Grey Owl

Pimp My Wigwam

September 18, 1888 - April 13, 1938

Bullshitters abound. Some people just can't help themselves - "here man I used to be a ninja but I got thrown out of the Warrior Assassins because I was too hard and everyone got jel of me skill", we might even do it ourselves at times - embellish things a little for the sake of a good story. I'd never do that though, ask John Candy if you don't believe me. Some people have to take it too far, whether they do it by design or whether a little white lie sets off a fictitious tsnuami of domino rally proportions, things can get out of hand sometimes and this brings us to Chief of the one-man Pork Pie tribe (self-appointed) - Grey Owl.

Grey Owl was born in Mexico to a Scotch father and an Apache (tribe, not the helicopter) mother, his parents knocked about with Will Bill Hickok. He was a 'Mexican Scout' in the US Army and he was adopted by the Ojibwe tribe after he set up camp with one of their squaws in a place called Bear Island. 

Most of that is unmitigated cobblers, cooked up, presumably, in a billy can over an open fire in the Northern Territories. In the real world Grey Owl was born Archibald Stansfield Belaney to English parents near Hastings, raised by two maiden aunts, educated at the local school and worked as a clerk for a lumber firm. It was whilst filing the documents and filling the ledgers with details of their business that he first got wood and experienced the call of the wild.

Shape-shifting? Piece of piss.

Belaney emigrated to Canada in 1906 after being sacked by the lumber company, he had almost destroyed their building with fireworks ("trust me, I've done this millions of times - it can't fail") and left ostensibly to study agriculture. He became a trapper, guide and ranger and started an association with the Ojibwe that kickstarted his transformation from Archie the outdoors enthusiast to Grey Owl, native American. Brown Tongue would've been more appropriate.

He didn't stop there though, he had three children by three different mothers and dabbled with bigamy by having a wife either side of the Atlanic at one point. He would make light of these relationships, dismissing criticism by saying it was "the way of the 'prey". The most significant woman in his life was Gertrude Bernard, a Mohawk Iroquois who also took the name Anahareo (meaning Pony, on account of the amount Belaney bunged her dad to secure his blessing). 

Bernard herself was an interesting character, she rescued and fostered a pair of beaver kits, the couple incorporated a lodge in their cabin. Belaney was unhappy with this at first, complaining that the beavers put him off his stroke but eventually he was won over and in later life couldn't get a stalk on unless there was a rodent watching. Bernard encouraged Belaney to forgo trapping and concentrate on writing about the wilderness, he began to focus increasingly on conservation and had a series of articles published under the name Grey Owl in Forests & Outdoors. He also wrote another column on the side under an assumed name in Forests & Outdoors (After Dark) called 'Grizzly Madames' to keep him in firewater.

Belaney knew what he was talking about when it came to conservation but because he did so as Grey Owl he ultimately undermined his own authority. When the story about his true identity unravelled after his death his books were withdrawn from publication and donations to conservation projects dropped. Now, because he spouted so much bollocks, he is known as the Grandfather of Climate-Change Denial and is held up as a figurehead for environmental sceptics. Fibbers take note and look to Ray Mears, he'd never pull a stunt like that. Bear Grylls? We'll see.

Status: Heap Dead
Lookalike: Tawny Kitaen (one for the owl-and-Whitesnake-enthusiasts demographic there)
In Three Words: Pants On Fire

 

   

John Candy

Upstairs.

October 31, 1950 – March 4, 1994

 

John Candy had a secret. The Canadian actor was born in 1950 under a cloak of secrecy, such was his father's desire to keep details of his illegitimate son from the public eye. Candy's father had just begun his own television career and didn't want any potential scandals scuppering his big break; he was young a star, he lived in a picnic hamper and he swore down to Looby Loo he would only put the tip in. Yes, Andy Pandy was the randy Candy dandy. Suddenly it all makes sense. He might've been sent to adoptive parents in Canada under an altered surname (an allusion to the the candy striped pyjamas that his father made his name in) but the clues were there for the eagle-eyed - the chubby cheeks, the desire to entertain, the affinity with food baskets, working with bears. Occam's razor, innit.

