SE19 - Gypsy Hill

Hello people,

A few months back me and my sister Louise attempted to climb the notorious Central Hill in the Borough of Lambeth, SE19. Without wishing to sound boastful, I consider myself an experienced, and talented climber, having scaled the formidable peaks of Shooters Hill, Maze Hill and all 5 floors of our old flat in the Arnold Estate, Bermondsey, whenever the lift broke down. I invited Louise on the advice of my therapist, who suggested a joint activity would improve our relationship. Tensions between us have existed ever since Boxing Day 1990 when I saw her sneaking out of our room with a pair of Roland Rat shaped scissors (the ears were the finger holes) and subsequently discovered all the wires cut at the bottom of my brand new Scalextric cars. She’s always denied the vandalism, but I’m certain she did it. Her motive? That I wouldn’t let her to play with my new Christmas present, not out of selfishness, but in adherence to the recommend age restrictions, clearly stated on the side of the Scalextric box, which she fell short of by more than 2 and a half months. Our climb, and the disaster which was to follow, has since become legend among fellow climbers. 

This is our story.

Central Hill stands at an incredible 92meters above sea level. Accessible to man by only the No 3 bus, or a brisk 5-10 minute walk. As always I began the journey with one final check of our equipment. In my bag I had the tent, rope, helmet, harness, crampons for my shoes, ice axe, a 2 litre bottle of Iron Brew, and a pocket knife. Louise in her bag had Oyster and Debit cards, a picture of Matt and Sadie, a box of Cadbury’s Fingers, and some nail clippers. Once at the foot of the climb I tethered us together with the rope, a measure Louise felt unnecessary, she has always had a flippant attitude to health and safety, I remember her running and laughing with those Roland Rat scissors as I chased her down the hall and into the living room in a Scalextric rage. After a quick drink of Iron Brew and a short prayer, our assent began.

To climb, is to be nothing else, but a climber. All of your energy and focus is on your next handhold, next step. The howl of the wind and hum of electric mobility scooters passing you, become nothing but white noise. At the halfway point I remember shouting across to Louise that we should stop to camp, as we were quickly losing the light. To her credit she observed that the darkness was due to the helmet having slipped over my eyes. We stopped for a while so I could adjust  my head protector and eat some of Louise’s Cadbury’s Fingers for sustenance. It was then that disaster struck. A passing pigeon spotted and swooped for the Cadbury’s Fingers. Louise, showing the reactions of a panther reached into her bag and pulled out the nail clippers to guard our provisions from the flying menace. Firstly firing a warning nip across its path, and when that was ignored, quickly following with three rapid strikes. She only managed to clip a feather, but it was enough to warn off the thief. Sadly the winged assassin had already sealed our fate, for during the affray, a stray chocolate finger had fallen to the floor directly onto the spot of my next footstep. Feeling for solid ground and finding finger rolling mayhem, I slipped, and toppled backwards till the rope that connected Louise and I, was as taught as the tension in the air. 

I realised then I had two options, hang from the rope till gravity took us both, or cut the rope, save my sister and doom myself. I decided not to cut the rope. It was then that I saw Louise reach into her pocket, and pull out a pair of scissors, a pair of Roland Rat shaped scissors! “J’accuse!” I screamed in my best Spanish. Then in horror I watched her clasp the rope with one hand, position the rodent shaped shears above the rope with the other, and snip. 

I feel like Icarus, falling, falling, falling, Louise growing ever distant, her final words to me “I’m sorry but I’m bored, I’m calling an Uber” expanding into the ever increasing void between us. 

I rolled for what felt like an eternity, back down the 16 meters of hill we had traveled, and stopped at the trough between Central and Gypsy Hill. 

Gypsy Hill got its name from the large Romani gypsy settlement which populated the area during the 17th and 18th centuries, back when Norwood was still large swaths of forest, known as the Great North Wood. The most famous of all the Norwood gypsies was a woman called Margaret Finch. She was a Romani fortune teller and people would come from all over to have their fortunes read by her. She lived from 1651-1760 a life spanning a staggering 109 years! It’s said that her habit of resting her chin on her knees meant that her body eventually contorted permanently into a sitting position, and that when she died she needed to be buried in a square coffin to account for her unusual shape. I wonder if she predicted that would happen?

Despite their long stay in this part of London, little is known of the Norwood Romani Gypsies. Even the term by which they are known ‘gypsies’ is incorrect. The Romani arrived in Europe during the Middle Ages, and came to be known by the term Gypsies because local people assumed they were Egyptians - or gypcian in the English of the Middle Ages- banished from Egypt for harbouring the baby Jesus when Herod was seeking the child to kill him.

In fact genetic findings suggest that the Romani originated from North West India approximately 1500 years ago. Some people believe the Romani began there nomadic existence in search of a better life. Some that they were an army of defeated Indian soldiers forced to move on. Others suggest they may have been taken from their home land as slaves. Sadly the origins of these people will forever be a mystery as so little is known of the history of the Romani. They have left no written accounts of their lives, the Romani language has for most part been an entirely oral language, and I guess when the history books were being written, few words were given to the Romani.

The Romani of Norwood would spend the summer months working on the farms for the harvest. During the winter months they would move onto common land in London, where they would go door to door selling lavender, clothes pegs and wooden flowers.

Despite living in a closed society these movements would often bring them in contact with the people of London, many of whom would also spend the summer hop picking in Kent as a way to escape the city, and we have adopted many Romani words into our own language, such as cushty, wonga and my personal favourite “Oi mush!” Meaning “Excuse me sir!”

The Romani lived in Norwood for hundreds of years till around 1800 AD when they were forced to move on by the authorities. Once they packed up the dome shaped tents they lived in, and left the place they’d called home for hundreds of years, there was no physical evidence they’d ever been their at all. But, as Gypsy Hill testifies, the impression they left on our culture could not be erased.

Perhaps one day Central Hill will be known as ‘Hannon’s Hill’ after Louise and my doomed exhibition? Perhaps the bottom of the hill will be remembered as ‘Cadbury’s Finger Fall Crescent?’ Who knows? All that is certain, is that despite the set backs, the Romani strive on, as will I.

I’m going onto eBay now to see if any Scalextric tracks are for sale.

Laters.

