King William IV 'Hotel'

Traflagar Road, SE10

After that little flurry about the dodgy leaflets through the door a couple of weeks ago for 'sales' of sundry bargain electrical goods, for one night only, no questions answered (which, BTW, has prompted an investigation from Trading Standards) I find myself turning to its host venue - the lovely-from-the outside King William IV Hotel.

Benedict sent me some pics ages ago, which I've dug out to show you what I mean. This place is lovely (refurbished 2003) if you can see past the teenage drunks hanging around outside and don't peer too closely in the upstairs windows at the rows of bunk beds that form the 'hotel' part of the title.

If you actually look up, rather than just seeing the sagging posters in the ground floor window, there are fancy mouldings, carvings, fruit and flowers, faces - even the brick's been tarted up. There's a curious oval moulding on the side - I assume it was once a brewery sign. The mouldings have been painted - which I rather like. Inside it's spacious, and decorated in Victorian style - striped wallpaper, giant mirrors, a fab wooden bar and yucca trees. If you just peered through the glass you'd think you'd found some gastro pub in Hamsptead. Which is exactly what Benedict did.

"It was the first pub I went into in Greenwich years ago and very nearly put me off moving here," he admits.

Ay, there's the rub. It's just not that nice. Ok - it's not The Old Friends which really was rancid (and still has strange lights glowing from behind the metal grilles and from the broken windows upstairs - there's life in there, folks...) - or even that nasty Wetherspoons at the DLR which seems to have blokes in the middle of a fight whenever I go past (I recently chose to walk home rather than wait for a bus in a giant pool of blood - ick ) but it's a hell of a lot rougher than it looks.

I guess it's what it is. A cheap hostel with added beer, pool and telly, which, since it has no pavement outside to speak of (hardly its fault, I'll agree) means walking the Gauntlet of Doom past scary drunk people if you have to go past late at night. It's hardly a destination venue.

Poor Old William IV. Not only is he the king that just gets forgotten in between George IV and Victoria (he's known as 'the sailor-king;' I confess I tend to call him 'the boring one,' even though he had a mighty colourful not-so-private life, about which I will talk another day) but he even tends to get short-changed when he is remembered.

In Greenwich we have a second-hand statue in a very suspect pose and a dodgy pub as souvenirs of Sailor Billy. Still, as Benedict points out, where else can you get a night's sleep for seventeen quid?*

I'm not conviced this splendid fellow supporting one of the pub's ornate exterior columns is actually respresentative of King Billy, but he does have a fantastic moustache.

*Try St Christopher's Inn at the Station. Unexciting, but only £15...

Charles I and the Comedy Fountain

Over the years Greenwich has seen all kinds of nonsense flim-flammery - ornate bits and bobs, banqueting houses, mock-battlements, real battlements, curlicues and carvery, statues and monuments - even, at one point, an aviary, hidden round a corner from The Queen's House so that birdsong would twinkle through the palace to the delight of all.

Of course it's pretty much all of it lost now. There are the odd reminders here and there - even if sometimes we have to go elsewhere to find them (see 'Beer and Gin' in Weird Greenwich) but most of it's just disappeared with time.

I suspect that Sir George Villiers, a favourite of James I, may have had something to do with the early removal of a particularly fab-sounding fountain somewhere around 1616.

Villiers may have been well-in with James, but his sixteen year-old son, the future Charles I (and a typical sulky teenager,) hated his guts.

Novelty fountains were all the rage in the early 17th Century. They worked like this. An innocent-looking statue (or sometimes a pretty 'tree') would have a secret button that would suddenly turn it into a fountain, so that the visitor who had been brought to admire the lovely figure or smell the beautiful blossom would get a soaking from the concealed water jets.

Giochi d'acqua were a craze in Italy (sometimes they'd have hidden triggers so that the guests themselves would set off the water) - and at the time anything Italian was chic (hell - has there ever been a time when anything Italian wasn't chic?) There was one at the Villa d'Este in Tivoli that had a bunch of 'birdies' sitting in a 'tree,' that was sweeter - they 'sang' when the guests walked by - but most of them were just very wet indeed.

Trouble was, the climate of England wasn't really suited to such frivolity and although everyone would laugh heartily at the time, there were several sour faces afterwards.

The hilarious fountain at Greenwich was, according to Clive Aslet, in the shape of the god Bacchus (back to drinking themes again, I see...) though he is silent as to which orifice erupted when the knob was twiddled (so to speak...)

