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SOUTH LONDON PRESS TODAY | NEWS | Kids pay tribute to Lawrence McFadden | 2009

SOUTH LONDON PRESS TODAY | NEWS | Kids pay tribute to Lawrence McFadden | 2009.

Lawrence RIP

Jimmy's brother Lawrence died a couple of weeks ago; his funeral was on Friday.

In my early days of blogging I used to write freely about family events, including bereavements, but as I became more aware of readership, I became reluctant to write about such things. It doesn't seem right to turn what is very personal into material for a blog which has entertainment as its main reason.

But the funeral was truly remarkable. We went up to the house, seeing dozens of people gathered on the corner of the road. By the time that we passed the shop in the limos, there were many more. Many of them were very familiar faces to me, many more were total strangers. Key Stage 2 children from the local school stood outside, too.  There were even a couple of photographers, one a family friend, one rumoured to be from the South London Press.

The chapel at the crematorium was full. Not only with people sitting, but people standing in twos the length of the aisle. The celebrant asked contributors to speak into the microphone for the benefit of those standing outside.

There is a thread in tribute at Urban75. I can work out who one of the contributors is, but do not have a clue as to who the rest are, although I guess I may know some of them. I left the do quite early, having  a very strange reaction to my Guinness, which just knocked me out. Jimmy didn't leave until 1 am, and has been suffering since.

The family will never be the same again, nor will our local area. People say there is no such thing as community, but if you had been out on New Park Road on Friday, you would know that community exists.

Jimmy's brother on t'internet...and telly!

On Sky News, and their website - he's the greengrocer. That's our road, that is. "And her in the Deli" added Jimmy!

Thanks to my sister for ringing up and pointing this out. And to think Jimmy was only over there at about 5pm, getting organic lettuce and organic cherry tomatoes for dinner!

The excitement!

We are a (step) grandmother

Jimmy's middle son has had another child. Now four in all.

The oldest is called Charlotte, because Charlie is a nickname for cocaine. The second shares his name with his dad, Jimmy's son.

Then later, and with a different mother, the third is called Caine (spelled I don't know how!), short for Cocaine.

The latest, born today, was at least due to be called Avril, because her father, Jimmy's son, was born in April.

Description of the murder of my great (x3) grandfather

Norfolk Island: Childs Mutiny

Suddenly, as if his self-control had finally given way William Westwood yelled "Follow me! We will kill all the…" and seizing a hatchet he rushed from the yard, followed by a dozen or so others. "Follow me and you follow to the gallows!" he yelled. Some held back, but a press of others crowded out, grabbing billets of wood, axes, spades and hoes, anything that came to hand. A constable barred their way and Westwood struck him down. Stephen Smith, the overseer, hid behind the cookhouse door but Jacky-Jacky Westwood had seen him, rushed in and with a blow, splattered his brains over wall and floor. "On! On!" he shouted as he reached the gaol gates and sighted a constable's hut with door partially open. Crazy for blood, he split one man's skull, attacked the other still in bed and rained blow after blow, until he, too was dead in a pool of blood.

The upshot was that Stephen's widow (name I don't know) and daughter, Susan, had to travel back from Norfolk Island to Dublin when Susan was just a babe-in-arms. This illustrates my Australian roots... thanks to Pat and David for doing the research!

There is a picture of his grave: the tombstone reads:

Sacred to the Memory of Stephen Smith Æ 40 Native of Dublin.

Overseer at Norfolk Island who was barbarously murdered by a body of prisoners...July 1846 whilst in the execution of his duty to the Settlement...leaving a wife and a child

Happy Birthday Joseph

Longtime readers will remember March, when Joseph took over the reins of this blog in my absence on a City Break Beginning With B.

Today, Joseph is 10

<div align="center">Christmas 1998 (Peace on Earth...!)</div>
It only seems like yesterday when he was born.

Just before he was born, his godmother phoned to say I had just exchanged on my house. I then sat down to watch Tony Blair's sppeech to Conference, the first time Bambi really impressed me.

The evening news was torn between headlining on OJ Simpson's acquittal and the start of Rosemary West's trial.

On this day in 1952, tea rationing ended.