SE27 - West Norwood Cemetery

Hello People, 

Today I’m in Covent Garden 1924AD. But first I’d like to talk about West Norwood Cemetery SE27, which I visited a few weeks ago. 

Cemeteries are the one place on earth where everyone gets on. I’ve visited my fair share, and I’ve never met anyone who wanted to move, or complained about their neighbours. It’s also a great place to go if you want to meet interesting people. 

Said to be the first cemetery built in the Gothic style - by which I’m referring to the architectural style of the original monuments and chapels - the cemetery builders did not wear black eye liner and listen to the Cure while they worked.

Established in 1836, to deal with the overcrowding in London’s chapel graveyards, West Norwood is one of seven large, privately owned suburban cemeteries opened between 1833-1841 that have come to be known as ‘The magnificent Seven.’ Interesting fact, if the cemeteries were characters of the cult 1960’s Western due to their order of appearance, then West Norwood would be Vin Tanner, aka Steve McQueen!

The cemetery is built on a hill, which conveniently puts you closer to heaven, and it lies on top of the hidden river Effra which snakes through Dulwich, Brixton, Kennington, Vauxhall and into the Thames.

There’s a legend that in Victorian times a coffin was discovered floating up the Thames which was traced back to West Norwood Cemetery. It’s assumed the grave had been dug too close to the tunnel of the river. The coffin was returned, but the owner fined for not having ‘tapped in’ at the beginning of their journey.

King Cnut is said to have sailed up the river Effra in his 1016 conquest of England during the famous Battle of the Potentially Risky names. Defeating Roger Fkucs army in the battle of Schithouse. Second interesting fact, King Cnuts father was called Forkbeard, but he invented neither fork nor beard.

There are many famous people buried in West Norwood Cemetery. There's C.W. Alcock. He invented both Test Cricket and the FA Cup! Before his crucial intervention men actually talked to each other about there lives and not sport. 

There’s Georg Karl Julius Hackenschmidt, a professional wrestler, recognised as the sports first professional heavyweight champion. He used to drink 11 pints of milk a day to maintain his weight, and as a boy would train by lifting small horses in his native Georgia, and he invented the bear hug, even before bears did! 

There’s Sister Eliza Roberts, who was Florence Nightingale's principal nurse during the Crimean War. William Marsden, an English surgeon who founded the Royal Free Hospital and the Royal Marsden Hospital. Sugar magnet and founder of the Tate Museum Sir Henry Tate. Sir Henry Bressimer and many more. 

Thanks to my magical time travelling spanner I’ve had the chance to meet them all, and loved it, with the exception of when Georg accidentally dropped a small horse on me.

However my favourite historical figure in West Norwood Cemetery is Eliza James, known as the Watercress Queen (1855-1927). A name she earned by having the largest Watercress empire in the whole of Europe. It is said to have been so vast, that the sun never set on it, except at night.

In Victorian England watercress was seen as a staple food for the workers. Sellers - usually girls as young as five or elderly women struggling to get by - would sell it in bunches on the streets, as a cheap and very nutritious breakfast. It came to be known as ‘poor mans bread.’ It was the Egg McMuffin if it’s day!

Born in Birmingham in 1855, she began selling watercress to support her family after the suicide of her father. Her journey seems to have been a tough one. She married and had five children, with a man who was violently abusive. She was stabbed by him on three occasions, and when she attempted to get a divorce, he threatened to kill her. He was imprisoned in 1897. This sentence most probably saved her life, and allowed her to start a new one with a man called James Fleet who she married. They and their children moved to London, where the streets where paved with gold, and the potential to sell watercress.

The opening of the Mid-Hampshire Railway in 1865, connected the Hampshire watercress growers to the busy streets of London. This meant watercress could be sold fresh, and came to be in big demand. 

Sadly, that demand did not mean that all got their fair share of the profits. Wholesalers often drove prices so high that the sellers - many just children - struggled to make any profit at all. It was here that Eliza was to prove that her business acumen was every bit as impressive as her determination. 

Setting up her business ‘James’s & Son’s.’ Getting a stall in Covent Garden. Diversifying her business to sell to shops, restaurants and hotels as well as passing trade, and investing wisely in her own cress farms. She worked on her Covent Garden stall all her life despite her eventual wealth. Arriving each morning on the back of her son-in-laws watercress cart.

By today’s standards she amassed many millions. A fortune which would have easily gotten her an episode on The Secret Millionaire, and probably a seat on Dragons Den too.

I went to Covent Garden 1924AD to meet the great lady. Her rags to riches story is inspirational, and I desperately wanted to ask her a few questions, and to see if she's lend me any money.

I found the Covent Garden of then very different to the one I know. Full of stalls selling fresh fruit, vegetables, flowers. Not a juggler or human statue in sight.

It didn’t take me long find Eliza. She was just as I’d pictured her, a small, elderly, formidable looking women, swamped in a thick fur coat wearing a Cloche hat adorned with flowers busily tending her stall. 

I picked out a juicy bunch of watercress from one of the display baskets and joined the back of the queue, hoping to get a chance to talk to Eliza upon my purchase. 

The queue was fairly long and I hadn’t eaten breakfast so was quite hungry. I had a nibble. It was delicious, fresh and surprisingly peppery. Before I knew it I’d eaten the whole thing. This was not a problem of course as I fully intended to pay for my meal, however once at the front of the queue, and upon taking out my bank card, I discovered Eliza’s stall was not set up for contactless payment. 

I had no coins on me, and was left in the rather embarrassing situation of not being able to pay. I assured dear old Eliza that I would go away and return with the appropriate coinage, but she did not seem inclined to take me at my word. 

Then Eliza did the most incredible thing. Without us breaking eye contact, she held out two outstretched palms, and slowly raised them upwards to the sky. As she did this, the leafs of the bunched water cress began to slowly rise, pulling their green stalks behind them. When her hands stopped rising, the cress also stopped. With the ends of stalks touching the baskets and the leaves suspended in the air so they gave the appearance of being little trees. I waved a hand over the now upright cress to see how this trick had been accomplished, but there was no string? And if there was no string, then the leaves could not have been pulled up? Instead the only explanation was that the heads of the watercress had been lifted up! Like a man lying down would lift his head when standing! Yes, that was it, the cress had somehow, against the laws which govern our reality, stood up! It seems that Eliza had somehow developed the ability to control watercress with her mind. She truly was the watercress queen!

