Britain's most well-loved comedy actor returns to our television screens tonight in another award-winning role of genius. DavidJason stars in DiamondGeezer (ITV1 9pm) as an old lag who masterminds an audacious jewel robbery from the comfort of his cosy prison cell. It's sure to be a two hour drama masterpiece, adored by the non-demanding Sunday night audience, and if we're really lucky a heartwarming series will follow. Because, if there's one thing thing you can never accuse lovable rogue David Jason of, it's typecasting.
1940: Born David John White in Edmonton, son of Arthur (a Billingsgate fish porter) and Olwen (a charlady). 1955: Leaves school to work as an apprentice mechanic. Joins amateur dramatic company. 1965: First professional acting role, in a Noel Coward play for Bromley Rep (replacing his brother Arthur who leaves to take an acting role in Z Cars). 1967: TV debut alongside Michael Palin, Eric Idle and Terry Jones in Do Not Adjust Your Set (a forerunner of Monty Python's Flying Circus). 1969: Jason (briefly) plays a gardener in Crossroads (surely the pinnacle of his career). 1973: Ronnie Barker makes a series of seven one-off comedy dramas for the BBC, and invites Jason to play bumbling shop assistant Granville in Open All Hours. Another of the seven dramas later becomes Porridge, in which Jason is cast as elderly inmate Blanco. 1976: Open All Hours is turned into a much-loved series, which will be used to plug the gaps in early evening BBC schedules for several years to come. 1981: Jason makes his debut as lovable rogue Del Boy Trotter in the seminal Peckham-based sitcom, Only Foolsand Horses. Sales of Reliant Robins soar. 1981: Immortalised as the voice of DangerMouse in DangerMouse. 1987: Wins BAFTA for portrayal of grumpy college porter Skullion in Porterhouse Blue. 1988: Immortalised as the voice of Count Duckula in CountDuckula. 1989: Plays bluff Yorkshire businessman Ted Simcock in David Nobbs' A Bit Of A Do 1991: ITV offers Jason the 'perfick' role of Pop Larkin in The Darling Buds of May, thereby making him the first old codger in the life of Catherine Zeta-Jones. 1992: ITV realises that Inspector Morse can't go on forever, so Jason is drafted in to play a grumpy detective in A Touch Of Frost (which proceeds to go on forever). 1999: The BBC shows the comedy clip of Del Boy falling through the Only Fools and Horses bar for the 500th time. 2002: Jason writes and stars in The Quest, a homely nostalgic drama for ITV. 2003: Awarded a BAFTA Fellowship for being the most much-loved actor in the history of television, ever. 2005: Right up-to date with prison drama Diamond Geezer which, if nothing else, will bring Googlers flooding to this page by mistake.
• Red jam tart Line large aluminium tray with pastry, open catering-sized tin of red jam, spread really really thinly over base, add a couple of twisty pastry strips to add depth, bake in large school oven, cut into small rectangles, serve.
• Chocolate Concrete Melt 250g margarine in saucepan, add 300g plain flour, 150g demerara sugar and 25g cocoa, press into greased tin, prick the top and bake at gas mark 5 for 30-40 minutes, brush with water, sprinkle with castor sugar.
• Prunes and custard Fill large vat with milk and custard powder, leave to bubble overnight until lumps appear, add pink blancmange for colour (optional), ladle into battered serving jugs, wait until skin depth has reached 2mm; meanwhile share out huge can of prunes into several metal trays, dump unceremoniously on table, force children to eat, watch them sob.
• Butterscotch tart Melt 250g butter on low heat, add 200ml milk and 500g brown sugar, stir until dissolved, whisk in 2 heaped tablespoons of flour, reduce heat when mixture thickens, pour onto pre-cooked pastry base, wait to cool.
• Rice pudding Wait until children have finished their free milk at morning break, ask milk monitors to bring crates to school kitchen, pour leftover liquid into cauldron, add marble-sized rice grains, simmer on low heat until tepid, serve with dollop of jam.
• Gypsy tart Whisk together 400g tin of evaporated milk and 350g sugar for 10 minutes until light and fluffy and coffee coloured, pour mix into shortcrust pastry case, bake at gas mark 6 for 10 minutes, serve cold.
• Pigswill Line large bin with black bag, place near exit to school canteen, wait.
The world is split into two distinct camps - those who like rugby and those who don't. I spent yesterday at a meeting in the company of both worlds. Over a lunchtime tray of bland corporate sandwiches the conversation suddenly turned to this weekend's Six Nations tournament. Half of those present discussed the imminent international confrontations with passion and fervour. They knew which teams were doing well and which players were on form. They discussed scrummage tactics and fly half potential. They bemoaned England's post-World-Cup decline and they knew precisely how long it had been since Wales' last Grand Slam success. In short, they actually cared about who would win what on Saturday. The rest of us merely shut up and listened, unable to contribute, secretly hoping that the conversation might revert to something more inclusive.
I've always hated rugby. To be honest I probably didn't realise it existed before I was 11, because my enlightened primary school played (proper) football instead. OK, so I may have been rubbish at playing that too, but at least my life wasn't in danger every time I had a PE lesson. My secondary school, alas, believed that rugger was the one true sport. I spent every winter for five years freezing to death in a stripy jersey while boys who'd already hit puberty wrestled with each other in muddy puddles. I tried hard to keep out of the way, in case the ball might accidentally be thrown in my direction and a horde of lumbering animals launch themselves on top of me. I cowered every time I was selected for the scrum in case some crucial body part of mine be squashed or wrenched off in the grunting mêlée. And I scored a try only once, when my sadistic PE teacher noticed me standing beside the touch line and threw me the ball, no doubt expecting me to fumble it and then be crushed in a pile of adolescent limbs. He was disappointed, but only on this one single miserable occasion.
And yet some people live and breathe rugby. They follow Harlequins or Saracens with a fervent zeal, like other people might follow Arsenal or Chelsea. They wouldn't dream of actually playing in a match but they love to spectate, shout and sing rude songs, usually while wearing oversized replica jerseys. They read sports pages I never even skim, trying to keep track as their favourite players fall foul of serious ligament injury. They'll even travel business class to international matches at Murrayfield or Lansdowne Road, presumably as an excuse to get away from the wife for a few glorious pissed-up weekends every year. All this for a game which they no doubt would describe as elegant, but which to me looks like two teams of lardarses beating the hell out of each other egged on by an adoring middle class fanbase.
And then there's rugby league. To a namby pamby southerner like me this game is a complete irrelevance, barely afforded media space. It's a scarily regional phenomenon, of minimal interest to anyone living more than 20 miles away from the M62. I think there are less people in a team, and they play throughout the summer, and they have stupid team names dangerously similar to American baseball, but I'm not certain. I encountered league frenzy when I lived in Hull for a year, which felt somewhat like being surrounded by disciples of an alternative religion. But then I'm a complete rugby atheist anyway, as you'll have gathered. My apologies if you care who wins in the Six Nations tomorrow, but this says nothing to me about my life. You may try, but I am not converted.
As you know, StPatrick'sDay is the most important day in the entire history of Ireland. But how much do you really know about this ancient and traditional festival? Can you separate fact from drunken myth? Take my simple quiz, then click to find out.
