Princess Diana, Margaret Thatcher & Madonna: These I have known

(In which Tim reveals the very secrets of his conversational success, stories to tell when on a date and adds a personal take on a trio of famous women. Some pretentious crap about tapestries and history)

Occasionally - carefully and trepidatiously - I may be on a date. If things are going well, yeah, I know, not often, Tim may kick back and pull out those killer stories that push the conversation from “Who’s this shallow buffoon?'‘ to “Get your coat Tim, you’ve pulled.”

Indulge me.

We all have those stories we whip out at the right occasion; those anecdotes that attempt to make you look better by association. I often say, we are the stories we tell. What we choose to share is who we are. Now, you’re probably thinking, that’s deep Tim. You’d be right; that lightweight humour I wear as an armour masks shadowy caverns of intellectuality. How is he still single, I hear you ask?

So, ladies, if you hear me mention the following, you know that it’s decision time. Decision time to leave early often but hey! despite repeated evidence to the contrary, we continually trace familiar arcs.

I’ll say; I’ve met some famous, even iconic women in the past, so take a choice between Princess Di, Margaret Thatcher or Madonna and I’ll tell you the story. It merits interest when the conversation is flagging, when I need an extra boost to up my bone fides with whosoever I’m with. But, like all great things in life, it’s the anticipation, the journey that matters, not the destination.

What I’m admitting is; ultimately they’re all crap anecdotes.

So, you have choice, lady with a white wine in front of her, who would like to hear about: Princess Diana, Madonna or Margaret Thatcher? Obviously the limiting choice is a false one because, like every egomaniac, I will, of course, tell all three stories anyway. As the cascading crapness of each anecdote tumbles forth, it becomes apparent that these shiny celebrity baubles are but flaming torches on a dark pathway to somewhere else.

Usually a solitary walk home in the rain, but, here we go; I’ve preambled and foreshadowed enough. On with the stories Tim!

Princess Diana

The connections between the Robsons and the Spencer family go back generations. No, my ancestors weren’t at high society balls nor swigging flasks whilst grouse shooting on some windy moor: my grandmother (RIP) was a servant at Althorp House when Diana’s father was young. Like many bright working class people of her generation, continued education was not an option and so young Dora Mason left school at 15, probably packed a solitary suitcase and left for domestic work in a grand house. All very Downtown Abbey.

Skip forward 70 or so years and the grandson of the servant and the daughter of the young lord were fated to meet. Not once, but twice. As a Rochdale boy studying at Sussex University, I’d often have to take the Brighton to Manchester train (sadly now axed). A long six-eight hour journey stopping everywhere. One of the stops was Kensington Olympia.

There I was, penning a letter - yes we used to do that, no, not with a quill - and a familiar figure wandered into view walking along the platform. None other than the Princess of Wales (as she then was), Diana Spencer. Now back then, in celeb terms, she was top of the heap. And here we were separated by less than a foot as she walked past gazing into my eyes for less than a second. She then knocked on the window and beckoned me to follow. (1) Before walking on. I’d like to say, into history but this story has a (crap) further episode.

Years later, I was working in a supermarket in Brighton in Kemptown. The staff restuarant was on the first floor and there I was, gazing out on to St James’ Street and noticed crowds gathering on both sides of the street. Who should drive by but my old friend from Kensington Olympia, Diana? Boy, was this girl persistent. No means no, yeah?

This time she drove on and I never saw her again.

Margaret Thatcher

Prime Minister 1979-1990, winner of three elections, first female PM, Falkland War victor and iconic leader of the West against communism. If she were here now, she would undoubtedly mention all these achievements en passant but, if pressed, she would probably mention the handful of times she locked eyes with young Tim Robson.

I briefly working for an MP at the House of Commons many years ago. It was here that I crossed paths with Thatcher, then at the height of her power. Whether from Strangers Gallery, at a House of Commons regetta, or, well, Strangers Gallery again, we shared moments did Margaret and I. How many alive can say they stared into those cold blue eyes, eyes that could sear through to your soul and assess if you were ‘One of Us’, friend or foe? Ultimately, she never said what she thought of me. In retrospect, I think more of her now than I did then and I’m glad I saw her in the flesh.

And onto story three.

Madonna

And so we get to my Madonna story. Probably the best of the three. You know when people say they bumped into someone? Well, in this case, I actually did bump into Madonna. Might have exchanged words.

It was sometime in the mid 00’s and for some reason my boss - a high powered VP - decided I’d been suitably obsequious and so decreed on the spur of the moment to take me to Cipriani’s, then on Park Lane. Paparazzi lined the pavement, flash bulbs were going off left and right and the restaurant was packed. (2) We drank, we ate, we drank and eventually Tim needed the bathroom. The tables were close together so it took some weaving to navigate the journey to the gents.

