Tudor Judo

A couple of people have been asking me recently if I know any quirky stuff about Shooters Hill. To be honest, it's not my manor, but I always keep an eye out, and yesterday, whilst looking for something totally different, I found this tiny snippet.

Pretty much everything I read about the area tends to be about people travelling through it - it was the main road to Dover (immortalised in the opening of A Tale of Two Cities, as the Dover mail coach lumbers over the hill.) It often turns up as a notorious haunt of highwaymen and footpads, but in the past I've really only read about 18th and 19th Century villains.

But yesterday, whilst looking up the history of Britain's penal system (it's a long story) I found a strange little (uncredited) paragraph that describes a much earlier attack - and one where some weird sort of martial art seems to have been applied for the purpose of relieving an Elizabethan gentleman of his cash...

"Faith, I have had a foolish, odd mischance that angers me. Coming over Shooter's Hill, there came a fellow to me like a sailor and asked me for money. Whilst I stayed my horse to draw out my purse, he takes advantage of a little bank and leaps behind me, whips my horse away and - with a sudden jerk, I know not how - threw me at least three yards out of my saddle. I never was so robbed in all my life."

Sadly I know no more about the incident - the book in question does not tell us where the quote comes from and after that just goes on to talk about 'eight idle wandering poor' who stole a cartload of cheese, which, if there was ever a woodcut of the event, would just invite a caption competition.

But the idea of some weird technique that the 'sailor' used is curious. Perhaps a move he picked up on his travels? Who knows...

Remarkable Occurrences of Greenwich (1)

If I'm ever bored (which is, frankly, rare these days, damn Real Life) then a quick leaf through Hasted's History of Kent can be guaranteed to come up with some extraordinary fact or other.

The best bits are usually in the notes, added by Henry Drake in 1886, and which are only bettered for sheer exuberance by Sir Thomas Urquhart's 17th translation of Rabelais's Gargantua and Pantagruel. Sometimes there are only four lines of Hasted's original to a (very large) page, the rest being taken up by Drake's notes.

In a section marked "Remarkable Occurrences" I found this little entry:

"In 1273 a whale, 12 toises long, 5 toises in girth, was captured in Greenwich and taken to London Bridge to be cut up."

My first thought was was 'well - that's not so remarkable - we still occasionally get lost sea mammals up the Thames - like this poor chap, which John found not so long ago whilst walking his dog. I wouldn't click on the pic if I were you - it'll give you nightmares, but it's a stranded porpoise - very sad.

My second thought was 'what the hell is a 'toise?'

In finding out the answer to the second question, the first was answered.

A toise is a unit of measurement that dates back to pre-revolutionary France, or so Wikipedia tells me. It doesn't help that the actual size of it changed over the centuries - exactly six pieds (feet)until 1812; exactly two metres between 1812 and 1840. (BTW I was tragic enough to check out the etymology of 'tortoise' at the same time - no relation...) But whatever measurement Hasted means, it was a big bugger.

Twelve toises long? That makes it TWENTY FOUR METRES. Okay - I'd call that remarkable.

For Whom The Bell Tolls.

Annabel gets the prize for weirdest question so far this year (mind you, it's only January...) She says:

"For the last few weeks pretty much every weekday morning and possibly weekends too, at around 6am there is a middle-aged black lady that walks up Trafalgar Road holding a large book in front of her as if she is reading from it and speaking/singing whilst ringing a bell.

The first few times it sounded like Father Christmas was coming (well it was December). I’m not sure where she starts walking from or where she ends up but all I know is she walks past my house on Greenwich Park Street at roughly the same time each day, very odd and I’m wondering if anyone else has heard her and knows why she is doing it."

The Phantom replies:

I haven't heard or seen her myself, but this sounds like a religious or mystic ritual to me.

Every so often I get a leaflet through the door chez Phantom, advising me of the services of a certain Sister Angelina. From memory, she predicts the future, helps with everything from recalcitrant lovers to impotence, evil business transactions to health and family problems - a sort of one-stop psychic shop. I understand she is 98% accurate, too.

I've seen her car parked down Woolwich Road on numerous occasions (or at least one advertising her services) and she clearly must be psychic because the car never appears to get a ticket, however long it's parked on yellow lines.

She has a rival in the leafleting stakes, one Professor Manjou, who is a staggering 100% accurate.

I have no idea if this is Sister Angelina or not, but it sounds like the kind of job she'd be called to do...

Do You Know What It Is Yet?

Now here's a thing. Dazza was out walking on Tuesday afternoon (just before this crazy weather meant none of us would voluntarily go out walking) and saw this rather strange sight on the river.

I have absolutely no idea what it is - if it's a buoy it's a very silly colour. If it's an alien, it's either amphibious or has parked somewhat ill-advisedly. If it's a Rover, then as long as Number Six stays on dry land he should be fine (it's probably lost its way and thought Jools's studio was the real Portmeirion...)

Any clues, anyone?

Fortean Phantom

Today I bring you something very odd indeed, courtesy of Haydn in Notting Hill.

Greenwich has the spooky honour of being the venue for one of the most famous 'ghost' photographs ever - the Ghost of the Tulip Stairs in the Queens House. Curiously, the Queen's House is in this photograph too, taken by Haydn on Boxing Day last year, but only, he tells me, scrutinised a week or so ago. Could it be a rival to the famous Tulip Phantom? Who can tell. I present it to you today, for your consideration - Haydn - and myself - await your thoughts - especially the photographers and paranormal enthusiasts among you...

You'll probably have to click on the images to get them big enough to really see what I'm talking about here. Such is Blogger.

We're talking about the funny little dwarf-like character who appears to be hanging around the flowerbeds in a suspicious manner. Here - this is what I mean:

If you look, he's much, much smaller than the 'mortal' couple striding along next to him, and much fuzzier. With not an awful lot of imagination it's possible to make out a frock coat, wig and rather florid face and hand, though Haydn points out that the shoulder's at a bit of an odd angle. The character's cane/sword is the brightest thing about him - and oddly, if you fiddle with the contrast button on the picture, it's also the only part of the photo that's completely burned-out.

He looks like a painting - if it wasn't for the fact that it's a digital pic, I'd think it was one of those old double exposures that used to happen occasionally with film. I even wondered if he was a cardboard cut-out left over from an exhibition, though what it would be doing in a flowerbed on Boxing Day is anyone's guess.

Haydn wondered if it could be the tragic Admiral Byng, whose ghost is said to walk the Old Royal Naval College, but I'm not convinced - Byng was a prisoner in a very specific part of the then Greenwich Hospital, which had nothing to do with the Queen's House; I can't imagine he'd have been allowed to wander around the park.

I guess a possibility could be a Greenwich Pensioner - several of them are supposed to haunt the area, and their uniforms were of a much older period than the one in which they lived.

Haydn sent me the hi-res of this, which, sadly, I can't reproduce here, but I showed it to several people who know more about both phtotography and ghosts than me and I've had a mixed reaction. Some are convinced it's a fake, but can't tell exactly how, others are more open to other interpretations. Haydn tells me the photo is untouched, save for the obvious red box and a lightening of 8%.

Here is a slightly fuzzy enlargement of the strange, creepy little fellow:



I spent some time peering at it myself. It's curious that the dark area behind him is as fuzzy as the ghost itself, when much of the other greenery is sharp, but there are a lot of trees around there, and it's possible it's in shadow.

