Book One – An Autobiographical Narrative and Various Versified Memories 2

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1960s

‘Snapshots from a Child’s West London’
Serves, as did its predecessor,
‘Born on the Goldhawk Road’
As a fitting preface
To a second long autobiographical piece

Consisting almost entirely
Of versified prose, and linear in nature,
Which is to say,
Beginning with my birth
And leading all the way to the present day.

In its primordial form,
It knew life as spidery writings
Filling four and a half pages
Of a school notebook
In what is likely to have been 1977.

And these were edited in 2006,
Before being tendered a new title,
Subjected to alterations in punctuation,
And then finally published at Blogster
On the 10th of March of that year.

Some grammatical corrections took place,
Which were suitably mild
So as not to excessively alter the original work,
From which certain sentences were composed
By fusing two or more sections together.

Ultimately, parts of it were incorporated
Into the memoir, ‘Rescue of a Rock and Roll Child’,
And thence into the first chapter
Of the definitive autobiographical piece,
‘Seven Chapters from a Sad Sack Loser’s Life’.

But recently, it was newly versified,
With a fresh set of minor corrections,
Although as ever with these memoir-based writings
The majority of names have been changed,
And they are faithful to the truth to the best of my ability.

Snapshots from a Child’s West London

I remember the 20th Chiswick Wolf Cub pack,
How I loved those Wednesday evenings,
The games, the pomp and seriousness of the camps,
The different coloured scarves, sweaters and hair
During the mass meetings,
The solemnity of my enrolment,
Being helped up a tree by an older boy,
Baloo, or Kim, or someone,
To win my Athletics badge,
Winning my first star, my two year badge,
And my swimming badge
With its frog symbol, the kindness of the older boys.

I remember a child’s West London…

One Saturday afternoon, after a football match
During which I dirtied my boots
By standing around as a sub in the mud,
And my elbow by tripping over a loose shoelace,
An older boy offered to take me home.
We walked along streets,
Through subways crammed with rowdies,
White or West Indian, in black gym shoes.
‘Shuddup!’ my friend would cheerfully yell,
And they did.
‘We go' a ge' yer 'oame, ain' we mite, ay?’
‘Yes. Where exactly are you taking me?’ I asked.

‘The bus stop at Chiswick 'Oigh Stree'
Is the best plice, oi reck'n.’
‘Yes, but not on Chiswick High Street,’
I said, starting to sniff.
‘You be oroight theah, me lil' mite.’
I was not convinced.
The uncertainty of my ever getting home
Caused me to start to bawl,
And I was still hollering
As we mounted the bus.
I remember the sudden turning of heads.
It must have been quite astonishing

For a peaceful busload of passengers
To have their everyday lives
Suddenly intruded upon
By a group of distressed looking Wolf Cubs,
One of whom, the smallest,
Was howling red-faced with anguish
For some undetermined reason.
After some moments, my friend,
His brow furrowed with regret,
As if he had done me some wrong, said:
‘I'm gonna drop you off
Where your dad put you on.’

Within seconds, the clouds dispersed,
And my damp cheeks beamed.
Then, I spied a street I recognised
From the bus window, and got up,
Grinning with all my might:
‘This'll do,’ I said.
‘Wai', Carl,’ cried my friend,
Are you shoa vis is 'oroigh'?’
‘Yup!’ I said. I was still grinning
As I spied my friend's anxious face
In the glinting window of the bus
As it moved down the street.

I remember a child’s West London…

One Wednesday evening,
When the Pops was being broadcast
Instead of on Thursday,
I was rather reluctant to go to Cubs,
And was more than usually uncooperative
With my father as he tried
To help me find my cap,
Which had disappeared.
Frustrated, he put on his coat
And quietly opened the door.
I stepped outside into the icy atmosphere
Wearing only a pair of underpants,

And to my horror, he got into his black Citroën
And drove off. I darted down Esmond Road
Crying and shouting.
My tearful howling was heard by Margaret,
19 year old daughter of Mrs Helena Jacobs,
Whom my mother used to help
With the care and entertainment
Of Thalidomide children.
Helena Jacobs expended so much energy
On feeling for others
That when my mother tried to get in touch
In the mid 70s, she seemed exhausted,

And quite understandably,
For Mrs O'Keefe, her cleaning lady
And friend for the main part
Of her married life
Had recently been killed in a road accident.
I remember that kind
And beautiful Irish lady,
Her charm, happiness and sweetness,
She was the salt of the earth.
She threatened to ca-rrown me
When I went away to school...
If I wrote her not.

Margaret picked me up
And carried me back to my house.
I immediately put on my uniform
As soon as she had gone home,
Left a note for my Pa,
And went myself to Cubs.
When Pa arrived to pick me up,
The whole ridiculous story
Was told to Akela,
Baloo and Kim,
Much, much, much to my shame.

I remember a child’s West London…

The year was 1963, the year of the Beatles,
Of singing yeah, yeah in the car,
Of twisting in the playground,
Of ‘I'm a Beatlemaniac, are you?’
That year, I was very prejudiced
Against an American boy, Robert,
Who later became my friend.
I used to attack him for no reason,
Like a dog, just to assert my superiority.
One day, he gave me a rabbit punch in the stomach
And I made such a fuss that my little girlfriend, Niña,
Wanted to escort me to the safety of our teacher,

Hugging me, and kissing me intermittently
On my forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks.
She forced me to see her:
‘Carl didn't do a thing,’ said Niña,
And Robert came up an gave him
Four rabbit punches in the stomach’.
Robert was not penalized,
For Mademoiselle knew
What a little demon I was,
No matter how hurt
And innocent I looked,
Tearful, with my tail between my legs.

