SE1 - The Old Biscuit Factory

Hello people,

Today I’ve come to Bermondsey SE1 to flex my muscles and have a go at bouldering at The Arch Climbing Wall. Bouldering is a bit like rock climbing except that its indoors, the climbing wall is man-made, and you get thrown out if you stick a flag in the top and claim it for yourself.

On arrival I was surprised by how low the climbing walls were, I’d expected to see a huge cliff face similar to the one Tom Cruise climbs at the beginning of Mission impossible II, but these were about 20 feet high.

The staff informed me that the skill of bouldering is not about how high you get off the ground, but the complexity of the climb. They said that the climbs were coloured, ranging from green and white (the simplest) to red (the most difficult). On hearing this I turned to the two sherpas I'd hired for the day and told them that their services wouldn't be needed, settled the bill, and waved them goodbye as they headed towards Bermondsey station on their husky driven slay.

After my induction I had a go at one of the green and white climbs. On completing it, I decided to skip the rest of the colours and head straight for the red - how hard could it be? I started off fairly well, but quickly came to a bit that was, in my opinion, absolutely impossible to climb without having suckers on your fingers. So I decided to mix the colours up a bit, and reached out for a nearby blue bolder. That worked for a while, until I got stuck again, so I moved onto orange, then back to blue, then zebra stripes, sumptuous plum, peppermint beach, intense chestnut, blush, and that's when I became completely stuck with no idea how to get down.

I hung onto the side of the wall for a moment and tried to figure out what to do, and that’s when a familiar voice broke my concentration.

"Ahoy there shipmate."

To my surprise next to me on the wall was captain of the HMS Belfast, Mr A. Sailor, who I'd met on a visit to Greenwich, where I accused him of setting fire to the Cutty Sark in 2007 out of boat envy. Things got a little heated between us at the time, but we parted on good terms.

"Hello Mr Sailor."

"Call me Ahab."

"Hello Ahab, this is a surprise, I didn't know you liked to climb?"

Indeed it was a surprise, not only was Ahab successfully negotiating the red route, but he was doing so with a peg leg, hook hand, eye patch, and a parrot balanced on his shoulder. He let out a hearty seaman’s chuckle, and using his hook hand to support himself, removed the E-Pipe from his pocket, put it in his mouth and said,

"Aye laddie, been scaling the mast for as long as I could whistle. I see you tried mixing the colours?"

I felt myself blush.

"Yea, I'm stuck. Do you know if there's a way down? Without falling I mean?”

"Aargh, there's always a route back to shore, 'tis just a matter of knowing which stars to follow. How's the blog? Any luck catching the scurvy dog that burnt down the Cutty Sark?"

I told him about all my adventures through the 28 districts. The threats I'd received in Abbey Wood warning me off my investigations, and the lady on the bike who assaulted me in Shooters Hill, who I've recently taken to following while being disguised as a post box to see if she leads me to any more clues.

"And has she?”

 Again I felt my face redden.

“No. She just goes to the gym and visits friends in independent cafes.”

He gently nodded his head, sucked on his E-Pipe and let the smoke drift out of his nose. After that the conversation dried up. I asked him if he’d been following the football, he said the only sport he followed was sailing. I asked if he’d seen the new Star Wars film, “Space ships aren’t real ships,” was all he said.

Just as I was contemplating letting go of the wall and plummeting to the floor to get out of this socially awkward situation, Ahab leaned towards me and said, "Did you know that the Bourbon biscuit was invented in this building? Maybe even in the exact spot we’re in right now?”

Sensing a juicy scoop for my blog I asked him to elaborate. I then tightened my grip with my left hand, shifted my weight a little, took my right hand off the wall and pulled a pen from my pocket, which I put into my mouth. I then took my 28 Districts note pad out of the same pocket, held it against the wall, and using my mouth started to write. This is what he told me...

“This building was part of the Peak Freans Biscuit Factory, which was in business from 1857 to 1989. At it's peak it employed four thousand land lubbers; most of whom would have been natives of Bermondsey. Generations of families worked here side by side. Back then the sweet scent of biscuits used to hang in the Bermondsey air, as tantalising as a pretty mermaids fishy perfume. In fact Bermondsey became so synonymous with the old Biscuit Factory, that it came to be known as Biscuit Town."

"That's amazing," I mumbled, trying not to drop the pen between my teeth.

"Aye, 'tis, and it wasn't just Bourbons. The Chocolate Biscuit, the Twiglet, the Garibaldi; all were invented here.'Twas more successful than a whale hunter with a semi-automatic harpoon. Here let me turn that page for ye."

"Thanks, how did a biscuit factory in Bermondsey come to be so successful?"

"’Twas a mixture of genius biscuit making and good fortune. Their big break came in 1870 during the Franco Prussian war, when Napoleon III – the Emperor of France - placed a massive order of 470 tonnes of biscuits at Peek Freans for all his fighting men. ‘Twas his opinion that the gift of biscuits would make them love their Emperor all the more, and therefore fight braver, and be victorious!"

"Did it work?"

"They liked the biscuits aye, but they were defeated in just under a year. With hindsight, he probably should have spent the money on guns instead."

“An honest mistake. So what happened to the biscuit factory?”

“'Twas bought by a big American company and moved over seas.”

“That’s really sad.”

“'Tis sadder then a manically depressed monkfish. But that’s why it’s so important to bake your own biscuits laddie; to keep the tradition alive. All SE Londoners should know how to bake a Bourbon biscuit backwards.”

“You’re so wise Ahab. Tell me, what should I do now?”