Celebrity birthdays:

1916: James Herriot
1925: Gore Vidal
1936: Steve Reich
1938: Eddie Cochran
1941: Ruggero Raimondi
1941: Chubby Checker
1954: Al Sharpton
1964: Clive Owen
1969: Gwen Stefani

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOSEPH

Happy Birthday Pauline

As sharp eyed- readers will have noticed I have been ordered to do what I was going to do anyway, mention my sister's birthday. I am not allowed to say how old she is but just think Keanu Reeves

Other birthdays today include:
1925 Russ Conway
1937 Derek Fowlds (Bernard in "Yes Minister")
1938 Glyn Worsnip ("That's Life")
1952 Jimmy Connors
1953 Keith Allen (comedian/actor)
1964 Keanu Reeves
1965 Lennnox Lewis

In 1945, Japan signed an unconditional surrender, bringing WW2 to an end. In 1666, the Great Fire of London broke out. In 1752, the UK adopted the Gregorian calendar. In 1870 was the Battle of Sedan and 1898 the Battle of Omdurman

I could strangle...

A good while ago, my cousin mentioned to my mother that he would quite like it if he and I could go to an opera together, so Idiscussed this with him. He did say he liked Russian opera, so I suggested he came with me to Eugene Onegin, but he didn't reply to my email, and when I rang him he said he didn't like Eugene Onegin, but suggested Mitridate Re di Ponte at Covent Garden, which, for some reason, he prefers to Mozart's Da Ponte operas. So I got the tickets, and last week when I saw him, we agreed to meet. I rang him yesterday and we confirmed arrangements - the Nag's Head, which is on the left as you come out of the Tube, only you can't come out of Covent Garden tube at the moment because it's closed. I said two o'clock, but I'd be there a bit earlier. Conscious that he doesn't have a mobile phone, and is proud that he doesn't have a mobile phone, and keeps telling us - various people with mobile phones - that he thinks they are unnecessary, I thought I had better get there extra early, because if I'm delayed I can't really contact him.

So, in the end, I get to the Nag's Head at 1.30 and settle down with a very nice pint of McMullen's AK and my Public Finance magazine, including an interesting article on the response to the July 7th bombs.

Two o'clock comes, and I've finished my pint. It's getting busy and noisy in the pub so I go and stand outside in the seering heat getting increasingly anxious, looking at my watch, looking round. I've checked the live arrival boards at Charing Cross on my phone (everything running more or less on time), I've rung my mother just in case he'd rung her (I expect he knows her number, learnt it at a young age) because I doubt he would have my mobile number. I walk round the Royal Opera House "Ladies and Gentlemen please take your seats in the auditorium this afternnoon's performance of Mitridate Re de Ponte will commence in two minutes". I speak to a woman in the ticket office, I go back to the pub, I speak to the barmaid, I walk round the opera house again, I go back to the pub and have another half (by the way, I don't especially feel comfortable sitting in pubs on my own, so I like to have something to read, but I'd finished my magazine).

Three o'clock I decide to go home.

There are various things I would quite like to have done today - spend time with my partner; Lambeth Country Show; London United Festival in Burgess Park; trip to the seaside or countryside; dinner in a nice air-conditioned restaurant; Fairy Queen at the Proms. Mitridate Re di Ponte was less desirable than any one of those.

Just before four I got home, having sat on hot tubes and even hotter buses, and made a few phone calls, but, of course, everybody was out, and I realise I don't have his brothers' mobile numbers.

Half eight, my delightful cousin phones. He was in the Waggon and Horses, which is nowhere near Covent Garden Tube. Well, it is sort of, the nearest Tube is Covent Garden, but it's the other side of the Piazza, requiring a walk past the Nag's Head. I told him I was bloody furious, accepted his apology, pointed out that it's an easy mistake to make, so most people would use their mobile, don't ever boast again about not having a mobile phone, and, by the way, my mother is now worried, and I left a message with his brother. He said he'd ring his brother. I ring my mother, who wasn't exactly worried, assuming he was on another planet, and of course, she wanted to talk, in the meantime his brother is trying to get through to me desperately worried, I'd deliberately left a bland message which, of course, he'd analysed as being deliberately bland and non-panicking. So I explained everything, saying what I had said "Nag's Head on the left as you come out of the Tube..."

"Covent Garden?" he said "McMullen's pub, can't miss it..."

So I have no opinion to offer on Mitridate Re di Ponte (yes, I know I could have gone into Acts 2 and 3, but that would have meant waiting another hour, and not knowing what was going on and I rather wanted to salvage what I could from the day to spend with my partner).

All gone hectic

There I was all settling for a nice quiet blogging at work, when I decided it was time to see if I could produce some white smoke. Despite standing outside the building and drawing frantically on a cigarette, the smoke remained resolutely black.

