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.

Chiswicked

Chiswick Park Tube Station by night

I think I might have experienced one of the most disagreeable sensations of my life that didn’t actually involve pieces of metal being inserted into me. More on that later.

Last night I made a visit to Chiswick, out in West London. I used to know a chap at school who claimed that Chiswick was the ghetto, but given that his dad owned an aeroplane, it’s possible that his definition of “ghetto” differs somewhat from that of most other people. I’d say Chiswick is one of the least ghetto-ey places in London. It’s notable, among other things, for being the residence of satirical artist William Hogarth and for being where the Chelsea Flower Show got started (although it probably wasn’t called that back then, now I come to think of it). Oh, and On the Buses was filmed there, although I’m sure we’d all like to forget that shameful period in our history.

I was there for a pub crawl organised by a chum of mine whom I shall call The Directrix, because she’s some miles away and can’t get me har har. Much fun was had. I recall explaining the origins of the word “Chiswick,” i.e. that it was founded by investors from Chelsea in 1865 and was originally to be called “Chelsea Is Wicked,” which had to be shortened due to the limitations of road sign technology in those days. I may not have been entirely believed in this claim.

I was introduced to an exciting concoction. I’m not sure how best to classify it. It consists of half a pint of Guinness with a double shot of Tia Maria, and basically tastes like a sort of fizzy chocolate beer. It shouldn’t work but somehow it does. I enjoyed various other substances, but somehow managed to avoid the champagne-and-absinthe, although I did wax lyrical with the Directrix about moving to the 1890s and drinking heinous amounts of laudanum in a loft apartment in Montmartre. I forget whether we came to any sort of conclusion on this.

The evening ended – for me at least – at approximately half past three on Sunday morning. I figured it would be a fairly simple journey back to Colliers Wood. A fifteen minute walk from the Directrix’s place in Chiswick, through Gunnersbury to Brentford. I failed to take into account two factors. The first was the sobering-up process. I don’t know if you’ve ever trodden the borderland between inebriation and the hangover, but it’s not fun. All the fun of not being able to walk straight or coordinate your movements with the additional hilarity that is rising headache and nausea. I tend to view the hangover, overall, as a form of instant karma. But I’d rather it waited until I’d had a bit of a rest before smacking me in the face.

The second factor was the rain. It was, as you may already know, wet last night. Really wet. So wet that my feet have been dyed a semi-permanent black from my shoe polish. So wet that when I took my coat off, I actually got a little dryer.

The two-factor combo resulted in utter misery and the walk being stretched to an hour. Raging thirst and a need for some sort of respite prompted me to enter a petrol station for a drink or possibly combustion-related suicide. Being too wet for the fire to take, I just bought a bottle of Pepsi. The chap behind the counter wittily asked if I’d been out in the rain. I forget whether I laughed or cried, probably both.

Kew Bridge Station, 4.32 AM, from the momentary shelter of the footbridge.

Eventually I reached Kew Bridge in Brentford and took refuge at the bus stop, although frankly by that stage the concept of “shelter” had become a little theoretical. Did anyone see Doctor Who today with those water-alien-zombies? Yeah, I didn’t realise there was anything wrong with them, that’s how wet I was. Anyway, there I stood at the bus shelter in the shadow of the tower of the Kew Bridge Pumping Station, now the Kew Bridge Steam Museum.

The tower by day. Last week, in fact.

Surprisingly, and mercifully, the journey back was pretty fast. The route was to be the Number 65 bus from Brentford to Kingston, then the 57 to Colliers Wood. Fortunately, a combination of the lateness of the hour, the crappiness of the weather and a couple of strokes of luck ensured that the rest of the journey took a total of one hour. Given my hatred of night buses, this was a Good Thing.

I had plans to go to Brentford today, but frankly couldn’t face it after all that. So I found business in Tolworth instead. Which is so much better.

Rankin’s Brentford – A Bijou Note-ette

I have bad news for fans of Robert Rankin, and no news at all for anyone else. Actually, it might not be news to fans of Robert Rankin either. It’s news to me in any case. Shut up.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Mr Rankin’s work, he’s a cult author who writes humorously bizarro sci-fi/fantasy/horror books. Previous titles have included The Brentford Chainstore Massacre, Armageddon: The Musical and Raiders of the Lost Car Park. Many, if not most of his books, are set in the West London suburb of Brentford. Yr. Humble Chronicler, having dwelt in West London in his time, used to be quite familiar with the place, so it was a slightly surreal experience to read about UFOs over the Butts Estate and similar zaniness.

The Bricklayer's Arms in happier times

One of the central locations in the books, particularly the now-legendary Brentford Octology, was a pub by the name of The Flying Swan. This place was a sort of ur-pub, complete with old-fashioned beer engines, microchip-free cash register and a ban on mobile phones. While there was no real pub called The Flying Swan, there was a real-life approximate equivalent named The Bricklayer’s Arms, and it had always been my intention to do a little pilgrimage there. But what with one thing and another, it just never happened. Plus it would be weird to travel all the way to Brentford just to have a pint in a pub that appears in some books you quite like.

So anyway, on Friday night I was in Ealing for dinner with a smashing young lady of my acquaintance. Following many strange adventures including a harmonium recital, nearly getting beaten up by the patrons of a strip joint and standing outside a club in women’s shoes, I found myself on the night bus home. It’s a long haul, and one of the many destinations on that bus route was Brentford. I was blearily looking out of the window, when I saw a row of houses that looked a bit odd, a bit too small, a bit like someone had tried to put some houses where houses shouldn’t be. Closer inspection revealed, in the brickwork above, the words “THE BRICKLAYERS ARMS”. Noooo!

Today the Robert Rankin fan club website announced it was shutting down. Coincidence? Sychronicity? The chromium-plated megaphone of destiny?