Two sticks and an apple

… ring the bells at Whitechapel. That’s how the nursery rhyme Oranges and Lemons used to begin. Yes, I believe a couple of entries ago I said I would conclude telling you about the wondrous things I saw on the rest of my little stroll through the East End on Sunday. So let’s do that.

I believe I had just left the Museum of Childhood in my previous entry. Having some time to kill before a meeting with a friend in Teddington, I had a wander around the backstreets. The backstreets are where you find interesting things.

For instance, while photographing a scrapyard (my definition of “interesting” may vary from yours) I heard what appeared to be some sort of band practice. Closer investigation revealed it to be one of those gospel choir-type church services. The women outside asked if I would be interested in coming in. I had to decline, but complimented them on their enthusiasm. That’s the second time in eight days someone’s tried to save my soul. Guess I must look like a lost sheep or something.

While photographing the building you see on the left there, I was taken by surprised by a loud “CRACK!” Naturally, I assumed it was a concealed sniper – you make a lot of dangerous enemies in my line of work (admin). So I was somewhat relieved when I rounded the corner and discovered it was a young woman practising with a bullwhip on Stepney Green. I would have photographed her as well, but I didn’t want to get too close. I’ve seen the Indiana Jones films.

As you’ve now no doubt gathered (if you know the area), my walk had taken me into Whitechapel. Whitechapel is an area of notoriety. Historically, this is because it’s immediately outside the City and therefore was a good place for putting the things they didn’t want inside the City – industries unpleasant to the senses and the people who worked in them (incidentally, Southwark similarly became a notorious part of London due to its position immediately outside the City).

 What it’s most notorious for, of course, is the Jack the Ripper killings. Psychogeographers would claim that the reason brutal deeds tend to centre on certain parts of London far more than others is because of malign influences. This, I think, ignores the more prosaic but more likely explanation that the City of London and its immediate environs remained largely unchanged for centuries. Whitechapel was a poor industrial district in the 17th century and it was a poor industrial district in the 19th century. It’s only been in the late 20th century that these districts have really been allowed to go upmarket.

A psychogeographer would no doubt say that the notorious event that took place at this pub in 1966 is entirely unremarkable in an area frequented by Jack the Ripper and the Elephant Man. Regardless of whether you go along with that, the pub is a landmark for the true crime fanatic.

On 9th March 1966, George Cornell made the mistake of coming in for a drink. Cornell had recently joined the Richardsons, the notorious South London gang. The Richardsons were the great rivals of the Firm, the gang headed by the Krays, icons of the East End organised crime scene. Cornell’s change of allegiance made the Richardsons a little too powerful for the Krays’ liking (he had joined at the same time as the infamous Mad Frankie Fraser). The fact that Cornell had referred to the somewhat highly strung (or psychotic) Ronnie Kray as a “fat poof” sealed the deal – the guy was going down.

It says something about the hold the Krays had over the East End that Ronnie could openly walk into a pub on a main road in broad daylight and shoot a man in front of a bar full of witnesses without fear. Indeed, when questioned, everyone in that bar found themselves unable to clearly recall events, and it looked like the Krays were going to get away with it once again. Indeed, it wasn’t until 1968, when several members of the Firm were arrested in a big push by Nipper Read of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad, that the witnesses remembered what had happened.

Despite my best efforts, a hipster wandered into the above photo. My apologies.

Confounding the psychogeographers, though, would be the other event for which the Blind Beggar is famous. It was on the pavement here, 101 years earlier, that William Booth, seen on your right, gave his first Whitechapel public sermon. Booth was your standard fire-and-brimstone Methodist preacher, and chose the poverty-stricken, overcrowded and crime-ridden slums of Whitechapel as the ideal place to start his Christian Mission. Here he and his family ran soup kitchens as well as offering religious services to the poor and needy. This Mission would later become the Salvation Army. Booth is commemorated for his work by two statues within a few yards of each other. I kind of wish I’d used the one that doesn’t have such an unfortunate poster next to it.

