The Magnificent Seven (2 of 3):Paradise by Way of Kensal Green.

"For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen. Before we go to paradise by way of Kensal Green" - The Rolling English Road, GK Chesterton, 1913.

It was the hottest day of the year so far when we met for London by Foot's second (in a series of three) Magnificent Seven cemetery walks at Imperial Wharf station and nobody was complaining that it was to be a shorter walk than Good Friday's stroll around West Norwood or Nunhead or the soon to come epic trek that will take in Tower Hamlets, Abney Park, and Highgate.

We'd lost Pam, Colin, Sue, Stuart, and Kathy but we'd regained Shep, Tina, and Neil W - and, of course, myself - your slightly absent minded administrator. We'd also been joined by TADS regulars Neil B, Belinda, and Eamon - and, for the first time since Carl's appearance on March's Leaside wander somebody had responded to my Facebook page and turned up who didn't know us. Emma was a welcome addition who was so friendly and easy to get along with that within half an hour of the walk I'd almost forgotten she wasn't an old friend. Let's hope she can join us again.

Once we'd all said hello and grabbed some free water we headed out towards Chelsea Harbour, with its impressive views of Battersea Railway Bridge, kooky fish statue, and almost complete lack of people. With the sun blaring down and the fancy apartments surrounding us we could almost have been on the Med. Although with a valet attending to a Merc with a 1JT personalised number plate the thought that former Chelsea and England defender, philanderer, and racist John Terry may be around brought us very much back to London.

We passed the Chelsea Harbour Hotel, crossed Chelsea Creek, and, after speculating as to the age and architectural style of a brown brick industrial looking building, carried along down Lots Road, stuck our noses in a window of a shop full of expensive looking candles and chandeliers and crossed Westfield Park and then the King's Road. It wasn't long before we'd reached Brompton Cemetery.

A beautiful space, even with Stamford Bridge stadium looming large over its west aspect. This area of London doesn't seem as blessed with green spaces as other parts so many were taking advantage of the cemetery to sunbathe and walk dogs - and there was even a cute little cafe at either end of the large rectangular plot.

I used my new SEEK app on my phone to identify some flowers but the sight of a stretched out squirrel and a crow posing on a grave, as if conjured from the imagination of Edgar Allan Poe, soon took precedence.

Brompton was laid out in 1839 with 35,000 monuments marking more than 200,000 resting places. Its domed central chapel (c/o Benjamin Baud) is a modest riff on St.Peter's in Rome but it still looked pretty spectacular under the flaming June skies.

The graveyard suffered some bomb damage in World War II but that's only given it a more romantic feel. I found a spot and, as Shep checked his watch, I commenced with a brief bit of spiel about the cemetery.

Notable internees include:-

Henry Cole (1808-1882), the Bath born founder of the V&A, Royal Albert Hall, Royal College of Music, and the Great Exhibition who also invented the Christmas card!

Samuel Cunard (1787-1865), the Nova Scotia born shipping magnate.

Kit Lambert (1935-1981), manager of The Who but also associated with Jimi Hendrix, Marc Bolan, Fairport Convention, Shakin' Stevens, and Billy Idol's pre-Generation X outfit Chelsea.

Bernard Levin (1928-2004), author and broadcaster.

Emmeline Pankhurst (1858-1928), the Moss Side born Suffragette.

Samuel Smiles (1812-1904), the East Lothian born inventor of 'self-help'.

John Snow (1813-1858), the anaesthetist and epidemioligist who proved the link between infected water and cholera.

John Wisden (1826-1884), the Brighton born founder of the famous cricketing almanac.

Sir Arthur Sullivan was to be buried in Brompton until Queen Victoria intervened and insisted he was interred, instead, in St Paul's Cathedral but Beatrix Potter, who lived nearby, is said to have found much inspiration in this boneyard. She used to walk in Brompton regularly and it's rumoured that some of her characters were inspired by inscriptions she read for the likes of Mr Nutkins, Mr Brock, Jeremiah Fisher, and Peter Rabbett - though presumably not Mrs Tiggy-Winkle. The cemetery also has a reputation as a popular cruising spot for gay men.