He played losers, geeks, doofs and irritants, yet the audience was always on his side. Del Griffith - shower curtain ring salesman from hell, Gus Polinski - Polka King of the North West. The under-achieving, all-drinking, all-gambling 'Uncle' Buck Russell. People you would avoid like a kiss from a syphilitic virago, portrayed by John Candy they were loveable cranks. Who doesn't like a lunkish underdog? If only he'd taken the role of Louis Tully, his filmography would be textbook.

John Candy understood and obeyed the universal law of the big lad - always be jolly. That's what people expect of ballaties, that and the expectation that they'll greet a gambit such as "you're big" with surprise, charm and, ultimately, gratitude. No-one likes a sullen fatty, see, look at Roland Browning - unpopular at school, he later matured into a low-level drug-peddling DJ; Michael Moore - unkempt bovine grump of the Left. You'd never get that kind of behaviour from Candy. He bought into his local american football team, set up an Italian domestic appliance manufacturer and travelled back to the 13th Century to invent confectionery, and did it all with a big dippy grin on his wobbly gish. That's why he got his own postage stamp. This is what you want from your celebrities. You can shove all those tortured artistes right up your arse.

John Candy: actor, big 'un, tattoo:

 

*

Status: Dead
Lookalike: John Savident*
In Three Words: Ten million dollars!

Admiral Lord Collingwood

If I could turn back time!

26 September 1748 - 7 March 1810

Cuthbert Collingwood was a premier league English naval hero doomed to relative obscurity because of the parallel lines mapping his career and that of Horatio Nelson. Nelson's shadow is hefty enough to obscure the achievements of most team-mates, certainly big enough to cloak fifty years at sea, an undisputed fight record in the Napoleonic wars, a peerage and progression through the highest ranks in the navy. Yes, not only is Collingwood's story no less amazing than his old mate Nelly Noo's but it also features a full compliment of limbs and it's about time it was told. Let's get salty.

Collingwood's most celebrated achievement came when he broke the enemy lines in his ship the Royal Sovereign (named after his favourite brand of budget tab) in the big away match against FC Franco-Spain at Trafalgar stadium, he then assumed command of the fleet after Nelson got capped and starting getting fruity with the menials. The British forces didn't lose a single ship under Collingwood but Nelson had made the ultimate career move, he died in action and in doing so he won the public vote, a spermatazoan Simon Cowell watched on and clocked the potential of a strong back story and a popular character. The die was cast; for Nelson, for Collingwood and for the future of Saturday night television. Thanks lads.

It's said that in all his career in the navy 'Old Colly' only spent three years on dry land. Despite this he obviously held his native Northumberland close to his heart, "Whenever I think how I am to be happy again, my thoughts carry me back to Morpeth." You can't blame the lad, it's got a lovely park and that sandwich shop down by the bingo hall is decent despite the faux-Italian histrionics you get from the proprietor. Collingwood was a tuna sweetcorn man - on a ships biscuit, swig of water straight out of the Wansbeck to wash it down. Tough as auld boots these navy wallahs you know.

Collingwood had a dog called Bounce, it was on long country walks with Bounce that Collingwood would indulge in his obsession with planting acorns, his reasoning being that in doing so there'd be enough English oak in the future to keep the navy in ships. He might not have foreseen the move to steel in the shipbuilding industry but think about the environmental benefits of his one-man reforestation work, not to mention how many squirrels he kept happy - no wonder you can still find the red ones parading about like the rodent princes of Arcadian Northumberland. There ain't no grey in their Union Jack.

At Collingwood's request, Bounce was stuffed after its death. Through a sequence of tragi-comic events too torturous to make-up detail here, Bounce enjoyed a second career when he was robotically animated, had his name altered just enough to avoid invalidating his life insurance payout and reappeared as Ramsey street's most famous mutt in the Australian soap opera Neighbours. His slightly awkward gait on the show was due to the limited availability of prosthetic canine knee joints (size: Labrador) at the time and was covered with a storyline about arthritis which led to  'Bouncer' becoming the face of the Australian Rheumatic Society Education Scheme (ARSES) from 1989 until his 'death' in 1994.

So what is Collingwood's legacy besides the fighting, flora and fauna? While Nelson got his own column in the middle of Trafalgar Square, Collingwood's statue enjoys an even more prestigious spot at the mouth of the Tyne; looking out on the North Sea - on home turf and beside the seaside, not in a seething mass of tourists, mudlarks and pearl-encrusted cutpurses. Nelson's statue is guarded by lions, Collingwood's by cannons, not surprising who survived Trafalgar is it? Meanwhile Collingwood Street is currently the place to go out in Newcastle for a jigger of rum, half price drinks if you turn up dressed as one of his ships (HMS Pelican and HMS Badger are the most popular). Collingwood is also the only maritime figure to have an England cricketer named after him, unfortunately marmalade bollocks didn't read the script and tragically ended up a mackem, well done sunshine. No sense of heritage some people.