I did go and have a peek at the actual place, but stupidly forgot to bring a copy of the picture with me, so wasn't able to exactly pinpoint the spot again - besides, being camera-less just now (not that I'm going on about it or anything...) I couldn't have taken a pic anyway. He seems to be at a lower level than the current flower bed, but that's no surprise - it would have been raised several feet by generations of gardeners applying a thick layer of manure every year. If anyone with a camera's going near that part of the park, I'd love a picture of that spot...

But what do you think? Have you any ideas of what - or who - this could be? Were you in Greenwich Park on Boxing Day? Did you see anything weird? Are you the happy couple in the photo? Did you see anything strange? Are you an expert on paranormal photography? Or, for that matter, any kind of photography?

What do you make of this picture? I confess I'm stumped...

Haunted Hotel

After the small hiatus in spooky Halloween-type posts yesterday (unless you count the creepy disappearing footpath at Maze Hill) we go back to Ghostly Greenwich and a modern tale that master storyteller Robert of Number 16 St Alfege's Passage tells about getting rid of a particularly stubborn phantom, who just didn't know he'd outstayed his welcome (takes one to know one...)

So, pull your armchair a little closer into the fire, wrap the Turkey rug a little tighter round your shoulders, re-light the candle that extinguished itself in that sudden draught and listen as Robert, in silken dressing gown and tasselled smoking cap, seats himself in the chair opposite and begins...

"When people come down for breakfast I usually ask if they slept well," he says. "We had a gentleman from New Zealand staying and he was the only guest at the time. When asked if he had had a good night he said 'Well not really because one of the other guests kept walking up and down the stairs.' When told that he was the only guest he seemed rather shocked,and said "Oh God not again."

The second night, Robert tells me, all was well, but on the third he too heard footsteps on the stairs, and wished the New Zealand guy would just go to bed. At breakfast the following morning the man looked tired and rather drawn."He said the foot steps were even louder and at 2.30am he could bear it no more," he continues. "He opened the door to his room and there on the landing he meet a young man in 'Victorian-looking clothes.' He had long wet hair which he was drying with an old towel. The young man said "I will be late for work" and walked into what is now a bathroom - via what is now a boarded-up doorway."

The New Zealand man told Robert that he felt that he should come clean and that he had had several encouters with other 'ghosts' before. He left, and all was well for a while.

Time passed, and Robert had all but forgotton about the 'Victorian man.' But when a neighbour brought his sister and her ten year-old son from Scotland round for a drink, he did 'the usual guided tour' of the B&B. At this point, I can just hear Robert's usually sonorous voice lowering to a deathly whisper...

"We arrived at the landing outside the bathroom. Suddenly the Scots woman put her hands to her neck and said 'I can`t breathe, I can't breathe!' She became very distressed and cried buckets. She then said 'I have to leave this house - something very bad happened in there.' We gave her a glass of water and she left, very shaken."

More time passed, and once again all creepiness was forgotten for merry times at Number 16.

But then a theatre director came for tea to discuss a book he was writing. When he asked directions for the loo, Robert said 'Oh, use the one upstairs; the downstairs one is out of use.'

"No sooner than he got to bathroom door on the upstair landing. I heard a scream and the sound of someone gasping for air. "Just," Robert says, "as my mother did as she died." He, too, was very shaken. "I kept rather quiet," he admits. When the director left, he seemed very interested in the fact that a large beam outside the bathroom had never been removed from the house.

Nothing happened for ages. Then 'things' started happening. "I would lose objects for a while such as a kitchen knife and then the lost item would turn up in, say, a draw full of socks. More foot steps on the stairs - this time where there were no stairs - though there was a staircase there originally it was removed in 2000."

Robert himself was never frightened by the presence. "I am often alone in the house and found myself telling the phantom "Please be quiet I`m trying to work," he says.

But then it took a more nasty turn. "Returning from the shops to an empty house I found every lightbulb neatly placed by each lamp. Having replace all lightbulbs, I was sitting at the end of my bed when a wooden blind which had hung as a bedhead for several years flew off the wall and hit me. That was it."

Robert called Giles Harcourt, the previous vicar of St Alfeges church. "Far from saying that I was off my rocker," he says, "he said he would visit Number 16. He did this three times, each time deeply questioning me about the goings on. Then suddenly he said 'You have a very troubled soul that needs to be let free. It is the right thing to do.' He felt that the 'Victorian man' had taken his life with a rope from the large beam on the landing.

He returned with all his robes, a set of candle sticks, a lot of salt and a bowl filled with water. There was a short service where the phantom was asked 'to go in peace.' The house was blessed and the black and white cat drank the salty water from the bowl."

Robert has never heard or seen The Phantom of Number 16 since. But Robert himself is omnipresent. Find him in the November issue of Homes & Gardens, on a live broadcast radio from the Olympic site to mark 1000 days until the 2012 games for BBC London 94.9 over the weekend, and a soon-to-be-released thriller set in Greenwich, called the Cost of Love, which I know nothing about (nothing on IMDB yet) but will look forward to....

Oooh. Shiver....

Goddesses, Guardians And Groves

Goddesses, Guardians and Groves - The Awakening Spirit of the Land

Jack Gale, Capall Bann, 1996, £10.95

Continuing with my week of alternatively-spiritual Greenwich, I bring you what is without doubt the oddest book about the town I have ever read.

It's so odd, in fact, that I haven't really worked out how to approach it. Written by Jack Gale, member of the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids, the Pagan Federation and the Fellowship of Isis, the book is a guide to the Pagan spiritual sites of Greenwich, and its alternative history, as discovered by decidedly alternative methods - dowsing, rituals, visions and psychometric readings. Gale's findings have been verified by at least two independent psychics.

Most of the sites, for fairly obvious reasons, hover around the park, heath, cavern and the Point and they're populated by a whole pantheon of deities and ancient figures, from a selection of alternative religions.

Everyone from Diana to Odin, Anubis to Cernunnos, Merlin to the Snow Queen, congregates around Greenwich, especially in winter, around wintry-named sacred places like the Snow Well and Plum Pudding Hill. Holda (aka The Snow Queen) was welcomed psychically by Gale himself, in his mind later, after a ritual held to reintroduce her to Greenwich Park, where they were having such a great time they forgot to do the deed itself.

Every page of this book carries some new fascinating concept - Did you know that William Boreman's 1662 design (sic) for the layout of Greenwich Park is based on the Qabalistic Tree of Life? Perhaps you will be terrified the grisly tale of Jumping Jack Black, a young man who fell victim to mob justice for a trivial crime of which he was actually innocent. Black revealed to a psychic friend of Gale's that he was hanged from an oak in Greenwich Park during the late Victorian/Edwardian period. Gale has done his homework and looked for this story in The Times of the period and, creepily, can find no reference whatsoever to the incident. He concludes that "likely it was hushed up and swept under the carpet" by the authorities.

The book is illustrated throughout with psychically-received portraits of gods, goddesses and mythological figures, and squirly automatic drawings made by psychics at the various sacred sites.

I have no idea what to make of this book - and yet I highly recommend it to all. It is utterly fascinating. You will never be stuck for topics of conversation after reading it. Buy it here

Make Do And Mend

Okay. World War II's ended, the bunting's been taken down, the street parties packed up and the cost is finally being counted.

Top of the list of jobs to do is to build housing for all the people displaced by the Blitz. Thing is, the stuff you have in your warehouses isn't always quite right for the job...

For example - you're really short on railings to go round these new homes for heroes. All you've got in the stores are thousands of old stretchers hurriedly fashioned from tubular metal and wire mesh as standard issue for ARP wardens. They'd always been bloody uncomfortable if you had the misfortune to have to lie on one, but they did the job - and it seems a shame to throw them away. Waste not, want not...