1)Who was St Patrick?a) b) c) a) A leprechaun from the banks of the river Shannon b) U2's original bass guitarist c) A Roman slave who became the first Irish Pope
2)Why is St Patrick famous?a) b) c) a) He invented Guinness in the 6th century b) He banned boa constrictors from entering Ireland c) It was his idea to paint the Blarney Stone green
3)What happens on St Patrick's Day?a) b) c) a) Everyone in Ireland gets very drunk b) Everyone all around the world pretends to be Irish and gets very drunk c) Ken Livingstone pretends to be Irish and gets London very drunk (four days early)
4)What is the national dress of Ireland?a) b) c) a) A tall green hat with bells on it b) A large flappy felt comedy shamrock c) Pointy buckled shoes and a ginger beard
5)What is Ireland's most famous export?a) b) c) a) RiverDancing - gyration as if paralysed from the waist up b) The Craic - a 'class A' narcotic grin shared by friends c) Ryanair - the cheapest way to get nowhere fast
6)Where do 95% of Irish people live?a) b) c) a) In tumbledown cottages next to potato fields b) In Dublin's fair city c) In America
7)Who is the most famous Irishman?a) b) c) a) Father Ted - Roman Catholic Archbishop of all Eire b) Oscar Bernard Joyce, who wrote "The Importance of Pygmalion's Wake" c) B Jesus
8)Are Irish stereotypes offensive?a) b) c) a) Begorrah, to be sure b) Don't get in a paddy about it c) Shut up and carry on drinking
That Jamie Oliver has been doing sterling work on TV recently (final programme tonight) showing up modern school dinners for the fat-soaked nutrient-free snacks that they really are. Rich greedy cateringcompanies spend a mere 37p a head serving up cheap fried horrors to the nation's children, and we allow them to get away with it. It's truly scandalous.
We never had this problem when I was a kid. No turkey twizzlers or fishy shapes were served up in the good old days, oh no. My daily dinner money was nearer 15p, and for that I got a plateful of real food, lovingly produced on the premises by battleaxes in pink hairnets. There was no such thing as choice back then - I either ate what I was given or I was forced to eat it anyway. And it never did my waistline any harm (not when I was a kid anyway).
So today I'm proposing a new culinary revolution in the world of school catering. None of this namby-pamby organic vegetarian rubbish that Mr Oliver is proposing to foist on the nation's youth. Instead we should return to core food values, back to nutritional basics and revert to the heritage school dinners of old. If it was good enough to stave off rickets in the 1960s and 70s, it's got to be good enough to feed obese lardbucket kids today. Here's my proposed fortnightly menu:
Week 1 Monday
Week 1 Tuesday
Week 1 Wednesday
Week 1 Thursday
Week 1 Friday
Macaroni cheese.
Jam sponge with coconut sprinkles, lumpy custard.
Liver and bacon, boiled potatoes, shredded cabbage.
Bow Road station update: It's exactly a year since Bow Road station was first closed at 10pm every night so that renovation work could (supposedly) take place. A year of early closures, and a year of me having to take a longer route home whenever I've been out late. Had I been mugged on the walk back, which thankfully I wasn't, maybe I could have sued. But in the last fortnight, all of a sudden with absolutely no publicity whatsoever, the station's opening hours have been returned to normal. Trains are now pulling into a very different Bow Road station to that which used to exist a year ago. Take a look.
This used to be a dark, gloomy platform with peeling paint on the walls and a grimy low ceiling. It was unappealing, uninviting and seriously unlookedafter. For eleven months its grubby surface was covered by a makeshift blue wall, screening the leisurely metamorphosis behind. And now, with the protective shell removed, this place has been reborn as a fresh, bright platform with gleaming white panels on the walls and a slightly repainted ceiling. The opposite platform, also newly revealed, looks much the same. All of a sudden, the 21st century has arrived.
Except they promised us it wasn't going to look modern. This station upgrade was supposed to retain all of the station's key Edwardian architectural features. I'm sure they're all still there, somewhere underneath this modern veneer, but both platforms now have rather more of an 'airport terminal' feeling to them. There are little four-seater benches that wouldn't look out of place at IKEA, there's strip lighting that might be found in any office, and there's an artificial white coating covering the full length of each wall. It's even less traditional up the stairwells where giant alien globes have landed, masquerading as light fittings. And everywhere, absolutely every-bloody-where, there are all-pervasive security cameras. I suspect these are to be monitored from the brand new control room that's magically appeared off the ticket hall, which should give the station staff somewhere warm to sit and read their newspapers while they continue to ignore all the passing passengers.
The end of the long drawn-out modernisation process at Bow Road seems (at last) to be in sight. The platforms have reopened, the scaffolding is coming down and all opening restrictions have been lifted. But there's still a lot of mopping up and finishing off to be done, which could take months. And I have yet to be impressed.
Five ten-word reviews (in descending order of loveliness) • Kaiser Chiefs - Employment(album): sparkly Britpop debut, packed with quirky jewels (nod to Blur) • Smoke #5(magazine): superior capital fanzine reaches fifth edition, and better than ever • 1000 UK Number One Hits(book): expensive coffee table slab packed with essential in-depth chart-topping trivia • The Bravery - The Bravery(album): heroic opening track followed by plucky guitars (but hardly courageous) • A.N. Wilson - London: A Short History(book): concise, opinionated and informative chronology, spoilt by final up-to-date chapters
Did you invite some friends round for a curry last week to raise money to fight HIV and AIDS in India? Or were you made increasingly aware of Endometriosis, a enigmatic disease of the female reproductive system? Or did you make a special effort to investigate Jewish literature? Probably not, but last week was officially Spice Up Your Life Week, Endometriosis Awareness Week and Jewish Book Week, so maybe you should have done. The country is awash with special awareness weeks, not all of them as worthy as the three I've just mentioned. For example, October is blighted by National Sausage Week, June plays host to National BBQ Week while July sees International Bog Day. Many of these campaigns are merely shameless attempts by corporate PR departments to get us to buy something. All it takes is a headline grabbing survey, a couple of evangelical press releases and a three minute appearance on the GMTV sofa. Anybody could do it, and anybody does.
Here are ten current marketing campaigns. Seven are genuine, while three I've made up. Can you spot the fakes? (either work it out for yourself, or use the very wonderful online resource that is the Count Me In Calendar)
• National Ideas Day (14 March): A special day to focus on creativity and innovation in the workplace on the anniversary of Einstein’s birth (and, by coincidence, tomorrow there's a one-day seminar which you might like to attend). • Commonwealth Day (14 March): A well-meaning attempt to keep alive an outmoded institution by remembering people from other countries who win more Olympic medals than we do. • Water Conservation Week (14-20 March): A national campaign to encourage us not to take baths (but shower instead), not to clean our teeth (with the tap running) and not to flush the toilet (quite so often). • Obesity Awareness Week (13-19 March): Eating too much can make you wobbly, which is why TOAST (The Obesity Awareness & Solutions Trust) are launching a special National Obesity Hotline today. • National Outdoor Week (12-20 March): Apparently going outside and taking part in various outdoor leisure activities keeps you fit and healthy (although personally I think it just increases the possibility of sustaining a nasty injury and ending up in hospital). • National Science Week (11-20 March): A nationwide programme of science, engineering and technology activities - clearly organised by ignorant scientists who really ought to know that a week has seven days, not ten. • Mini Roundabout Safety Week (14-20 March): A desperate campaign to teach UK drivers how not to kill passing cyclists when confronted by a small white circle painted in the middle of a road junction. • National Bed Month (1-31 March): The annual cynical attempt by the 'Sleep Council' to persuade us to buy a new bed, usually by running a pointless survey hinting that our current bed isn't big/comfy/modern enough. • National Frozen Food Month (1-31 March): It's American, this one, based on the frankly feeble premise that "there's no better time to check out your grocery store for some of America's leading freezer favorites". • Diamond Geezer Awareness Day (14 March): A recent survey revealed that 99% of the British public have never heard of this blog, let alone read it. You can remedy this shameless state of affairs and increase levels of national optimism by linking to this site today.