I stared dumbfounded, then herd her say “Go on my pretties.” Upon which tiny bunches of watercress slowly moved towards me. Then one by one the little green menaces leapt on me. More and more till their weight caused my legs to buckle and I fell to the floor. 

I looked around for aid, but everyone had either left or fled. Once on the floor I felt my body shift. I was being dragged away rhythmically. The little cress people sang a song to stay in time with each other, pulling as one at the end of each line.

“We’re mean,

we’re green,

we’re high in vitamin C.

We’re mean,

we’re green,

we’re high in vitamin C...”

Over and over...

I plead for my life, “Eliza! Dear God! Have mercy! I can wire the money into you’re account if you send me your details! Have you set up PayPal?!!”

But my pleads were ignored. The watercress dragged me into an ally, beat me to within an inch of my life, and threw me into the river Thames with concrete set around my feet. 

Fortunately the concrete was also made with watercress so came apart instantly in the water. Allowing me to swim away to safety.

I guess you have to be a tough character to survive in business. 

Next time I’ll be somewhere in SE4. If you have any ideas where I should visit then I’d love to here them. 

Till next time!

28D

SE25 - Norwood County Park

Hello people,

The year is approximately 1300 AD, and I am on the edge of The Great North Wood. A magnificent oak woodland which stretches as far south as modern day Croydon and as far north as modern day Camberwell.

To be here among these noble trees, listening to the chaffinch, robins and wrens sing their songs. Watching the butterflies dance in the sunshine, gives me a sense of incredible peace, and a heart swelling pride at being a SE Londoner, in this glorious land.

And this warm glow is only mildly tapered, by the fact that I’m upside down. Suspended from the highest sturdy branch of a strong oak tree, by the elastic of my underpants.

An hour ago I was in modern day London visiting my in laws who live next to South Norwood County Park. They have recently become new parents, as have we. As a gift Rosie brought a rattle dating from the Aztec period which she rescued from a skip outside the British Museum, after one of their installation changes. I’m told this happens all the time, and that after an exhibition on the culture of the Celts, some peaces of the Lewis Chessmen were put onto freecycle.

Unable to match Rosies gifting of an object of priceless value, I instead offered to help by taking their English Bulldog, Barrington for a walk.

The County Park is one of 20 surviving fragments of the Great North Wood, which was mostly destroyed through deforestation during the Middle Ages, to fuel South East London’s two great  industries. The oak wood was sent to Deptford, where it was used to build the ships which powered the British Navy. While the bark was taken to Bermondsey, to be used for the tanning in leather making, which kept the population of Britain looking sexy.

Walking around modern day South Norwood County Park is lovely way to spend a sunny day. There’s a swing park, pitch and putt golf and a sports centre with a football pitch and athletics track for the more active. But after a few laps I sensed Barrington was keen to venture further, and find more trees to wee on. So after walking past the sports centre, and pausing at the top of the hill to wipe the sweat from my brow, I released Barrington’s lead a little to let him explore a smell he’d found in a bush. Took out the magical adjustable spanner, and gave it a twirl.

As we arrived in the year 1300 I felt the ground disappear beneath my feet. I’d completely forgotten that the hill we’d been standing on was man made in the 1940’s from the rubble of buildings destroyed during the many Nazi bombings on Croydon.

On reflection, such is the unrealibilty of the spanner, I was fortunate not to have been propelled into the period of the Second World War when the area was used for training by the armed forces, as Barrington and I may have been mistook for a recently shot down Nazi pilots.

Maybe just as bad, we could have landed in the period between 1862 and 1920 when the park was used to treat the sewage of London. Me and Barrington would have needed more than a couple of doggy bags to get out of that mess. The creation of the Norwood sewage farm is yet another example of poor planning by the local authorities, as the areas London clay base made it difficult for the sewage to drain away, leading to very smelly flooding.

The area is still referred too as ‘the sewage farm’ by some of Nowood’s older residents.

However, as hoped, we arrived in the glorious woodlands of 1300. And as I have already mentioned, fortunately plucked from a fatal fall by an near by tree. Tragically Barrington, as a result of loosening my grip on his lead, was not so lucky. With no branch to save him he plummeted to the wild flower ground below. He would have certainly been killed, but for a passing hunts man who incredibly was beneath him at that very second in which he landed, breaking his fall. You will be relieved to know reader that Bazza was back on his four sturdy feet and sniffing that floral carpet in an instant!

Tragically the wood cutter was killed instantly.

Or so it appeared.

Because after a short while he stirred, lifted his head, and gingerly got to his feet. Miraculously appearing to have no serious injuries, he rested on the trunk of the tree while regaining his senses.

Then, in a cruel twist of fate. He was eaten alive by a pack of wolves, who he had presumably been previously hunting.

Once the wolves had finished their meal they wondered off to find something to howl at.

I dangled their for a while, contemplating my options, when at last my eyes fell on the sight of my spanner laying on the ground above my head. I must have dropped it on arrival. Realising I was in a bit of a spot I decided to panic. But before I was able to summon even a tear, Barrington, again wondered into veiw.

“Barrington!” I exclaimed. “Dear Nobel Barrington! You’ve come back to save me! Did man ever have a more loyal friend?”

I spoke slowly and gestured largely so my canine savour would better understand me. Pointing at the spanner and mimicking the widening and narrowing of the adjustable jaw.

“Listen carefully, I need you use the magical adjustable spanner, to travel back to 2019. Taking care not to be buried alive, under a man made hill. Then I need you to find Rosie, and tell her I’m stuck up a tree, in the 1300’s. Can you do that for me old chum?”

As I spoke, he stared at me with his head cocked to one side. When I’d finished he blinked a few times, then lowered his head towards the spanner.

“Yes, go on, that’s it!” I yelled down my voice breaking with excitement.

He barked at me and I barked back, hopefully in agreement.

He prodded the spanner with his nose a few times.

“Yes!” I exclaimed.

Positioned himself over it.

“Go on!” I cried.

Then he cocked his leg, urinated on the time traveling device, and ran off in the the direction the wolves. Presumably hoping to join their pack.

I was left to hang in the wind.