I first read about Wartime Stretcher Railings in Peter Ashley's fascinating More London Peculiars (English Heritage, 2007) but he was only talking about them as being around one block of flats - just outside Oval cricket ground. I actually made a pilgrimage to see them - and they are fab.

You honestly wouldn't know they weren't actually built as railings if it weren't for the four little kinks - one in each corner - bent into the supporter bars to keep the stretcher off the ambulance floor, and the weld-marks every six feet or so where the handles have been bonded together.

Thing is - the picture above isn't from the Oval.

I actually took this picture in Watergate Street in Deptford. I hadn't noticed the railings - I was too busy looking at the ancient piece of wood embedded in the giant dock wall opposite and they had to be pointed out to me - but there's no doubt about it - these are wartime stretcher railings.

Which begs the question - how many more are there? I was under the impression that the ones at Oval were unique - it would seem not. South and East London copped most of the bombs - so presumably they also had most stretchers. I'm beginning to think there must be more of these recycled pieces of Home Guardery - anyone know any?

Next time you happen to be walking down Watergate Street (if nothing else, to see the watergate itself, slid in between that poor old Borthwick warehouse that only has its facade left and doesn't appear to have been touched for years, and the giant dock wall, down a nasty scaffolding passage) take a moment to look at those railings and allow yourself to be transported to the Blitz.

To the rubble and smoke, fires and blood - and the poor sods who were carried to hospital on a set of garden railings...

TGP - Phone Home

Some people are their own worst stereotypes.

Take the guy who bombarded me a couple of months ago with accusations that I was a covert operation by Greenwich Council to infiltrate the internet with propaganda (I know. Don't even go there...)

The gentleman in question pelted me with messages, challenging me to email him if I wasn't Greenwich Council. Since I don't knowingly get into conversation with nutters, I ignored him. After about half an hour, I got a whole pile of other accusations, amounting to the reason why I didn't reply to him was that I was too busy enjoying fat meals in my council palace at taxpayers' expense to take any notice of him.

I am slightly embarrassed to admit it was at this point I did rise to the bait, asking the guy if he was totally mad.

Oh-oh. Red-rag-to-the-proverbial time. He revealed what he really wanted to talk about - UFOs. Only on the internet, eh...

But then I started thinking. Why not see if anyone's seen anything extra-torrential on Blackheath recently? Or at all? So, today, folks, let's talk UFOs.

Firstly, I have to say that trying to research Greenwich UFOs isn't easy on the wonderweb, partially because all the sightings of every UFO ever seem to be given at a specific point of "Greenwich Mean Time," presumably to add some kind of erzatz authenticity to the event. It's nice to know we're mentioned so much, but there's one hell of a load of irrelevant stuff out there.

The second problem I had was that many sightings seem to have been at Greenwich, CTT, or East Greenwich, R.I. Of course I should have predicted that - all aliens automatically aim straight for the United States.

The internet comes into its own when you type those three little letters into a search engine. Websites that have never heard of the concept of paragraphs, punctuation or of leaving any kind of empty space on a screen, whose favourite font size is very small are wonderful places to remind you that in comparison you are reasonably sane.

Before I get to the UFOs of Greenwich, England, I'd like to share with you a couple of things I discovered whilst searching...

1. The Roswell sites were not random - they predict the return of the Mayan Serpent god Quetzacoatle in 2012, coincidentally the very same moment when the sun will rise from the mouth of the worm Ouroboros on the December solstice, leading to catastrophic change. The site is unclear as to whose solstice this involves, so whether it's in Oceania somewhere and we die in our beds, or have a US style solstice and get a few more hours of Earth as we know it, is open to interpretation, but it's nice to know we'll still have the summer Olympics.

2. Megaliths don't queue up in boring old ley lines - they can all be related to each other by drawing two pentagrams, one over the other within the equator, anchoring one on zero longitude at Greenwich, the other on Giza. Fab, eh...

But onto the UFOs. I've separated them out from the sightings of weird ghosts, strange creatures and other phenomena or we'll be here all day. I'll come back to them another time when I've had a nice cup of tea and a sit down. There are quite a few of them, especially beasties.

The first sighting I can find is in 1783, when stunned Greenwich farmers saw a brightly lit object hovering in the night sky. According to the site I read it on, (which I forgot to note down and now, of course, will never find again...) "They were even more amazed when the object seemed to release many smaller luminous craft which floated around the larger craft. After a time, all seemed to disappear in an instant..."

The 'best' Greenwich sighting was over a hundred years later - and by a real astronomer, Edward Walter Maunder. A couple of hours after sunset, on Nov 17 1882, he and some colleagues all saw "an airship" suddenly appear, moving steadily across the sky. They described it as spindle/shuttle/cigar shape and they agreed it was neither a cloud nor a meteor.

"It appeared to be a definite body, nothing could well be more unlike the rush of a great meteor or fireball than the steady," wrote Maunder. Unsurprisingly he found its greenish light "extraordinary and alarming," and was probably relieved when it just as suddenly disappeared.

Everything seems to go quiet for another century or so, when it all began to kick off again in the 1970s (I can't find anything local for that golden age of UFO-ery, the 1950s, but will be delighted to hear about any I've missed... )This time it was - and remains today - a favourite of the local newspapers.

According to UFOINFO, on September 8, 1974, "a bright, sulphurous light was seen over Plumstead Common at 11:25 p.m. It hovered, then shot off at great speed."

"The next day, September 9, 1974, "at mid-morning, the same, or a similar, object was seen at Eltham, a fantastically bright glare, moving slowly."

Today, most 'sightings' can be found gleefully reported in specialist periodicals such as the News Shopper - among which can be found splendid reports like this

I'm sure I've left some out, but frankly I've fried my brain enough on this one. You want to find more sightings? Go ahead (and let me know, eh...)

I leave you with NMM's final word on the matter - and a rare sighting from Stephen in Greenwich Park:

Attack Of The Killer...

PANIC! as SWARMS of slimy insects RAMPAGE YOUR ROSES!

SCREAM! as they SUCK your greenery's LIFEBLOOD!

RUN! to the garden centre to find something environmentally unfriendly to KILL the HORRIFIC MONSTERS!

FEAR! these terrifying CREATURES OF DOOM will turn their DRIPPING JAWS on the HUMAN RACE!

Benedict had a shock the other day. Thinking that Greenwich Council had painted the lamp post outside his gaff with a special new, textured finish, he was yuckked-out to find it was a swarm of greenfly.

In his garden, worse was to come. His plants, smothered in the lime-green nasties, were beginning to droop.

Whatever he does, they keep coming back. He's now wondering if this is personal. Has a vengeful Greenwich god wreaked a biblical plague upon him for some dreadful transgression - or does everyone have greenfly-a-go-go just now?

I've been peering at plants in other people's gardens in a suspicious fashion and they do seem to have vast quantities of nasty green bugs on them (and a few nasty black bugs too.) So maybe Benedict's not been picked out for Personal Purgatory after all.

Maybe we'll get a plague of Greenwich Toads to eat the plague of Greenwich Greenfly. But then we'd need a plague of Greenwich - hang on, what eats toads..?

Thanks, Rich, for the last-min pic...

Top Of The Pots

Remember we were talking about the giant (but pretty) chimneys that adorned Greenwich Power Station until some time in or after the 1970s?