There's a new blogtool on the block called MyBlogLog.com. It's a simple unobtrusive service (one line of javascript) that keeps count every time a visitor to your website clicks on one of your links. It tallies all of these clicked links and then it lists them in a daily league table. And it's fascinating. Here's what I've discovered about you.
a) You don't click much Evidence: Last week, no link got more than 20 clicks in one day (and only five links got more than 10 clicks) My blog is teeming with links. Sometimes I spend ages finding what I think are interesting and appropriate links. And then you ignore them. Obviously this is your prerogative, but maybe I shouldn't bother.
b) The more I link, the less you click Evidence: On Monday I gave you 28 new links to click on. Each received an average of only 1.7 clicks OndayswhenIshoweryouwithlinks, they drown and you barely notice them. One or two clicks each, that's all they get, from less than 1% of my readership. Hardly worth them being there.
c) The less I link, the more you click Evidence: On Friday I provided you with only three links. Each received an average of 7.7 clicks On days when I'm link-lite, each link shines like a glowing beacon in a sea of text. And so more of you click on them. Still less than 2% of my visitors click on them, though, which is still a bit feeble.
d) You're more likely to click if I ask you to Evidence: On Thursday I asked you to go and do Tom's quiz. 29 of you did. But 253 of you didn't, which is 90% of you, so that's still not very successful.
e) You like clicking on the stuff at the top of my sidebar Evidence: Over the course of a week, the five links at the top of my sidebar get an average of 18 clicks each Either you're nosey, or people arriving here for the first time are more interested in working down my sidebar than they are in the rest of what I have to write. It looks like I'm under-utilising all that dark grey space over there, and maybe I should change my listed links more often.
f) You rarely scroll down the screen to click anything Evidence: 90% of yesterday's 80 clicks were to links visible at the top of the screen As I suspected, most of the writing on my blog has a shelf life of two or three days maximum. After that it passes so far down the page that almost nobody reads it any more, and nobody clicks on it either.
g) You really don't click much Evidence: I had over 1000 unique visitors last week, but less than 900 offsite clicks My blog is teeming with links that you ignore. But that's OK, because I like linking even if you don't click. To be honest, I probably ignore most of the links on your blog too. And now you can find out, with MyBlogLog.com. It's free for the first seven days (and free forever if you stick with the basic service). Go on, it'll be fascinating. </advert>
Tried using the tube at the weekend recently? It's not easy. London Underground keep shutting down large chunks of the underground network every weekend 'due to planned engineering works', and every weekend it's a different selection of track. What may look like a simple journey across town can become a nightmare diversionary trek via rail replacement bus services once various line segments have been erased from service. Particularly badly hit at the moment are the Metropolitan and Jubilee lines in the Wembley Park area, and the District and Circle lines across the centre of town. I know that all these engineering works have to take place sometime, and that the network may even be better once they're all completed, but I'm sure we never used to have quite so many simultaneously.
To help the struggling London traveller, the tube website now kindly lists all the planned network closures for the next six months (all 135 of them). It's a rather scary list, so I've decided to summarise it in this easy-to-swallow table of weekend tube shutdowns. Every coloured blob indicates a weekend shutdown along part (or all) of a particular line. Now you can plan to be elsewhere as required (or maybe stick to the East London and Piccadilly lines, just to be on the safe side).
Going back to my roots: dead end
this line terminates here
My 40th birthday has caused me to pause and ponder my mortality a little. All that research into my family tree has been fascinating, but it's also served to remind me that I am the end of the line. My brother may have done enough to ensure that the family genes and surname will head onwards into future generations, but it won't be happening through me. My genes have reached a biological cul-de-sac and they're going nowhere. My name won't be appearing in anybody else's family tree as a direct ancestor, merely as a short stubby side branch. When I'm gone (hopefully in the far distant future) all that will remain will be my influences, other people's memories and a few choice artefacts. But that's good enough for me.
So this week I have finally been nudged into sorting out a will. It's taken me long enough, and it's taken a lot of nudging, but I have at last got around to considering what will happen to my assets when I've gone. It's a problem that's all too easy to ignore because it isn't a problem until you die, and then you're not the one that has to mop up the mess. But it's a problem that's easily solved, so I've discovered. And making a will has got to be better than leaving your relatives to hang around waiting for some lawyer to apply the country's intestacy laws.
The country's intestacy laws (wildly simplified): 1) Married with kids? Money goes to spouse and kids. 2) Married without kids? Money goes to spouse, but maybe some of it to parents, or brothers and sisters, or nephews and nieces. 3) Unmarried? Keep working down the following list until you find somebody alive to give the money to: kids, parents, brothers and sisters (or nephews and nieces), grandparents, uncles and aunts (or cousins), the Crown.
One of the duties of the trustees named in my will (hello to both of you) will be to dispose of all my worldly goods. That's not just any property I may own at the time of my death, but also all the crap I have stashed away around my house. All my CDs and books and gadgets and clothes should be quite easy to deal with, but I wonder what they'll do with all the boxes that are clogging up my spare room. I own loads of stuff that I wouldn't dream of throwing out because it means something to me, but that I can't imagine anybody else would want to keep after I'm gone. What will become of my cuddly womble, or my Top Trumps cards, or all those recorded-off-the-radio cassettes, or my geography exercise books, or that 1972 London bus map, or the notes to my best man's speech, or many hundreds of other items of useless ephemera? Probably best that I'm not around to find out.
But I do hope that whoever sorts out my affairs will search carefully before they bin everything. I'd hate them to miss my grandmother's teenage autograph book, or the announcement of my father's christening in the local church magazine, or my tiny maternity ward wristband, or the Coronation edition Radio Times, or my complete set of 10 Red Nose Day red noses, amongst several other hidden treasures. Do please have a thorough rummage before you chuck the lot, won't you? Just, er, don't look in the third box down on the right, because that one's probably best burnt <cough> unopened.
40 quiz: Here are 16 clues, each with an answer that includes the number 40. Some clues are straight forward, others are soundalikes. How many 40s can you identify? For example, if this were an '80 quiz', "round the world time" would be "80 days" and "imaginative" would be "cre80ve".
(Answers in the comments box)
Many thanks for your generous torrent of (double) birthday greetings yesterday. Each one was much appreciated, by both of us.
So, how does life look from the other side of 40? Exactly the same, of course. I know that I've been going on and on about reaching 40 recently, but that's because 40 is a nice round number, and I like numbers. I've not approached my 40th birthday as a milestone to fear, merely as an 'event'. It's not as if any new crowsfeet have grown overnight, or that I've started wandering around the house in slippers, or even that I've developed a sudden liking for the croonings of Michael Bublé. No, for me at least, nothing has really changed. 40 is business as usual.