I remember a child’s West London…

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1970s

‘The Athlete, the Poet and the Reprobate’
Was based largely on writings
Created possibly as early as 1976.
And as such, it’s been reproduced
More or less word for word
Despite having been recently edited
And subject to basic versification.
And in its original form,
It constituted some kind of
Unfinished fantastical novel
Centered on the titular
Athlete, Poet and Reprobate,
An absurdly self-exalting
Version of the original.
For within less than two decades
Of penning these self-same words,
I’d come to saving faith in Christ Jesus.

As to novels reflecting the luxurious lifestyle
Of a bygone age,
None had been even remotely completed
By the time of writing,
And unless I’m grossly mistaken,
I was several years shy of becoming an actor.
That said, the timidity described
Is at least partially accurate,
And I did feel the need to provide
An outward show of my significance
Through a peacock display of dandyism,
Which included
Some wildly idiosyncratic behaviour,
As well as the subtle deployment of cosmetics.

The Athlete, the Poet and the Reprobate

‘I can’t decide, she said,
Whether you’re an aesthete
Or an athlete
A poet or a reprobate.”

‘Even when I’m a lout,
I’m an aesthete, he answered,
I lure, rather than seek.’

‘So why do you
Need to dress up?’

‘Like Ronald Firbank,
I suffer from a need
To give an outward show
Of my significance.

His lifestyle is an uncanny
To my own young manhood

I alienated people
Through a crippling shyness
Which I disguised
With my violently idiosyncratic

Behaviour, wore cosmetics
And wrote novels
That reflected the luxurious
Lifestyle of a bygone age.

The sensation
Of never quite belonging
Lingered about me always
That’s why
I became an actor.

Through heavy experiences
I have built up
A stoned wall
Against arrogance and aloofness

I am a sophisticated cynic
With a kind heart
And a tendency towards regret.’

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1980s

The origins of ‘An Actor Arrives’
Lie in the barest elements
Of a story started but never finished
In early 1980,
While I was working at the Bristol Old Vic
Playing the minute part
Of Mustardseed the Fairy
In a much praised production
Of Shakespeare’s celebrated
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’.

It was originally rescued in 2006,
From a battered notebook in which I habitually scribbled
During spare moments offstage
While clad in my costume
And covered in blue body make-up
And silvery glitter. And while doing so,
Some of the glitter was transferred from the pages
With which the were stained
More than a quarter of a century previously
Onto my hands…an eerie experience indeed.

An Actor Arrives (at the Bristol Old Vic)

I remember the grey slithers of rain,
The jocular driver
As I boarded the bus
At Temple Meads,
And the friendly lady who told me
When we had arrived at the city centre.
I remember the little pub on King Street,
With its quiet maritime atmosphere.

I remember tramping
Along Park Street,
Whiteladies Road and Blackboy Hill,
My arms and hands aching from my bags,
To the little cottage where I had decided to stay
And relax between rehearsals,
Reading, writing, listening to music.
I remember my landlady, tall, timid and beautiful.

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1980s

'Verses for Tragic Lovers
Adolphe and Ellénore'
Is based on an essay I wrote
Around 1983
For a former mentor at university,
Who sadly died in 2008,
And who features
As Dr Elizabeth Lang
In various autobiographical
Writings of mine.

It concerns the protagonist
Of French writer Benjamin Constant’s
1816 novel “Adolphe”,
(Which its author emphatically insisted
Was not autobiographical;
Nor a roman a clef),
Who is a prototypal victim
Of what has been termed
Le Mal du Siècle,
Or the sickness of the century...

Which, born in the wake of the Revolution,
And arising from a variety of causes,
Political, social, and spiritual,
Depending on the sufferer in question,
Produced such qualities as
Melancholy and acedia,
And a perpetual sense of exile, of alienation,
That found special favour within
The great Romantic movement in the arts.

Although as a phenomenon,
World pain was hardly a novel one,
For after all, does the Word of God not say
That there is nothing new
Under the sun?
But it was possibly unprecedented
In terms of pervasiveness and intensity
At the height of Romanticism
And I’d have no hesitation
In labelling it tragic as a result.

In terms of my own pre-Christian self,
It was almost overwhelmingly powerful,
And so believer that I am, I feel compelled
To expose it as potentially ruinous,
For after all, is it not still with us
In one way or another,
Having been passed on by the Romantics
To kindred movements coming in their wake,
From the Spirit of Decadence
To the Rock Revolution?

And could it not also be said
That the peculiar notion
Fostered by Romanticism
Of the artist as a spirit
Set apart for some special purpose,
Of which pain is so often an essential part
Is also still among us?
Of course it could,
And I'd have no hesitation
In labelling it tragic as a result.

This Mal du Siecle of which I speak
Is surely especially melancholy
In the case of tragic lovers,
Adolphe and Ellénore,
For it results in Adolphe effectively
Drifting into a romance
With another man’s mistress,
A young mother, Ellénore,
Who sacrifices everything for him
Only to discover he no longer loves her.

For “Adolphe” is in some respects
A work within the tradition
Of the libertine novel
Of the Age of Enlightenment,
And yet at the same time,
By no means an endorsement of libertinage.
Is rather perhaps, in many respects,
A powerful indictment of this tendency,
And thence as much a reproach
To the tradition; as a late addition to it.

And the forlorn figure of Adolphe
Was ultimately to prove influential,
Notably in Mother Russia,
Where he allegedly served in part
As model to Pushkin’s fatal dandy,
The Byronic Eugene Onegin,
And if Tolstoy’s Count Vrosnky
Was also partially based on Adolphe,
Then there is of course a marked kinship
Between Ellénore and Anna Karenina.