In the 1880s Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show was on at Earl's Court and several First Nations American perfomers died. Long Wolf and Paul Eagle Star were buried in Brompton and then, more than a century later, exhumed and reburied in South Dakota but it's said that White Star, Little Chief, and Red Penny are still resident.

We had a nose around but we couldn't find their graves - or, indeed, many of the other 'celebrities'. Determined to find just one we spotted the final resting place of Emmeline Pankhurst which is no doubt one of the best anyway. It didn't matter that we didn't find the others as it was just lovely and pleasant to have a general nose around taking in headless statues, strange horizontal crosses, and winged angels as the sun continued to beat down and turn my skin ever browner.

Just before we emptied out on to Old Brompton Road, through a splendid arch, we read a couple of stories. One was about Albert Dredge who, three days before his second marriage, heard his first wife call him from the grave. He visited her grave and shot himself. A note of apology to his fiancee was found in his pocket.

More macabre still was the tale of labourer William Rogers who impaled himself on a spike while 'larking about' in the cemetery and died in hospital a few days later. I'd said before that cemeteries aren't bleak places but the curators of Brompton seem to be doing their best to prove me wrong.

There was now a bit of residential street walking ahead of us but it was livened up by that weird white faced thing (second picture below) and Eamon generously treating everybody to a Cornetto from Tesco. That kept us entertained and cooled down until we reached Holland Park.

Holland Park, a lovely spot, houses The Design Museum (the former Commonwealth Institute, which moved from its former home near Tower Bridge in 2016 after being developed by John Pawson) and Holland House, a former manor house now in ruins following WWII bombing. There's a nice little cafe I'd visited with my friend Adam in February 2017 but its best feature is surely its stunning Kyoto Garden, a place introduced to me by another friend, Sanda, last year.

The peacock was strutting more then and looked a bit bedraggled on this visit but the waterfall, the fish, and the tranquility made it an idyllic spot for a picnic, a romantic afternoon, or just a nice sleep in the sunshine. Shep looked none too impressed with the peacock. He's a waterfowl man through and through.

Disappointed that my friends had not been as impressed by the Kyoto Garden as I had been we left the park, had a nose at the Consulate General of Greece, paid our quick respects to Volodymr the Great, Grand Prince of Kiev, and went to the pub for a well earned beverage. Nobody complained about that and nobody complained about sitting inside either.

It was a cold lager day and one pint soon became two (there were bad influences at play) in The Eagle. It was a lovely, relaxed pit stop and was only slightly marred by me accidentally opening up a cubicle door as a man was still doing his 'paperwork'. "Alright" he said, which seemed a bit odd in the circumstances!

We made our way towards Ladbroke Grove, past pastel shaded houses and a bright yellow Fiat, for a longish straight final stretch down and then up and under the Westway into Kensal Green. This area, carnival aside - the main procession heads this way, has very strong musical links. Hawkwind, The Pink Fairies, Rita Ora, The Clash, AJ Tracey, All Saints, and, of course, World Domination Enterprises are all associated with Ladbroke Grove. Micheal Moorcock writes of it often.

The paddling pool looked tempting, the bouncy castle less so. The views of Trellick were impressive, the views of Grenfell a tragic reminder of what an unequal society we still live in. You can get a real feel for this walking one end of Ladbroke Grove to the other. On the south side the houses are like wedding cakes but by the time you reach the northern end it's all fast food joints and graffiti. Oh, and the Innocent smoothies HQ and a rather fetching wooden building on stilts that caught our eye and had us speculating as to its purpose. A house? Office space? Bond villain headquarters?

You cross the canal, you find out that God (apparently) rules, and you soon enter into Kensal Green cemetery. Number two on this walk and number four in this series.

Inspired by Pere Lachaise in Paris, it opened in 1833 and was immortalised by GK Chesterton in the poem that tops this blog. It contains a few Grecian style buildings but its character is primarily Gothic and it featured in the 1973 film Theatre of Blood starring Vincent Price and Diana Rigg.

Notable burials include:-

Charles Blondin (1824-1897), the French tightrope walker who crossed Niagara Gorge and died in Ealing.