But I'm not convinced that everyone else will view my 40-ness that way. In some people's eyes I've just crossed an invisible threshold, from interesting to disinterested. At the start of the week I was a thirty-something, grouped together with youngsters who were still toddling during the drought of 1976. And now I'm a forty-something, lumped in with people who were born before Bill Haley hit the charts. I really don't mind being part of either group, but I'm prepared for the age-related prejudice that some people will now cast in my direction. I'm just as attractive, just as employable and just as human as I was on Tuesday, but not everyone will see that. Their loss.
My feelings were very similar at the ages of 20 and 30, and I suspect will remain the same when I hit 50, 60 and even 70. Life is a series of imaginary barriers - targets we hope we'll never reach, but which we eventually end up viewing from the other side. As I enter my fifth decade, I'm just delighted to have got this far in one piece and to have the prospect of several more decades to come. Even if life doesn't begin at 40, the rest of mine does. Best make the most of it then.
Going back to my roots: Watford, Herts
me, born 1965
And finally, back to the very spot where I was born. Not that I was born in the middle of a four lane concrete highway, you understand. It's just that during the last 40 years the Shrodells Maternity Unit has been knocked down to make way for the Watford ring road. There may still be a road sign marked 'Deliveries' by the side of the road, but this is no longer a good place to have regular contractions. I'm sure it won't surprise you to hear that I was born within 100 yards of a tubestation (or at least it was one at the time), but the green dome of the Watford Mosque was absolutely nowhere to be seen in 1965.
At this point I'd like apologise to my mother for being born on the precise day of her 30th birthday. However, given that I had no choice in the timing of my birth, this monumental coincidence is at least half her own fault. I realise that my selfish pushing and shoving wrecked any hopes she might have had of a traditional birthday celebration, but at least she got a free night out in the centre of Watford as a result. And, as a result of our perfect thirty year age gap, I have never once forgotten her birthday, nor she mine. See you tomorrow, Mum.
Mid-life crisis (because, if I can't have a mid life crisis on the eve of my 40th birthday, when can I?)
My life is going nowhere.
I spend most of my time at work, where I'm overexploited and underappreciated. I arrive in the office far too early in the morning, I do a bloody marvellous job with care and dedication, and I'm often still there after everyone else has gone home. I get stuff done, I'm never off sick, I hit every deadline they throw at me and I smile in the face of adversity. I know everyone would be lost without me, but equally I have no doubt that I'm replaceable. I've now mastered most of what makes my job challenging, but I have no ambition to move onward and upward into anything more managerial or corporate. In short, I'm quite content to continue blindly into career obsolescence until some external influence comes along and forces me to move on.
I spend most of the rest of my time at home, where I'm underexploited and overappreciated. I look out of my window a lot, but I don't go off and experience the outside world as often as I should. I have nothing I need to do, so I tend to do nothing. I used to have a social life, back when people used to drag me out on a regular basis, but I've let that gradually slide to the point where nobody invites me out and I invite nobody either. I ignore the doorbell when it rings because it's never a genuine visitor. I've given up on looking for someone to share my life with, even short segments of it, because not making an effort is easier. In short, I've learnt to fill my time by constructing a webpage and then finding things to fill it, which is probably better for you than it is for me.
So, on the last day of my thirties, perhaps now is the time for me to effect a change. This is traditionally the age where men go off the rails and launch into a second childhood, perhaps buying themselves a motorbike, running off with the au pair or getting an ill-advised tattoo. But somehow I can't see me doing any of those things. Instead I suspect that my high levels of personal inertia are a consequence of me being satisfied with my life. I have a decent job I enjoy, I have nobody to support and I'm happy with my own company. I'm not in ill health, I'm comfortably off and I have a roof over my head. In short, I'm not desperate to change my life because I'm content with where I'm at already. And I'd rather be bored than unhappy any day. Roll on 40 - I'm ready for you.
Going back to my roots: Croxley Green, Herts
my family, 1930s-1990s
All of which ancestral wandering brings me back to the village where I grew up. OK, so it's a bit of a cheat pretending that a commuter town with a population of eleven thousand is a village, but in comparison to neighbouring Watford the place is positively rural. Croxley Green lies in the southwest corner of Hertfordshire on the edge of Metroland, so you may have seen the place lovingly revered in John Betjeman's definitive 1973 documentary.
"Child of the first war, forgotten by the second, we called you Metroland. We laid our schemes, lured by the lush brochure, down by-ways beckoned, to build at last the cottage of our dreams, a city clerk turned countryman again, and linked to the metropolis by train."
My music teacher appeared in Metroland, conducting the school orchestra at Croxley's annual "let's pretend to be a village" village fair. I'm relieved that John and his BBC camera crew didn't turn up three years later because that was the year I was selected as one of the 24 maypole dancers, and wearing short trousers on television isn't good for one's street cred. I did wonder whether my maypoling had been immortalised on the new village sign, but closer inspection revealed that all of the twirling silhouettes are female - damn.
I could write at least a month's worth of posts about CroxleyGreen but I won't (I'll save that for some year in the distant future when I'm determined to haemorrhage readership). Today I'll just content myself with a report from the site of the village's most famous export. Right opposite the house where my dad grew up.
This is Common Moor Lock on the Grand Union Canal. Just over 70 years ago my newlywed grandparents moved into a Metroland semi on the banks of the canal here (hidden behind the trees to the left at the rear of the photo). Their lovingly-tended garden sloped down to the canal towpath at a gradient of 1 in 5, so it was all the more impressive that I chose their lawn to take my very first toddling steps. I wouldn't risk it today because the latest owners appear to have abandoned a car at the bottom of the garden, next to a pile of bricks and some rusty wire fencing. Looking out across the canal there used to be a fine view of the John Dickinson Paper Mill, home of world-famous CroxleyScript paper. Bet you've used it. DH Lawrence swore by it. I remember the huge mill buildings well, standing sheer above the canal like an industrial cliff face, but alas they no longer stand. 150 years of paper production ceased in 1980 and the site (right of photo) is now covered by a swathe of modern housing - with tiny flat uninspiring lawns.
Ten things you need to know about the newRadio 1Top 40chart show: 10) It's barely a chart show any more (the top 40 takes up less than 60% of the show) 9) It's trying too hard to imitate independent radio's showbizzy Hit 40 UK (which is a huge error) 8) New presenters JK and Joel definitely aren't Alan Freeman or Bruno Brookes 7) The first half hour is all 'entertainment news' (very fluffy and quite utterly pointless) 6) The second half hour is a rundown of the album chart (with two banal pre-recorded interviews) 5) There's a 15 minute 'Guess the (very recent) year' Golden Hour-type slot, allowing one thick listener to win a cheap prize 4) Singles 40-21 are then crammed into 20 minutes (even if this means not playing six of the new entries) 3) The Top 20 is played in full, sort of, although everything still gets talked over 2) If you really must listen, tune in at 5:35 1) On second thoughts, don't ever bother again
Going back to my roots: 40 South Molton Street, London W1
great grandfather Edward, born 1870
When most people search back through their family tree, I suspect they're secretly hoping to uncover somebody famous. Not me. When I searched back through my family tree I was hoping to find a genuine Londoner. And with my great grandfather I hit the jackpot.