In the end, though, one can only weep,
At the tragedy these eminently romantic
And sympathetic figures
Made of their lives. And I speak as one
Who was once in thrall to the tragic worldview,
But who came to view life
As something infinitely valuable,
To be lived fully under the guidance of God,
And not sacrificed like some beautiful bauble
For the bitter-sweet pleasures of the world.

Verses for Tragic Lovers Adolphe and Ellénore

Ellénore initially resists Adolphe’s advances
But after a great deal of persuasion,
Agrees to see him on a regular basis,
And soon falls in love.

We know little of the physical appearance
Of Adolphe, but in all probability
He possesses the youthfully seductive charm
Of Romantic heroes,
Werther, René and Julien Sorel.

Ellénore initially resists Adolphe’s advances
But after a great deal of persuasion,
Agrees to see him on a regular basis,
And soon falls in love.

Adolphe is preoccupied with himself
In the classic manner
Of the contemplative, melancholy,
Faintly yearning, hypersensitive,
Isolated, perceptive Romantic hero.

Ellénore initially resists Adolphe’s advances
But after a great deal of persuasion,
Agrees to see him on a regular basis,
And soon falls in love.

Perhaps he is somebody who believes
That self-interest is the foundation
Of all morality, but then, he announces:
“While I was only interested in myself,
I was but feebly interested for all that.”

Ellénore initially resists Adolphe’s advances
But after a great deal of persuasion,
Agrees to see him on a regular basis,
And soon falls in love.

There is much genuine goodness
In Adolphe,
But much of it is subconscious,
Surfacing only
At the sight of obvious grief.

Ellénore initially resists Adolphe’s advances
But after a great deal of persuasion,
Agrees to see him on a regular basis,
And soon falls in love.

The cause of this inability to feel
Spontaneously, is very probably the result
Of the complex interaction
Between a hypersensitive nature
And a brilliant if indecisive mind.

Ellénore initially resists Adolphe’s advances
But after a great deal of persuasion,
Agrees to see him on a regular basis,
And soon falls in love.

By reflecting on his surroundings
To an exaggerated degree,
Adolphe feels a sort of numbness,
A premature world-weariness…
Lucid thoughts and intense emotions confused.

Ellénore initially resists Adolphe’s advances
But after a great deal of persuasion,
Agrees to see him on a regular basis,
And soon falls in love.

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1980s

“The Bitter-Sweet Fruits of Andre Gide” was based on an essay, probably written in my final year at Westfield College, University of London, where I studied the works of Andre Gide with the aforementioned Dr Mein. It was photocopied so badly I was barely able to decipher what I’d originally typed, its original having vanished; yet, as is my wont, I’ve made minor grammatical adjustments and heavily edited it, a necessary process given the darkness of the work involved, the ecstatic prose poem, “Les Nourritures Terrestres”, or “The Fruits of the Earth”.
While dating from 1896, at the height of the Franco-British literary decadence, it was evidently rediscovered in the 1920s, an era very similar to the Yellow Nineties in so many respects, and to some extent also, the Swinging Sixties.
It’s clear from the tone of the essay, although not so much from the sanitised version it has to be said, that I at least partly approved of the work’s subversion of traditional Judaeo-Christian morality, while the same could by no means be said of Gide, the product of a deeply pious Huguenot Protestant upbringing.
And the “Fruits” stood in marked contrast to his first published work, “The Notebooks of André Walter”, for both the latter and the later “Straight is the Gate” are anatomisations of Christian self-abnegation, specifically with respect to his troubled love for his devout Christian cousin Madeleine, who went on to become his wife, and perhaps the one and only true love of his life.
The character of Ménalque, who acts as a mentor to the protagonist Nathanael in “The Fruits” was allegedly based on Oscar Wilde, whom Gide first met, in the company of his companion the poet Lord Alfred Douglas, in Paris in 1891. And while he is relatively sympathetic in the earlier work, when he reappears in “The Immoralist” in 1902, he is infinitely less so. This is significant given that the latter was written by Gide as a warning against the excesses extolled in “The Fruits”.
“The World of Subjectivity” consists of a series of unconnected fragment salvaged from a teeming nightmare of “diary entries” I made in a school notebook throughout 1986. While more or less verbatim, some very minor corrections may have been made.

The Bitter-Sweet Fruits of Andre Gide

The keynote to Andre Gide’s “The Fruits of the Earth” is the unfettered cultivation of the ego, related to the Nietzschian doctrine of the Will to Power, in contradistinction to the self-abnegation of his Protestant upbringing.
This gospel of pagan energy has always contained within it a distinctly sadistic element, conscious in Ménalque, unconscious in the Gidean protagonist who carried it to its disastrous extreme, Michel in “The Immoralist”, specifically written in order to warn against the dangers of excessive “disponibilité”.
However, there is no direct evidence of such criticism in “The Fruits”, which makes it all the more intriguing to the reader, who can interpret the work according to his own nature.
With the inspired ecstasy of a fasting prophet, he embarked upon a work of such sensuous intensity that the very pages suggest the North African villages, parched by the blinding sun. Evil lurks in every corner of every page, where no noble, lasting values are left intact and one after the other, selfishness, infidelity, duplicity and fornication are extolled. By the end of the volume, the narrator’s senses have been worn to the bone. For his final message, he stresses the importance of other people. The reason for this is ambiguous, and it is up to the reader to interpret this altruism as he chooses.