Well - Sally has been giving them some thought and has come up with a little link. Take a peek at the picture of the original chimneys (clink on the link above) then look at this:

It's that strange little cottage-y thing on the corner of the site, with the fun - but frankly pointless - tower. The pattern on the top is almost exactly the same. Sally wondered if the chimneys have been reused here.

Personally I'm unconvinced - there are pictures of the chimneys in their full glory up to the 1970s and I can't imagine anyone in that modernist age being whimsical enough to go to the trouble of taking it down carefully (from a great height) to re-use, add windows and build a funny little house from it.

I'm sure that the house is from the original build - perhaps the gatekeeper's cottage - but Sally's sharp eye has come up with an existing example of what the chimneys would have looked like before they were chopped off, which is rather nice for those of us who never saw them the first time round.

What it doesn't explain is what the hell that little chimney's actually for. It must have stairs in it as it has windows - but the top ones are much higher than the top floor of the house's roof (see below.) It would make a rubbish vantage-point for the river, as it's at the back - someone standing on the tippy-top might get a good view of how their car was doing at the mechanic's or if there were any good lots going into the auction house, but certainly no coal ships.

I once met a guard having a fag outside the power station and I asked him what was in that tower. He said that bit was completely locked up - he'd never seen in there and nor had anyone he knew.

What sordid secrets does that strange piece of architectural flamboyance on a largely utilitarian structure hold? It has to at least be the mortal remains of a former power station worker who witnessed something 'politically inappropriate' and was incarcerated by a secret brotherhood of otherwise-great-and-good figures in Greenwich Society (not the Greenwich Society, natch...)to ensure his silence.

Over the years he would have been slowly driven insane by the constant pounding of the pistons and grating of machinery. Local children playing in the neighbourhood streets would have whispered stories of the wild-eyed face that appeared at the tower windows every full moon. And then - then it would have all gone silent.

If that security guard was to unearth the secretly-concealed key to the - what shall we call it - 'The Tower of Deaaaath," he would find, at the foot of the narrow spiral staircase, the crumbled remains of a lone figure, clutching a scrap of paper. The letter's contents, written in the unfortunate's own blood, would reveal-

-that's enough conspiracy theories. Ed.

Creepy Roller Fan

Just had to share this pic with you. Of course, it's one of the hoardings along the walk between North Greenwich tube and the O2, celebrating the highs and lows of rock music through the decades. This one is definitely my favourite - and bears close scrutiny.

Apart from the wincingly bad haircuts, bad teeth and terrible fashions (I note they didn't come back with the 70s revival recently...) which would render this picture enjoyable as it is, just get that creepy bloke at the back with the opera glasses and the dodgy moustache.

What the hell is he doing there? The more I look at it, the more baffled I am. He makes my flesh crawl almost as much as those tartan scarves (and the Woody-a-like at the back) and yet in a picture full of characters (every face here is a winner) he is the one I can't take my eyes off...

Free The Pingu One!

Today, I have to bring to your attention a disgraceful matter.

A violation of Basic Penguin Rights, happening under our very noses, as the seeming 'charity shop' on the corner of Blackwall Lane and Pelton Road subjects this poor pantomime penguin to living in a freezing back yard, with just a stripy scarf to protect him against the cruelty of the elements and a mere wheelie bin to sleep in.

His crime? As yet unproven - but he is incarcerated under suspicion of being 'the wrong kind of penguin suit.'

It's understandable how it happened. The shop specialises in evening wear.

Clearly whoever donated him to the store thought that he would find a decent home there, maybe a family who would love and cherish him. Instead he is forced to live in the yard, abandoned, frightened and alone. A poster-chick who screams:

"A Penguin Outfit is for life, not just your store's promotion..."

As he pitifully peers through his prison bars, I urge you to join me in a letter-writing campaign to release this poor creature.* Or maybe you could go one better and adopt him. He'll need a fair bit of wringing-out after yesterday's cruel rainstorms, but a rescue-penguin can give years of joy.

I have a friend who once rescued a pantomime duck. I leave you to fill in the obvious puns...

*It's possible that this penguin isn't an outfit at all, but another persecuted minority, the Giant-Fairground-Stuffed-Toy. This does nothing to alleviate the situation. Carney-Penguins have rights too.

Le Grand Prix des Chariots

The French call them chariots. So much less prosaic than our own trundling name - 'shopping trolleys.' The Americans are even worse: 'carts,' but the French have got the right idea.

They too, can imagine themselves as Ben Hur racing for his life, whilst whizzing round the isles at the local Carrefour; as Emperor Nero on stage at the amphitheatre in Naples as they select their frozen fois-gras; as Boadicea routing the Romans as they approach the home straight by les caisses...

Well, okay. Perhaps not Boadicea. But to take your very own chariot around a supermarket seems a fine thing to do. It brings each and every one of us back to the ancient civilisations. The Greeks, the Romans, the Persians. The world of Homer. Of Ovid. Of Herodotus.

And I daresay that it is indeed that very yearning to understand more closely the great Classical texts that the young people of Greenwich congregate at that sacred grove, Shopping Cart Valhalla, of a Friday night to ritually explore the meaning of the Chariots of the Gods (no relation whatsoever, of course, to anything that may have been written by a certain G. Hancock. These chariots actually exist...)

As a keen anthropologist, I donned my safari suit and pith helmet to follow one such group, in the guise of Someone Not At All Interested So Don't Mind Me, to witness their rituals and perhaps gain an insight into their strange - and some might say extreme - customs. To document their rites of passage and better understand the complex social system of the Youth of Greenwich.

The main part of their worship appears to be some kind of ritual sacrifice in the form of a race - perhaps for the young men of the tribe to prove their worth to the chieftains of the group.

My studies revealed there are generally two teams - a group of, say, six young men of mid teen-age, who harvest the chariots from Shopping Cart Valhalla* and bring them to the track where the race is to be held, a curious structure or 'bridge' that spans a major spiritual highway known by the local tribes as the 'A102M'.

The other team, it became apparent, consists of strangers who wish to cross that 'bridge' - in this case, my own party.

The preliminaries are mainly displays of strength - sending the chariots from the top of the ramp-part of the structure down to the place where it bends, perhaps to see whether the youth in question has the necessary skill to make it bounce from the 'barriers' and continue down the second part of the slope.

All that is required of the opposing team, I concluded, is to prove their own nerve by climbing the attendant steps around which the ramps circulate. A nerve-shattering experience, as the trolleys clatter and clang their way down around the opposing team, each moment a test of the metal barriers to contain the carts; each moment also a test of the mental barriers within the 'Foreign'-team. It is vital at that point not to indicate fear - or even interest.

The whole race, although ear-splitting from the trolleys' point of view, is, however, conducted in complete silence from both teams. The former intent on sending the chariots to their doom, collecting them and bringing them back up for a second attempt; the latter merely aiming to cross the bridge without incident.

As the two groups tacitly agree to move to the second part of the ritual, a grand procession is made across the bridge. Team A silently pushing their trolleys across, surrounding Team B who look stolidly ahead, pretending nothing unusual is going on around them.

As the climax approaches, Team B realises what is at stake. They must, at any cost, descend via the steps only, as the battle for the ramp begins.

After the warm-ups - an 'open' race for empty trolleys - comes the freestyle finale, when young man after young man climbs into his own trolley and races the others in a nail-biting slalom.

They send themselves hurtling down the ramps at breakneck speed, weaving in and out of each other, executing fancy moves to impress the spectators, and, perhaps, Team B who are still steadfastly pretending that nothing's going on.