Status: Dead Lookalike: Alistair Darling In Three Words: Pagga! Chicken Soup!

Sunday Dinner

Hypocritical Chicken & Fennel Risotto (Recipe: author's own)

If you look at the Wikipedia entry for Sunday dinner, apart from noticing that it resembles Clement Freud venturing in his Just A Minute pomp, you'll see that it offers two explanations as to the origins of the meal:

1. During the industrial revolution, Yorkshire families left a cut of meat in the oven before going to church on a Sunday morning, which was then ready to eat by the time they arrived home at lunchtime.

2. The Sunday Roast dates back to medieval times, when the village serfs served the squire for six days a week. Then on the Sunday, after the morning church service, serfs would assemble in a field and practice their battle techniques and were rewarded with a feast of oxen roasted on a spit.

Leaving the Yorkshire propaganda to one side, that seems a bit generous of the squire if you ask me. A weekly spit-roasted oxen just for a bit of tilling and crop rotation? They really did put the food in fuedalism back then, no wonder peasant dishes are all the rage nowadays.

Anyway, far from just rehashing a Wikipedia article and throwing in a few derogatory mentions of a certain impoverished area on the western edge of Newcastle to make it mine, I'd like to offer a third explanation for the start of Sunday dinners:

3. It's lush.

It is though isn't it? What would you rather have for your dinner, something delicious or something not as nice? Hmm, tricky. I'll admit it wasn't as good when you were a kid, Sundays were a different prospect then what with homework, bad telly and the shops being closed. I don't remember liking my Sunday dinner that much then, too many memories of the smell of over-boiled vegetables hanging in the air and condensation on every window. Sundays are much better when you're a grown-up, swap homework for hangovers, the telly is still bad but you can enjoy it for what it is now and everything is much improved by having a proper dinner, especially if someone else has made it whilst you loaf around scratching yourself. 

Going out for Sunday dinner is becoming increasingly popular but it doesn't really work because of the enforced formality, then you've got to do things like walk your food off or go to a craft fair and baulk at the price of hand-made cakes of soap. At the very least you have to travel home afterwards, you can't lumber straight from the table and collapse on the settee to spend the next few hours wallowing in your own gluttony, elaborately blowing off and blaming it on one of the young 'uns. You're getting the meal, which is good, but out of its proper context it's just not the same.

Who sits for a proper Sunday Scoffer these days though? You're more likely to get people grazing fast food on the hoof rather than prepping veg and ramming a lemon and some garlic up a chicken's flappy hoop. I used to work next to a McDonalds and the queues for the drive-thru always peaked on a Sunday; as far as I know they weren't offering Ronald's Roast Beef with all the McTrimmings. Dillons fish and chips in Throckley (bingo!) opens seven days a week, just in case you fancy a donner meat pizza to go with the Eastenders ominbus on your stolen telly. Disgusting. They always did have a lower class of peasant around there, the closest they've ever got to roast oxen is in the Real Crisps flavour range.

Don't get me wrong - there's nothing wrong with takeaways (and I know people love to trot out the old "I'm too busy to cook" lie) but not on a Sunday, takeaways are for Saturday nights in or Friday nights on the way home from the drinker. The least you can do on a Sunday is have egg sandwiches, it might not be a lovingly roasted gammon but they're an acceptable alternative, especially in the summer. At least that way you're not contributing to the collapse of civilised society as we know it. You know who you are.

Status: Dying
Lookalike: Microwaveable Roast Lamb-style Dinner For One
In Three Words: More Tea Vicar?

Geordieland

Geordieland (Gateshead Zone)

 

Let's get this out of the way in the very first line - there is no such thing as Geordieland. It doesn't exisit, not in the real world anyway; but, like unicorns, the 'truth' about 9/11 or the veracity of TV presenter Dermot O'Leary's heterosexuality - that doesn't stop people going on about it.