Isambard Kingdom Brunel (1806-1859), the Portsmouth born civil engineer whose great projects included the SS Great Britain (now in Bristol), the SS Great Western, the SS Great Eastern (both no more), the Thames Tunnel between Rotherhithe and Wapping (which I still use regularly), the Clifton Suspension Bridge, the Royal Albert Bridge across the Tamar, and the Great Western Railway.

Marc Isambard Brunel (1769-1849). IKB's dad was born in Normandy and though he's not as famous as his son, the Thames Tunnel, at least, was his baby.

Decimus Burton (1800-1881), the architect responsible for the Wellington Arch, Carlton House Terrace, Hyde Park Corner, Kew Gardens, parts of London Zoo, and some of Tunbridge Wells.

Wilkie Collins (1824-1889), the author of The Woman in White.

Philmore 'Boots' Davison (1928-1993), the Trinidadian who introduced the steel band to Britain. It seems apt that he's buried within earshot of carnival.

Wyndham Lewis (1882-1957), the Vorticist painter and editor of BLAST!

Harold Pinter (1930-2008):- The Birthday Party, The Caretaker.

Sir Terence Rattigan (1911-1977):- The Winslow Boy.

William Henry Smith (1792-1865) who ran newsagents and bookshops. You can probably guess what his shops are called now. They sell overpriced crisps and bottles of water at train stations mainly.

William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863), the Calcutta born author of Vanity Fair.

Steve Peregrin Took (1949-1980). Marc Bolan's partner in Tyrannosaurus Rex died aged 31 in Notting Hill after a morphine OD. Drugs 'misadventure' or suicide? The jury, it seems, is still out.

Anthony Trollope (1815-1882), the Monken Hadley lad who wrote The Chronicles of Barsetshire.

Charles Babbage (1791-1871) who is considered by some the 'father of the computer'.

There's a few notable cremations too. People like Ingrid Bergman (1915-1982), Freddie Mercury (1946-1991), Alan Rickman (1946-2016), and Uxbridge lass Christine Keeler (1942-2017).

We had a look around, checking out views of gasholders, caryatids, and knobbly old graves. We even spotted a fox cub running along. Kensal Green is vast so we could never hope to see it all (and we didn't fancy getting locked in for the night) but we, as with Brompton, decided we needed to find at least one of the more famous internees so we set our sights on IKB's plot and using a combination of GPS, OS map, and, get this, our own eyes, we damned well found it.

That's it below. That's the family plot. There's plenty of Brunels in there. It's not as impressive as we expected but I guess if you want to see Brunel's main legacy you go to Bristol or something. Might do that again soon ;-)

After that it was time for us to go to paradise by way of Kensal Green ourselves and by that I don't mean we were collectively throwing a seven. No, instead we repaired to the charming, if a little odd, Paradise by Way of Kensal Green pub where one drink became two and soon three.

Emma left and the seven remaining, and now somewhat refreshed, explorers repaired to Curry Nights where, unannounced, they were joined by their old friend Ian 'TC' Stocks. More beer and some of the reddest paneer shashlik followed and I, perhaps daftly, headed off into the night with Ian for more shenanigans which included seeing a man walk down the road with a large, and very much alive, snake slung over his shoulder.

When I woke up on Ian's couch the next morning I didn't feel too bright but I did feel happy that, once again, we'd manage to execute a fun, educational, and interesting walk. Thanks to everyone who joined me and hopefully see some of you again soon for the third, and final, stage of this trilogy. Promoted to glory!

Theatre night:Radio.

"I wish I was a spaceman. The fastest guy alive. I'd fly you round the universe in Fireball XL5. Way out in space together, conquerors of the sky. My heart would be a fireball, a fireball, every time I gazed into your starry eyes" - Fireball XL5, Barry Gray.

 

Barry Gray's theme tune to Fireball XL5 and Glen Campbell's Wichita Lineman are the songs that punctuate the Al Smith written, Josh Roche directed, and Adam Gillen starring play Radio that I got myself along to see at the Arcola in Dalston last night. A play that purports to be about "love, memory and spaceships".