Of course, if the psychogeographical folks wanted to confound me, they could point out that an attempt was made to bring me into Christianity just a few minutes’ walk from Booth’s early attempts to do the same. But I’d rather they didn’t.

Lovely spam, wonderful spam

Aren’t spambots wonderful? Barely a day goes by when I don’t catch another in this blog’s spam filter. Sometimes they’re so entertaining that I’m tempted to let them through, but then I remember that my blog would get crapped up with Cialis adverts from now until the day civilisation collapses and, with a heavy heart, I hit “delete.”

There’s a certain art to the spambot post. Some of them just don’t try – they’ll straight-up try to post a comment offering cheap pharmaceuticals or dubious dating services. Come on, guys, it’s not the 1990s any more. The Internet is a cynical place these days.

Others have realised that all they need to do is get a comment, any comment, on to this blog – the link to whatever they’re selling (or whatever they’re claiming to sell in order to get your credit card details) is in their name to the left of the post. So they’ll leave something saying, “Hey, great blog!” or “I enjoy this site!” in the hope you’ll believe there is someone who rejoices in the name of Discount Xanax. They don’t make it too specific, of course, for the obvious reason that the same message is used to spam thousands of blogs every day.

And then some of them get a bit cocky. Hence one that tried to post “Can you take this with water?” on a post about Tottenham Court Road. If I’d actually been talking about medicine, that might have been convincing. Nice try, advertising automaton.

Today I got what might be my favourite example of a spambot trying too hard.

The blog is really nice one and very informative for us. we appreciate the kind of information you have provided in this post. The information are so useful for all of us and we would like to thank you from the bottom of our heart for this wonderful information.The things you have discussed about in this post which are supposed to be very helpful for us. Because of these wonderful information in this post the blog can be viewed again and again.

So many words to say so very little! Such a triumph of ambition over linguistic ability! Such broken English! A veritable cornucopia of BS!

See also

http://www.cracked.com/article/234_the-spambot-who-seduced-me-true-story-forbidden-love/
 - Do not give your heart to a spambot.

Hackneyed ideas

So anyway, you may recall a few entries back that I mentioned that I’d like to do a bit more exploring in the Bethnal Green/Hackney area. On Sunday I did just that. As neither of my entries yesterday were all that good, I’m writing this up early.

Yet another of the Mog’s friends had expressed an interest in coming to the Last Tuesday Society’s May masked ball – I honestly believe that myself, my friends and friends-of-friends have purchased approximately half the tickets sold so far, looking at the ticket numbers. When I arrived, the Last Tuesday Society’s shop was closed, so I had an entertaining wander around a dilapidated area of the canal. I like dilapidated industry, possibly because I’m unimaginably sick and twisted, and took numerous photos of eyesores.

When the Society shop reopened, I went in, picked up the ticket and paid admission to the Museum. Actually, it’s not so much a museum as a showroom for the items on sale from the shop. The collection might best be described as “bizarro.” Victorian sex aids, pickled foetuses, shrunken heads, mummified animals, unfortunately-titled books, disturbing toys and puerile stocking-fillers were among the many items on display. I had reason to doubt the authenticity of some of the exhibits (the unicorn skull, for instance). Overall, the place had that sort of “grandmother’s attic” feel, with the proviso that your grandmother is high priestess of a Satanic death cult.

A pass for photography was £5. Much as I like you folks, I don’t like you enough to spend £5 on a few snapshots. There are photos enough in the Last Tuesday Society’s own gallery:

http://www.thelasttuesdaysociety.org/venuehire.html

You’re also supposed to leave your bags at the desk, although the lady at the front said I looked trustworthy. Honestly, I could make a fortune as a conman. Too damn nice, that’s my problem.

Next stop, after a short stroll, was the Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood. This is a museum I’ve been meaning to go to for a while. Twenty years, in fact. It was closed when the Ma took me last time, so we went to the zoo instead. It was awesome. I saw an elephant and everything.

This time I was not to be so disappointed. Although I have to say, as the only person there not accompanied by a small child, I couldn’t help feeling a bit creepy.

Speaking of creepy, the dudes you see just there were in a display of puppetry and also my nightmares.