40 South Molton Street is about as central as London gets: just off Oxford Street, round the corner from Bond Street tube station and on the fringes of Mayfair. It's now an exclusiveshopping street full of designer labels, but a hundred years ago they made clothes here rather than selling them. My great grandfather Edward was born at 40 South Molton Street - the tall thin brick building in the centre of my photograph - and from here plied his trade as a tailor. I can't say I share his talent - even sewing on a button is too much effort for me - but I'm mighty envious both of his skill and of his geographical location.
On my family's last visit to the capital I took my nephews and niece back to see where their London roots lie. They were less than impressed, I suspect because the building wasn't Hamleys. They'd be even less impressed today because 40 South Molton Street is shrouded in scaffolding. If you're ever down this way, look out for the ugly frontage swathed in steel, plywood and green netting. The ground floor is now occupied by The Red Rock Cafe, a tiny catering establishment that makes its living feeding the passing fashion victims. I thought it might be a lovely idea to pop in one day and take lunch in my great grandfather's old home, but that was before I saw the prices listed on the menu outside. Call me miserly but I reckoned £6.40 was a bit steep for a jacket potato topped with cheese and beans, so I just had to make do with staring in through the window and scaring the patrons with my camera.
Going back to my roots: Selfridges, London W1
great grandfather Edward married great grandmother Frances, 1900
Yes, it's true - my great grandparents were married in Selfridges, right here in this garage. Let me explain...
Edward and Frances were married on Easter Saturday 1900 in St Thomas's Church in Orchard Street, just off Portman Square. South Molton Street is less than a quarter of a mile away, so it made perfect sense for the two of them to get wed in the local parish church. Alas the building no longer stands, and the reason for its demise was the expansion of Oxford Street's most famous department store. Selfridges first opened in 1909, the brainchild of American entrepreneur Gordon Selfridge. His vision was that every visit to the store should be 'an event', and people flocked from far and wide to prove him right. Selfridges was so successful that by 1928 it had doubled in size, which meant knocking down some of the existing buildings behind the store, which meant the loss of St Thomas's. The altar screen and organ were shipped off to St Thomas's Church in Hanwell where they still do sterling work, but the original site now serves a different god.
I went back to stand on the spot where my great grandparents pledged their troth, hoping that it might have been in the middle of what's now the Food Hall. But no. The rear of Selfridges is a grim place, just a service road lined by characterless buildings, and totally unlike the elegance of the imposing frontage. Round the back is where the deliveries are made and, almost precisely where the altar of St Thomas's once stood, there's this garage selling expensive petrol to posh drivers in Daimlers with money to burn. I was mighty disappointed. But if any of you are interested in getting married in Selfridges there's still a chance. The store is holding a 'Vegas' promotion next month and they're looking for a couple willing to get married in a mock Little White Wedding Chapel in store. A century ago, no gimmicks were required.
Going back to my roots: Waltham Abbey, Essex
great grandfather James, 1864
By an splendid but unplanned coincidence, my ancestral tour today jumps from the site of King Harold's death to the supposed site of his burial. This is WalthamAbbey, an imposing building with a thousand year history, first established by Harold himself a few years before he became king. After the Battle of Hastings legend tells that Harold's body was laid to rest here, and two stones to the east of the present church still mark the supposed burial site today. And it was just across the river from this famous church that my great-grandfather made his living.
Thanks to census data, it's possible to track my great grandfather's life in rather more detail than any of my previous relatives. He was born in 1864 in Brewer'sEnd Cottage in Takeley, an idyllic rural spot (in those days at least, because nobody had yet built Stansted Airport less than a mile to the north). By 1881, at the age of 17, young James had left home to move into lodgings in Roydon (just outside Harlow) and was busy working as an agricultural labourer. By the night of the 1891 census he'd moved to nearby Nazeing, married my great grandmother and had a six month old daughter to support. And he also had a fascinating new job.
The Royal Gunpowder Mills have been a centre for the manufacture of explosives since the 17th century, from the gunpowder stockpiled beneath Parliament by Guy Fawkes to the explosives dropped by the Dambusters during the Second World War. My great grandfather was one of thousands of local residents who found employment here, commuting three miles on foot down the Lea Valley every day to reach the factory. James's job is listed as "Danger House Man", which sounds really quite exciting (but may just have been a glorified Health and Safety operative). He worked there right up until his death in 1914, just before the factory's busiest years supplying munitions, death and carnage to the trenches of World War One. The mills finally closed in 1991 and were recently reopened as a museum and heritage attraction. I'd love to show you a photograph of the place, but the museum is currently closed until the start of the summer season in April. I'll definitely be back.
My thanks to everyone who turned up to contribute to the dg Creme Egg Birthday Appeal last night. I was successful in liberating a total of 16 chocolate eggs from your clutches, notwithstanding additional emergency supplies in the form of mini eggs, buttons and cake. Your generous, and unexpected, donations have been appreciated.
Going back to your roots: Battle, Sussex
some victorious French soldier, 1066
Back in 1066 the entire kingdom of England was under threat from murderous immigrants. If it wasn't Norwegians massing to attack across the North Sea it was Frenchmen intent on invading across the Channel, and poor King Harold spent most of the year trying to keep everyone at bay. He failed. You probably know the story of England's most important battle, especially if your history teachers did a good job. But you may not know that the battle actually took place at Senlac Hill, seven miles up the road from Hastings. Today there's a small medieval town on the site, a town with the appropriate but stunningly unoriginal name of Battle. Go back five generations and some of my ancestors came from here. But go back forty generations and, if you're of English descent, I bet some of your genes were fighting on this very hillside...
I was very impressed to discover that England's most important battlefield remains pretty much unspoilt to this day. Apart from the huge abbey and monastery on the hilltop that is, and these were built centuries ago well before the introduction of rigorous conservation legislation. The site is now owned by English Heritage, and they'll only charge you a fiver to enter through the Abbey gateway and step back into the 11th century. It was eerily quiet on this most famous hillside last Saturday afternoon, with just myself and a small party of Dutch tourists squelching round the battlefield in the unexpected sunshine. Instead of swords we held "audio wands", listening to well-written commentaries which brought the stories of the dead back to life. The guided walk took us from the abbey terrace where King Harold's shield wall stood firm, right down to the lake at the foot of the hill where the Norman knights gathered. Inbetween were the killing fields, now just grass and mud and trees and bracken. I was taken by how ordinary the place looked, but how special it felt.
On that distant Saturday back in 1066, the day-long battle could have gone either way. Harold's men were knackered after an unexpected trek up to Yorkshire and back, but they also had a superior tactical location on the top of the hill. Had they stayed in position, William's soldiers might never have been victorious. But the Normans were devious strategists and pretended to take flight, encouraging the English to break ranks and lose their advantage. In the ensuing skirmish a hail of arrows rained down behind the Saxon shield line and Harold was unexpectedly pierced. That one fatal eye-wound delivered victory to the French and changed the course of English history. The high altar of Battle Abbey was later built on the spot where Harold fell, and a stone tablet still marks the site today.