A narrow corridor formed between tables and I walked quickly noticing, at the other end of this confined space, a short(ish) woman who looked liked Madonna coming in the opposite direction. I looked again; yes, it really was Madonna! There was only really space for one of us between the tables and she didn’t look like she was going to let me through. Too far on to go back, I pressed ahead and we kind of bumped into each other in the middle. And then she said the following words to me which I’ll always remember:

“Asshole.”

Now isn’t that a celeb story to treasure?

Conclusion

The stories themselves are lightweight and, in one way, inconsequential. Remember what I said to you about us being the stories we tell? But they serve two purposes. Firstly, they provoke discussion, they advance the conversation from quotidian ‘how are you’, ‘where do you work’, ‘how did you get here’ to a more interesting level. Everyone’s got a celeb story to tell. Usually just as crap as my own. It’s a bonding mechanism.

Secondly, what three remarkable women! All iconic, all remembered today (yeah, yeah, Madonna’s still alive, but you know what I mean). The stories and the women involved are a link to the past, and there’s nothing so obscure as the recent past. To be footsoldier at Austerlitz and see Napoleon riding close by must have been that soldier’s go-to yarn when refilling his cup in some provincial inn back home in France years later. How he looked, the uniform he wore, the weather. These are the touches of history that evade historians but just as each stitch makes a tapestry, so does each anecdote serve a wider purpose of preserving what is often lost.

Really Tim?

Oh all right. I tell them to create curiosity and as vehicle for a few jokes. We are the stories we tell.

Notes

1) Possibly that sentence, about knocking on the window, may just be my brain playing tricks on me. Time is a great deceiver.

2) Prince Andrew & Fergie were there with their kids also that night. No, me neither.

Brighton to Manchester Train

I didn't own a car until 1997. Before that time I either walked, rode my bike or, for longer journeys, hired a car but, most probably, took the train. It seemed a better, fitter existence, though maybe I was just younger and leaner and reaping the benefits of living in a city, Brighton. Or maybe I was just poorer.

In those days (roughly 1986 to 1997) in order to get between Brighton and Rochdale, I used to take a marvellous direct train that snaked slowly but surely across England between Brighton and Manchester Piccadilly. I checked National Rail Enquiries recently and this route doesn't exist any more and instead one is encouraged to take the commuter train to London, hop on the underground to Euston and then catch the Virgin to Manchester. It's a quicker journey end-to-end no doubt, but more bitty, and less stately.

I remember the old Brighton to Manchester no-change journey (and its reverse) being around eight hours but perhaps my memory is playing tricks on me. It certainly felt a long time! There were plenty of stops; a selection, Gatwick, Kensington Olympia, Banbury, Birmingham New Street, Birmingham International, Stoke, Crewe, Wythenshaw etc etc. Back in those days there were smoking cars and non smoking cars. I sat in either depending on my ever flipping status. Buffet cars existed of course. I actually liked and looked forward to my British Rail cheese and tomato sandwich on white bread. I still miss it. Typically though I didn't drink alcohol on trains, then. I was corrupted eventually by a friend in 1989 who brought a four pack of Tetleys with him for the journey up to Stoke on our way to his 21st celebration. After that the drop to M&S pre mixed Gin and Tonic was a short one.

The interesting thing about the train from Brighton to Manchester was that - with so many stops - people were forever getting on and off along the way and so the landscape of interaction constantly changed. You might strike up a conversation with someone between say Coventry and Stoke, flirt with a girl between Gatwick and Milton Keynes. Sometimes it was busy, sometimes empty, and this changed depending on the day and the station.

In those pre mobile phone days, what did one do for all these hours? Well, one read, of course. Books and broadsheet newspapers. One could write letters. Yes, people actually used to write letters to each other and not that long ago in the scheme of things! I remember one time writing a letter to a friend on this very journey and stopping at Kensington Olympia, and briefly looking up to see Princess Diana strolling by my window. She was walking along the platform and passed right by me. She got on our train - I believe in a special ‘royal’ carriage though I may be wrong about this - and hitched a ride somewhere further down the line (not Brighton, I think). There was no phone to take a snap of her and so I only have my memory of her being so close, separated from me by just a pane of glass.

That and my Madonna story vie for a telling when I’m out to impress.

I do remember the eagerness one got, impatience even, as the last hour of the journey approached. If my parents weren't picking me up, the arrival at Manchester Piccadilly only meant the start of another journey: a cross town bus to Manchester Victoria, slow train to Rochdale, and parents or taxi for the last leg home. 