At the end of the ritual, Team A collect the now somewhat-battered chariots, drag them back to the beginning to wait for the next Foreign Team to attempt to cross their territory. Team B shuffle away towards the great Temple of the goddesses B&Q, trying to look as though they saw absolutely nothing and they aren't going to report anyone to the local constabulary...

Clearly photography was impossible. I, as part of the 'Team B,' collective, was expected to show no interest. Photographing this ancient ritual would have not only disturbed the wordless beauty of the custom but would have probably got me beaten up.

Instead, I bring you this tragic photograph of one of the chariots that didn't make it to Valhalla and instead rests at Greenwich Pier...

*Interestingly, from an anthropologist's point of view, the carts harvested from Valhalla tend to be, by their very nature, the older and weaker examples of their breed. They may have wonky wheels, or broken parts. Perhaps there is a race held elsewhere by fully-fledged tribe-members who are strong enough to tackle shopping trolleys in their prime...

Which Way Up?

So - the burning question of the day is:

Are the Trafalgar Road Christmas lights upside-down this year?

This simple poser caused something of a heated discussion last night and we ended up fifty-fifty on it. Should the stars be at the bottom or the top, with the squirly bits under or over them?

So. I think, that like all really important questions regarding Greenwich, we need a poll...

The Femur of Doom

You know I've walked past this funny little building hundreds of times - but it was only - well July, actually (I'm a bit behind...) that I stopped to actually look at it and wonder what the hell it is.

It looks like some kind of porter's lodge - but it's a real fur-coat-and-no-knickers kind of a place. A fantastic facade with strong pillars either side and a studded arched doorway - but as soon as you're not looking at it completely head-on, it goes back to being good old-fashioned bricks. There's an unexciting window at the back, through which you can just about make out the back of a wooden piece of furniture.

But it can't be a porter's lodge. It's nowhere near the entrances - which have their own lodges (with inexplicably-placed chimneys - but we'll come onto that another day.) It's definitely seen a LOT of use - just look at that entrance step - that stone's had a lot of footfall. And it's near the old brewery - but not near enough, I'd guess, for it to have been connected. It also has its own TV security camera. Someone is watching...

And here is why.

It's actually been deliberately designed to be so exposed that no one actually sees it - we all gaily walk past on our way to bigger and seemingly better things - when this is the real heart of the Old Royal Naval College.

If the uninitiated were to walk in - a lost tourist, for example - they would see nothing but an empty room. But woggle the door studs in the correct order to unlock the secret code and upon opening the door, the member of the Secret Order of The Unholy Ox-Bone, dedicated to the unwholesome worship of the viking that slew St Alfege, will see a trapdoor open to reveal a series of ancient stone steps leading into the bowels of the old palace of Placentia.

A long, perilously dark and dank passageway leads to the ancient Great Hall, rediscovered by members of the Order in 1852, and used for secret rituals invoking the spirit of the Great Trog to help retrieve the terrifying Femur of Doom, which, according to legend, has the power to bring forth the Apocalypse. It was also used for office Christmas parties during the Blitz.

Of course I'm fantasising. What it really is is the portal to Town Centre headquarters of the Greenwich branch of Torchwood.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Greenwich Baby Bin

Joe has brought to my attention a shocking development in Greenwich Council's policy on children. I know that providing nursery care and school facilities are getting more expensive, and that young people are a drain on council resources, but do they really have to resort to the kind of desperate tactics that encourage vulnerable people to dispose of their babies in a seedy underground toilet?

Greenwich Council's solution to the ever-burgeoning population problem is the deeply sinister "Baby Bin," as seen in the picture above, with its disarmingly 'cute' outline of a chubby little bairn in a nappy, which has been installed in the Gents in King William Walk, with strict - and distressing for some - instructions. No general rubbish to be put in this receptacle; it's clearly intended for alternative 'disposal.'

Brings a whole new meaning to the term 'lavatory cleaner.'

The Wraith of Westcombe Park

Kirsty recently arrived 5 mins early for her train at Westcombe Park Station. She tells me that another lady needed the loo,(have you ever never noticed the loos up the Charlton end of the platform? No neither had Kirsty - or, I, for that matter.)

"When she came out, the Southeastern guy asked if she felt she’d been watched," she tells me "He had a rather loud voice and it was such an odd question I just had to listen in… "

No need to apologise, K, ear-wigging is a time-honoured tradition. If people want something to be secret, they whisper, or at least talk out of earshot of Kirstys and Phantoms...

"Anyway, he went on to say that ‘the chaps in there’ (thumb jerked towards office) reckon that WP station is haunted. Apparently a dark figure drifts through. Supposedly a late Victorian (very late – 'scuse the pun) stationmaster who just couldn’t let go. Sadly the train drew in so I didn’t have time to ask any more questions."

Well. I took myself off to Westcombe Park Station, to find these loos for myself. They were locked. No one around, but the ticket machine was vandalised (apparently the local toughs jam-up the credit-card hole so that people are forced to use cash, then jam up the rejected coins slot, so that they think they've lost their money. When the train's been and gone, they un-jam the rejected coins bit and pocket the ill-gotten gains.)

I've tried several times, whilst in the guise of 'buying a ticket' or 'asking for a timetable' to bring the subject round to ghosts, but - well - you know how it is - how do you bring up a delicate subject like that? I mean - you can't just come out with it - "Is your station haunted?," can you - they could be offended or traumatised for months, having to walk round a deserted station with nothing but a spectral Victorian gentleman and the local toughs for company...

So. I've not been able to get anything on this one but if anyone fancies doing a spot of digging (not literally, unless there's something really very wrong at Westcombe Park) I'd love to know more about this local ghost for local people.

The Best Nameplate in Greenwich?

Just get this:


It's outside the Greenwich Dance Agency, and a wonderful curiosity. Benedict spotted it and I love it. Who made it? Heven knows? When? ditto. Why? ditto.

Find it on the left hand corner as you face the GDA...

Comedy Small Ads

I've long wondered about Sabo, the strange shop-with-nothing-in that lies next door to The Spread Eagle, and which I'm assuming Greenwich Inc. must be desperate to get their paws on, but I'm glad to see is holding out. That particular section of building, with its wonderful pink peeling paintwork, is entitled Albion House for no reason that I can find (like so many of our buildings - no one ever records why things are done.) If anyone knows why this building is called that, I'd love to know.

It's really rather elegant in spite - or perhaps because - of its slightly scruffy look. Neat, sophisticated windows, cute little shop front, odd contents. What more could you ask? How about a little snigger too?

It's ostensibly a newsagents, with odd displays in the window, of single magazines such as Homes and Interiors and Private Eye, and fading local greetings cards, backed by a display of gift wrap on clothes airers. Inside, there are more dusty racks of cards and more mags, and although they're current, they give the impression that this shop has been there since the Ark and probably hasn't changed since antediluvian times, either.

I just love this place. And Benedict points out that although there always seem to be different people in the shop, there are always a pair of them. Two young ladies, two middle-aged men, two elderly ladies...

He also pointed out something that I hadn't noticed before, but now stop to enjoy every time I go by. I am pleased to pass the experience on to you...

That section of postcard small ads in the window. Looks pretty standard, doesn't it. But take another look. Nestled in amongst the real advertisements for second hand guitars and holiday cottages, some wag has tucked in others. Take the top line, for example (you'll probably have to click on this image to see it properly.)