“Follow your heart laddie, keep the faith, and you’ll find the truth behind the Cutty Sark fire.”

“Thanks, but I meant what should I do about getting down from this wall?”

“Oh, you just need to let go.”

“Of my inhibitions? You think the only thing stopping me from getting to the top is fear itself?”

“No, I mean just let go of the wall. You’re only 3 feet off of the floor.”

I looked down, and he was right. Before leaving I thanked him, and we agreed to message each other on Facebook or Twitter. I’d had a great day at the old biscuit factory and will definitely be coming back. As for the Cutty Sark investigation, something will probably turn up. But the most important thing I’d learned from my journey today is that Bermondsey is Biscuit Town, and if we want it to stay that way, then it’s up to us SE Londoners to get baking. I’ve attached a great recipe for Bourbon biscuits so you can all have a go, and once you’re done I’d love to see a photo of them. You can send them to me on 

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/28-Districts-807229395965743/?fref=ts, 

Twitter @28districts, 

or upload them to this blog. So get baking!

How to find the Old Biscuit Factory

Ingredients

Biscuit

50g softened butter

50g caster sugar

1 tbsp golden syrup

110g plain flour, plus extra for dusting

½ tsp bicarbonate of soda

15g cocoa powder

Filling

50g softened butter

100g icing sugar, sifted

2 tsp cocoa powder

Few drops of hot water

Method

Preheat the oven to 190°C and line 2 baking trays with baking paper.

Cream the butter and sugar together in a large bowl until it is pale and fluffy, then beat in the golden syrup. Sift in the flour, bicarbonate of soda and cocoa, and mix until you have a stiff dough.

Knead the dough well, then roll the dough out on a floured surface to  a depth of 4mm. Cut the dough into long strips about 2.5 cm wide, then cut these strips into 5 cm lengths. Transfer them to your lined baking trays and prod them several times with a fork. Bake for about 15 minutes until darkened slightly and smelling all chocolatey. Be careful not to scorch the edges.

Transfer the biscuits to a wire rack to cool while you make the filling. Cream the butter, icing sugar and cocoa together in a large bowl, adding a few drops of hot water if you need to, until you have a good, spreadable consistency.

When the biscuits are cold, sandwich two biscuits together and leave for at least an hour before eating so that the filling can firm up.

SE7 - Horn Park Fair

Hello People,

Earlier this week I was at the weddings of four great friends, John and Karen, and Reyn and Filize. Both weddings were uniquely brilliant. Both only slightly spoiled by my attempts at the Macarena, and cat like screaming of 'Don't stop believing' on the dance floor. Because of this I've returned to the place I was married in the summer of 2012, Charlton House SE7.

Built in 1607-12 It's a beautiful red brick Jacobean building with a walled garden and lots of flowers and plants which include a mulberry tree; thought to be one of the oldest in the country.

Charlton House.

Charlton House.

The inside of Charlton a House is no less impressive with its ornate fire places, hand crafted timber staircase, stained windows and ornate stonework depicting coats of arms and royal mottos. In the great hall there's a very impressive dance floor, which in 2012 I drunkenly slid across moments before my new wife launched herself at me, as Bill Medley’s classic 'I've had the time of my life' pumped out the DJ's loud speakers.

The Great Hall at Charlton House.

Charlton House is situated in Horn Park which - legend has it - got its name in scandalous circumstances. The story dates back to 12^th century when, on the 18^th of October, after riding through the woods, the young King John stumbled upon an old mill. Having lost his way, he rode up to the mill to ask for directions. Once there he found the miller to be out, but his rather attractive wife – who the miller had left home alone with nothing more than a few bags of flour to keep her company – was more than happy to offer the handsome young king any assistance he required.

One thing led to another, and before you can say 'rising agent' they were clinging to each other like wet dough to the side of a bowl. Trouble was neither of them realised that the miller had finished his milling early, and when he walked through the door he literally caught them with their pants down.

It is of course, impossible for us to really know what happened that day. But it probably went something like this...

Miller "Oi! What's your game?!"

Millers Wife "It's not what you think Bill, he was lost in the woods!"

Miller "Lost in the woods?! He'll lose more than his way in a minute!"

King, covering his decency with a near-by chocolate eclair

King John "Now, now my good man. I assure you this is all a misunderstanding."

Miller produces a knife from his belt

Miller "I'll give you a misunderstanding mate."
King John "Oh my."

Millers Wife "I'm sorry Bill. He told me he was a king. He promised to take me up the West End so I could see his Crown Jewels!"

King John  "Oh dear!"

Miller "Did he now? I'll pulverise his cream crackers with my rolling pin!"

King John "Crumbs!"

Miller "I'll chop off his plumbs and put em in a pie!"

King John "Oh my Royal lineage! I beg you my man! Think of your country, I'm yet to produce an heir!"

Miller "You should have thought of that before you produced your family tree before my missus!"

This went on for a while. Luckily King John was able to prove to the Miller that he really was a King, by showing him his face on a 50p coin. He then begged the Miller to let him keep his Royal Sceptre, and offered him a big chunk of his land in Charlton if he forgave his wife and let him go.

To sweeten the deal King John told the Miller that he could hold an annual fair every year on the 18^th of October on his new land; which would be a real money spinner for him. The Miller still wasn’t happy but he liked the idea of being rich, so he accepted the deal. It’s thought the Millers land came to be known as Horn Park because horns are the symbol of the cuckolded husband.

A painting of King John signing the Deeds of Horn Park
over to the Miller - on display at Charlton House.