The great North Wood really was glorious. It fills me with sadness that I can’t show it to you, dear reader. But I fear if I were to bring all three of you at once it may overload the spanner, causing time to go the wrong way. I recently helped deliver my beautiful daughter Ren into this world. I’m not sure I fancy doing it again in the other direction. And I’m certain Rosie wouldn’t.

But work is underway to restore the Forest thanks to the Great North Wood project running from 2017 to 2021. An initiative to protect and improve wildlife habitation, encourage and train volunteers, provide outdoor sessions for primary school children, and much more.

I’ve attached the link below in case you may be interested.

As for me? Eventually the elastic in my underpants will snap and I will be able to get to the spanner and go home. But if the fall should kill me then at least I will have died doing what I love, in not necessarily the orientation I would have preferred.

Till next time.

https://www.wildlondon.org.uk/great-north-wood

PS I’m able to post in 2019 despite being stuck in the 1300’s because I’ve adjusted the date on my iPhone. So there

SE13 The Battle of Lewisham

Hello people,

I write this post while leaning on the north face of the Lewisham clock tower. Around me the crowds gather, the sounds of revolution grow, the swell of rebellion rises, and a sense of riot attacks the senses faster then you can say free drinks the Wetherspoons Clocktower for anyone who can perfectly execute a flying elbow drop.

I’m surrounded by demonstrators. Police in cars scream through the streets and charge the pavements on horseback to disburse the crowds. I am at the center, of the Battle of Lewisham 5pm, 2nd of July 1977. I’ve chosen to observe this famous battle because it had far reaching consequences for society, and also because I don’t have anything to do in the evenings now that Game of Thrones has finished. Let me fill you in on the background...

The 1970s were a journey of discovery for mankind. Steven Hawking has just invented space. Bruce Lee had just invented fighting. The invention of the pocket calculator had finally ended the need to count. The air was filled with Disco, the streets adorned with beautiful women in power suits, and art had reached its peak with the cinematic arrival of ‘Smokey and the Bandit.’

But the 1970s were also a time of economic strife, and political gains for a group of people who called themselves fascists. The fascists didn’t like immigration, believed that only white nationals should be allowed to live in Britain, and that it was acceptable to use intimidation and violence to get their way. These Facist’s were seen as saviours by some, despised by others, the silent majority, as always, kept their thoughts to themselves.

Throughout the 1970’s Fascist and racist rallies were becoming common in pockets of the UK. In the New Cross and Lewisham 1976 bi-election,  two fascist groups (the NF and NP) between them polled more votes than the winning Labour candidate. The NF had only recently separated from the NP on the grounds that they felt that the letter P just wasn’t racist enough.

Had they won then it would have been the first time a Facist party had taken a seat at Westminster, excluding the time racist Kev nicked a stool from the House of Commons canteen. The forces of resentment, intolerance and hate, were growing.

30th of May 1977 tensions grew further in Lewisham when police raids lead to the arrest of twenty young black men and one black woman on suspicion of being responsible for a recent wave of street crime. The defendants appeared at Cambewell Green magistrates court charged with various offences of ‘conspiracy to rob.’ Which I guess meant the police found a big sack of eye masks and black and white striped jumpers in one of their houses.

Many felt the charges were unjust and during the trial protesters, and some defendants clashed with police.

The trail resulted in the creation of the anti racist/ fascist group ‘The Lewisham 21 Defence Committee’ or TL21DC. These joined the already formed anti racist/ fascist groups in SE London ‘All Lewisham Campaign Against Racism and Fascism’ (ALCARAF) and ‘Anti Racist/Anti-Fascist Co-ordinating Committee’ (ARAFCC).

The existence of these groups highlight how many people in South East London are willing to give up their time and energy to protect the freedoms we all enjoy, and we should feel very lucky to have them.

It also shows that all of these people are terrible at coming up with catchy names for organisations.

In response to the trial The Lewisham 21 Defence committee organised a demonstration in New Cross on Saturday, 2 July 1977. Hundreds of anti-facist’s attended.

It was also attended by NF supporting fascists who, along with their other hates, hated anti-facists. They were anti-anti-facist’s, and proud of it. During the demonstration, these anti-anti-facist facist’s, threw insults, rotten fruit and caustic soda at the marchers.

Buoyed by their success of throwing fruit and cleaning chemicals at peaceful protesters, the NF declared that they would hold a demonstration themselves. A counter-march through New Cross and Lewisham. A show of popularity and strength.

Pledging to bring thousands of its supporters, the NF leader and march organiser told the press “We believe that the multi-racial society is wrong, is evil, and we want to destroy it.” A few years earlier the same leader had been recorded boasting that the NF were “busy setting up a well oiled Nazi machine.” Possibly reasoning that the unpopularity of Nazis in Britain was due to the squeakyness of their machines.

“The cruelty, death and destruction,  the Nazi’s brought are worse than words can describe. But I think it’s the screeching noise their tanks made when they stopped that will haunt me most”
-A made up quote from a WWII survivor.

And that brings us to today. My today, 2nd of July 1977,  the Battle of Lewisham. The NF leaders were right about a show of support. Although I chose to stay away, I’m informed that two thousand NF supporters arrived at New Cross early this afternoon and at 3pm, escorted by police, began their counter-march to much cheer and pride. 

But they did not reckon with the anti-facist response. The counter-counter march! It started at 11.30am in Ladywell fields, roughly 20 minutes walk from Lewisham. I was there this morning listening to speeches, singing songs and trying to find a souvenir T-Shirt to sell on eBay. Around five thousand people gathered at the anti-facist counter-counter march organised by ALCARAF, and attended ARAFCC, TL21DC and many other letters of the alphabet.

I must say my heart sored to be amongst people who believe in peace, tolerance and respect for their fellow man. I lay back, run my figures through the grass and thought, maybe John Lennon was right, love really is the answer. Just then, three anti-facists with wooden clubs clumsily concealed beneath their army jackets walked past me. Things escalated quickly after that. 

The counter-counter march, was set up to start in Ladywell Park and stop just short of the NF counter march in Lompit Vale, Lewisham. Once at Lompit Vale the police were to set up a blockade to prevent the anti-facist counter-counter march from mixing with the anti-anti facist, fasict counter march. But with five thousand anti-Facists, and two thousand NF anti-anti facist facists to control, essentialy the entire population of Britain in 1977, there was always the possibility of things getting out of hand.