I left the battlefield with ancient mud caked to the bottom of my shoes. There were still monastery ruins to explore, a museum to wander round and a small gift shop to ignore. As I walked back out into the 21st century I was humbled by the events this site had witnessed. And I was reminded that, although I shall never be able to trace my earliest ancestors, I am in fact a genetic hotchpotch of hundreds of thousands of invaders and settlers, each with their own unique life story to tell. And some of them are even French.
Going back to my roots: Battle, Sussex
great-great-great grandfather James, born 1820
This is St Mary's Church in Battle, far less famous than Battle Abbey just over the road, but almost as old and rather more important to me. It was here, within 100 yards of the spot where King Harold died, that my great-great-great grandfather James was baptised and married. He was dipped in the Norman font in 1820 and walked up the 12th century nave in 1842 to wed gamekeeper's daughter Sarah. The happy couple were most likely buried here as well, given that people didn't tend to move far in those days, but my search through the lichen-covered gravestones proved unsuccessful.
The small town of Battle still has one foot firmly in the past. As well as the battlefield and Abbey ruins, the traditional high street still remains something of an anachronism. Homely tearooms and a proper butchers are crammed in beside a Victorian sweetshop and 18th century apothecary. Smiling families with 2.4 impeccably behaved children bustle along the narrow pavements buying groceries, kitchenware and designer artefacts. Shoppers here are far more likely to buy a ball of wool than a mobile phone, and the Happy Meal has yet to oust the dainty plate of toasted crumpets dripping with jam. The nostalgic England that Daily Mail readers crave is still alive in Battle, and not in any bad way.
Going back to my roots: Harefield, Middlesex
great-great-great grandfather William, born 1808
While my mother's side of the family were busy murdering people, my father's forebears were busy being industrious, right here. This is CopperMillLock on the Grand Union canal, just down the hill from world-famous HarefieldHospital. We're on the very edge of north-west London (Hertfordshire starts about five metres to the right of this photo) beside the banks of the river Colne, surrounded by rolling hills and gravel-bottomed lakes. I'm sure the view would have been gorgeous had it not been for the heavy mist hanging over the river valley on the day I visited. The canal passed this way in 1797, just a decade before my great-great-great grandfather William was born. He and his three brothers all worked in this riverside mill, making copper which was used to line ships for the Napoleonic Wars. William married a local lass and they lived in an artisan's cottage beside the canal, although sadly I could find no trace of the ancestral pile when I went back to take a look. But the mill buildings were still there, now redivided into tasteful modern hi-tech business units. And the canal still looked much as it would have done two centuries ago, just so long as I ignored the gastropub, the modern office development and the group of canoeists zigzagging through the millstream.
Ever tried finding out stuff about a town or village on the internet? Obviously I've been doing a lot of this recently, trying to find out more about the places where my ancestors once lived. Search engines used to be good for this sort of thing, say around three years ago, and you'd usually find some useful local history, community or business website. Not any more. Geographical search queries are now plagued by unwanted advertising portals, each masquerading as a useful resource until you click to discover a useless generic page. It's like reading a Readers Digest Prize Draw letter ("you have been selected out of all the households in <insert name of town>...") only without the free biro. Let me show you what I mean with this Google search:
Widdington Information Online - guide and directory for Widdington, Essex, UK with tourist information sounds like the most useful Widdington-related website ever, until you discover that it has no information of any use whatsoever. The site promises "whatever you want to find around Widdington; shops, businesses, hotels, pubs, restaurants, clubs, cinemas, theatres, etc." Clearly nobody related to the site has ever been to Widdington, given that the village doesn't boast even a single shop. No, this is just a scummy web presence with computer-generated pages named after every town and village in the country, and the only links it has are useless ad-fuelled dead ends.
Or how about the marketing black hole that is cityvisitor.com. Only an automatic spam-drone could describe Widdington (population almost 1000) as a city. This glorified hotelroom-seller promises everything you might need to "plan your trip, select the restaurants you visit, the art galleries you wander into in the afternoon and where you eat in the evenings." Odd that the local pub doesn't get a mention, given that it's the only place you can buy food for miles around. At least Google did throw up some interesting stuff about Widdington in amongst the onlinedrivel. But I worry that if I were to try the same search in three years time it'd be hard to find the golden nuggets in the spamsite haystack.
Going back to my (murderous) roots: Widdington, Essex
great-great-great-great-great uncle John, born 1802
Just off the main London to Cambridge road, a few miles north of Stansted Airport, lies the dead-end village of Widdington. It's a picturesque village surrounded by fields and woodland, complete with 13th century church, 16th century pub and 19th century murder (of which more later). In the churchyard I found a couple of relatives' gravestones (which was a bit of a thrill). Around the triangular village green I found an old bakery and an old post office (except they were now called "The Old Bakery" and "The Old Post Office" and people lived in them). And hidden on a hilltop I found one of the finest surviving medieval barns in south east England (except it was closed). You'd like the place.
My quadruple-great grandfather Thomas was born in Widdington in 1770, as was his father before him. Thomas was "an industrious labourer" and of "good character", and worked in the employ of the local landowner. He was father to a daughter and five sons, one of whom passed his genes on to me. But one of the other sons, John, never got round to starting his own family because at the age of 21 he was convicted of murder. And he committed his heinous crime right here, down this very country lane.
"There is just at the particular part of the road alluded to, a distance of nearly a mile either way, in which not a cottage or vestige of security presents itself. It was in such a dreary spot that the murderer attacked the unfortunate victim of his malice - a bare mile from Widdington only, in a narrow road, where the sides are thrown up so as to exclude any distant view by open day, and prevent the voice from being heard by night; at this point, and in the darkest part of Monday evening last, when fatigued in his endeavours to ascend a very steep hill, Mr. Mumford appears to have been attacked, and with such remorseless fury, that the spot exhibits but little signs that any resistance could be made. The blood itself cries aloud for retribution; it's purple stream is even now clearly visible and will long remain." (Chelmsford Chronicle, Friday December 12 1823)
Almost two centuries later that bloodstain is long gone, but the country lane is still as dark, secluded and remote as ever it was, even in daylight. I went for a cautious walk up the hillside in the footsteps of my homicidal ancestor, following the route he'd taken on his final journey as a free man. John had been binge drinking too much in the nearby village of Quendon, and took it upon himself to follow the local landowner's son home. But only halfway home...
"The head was beat in at the hind part, the jaw was crushed to pieces, and the bludgeon with which it was effected being jagged, the face and even under the chin was so torn that it was first thought that a sharper instrument had been used, the blood having run down the road in a stream. The deceased could not possibly be recognised by the nearest relative, but from other proofs than those of his former features."
Confused by drunken bloodlust, John hoped to cover his tracks by pretending he'd discovered this mutilated body on the road. He proceeded up the hill, carrying the bloodied corpse over his back, and delivered the body to the Fleur-de-Lys pub (pictured left). John wasn't the brightest of men (the local newspaper described him as "an illiterate yokel") so he made two crucial mistakes. Firstly he announced to the pub precisely who the dead man was, despite the fact that nobody else could possibly recognise the disfigured face. Secondly, and rather more stupidly, John was discovered with Mumford's bloodied knife still in his back pocket. He was arrested on the spot, although it took seven villagers to restrain him. He was then carted off to Chelmsford where he was locked up and tried for murder, before being taken to the gallows three days later.