Well people the 18^th of October is just days away, and what better way to celebrate this sordid affair then to head down to Charlton House for the Horn Fair Revival! There will be talks on the history of Charlton House, a children’s architectural treasure hunt, food, drink, music, activities and workshops which may or may not involve getting frisky with a miller's wife.

The fun starts at 10am this Sunday 18th October, and carry's on till 4pm. See you there people!

That's how its done Swayze!

SE8 - Deptford Dockyard

Hello People,

A few weeks ago a woman I didn't know, but had once received a letter from, violently assaulted me using a judo throw, or some similar martial arts technique. The reason? I'd confronted her about the 2007 fire attack on the Cutty Sark, which I believe that she, or someone she’s protecting, may have been behind.

These last few weeks I’ve been trying to find out what she knows about the Cutty Sark fire. To find out more about the mysterious man I'd met in Lesnes Abbey, and why he warned me that I was in.

“Grave danger.”

Trouble is, if every time I confront her she body slams me, it's going to play havoc with my back, and send my insurance premium through the roof.

So I asked Rose for some advice, and she said:

"What actual proof do you have that the Cutty Sark fire was started deliberately? It's a pretty serious allegation to make, and it sounds to me like a conspiracy theory you invented one afternoon when you were board. You don't have any evidence, you've just met some really bizarre people who agree with you, and now it seems that some of these people are violent, and unstable. Also, I think you should stop telling the police about your investigation, or they'll probably arrest you for wasting their time. It’s up to you; do whatever you think’s best."

So I asked my mum, who said:

"Who is this woman who threw you? Tell her if she hurts you again I'm going to punch her in the face. I think you should stop writing this blog immediately, it's far too dangerous. You can do Pilates on a Saturday with me instead."

So I asked Dad who said:

"Hire a Segway, and disguise yourself as a Post Box. That way you can follow her without her noticing. Then we'll get to find out what she's really up too."

I sat waiting for her by the river in my post box costume this morning, and at about 8 o'clock bold as brass, there she was. I let her cycle past me a little distance before starting the Segway up, raising my post box costume slightly off the floor, and riding after her. I followed her all the way along the river, being careful to grind to a quick halt whenever she looked over her shoulder. I followed her all the way to Wavelengths Leisure Centre in Deptford without her noticing.

Once there, she chained up her bike up and went inside. I waited on the opposite side of the road for a while, but got fed up with people throwing letters at me. So I decided to go exploring around Deptford to kill some time.

Deptford Market

Deptford Market

So I started the motor up again, and headed up Griffin Street towards Deptford Market. Once there, I spotted a blanket I liked the look of on one of the market stalls (it was red with yellow and green stripes), I asked the market trader how much it would cost me.

"Who said that?" He said his eyes scanning left to right and a look of confusion across his face.

"I did." I responded from inside my letter box.

He peered through the letter slot.

"How did you get in there?"

I couldn't be bothered to explain.

"I'm the Post Box Security Guard; I stop people from stealing Royal Mail letters."

"Do people steal letters out of post boxes?" He asked.

"Not while I'm around" I replied.

He sold me the blanket, and asked if I'd deliver a Birthday Card to his brother in Maidstone for him. I promised I would, and headed off on my way.

Deptford Market

Few people in Deptford paid any notice to me motoring around in my post box costume, and why should they? There's nothing new about the unusual around here.

The local Pizzeria – Big Red – used to be a number 30 double-decker bus.The pizzas were nice, but it’s really annoying that they didn’t let you pay with your Oyster card.

The local Job Centre has now been converted into a Job Centre-themed bar. You still can’t find any good jobs, but you end up too drunk to care.

The local police station has been converted into an Art Studio, which has led to the local police becoming much tougher on local crime, describing it as laboured, unoriginal, and totally uninspiring.

I raced around for a bit, took a few corners, did some cool jumps over a couple of sleeping policemen (they were furious), and ended up back near the river, at the old Deptford Dockyard. It was there that I switched off the Segway and took a few pictures.

St Pauls Church

Peter the Greats Statue - Looking out over Depptford Dockyard

There are many interesting stories about the Deptford Dockyard, but the most interesting has to be 'The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano, or Gustavus Vassa, the African.'

It's an autobiography written by a man called Olaudah. It's an incredibly sad story, but one worth hearing. He begins by telling us he was born in 1745, in an area now known as Southern Nigeria, and that he and his sister were both kidknaped and sold to slave traders when he was just 11 years old. He was separated from his sister, and shipped across the Atlantic to Barbados, and then Virginia. His description of the conditions of the journey, are hard to read.

"So crowded that each could scarcely had room to turn himself…"

"The shrieks of the women, and the groans from the dying, rendered the whole scene of horror almost inconceivable."

Once in Virginia he was sold to a Royal Navy officer called Pascal for £40, who renamed him Gustavus Vassa, after a 16th century Swedish King. Pascal then took the young boy to England, where he served on the British ships during the seven year war with France as Pascal’s slave. During that time Olaudah learned to speak English, read, write, and somehow, to survive.

The war ended and Pascal and Olaudah’s ship was ordered to Deptford Dockyard to be decommissioned. Pascal had promised Olaudah his freedom once the war was over, and as the ship sailed down the Thames, he allowed himself to hope. But Pascal had lied, once in Deptford, Olaudah was seized and carried by boat to Gravesend, where he was sold into slavery again.

“My heart was ready to burst with sorrow and anguish.”