The parachute is marvellous, but don't miss the one to the right - a scratchy, blotchy ad for an ink pen. They carry on down the board, and I like to enjoy one or two every time I stop to look. I don't want to over-gorge on them all at once. I particularly like the ad for the fried egg (ideal for use as a book mark) and the second hand trophy (perfect for anyone called Dave Smith, if memory serves...)

I guess it's one way to make people look at a postcard display. They're a bit faded now, but I would love it if new ones were added occasionally.

Let me know your faves...

Slick Toads...

Following Benedict's charming portraits of the Lucky Gnomes of Greenwich Park Drains and delightful coverage of Toadhog Day today I bring you this pair of splendid fellows, spotted in Goucester Circus.

The meeting of Gnome and Toad is rarely witnessed by humans, so it is especially important that Benedict not only saw it, but managed to capture this moment on film.

And what emotion is caught in this image. The elderly gnome, clearly trying to read his book in this quiet spot, is irritated to be interrupted by the dapper young toad, all dressed up in his finery in the fernery. Mr Gnome is pretending he hasn't noticed the amphibious gentleman, but it's not working.

There's nothing for it - the aquaintance cannot be avoided now. He'll just have to make polite conversation about the weather - and the sagacity of Mr Toad's remembering to bring a brolly in weather as changeable as this, and hope the guy goes away and leaves him in peace as soon as possible.

It is, of course, depicting the wise old country saying: "Cross roads at slick toads."

As true today as ever.

A lesson, I think, for us all.

The Deadly Kacia Tree Of Olde Greenwich Towne...

Benedict, you were moaning that there haven't been enough pictures recently, so this one's for you...

I was sent this fabbo comic a short while ago, (among others, all of which are wonderful) and I was put in mind of it when I was walking down Old Woolwich Road one darkening evening. There, peeping out from behind a high wall, was - OMG - surely not? The deadly Kacia Tree of Bandar!

Could it be that those lethal smells we've been blaming on the drains in Lassell St are actually - heavens - the Kacia tree itself? Or are they merely portents of what is to come when the poisonous purple plant finally blooms.

Will the vicious vegetable murder us all? Can the Peninsula Pong be traced to a backstreet in Greenwich? And does the Phantom actually wear a mauve all-in-one ensemble? Tune in next week, folks, to find out...

The Lucky Greenwich Gnomes

Benedict sent me a wonderful pair of gnomes, which will form part of my "alternative Greenwich Park walk" when I get round to creating it...

They are the Greenwich Guardian Gnomes, which, if you go at the right time of day, you may just catch peeking from out of their rain-hopper homes.

Tradition says that anyone who spots them can make a wish. Of course Tradition is less clear as to whether your wish will actually be granted - but hey - they're gnomes and they're lucky. Take a chance...

Here we have Mr Wicked and Mr Worried - but there are others too - Benedict wants to collect 'em all - maybe we could start a craze like those card-swapping games you get in playgrounds...

If you'd like to find them for yourself, imagine you're standing at the Blackheath Gate, looking in. On your left are the loos, but behind them are some random maintenance buildings. Check the rain hoppers by the gutters to see if you can see them. And don't forget to make a wish...

Peter "The Phantom" Parker Scores A Scoop

Good citizens relax! All is well; we are being watched and protected by our own superhero.

I was toddling up Victoria Way in Charlton a few days ago when I spied something strange atop a chimney stack.

Could it be? Clutching my faithful box-brownie, I tip-toed quietly towards the crouching figure, hoping that his eagle eye and razor-sharp reflexes wouldn't trigger before I could get a picture. The Daily Planet pays good money for clear shots of Spiderman himself...

The conditions weren't good (they never are when you're trying to capture a myth - The Loch Ness Monster - The Abominable Snowman - Boris Johnson actually in London...) but I think that my pictures will be clear enough for conspiracy theorists everywhere to agree that Spidey does exist...

Here's What You Could Have Won...

Q:What do Greenwich Hill, Trafalgar Square and The Phantom Loft have in common?

A: They all once had space over which many arguments raged as to what to fill it with. In the case of the latter two, the arguments rage on...

When there's a useful space, we just have to fill it. And there was Greenwich Hill, a lovely promontory looking out over the Isle of Dogs, without a statue to call its very own. Not that there haven't been some kooky ideas over the years before settling upon the very splendid Greenwich Phantom General Wolfe design in the 1930s. And here's the kookiest...

The year is 1799. Britain has just won the Battle of the Nile and everyone's gone Nelson-mad, Mr Blackadder. The then Duke of Clarence (who will eventually become William IV) decides it will be a great idea to have some kind of triumphal sculpture to celebrate all things British and announces a competition for Something Nice to go at the top of Greenwich Hill.

There are a couple of half-hearted attempts - Old Father Thames and a bog-standard column being two of them. But nothing's really cutting it.

Then sculptor/draughtsman/decorator of Wedgewood pottery John Flaxman, the Anthony Gormley of his day, decides to large-it with his literal Big Idea.

It is to be a sort-of Angel-of-the-South-East. Intended to do pretty much the same job as the Angel of the North, a gigantic, 230-foot colossus (is that correct terminology if it's female?) of Britannia, the guardian angel of Great Britain, is to stand on the main road from the coast to London, framed by the two towers of the Naval College, to tell foreign visitors that they have arrived where the Art is.

Flaxman isn't convinced that the little maquette he's mocked-up will quite do the trick though - I mean how can he convince the powers-that-be of its grandeur when it's only a yard or so high? So he writes a pamphlet, explaining all about why he's decided to make her neo-classical (to be honest, not a hard sell, surely - can you imagine Britannia in any style other than neo-classical?) and gets his pupil William Blake to do a drawing for it.

It's the usual stuff - big bird in flowing outfit and helmet, brandishing shield and trident, complete with rather-cute lion. Years later, in 1958, one Malcolm Campbell, writing in the Princetown University journal, is to be quite sniffy about the whole thing, accusing it of being 'derivative' - but Flaxman has second-guessed him and harps on instead about the sculpture's symbolic value:

"It is to be remembered that the port of the Metropolis is the great port of the whole kingdom; that the Kent road is the ingress to London from Europe, Asia and Africa; and that, as Greenwich Hill is the place from whence the longitude is taken, the Monument would, like the first mile-stone in the city of Rome, be the point from which the world would be measured."

Stirring stuff, eh? And the man's not short on chutzpah. He reckons his work of art will last "as long as the Trajan Column, the Amphitheatre or the Pyramids of Egypt." He points out, too, that "it will ensure the praise and admiration of succeeding ages."

But here's a thing. Flaxman wasn't keen to have his colossal figure at any cost. He actually withdrew his suggestion in favour of an art gallery after a couple of years, when the Napoleonic wars started to hot-up again, and he was keen that if anything were to be built - his own or someone else's design - it should actually be worthwhile.

"It would certainly be far better not to raise any National Monument whatever on the present occasion, than one upon which considerable labour and expense should be laid out, to be the scoff of foreigners, and the disgrace of the country as long as it should exist."

I hate to bang on about the Olympics and Greenwich Park again - but wise words, don't you think...

Blake's picture of Britannia is in the Bodleian Library, but I read that the little maquette of the statue is in Sir John Soane's Museum, and felt it needed visiting.

I received a serious ticking-off for the following picture - the security guard went absolutely berserk at me - but since I've already taken the pain, and to be frank it's in the basement and, I'm not kidding, so very, very dimly lit that you actually can't see it properly, I present it here for your delight and delectation. Sadly no lion - a second shot was out of the question - I'd have been hanged for it...