"The prisoner was a stout athletic man, of great muscular power; he had that pale, unsound appearance which we frequently observe in those whose earnings are spent in superfluous drink, and which idle habits induce them to prefer. He still wore the bloodstained smock in which he had been arrested. Amongst the crowd present were half a dozen young men weeping most bitterly and uttering compulsive sobs; all were relations. The executioner shook the condemned man's hands, removed the steps and the platform dropped back on its hinges. The crowd looked on in silence, with awe but not with sympathy. Many noted the prisoner's dreadfully expressive face, drawn up by the agony of despair."
I wonder whether the present inhabitants of Widdington know the story of their village's darkest day. Thankfully when they saw me wandering around outside the pub they didn't form a lynch mob and hold me to account for this ancient crime. Nevertheless I didn't hang around for too long, just in case. And I kept looking behind me as I walked down that infamous lane out of the village, because blood sticks.
The last time I ever saw my grandmother, I asked her to tell me the story of how she and my grandfather first met. I'm not quite sure why I asked - maybe I sensed that it might be my last chance - but I'm glad I heard the story before the memory vanished forever. She told me that back in the early 1930s both she and my future grandfather happened to be living a few miles apart in north-west London, but that's not where they met. No, my grandmother first clapped eyes on my grandfather during a trip to the seaside - in Clacton of all places. He was throwing stones at a tin can and she fancied him... and they got married a few years later.
So, I'd not be here today were it not for a tin can in Clacton. Or, for that matter, a whole number of other emotional attractions and geographical coincidences dating back to the dawn of time. I'm only here because all my ancestors happened to meet, and have sex with, the right person, and because none of them got killed off by illness or accident before child-bearing age. To be honest, the chances of me being here today are infinitesimally small. But the fact that you're reading this page today means that the countless chain of probabilities worked out in the end, and you have my ancestors to thank for that.
Like many other Britons I've gone digging back into my past to find out who my ancestors are. With the aid of existing family records I've been able to uncover genealogical information about as many as 50 of my direct ancestors, dating back as far as the early 18th century. I've also discovered in which parts of the country my roots lie. My father's side of the family, for example, seem to have lived in and around north-west London for most of their lives, while my mother's side have been gradually migrating down the M11 from the Cambridge area towards the M25 since the early 1700s.
So, in the run-up to my 40th birthday next week, I've decided to go back and visit some of the more interesting places where some of my more interesting ancestors once lived.
Yes, I know this is all very self-indulgent, and of direct interest to a very small audience most of whom are dead, but do bear with me. I can promise you a visit to the famous store on Oxford Street where my great-grandparents got married, the quiet Essex country lane where one of my ancestors murdered the local landowner, and the small Sussex village where (arguably) all of English genealogy began. I'm starting today with the birthplace of my oldest known relative, and then I shall be working forwards to the present day. And don't worry, I didn't go back to Clacton...
Going back to my roots: Newport, Essex
great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather Edward, born 1720
I can trace my roots back no further than this small village in north west Essex, which I guess makes me an Essex boy at heart. If you've ever driven up the M11 from London to Cambridge you'll have passed within a whisker of here, halfway up that 15 mile stretch where there aren't any junctions. Newport is one of those almost-pretty East Anglian villages with quaint pastel-painted cottages lining the high street. To its credit, much of the 21st century has been held at bay and a surprising amount of the 18th (or even 17th) century remains. My grandfather's grandfather's grandfather's grandfather might even recognise some of that today. He was born and died in the village, and he's buried somewhere in the churchyard (although I couldn't identify which crumbling gravestone might be his when I stopped by for a visit). Edward married wife Martha in 1741 and she gave birth to three sons, one of them suspiciously close to the wedding day. I was dead chuffed to discover that the cottage to the right of this photo still bears the family name. There's no guarantee that any of my ancestors ever lived in this old farmhouse, admittedly, but at least I can now imagine them all growing up here, with the waters of the River Cam trickling slowly by at the bottom of the garden. An excellent place to have one's roots.
St Patrick's Day Quiz
Bow Road station update: It's exactly a year since Bow Road station was first closed at 10pm every night so that renovation work could (supposedly) take place. A year of early closures, and a year of me having to take a longer route home whenever I've been out late. Had I been mugged on the walk back, which thankfully I wasn't, maybe I could have sued. But in the last fortnight, all of a sudden with absolutely no publicity whatsoever, the station's opening hours have been returned to normal. Trains are now pulling into a very different Bow Road station to that which used to exist a year ago. Take a look.
Except they promised us it wasn't going to look modern. This station upgrade was supposed to retain all of the station's key Edwardian architectural features. I'm sure they're all still there, somewhere underneath this modern veneer, but both platforms now have rather more of an 'airport terminal' feeling to them. There are little four-seater benches that wouldn't look out of place at IKEA, there's strip lighting that might be found in any office, and there's an artificial white coating covering the full length of each wall. It's even less traditional up the stairwells where giant alien globes have landed, masquerading as light fittings. And everywhere, absolutely every-bloody-where, there are all-pervasive security cameras. I suspect these are to be monitored from the brand new control room that's magically appeared off the ticket hall, which should give the station staff somewhere warm to sit and read their newspapers while they continue to ignore all the passing passengers.
Weekend tube closures
Going back to my roots: dead end
40 quiz: Here are 16 clues, each with an answer that includes the number 40. Some clues are straight forward, others are soundalikes. How many 40s can you identify?
I don't feel a day over 40
And finally, back to the very spot where I was born. Not that I was born in the middle of a four lane concrete highway, you understand. It's just that during the last 40 years the Shrodells Maternity Unit has been knocked down to make way for the Watford ring road. There may still be a road sign marked 'Deliveries' by the side of the road, but this is no longer a good place to have regular contractions. I'm sure it won't surprise you to hear that I was born within 100 yards of a tube station (or at least it was one at the time), but the green dome of the Watford Mosque was absolutely nowhere to be seen in 1965.
My music teacher appeared in Metroland, conducting the school orchestra at Croxley's annual "let's pretend to be a village" village fair. I'm relieved that John and his BBC camera crew didn't turn up three years later because that was the year I was selected as one of the 24 maypole dancers, and wearing short trousers on television isn't good for one's street cred. I did wonder whether my maypoling had been immortalised on the new village sign, but closer inspection revealed that all of the twirling silhouettes are female - damn.
This is Common Moor Lock on the Grand Union Canal. Just over 70 years ago my newlywed grandparents moved into a Metroland semi on the banks of the canal here (hidden behind the trees to the left at the rear of the photo). Their lovingly-tended garden sloped down to the canal towpath at a gradient of 1 in 5, so it was all the more impressive that I chose their lawn to take my very first toddling steps. I wouldn't risk it today because the latest owners appear to have abandoned a car at the bottom of the garden, next to a pile of bricks and some rusty wire fencing. Looking out across the canal there used to be a fine view of the John Dickinson Paper Mill, home of world-famous Croxley Script paper. Bet you've used it. DH Lawrence swore by it. I remember the huge mill buildings well, standing sheer above the canal like an industrial cliff face, but alas they no longer stand. 150 years of paper production ceased in 1980 and the site (right of photo) is now covered by a swathe of modern housing - with tiny flat uninspiring lawns.