Deptford

Yet still he did not give up. He spent the next 4 years working for a shipping merchant, during which time he raised money by trading anything from fruits to glass tumblers. He eventually earned the £40 he needed to buy his freedom.

Once free he returned to Britain to support the abolition of slavery movement and after some encouragement, and financial backing from his new abolitionist friends, wrote and published his life story. His memoirs – 'The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano or Gustavus Vassa, the African' – were hugely popular all over the world; they made him a rich man, and helped promote the anti-slavery movement in Great Britain.

He settled in Britain, marring an English woman called Susan Cullen in 1792, and they had two daughters, Anna Maria, and Joanna.

Olaudah's journey to the UK was cruel one, but he took all his awful experiences, and turned them into a book, and that book helped make our world a better place. He wasn’t born here, and he was brought here against his will, but if he isn’t a Great Britton, then I’d like to know who is.

Olaudah Equiano

I headed back to Wavelengths, but by the time I got there, her bike had gone. The mysterious cyclists had gotten away again. Oh well, there’s always next time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to deliver a letter to Market Trader's brother in Maidstone.

References

http://spartacus-educational.com/Sequiano.htm

http://archive.museumoflondon.org.uk/LSS/Map/Resistance/People/41.htm

http://archive.museumoflondon.org.uk/LSS/Map/Resistance/People/40.htm

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olaudah_Equiano

http://www.nlj.gov.jm/rai/CSEC/BookTheme2/The_Interesting_Narrative_of_the_Life_of.pdf

SE6 - Peoples Day

Hello People,

In his most famous novel, the writer George Orwell predicted that by 1984 mankind would be enslaved in a world of perpetual war. Ordinary people would be forced to live their lives under constant government surveillance, and we would be ruled by shadowy elite, who manipulate the information we receive, to create a society filled with fear and mistrust.

What George Orwell didn’t know was that 1984 was also the year of the first ever Lewisham People’s Day:

‘Lewisham’s biggest festival, that brings together hundreds of performers, businesses, and community groups for one amazing day’ – Lewisham Council

See, it wasn’t all bad, was it George?

Every year, without fail, Rosie would volunteer to help out at People’s Day. She did this till her job at the British Museum – where she has to make sure the mummies don’t escape from their crypts, and run amuck in central London – became so busy, she had to stop.

I would always ask her, “Why are you giving up your weekend for a festival that hardly anyone has heard of, for a bunch of people you don’t even know?”

At which she would hold up her hand, and list off these five points,

“1. The sun always shines on People’s Day, proving that God loves the Borough of Lewisham. Unlike Glastonbury, for example, which he is at best indifferent about.

2. It’s a People’s Day. So if you’re a person, then it’s a day held in your honour. Not going would be like not turning up to your own wedding reception.

3. There might be a tombola.

4. You get a really cool volunteer’s T-shirt.

5. It’s free!”

Rose was certainly right about the last point at least. Peoples Day is the longest running free festival in South East London, 31 years in total, that’s even longer than the New Eltham Donkey Derby!

Lewisham council has always been the Greece of the London boroughs. Give them a few quid to fix a few pot holes in the road, and they'll spend it on a massive fire-works display. Say 'Here's some dough to replace those cracked paving slabs, and they'll blow it all on a 12 ft. long fibreglass cat. In this age of austerity, it's probably not considered cool to spend a decent chunk of your budget on a party. But I say good luck to them, what's life without a little fun?

As the years went by, I too began to love Peoples a Day, but not because of the tombola, or the t-shirts, or even God’s preference for inner London councils. I love People’s Day because of the people like Rose, who are willing to give up their free time to help out their community.

People's Day is this Saturday 11th of July in Mountsfield Park, Catford. There will be music, food, drink, a big wheel, a children’s fun fair, and much more. So if you're a person, and proud of it, then I recommend you come along to the party!

http://www.lewisham.gov.uk/inmyarea/events/whats-on/peoples-day/Pages/Peoples-Day-whats-on.aspx

See you there people.

SE12 - The Edmund Halley, Lee Green

Continued from the previous post at SE18 Shooters Hill....

Shooters Hill

“Its you” she said.

She spoke so softly I could barely hear her. She was wore dark red lipstick, and a blue mascara. Her blond hair fell across her shoulders, which I thought strange as it must have bothered her as she cycled. I reasoned that she may have been going out somewhere. Maybe she was going to meet the same person I was looking for, the mysterious man I'd met at Lesnes Abbey. I took a moment to compose myself. I wanted answers to so many things.

Was the 2007 fire on the Cutty Sark really an accident?

Who was the mysterious man I'd met at Lesnes Abbey?

Why didn't he meet me in East Street like he'd said he would?

Had he written the letter she'd given me, warning me off my investigations? If not, who had?

And how do I enable the 'add comments' section on my blog, so I can find out if anyone is actually reading this stuff?

The lady on the bike was my only hope of finally solving this mystery. But how to get her to talk?

She slowly stepped off of her bike and carefully laid it on the ground.

"What do you want?" She said.

Now stood upright, and only a little shorter then I, she seemed extremely calm about me confronting her. But despite her poker face, something in my gut was telling me that she was just as frightened as I was, and that, like me, she too was nothing more than a lost fly trapped in another's sinister web. Somehow I needed to find some way of winning her trust and getting her to talk to me. And to do that was going to take all my charm, skill, and cunning. I held out my hand for her to shake, and offered up my most reassuring smile.

"Let me introduce myself, I'm..."