But imagine this, 230 feet high, astride Greenwich Hill and wonder what might have been. Would the images on those split-picture tourist postcards of London have included The Houses of Parliament, St Paul's, Buckingham Palace, Tower Bridge - and the Greenwich Britannia? It's a thought, isn't it...

Moonlighting Chris?

Is our beloved Chris Roberts feeling the credit-crunch pinch? Is he having to supplement his Council-Leader income with a spot of extra cash-in-hand? This review, in London Lite yesterday (glad to see he's writing for a classy publication...) seems to suggest just that. I hope he's not using the Council Royal Box without announcing his interests...

Incidentally, "The Leader," the name by which, I am informed by - well, an informer, actually, Our Chris is known among his senior staff, translates into German as Der Fuehrer.

Just thought you'd like to know...

Silent Witness

A short while ago I was crossing Blackheath. It was, I guess, about 8.30pm - maybe it was much later - my memory is hazy now about virtually everything except The Noise. Certainly it was getting quite cold and very dark and there was virtually no one else around on that eerie, twilit heath.

It was then that I heard it. A strange, mournful, moaning sound coming from somewhere in front of me. As I approached, a tall, hooded figure with its back to me seemed hunched over, intent on whatever it was doing. The wailing increased. An inhuman, metallic honk of a moan. Something must be in distress. For a second, The Noise split in short, angry squawks, then went back to wailing again.

I got a little closer to the swaddled, hooded figure. Not too close - that would be daft - but close enough to see what it was. A man, all by himself with just the crows for company, playing long, doleful notes on a saxophone, coat buttoned and hood up against the cold. I think the poor sod was even wearing gloves.

What's the story behind that one? I can only assume it was the result of one of those "It's that - that - that instrument - or me" type conversations. That he had gone to practice where whoever he lived with wouldn't belt him one.

I'm pretty sure this isn't nearly the strangest thing that's ever been seen on Blackheath. I'm actually pretty sure it's not the strangest thing I've seen in the area, but it's one of those little odd moments that seem extremely eloquent in their simplicity - that tell a bigger tale than might just first appear.

I'd like to hear about the oddest things you've seen in Greenwich. I bet you've got much better stories than my lonesome sax man. Points will be awarded for storytelling prowess.

And, while we're about it, c'mon - 'fess up to the Phantom - have you ever done anything that might seem perfectly sensible at the time but afterwards has occurred to you might have looked just the teensiest bit odd to passers-by? Hey - wouldn't it be weird if the stories coincided...

Views From The Wheel (1)

Lovely pictures are beginning to come the Phantom's way, courtesy of the Wheel, and here are a few of the first. This one's by LGM:

I find it almost impossible to imagine that I actually live just down the road from somewhere that looks like that - it's like some stately home or Versailles or something - I feel that I should be listening to a Purcell voluntary whilst looking at it. And the angle it's taken from makes it look as though the whole thing's set in the countryside...

Methers's pics have taken a slightly different approach. Vanbrugh Castle, a mere dot in the distance, seems at least a little closer here:

And I really love the framing of the Dome by the ironwork of the Wheel.

But what I like best are the angles we get of things that make us look at things in a different way. Take this shot, of the Pepys Centre directly below the Wheel:

I don't know about you, but when I think of the ORNC, I think of angles. I think of mathematical precision, straight lines and rigorous perspective. But what's that building just behind the curvy colonnade in the bottom left corner doing? For starters, I'm not quite sure what it is - it's round the back (I have an inkling, but I need to do some more digging...) but just look at that angle. It doesn't particularly bother me - but it does make me curious. I mean - who decided to put something at such a squiff in a place that is so very rigid in its design? I like to think that it was an individual decision.

I don't know what it is or who built it - but I'm going to find out. I want to know who it was that had a little rebellion one day and built what is effectively a neo-classical shed on the wonk; a little fist of defiance to architectural conformity.

Old Royal Naval College Allotments

I feel very smug. I couldn't have dreamed that my call a couple of weeks ago, for more allotments to be made available to local gardeners, would be heard by ears in such high quarters...

The Old Royal Naval College most kindly rotovated four new plots yesterday, as you can see from the photos, for what must surely be the world's poshest allotments - and the most sought after kitchen gardens in Greenwich.

Of course they won't come without strings. As they are on a World Heritage Site, these plots will have to be worked within strict guidelines. The theme will be "Kitchen Gardening Through The Ages" and each plot will reflect a different age, growing only crops used in a particular period.

The first, A Tudor Sallat, will recall the days of Good King Hal, and his daughter, Good Queen Bess, with a selection of heritage-variety vegetables and fruit. The lucky allotment holder will also be allowed to keep a Heritage Breed hog. He or she will, of course, be expected to wear breeches, codpiece and/or a farthingale when gardening.

The second plot, The Pensioner's Supper, will include the kind of crops grown in their particular age, including a row or two of hops for the brewery. A delightful plot, they will be wearing full pensioner costume when working the plot during public visiting hours.

The third, and probably most splendid, is to be The Victorian Kitchen Garden - a magnificent array of unusual vegetables, fruit and flowers, often lost to today's plate. Cardoons, anyone? Victorian garb required.

Lastly, the Dig For Victory garden will reflect a life of austerity during WWII. The plot will include the entire allotment's only permitted shed, an original Andersen Shelter.

Gardeners will be expected to conduct educational tours every five minutes to groups of bored schoolchildren.

Demand will clearly be fierce for these four plots and the fairest way to decide which local gardener gets to hold them will be a competition. Apply in writing, in the style of the era you wish to work. The longest and most authentic letter (you can include engravings of yourself in costume if you wish) will be chosen for each allotment. Please bear in mind that the plots will be temporarily taken over each winter for the annual Ice Rink, so the growing of overwintering onions, leeks and cabbages will be curtailed.

May Morris Morning

Greenwich Morris Men have sent me a link to photos of their May Dawn Dance on the heath this morning. While we were all tucked up in our beds, these stout fellows were jingling bells, bashing sticks and waving hankies to see-in May Day in the traditional fashion.

Ged tells me it was cold but not actually raining at the time and the sunrise was glorious. Apparently the dance straddles the sunrise by about 15 minutes each side. Dawn was at 5.32 this morning - so these guys started around 5.17am. I hope they all had a nice cup 'a tea at the 'ut afterwards.

I don't know - it makes me feel all rustic. A little bit of the countryside in London. I have no idea what the donkeys made of it...

The Phantom Cheers Up

Grumpy Old Phantom has been going through the fantastic photographs you've sent me this afternoon instead of doing Proper Work (naughty me) and came across this. It sort of follows in the same vein as the sign we discussed over the weekend and it made me laugh. You may have to click on it to really enjoy it to the full.



I think the ultimate Scary Neighbour who penned this is in Pelton Road (am I right, B?) Whatever. The Phantom is smiling again...

Separated At Birth...

Could it be? Is it possible? That Admiral Lord Nelson has a long-lost brother? It took me a long while to work out whose lips the artist based this statue on (thanks for the pic, Stevie) ...



...but I've finally worked it out.



Who would have guessed?

Grisly Bones Discovery

Talking of lovely local photographers sending me curious things, here's an oddity from Blackheathen which has left me puzzled indeed.

Walking along the path by the Old Royal Naval College on Saturday, he saw police raking around on the shore, collecting a large quantity of dodgy-looking bones, after a tip-off from beachcombers. Apparently they are probably not human, (the bones, dummy, not the beachcombers...) though they've been carted off to the labs for checking anyway, and had probably been in the river for some time (also not the totters...)