All undoubtedly big and important things - but it did seem to be, or trying to be at least, about something much more. During a seventy five minute monologue, Gillen as Charlie Fairbanks Jnr tells us his life story, his father's life story, his mother's life story, and even one of his grandparent's life stories for good measure. 

It's a lot to take in and though it's fascinating in places there were other times when I'd drift off and start wondering what I'd have for dinner later or start daydreaming about upcoming holidays! Which was more than a little awkward as Gillen, an amazing performer it has to be said, has a tendency to drill in individual audience members, catch their eye, and speak as if directly to them.

I was sat in the front row so it happened often to me. First time I nearly spoke back, surely poor etiquette! Soon I learned just to listen as Gillen told a tale of flags, magicians, homelessness, and the American aviation industry in which it seemed likely, if not completely apparent, that Fairbanks Jnr was supposed to represent a personification of America herself.

Fairbanks Jnr was born slap bang in the middle of the twentieth century (and grew up wanting to be an astronaut, like many his age). Not just that, he grew up slap bang in the geographical centre of America, in the small city of Lebanon, Kansas. When his family move to the slightly larger, and much colder, Rugby, North Dakota it's around the time Alaska is made a state so the centre of America changes again and the Fairbanks family find themselves, once more, in the middle of everything.

Later on, Hawaii is admitted to the union so the centre is now in the Pacific Ocean and, you guessed it, the Fairbanks family move, ok not to a floating home in the sea, but to San Francisco in California where, due to the high mortality rate of soldiers during the Vietnam War, our protagonist's father gets rich making flags to drape over dead soldier's coffins.

In this, and other sections, you can see attempts to show, and critique, how America went from a booming, forward looking, country sending young men into space to explore those final frontiers to an inward looking, militaristic, nation that, instead, sent those young men to their deaths on foreign fields.

Leaving aside the fact that American military aggression was already well established before the moon landings, my concern was that the satire was sketched so lightly it never really bit hard enough (like, for instance, in Ivo van Hove's confusing but powerful The Damned (which I saw recently at The Barbican). That's fair enough. The budget and cast size are completely incomparable (Gillen has to make do with a tape recorder, a selection of jackets, a couple of chairs, and what looks like some misshapen hammock strung across the stage).

But what was disappointing is that, despite a couple of funny moments (for me anyway, others in the audience were howling like horny hyenas), one or two genuinely great lines, and a couple of mildly moving passages, this play that spanned the fifties through to the seventies from the presidency of Harry Truman to that of Gerald Ford, ultimately left me a little frustrated.

Despite a great central performance I just wasn't as gripped as I'd have liked to have been. I'd loved my visit to the great little Arcola (and I enjoyed my Big V dog and Brooklyn lager in The Diner nearby afterwards) but I came away thinking that if space is the place this rocket was, sadly, manned more by Mr Spoon on his way to Button Moon than Neil Armstrong and Apollo 11. I feel harsh in this assessment because it was such a valiant effort and because of that I'll hand out a rare mark out of ten. Six. Six out of ten. Which is still better than 5-4-3-2-1, eh!

I Was a (Slightly Older Than) Teenage Eggheads Challenger!

Nathan Lyon! Nathan bloody Lyon!

It turns out he's an off-spin bowler and not a wicket keeper at all and what could be a more embarrassing scenario to get that wrong but appearing live on the teatime TV quiz show Eggheads while representing a team named The Seamers due to our supposed love of cricket. Ouch!

Despite this and, SPOILER ALERT, failing to beat the Eggheads I had loads of fun and I think and hope the rest of my team did too. We'd have only won £1,000 anyway and between the six of us (there's always a reserve on hand) that wouldn't have gone far. In fact the train to Glasgow, the hotel, and the meal (a pizza, nothing fancy, we had to pay for our own beer) would probably have cost more than all that anyway.

So what happened and how did it come to happen?

My ex-work colleague Sharon was the first person to mention the idea of it to me (that's her in the green jumper looming large over the rest of our team). Me and her had discussed the idea of going on Pointless before and we're both keen quizzers. Her friend Colin was getting a 'rainbow nation' of a team together to apply to go on Eggheads and she wondered if I wanted in!