The anti-fascists used the side streets to get past the police blockade, and decided to create their own blockade to halt the NF anti-anti fascist, fascist counter march, which for simplicity we’ll call the ‘counter-counter march anti fascist blockade against the facists’ or CCMAFBATF for short. When the NF anti-anti facist, fascist counter marchers saw that the anti fascists had got through the police blockade to set up a counter-counter march anti facist blockade against the facists, they decided to set up a blockade of their own, but before anyone had time to work out what it should be called, chaos ensued!

Bricks, bottles and bits of wood were thrown at the NF marchers, police used tear gas and, for the first time on mainland UK, riot shields to try to separate the two sides. despite their best efforts police lines were in places broken and, to borrow a line from Homer’s Iliad describing the fall of the gates of Troy, ‘it all properly kicked off.’

My commitment to pacifism and cowardice prevented me from stepping in, so I ran weeping like a child until I reached what I believed was the safety of Lewisham Town Centre, which on reflection was a poor decision given the title of this post.

Hundreds were gathered by the clock tower. Some were anti-facists, some were local people, mostly young. Some were there to protest peacefully. Some were there for a fight. Whether they were mindless hooligans, or misguided youth who after a lifetime of being the butt of racist jokes, intimidation and sometimes violence from people like the NF marchers, snapped, depends on your point of view.

Alas, the showdown they craved, never came, as their opponents were already on the early train home. I know from reports I have read (wikapiedia) that in the melas of fighting up the road in Lompit Vale, the police, like a seasoned referee protecting a fighter in a hopelessly one sided fight, diverted the NF counter march to a car park in Lewisham. In the car park, the NF held a small rally for those who hadn’t fled. There, they were able to freely express their views, as is their right in a liberal democratic country. They did however have to pay a fee of £1.50 at the end, for a ticket to lift the barriers so they could leave.

With the protesters unaware the NF weren’t coming, Lewisham Town Centre became a battle between the anti facist protesters and the police. I write these last paragraphs with horse’s charging past me and bottles flying overhead (there's always bottles in riots aren't there? Who brings them?)

Police will eventually get the situation under control, but not before as many as 214 people are arrested.

Tomorrow the the press will be hugely critical of the facists and anti-facists alike for the violence.

The NF will never again came close to becoming elected. The myth they were a respectable party who won support by peaceful persuasion, forever tarred by the images of the riot they had provoked and took part in.

To a large extent they will also lose their air of intimidation, as they were outnumbered, outfought, and unable to complete their march. The first time this had happened to the NF.

The anti-fascists will also take a bashing in the press, but popularity was not their motivation. In fact non-conformity, and anti-authoritarianism are about to become very popular in the UK as the Punk movement is ever growing. What influence the Battle of Lewisham had on it is probably to complex for me to answer.

A plaque to commemorate the Battles 40 year anniversary, will put up by Lewisham Council on New Cross Road in 2017.

It’s all a bit too scary for me. So I’m off. Laters.

PS

FYI if you’ve never read my blog before, I can travel through time.

SE13 - Protest in Lewisham

Hello people,

I recently visited the Granville Park Adult Education Centre in Lewisham. Margaret, my mother in law recommended the place to me after taking a course on stained glass craftsmanship. She has since made some very impressive stained glass artwork. 

Feeling inspired I enrolled in a stained glass window and stone carving class, so I can  one day realise my life-long ambition to build a fully to scale replica of Gaudi’s masterpiece Mi Sagrada Familia in my back garden. I got the idea when I was in church one Sunday and suddenly became hungry. ‘Why has nobody thought to build a place of worship where you can also get a sausage sandwich? You could call it a Cafe-e-dral?

After signing up to my course I headed straight to Lewisham town Hall to seek planning permission for the monument to art, religion and fatty foods I was planning to construct. Knowing the planning department staff probably lacked my artistic flair I simplified the process for them by sticking an image of Mi Sagrada Familia onto the side of Woody’s plastic toy tree house. I’m sad to say my plan to create something beautiful was met with negativity. 

“Are you planning to build it to scale?” The Lewisham Council employee asked.

“Of course.” I replied.

“Because if you do, it looks like the building will encroach onto your neighbour’s garden. Twelve of them in fact. It will also cut across the train line you back onto, twelve more people’s houses on the other side of the railway, Mottisfont road and Saint Paul’s Academy Secondary School.”

“I’m sure Saint Paul wouldn’t mind.” I said.

He sighed, “Also Mr Hannon your house resides in the borough of Greenwich, I work for Lewisham Council.”

“What’s your point?” I asked.

He lent forward slightly while messaging his temples and forehead, “The point, is that there’s very little I can do to help you.”

In fury I picked up Woody’s toy tree house and threw it at the wall.

“This is the greatest injustice in the history of town planning. I demand to speak to the Mayor of Lewisham!”

“I am the Mayor of Lewisham, and I have no idea how you got into my bathroom. Now kindly leave.” He said while gesturing to the door. I noticed for the first time that he was dressed in a pink towel, Mayors hat, chain, gown, and was holding a loofah. 

“I’m sorry I thought you were pretending to be a pirate.”

“Please leave Mr Hannon.” He said, again gesturing to the door with his free hand.

I picked up the pieces of my dreams and Woody’s toy tree house and walked out the door. In protest I have decided to take a vow of silence until the Mayor reverses his decision. It won’t be easy, but I have the motto of the silent to draw inspiration from when things get tough;
‘............’

Lewisham is of course a borough familiar with protest, and without question it’s most famous protester, is Rosa May Billinghurst, who was born on Granville Road in 1875, the same road that the adult learning centre now exists. Rosa had Polio as a child, which left her unable to walk. She could move short distances by wearing iron leg braces to strengthen her legs, and crutches to help her balance. For longer journeys her only realistic option was a modified tricycle. As a young woman Rosa became active in social work in the borough of Greenwich, the plight of the poor, and particularly women moved her greatly;

“My heart ached and I thought surely if women were consulted in the management of the state happier and better conditions must exist for hard-working sweated lives such as these.” Rosa May Billinghurst

As a young woman Rosa became a member of the Women’s Liberal Association, an offshoot of the Liberal Party who wanted to improve the welfare of women through charity and lobbying. However she soon became influenced by the Women’s Social and Political Union (WSPU) led by Emily Pankhurst, which campaigned for the right for women to vote, otherwise known as Suffrage. A cause Rosa believed was at the heart of the suffering she saw;

“It was gradually unfolded to me that the unequal laws which made women appear inferior to men were the main cause of these evils. I found that the man-made laws of marriage, parentage and divorce placed women in every way in a condition of slavery – and were as harmful to men by giving them power to be tyrants.” Rosa May Billinghurst.