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1980s

Thanks to the large quantity
Of notes I committed
To paper while at Leftfield,
My beloved college can live again
Through writings
Painstakingly forged out of them,
Such as the poetic piece below,
Based on several conversations
I had with my good friend Jez,
A tough but tender Scouser
With slicked back rockabilly hair,
Who’d played guitar in a band
At Liverpool’s legendary Eric’s
Back in the early eighties,
When Liverpool post-Punk
Was enjoying a golden age.
These took place at Scorpio’s,
A Greek restaurant situated in
North West London
Following a performance at college
Of Lorca’s “Blood Wedding”
In which I’d played the bridegroom.

One of the Greats Who Never Was

‘I think you should be
One of the greats,
But you've given up
And that's sad.

You drink too much,
You think, ____ it
And you go out and get _____,
When I'm 27 I'd be happy
To be like you.

In your writing,
Make sure you've got
Something really
Then say...'Here, you _______!'

You've got the spark of genius
At sixteen, you knew
You were a genius,
At nineteen, you thought
What’s a genius anyway?’

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1980s

‘A Cambridge Lamentation’
Centres on my brief stay at Homerton,
A teaching training college
Contained within the University of Cambridge,
With its campus at Hills Road
Just outside the city centre.
A fusion of previously published pieces,
It was primarily adapted
From an unfinished and unsent letter
Penned just before Christmas 1986,
And conveys some of the fatal restlessness
Which ultimately resulted
In my quitting Homerton early in 1987.
In its initial form, it had been forged
By extracting selected sentences
From the original script,
And then melding them together
In a newly edited and versified state,
Before publishing them at the Blogster weblog
On the 10th of June 2006.

A Cambridge Lamentation

This place is always a little lonely
At the weekends…No noise and life,
I like solitude,
But not in places
Where's there's recently been
A lot of people.

Reclusiveness protects you
From nostalgia,
And you can be as nostalgic
In relation to what happened
Half an hour ago
As half a century ago, in fact more so.

I went to the Xmas party.
I danced,
And generally lived it up.
I went to bed sad though.
Discos exacerbate
my sense of solitude.

My capacity for social warmth,
Excessive social dependance
And romantic zeal
Can be practically deranging;
It's no wonder I feel the need
To escape…

Escape from my own
Drastic social emotivity…
A devastating capacity
For loneliness.
I feel trapped here,
There's no
Outlet for my talents.

In such a state as this…
I could fall in love with anyone.
The night before last
I went to the ball
Couples filing out
I wanted to be half of ev'ry one…

But I didn't want to lose her.
I’ll get over how I feel now,
And very soon.
Gradually I’ll freeze again,
Even assuming an extra layer of snow.
I have to get out of here.

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1980s

Both ‘The Destructive Disease of the Soul’
And ‘The Compensatory Man Par Excellence’
Possess as their starting points
A novel written at an estimate around 1987,
With one Francis Phoenix as chief protagonist.

Its fate remains a mystery,
But it may well be it was completed,
Only to be purged soon after
I became a born again Christian in 1993,
With only a handful of scraps remaining.

The versified pieces below
Were forged out of these scraps
In September 2011, although initially,
They’d taken shape as prose pieces,
Only to be edited and versified at a later date.

The Destructive Disease of the Soul

No amount of thought
Could negate
Suffering in the mind
Of Francis Phoenix.

That much he had always believed,
That humanity is a sad, lost
And suffering race.
Sometimes he felt it so strongly
That the worship of a Saviour seemed
To be the only sane act on earth,
And then it passed…

It was not increasing callousness,
But an increase in the number of moments
He felt quite intoxicated with compassion
That had soured Frank’s outlook.

During those moments, he wept
For all those he’d ever been cruel to.
He could be so hard on people,
So terribly hard.
To whom could he ask forgiveness?

It was his sensitivity
That bred those moments of Christlike love,
When he cared so little for himself,
For his body, even for his soul…
When it was the soul of his father,
The soul of his mother,
The souls of his friends and relatives
And everyone he’d ever known
That he cared about.

That was truth, that was reality,
That was the purpose of all human life,
That love, that benevolence,
That absolute forgiveness.
Otherworldly love is painful,
But it is the only true freedom known to Man.
Too much thought eventually produces the conviction
That nothing is worth doing.
Thought is a destructive disease of the soul.

The Compensatory Man Par Excellence

I seldom indulge in letter writing
Because I consider it
To be a cold and illusory
Means of communication.
I will only send someone a letter
If I’m certain it’s going to serve
A definite functional purpose,
Such as that which I’m
Scrupulously concocting at present
Indisputably does.
It’s not that I incline
Towards excessive premeditation;
It’s rather that I have to subject
My thoughts and emotions
To quasi-military discipline,
As pandemonium is the sole alternative.
I’m the compensatory man par excellence

Deliberation, in my case,
Is a means to an end,
But scarcely by any means,
An end in itself.
This letter possesses not one,
But two, designs.
On one hand, its aim is edification.
Besides that, I plan to include it
In the literary project upon which
I’m presently engaged,
With your permission of course.
Contrary to what you have suspected
In the past,
I never intend to trivialise intimacy
By distilling it into art.
On the contrary, I seek
To apotheosise the same.