But I never got the chance to finish, because on seeing my extended arm, she grabbed my wrist with one hand, gripped just above my elbow with the other, and threw me across her shoulder, and high into the air. After travelling a surprisingly long distance, I eventually came down and hit the pavement. My back took most of the force, but I must have hit my head too because I lost consciousness for a moment or two. When I came round she was standing over me. Her blond hair was wild beneath her cycle helmet. Her red lips curled up in a snarl, and her green eyes filled with rage. She looked absolutely terrifying. She lent down, pointed her finger at me and said just two words.

"Back off"

After she'd cycled away, I lay on the pavement outside the Bull for a while and reflected on how things hadn't gone quite as well as I'd hoped.  I then took a moment to consider what my next move should be. After half an hour, or so, I decided that the best thing to do, was go and get a drink. I dragged myself to my feet, and hobbled down Shooters Hill, to find a bus into Lee Green. In next to no time I was on Burnt Ash Hill SE18, and walking through the doors of the local Weatherspoons.

The Edmund Halley in Lee

It had been years since I'd last drank here, and I wasn't sure what to order. I did a quick scan of the bar, and saw that the two most popular drinks were pints of larger, and jugs of Woo Woo. So I ordered a couple of those. My back was killing me from the body slam I'd taken, so I downed my jug of Woo Woo to help ease the pain, and slowly hobbled outside to find somewhere to sit down, enjoy the sunshine, and the view of Sainsbury's car park.

I came to this pub for a very special reason, and it's not the Woo Woo, or the view, or even the reasonably priced Porn Star Martinis. I came here because this pub is named after one of the greatest scientists whoever lived; Edmund Halley.

Edmund Halley

Little is known of Edmund Halley’s privet life. It’s thought he was born in 1656, at a time when England had no monarch, and Oliver Cromwell was Lord Protector. He had a wife and two children, his father was a successful soap maker, but lost everything in the great fire of London in 1666.

Despite losing all his money, Edmund's dad still insisted on having him privately educated. Probably in hope that he would grow up really cleaver, and invent a fire proof soap.Sadly for his dad, young Edmund was not destined to invent scented hand washes, and advanced formula hair products; his future lay in the study of the galaxy!

Aged 17 he joined Oxford University, where he impressed everyone with his book smarts, and caught the eye of the legendary Royal Astronomer, John Flamsteed. Flamsteed took Edmund under his wing, and allowed him to help with his work, which at that time was mapping all the stars in the Northern Hemisphere. Edmund liked the work so much, that he decided to jack in his studies, and sail off to the South Atlantic island of St Helena, so he could do the same in the Southern Hemisphere, and in doing so invented what later became known as 'a gap year.'

During his time in St Helena, Halley mapped the longitudes and latitudes of 341 stars, downed 1204 shots, crashed 3 mopeds, had a picture taken of him which looked like he was holding up a mountain, and slept with dozens of women (although no actual evidence can be found for the last boast).

When Halley returned to England he was a famous man, and Oxford Uni said he could have his degree anyway, just because they all thought he was so great, but this big love-in for Halley seemed to put Flamsteed’s nose out of joint. When asked by a journalist for Astronomers Weekly to comment on Halley’s work,  he would only say that he found Halley’s Southern Hemisphere stars to be, “A little flashy for his tastes, but okay if you like that sort of thing.”

A little dissapointed, Halley responded in the next week’s addition of A.W.  by saying that, “Stars are supposed to be flashy,” and that he found Flamsteed’s Northern Stars, “A little dull.”

The next week Flamsteed gave another interview to A.W. explaining that, “His stars weren’t dull” it was just that, “His stars had to work harder than Halley’s stupid southern stars to shine, as the northern sky is a little less dark than the southern sky, due to it being closer to the sun.”

The week after that Halley told A.W. that Flamsteed was, “Talking out of his arse,” and that not only did his southern stars work just as hard as Flamsteed’s, but that Halley’s stars had to brighten the night sky, while also being, “Upside down.”

The argument caused a feud between the two men, that would last the rest of their lives. Even after Flamsteed died, and Halley took over from him as Astronomer Royal at the Greenwich Observatory, Flamsteed’s wife had all of his instruments removed and sold, so that Halley wouldn’t be able to use them.

Pissing off the world’s most powerful astronomer would have put most people off a career in star gazing, but not Halley. He travelled the world mapping the stars, and trying to unlock the secretes of the universe. He sailed the seas to study the mysteries of the magnetic poles, and built diving bells to explore the bottom of the River Thames, to prove his theories of atmospheric pressure. His work changed the way we see the world.

In 1705 Halley put on a magic show at the Royal Observatory. It got off to a poor start when he failed to correctly guess which card the Lord Mayor – who was sitting in the front row –  had pulled from his deck of cards. But he quickly recovered by pulling a bunch of flowers out of his shirt sleeve, and presenting them to the Mayor’s lovely wife. Halley then pulled a rabbit out of his hat, sawed one of his assistants in half, and made a small red ball disappear in his hand, only to make it to reappear again behind the Mayor’s wife’s ear. He finished his show by predicting the return of a comet, saying…

 "In the year 1456 … a Comet was seen passing Retrograde between the Earth and the sun… Hence I dare venture to foretell, that it will return again in the year 1758.”

It had not been the big show stopper he’d hoped for, but never the less, everyone agreed it had still been a lovely evening.

53 years later when the comet returned as Halley had predicted, the people were amazed, and greater still, when the Mayor of London observed the passing comet through the giant telescope at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, he could quite clearly see his playing card, the 3 of Clubs, on the comets surface. The comet has been known as Halley’s Comet, ever since.