When most people search back through their family tree, I suspect they're secretly hoping to uncover somebody famous. Not me. When I searched back through my family tree I was hoping to find a genuine Londoner. And with my great grandfather I hit the jackpot.
On my family's last visit to the capital I took my nephews and niece back to see where their London roots lie. They were less than impressed, I suspect because the building wasn't Hamleys. They'd be even less impressed today because 40 South Molton Street is shrouded in scaffolding. If you're ever down this way, look out for the ugly frontage swathed in steel, plywood and green netting. The ground floor is now occupied by The Red Rock Cafe, a tiny catering establishment that makes its living feeding the passing fashion victims. I thought it might be a lovely idea to pop in one day and take lunch in my great grandfather's old home, but that was before I saw the prices listed on the menu outside. Call me miserly but I reckoned £6.40 was a bit steep for a jacket potato topped with cheese and beans, so I just had to make do with staring in through the window and scaring the patrons with my camera.
Edward and Frances were married on Easter Saturday 1900 in St Thomas's Church in Orchard Street, just off Portman Square. South Molton Street is less than a quarter of a mile away, so it made perfect sense for the two of them to get wed in the local parish church. Alas the building no longer stands, and the reason for its demise was the expansion of Oxford Street's most famous department store. Selfridges first opened in 1909, the brainchild of American entrepreneur Gordon Selfridge. His vision was that every visit to the store should be 'an event', and people flocked from far and wide to prove him right. Selfridges was so successful that by 1928 it had doubled in size, which meant knocking down some of the existing buildings behind the store, which meant the loss of St Thomas's. The altar screen and organ were shipped off to St Thomas's Church in Hanwell where they still do sterling work, but the original site now serves a different god.
By an splendid but unplanned coincidence, my ancestral tour today jumps from the site of King Harold's death to the supposed site of his burial. This is Waltham Abbey, an imposing building with a thousand year history, first established by Harold himself a few years before he became king. After the Battle of Hastings legend tells that Harold's body was laid to rest here, and two stones to the east of the present church still mark the supposed burial site today. And it was just across the river from this famous church that my great-grandfather made his living.
My thanks to everyone who turned up to contribute to the dg Creme Egg Birthday Appeal last night. I was successful in liberating a total of 16 chocolate eggs from your clutches, notwithstanding additional emergency supplies in the form of mini eggs, buttons and cake. Your generous, and unexpected, donations have been appreciated.
I left the battlefield with ancient mud caked to the bottom of my shoes. There were still monastery ruins to explore, a museum to wander round and a small gift shop to ignore. As I walked back out into the 21st century I was humbled by the events this site had witnessed. And I was reminded that, although I shall never be able to trace my earliest ancestors, I am in fact a genetic hotchpotch of hundreds of thousands of invaders and settlers, each with their own unique life story to tell. And some of them are even French.
This is St Mary's Church in Battle, far less famous than Battle Abbey just over the road, but almost as old and rather more important to me. It was here, within 100 yards of the spot where King Harold died, that my great-great-great grandfather James was baptised and married. He was dipped in the Norman font in 1820 and walked up the 12th century nave in 1842 to wed gamekeeper's daughter Sarah. The happy couple were most likely buried here as well, given that people didn't tend to move far in those days, but my search through the lichen-covered gravestones proved unsuccessful.
While my mother's side of the family were busy murdering people, my father's forebears were busy being industrious, right here. This is Copper Mill Lock on the Grand Union canal, just down the hill from world-famous Harefield Hospital. We're on the very edge of north-west London (Hertfordshire starts about five metres to the right of this photo) beside the banks of the river Colne, surrounded by rolling hills and gravel-bottomed lakes. I'm sure the view would have been gorgeous had it not been for the heavy mist hanging over the river valley on the day I visited. The canal passed this way in 1797, just a decade before my great-great-great grandfather William was born. He and his three brothers all worked in this riverside mill, making copper which was used to line ships for the Napoleonic Wars. William married a local lass and they lived in an artisan's cottage beside the canal, although sadly I could find no trace of the ancestral pile when I went back to take a look. But the mill buildings were still there, now redivided into tasteful modern hi-tech business units. And the canal still looked much as it would have done two centuries ago, just so long as I ignored the gastropub, the modern office development and the group of canoeists zigzagging through the millstream.
Just off the main London to Cambridge road, a few miles north of Stansted Airport, lies the dead-end village of Widdington. It's a picturesque village surrounded by fields and woodland, complete with 13th century church, 16th century pub and 19th century murder (of which more later). In the churchyard I found a couple of relatives' gravestones (which was a bit of a thrill). Around the triangular village green I found an old bakery and an old post office (except they were now called "The Old Bakery" and "The Old Post Office" and people lived in them). And hidden on a hilltop I found one of the finest surviving medieval barns in south east England (except it was closed). You'd like the place.
"There is just at the particular part of the road alluded to, a distance of nearly a mile either way, in which not a cottage or vestige of security presents itself. It was in such a dreary spot that the murderer attacked the unfortunate victim of his malice - a bare mile from Widdington only, in a narrow road, where the sides are thrown up so as to exclude any distant view by open day, and prevent the voice from being heard by night; at this point, and in the darkest part of Monday evening last, when fatigued in his endeavours to ascend a very steep hill, Mr. Mumford appears to have been attacked, and with such remorseless fury, that the spot exhibits but little signs that any resistance could be made. The blood itself cries aloud for retribution; it's purple stream is even now clearly visible and will long remain." (Chelmsford Chronicle, Friday December 12 1823)
Confused by drunken bloodlust, John hoped to cover his tracks by pretending he'd discovered this mutilated body on the road. He proceeded up the hill, carrying the bloodied corpse over his back, and delivered the body to the Fleur-de-Lys pub (pictured left). John wasn't the brightest of men (the local newspaper described him as "an illiterate yokel") so he made two crucial mistakes. Firstly he announced to the pub precisely who the dead man was, despite the fact that nobody else could possibly recognise the disfigured face. Secondly, and rather more stupidly, John was discovered with Mumford's bloodied knife still in his back pocket. He was arrested on the spot, although it took seven villagers to restrain him. He was then carted off to Chelmsford where he was locked up and tried for murder, before being taken to the gallows three days later.
I can trace my roots back no further than this small village in north west Essex, which I guess makes me an Essex boy at heart. If you've ever driven up the M11 from London to Cambridge you'll have passed within a whisker of here, halfway up that 15 mile stretch where there aren't any junctions. Newport is one of those almost-pretty East Anglian villages with quaint pastel-painted cottages lining the high street. To its credit, much of the 21st century has been held at bay and a surprising amount of the 18th (or even 17th) century remains. My grandfather's grandfather's grandfather's grandfather might even recognise some of that today. He was born and died in the village, and he's buried somewhere in the churchyard (although I couldn't identify which crumbling gravestone might be his when I stopped by for a visit). Edward married wife Martha in 1741 and she gave birth to three sons, one of them suspiciously close to the wedding day. I was dead chuffed to discover that the cottage to the right of this photo still bears the family name. There's no guarantee that any of my ancestors ever lived in this old farmhouse, admittedly, but at least I can now imagine them all growing up here, with the waters of the River Cam trickling slowly by at the bottom of the garden. An excellent place to have one's roots.