You see…I lack the necessary
Emotional vitality to do justice
To people and events
That are precious to me;
I am forced, therefore,
To at a later date call
On emotive reserves
Contained within my unconscious
In order to transform
The aforesaid into literary monuments.
You once said that my feelings
Had been interred under six feet
Of lifeless abstractions;
As true as this might be,
The abstractions in question
Come from without
Rather than within me:

My youthful spontaneity
Many mistrustfully identified
With self-satisfied inconsiderateness
(A standard case of fallacious reasoning),
And I was consequently
The frequent victim
Of somewhat draconic cerebrations.
I tremble now
In the face of hyperconsciousness.
I’ve manufactured a mentality,
Riddled with deliberation,
Cankerous with irony;
Still, in its fragility,
Not to say, artificiality,
It can, with supreme facility,
Be wrenched aside to expose
The touch-paper tenderness within.

With characteristic extremism,
I’ve taken ratiocination
To its very limits,
But I’ve acquainted myself with,
Nay, embraced my antagonist
Only in order to more effectively throttle him.
Being a survivor of the protracted passage
Through the morass of nihilism,
Found deep within
“The hell of the inner being”,
I am more than qualified to say this:
“There is no way out or round or through”
The prison of ceaseless sophistry.
There many things I have left to say,
But I shall only have begun to exist in earnest
When these are far behind me,
In fact, so far as to be all but imperceptible.

I long for the time
When I shall have compensated to my satisfaction.
I never desired intellectuality; it was thrust upon me.
Everything I ever dreaded being, I’ve become…
Everything I ever desired to be, I’ve become.
I’m the sum total of a lifetime’s
Fears and fantasies,
Both wish-fulfilment
And dread-consummation incarnate.
I long for the time
When I shall have compensated to my satisfaction.
I never desired intellectuality; it was thrust upon me.
I’m the sum total of a lifetime’s
Fears and fantasies,
Both wish-fulfilment
And dread-consummation incarnate.
I’m the compensatory man par excellence.

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1980s

‘Strange Coldness Perplexing was forged
Using notes scrawled
Onto seven sides of an ancient
Now coverless notebook,
Possibly late at night
Following an evening’s carousal
And in a state of serene intoxication.

The original notes were based
On experiences I underwent
While serving as a teacher
In a highly successful
Central London school of English,
Which I did between the spring,
Or summer, of ‘88 and the summer of 1990.

It gives some indication
Of my emotional condition at the time,
Including a tendency, as I see it,
To wildly veer between
The conscious effusive affectionateness
I aspired to, and sudden irrational
Involuntary lapses of affect.

It also bespeaks the intense devotion
I manifested towards my favourite students
And which was reciprocated by them with interest.
All punctuation was removed around 2007,
And extracts tacked together,
Not randomly as in the so-called cut up technique
But selectively and all but sequentially.

Strange Coldness Perplexing

the catholic nurse
all sensitive
caring noticing
what can she think
of my hot/cold torment

always near blowing it
living in the fast lane
so friendly kind
the girls
dewy eyed
wanda abandoned me
bolton is in my hands

and yet my coldness
the more emotional
they stay
trying to find a reason
for my ice-like suspicion
fish eyes
coldly indifferent eyes
suspect everything that moves

socialising just to be loud
compensate for cold
lack of essential trust
i love them
despite myself
my desire to love
is unconscious and gigantesque

i never know
when i'm going to miss someone
strange coldness perplexing
i've got to work to get devotion
but once i get it
i really get people on my side
there are carl people
who can survive
my shark-like coldness
and there are those
who want something
more personal
i can be very devoted to those
who can stay the course

my soul is aching
for an impartial love of people
i'm at war with myself…

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1990s

In the early part of autumn 1990,
I began a course known as the PGCE
Or Post Graduate Certificate in Education
At a school of higher education
In the pleasant outer suburb of Twickenham,
Becoming resident in nearby Isleworth.
I began quite promisingly as I saw it
Even though my heart
Was not really in the course
But I genuinely saw the benefits
Of successfully completing it,
And as might be expected,
Excelled in drama and physical education.
I rarely drank during the day,
But at night I was sometimes so drunk
I was incoherent.
The following versified piece
Serves a testimony to this sad truth.
Its original was a letter
Typed to a close friend in about 1990,
Some three years or so
Prior to my coming to saving faith
In the Lord Jesus Christ.
And concerning a series of accidents
I'd recently suffered.
However, it was never finished, nor sent.
When it was recovered,
It was as a piece of scrap paper,
A remnant from a long lost past.
It was subsequently edited and reassembled,
Before being subject
To some kind of versification in 2006.
And then some half decade later,
Further work was performed on it,
But it was still pretty threadbare for all that.

Incident in St. Christopher’s Place

Dear, I haven't been in touch
for a long time.
The last time I saw you
Was in St. Christopher's Place.
It was a lovely evening...
when I knocked that chair over.
I am sorry.
Since then,
I've had not a few accidents
Of that kind.

Just three days ago,
I slipped out in a garden
At a friend's house...
And keeled over, not once,
Not twice, but three times,
Like a log...clonking my nut
So violently that people heard me
In the sitting room.
What's more,
I can't remember a single sentence
spoken all evening. The problem is...

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1990s

Some months after appearing
In the "Scottish Play" at the Lost Theatre
In the onetime working class
West London suburb of Fulham,
I wrote the piece featured below,
"Such a Short Space of Time".

But in the first instance
It was part of an unfinished short story,
Not a poem at all.
My parents were on vacation
During the period which inspired it,
Which is to say early in the summer of 1999.

Hence, I spent a lot of time at their house
Performing various tasks,
Such as watering my mother's flowers.
As well as this, I took sneaky advantage
Of their absence to transfer
Some of my old LPs onto cassette.

It was something my own music system
Was incapable of doing, unlike theirs.
And it was a profoundly unsettling experience.
To listen to songs that, perhaps in the cases
Of some of them, I’d not heard
For twenty years, or even twenty five, or more.