Poor old George Villiers just happened to be standing in the wrong place and young Charles, who had clearly been waiting for such an opportunity, turned the secret handle.

"The water spouted in Sir George Villiers his face," wrote one gleeful courtier to another. "Whereat he was very much offended."

The king was equally unamused. He told the young prince in no uncertain terms that he had "a malicious and dogged disposicion" and went on to give His Highness "2 boxes in the eare."

I can't find out when the naughty fountain was disposed of or what happened to it (maybe it was sold and lurks in some stately home's garden now, or perhaps it lies buried somewhere in Greenwich Park for the horses' hooves to churn up in 2012 - who knows) but I rather think it could be time to reinstate our own modern version.

My suggestion would be to site it outside the Wetherspoons pub in Creek Road; a charming contemporary Bacchus depicted as a leering lout with a can of Fosters. The secret buttons would be placed a short distance away in each direction, so that anyone who wishes to pass by, but is scared of fists or bottles that might be flying around late on a Saturday night, can press said button, soak the designer knock-off t-shirts sending them inside to dry off, thus rendering the walkway not only clear of any would-be assailants, but also handily washing the pavement clean of slops, blood, fag ends etc.

Neat, huh?

Deer Me

Benedict knows I like a good gulley as much as the next Phantom and kindly sent me this interesting conduit for identification. It's in Greenwich Park, just in that little hollow that comes down from One Tree Hill and just up from the Queen's Oak. I've never been too sure of it myself, but The Friends of Greenwich Park's website came to my rescue.

It's a deer trough, installed in 1858, pretty much where the keeper's cottage stood. He's a very old pic of the place:

A.D. Webster (from whom I culled the pic) reckons it probably dated back to The Commonwealth or just before; I find it a very curious to imagine Greenwich Park with such a large series of buildings in it. So did the Victorians - they demolished it in 1853.

Webster tellls me the first mention of deer in the park is January 1510. A Eustace Browne was paid the princely sum of £13 6s 8d to stock the Park with deer for Henry VIII to chase around. They were clearly not fast enough for Bluff King Hal, as five years later he had some "quick" deer transferred from Eltham (I know, I know, it might have just meant 'not dead' but the thought of extra-speedy deer makes me smile...)

Queen Elizabeth enjoyed hunting there, and Sir Walter Scott (admittedly about as renowned for historical accuracy as I am...) talks of King James hunting in the park too. It must have been one of the only things James did there - he didn't really care for Greenwich - it was too cold and damp for his many ailments.

Everyone had their eye on a quick buck - and during the Commonwealth Cromwell had to set up a special task force to prevent poaching. He eventually got bored and decided to flog the whole park and its contents to one John Parker, though of course on the Restoration Parker lost his prize.

A.D. Webster talks of the pollution that threatened the deer during Victorian times - the factories pumping out smoke caused all manner of "deleterious effects of an impure atmosphere" and nearly did for them. In 1896 they numbered just 47, but the herd had increased to 150 by 1902.

Of course at that time they were allowed to roam all over the park, which delighted visitors. Their keepers were less delighted when the visitors killed them with kindness by feeding them some extraordinary snacks. One poor thing died of eating "too much gooseberry tart;" another's stomach was found to contain "two hatfuls of orange peel," in just two of the fatalities caused by picnickers sharing their lunch - which even included, I'm sad to say, venison. Here's an Edwardian chap sharing his mutton pie, scotch egg, battenburg and cheesy wotsits with a new friend:

With the coming of first the motor car, and then larger volumes of visitors, the deer had to be enclosed. At first it was just at night, but later they were relegated to the enclosure in the South-East corner.

The two herds (red and fallow) are very small indeed now. but they're still lovely to see. There are two places (apart from the little observation hut which isn't often open to the public) where you can get a not-bad view of them. The obvious one is not far from Blackheath gate, with a crazy-paved area and seats. The other, you have to seek out. Go into the Victorian flower garden and keep the thickets on your right (or your left if you're entering from the Maze Hill entrance) There is a little pathway through the trees to another spot with a seat where you can see the wilderness where the deer are. There's a little seat there too.