Of course I did. We signed up a couple of others (who both dropped out before the day) and had a little rehearsal around Colin's place in Tooting as well as filming a brief introduction to ourselves. I'd met Colin once before when I interviewed him for a radio show I used to present on Resonance FM about soca music. That was more than ten years ago.

When our place was confirmed (and those that shall remain nameless dropped out) we were sent long forms to fill in and told to be in Euston station to catch the train to Glasgow on a Friday in January 2018. Alex (one of my most cherished friends, that's her on the right in the photo above) came along as reserve and then one of the team didn't show up. Alex was nervous but we weren't letting her back down now. Cherstyn (she's the one in the light red top) got her daughter Yves, who lived in Scotland anyway, in as an emergency reserve and we all jumped on the train.

As we got further north, and into Scotland especially, the mild southern weather gave way to beautiful snow covered hills and glorious sunsets. By the time we reached Glasgow it was dark so we checked into our hotel, a grand and impersonal (but perfectly pleasant and comfortable) affair right by the station. Sharon, Alex, and I had a little explore and, later on, the whole team went out for pizza and to discuss what our strategy was and who would answer questions on what. Come the day that plan didn't really help us.

I was in bed in my hotel room by about 9.30pm (in a strange city on a weekend night, most irregular) but it did mean I was up by about 6am and eating breakfast with my fellow team members in a mostly empty hotel breakfast bar. We jumped in a cab to the studio, we had to be there early as we were the first challengers to be filmed that day, and were introduced to various agency staff (mostly being let go of soon so they were all pretty relaxed) and told to show them what tops we'd bought to wear.

There was quite a strict rule. No black, no white, no stripes, no logos, and no blue (clashes with the Eggheads set) which ruled out almost everything I had. Plus, we had to bring four tops. Wardrobe folks chose one for me (and they had a dressing up box for people who fail to comply) and it was what an old friend of mine would have called a "dad's party shirt". I'm sure there was a ketchup stain on it too. Hey, if you're gonna be on TV you need to make an effort, right?

Next up was make up. That was fun. I could get used to people making me up. I knew I was made for TV and for being pampered. I certainly can't do it myself.

Back in the green room (just a room really) the agency staff told us a story about one team who turned up a member short. The missing member had got on the piss in Glasgow the night before and turned up with about ten minutes to go, stinking of booze with various receipts for bars and even a strip club he thought the BBC could settle, drank a cup of coffee in a vain attempt to sober up, then went on the show, took on Kevin (notoriously the toughest opponent) and knocked him out. Was my early night in vain?

I was getting quite nervous by now. Nervous but excited too. Jeremy Vine was the consummate pro, waving his selfie stick around (he took a lot of these snaps) and introducing us to the Eggheads themselves who were all friendly. Steve was particularly friendly and Kevin too. Chris, Judith, and Pat were all perfectly polite but Steve and Kevin went that extra mile to put us at ease.

Then, all of a sudden, we're on. We're introducing ourselves. Shit, as they say, is getting real. Captain Colin up first, Sharon next, then me (introducing myself as a blogger like the fucking pillock I am), then Cherstyn and Alex with their proper job titles.

Colin chats to Jeremy a bit and tells him how we all know each other and how much he loves cricket (he's written proper books about it) and, fair play to the captain, he goes up first against Pat on history. I was glad. I did not fancy that category. There's a lot of history out there. Everything that ever happened basically.

Pat gets a question right about prohibition, Colin gets one about the Met police correct, Pat counters with another right answer - on quite a tricky question about Enola Gay (I should have stayed home yesterday), and Colin comes unstuck with a poser about the Battle of Midway. All Pat has to do is get the next question right and we've lost our captain. We're less than seven minutes into the show and our plans are unfolding.

Turns out Pat knows his Mary Wollstonecraft so that's it, Colin's gone. Next subject is music so it's me or Sharon. I bottle it. The team keep me benched in case sport comes up. It's the worst mistake we make. Not for Sharon. She aces it. I think at this point Jeremy's got the hots for her and she tells him about a flashmob on a cruise ship where she danced to Thriller ("third zombie on the right"). Her questions are about Bjork, The Buzzcocks (cue me and Jeremy Vine sharing punk anecdotes and me looking unbearably smug when I identify The Ramones), and The Doors. All acts I love or at least like. I could get all three. But, of course, so can Sharon! She's knocked out Chris who knew his Michael Jackson but got caught out on a question about Lily Allen's first hit!