In 1906, the WSPU had begun a series of demonstrations and lobbies of Parliament, leading to the arrest and imprisonment of growing numbers of their members. The then Prime Minister Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman (so good they named him twice) said that he agreed with the WSPU’s argument but was obliged to do nothing at all about it, and so urged the women to go on pestering and exercise the virtue of patience. A statement which can only really be viewed as a slap in the face. His comments strengthened the resolve of the WSPU, and the many women who supported them, including our Rosa who joined in 1907. She founded the WSPU Greenwich branch, and would attend marches using her tricycle, which she decorated with ribbons and banners. The appearance of Rosa on these demonstrations attracted curiosity, and she became known in the press as the “Cripple Suffragette.” As crass as the name was, Rosa was happy to use her disability to help promote the cause.

In January 1910 The Suffragettes appeared to have finally made a breakthrough. The new Liberal Prime Minister H.H. Asquith (so good they initialled him twice) was facing an election but was struggling to unite his party, and votes for women were his big problem. Some Liberal Democrat’s wanted women to have the vote, some didn’t. The argument for, was that it was the right thing to do, and that the definition of liberal is being willing to accept ideas different to your own. Therefore denying roughly 50% of the population a chance to express themselves would go against everything they supposedly to stood for.

The argument against was that if women were given the vote, what’s to stop one becoming a member of parliament? And if a woman became an MP she could hypnotise the men MPs using her women’s intuition! Or worse, smuggle French spies into cabinet meetings under a large hat!

H.H. (The H.H. Standing for hat hater) agreed that women shouldn’t have the vote, but seeing as he was a nice guy, he’d agree to let some, not all, but some women vote. As long as his party united, and he got to become Prime minister.

This was a huge victory, if not a total one, but when H.H. was voted in it seems his hat fear got the better of him. Despite having backing from enough MPs he delayed the bill by speaking and moving extremely slowly. His inaugural speech lasted 3 weeks and it took him 4 days to walk from the podium back into 10 Downing Street. On 18 November 1910, just 10 months after being elected, Asquith dissolved parliament, and called another election. The votes for women bill, was dead.

18 November 1910, on a day which became known as Black Friday 300 women of the WSPU, including Rosa in her tricycle, marched to Westminster to protest Asquith’s betrayal. They were met outside the Houses of Parliament by lines of police and crowds of male bystanders, who reportedly attacked the women for the next six hours, punching and kicking them; many women complained about the sexual nature of the assaults.

It not clear how many of the 300 suffragettes tried to fight back. But we do know that one of the fiercest fighters, was the wheelchair bound social worker, Lewisham’s own Rosa May Billinghurst. Written accounts from suffragettes describe her running battles with the police, and how, using her crutches she propelled herself towards the aggressors at a mighty speed. When Rosa was tipped out of her trike by the police, she got back in and fought some more. Eventually they pushed her down a side street and removed the valves from her tires.

When the battle was over four men and 115 women were arrested, including Rosa. Despite the overwhelming evidence of Brutality calls for an inquiry were dropped by the then Home Secretary, Winston Churchill

The demonstrations led to a change in tactics by the WSPU, as many of their members were unwilling to expose themselves to similar violence again; the organisation moved further towards direct action, such as stone throwing and window breaking, which gave the women a chance to escape before encountering the police.

Rosa was again at the forefront of the action. Four months after Black Friday she was arrested and sentenced to one month’s hard labour in Holloway Prison for smashing windows in Westminster, she had hidden the stones under the blanket which covered her legs. In December 1912 (the same year) she was sentenced to eight months in prison for setting fire to pillar boxes in Deptford. She immediately went on hunger strike and was force fed causing damage to her teeth and overall health. The force feeding had such a dramatic impact, the authorities released her two weeks after being subjected to it. Whatever effect prison had on her physical health, it seems to have done nothing to diminish her warrior spirit. Rosa spent the next year campaigning as fiercely as ever, including chaining herself to the gates of Buckingham palace.

Rosa eventually stopped her campaign in in 1918 after the Parliament (Qualification of Women) Act gave some women the right to vote. She, along with 54 other supporters of women’s suffrage, are honoured on the plinth of the Statue of Millicent Fawcett in Parliament Square, beneath a bronze banner reading ‘Courage calls to courage everywhere.’ 

Okay so admittedly my cause is less worthy, and my resolve less strong. But I can still take inspiration from the great lady. And I like to think she’d approved my silent protest, after all the motto of the WSPU was ‘Deeds not words.’

SE28 Thamesmead

Hello people,

Today I’m in Thamesmead SE28. If you type ‘SE28 restaurants and bars’ into Google, the first result you get is the Princess Alice, a carvery restaurant with a very respectable 3 and a half stars out of five on Google reviews. The next result is a chip shop called Britania Fish Bar, with an impressive 4.7 stars (6 reviews), and then you get a Chinese take away in Woolwich. According to Wikipedia no one famous has ever come from Thamesmead. If you type SE28 into visit London the top attraction is Thamesmead Town Centre Post Office, and if you google hotels in SE28 the top search is the Travelodge in Woolwich rated at 3.8 stars, only 0.2 stars better than Belmarsh Prison, which is actually closer to Thamesmead.

The path to Thamesmead

To the untrained eye it would appear that there’s little to say about Thamesmead, but to an experianced time traveller/ SE London blogger like me, there’s a wealth of pretty interesting stuff. Like Binsy Walk, the setting for Stanley Kubrick’s film ‘A clockwork orange.’ Also the New Acre library and Tavy Bridge, great examples of Brutalist Architecture. Tragically, these buildings and more are to be demolished to make way for the new Thamesmead redevelopment. I must save Thamesmead from destruction, but I cannot do it alone, that's why I've gone back to 1960's Barnhurst, to meet the father of SE28, in the hope I can enlist his help!