With a heartrending intensity,
Doing so had the effect
Of evoking a time
When I was filled to the brim
With sheer youthful joy of life
And undiluted hope for the future.

Yet as I did so, it seemed to me
That it was only very recently
That I'd heard them for the first time,
Despite the colossal changes
Brought about not just in my own life,
But the lives of all those of my generation.

Hence, I was confronted at once
With the devastating transience
Of human life,
And the cataclysmic effect
The passage of time exerts on all human life,
And it was a profoundly unsettling experience.

Such a Short Space of Time

I love not just those
I knew back then
But those who were young
Back then,
But who’ve since
Come to grief, who,
Having soared so high,
Found the consequent descent
Too dreadful to bear.

With my past itself,
Which was only yesterday,
No, even less time,
A moment ago,
And when I play
Records from 1975, Soul records,
Glam records, Progressive records,
Twenty years melt away
Into nothingness.

What is a twenty-year period?
Little more than
A blink of an eye.
How could
Such a short space of time
Cause such devastation?
I love not just those
I knew back then
But those who were young back then.

An Autobiographical Narrative: 2000s

To be continued with further layers and additions.

Book Two – Those That Fell Far Short of the First Team

Chapter One - The Revenge of the Feral Dogs


Another name for a feral dog is a pariah dog, although the term tends to be applied exclusively with respect to a handful of countries, notably India, when in fact feral dogs are to be found all throughout the world. They are widely believed to be the descendants of discarded domestic dogs, although unlike the latter, they are hostile to humans, which is understandable, given their history of abandonment. If one is to believe the news, attacks on humans by such animals are more common today than ever, although the truth is they have always existed, as the following tale attests.
It was based on actual incidents that took place, and I know this to be a fact because the character of Sean is based on myself, while all the other characters
also existed, although their names have been changed to protect their privacy. That said, what follows is a somewhat sanitised version of the events as I remember them, and I do so thanks largely to a short story I based on them in about 1977 and which forms the foundation of what follows.