St Margaret's Church

St Margaret's Church Entrance

When Halley died, he was buried in St Margaret’s Church in Lee. It was my intention to end this blog by visiting his grave but, sadly, I’m far too drunk on larger and Woo Woo to stand up.

Halley was a great man, not because he was a genius, but because he had the courage to follow his dreams, and because there was no problem he was afraid to tackle, however complicated or mysterious. If I’m to get to the bottom of my own mystery, then I must be as courageous as he was. I will start by having another jug of Woo Woo, and then tomorrow; my work begins!

Till next time people, keep on exploring.

SE18 Shooters Hill

Previously on the 28 Districts…

One day, for no clear reason, I decided to begin an investigation into the 2007 fire attack on the Cutty Sark, which resulted in me accusing the manager of the HMS Belfast "Mr A Sailor" of starting the fire out of “boat envy.”

He denied any wrong doing, and told me he believed the fire was started by someone at the National Maritime Museum reasoning, “ 'Tis a scurvy bunch of sea dogs in that place.”

I asked him what proof he had, and he replied, “Argh, not a shred me shipmate, 'tis just a feeling in me gullet. But you mark these old sailors’ words, 'tis skulduggery afoot in thar museum.”

I took this information to the police, who told me they did not consider a general suspicion of skulduggery an adequate enough reason to start a criminal investigation. So I simply gave up.

But a few weeks later during a visit to Lesnes Abbey in SE2, I met a mysterious man who told me that I was in grave danger, and that if I wanted to know who burnt down the Cutty Sark, I should meet him at the birth place of Charlie Chaplin in SE17 the following week.

He never showed. Instead I was given a letter by an unknown cyclist telling me to, "Forget about the fire."

But I couldn’t forget, so I decided to stake out the Thames Cycle Path in the hope I would see the cyclist again, reasoning that no one that enjoyed cycling could resist a ride along the Thames from Woolwich to Erith on a fine sunny Saturday morning.

And it worked! She cycled passed me three Saturdays ago as I walked along the Erith Marshes. But I hadn’t thought the plan through properly as I was on foot, so I had no way of catching up with her.

I went back the next Saturday with my bike, and I saw her again! But I’d forgotten to set up a cycling playlist on my iPod, so I was forced to give chase while listening to the best of Simon and Garfunkel; which was never going to work. I lost sight of her before we’d even gone as far as Thamesmead.

The Saturday after that I waited on my bike with my playlist set up, and this time, when my nemesis passed me; I was ready.

I pedalled after her along the Thames to Woolwich, where she came off the path and headed to towards Charlton. She cycled so fast that I had to throw away my basket and handle bar streamers just to not lose sight of her. I managed to keep up till we got to Shooters Hill, then I collapsed with exhaustion.

But all was not lost. I reasoned that if I surprised her at the top of Shooters Hill, she might be too tired to cycle away, and then I could ask her who she was, and what the bloody hell was going on... and that readers, is why this entry is ridiculously long, and starts with me saying…

Hello People,

Today I’m at Shooters Hill SE18, and from here it feels like I can see the whole of London. To my right is The Bull, a pub which dates back to 1749, it used to be a popular stopping point for coaches travelling along the route between London and Dover. These days the only travellers they get is when the 486 bus breaks down before it can get over the hill, but it still gets its fair share of locals popping in for a pint.

View from Shooters Hill to SE London

The Bull Pub

In the early days of The Bull's life, Shooters Hill was not a place you would want to spend any length of time in. The area was notorious for highwaymen and criminality. To deter these bandits, large wooden structures called gibbets were built, and any highwayman caught would be hung from them. The famous diarist Samuel Peeps wrote about them in 1661:

"I rode under a man that hangs at Shooters Hill and a filthy sight it was to see how the flesh is shrunk from his bones.”

Some say Shooters Hill got its name from its notorious reputation for highwaymen. Others believe the name dates back to a period in our history known as the Dark Ages, when - so the legend goes - it was the site of an archers target range built by the English monarch King Madbstrd III.

King Madbstrd was something of a free spirit. He travelled a lot. He loved meeting new people and embracing new cultures and experiences. But the thing he loved most about travelling, was conquering all the places he visited, and declaring himself their new King.

Sadly for the King, this meant he got caught up in lots of expensive and long running wars with the Scots, the Welsh, the Irish, the French, the.... well everyone really.

Back then wars were fought and won by the different armies who lined up against each other - usually in a field. Then, on the word go, all the soldiers would run at each other while holding the biggest swords or axes they could carry, and shouting the word 'Freedom!' as loudly as they could. The army whose soldiers carried the heaviest weapons, and shouted the loudest, won.

These battles could last for weeks, as often the weapons were so big, soldiers had to drag them inch by inch across the field towards the opposition. Victories came at a heavy price. By the end of a battle a soldiers throat could be so sore with shouting that he couldn't speak for days afterwards.

King Madbstrd desperately wanted to find a way to win battles more efficiently. He really wanted to wrap-up his war with France so he could spend a few months travelling around Asia, chilling out, and getting to know himself.

So he trained an army of bowmen in Shooters Hill, who he named The Archers (after his favourite radio show) to fire arrows at the opposition. This was technically considered cheating, and the French tried to get the English army permanently suspended from competing in any wars. Luckily for King Madbstrd, his army were let off with a small fine and a 3 match suspension. After that the English were able to shoot down as many foreigners as they liked, and pretty quickly, the other nations followed suit.