So I went back inside and caught a glimpse of a TV screen in the lift lobby showing a papal chimney. On my floor I looked at the TV screen, where the smoke billowing looked distinctly white. Then black. Then sort of grey, as the BBC explained it might or might not be white, as in 1978, and we'd know if it was white if bells started peeling.

Well, we hung around, I declared "It's Ratzinger, being so early." They all looked at me, I thought, you know, I could be one of these BBC pundits, money for old rope if you ask me. I had to quickly reassure my colleagues that I didn't have a hotline to the Vatican...

Eventually some stern old bloke came out and began addressing us. I could understand the Latin fine. At least, I think it was Latin, it was some language I could understand fine.

"Oh, he's called Joseph," I thought. "That will please Nephew #1." Then the stern looking bloke and the Beeb said it was Ratzinger, so I stormed off for a much needed pee, exchanging glum regrets with a woman in the lift lobby.

I returned and asked "What's he calling himself?"

"Benedict," they said.

"Oh," I thought, "that will please Nephew #2". And explained to my colleagues that six weeks ago my nephew arrived, called Benedict.

So remember, what my family does today, the Vatican does tomorrow

Let's hope he's not burdened with people's assumptions that he was named in Papal honour. That could be tiresome. And if he goes to a Catholic school he could end up with an overload of similarly named classmates.

Both nephews have William as their second name. William, as in the future King.

Matt has assured me that Benedict I is a stern theologian with a rigid attitude to nappies and cots.

Happy Birthday Matthew

I have been instructed to blog that it's Matthew's birthday today. A minor event considering that last month he got a new son and next month he gets a new house - close to a Steam Preservation Railway!

Not that he reads this - clearly can't understand the links in my email auto-sig...

I can't believe my little brother is 30 today!

 

He shares it with:

1648   Grinling Gibbons, sculptor/woodcarver
1928   Maya Angelou
1930   Dave Sexton, former Manchester United manager
1939   Hugh Masekela
1942   Kitty Kelley, author
1946   Sergei Leiferkus, baritone
1963   Graham Norton
1964   Paul Parker, former Manchester United player

Now we are Six

We're very cunning at six. We can pretend to be too scared to go to bed without Mummy so that we stay up until nearly midnight - even though we have a very long day ahead of us tomorrow.

We can wear Auntie's glasses to make us look sophisticated.

And then we can get Mummy and Auntie to write prayers. Auntie had the bright idea of writing "Oh Lord have mercy on this poor sinner pleading for your mercy." Mummy also had the right idea "God give me strength."

But Madam trumped it "Help me God Help me God get these people away from me Is this way to Amarillo."

I said I was an atheist. She said "If you don't believe in god, you can leave now..." I don't think atheist is a keyword at KS1.

Nephew has a much better idea. Reject religious hypocrisy but plead to go to Mass when Poverty armbands are being sold.

But could somebody enlighten as to which part of the Catholic Mass involves the mixing of Cabernet Sauvignon and Smarties...?

March 9

By special request, the so-called Aquarius Project makes a special Pisces return to celebrate the birthday of my favourite niece, Eleanor Mary born in 1999 (budget day; I went to a pub quiz and saw Screaming Lord Sutch with a budgie on his shoulder)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ELEANOR

Celebrity birthdays include:

1454 Amerigo Vespucci. Had some continents named after him (north, Central and South Vespugha)

1829 Modest Mussorgsky, composer and habitual drunkard. Wrote night on a bare mountain and Pictures At An Exhibition

1881 Ernest Bevin, former Foreign Secretary

1890 Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov, Soviet Foreign Minister. My Soviet and East European lecturer sat in Moscow Central library on the same table as Molotov who was writing his memoirs. When Molotov went off to the Gents, Tony sneaked a look. He said they were very boring...

1892   Vita Sackville-West, novelist and poet. Grandma could tell you things about her. I couldn't.

1910 Samuel Barber, composer - Adagio for Strings. He wrote a nine minute opera called A Hand of Bridge with a character called Geraldine

1934 Yuri Gagarin, Russian cosmonaut, first man in space

1936 Glenda Jackson, great actress, now MP for Hampstead and Highgate

1954, Bobby Sands, IRA hunger striker

1959 oh heck, I don't believe this... Barbie. Doll.

1964 Juliette Binoche, actress

1975 Juan Sebastian Veron, ex-Manchester United player

Update: How could I forget...

1965 Diamond Geezer and

1935 Diamond Geezer's Mum

My new nephew

Email from my brother arrived, enclosing photos. He's gorgeous. The baby, that is, not my brother...