The Revenge of the Feral Dogs

It was a city-port on the Atlantic Coast of France, in the summer of 1975, a time very similar to our own in a vast variety of ways, and yet a million galaxies away.
Then, as today, the youth of the West ran wild to an electronic Rock soundtrack…and even though the Rock and Roll era is now over half a century old where it was yet in its adolescence in ’75, the hedonistic lifestyle it fostered has differed little since then.
In other ways though, it was altogether a different age. There were no cell phones back then, nor personal computers, nor iPods, and if you wanted to hear the latest album by your favourite act or artist, you had to save up for it and march to your latest record store to procure it on vinyl or cassette.
Subsequently, most people only ever heard a fraction of the music that was available, unlike today, when you can hear any song, any album, ever recorded in whatever era you choose through the simple click of a mouse.
It was about 8.30pm, and a quartet of young British naval ratings, hailing from HMS Royal, a minesweeper attached to the shore-based London Division of the Royal Naval Reserve, were enjoying their “run” ashore, which is to say a short period of leave coming in the midst of an exercise at sea. At one point, they decided to split into a pair of duos with one of these returning to the Royal, and the other, setting out into the night in search of whatever delights their temporal city had to offer them.
They were an unlikely pair. 27 year old Kevin was a genial-looking salt of the earth Londoner, while Sean, was an angelically handsome youth of just 19 from a privileged upbringing in Surrey, although not from Surrey per se so much as a little blue collar village that had been swallowed up by London’s urban sprawl, and that was only nominally part of Britain’s wealthiest county.
Yet, they were also unusually akin by dint of their gentle easy-going ways, and all-round nice guy naivety. Things happened to them rather than the other way around…and that was especially true of Sean. With his blond hair and baby blue eyes, he was the antithesis of the domineering macho male, and yet a magnet for attention nonetheless…although not all of it positive.
“Oh, what a pretty sailor,” a flame-haired woman of a certain age proclaimed as she passed him by in the busy, bustling streets.
“And you, madame,” he replied, with typical obsequious gallantry.
“How comes you speak French so well, then Sean?”, said Kevin, “ain’t you German?”
But before Sean had a chance to properly answer his friend, three youths, dressed in battered blue jeans, and sporting long greasy hair, approached the two sailors. One was white, a second black, and a third North African. Their eyes were suspicious, but Sean’s potent pretty boy charm caused them to look kindly upon the sailors
“Hey there, sailor boys,” said the white youth, who was extraordinarily handsome, with long dark eyelashes, and a dazzling smile that revealed broken and discoloured teeth. The single gold earring he wore in his left ear lent him the air of a beautiful romany boy.
“All right?” Sean replied.
“Are you French?”
“No, I’m English,” said Sean.
"Hey, how’s it going with the girls, huh, is everything OK with the ladies?”
“Sure,” said Sean nonchalantly.
“They’re all insane, insane, insane”, said the angel-faced romany, dismissing the entire female race with a drunken wave of his hand, before being borne away by his cohorts, much to Kevin’s evident relief, as he’d already started to distance himself from the trio, despite their friendly intentions.
In time, the two sailors had attained the town’s central square, where a bedraggled sextet of Jazz musicians were blowing Dixie as if their lives depended on it for the benefit of tourists dining on sea food. Many of them looked up from their fishy repasts as Sean passed by. In time, they found themselves in a tavern which had been taken over by a large gang of rowdy revellers, presided over by a strolling guitar player, and a young expatriate Welshman with the burly body of a prop forward.
Needless to say, the sailors were singularly conspicuous by dint of their uniforms, and at one stage, Sean’s cap was removed from his head and passed around the tavern to be gawped at by the assembled clientele like some imperialist curio. It may have been this mortifying incident that provoked the minstrel’s sympathy for Sean, and his subsequent efforts at befriending him.
He was a strikingly handsome man, probably of Spanish extraction, as his name turned out to be Javier, of about 28 years old, at least in appearance. In fact he was 40.
“Give me your address,” he said to Sean, taking his hand in his, “I believe in true comradeship, real friendship…we will be friends.”
“OK,” Sean agreed, whereupon Javier disappeared.
Just then, Sean noticed that he was being intently observed by a beautiful girl of the gamine kind with short lemon yellow hair and distant, pale-blue eyes wearing a strange, melancholy smile, who presently seated herself behind him. She turned out to be Javier’s girl friend, Catherine.
“Bonjour,” she said, “I’m Catherine.”
“Hello, “ said Sean, in his usual shyly charming way, “isn’t Javier a great guy?”
“Oh yes,” Catherine replied, “I’ve been with many men, but this is the first time I’ve been with a real man.”
“Is he really forty?” Sean asked her.
“Yes, forty years old, but he’ll always be young, he’s not aged along with the rest of his generation. We travel together, we’re very much in love.”
Soon Javier returned to engage in further praise of his new found friend:
“Sean is our friend, “ he enthused, “he is our true friend.”
“Oh yes,” Catherine agreed, “he’s really sweet isn’t he, and cute, and nice, you’re our friend, Sean”.
“Thank you,” Sean replied, overwhelmed by their effusiveness.
“You’re going to give us your address before you go, OK?” said Javier.
“Sure,” Sean replied, before getting up to check on Kevin, who was engaged in an intense conversation with the Welshman, Gryff. Realising that interrupting them was not in his best interests, he sat back down and starting sipping from someone else’s wine glass.
Before long, the entire tavern had erupted, and people started dancing around the tables, with some electing to actually dance on the tables. Sean thought it best to leave at this point, and went to say his goodbyes to Catherine, who took hold of one of his hands, while smiling warmly and gazing directly into his eyes.
“Oh,” said Sean distractedly, “I must give my address to Javier.”
He walked over to Javier, but no sooner had he done so, than he was grabbed by the arm, and virtually thrown into the back of a rickety grey fiat being driven by Gryff, which then leaped and screeched through the city’s dingy back streets for a few brief terrifying moments before alighting within a short distance of a discotheque. As soon as Sean was out of the car, he noticed a bewildered looking Kevin among the disco party, of which Gryff had taken charge:
“How are we going to get the sailors in?” he asked out aloud, “they’re not allowed here.”
“Smuggle them in,” someone suggested, “take their hats and jackets off, and sneak them in.”
Gryff set about divesting the tars of much of their attire, with the result that they soon found themselves among the city’s beautiful people, including young heavily made up belles, several executing the most complex and obscure of dance manoeuvres in small groups, and tall, thin young men who punctuated their terpsichorean histrionics with high-pitched squeals.
After a time, it occurred to Sean that unless they set off soon, they’d never get back to their ship, and this time, Kevin was in accord, and so they set about retrieving their clothing. Then, Catherine walked over to them to see them off.
“You should take care,” she told Sean, “I mean…your uniforms, your hats, your symbols don’t mean a thing here. I mean none of it means anything here.”
Sean smiled weakly without answering, and she went on.
“But you’re so cute, you know”, she said, stroking Sean’s cheek.
“Good bye”, said Sean.
“Good bye”, Catherine replied, visibly upset.
Soon, the young sailors were groping their way in the dark towards the city’s main port, with only the crunching of their navy issue boots to break the menacing silence.
“It’s late isn’t it, Kev,” said Sean, as the lights of the disco faded into the distance.
“I don’t care,” Kevin replied, “I thoroughly enjoyed myself.”
“What if we can’t find the ship?”
Within an hour, they reached their destination, although neither knew exactly where their ship was located, and each thin strip of dusty road resembled the last.
Just when they’d turned down yet another one, a feral dog emerged from out of a decaying chalky dwelling, baring its salmon-pink gums and emitting falsetto squeals which attracted a second vicious, fearless canine, this one resembling an Alsatian cross-breed. Sean panicked and picked up a stone, before threatening his aggressors, then running first from them, then towards them, screaming at them, shrinking from them, but nothing he did served to deter them.
Kevin preferred the role of pack leader and with index finger pointing directly at the dogs, started to command them in tones of masterly severity, but they refused to accept him as alpha male, and continued to circle him as if they’d earmarked him for an early morning feast. And the dogs squealed, and slavered, and snarled, and the more they sensed the sailors’ fear, the more hysterical they became.
The sailors’ fate seemed sealed. They’d surely pay a high price for separating from their companions in order to seek out stimulation in the depths of a city in which their status as strangers rendered them deeply vulnerable. Kevin was easily the more streetwise, while Sean was to all intents and purposes…prey on legs; and it was only a matter of time before this truth became evident to him. Yet, nothing would have stopped him stepping out of his comfort zone that night, as millions of his kind have done since, and continue to do.
“You should take care,” Catherine had said, almost prophetically as it turned out, “I mean…your uniforms, your hats, your symbols don’t mean a thing here. I mean none of it means anything here.”