Sadly they're very well kept-in - two (perhaps three now?) layers of wire mesh, which means getting a good picture is nigh-on impossible. Here's the best I could do a couple of years ago in the snow:

The Perils and Pitfalls of Handkerchiefs

Being the First of May, it seems almost obligatory to go back to a time when May Day was a big deal. There was virtually nothing Henry VIII liked better than going a-Maying. Although it really only seemed to consist of going for a walk with whichever queen was in vogue at the time (and half the court, of course), collecting some of the scented May flowers from the hedgerows and coming back, Henry used it as an excuse for yet another Royal kneesup.

He'd get himself all togged-up with new clothes (tradionally new linen shirts were the thing to have on May Day, though I suspect he'd have gone the whole hog, being king, and got hmself a new doublet, hose and codpiece ensemble while he was about it) gather his nobles together and set out for Shooters Hill or some other bit of countryside near Greenwich Palace. Often there would be little 'surprises' set up for him along the way - he'd be presented with flowers by maidens or met by a bunch of archers dressed in green, for example. Once he was even introduced to 'Robyn Hood.' Oh, how they laughed...

It was a jolly occasion - not being Christian in any way, it owed more to pagan traditions than most holidays - and it's always been associated with fecundity (think Maypoles...) And what better than to combine a favourite holiday with a dose of his favourite sport, which also employed a giant phallic symbol? Henry jousted every day he possibly could, and May Day was a good excuse for a new suit of armour and a tournament in the Greenwich Tiltyards.

Katherine of Aragon was, of course, the king's Queen of the May for many of those happy festivals, but things started to get darker when he ousted her for Anne Boleyn. The newly-installed queen had three heady years of excess before Henry realised he wasn't going to get a male heir out of Anne either.

She and Henry might have pretty much literally danced on Katherine of Aragon's grave at her death in January 1536 (they wore yellow and declared it a day of joy) but she knew she'd be up to her own neck in trouble if the child she was carrying wasn't a boy. It was. Unfortunately for Anne it was also dead. In some horrible irony she miscarried the day of Katherine of Aragon's funeral. Things were getting edgy.

Henry was in a right mood for weeks. He moved-in his latest mistress (Jane Seymour) and started looking for excuses to get rid of Anne. With Katherine dead, it would be most convenient if Anne died too - none of that nasty divorce business. So it was mighty handy when, as Tradition tells us, Anne dropped her hanky in front of Sir Henry Norris in Greenwich Park on May Day 1536. It wasn't the first time she'd been a butter-fingers with that handkerchief - she'd already done it once, several years earlier, in front of Norris at his family gaff in Yattendon in Berskire.

This was clearly a come-on if ever the King had seen one. Anne was obviously having an affair with the Royal Steward. Henry rode off in a huff, leaving the Queen just standing there.

The next day she was arrested for adultery and carted off to the Tower. Just in case there was any doubt, the King's special commission miraculously also discovered no fewer than five other men that the queen had been supposedly dropping her hankies for. One of them was Mark Smeaton, a local musician (about whom more on another day.) This poor sod was dragged up before the King's 'investigators' and after some intense 'interrogation' (read 'torture') 'confessed' to the whole kaboodle, and named several other blokes the queen had been secretly hanky-pankying with, including her own brother. They weren't allowed to be tortured, being gentlemen, so they went straight to the executioner's axe. Smeaton, a mere commoner, was hanged.

On the 19th May, Anne herself was beheaded. Henry didn't stick around to watch - he waited under an old oak in Greenwich Park for the gun-signal which would tell him the deed was done - though of course out of respect, he didn't actually marry Jane Seymour until the following day.

History doesn't tell us whether the embroidered hanky used to bind Anne's eyes at her execution was the same one she dropped in Greenwich Park, but I feel I should warn the morris dancers who will no doubt be dancing this weekend for modern May Day celebrations to be careful. Handkerchiefs are clearly lethal in the wrong hands.

I will, of course be looking into the antics of our own Greenwich Morris Men,who seductively promised me a "dawn dance at the donkey rides" this morning on their website, but neglected to say what time it was so I could attend (yes, I know - dawn - but for any time before 8.00am I want specifics...) on another day.

Just as an aside, as I was researching this post, I came across something that made me realise there really is a website for everything out there. I don't necessarily recommend the Sneeze Fetish Forum as a place to spend quality time with your family, but I guess it gives hope to all those hayfever sufferers who hate this time of year - yes, guys, there are people who acutally get turned on by your wheezing...