I realise that Ben bears a passing resemblance to Winston Churchill at the moment but I'm sure that will all change once we get his ear pierced and stick a Burberry baseball cap on his head

We are an aunt (again...)

Sister-in-law delivered a boy, Benedict William just under three hours ago.

Look who's in the Guardian!

We love each other

The print edition contains a really nice photo. Mother has not yet spotted it.

Getting old-er

Hester Lacey reflects on When I'm 64

In an absolutely invalid statistical sample of one ageing-ish parent, I have an observation to make. My mother was middle-aged when she retired at 63. It took her mere weeks to become aged, despite having an active mind occupied by adult education classes, theatre trips, Saga summer schools etc.

And then in another statistically invalid sample of one ageing aunt, 84, but she's still got her marbles. Age hasn't changed her one iota. Apart from a hip problem/replacement that limited her mobility for a time, she's in rude health, and even ruder phone calls. Much pleasure is taken by myself and others in telling her daughters she'll live to a hundred. And they try - one tried to put her on a flight to Tenerife instead of Ireland, and to put all manner of sharp objects and Class A drugs in her luggage. But, nevertheless, she still arrived in Ireland.

Her eldest daughter rang me and reprimanded me for not being in touch "I was wondering, have I said something? Has my mother said something?"

"Your mother has said something, but that wouldn't be held against you!" I exclaimed. We both giggled muchly...

(Mrs and Master G, are you still here reading...?)

The family tree

Various members of the family have put together a family tree. Looking specifically at the descendants of my great-grandparents, it is quite startling. My ggps had twelve children surviving into adulthood. The information suggests that six of these twelve produced 46 grandchildren between 1947 and 1977 (I am eleventh youngest), and so far at least 44 great-grandchildren, from 1979 to 2003. Of those 44 ggc, 16 are descendants of my grandparents (who also had 16 grandchildren) and 19 from my great aunt who emigrated to the US (who had 11 grandchildren).

If everyone had uniformly produced 2 children, there would be 48 in my generation, and 96 in the next - although that still has plenty of scope for expansion, and, with more than a dozen of them now adults, I would expect a further generation in the not too distant future.

My great-great-great grandmother was an Unwed Mother, the daughter of a Dr Murray. She gave birth to my great-great grandmother in 1821 in Co Clare, Ireland. The family had to wait 170 years for another Unwed Mother!

Ooh, good heavens, said great-great-grandmother had my great-grandfather in 1867 - at the age of 46! My granny had my youngest auntie at the age of 43, in 1936. Two aunts had children at 40 and 42, in the 60s, and my mother (no blood relation to all that lot) had my brother at just under 40 in the 70s.

Declining fertility at my age, 36? I don't think so - I have another ten years yet!

This is of course, only a quarter of my family, although the other three quarters are less extensive.

Weekend away

Lisdoonvarna, County Clare and back in 39 hours. A family reunion was organised. The descendants of my great-grandparents, who had thirteen children. I am not sure how many assembled in total - there were probably about 50 for dinner, plus various others who appeared just for pre-dinner drinks and/or for Sunday Mass. I had a sister and nephew; an Aunt, four first cousins, plus son; probably a dozen or more of my father's cousins, including some partners; god knows how many of my second cousins, plus some partners, plus three of their offspring. In addition, a descendant of my great-great-grandparents turned up with his wife for after dinner drinks. And to further complicate matters, the partner of the late cousin of one of my father's cousins came all the way from Australia! Various Australians and Americans sent apologies, as should have a temporary New Zealander. There was a sizeable contingent from Florida, and the Italians included Kevin the youngest of my generation, with his Spanish partner. One of my second cousins is married to a Spaniard and another to an Italian. Of course the majority were Irish or English, including Irish living in England. I think that's the nationalities covered!

In the long drive from Dublin to Lisdoon (thank you George W Bush for the diversion that added two hours to our journey and left us with no time to see the Cliffs of Moher - you have no Irish roots, and we planned our summit photo opportunity long before you did, Bastard. Note to all Irish-Americans - Do Not Vote Bush.), conversation included the "chav" concept. The word - and bling bling - was unfamiliar to Pauline and Joseph, but the concept isn't!