The year was 1966 and a man called Anthony Walton was at his home, reading the local paper. Whether Mr Walton religiously read ‘The Barnhurst Evening News’ or if he simply happened upon a copy one dull evening while waiting for colour television to be invented, we may never know. But what we do know, is that one historic day, somewhere in between the articles announcing the coming school fate, and the disturbing news that the wet summer would cause a blight on home grown tomatoes, he saw a competition to name a new town, and the prize was £20, worth about £300 million by today’s standards. Anthony picked up his pen, scratched his chin, and made history by writing the name... Thamesmead.

Thamesmead with it's beautiful lakes and savage swans

Why Anthony chose Thamesmead, and what the name meant to him, no one knows. The inclusion of the word Thames seems sensible considering the towns location, but why mead? Thames-made would make sense, as the town would be made by the Thames. Thames-meed would also work to as meed is an old English word meaning ‘deserving of praise.’ Mead however is a medieval alcoholic beverage the masses consumed so they wouldn’t die from drinking stagnant water. Was Mr Walton, and all of the town planners judging the competition, poor at spelling? Or was it their collective hope that this new town would be awash with people sitting by the river, smashed out of their skulls from hooch derived from fermented honey and water? The question ‘Why did Anthony Walton choose the name Thamesmead?’ has been as great a mystery to mankind as the origins of the universe? Where the pyramids in Egypt were built? And the Popes religious beliefs? All I know for sure is that Anthony Walton is the only man capable of saving the town he named from extinction. I chose to go back to the week after Anthony had been told he won the competition, so I wouldn’t disrupt the history timeline, tapped the letterbox on his front door, and as he opened it, I said.

“Hello Anthony, I have come from the future, in a world where Thamesmead has been built, and you are considered a legend. I imagine there are many things you’d like to ask me, as I do you, there’s so much we can learn from each other.’ Anthony blinked, pulled on his green and grey striped cardigan.

“What’s Thamesmead like in the future?" I scratched my head, I hadn’t been prepared for such a tough question straight off the bat. Eventually I replied.

"There’s a nice post office.” Noticing my answer hadn’t fully satisfied him, I decided to get straight to point.

“Anthony, you to gotta come with me.”

“Where?” He replied.

“To the future.”

“Whoa, wait a minute. What are you talking about? What happens to Thamesmead in the future?”

“They’re planning to knock it down.” I took the magical adjustable spanner out of my man bag, and Anthony rubbed his chin nervously.

“How are we going to get there? There’s heavy road works on the A206?” I took hold of his arm and said.

“Roads? Where we're going, we don't need roads.” Turned the spanner, and to 2018 we flew. Once we arrived we took the 229 bus from Barnhurst to Thamesmead.

“I thought you said we weren’t going to need any roads?” Anthony said as he sat down next to me.

“That was just a figure of speech. Now let me fill you in on everything that’s happened...."

The lake by the Princess Alice

"The decision to build Thamesmead was taken in the early 1960’s to solve the post war housing crises. World War II had been devastating tragedy resulting in the loss of life of over 60 million people world wide, on the plus side though it did mean you could always get a seat on the train. The war ending meant that war related deaths fell dramatically, a consequence nobody could have foreseen. This meant the population rose, which put a massive strain on housing in large working class communities such as South and East London. Something needed to be done, in these enlightened days, we resolve problems like this by holding a referendum and then arguing over the result for the next 5 years. But the Londoners of the 1960’s had a different idea, to build more homes, and where better to build, then on prone to flooding overgrown marshland, with no transport links or local amenities, heavily polluted from nearby sewage and industrial works? Fortunately Thamesmead’s planners were equal to the challenge set them.

The first problem the planners saw was;

Question - ‘Why would anyone want to live in a place that floods?’

Answer - To solve this minor hiccup the new homes were designed to have garages on the ground floor, and high level walkways connecting the buildings. That way if flooding were to happen, residents homes wouldn’t be damaged, and they could still get about without getting their feet wet! Also the existing barriers along the Thames were raised and strengthened.

An example of the original buildings with garages at ground floor level - just in case you thought I was lying

The next problem was,

Question -  ‘How do you build on wet marsh land?’

Answer - “You drain it, idiot”

Next question - “what do you do with all the water you’ve drained? It’s going to be a lot of water!”

Answer - “See that big river next to you? Put it into that. Moron.”

Next, next question - “What happens when the water level in the Thames is too high?

Answer “Oh....???”

The final solution was to use the drained water to build a series of lakes, which swans and ducks live in to this day. Clever clogs.

Question - ‘Its very windy here, and what are we going to do about the noise from all the factories and sewage works near by?”

Answer - The High rise concrete towers were to surround lower rise buildings in the middle of Thamesmead, to reduce wind and noise levels from the near by industry. 

Finally the jubilee line was to be extended out to Thamesmead to provide quick access into London.
Thamesmead was billed as the town of the future, a symbol of humanities quest to thrive within its environment. So did it work? sadly, no.

The high level walkways didn’t lead to places people would actually want to go such as the shops, or the pub, or anywhere. So they were hardly ever used and considered unsafe places to be at night time. Primarily because abandoned walkways are unsafe places to be at night time. The concrete high rise towers which were intended to double up as noise and wind barriers for the low rise buildings weren’t completed till the early 1980’s. The jubilee line never came to Thamesmead, and the water used to fill the new lakes was somehow contaminated which mutated the swans into dragon like animals that feed on stray cats, foxes and small children.

One of the controversial walkways. In the distance are one of Thamesmead's notorious gangs of new mothers with their offspring. Had I not been wearing 'Bumps & Babies' colours, I'd probably be dead.

Thamesmead’s reputation was further tarnished when it became the setting for Stanley Kubrick’s 1971 film ‘A Clockwork Orange’ a violent distopian view of the future which frustratingly has nothing to do with clocks or oranges.

Thamesmead name as the town of the future was eventually replaced with names like concrete jungle and sink estates."

“Blimey” said Anthony. “That was incredibly detailed, you even told me about the stuff that happened back in my time. So what are the new plans for Thamesmead?”