You won't need to dodge any stray arrows or hanging highwaymen around here nowadays, but there is still lots to see for the southeast London explorer. There's a beautiful Victorian Gothic water tower at the top of the hill. Nearby is the ancient Oxleas Woods. Or you can take a tour of Severndroog Castle, built to commemorate Commodore Sir William James who, while commanding the Bombay Marine Ship Protector in 1755, attacked and destroyed a pirate fortress at Suvarnadurg along the western coast of India. After he died his wife had the castle built so that his brave deed would always be remembered, and that everyone would know that her husband William was well hard.

The Water Tower

Severndroog Castle

But what's most interesting are the things you can't see…

Ingeniously well disguised air raid shelters have been found in some of the gardens and woods that run along Shooters Hill, which some historians believe may have been put there to help the home troops defend London against the invading Nazis in WWII.

Small auxiliary units and sniper posts like the bunker shown above were put around the outskirts of London in 1940 under the orders of General Edmond Ironside, when the outlook for Britain looked very bleak. Most have been forgotten about or were buried beneath the M25. Their existence shows just how real the threat of invasion was to Churchill.

I looked out towards Welling and Kent and tried to imagine Hitler’s army marching past the quiet Victorian houses, the local pub, and up the hill towards me. It's a terrifying thought, and another reminder of all that we owe to that generation.

My thoughts were disturbed by the sound of pedalling, coming up behind me, I turned back round towards SE London, and I saw the mystery cyclist coming up the hill. By the time she reached me at the top she was almost at a standstill. I stepped out in front of her bike; she had no choice but to stop. We stood in silence for a moment, and the world around us seemed to become very still. It was she that spoke first.

"It’s you" she said.

To be continued...

Shooters Hill Looking towards Kent

Oxleas Woods

SE2 - Crossness Pumping Station

Hello people,

Today I'm at Crossness Pumping Station in SE2, one of the greatest Civil Engineering achievements of the Victorian era, and a Grade 1 listed building. Along with Deptford Pumping Station, it served the whole of South London, and could hold up to 27 million gallons of sewage. Admittedly, drainage isn’t the most glamourous subject to write about, but without great infrastructure projects like Crossness, the London we know and love could never have come to be, and I think that’s worth celebrating. Besides, London’s sewers play just as big a part in its history and folklore as anything above ground...

My favourite London sewer legend involves a group of people called the Toshers. Toshers were men who used to go scavenging in the sewers for anything that might fetch a few quid, most likely scrap metal. The Toshers believed that there was a queen rat who lived in the sewer, and she would secretly listen to their conversations as they worked, and try to figure out what each ones ideal woman would look like.

'If she fancied one, she would appear in the form of his dream girl and sleep with him. If she was pleased with him, she would bestow great luck on him, and he would be particularly successful in finding things in the sewers.' Steve Roud, 2010, London Lore.

This myth, I think you will agree, is absolutely disgusting. I would need to be pretty much as down on my luck as physically possible, before I would even consider having so much as a smooch with a rat.  Also, the idea of a rat appearing before me wearing nothing but a long curly wig, a pendant necklace, and asking me to draw her like one of my French girls seems a little bit seedy.

But who are we to judge? It's very easy for us to mock, but we must remember that down in the sewers, shit literally does happen. And if this arrangement made both the Toshers and her Majesty happy, then I say good luck to them.

However, this all changed in the summer of 1858, when conditions in the sewers – as well as the world above ground - became so bad that no self-respecting rat queen would so much as let you feel her up in the dark, let alone make unholy union before pointing you in the direction of some abandoned shopping trollies, with the pound coins still in them.

The reason? A combination of overcrowding, the dumping of human waste in the Thames, open cesspits, and unusually high temperatures led to a smell throughout London, which was so overwhelming that it became known as ‘The Great Stink’. Conditions were so bad that in the House of Commons, they soaked their curtains in chloride of lime, to try to counter the smell (potpourri was still years from being invented). But despite their best efforts the smell remained, and the MP’s, and the rest of London, could do nothing but hold their noses and dream of a world where the air was clean and fresh. A PooTopia if you like.

A Cartoon from Punch describing The Great Stink 1855

The great stink was eventually ended by heavy rain fall, but the MPs in Westminster - by now probably doped up to the eyeballs from inhaling so much chloride of lime - realised that London desperately needed an efficient sewage system. The man they hired for the job was the brilliant Engineer, Sir Joseph Bazalgette.

Sir Joseph Bazalgettes, C.V. is nothing short of extraordinary. He designed the Albert Embankment, Victoria Embankment, Putney Bridge, Hammersmith Bridge, Battersea Bridge, Charing Cross Road, Shaftsbury Avenue, the list goes on. Very importantly for us SE Londoners, he was responsible for the creation of the Woolwich Ferry, and was behind the early plans for the Blackwall Tunnel.

But without question his greatest achievement (other than growing that fantastic moustache) was in designing London’s Sewage system. A design so successful, that it still serves us today. Perhaps the key to Bazalgettes success was his work ethic, and incredible attention to detail. He insisted on personally checking every connection to the new sewer system. He also designed, and drew up the plans for the huge machines at Crossness that pumped the foul water out of the sewer, and into the sea.

Personally, I find all this difficult to believe. No one man could’ve done all the things attributed to Bazalgette. I think it's more likely he either:

a) Only employed people called Sir Joseph Bazalgette, so it would appear like he was doing all the work. Or; 

b) He had an army of tiny little Engineers hidden in his moustache, who helped him, like Elves help Father Christmas.