Equally scary was the number of toys on display that I actually used to have. I wanted to grab one of the curators and say, “Excuse me, there appears to have been some mistake, as there is no possible way that this is old enough to be a museum piece.” The plan then was to fall to my knees and start obsessively plucking out grey hairs. That being said, does anyone remember Stickle Bricks? Those were so awesome.

On the left you may see Action Man, who is clearly ready for action.

A problem with the Museum of Childhood that I should really have anticipated was the sheer number of children. I do not understand the logic of small children – they move by a sort of Brownian motion, irrespective of obstacles or other people. Worse, they have this tendency to lie flat on the floor. The number of times I have come close to nearly stepping on an errant toddler is frankly worrying for all of us.

Awful dolls' house picture marred further by the ghostly presence of Yr. Humble Chronicler.

It’s not a huge museum, and so I found I was able to get around the whole thing in less than two hours. I get the impression I’m not really the target market.

Therefore, I decided to have an aimless wander in the vague direction of the City. And such wonders I found! Such wonders, in fact, that to describe them would end up taking the word count on this entry way over the readability limit. Next time, my children, next time.

Strictly Come Stumbling

The scene of the crime

I am the worst dancer in the world. I simply cannot dance. When I tell people this, they refuse to believe me. But it’s true, I seem to actually lack whatever gene it is that gives people the ability to dance. If there’s an equivalent to dyslexia that affects the feet, then I have it. Dyspodia?

In years past I found work in a carnival sideshow as the Incredible Man Who Cannot Dance. The barker’s pitch was indelibly etched into my mind. “Roll up, roll up, see the incredible man who simply cannot dance! Watch him stumble his way through a simple waltz! See him fail to execute a basic jig! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he cannot dance at all!”

“But surely,” one lady said, “he must be able to dance a little bit. I mean, everyone can dance a step or two.”

“Believe it or not, ma’am, for tuppence you may see it yourself,” the barker replied.

The lady and her gentleman companion emerged from the tent some moments later, clearly shaken.

“That was horrible – simply horrible,” the woman wept.

“You orter be ashamed of yerself, showin’ that to respectable folks,” growled her companion.

It was humiliating and exploitative, but at least the straw was changed regularly and my handler didn’t beat me too badly. When you have an arts degree, you take what work you can. Anyway, I thought those days were behind me, until the other day I received an invitation from a friend for whom I have not yet thought up a humorous pseudonym to attend a Lindy hop class.

The Lindy hop is a form of swing dancing that came about in the 1920s and was named in honour of Charles Linbergh’s 1927 crossing of the Atlantic (although the dance itself pre-dates this). It’s a form of swing dancing that has had a recent increase in popularity, due in no small part to the current ’40s fashion trend.

The class was held in a social club Euston, just off Eversholt Street. I have spoken of Eversholt Street before. It would be a fire-and-brimstone preacher’s dream, as it would appear to have representatives of just about every vice they’re against. Alcohol, gambling, stripping, pornography, transvestism and – at our destination – hot devil jazz music.

Nonetheless, for better or for worse, I went along. Much as the Nicknameless One’s company is never less than sparkling, I suspect the thrill of dance is one to which I am entirely immune. I spent an entertaining hour of tripping over my own shoes, bumping into walls and just generally moving like a man with two wooden legs. I have hobbit feet that are great for long-distance walking, but for delicate and fancy movements are somewhat lacking.

In conclusion, when they finally get round to making a musical based on my life, Lindy hops should not feature too strongly.

Hold this place

Yr. Humble Chronicler must confess to having been supremely neglectful. As you may be aware, my usual schedule consists of an entry every Wednesday and one every Sunday. Alas, this has been a particularly busy weekend, albeit an interesting one. In practical terms, this means it’s currently five-to-midnight and I’ve had enough alcohol to make a coherent entry unlikely. Therefore, here’s an incoherent entry.

When I’m not writing this blog, I have various hobbies to keep me busy. One of my favourites is restoring old jokes.

