The ugly buildings we secretly love

Yahoo

30-06-2025

When news came last week that Liverpool's Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King – colloquially known as 'Paddy's Wigwam' – had been granted Grade I-listed status, it marked a long-awaited vindication for a building that has weathered its fair share of criticism.
The design by Sir Frederick Gibberd, selected from 300 entries worldwide, took shape over five years (1962–67) and sits atop Mount Pleasant, overlooking the city with views stretching to the Mersey estuary beyond. Built quickly and cheaply – as many post-war buildings were – it has been described as 'a gargantuan concrete aberration from the Apollo space programme'. Even as recently as 2013, CNN named it one of the world's ugliest buildings.
Inside, of course, the story is very different. Bathed in coloured light from the kaleidoscopic stained glass, the cathedral is an extraordinary space – one that has come to be cherished by Liverpudlians, Catholic or not.
It is the latest in a long line of buildings that, though they didn't receive universal acclaim at first, have endured nonetheless.
The 1997 vote for Scottish Devolution meant a new parliament was needed, but its birth was, to put it mildly, a car crash. Ten times over budget and years behind schedule, Holyrood's construction became a dream story for the press but a nightmare for MSPs and civil servants, whose mistakes were broadcast daily.
The image of the dour, thrifty Scot clashed with the flamboyance of the building's cost and design, hardly endearing it to the public when it opened in 2004. Questions were also raised about the practicality of the joint design by RMJM – one of the world's largest architecture and design firms – and Barcelona-based architect Enric Miralles, who avoided much of the controversy by passing away midway through the project in 2000.
Yet opinions shifted after it won the 2005 Stirling Prize, the highest honour in British architecture. Scots, embracing a new era free from Westminster's control, came to see the building as a symbol of a renaissance north of the border. Today, visitors flock to marvel at its outré design.
Hillingdon Council's Ford Granada-driving apparatchiks wanted a new HQ, and what they got ended up defining over a decade of suburban style in Britain. If the Hillingdon Civic Centre reminds you of a supermarket, you wouldn't be far off – this became the signature look of Tescos and Safeways across the south.
The bulky Civic Centre was designed by Andrew Derbyshire of RMJM and opened in 1979. 'Like any suburban orgy, it was more comical than sexy,' said the architecture journalist Jonathan Meades. 'It was the architectural equivalent of Benny Hill or Sid James: coarse, matey, blokeish, undemanding, unthreatening, accessible.'
This building felt like the starting point of a backlash against the progressive and exciting modernism that had flourished during Britain's 'Les Trente Glorieuses'. Over the following 30 years, there was little but disdain for modernist achievements and a widespread retreat from ambition, with brick vernacular becoming especially fashionable in this new, cautious era.
Nowadays, modernism and postmodernism have found a warmer welcome. While Hillingdon Civic Centre might not immediately evoke the wild, pastel-coloured tropical postmodernism of John Outram and others, it's certainly an uncle to those buildings. Now listed, it enjoys a bit more affection from the people of Uxbridge.
The serpentine teaching block, dubbed the Lasdun Wall, snakes along a ridge where University of East Anglia (UEA) students study, while the eye-popping ziggurats tumbling down towards the River Yare are where they sleep.
Space-age chic seems entirely at odds with sleepy Norfolk; architectural historian Elain Harwood called it 'the boldest architecture of any new university', and it became the backdrop to Malcolm Bradbury's novel The History Man.
It's heartening that, despite the UEA's stark 1960s campus, it has gained more fans as it has reached middle age. It's not without problems – issues with the fireproof reinforced autoclaved aerated concrete (RAAC), widely used as a cheap material especially in roofs, have led to the closure of the ziggurats during remediation work. Meanwhile, new extensions to the university have sparked thorough debate.
Architecture fans visiting can also explore the Sainsbury Centre next door. Designed by Lord Foster, it opened in 1978 and was hailed as revolutionary for its lightweight, high-tech design, influencing many airports and office buildings throughout the 1980s and 1990s.
London's Southbank Centre has long been at the heart of various culture wars. When Churchill's Tories won the autumn 1951 snap election, they sought to dismantle the remains of the Festival of Britain, viewing it as a thoroughly socialist project by Labour's Herbert Morrison – which, of course, it was. The futuristic Skylon was removed, but the Royal Festival Hall survived.
The Southbank Centre was expanded in a brutalist style during the 1960s. Its maze of passageways and high walkways confused visitors, while its gruff exteriors offended many sensibilities. In 1988, the then Prince Charles famously likened Denys Lasdun's National Theatre (NT) to a nuclear power station.
Today, attitudes have shifted. We now recognise the stark beauty in its complexity and surreal sculptural forms, and the restrained harmony of the theatre complex in particular. John Grindrod wrote in his 2013 book Concretopia that 'Lasdun's interiors have a rather cosy aesthetic,' echoing theatre critic Michael Billington's 1976 view that the NT is 'a superb piece of sculpture.'
The entire Southbank complex was designed the way it was because planners insisted on roads and car parks, and even proposed building a heliport next door – hence the Queen Elizabeth Hall's thick, austere walls. Today, the terraces are bustling with diners, while the undercrofts have become a beloved haunt for skateboarders.