In the 1960s T. Dan Smith went for 'the Brasilia of the North', Sir John Hall took it further still when he automatically started babbling on about 'the Geordie Nation' whenever someone pointed a TV camera at him in the 1990s. Now we have 'Geordieland', it might only exist in the world of lazy newspaper articles, low quality television programmes and people who think everything above the M25 is "ap norf", but that's enough and enough is enough. Enough. It has to stop. Geordie Nation? Jesus H Spender...

Newcastle upon Tyne is Geordieland in the same way that London is Cockneyland, Sunderland is just Cockland (they always get it slightly wrong don't they?) and Gloucester is (Fred) Westworld. "Shall we go to Gloucester this weekend love? Dirty weekend? The kids'll love it".

If Geordie FInishing School For Girls (BBC Three) and MTV's Geordie Shore are to be believed then most Geordies live on the breadline, spend their nash on fake tan and booze, hump without blobs and go to the gym a lot. That's it, nothing else. If you didn't know any better you could be forgiven for thinking that's all that happens in this Geordieland. Obviously there's far more to it than that so allow me to flesh it out a bit:

Geordies? They're mad aren't they?  (Yeah, look at Raoul Moat - absolutely mental)

Newcastle - it has pubs.

They don't wear coats. None of them. Ever.

If you can't pull in Newcastle you can't pull anywhere (no comment).

There is a river. It is called the Tyne. There's also a weather condition know as fog. At certain times the two are not mutually exclusive.

Geordielanders communicate solely through the use of the phrase "why aye". There are no other words, not in Geordieland.

Are ye gannin doon the Grove Spuggy?

See? See the richly textured layers of diverse culture and society that get 'lost in the edit' as they say in television circles. It's the BBC's fault; they might not have started it but they took up the reigns and now look where we are. Branded as languageless simpletons, broke, bronzed - but happy. Licence fee boycott anyone?

Status: None-existent.

Lookalike: Brasilia (T. D. Smith), Barcelona (J. Hall)

In Three Two Words: Why Aye!

The Turnpike

Routine Visit

Reputations. Some are are glaringly ignored (King of Cherry-Poppin' Michael Jackson), some meticulously cultivated (heterosexual TV presenter Dermot O'Leary), some uneviable (Jimmy Savile), some are just baffling ('Princess of Hearts'? Really?). Some are merited (Mike Tyson was feared by men and women alike), some not (Greggs snobs have a lot to answer for) and many are nowt more than a feeble moonshine of piss and vinegar (the Towers of London spring to mind. From the streets of Chalfont St. Giles!).

If a pub has a reputation it's usually for only one two things - nice food or bother, and never the twain shall meet. The Turnpike definitely had a reputation and it wasn't for its delicious array of locally-sourced platters. In the face of stiff competition it could hold its napper high in the pantheon of radge pubs once found in radius of a few miles in west Newcastle which also included:

- The Whin Dyke: drugs. Now closed.

- The Runnymede: drugs, murder, bar staff charged with manslaughter after a fatal drinking competition between father and son. Now closed.

- The Royal Frenchman's Arms: Lock-ins, sizzling steaks and ghosts. Now closed.

- The John Gilpin: drugs, stolen goods, armed robbery. Had the cigarette machine stolen one night and regulars selling cheap tabs the next. Now closed.

- The Centurion: all of the above and more - cottaging, slavery, you name it. Now closed.

- The Rokeby: hostile ambience even if it was empty. Now closed and reborn as a Farm Foods - this is an improvement.

Notice a pattern emerging? The Turnpike was the last of the bother pubs. Notorious in my youth after a machete attack, it treaded water for a few years with the occasional pagga before upping its game; seeing in the new millenium with a fatal stabbing. It was another eight years before its notoriety was sealed with a shooting. Guns - the big time. The premier league. Top of the pops. Throckley boys night out. 

The Turnpike continued to trade for a few more years before the inevitable happened; patronised, no doubt, by die hard regulars, turf-claiming dafties and impressionable young charvers looking for a voyeuristic chaser to go with their teenth of tack (nee dink) and pint of LCL. Where they, the luminous-nosed auld dongs and low-level tattie-peelers go for a night out now is anyone's guess. It comes to something when your local carks it and you've got to travel just to have a pint and see someone get their lips danced on, watching someone have Hunters Chicken for their tea is no substitute.

Status: Dead

Lookalike: The Chapel Park

In Three Words: Time Gentlemen Please