While strolling through the German countryside not far from the River Elbe last summer, I was caught in a storm and took shelter in a nearby barn. Waiting for the rain to stop, my curiosity was piqued by a shape under a tarpaulin. Looking underneath, I was astonished to find a political joke that I’d never seen before. It had clearly been out of use for quite some time.

I sought out the farmer later that day. He explained that he had acquired the joke back in 1989, but with the fall of the Berlin Wall it had become irrelevant and since then he had been unable to get rid of it. He was more than happy to sell it, and a month later I brought it back to the UK.

Upon inspection, the joke was not as far gone as I’d thought. Although it would need tightening up in places, and of course the subject would need to be changed, the substance of the joke was basically intact. Anyway, I’ve been carrying out restoration work over the last few months, and it’s finally ready.

Gordon Brown is worried about his election prospects, and so he calls together all his spin doctors, advisers and speechwriters together.

“Help,” he says, “the public hates me, the opposition are laughing at me and my own party have lost all confidence in me. How can I win the election this year?”

The spin doctors consider the matter for a while. Then one of them speaks up. “Frankly, Gordon, nothing short of an actual miracle will restore you in people’s eyes,” he says.

“Fine, I’ll give them a miracle,” says Gordon.

He locks himself in 10 Downing Street for a month. The day before the election, he invites all the MPs to gather outside the Houses of Parliament to witness his miracle. He climbs down the stairs to the river. He steps out on to the water. He takes another step, and another, and walks all the way across and back again.

He raises his arms in triumph, but the only sound is one MP whispering to his neighbour, “See? I told you he couldn’t swim.”

In Good Faith

I would describe myself as a moderate atheist. That is to say, while I don’t believe in God, and I do think the world would be a better place without religion, I don’t feel the need to be a dick about it. If someone’s religious, provided they’re not causing harm to others, then I have no problem with that.

I get the impression this is a common attitude among non-religious folk in the UK. We’re a fairly secular society. Sure, you get the odd extremist demanding Sharia law or that evolution should not be taught in school, but such people have virtually zero influence in reality, despite exaggerations by tabloid newspapers and the tinfoil hat brigade. 

 However, that being said, if someone confronts me about my religious position, I will not hesitate to argue in its favour. This was the position in which I found myself on Sunday. While bopping away from Covent Garden, I came across a table full of leaflets discoursing on religious matters. I was particularly curious about one questioning atheism. While reading through it, a fellow came up to me and asked me what I thought about it. I said that I felt the arguments were slightly flawed, in that while they challenged atheist allegations against religion, they did not target the question of God’s existence, which is the very core of atheist beliefs. There followed an actually-rather-interesting discussion concerning the nature of atheism versus Christianity. Probably the most civilised such discussion I’ve ever had with a stranger.

I wish more evangelists were like that. Admittedly, he didn’t change my position, but he wouldn’t have changed my mind if he’d been a total jerk either. I’d far rather have my mind not changed by a nice guy who’s willing to debate properly. For instance, when I’d set out that day, there was a very annoying woman on the way to the station who was yelling about how we were all hellbound, and on the Day of Judgement “God will make Colliers Wood sorry!” I was tempted to reply, “That’s if he can find the place!” but in my experience zealots are a humourless bunch.

Coffee Society

For Yr. Humble Chronicler’s money, the finest coffee in London is to be found at the Queen of Sheba, an Ethiopian restaurant in Kentish Town. The coffee is roasted right there in front of you, and the freshness imparts a slight citrus flavour to the resulting brew. The waitress when I first visited explained that coffee is in fact an Ethiopian invention. There’s some debate over this, and quite a lot of historians who take an interest in this sort of thing disagree, favouring Yemen as the birthplace of this delightful beverage.

Regardless of the truth of its origins, these days coffee is everywhere. On every major road in London you can find at least one representative of the major coffee chains, and often more than one. They like to project an air of sophistication. Starbucks is particularly guilty of this, and to be honest I find the bought-in refinement a little tacky. Particularly when it’s busy and no one’s cleaned up the crap from the last people at your table.