You can still see the four engines, designed by Sir Joe and the moustache fairies at Crossness. They are thought to be the largest remaining rotative beam engines in the world. After the closure of Crossness in the 1950’s, the engines were left to rust and vandalism. In recent years the Crossness Trust has been working hard to restore them to their former glory, and you can now see one of these engines in action, if you visit on selected ‘steaming’ days.

However, I’m not here to visit the Crossness museum. I'm here because these last few months I've been on the trail of the criminals behind the 2013 fire attack on the Cutty Sark, and my journey - similar to the journey of a smelly brown Victorian sausage, has led me here. Regular readers will know that a few weeks ago, while visiting East Street Market, I received a letter warning me off my investigations. As I had no idea who the letter writer or the courier was, the trail seemed to have gone cold. That was until today, when I made a discovery that might just bust this case wide open! But more of that, next time.

http://www.crossness.org.uk/visit.html

East Street Market SE17

Hello people,

I'm writing this blog whilst standing beside a blue plaque in East Street Market SE17. In my pocket is an envelope with ‘28 Districts’ written on the front, inside the envelope, on expensive looking paper, and in long spidery writing is a message which simply says;

'Your involvement was a mistake. Forget about the fire, forget about me, forget everything.'

This letter was given to me just moments ago by a lady, maybe in her 30's, on a bike. I only got the briefest glance of her. She wore pink trainers, black leggings and a pink high-viz, over a running top. She pulled up right in front of me, pushed the envelope into my hand, and then shot off at great speed darting her way through the market with impressive skill.

As many of you know, I’ve recently become entangled in a conspiracy involving the 2007 arson attack on the Cutty Sark. And during my visit to Lesnes Abbey in Abbey Wood, things became even stranger, when a mysterious man, who described himself as 'a friend,' told me I was in 'grave danger', and that if I wanted his help, I should meet him at the birthplace of the most famous SE Londoner who ever lived.

This proved to be a problem, as I hadn't the faintest idea who he was on about. So I spent the last few weeks trying to find the birthplace of every famous SE Londoner I could think of; Daniel Day Lewis in Greenwich, the famous Scientist Michael Faraday in Southwark, Louise Redknapp in Eltham, but to no avail. The only clue the stranger gave me was;

"He was a man who spoke to millions, yet never said a word" but this was no help.

The answer finally came to me this Friday, when I was at work sitting by my computer. I was swivelling on my chair, staring at the 'to do’ pile on my desk. My firm has been busy lately and I've become so preoccupied with the Cutty Sark mystery, that the pile has grown so big it's taller than I am. Whenever a breeze blows through the office, it sways liked a tall tree in the wind. I find staring at it very therapeutic...

My peace was broken by a work mate of mine who asked me a question about reinforced concrete. I didn't know answer, so I did what I always do, I leant back in my chair, stroked my chin, and nodded my head knowingly while I tried to come up with something to fob him off with. Unfortunately I miscalculated how far I could safely lean back in my chair without toppling over, and I ended up crashing to the floor. To make matters worse one of my shoe laces had come undone, and as I kicked out at nothing to stop my fall, my left shoe flew off and lodged itself into the ceiling above me. It hung there for a moment, then fell to earth, and hit me straight in my old chopper. I let out a high pitched yelp in pain, and it was at that exact moment that a gentle breeze - perhaps caused by the beating wings of a nearby bird who had mistaken my shrill scream to be the noise of a mate - that caused my ‘to do’ pile to collapse on top of me. For a moment there was only silence, then a low chuckle, and finally roars of laughter from all my work mates. And it was then, that I finally figured out who the most famous SE Londoner who ever lived was.

I pushed the paper away, got to my feet, and told my boss I was leaving early, as I had go to Walworth, and solve one of the greatest crimes of our time. He was too busy laughing to respond, but I think he was cool with it. I ran out the door, and was in Walworth quicker than you can say ‘silent comedy,’ and from there I headed towards the market.

East Street Market Entrance

East Street Market appears in the title sequence of 'Only fools and horses, and I always get the song stuck in my head when I'm here. A market has been here since the 16th century, and it's still going strong.

But East Streets main claim to fame has got to be that it was the birthplace of Charlie Chaplin. At the height of his fame Charlie was one of the most famous people on Earth, and you would still struggle to find someone who'd never heard of him today. No official records exist, but the little fellow believed he was born in East Street, and there's a blue plaque next to the East Street market entrance to commemorate his birth.

Charlie's life in SE London was difficult, he was two years old when his father abandoned him, his brother Sydney, and his mother Hannah. Just like her son, Hannah had dreams of making it big on the stage, but her career never really took off. Unable to support her family, Hannah had to send Charlie and Sydney to the work house, which he later described as "a forlorn existence." Hannah struggled with her mental health, and was committed to Cain Mental Asylum twice during his childhood. She was permanently committed when he was 16 years old.

"There was nothing we could do but accept poor mother's fate." Charlie Chaplin.

But what Hannah was able to give her children was a passion for performing, and a belief they had talent. Charlie spent his childhood working hard, entertaining audiences in the music halls, and theatres. So that by the time he arrived in Hollywood in 1913 at the age of 24, he was already a master of his trade. The silent films he made during the first half of the 20th century made people laugh, and for a moment forget their troubles, in a world that must have been a very frightening place.

I waited by the blue plaque commemorating Charlie's life till the market closed. I did the same thing the next day, and the next. I got my letter at 3pm today, and to be honest, I'm cold, tired, my old chopper still hurts, and feel like giving up. But I won't, Charlie never did, and as Del Boy always said, you should never stop believing. Don't worry readers, it may seem like the trail has gone cold, but I have a very cunning plan!