We descended into a mocking discussion of Chav names, which Joseph helpfully supplied from amongst his school mates. (I renamed his school St Richavs). However, the biscuit goes to my niece's two friends from down the road, Tegan and Keana. (Read it and weep!). Imagine our horror when examining the impressive family tree to discover that many of the children of our American third cousins (ie Joseph's fourth cousins) born since the late eighties have really chav names. But are they genuine chav if American? We concluded that at the second cousin stage, there were no chav names, although we are yet undecided about the very youngest member of the family, six-month old Trinity (girl). I think it probably counts as genuine exotic...!

A lot more on the party and on my general impressions of Ireland later.

And to Pauline and Joseph...found it yet?

Requiem

Today was the funeral of Jimmy's father. There's a do going on down the pub, but I just had one pint and left.

Very impressive turnout - must have been nearly two hundred people there, particularly impressive for someone of 85. In fact, one chap was stopped by a passer-by and asked if it was someone famous. The procession of cars from Faithful Virgin to West Norwood Cemetery brought the whole of Norwood to a standstill. Of course, Jimmy and his sister and brothers and nieces were upset (I'm sure the sons and nephews were, too, but they aren't going to show it).

It was very strange seeing Jimmy's brother, Tony. I hardly know him at all. He turned up late for the Mass, so I didn't see him until on the way out. I had known in advance what would happen, but it was still a shock to see him standing there in the church, each arm handcuffed to a prison warder. Then, I was in John and Jackie's car, waiting for the procession to start off, and the prison officers escorted Tony across the road to the prison van. Needless to say, all the motorists in the opposite direction, and all the people on the bus all gawped. It's the sort of thing you see on the telly but rarely in real life.

At the cemetery, they let Tony be handcuffed just to one prison officer. Terry offered him a cigarette - ever seen anyone try to light a cigarette when handcuffed? And we shook hands, which was strange. After the burial, most people hung around talking for ages, because the longer we lingered, the longer Tony got outside - they weren't letting him go to the pub. There were four officers in all. I was chatting to a couple of them, asking them if do many of these. "No, thank god."

The flowers included a wreath in the shape of an Irish harp, Danny Boy played during Communion, and the final prayer over the coffin was

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Jimmy placed a tricolour in the grave, and the children and grandchildren threw in roses. Seven children - two dead; twelve grandchildren, including two who have come over from Australia; and four great-grandchildren. Some life - from driving De Valera in the 40s, to selling paraffin and ice cream to second hand furniture. Some life.

One day in March

I've been intending to write this for ages but it was such a full day I never found the energy. It started with my niece's tap and ballet class which was cute to watch. All girls, of course, all in pink...! One of the mums and I were trying to persuade my nephew to join - it's more athletic than football and you wouldn't have to wear a pink leotard. This is the boy who objects to writing a rap poem at school because anything to do with singing is'sissy'. More fun was what was going on outside, which was a procession of 525 scooters and about a dozen police outriders riding along the road. They must have had a right turn further back, because the traffic in the other direction was stationery and backing as far as the eye could see in the other direction.

After dancing class it was a quick dash into Manchester. Niece and I skipped down Oxford Road from Peter Square to the Palace, even though she tried to persuade me to leave the skipping to her.

The purpose was English National Ballet's Swan Lake. It was absolutely gorgeous. I have to say that I don't really follow the story by reading the nuances of the choreography, but it is a sensual delight - the music and the dancing. I thoroughly loved it; so did Eleanor. I think she most loved the visual impact of the lake full of swans, and poor Odette dancing outside the window as Prince Siegfried was beguiled at the ball by Odile. I enjoyed those, too, as well as the athleticism of the male dancers. What was most memorable was the lighting, which may seem a strange thing to say, but it transformed a resonably good performance into a very good one. And the programme was superb, double page after double page of sumptuous colour pictures. Fabulous if you're five. Fabulous if you're *over twenty-one*.

And of course the experience was fun too. There were two intervals, so she had three Colas and two ice creams. I had one ice-cream and three waters. Although, she later told my sister that I had two gins. I suggested that she was a lying cow. I had water. 'Oh yeah I forgot.' And the other day she asked me whether I was drinking gin. Of course I was, I have gin for breakfast, I always drink gin. 'No at Barbie Swan Lake you drank water.' We also had great fun going up and down stairs in the balcony at the Palace which are very very steep, and gave me lactose in my thighs.

And there was the journey home, which took an hour and a quarter, and slightly dampens the magic of the ballet.

After wolfing down a pizza, it was back out to Manchester for the Manc blogmeet. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, meeting Lyle, Sarah, Lori, Chris and Meg. We spent the evening drinking and chatting. Very nice people, and I would love to attend another.