Despite Starbucks’ best efforts, though, they can’t hold a candle to the coffee houses of London in the seventeenth century. The first of these was opened in 1652 on St Michael’s Alley in Cornhill – an alley that appears to have come straight out of a Dickens novel.

[PARENTHESIS: Looking at this book here, it really is straight out of a Dickens novel. In The Pickwick Papers, Mr Pickwick and Samuel Weller stop at the George and Vulture public house on this very alley]

The coffee house in question was opened by Pasqua Rosee, an Armenian gent, formally the servant of one George Edwards. Edwards traded in the Middle East, and while there had developed a taste for this exciting Arabic drink. He assisted his Rosee both financially and practically in setting up the business. The first coffee house in London (the first in Britain had opened two years previously in Oxford) was an instant success. Firstly, because this was Cromwell’s Britain, where boozing was strongly discouraged – coffee was seen as a more respectable alternative and therefore to be encouraged. And secondly, because unlike the standard breakfast drinks at the time (wine and small beer), coffee would actually wake you up. By the end of the century, literally hundreds of coffee houses had sprung up across the city.

The mild mind-sharpening buzz of coffee meant that it was favoured as a drink for intellectuals, as it had been in the Middle East. It should therefore come as no surprise to learn that coffee houses became known as hotbeds of debate and discussion. The Restoration of Charles II was plotted in coffee houses, and Charles II would later attempt to ban the coffee house in case someone else was plotting against him. Newspapers were available, as in the modern Starbucks, and often news would be displayed on the walls. Some customers even had their favourite coffee house as their postal address. And, of course, they were a great way to spread underground news without discovery. For this reason, foreign visitors were often astonished by how freely subversive information could be exchanged. Indeed, when Voltaire was exiled from France, he wrote a series of letters praising this freedom – the ideas he developed during his time in Britain would later influence the French and American Revolutions.

Voltaire

Voltaire was far from being the only notable to frequent the coffee houses. Samuel Pepys, Robert Hooke, John Locke, Christopher Wren and Edmund Halley were among the many notables seen enjoying a dish of java. Anyone who was anyone in London had a favourite house. Both the Stock Exchange and Lloyd’s of London were founded in coffee shops. Isaac Newton’s Principia arose from an argument between Halley and Hooke – you might say that the fruit that inspired Newton wasn’t an apple, but a coffee bean.

Different coffee houses attracted different clientele. Garraway’s was the haunt of scientists and natural philosophers. St James’ was favoured by traders and mariners. Will’s was for poets and White’s for actors and musicians. The mark of a true Renaissance Man in those days was to regularly patronise as many different houses as possible.

Christopher Wren

But not only were great ideas formulated in such places, they were freely disseminated. As anyone (provided they were male) could sit in a coffee house for the price of a single dish of joe, one could spend a highly intellectual day listening to new concepts being bandied about, refined and disputed. If one was feeling particularly confident, one might even join in.

In short, the modern descendent of the 17th century coffee house is not Starbucks, but the whole of the modern world. Over a couple of caffeinated beverages, the ideas that shaped the Age of Enlightenment and finally dragged Britain out of the medieval era were discussed. The impact of such places, both in London and elsewhere, is hard to overestimate.

John Locke

Ironically, though, the coffee itself would have tasted pretty awful. Coffee was taxed by the barrel, i.e. it had to be made up long before it was served. As a result, what you’d be buying would have to be reheated. And filtering wouldn’t be invented for three hundred years.

And what of old Pasqua Rosee, the man who started all this? Well, sadly, being a pioneer isn’t always as rewarding as you’d hope. He was persecuted for much of his career by tavern owners who didn’t much care for the competition, especially not from a foreigner, and drove him out of the country. Alas.

Wonderful world, beautiful people

Something I often find happens, don’t ask me why, is that people have this need to strike up conversations with me in which they go on about how awful London is and how terrible Londoners are. I have no idea why they specifically feel the need to tell me this. It’s always in a “they” kind of way, as if I’m not a London person and therefore will not be offended by the suggestion that I’m rude, arrogant, immoral and unapproachable.