The residents of Balsall Heath in south Birmingham were certainly grateful when the baths on Moseley Road opened in 1907. Back in 1890, Birmingham was hailed as the 'best-governed city in the world' by Harper's Magazine – a claim that might raise a wry smile from today's locals still waiting for their bins to be collected. Its trams, housing, utilities and public baths were all part of a civic effort to lift the city from industrial slum to modern metropolis.
But the baths were not universally loved, and have only narrowly escaped demolition, more due to luck than design. As the 20th century wore on and more homes welcomed bathrooms and washing machines, fewer people needed the bathhouse.
And Birmingham (city motto: 'Forward'), spent much of the 1960s demolishing its Victorian and Edwardian architecture, including the grand Central Library and the original New Street Station, as tastes turned against the ornate.
In recent years, however, a dedicated campaign has saved the arts-and-crafts building. Now Grade II-listed and undergoing careful restoration, the Moseley Road Baths are protected at last.
Scarborough's grande dame was originally conceived as the Cliff Hotel, built at a time when the town was establishing itself as a premier seaside resort following the arrival of the railway on the Yorkshire coast. Visitors came to take the waters, and a grand hotel was needed to accommodate them.
But throughout its life, the building has been a victim of its own scale – beset by fires, outbreaks of illness, and now, by its current management. Run as a tired, cut-price hotel, it was dubbed 'the shame of Scarborough' by Tory mayoral candidate Keane Duncan last year.
When it opened in the 1860s, it was one of the largest hotels ever built – so large, in fact, that some wondered whether it was all a bit much for the once-sleepy fishing town. The Grand's story is closely tied to that of its architect, the exquisitely named Cuthbert Brodrick. A Hull native, Brodrick also designed Leeds' monumental Town Hall and Corn Exchange – buildings with a distinctive size and swagger that often clashed with the era's more restrained architectural tastes.
Brodrick's overblown Oriental Turkish Baths on Cookridge Street in Leeds were unceremoniously demolished in the 1960s – by then, he had well and truly fallen from favour. That changed in 2007, when Jonathan Meades made a film about him for BBC Two, sparking a reappraisal of his work. Today, the Grand is a much-loved landmark on the Yorkshire coast.
The Eiffel Tower is perhaps the most famous example of a building once heavily derided that has only grown in popularity with age. Blackpool's imitation, by contrast, was long dismissed as a poor copy aimed at entertaining the lower classes. Like Brighton's more recent i360 seafront tower, it was seen by some as overly tall and something of a white elephant.
Today, it's a listed building, and its kitsch swagger has come to define the Blackpool seafront. We'd never dream of demolishing it now – nor its ballroom, the spiritual home of ballroom dancing. Yet in the 1920s, there was serious talk of tearing it all down.
It may seem far-fetched, but that's exactly what happened to the similar-looking New Brighton Tower on the Wirral. Despite being even taller than Blackpool's, it had few defenders when it was demolished in 1919 after just 20 years. Its ballroom – where the Beatles played no fewer than 27 concerts – met the same fate in 1969, following a major fire.
A gothic wedding cake by the Thames, Strawberry Hill House is a singular and delightfully eccentric creation – perfectly in keeping with its owner, Horace Walpole. An unmarried enigma and gothic novelist who puzzled polite society, Walpole built his fantastical home in Twickenham as a whimsical homage to medieval cathedrals and castles. It was a world away from the architectural fashions of the mid-1700s and, at first, had few admirers.
Slowly but surely, people began to visit, drawn in by the fairytale interiors and jaunty gardens, and Strawberry Hill House grew into an attraction. A century later, gothic revival (an architectural style) had become a full-blown Victorian obsession – just look at the Houses of Parliament – so Walpole's creation no longer seemed quite so outlandish.
Architecture critic Ian Nairn once remarked that 'Walpole's stucco fancy' was 'prettier and less finicking than you'd expect'. A high-profile restoration in the 2000s, featured on TV, brought a new wave of admirers. Today, the house welcomes around 25,000 visitors a year.
Like the face of an ageing celebrity, Buckingham Palace has had more alterations over the years than you can shake a Botox syringe at. Throughout its life, it has endured feelings ranging from antipathy to outright hostility from its residents.
The original house, built in 1703 by William Winde, was – using the polite parlance of stately home design – 'improved' countless times. It was so often disliked that entire sections were torn down and rebuilt. John Nash's lavish 1820s redesign nearly bankrupted the Royal household, and he was promptly sacked. When Queen Victoria made it her primary residence in 1837, the palace still failed to charm – particularly Prince Albert.
Albert tried to modernise it with plumbing, lighting and even toilets for servants. But, like many of his descendants, he preferred to be elsewhere. His own pet project, Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, was met with a lukewarm response thanks to its oddly Italianate style.
The late Queen favoured Windsor and Balmoral; the current King prefers Highgrove and Clarence House. Yet today, tourists flock to the Palace's current form, fronted by Aston Webb's century-old Portland stone façade. More state venue than family home, it may have finally found its purpose.
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