Blackheathen tells me

"Police have yet to confirm if their investigation will lead to any prosecutions but local residents commended the prompt response by authorities in brightening up an otherwise dull afternoon..."

The Lucky Greenwich Dromedary

The Royal Standard, Pelton Rd, SE10

Benedict, who clearly has too much time on his hands, has sent me this great picture of the splendid fellow outside The Royal Standard pub in Pelton Road. I think he must once have been a Christmas decoration, but was such a hit he just stayed there. He's been there for bloomin' yonks now, and somehow the place just wouldn't look the same without him. He seems to be caught in what looks like a rather alarming net - presumably that's fairly lights, though I've not seen them lit. I've heard all kinds of stories about him, most of which seem to be variations on his granting three wishes to anyone who climbs up, gives him a carrot and a mince pie, and pats him on Christmas Eve, from which has arisen the moniker of the Lucky Greenwich Dromedary.

There's is something strange about that reindeer, wishes or not. If you click on the pic you can see it better and blow me, if it isn't actually some kind of humpless camel with a saddle on its back and antlers attached. Part of a recycled fairground ride, perhaps?

This kind of customisation is something of which I approve, and I've set my mind to thinking how other sculptures in Greenwich could be improved with little extras. William IV with deelyboppers, perhaps? The Throne of Earthly Kings with some comfy cushions? It's a good job Knife Edge isn't still with us - it would have made a fantastic maypole. Maybe we should have a special festival of 'improved' statues? I certainly enjoyed the Cannon-In-A-Condom recently.

And what of Nelson, which Stevie (who sent this pic) and I have been agreeing is easily the ugliest statue in Greenwich? Certainly that pale green furniture does nothing for him. The only improvement I can think of for this strangely amphibian incarnation would be a paper bag...

Any other suggestions for funky additions to Greenwich Scuptures?

Toadhog Day

From the ridiculous to the sublime...

Benedict points out that it is, of course, the Second Lunar Trimester before the Spring Equinox entering the House of Jupiter with Capricorn rising, exactly 18 Solar Days before Easter Sunday, which, as we all know, makes it Toadhog Day.

Rush to the lawns of the Old Royal Naval College at around 11.00 this morning to join in the special Toade Hunt, where His Worship the Mayor will, in full cermonial garb, make a proclamation before the gathered assembly, then lead the public in the "lifting of the stones" ceremony, looking for the Lucky Greenwich Toad, before initiating a joyful Toad Walk through the park to the Observatory.

A little history. Incredibly, the origins of Toadhog Day have nothing to do with amphibians at all. During Duke Humphrey's tenure, it began as 'Olde Hogge' Day, when older, more dangerous wild pigs were hunted down and a sneaky mid-Lentern feast provided for the people. It was, of course, much disapproved of by the Church.

The Toads came in after Humphrey's enclosure of the park and boars were less common. 'Slipping ye tode in ye hole' became somewhat of a vulgar term during the reign of Good King Hal, a sly reference to his courtship of Anne Bolyen under the old oak tree in Greenwich Park. The festival got a bit out of hand in the centuries to come, gradually becoming saucier and saucier, and wasn't cleaned up until Victorian times when prudes forced the annual undergound Saturnalia to become a family event. It is nevertheless still much enjoyed by the people of the Parish.

As ancient tradition decrees, as the Time Ball drops at exactly 1.00pm, His Worship will raise the stone of the Lucky Toad and ask him when Spring will arrive. The number of irritated croaks will tell the world how many more weeks of winter we have to endure.

The comes the fun - a veritable carnival of toadery - Guess the Weight of the Toad, How Many Toads In The Barrel and Pin The Wart On The Toad competitions, to name but a few of the wholesome entertainments on offer. Greenwich does not come any more exciting. The event's highlight is, of course, the annual Parade Of The Toads, dressed in their finery. Benedict has kindly sent me a photo of the winners of last year's coveted Glamorous Toad award.


"Terence wears a Daffodil vase Top Hat by Benoit and Titania also chooses, from the same designer's spring/summer collection, a beautiful petal-motif bonnet."




Happy Toadhog Day, one and all...

Beer and Gin

Virtually nothing survives of the old palace of Placentia, as we were discussing yesterday. So when I hear about something that does just about cling onto existence, I want to know about it. Especially if just about the only description I can find on the internet claims it is 'obscene.'

I read about Beer and Gin - two ancient figures who lived over the Buttery (food store) at Placentia - in a single sentence in a guidebook written in 1937. Sir Geoffrey Callender, who was the first Director of the National Maritime Museum refers to the pair in passing as having
"presided over many a riotous scene in the days of Bluff King Hal, still serving a long term of imprisonment in the Tower of London, whither they were moved by order of the Commonwealth."

I was intrigued. I'd never heard of such figures. I googled the pair to infinity, finding only one other mention - as their being 'obscene.' No pictures at all, no mention in any modern references to the Tower today.

Now I love an ancient obscene figure as much as the next Phantom, and when faced with the concept of two of them, I sniffed A Quest. Not least, perhaps, one of rescue. What the hell were they doing still languishing in the Tower when Greenwich could do with all the ancient obscene figures it could get? (And no, Chris Roberts doesn't count.)

Since I couldn't find anyone to tell me whether they were still there, there was only one thing for it. Co-opt a couple of American visitors and seek the jolly pair out myself.

We decided to do the whole tourist thing - I mean if you're paying sixteen quid each you want every cheesy moment the Tower can throw at you. And believe me - there are cheesy moments a-go-go on a visit to the Tower. We did the Beefeater Tour, the Crown Jewels and the photo opportunity with the ravens. We paced up and down Sir Walter Raleigh's Walk and dutifully voted about whether we thought the Little Princes were actually murdered by Richard III. We heard gory tales of Tyburn and Tower Hill and Jack Ketch, The Most Inept Executioner In All Of England. And then we got down to business.

The first Yeoman I asked didn't know what the hell I was talking about - I doubt he gets many questions that don't include Anne Boleyn, torture or his costume. It didn't bode well. So I went for the oldest, beardiest, fattest-looking Beefeater I could find - always the best idea when asking obscure, I find. And obscene. Beer and Gin? Just by the stairs on the first floor in the White Tower, he told me. Tension mounted. Filth coming up...


Hmmm.

You know, I spent a long time trying to work out what on earth was obscene about the strange pair in front of me. Waist-length carved wooden gentlemen in Tudor doublet and gown, each clutching a tankard in pudgy fingers and looking - well, a bit pathetic, actually.

They've clearly been knocked about a bit (by Cromwell, boo, hiss) and Beer has what looks like a whip wound around his middle. One of my American companions pointed out a slight bulge in an obvious place in Beer's puffy pants, but frankly, I would defy Mary Whitehouse herself to find these two 'obscene.' Comic? Perhaps. Creepy? Definitely. Obscene? Nah...

I can only assume that Cromwell thought that the very act of drinking was obscene. Tell you what, though. Rude or not, I still think they could find a little spot for Beer and Gin in the new Interpretation Centre in Greenwich. Our very own Statler and Waldorf, commenting on goings-on from that balcony up the spiral staircase. I can just see it now:

Beer:"It's good to be heckling again."
Gin: "It's good to be doing anything again!"
Both: "Ha ha ha ha!"

A new campaign for the Phantom, perhaps.

If I'm absolutely honest, there is something else more important (what - more important than Beer and Gin?) The Tower holds that I would like to see returned to Greenwich. But that's for another day...