And indeed, these allegations about how Londoners are so terrible will never include the person making the accusation. Oh sure, they live in London, they work in London, but they’re not a Londoner. My reply to such people tends to be “And what are you doing about it?” My personal experience is that you get out of people what you put in. If you’re friendly and good-humoured, then people will generally be friendly and good-humoured to you. Of course, you’ll always get some jerks who repay your good humour with rudeness or speeches about how Londoners are rubbish, but I find that generally the rule holds.

Today was a rather interesting day if you’re me, and I am. I took a trip into Hackney to pick up some tickets for a Last Tuesday Society event. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Hackney. You know what? I quite like the place. Not everyone’s cup of tea, I’m sure. But I reckon I could live there quite happily. The Last Tuesday Society’s HQ is roughly equidistant between London Fields and Cambridge Heath stations on the line out of Liverpool Street (although my estimates of distance tend to be skewed by my tendency to wander off the main road whenever I see something interesting). The road runs parallel to the railway and crosses the Regent’s Canal.

I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect of the Last Tuesday Society’s HQ. From the outside, it looks like one of those weird junk shops you get, the ones that are really gloomy and messy and grimy and there’s nothing you’d ever want in there and the whole place stinks of cheap tobacco and you decide to leave, but when you turn around there is no door. Inside it’s not so bad. The woman behind the counter was, contrary to my expectations, not a witch. Well, not that I could see, anyway. And I was able to get the tickets cheaper than expected – not so much because of my immense personal charm as because they’re cheaper when the Society don’t have to post them. There is a museum attached to the shop, and when I have more time (possibly next weekend), I’ll take a look in. It advertises itself as being for the over-21s only, so it should be awesome.

I crossed the canal and headed to Cambridge Heath station. I also photographed the structure you see on your right, which, contrary to popular belief, is a gas holder, not a gasometer. There’s quite a lot of former industry around here, and I plan to photograph as much of it as I can before it gets turned into exclusive luxury flats or some bee-ess like that.

The train service from Cambridge Heath seemed pretty infrequent, perhaps due to the proximity of the Central Line. In any case, I simply couldn’t be arsed to wait the better part of 20 minutes and so walked a bit further into Bethnal Green.

Last time I was in Bethnal Green was a few months back, and that time I had made an ill-advised late-night walk to Aldwych. This time I simply hopped on the Central Line to Holborn. I really do need to explore the area, though. Maybe next weekend.

The other part of my plan for today was to visit the London Transport Museum (thank God they’ve done away with the ridiculous “London’s Transport Museum” title) and take a look at their Suburbia exhibition, which closes next weekend.

I have to say, I think the Museum has improved greatly as a result of expanding its remit. Back in “the day,” as the kids say, it was purely the collection owned by London Transport. It now deals with all forms of transport from the late 18th century onwards, and as a result gives a much broader view of the city. It even has an exhibit on the future of transport in London, which seems rather dystopian (one of the possibilities they give for the future, for example, is 30% of people in London suddenly dying). The only complaint I would have is that the labelling for many of the exhibits is unclear.

In my silliness, while wandering around the museum, I managed to leave my jacket somewhere. It’s a lovely bottle-green jacket in corduroy that inspires many compliments, and which I like very much. More importantly, though, it had the tickets from the Last Tuesday Society in the pocket. According to the face value of the tickets, they would have been worth a total of £240 (approximately one hundred times what I paid for the jacket itself). I retraced my steps with a rising sense of panic. I found a staff member and asked if they’d seen it – they rang down to the cloakroom, and not only did they have the jacket, but another staff member offered to show me the way to said cloakroom. Excellent service all round.

In short, London Transport Museum = good.

Like Avatar, only without aliens

You know you’re bored when you find yourself on YouTube watching old cartoons. One I came across was this clip from Disney’s Pocahontas:

Pocahontas was quite entertaining as kids’ films go. A bit bland on the story front, but some nice musical numbers and some superb animation. Also, the young-looking red-headed chap in the above clip? Voiced by none other than a pre-fame Christian Bale. All in all, a fine piece from the period after Disney had had its so-called Renaissance (which began with The Little Mermaid) but before they ruined it all by trying to be ironic and self-aware.