“Well Anthony, the new Thamesmead developers are investing over one billions pounds into the area, that’s about £600 in 1966 money. They’re planning to knock down the buildings no one liked, keep the buildings and green spaces people do, re-house residence in better quality homes, whether they like it or not, and improve the transport links, we’ve got to stop it!” Anthony rubbed his chin.

“But surely that a good thing?” He replied. I slapped my forehead.

“Great Scott’s! You’re right, this new developments the best thing to happen to SE London since the Mean Time Brewery! Thanks Anthony.”

We didn’t put a halt to the Thamesmead redevelopment, instead I took him for a little tour around the canals and showed him the Post Office. When I brought him back to 1966 he thanked me for showing him the future, and we parted as friends. As always my travels through time achieved nothing. Still, it was nice to get out.

I’m off to the Princess Alice for a pint. Till next time.

The soon to be demolished Binsey Walk - The setting for Kuberik's classic film 'A clockwork orange.' Considered by most to be his finest citrus themed work.

SE3 Jack Cade's rebellion

Hello people,

Using my magic adjustable spanner, to 1450 I'll take you back,

And the story of two men, one named Henry, and the other called Jack.

Henry was born a King, the sixth Henry to take the throne,

While Jack was born a peasant, little much else of his young life is known.

Henry was not a popular King, many said he was not fit,

That his advisers were cruel and corrupt, and his military skills were... rubbish.

The one hundred year war with France, was dragging on and on,

England’s coastline was being invaded, and all their territories gone.

The tax King Henry demanded just grew and grew,

The peasants lives became worse, and they knew not what to do.

In the towns of Kent the poor suffered, and feared the French would invade,

Out of this sorrow emerged a leader, the rebel they called Jack Cade.

He said, “What we need is a monarch, one that isn’t quite as crap,

Who’ll treat the poor more fairly, and give those French a slap."
He convinced the poor of Kent to make him leader, and this promise to them he made,

"I’ll get the King to step aside, or else my name isn't Jack Cade."

“We’ll get a better King, one that’s just and true,

Who’ll sack all Henry’s advisors, maybe cut their heads off too!”
The poor finally had a leader, much to their relief,

So Jack, the new head honcho, organised a Beano to Blackheath.

The poor of Kent in their thousands, went to Blackheath, SE3,

To hear their new leader speak, and eat pastries from Gail’s bakery.
Jack told the gathering masses, King Henry deserved the sack -

he’d told him as much in a letter, and they should chill until he wrote back.

When King Henry received Jack's letter, with rage he became incited,

He was also a little bit hurt, at not having been invited
He'd loved to have gone to Blackheath, and maybe fly a kite,

Then head off to O’Neils, and down Jegga Bombs all night.

The King addressed his soldiers, and said ‘I'm really quite cross,

Put down the Blackheath uprising, that’ll show those rebels whose boss.”
King Henry’s soldiers charged, and the rebels turned and ran,

They chased them all to Sevenoaks, when things didn’t quite go to plan.

For in that dense oaked forest, where the rebels did retreat,

They surprised the King's men with an ambush, and so they suffered defeat.
Jack cried out, “All you poor of Kent, hear what I have to say,

March with me to fight in London. We’ll get ice cream along the way!”

Henry heard of the rebels' victory, and that they marched five thousand strong,

He pondered all his choices, but decided to not stick around for long.
Henry retreated to the country, and hid under his bed,

“Let me know when it’s finally over” was all that monarch said.

Henry well and truly looked beaten, it seemed he hadn’t a prayer,

When Jack marched his men into London, and declared himself Lord Mayor.
The sight of so many rebels, filled the people of London with fear,

But Jack set their minds at ease and said, “You'll hardly notice we’re here.”

London officials supported the cause, but to Jack Cade they did warn,

"Be sure to control your men, and retain order as you have sworn."
Jack now held the heart of London, and the wrongs of the day he could mend,

Sadly my dear reader, that is not the how this story does end.

Jack had the Kings allies trialed, killed, their heads were put on spikes,

They were paraded through the London streets, much to the rebels delight.
Then the rebels took to looting, drinking, causing trouble and fights,

And hanging traitors' heads from London Bridge, as if they were fairy lights.

London officials sighed, “King Henry, your leadership we do miss,

The rebels keep looting and wreaking the place, and they’re constantly on the piss."
The people of London agreed, the time had come to stand up and fight,

They got themselves ready to mount an attack while the rebels were drinking that night.

Staggering back to the city from Southwark, oh how those rebels did sway,

Led by they’re leader Jack, none envisaged the trouble on its way.
When they reached London Bridge they're path was blocked, the locals had formed a barricade,

Jack saw what was before him, and realised he had been betrayed.

Jack cried “You have wronged me my brothers, step aside at once and repent!”

The Londoners replied “We’ve had enough of you lot, now sod off back to Kent.”

The rebel leader placed his hand on his musket, and then produced his blade,

He yelled “We’ll cut through your lines like butter, or my name is not Jack Cade!”

The two sides clashed together, they fought with all their might, 

They fought through hell and fury, they fought throughout the night.

When the battle was over, and morning sun shone over London Town,

The rebels were defeated, the Londoners had held their ground.

It was at this time King Henry slowly emerged from beneath his bed,

“Is it safe for one to come out yet?” Is all the monarch said.

On hearing of the rebels' loss, Henry seemed a different man,

He issued pardons to all the rebels, said he’d help them if he can.

But once the rebels dispersed, he rescinded promises made,

He said arrest all the traitors, and bring me the head of Jack Cade.

Jack was captured and killed, his body dragged through London Town,

His limbs were sent to the cities of Kent, a warning to others who'd stand against the crown.

Henry had won the day, but his victory brought only grief,

Rebellion followed rebellion, inspired by the march from Blackheath.

Rebellion became war, led by a rival to the throne, 
Inspired by Jack's letter to the  King, the War of the Roses it's now known.

Henry fought for many years, his knee he refused to bend,

But no one can fight forever, and Henry met his end.

Next time you're in Blackheath, remember the five thousand who met there,

Who marched together to London, demanding to be treated fair.

The moral of this tale, is to honour promises you’ve made,

Or you’ll meet an end that’s wretched, like King Henry and the rebel Jack Cade.