribe of newspaper sellers ended with the demise of the Melbourne Herald, they were the city's unofficial choir.
Generation of city dwellers has grown up without the individual voices of the Herald boys.
While they were never the subject of an academic study, let alone research into their idioms, they were an essential part of Melbourne's vocal color.
Museum Victoria has retained a recording of the city's newspaper sellers. It's as close as children and their parents can get to hear this part of Melbourne's oral history. Why does this matter? With the demise of its evening newspaper sellers, Melbourne lost the sound of the city, of its people.
Melbourne is fortunate. The clanging Wclass trams with their urgent dingding bell are readily identifiable as a Melbourne sound.
But there is little variation. With newspapers sellers, there was plenty.
One, on the corner of little Collins, Elizabeth streets, sounded like a growling grass frog.
He was capable of making the croak, “paper” to every passer-by, without any discernible movement of his lips.
Another outside GPO, when it was a post office in the mall that exist, used to stand on the steps and give a Pavarotti-like aria every night.
Farther up Bourke Street, the crippled man seated on a pile of Hessian bags would mingle his evening peak hour “final extra” bleats with the smell of roasted nuts from Myer.
Then there were their hands. Fingers blackened by still-moist print, they would hold a folded newspaper and simultaneously pass it and collect payment in an outstretched palm.
While their distinctive calls are no longer heard, the newspaper sellers filled a vital place in Melbourne.
And the same goes for any city. Outside Hampstead tube station in North London, a plaque recognizes Bob. It reads: “Robert Brady (Bob) newspaper vendor for 30 years at this location, known as Bob's corner.”
The newspaper sellers were usually boys. This was an afterschool job and some sellers would be still in school uniform as they cajoled for a sale.
After the football on Saturday afternoons of Victoria and princes parks, the MCG and Punt Rd, they'd be there. Herald and the pink Sporting Globe slung across a leather strap, an apron for change and with one-liners and salty banter that belied their years, they take up their possies and get enough tips for fish and chips.
What remains are images of those who could remember the newspaper boys, and those few memorable men who took to the streets.
They brought to the city a kind of routine, a familiar comfort and sense of individuality as well.
With their treble, baritone, tenor and bass solos, they were a city’s opera."