The thing is, it’s based on historical events. Of course, that’s Hollywood “based on,” which means “loosely inspired by, and we reserve the right to completely change.” And knowing how history went, the happy “Why, English settlers and Native Americans can now live in peace thanks to John Smith and his hot girlfriend!” ending is a little uncomfortable. It’s true that there was a period of peace in Jamestown following the initial unrest, but that was more because the wealthy investors of the Virginia Company didn’t want to lose their money (which was a heinous amount) and told the settlers to chill the fuck out. Seven settlements had already gone down the pan, and Jamestown was short of food and surrounded by hostile Powhatan. The Powhatan were hostile because the English were in the habit of setting fire to their stuff, and the English were short of food because they relied on trade with the Powhatan for their supplies. Slow handclap, everyone. In fact, the peace was largely brought about by the British capture of Pocahontas in 1613 and a series of blackmail-style demands, followed by Pocahontas’ marriage to tobacco farmer John Rolfe.

Chief Wahunsenacawh of the Powhatan, father of Pocahontas

Unfortunately, this didn’t last. In 1624 the Powhatan, under Chief Opechancanough, massacred a quarter of the population of Jamestown. The English retaliated with a series of attacks against the Powhatan. Opechancanough attempted to sue for peace, and the English invited them to a banquet. Where they poisoned their booze, killing 200. And so it went on, with both sides generally being dicks to each other.

The big exciting climax of the film, in which John Smith is about to be executed and Pocahontas throws herself in front of him, would appear to have been entirely made up by Smith. The only account of this event is from Smith himself, and he only mentioned it nine years after it supposedly happened, when Pocahontas was presented to Queen Anne. It’s also suspiciously similar to a tale he would tell in 1630 in which he had been captured by Turks, but fortunately the daughter of their leader…

Also worth noting is that not even Smith claimed to have had any sort of romantic relationship with Pocahontas (who was ten years old at the time, and whose real name was Matoaka). Nor is there anything to suggest that Smith raped Pocahontas, which seems to be the popular alternative suggestion.

Anyway, here’s Disney’s account of the First Anglo-Powhatan War.

That’s all very well, I hear you cry (metaphorically), but what does all this have to do with London? Other than that clip up at the top there? Calm down, I’m getting to that.

As you may have gathered, the Virginia Company was based in London. One of the things the Disney movie got right was that the Company hoped that the settlement would result in the discovery of insane amounts of gold, as the Spanish had found further South.

Unfortunately, they found nothing. The Jamestown settlement didn’t start to turn a profit until John Rolfe started growing tobacco there. Oddly enough, the strains growing native did not lend themselves to mass cultivation, but plants imported from the Caribbean did a whole lot better, and the shareholders of the Virginia Company hoped to finally be able to achieve their ambition of swimming through money like Scrooge McDuck.

But still, the colony wasn’t doing as well as expected. As a publicity stunt, Rolfe was asked to bring Pocahontas to London in 1616, showing her off as a sort of “tame savage” in order to encourage more people to go over. Pocahontas by this time had been baptised in accordance with her pious hubby’s wishes and taken the name Rebecca. This, by the way, was when Smith’s account of her saving his life first appeared. This was also when Pocahontas discovered that Smith was alive, having been told in 1609 that he was dead. She was not, by all accounts, too pleased to learn the truth. She also didn’t realise when she had been introduced to King James I, as he was utterly wet and a weed.

Brentford

Thereafter, she lived with Rolfe in Norfolk and – of all places – Brentford. Yr. Humble Chronicler heard about this some years ago in one of Robert Rankin’s books, but assumed it to be a throwaway joke (given that the other books by Rankin feature Brentford as the original site of the Garden of Eden and the Great Pyramid being teleported into Brentford FC’s grounds). It was a little weird to discover that, in fact, this one was the real deal.