I wish I'd have taken more pictures of these journeys. I look at the stock photos on the internet and they seem so old, so quaint, still lifes from another era. I begin to mix fading memories with fiction. I start to image white linen clad restaurant cars and Belgian detectives, efficient station masters looking at pocket watches and brass buttoned ticket collectors with stamps and strange hats. The Brighton to Manchester Intercity has morphed into Murder on the Orient Express or The Lady Vanishes.

Like all memories, one edits - either consciously or though age and declining brain cells - what is recalled. Probably there was lateness, smoky carriages, boredom, inconsiderate passengers but then there was also no inappropriate phone calls either and although many of us had Walkmans (if the batteries lasted!) not everyone was in their own sound buffered zone. So people did talk to each other and, given the era, there was more of a sense of homogeneity about the passengers - a shared story, culture, prejudices. Gone now. But so has British Rail, the route itself, my hair, the careless use of time, being out of contact for long periods of time. Yes, the past is a very different place, how strange it seems sometimes.

Train to London: Nov 1994. The jumper years.

Tim's Blog RSS

Originally published 2018 - slightly revised.

The idea for this blogpost came from Peter Hitchens and his - far superior - memories of trains in Europe both now and then.from his Sunday Express column 21/01/18.

Brighton to Manchester Train

I didn't own a car until 1997. Before that time I either walked, rode my bike or, for longer journeys, hired a car but, most probably, took the train. It seemed a better, fitter existence, though maybe I was just younger and leaner and reaping the benefits of living in a city.

In those days (roughly 1986 to 1997) in order to get between Brighton and Rochdale, I used to take a marvellous direct train that snaked slowly but surely between Brighton and Manchester Piccadilly. I checked National Rail Enquiries this morning, this route doesn't exist any more and one is encouraged to take the commuter train to London, hop on the underground to Euston and then speed up to Manchester from there. It's a quicker journey end-to-end no doubt, but more bitty, and less leisurely.

I remember the Brighton to Manchester journey (and its reverse) being around eight hours but time may be playing tricks on me. Perhaps it only felt that long! There were plenty of stops, from memory - a selection - Gatwick, Kensington Olympia, Banbury, Birmingham New Street, Birmingham International, Stoke, Crewe, Wythenshaw etc etc. Back in those days there were smoking cars and non smoking cars. I sat in either depending on whether I was smoking at the time. Buffet cars existed of course. I actually liked and looked forward to my British Rail cheese and tomato sandwich on white bread. In those days I typically didn't drink alcohol on trains. I was corrupted by a friend one time who brought a four pack with him for the journey. After that...

The interesting thing about the train was that - with so many stops - people were forever getting on and off and the landscape of interaction constantly changed. You might strike up a conversation with someone between say Coventry and Stoke, flirt with a girl between Gatwick and Milton Keynes. Sometimes it was busy, sometimes empty, and this changed depending on the day and the station.

In those pre mobile phone days, what did one do for all these hours? Well, one read, of course. Books and broadsheet newspapers. One could write letters. Yes, people used to write letters to each other! As my journeying was usually prefaced by a leaving - either an end of term or the start of term, letters were what we did. I remember one time writing a letter to a friend on this very journey and stopping in Kensington Olympia, and briefly looking up to see Princess Diana strolling by my window. She was walking along the platform and passed right by me. She got on our train - I believe in a special carriage - though I may be wrong about this - and hitched a ride somewhere (not Brighton, I think). There was no phone to take a snap of her and so I only have my memory of her being so close, separated from me by just a pane of glass.

I do remember the eagerness one got, impatience even, as the last hour of the journey approached. For me, arriving in Manchester Piccadilly, if my parents weren't picking me up, was the start of another journey: a cross town bus to Manchester Victoria, slow train to Rochdale, and parents or taxi for the last leg. 

I wish I'd have taken more pictures of these journeys. I look at the stock photos on the internet and they seem so old, so quaint, that one mixes memories with fiction, imagining white linen clad restaurant cars and Belgian detectives, efficiently run trains and brass buttoned ticket collectors with stamps and strange hats. Like all memories one edits - either consciously or though age and declining brain cells - what is recalled. Probably there was lateness, smoky carriages, boredom, inconsiderate passengers but then also there were no inappropriate phone calls either and although many had Walkmans (if the batteries lasted!) not everyone had white trailing ear phones attached to phones. So people did talk to each other and, given the era, there was more of a sense of homogeneity about the passengers - a shared story, culture, prejudices. Gone now. But so has BR, the route itself, my hair, the careless use of time, being out of contact for long periods of time. Yes, the past is a very different place, how strange it seems sometimes.

Train to London: Nov 1994. The jumper years.

Tim's Blog RSS

The idea for this blogpost came from Peter Hitchens and his - far superior - memories of trains in Europe both now and then.from his Sunday Express column 21/01/18.