As you do! Alex does a dainty little clap but then I'm up. Nothing to clap anymore. I have to take sport so received wisdom means I choose Judith. If I lose to Judith on sport I'll never live this down. I talk about my blog about art, music, walking, cinema, and theatre - but, very very rarely, sport. We go to some giant sofa in a room round the back of the studio and they ask me a question about Jonah Lomu. I get it right and for some reason refer to my ex-girlfriend as a partner. Like a prick.

Judith knows Anthony Joshua's place of birth (Watford) and who won the Davis Cup in 2017 (France) but I, as I've already said, don't know what role Nathan Lyon plays. Neither, it turns out, do I know what the LA ice hockey team are called (Kings) so I'm out. I have three questions, just THREE, and I get two of them wrong. Not my greatest moment but I bore my defeat with good grace and people said kind things. One twat on Twitter called me a stupid prick but I can live with that.

So, there's one more round. It's Alex v Steve on Arts & Books. Tough stuff. Sharon and Cherstyn are in the final. Will Alex join them?

No, as it turns out. Alex probably reads more books than anyone I know so if she can't do it, nobody can. The first question about Raymond Briggs (Fungus the Bogeyman) is a gift to her. Steve hits back with his knowledge of Clive Cussler and then Alex is presented with a totally bizarre question about Edgar Allan Poe's Murders in the Rue Morgue which she gets right, spoiling the book for everyone who hasn't read it yet.

Steve hits it out of the park with his knowledge of Leonardo's Last Supper (fish was served, not pasta) and poor Alex gets lobbed a googly about poetry. Which poet laureate wrote about "the cunning and savagery of animal life?". It's Ted Hughes but Alex guesses Cecil Day-Lewis. All it needed was Steve to know a reasonably easy question about Marcel Proust. I was gutted for Alex but I couldn't begrudge Steve a victory, he was genuinely that nice.

The final is between Kevin, Judith, Steve, and Pat representing Eggheads and our two final members, Cherstyn and Sharon. The rest of us gurning away on a big screen behind them as is Eggheads protocol. Sharon coaxes Cherstyn out of answering a question about New York wrong. We're one up. But Kevin's not gonna get a question about the meaning of the word 'senescence' wrong.

Sharon and Cherstyn pull ahead again with a question about Mickey Spillane, Eggheads hit back with their knowledge of Micky Flanagan's time as a fishmonger, and it's all square again. Everything to play for. Unfortunately the third question undoes the Seamers as surely as one of Wasim Akram's pacy deliveries. It's about the aviatrix (great word) Amy Johnson and our team didn't know she was from England. All it needed was Eggheads to mind their wicket with the right answer about the mountain Lhotse.

They've won. We've lost. Like a rollercoaster, it'd had been a thrilling ride. I was nervous on the pull up but I loved the loops, dips, and drops so much I couldn't wait to go back on it. Nearly eighteen months later I still haven't but I've made tentative plans to do Pointless with either Alex or Sharon and I hope they one day come to something.

We headed back to Glasgow. I got the train back to London with Alex. I phoned my nephew Daniel who is sports mad to tell him about my Judith shame and then I waited for SIXTEEN months before it was televised. It finally went out on my mate Bugsy's 51st birthday. He watched it from the hospice bed he would die in three days later and, all of a sudden, a stupid fucking quiz show didn't seem that important.

But, in a way, it was. Because what is life if it's not a collection of experiences, ideally spent with good friends. It would have been nice to make money on Eggheads but it was far better to make memories. I had a wonderful weekend away in Glasgow with some really great people and hope, one day, to do something like that again

Thanks to Sharon, Alex, Colin, Cherstyn, Yves, the Eggheads, Jeremy Vine (and his selfie stick), and all the staff that work behind the scene for your teatime pleasure and for giving me a rather unique and fun experience. I wouldn't mind a crack at Family Fortunes next.