Pocahontas died the following year in Gravesend of an unknown illness while returning to Virginia . Her last words, supposedly, were “All must die, but ’tis enough that my child liveth.” That child, Thomas Rolfe, had been born before she left Virginia. He would go on to have children of his own, and so on, and so on, until eventually Nancy Reagan was born. I’m not even joking – Nancy Reagan was straight-up a descendent of Pocahontas. Sadly, Disney missed that part out.

Coming soon: Tom ruins The Lion King by revealing that lions can’t talk.

Further Reading

 James I was not a fan of tobacco, and here is his 1604 pamphlet A Counterblaste to Tobacco. This presumably caused the executives of the Virginia Company to hiss “Shut up!” at him.

And if you want to hear about some other Disney sources, try this blog for size.

Give me some names

It’s been a pretty eventful weekend for Yr. Humble Chronicler. Long story short, on Saturday I done some politics, on Sunday I done some research. It’s now nearly bedtime, so I’m afraid today’s entry may be rather short. Don’t worry, there is much to speak of in the near future.

So, for now, just to make sure you don’t go away disappointed (I’m sure you were just aching for an entry on an amateurish blog to make your weekend complete), I’m going to answer a question that was put to me a little over a week ago. Namely, what’s with the names of the stations on the Docklands Light Railway?

The persons asking me this question were curious as to why the stations on the DLR have such bizarre names. Mudchute, Limehouse, Island Gardens, Cutty Sark, East India, Blackwall, Pudding Mill Lane, All Saints. Some of them are fairly obvious (Cutty Sark being named after the clipper Cutty Sark which is berthed there, London City Airport being named after London City Airport). Some not so much. One of the people asking the question was not from around here (being Icelandic) and so was at a particular disadvantage.

The reality is that, actually, most of the names are not that bizarre. They make perfect sense if you know the history of the area. Unlike many place names in London (Holborn, Islington, Euston) these “weird” ones are usually in plain, modern-day English, not commemorating some obscure aristo or long-vanished place.

The key to understanding many of these names is the fact that these are the Docklands – that is to say, the 19th century Port of London. The more exotic-sounding places are often so-called because, when the Docklands were still worthy of the name, they were served by vessels from that area. This accounts of East India, West India Quay, Cyprus and Canary Wharf (the Canary Islands, you see).

Others are named after features of the docks – this accounts for Pontoon Dock (named after a bridge rather than a pontoon, “pontoon” being derived from the French pont) and Custom House. Mudchute was simply a heap of mud, a dumping ground for the muck dredged out of the docks. Westferry was a ferry in the west (relatively speaking). Heron Quays were quays where herons might be seen. If you can’t work South Quay out then you have no business here.

The more regal names come from the fact that docks were often named after royalty. This accounts for King George V, Prince Regent, Royal Albert and Royal Victoria.

Bow Church and All Saints are both churches. Shadwell has a similarly holy name, being a contraction of “Saint Chad’s Well.”

Some are named in commemoration of local industrialists. Beck, Canning and Silver gave their names to Beckton, Canning Town and Silvertown respectively.

Some are derived from industrial practices no longer carried out there. Limehouse, that well-known den of vice and subversion, was once home to a number of lime kilns. One of the strangest names on the DLR is Pudding Mill Lane. However, it becomes saner once you realise that “pudding” was a term for offal (which survives, incidentally, in the term “black pudding”). A pudding mill was simply a place where said offal was processed. Woolwich Arsenal, of course, comes from the armaments factories that don’t exist any more – at least part of them is now a rather pricey-looking residential development. Woolwich’s arsenal, of course, had a football team that went pro and is now simply known as Arsenal.

Crossharbour is a modern name for a local development, as is London City Airport.

Poplar’s origins are not known for sure, but it’s suggested that there might once have been a poplar tree here that functioned as a local landmark.

Island Gardens is a Victorian pleasure garden on the Isle of Dogs. Hence, it does exactly what it says on the tin, as the kids say.

Cutty Sark, naturally, is named after the ship. The ship itself is named after a character in Burns’ poem Tam o’ Shanter, who in turn is named after her distinctive clothing. Cutty Sark, simply translated, means “short underwear.” There’s a puerile part of me that finds it amusing that there is a station commemorating a poor choice of undies.