Some time towards the end of the old or the beginning of the new millennium, possibly around 1996, a middle aged-man received a phone call straight out of the blue from an old friend.
He was still youthful looking and his acting career hadn’t yet been entirely forsaken, while much of his music career lay in the future. In other words, there was still some chance he’d amount to something in a worldly sense.
He’d converted to Christianity some years previously in 1993, following many years during which his consumption of alcohol was at lethal levels, and he was barely to drink again thereafter, notwithstanding a long series of relapses, most as insignificant as they were incapacitating.
His friend spoke of many things, but while most of these were to elude his memory as the years proceeded, one especially remained. This was the time they found themselves cornered on some dusty street in a city-port on the Atlantic coast of France by wild dogs; but he never mentioned how they managed to extricate themselves.
Some fifteen years after the call took place, he reflected on his luck that night and wondered if the reason he emerged unscathed was that God had better plans for him other than to become food for a couple of feral canids. And this provided him with a goodly amount of consolation for the teeming multitude of failures and follies, mistakes and losses that had blighted his life ever since.
However, it’s significant that the vast majority of these took place prior to his acceptance of Christ as his Personal Saviour, and that while his life had been far from perfect since ‘93, which is not surprising under the circumstances, God had restored to him the years that the swarming locust had eaten.

Chapter Two – Verses That Fell Far Short of the First Team

The Playwright Eugene O’Neill

The playwright was most effective
As the dramatic illuminator
Of his own tristful destiny
As well as those of his kinfolk.
And of the two plays that treat
Of the tragic Tyrones
One features James,
His wistful pheere Mary,
And his two troubled offspring

A quartette of characters
Based respectively
Upon O’Neill’s father James,
His mother Ella,
O’Neill himself,
And his elder brother, Jamie
Who had he not sought
Such fatal Lethe
Might have evolved into
A great actor like his father,
Or a writer like his brother,
Such was the luminous
Brilliance of his early promise.

How richly blessed he'd been
At birth with charm and intellect.
While part of the
Minim Department
Of Notre Dame University,
He was a favoured prince
Destined for a future
As a Catholic gentleman
Of exquisite breeding
And learning; and then
A prize-winning scholar
At Fordham, from which
He came to be expelled
For a foolish indiscretion.

While the other is an account
Of poor Jim Tyrone's
Last attempt at securing
Some kind of earthly felicity,
Through his love for a
Hoyden with a heart as vast
As his implausible life,
"A Moon for the Misbegotten".

So Lovelorn in London Town

From morn to friendless night
He tramps the streets
Just in case he might
Come across her he's a tragic sight
But he don't care
Love gives him might
He haunts the cafes and the discos
And the bars so lovelorn

He knows that he won't find her
But he's got to keep on trying
It gives some meaning to his life
It gives some substance to his time
It is his motive and his project
An his plan so lovelorn

He only met her once
But it changed his life
And it changed his type
And it changed his mind

They say he once was
A successful man
But he threw it all up
As if he'd gone insane
And he took to the streets
And another man was born

They say love comes but once
For some but when it does
It's like a mighty
Atom bomb inside
A disease that seizes
A gentle soul
And when it comes for him
He'd better try to hide

From morn to friendless night
He tramps the streets
Just in case he might
Come across her he's a tragic sight
But he don't care
Love gives him might
He haunts the cafes and the discos
And the bars so lovelorn

O Lover Mine, Where are You Going?

O lover mine, where are you going?
O lover mine, where are you going?
Look, see the signs of summer coming,
You can’t leave me at this time.

O lover mine, did I not please you?
O lover mine, did I not please you?
I tried so hard, tried hard to reach you,
Hoped that we were doing fine.

O Lover mine, I’ll always love you,
O lover mine, I’ll always love you,
No matter where, how far you’re roaming,
I’ll be here when you return.

Book Three – A Hundred and Thirteen Carl Halling Lookalikies

Chapter One – A Hundred and Thirteen Carl Halling Lookalikies


The following list was compiled piecemeal between early 2006 and late 2011, but consists of comparisons dating back decades. Some of these same comparisons are dubious for one reason or another, such as being made between some purported Carl Halling lookalikie and a mere photo for instance; or fleetingly or half-heartedly. And in certain cases, I find the supposed similarity little short of laughable. Nonetheless, all 114 have been made at various stages of my existence by parties other than myself, the only obvious exception being Halling himself, included for humorous purposes. Which begs the question, how original are my features anyway? Not very being the obvious reply; although one of the advantages of increasing age has been looking like few people other than myself for better or worse. But if any kind soul feels moved to add to this list, then perhaps they might message me. All the information supplied is accurate to the best of my knowledge.

A Hundred and Thirteen Carl Halling Lookalikies

Kingsley Amis. English writer. Born London, England, United Kingdom, 16 April 1922. Died 1995.
Martin Amis. English writer. Born Swansea, Wales, United Kingdom, 25 August 1949.
Göran Bror “Benny” Andersson. Swedish musician. Born Stockholm, Sweden, 16 December 1946.
Prince Andrew, Duke of York. English Prince of the Royal House of Windsor. Born London, England, United Kingdom, 19 February, 1960. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English, German, Danish.
Anthony Andrews. English actor. Born London, England, United Kingdom, 8 January 1948.
Tony Blair. English politician. Born Edinburgh, Scotland, United Kingdom, 6 May 1952. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English, Scots-Irish.
Dirk Bogarde. English actor and author. Born Derek Jules Gaspard Ulric Niven van den Bogaerde, London, England, United Kingdom. Died 1999. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Dutch, Flemish, Scottish.
Reinhard Bonnke. German Evangelist. Born Königsberg, East Prussia, 19 April 1940.
David Bowie. English musician and actor. Born London, England, United Kingdom, 8 January 1947. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English, Irish.
Jacques Brel. Belgian musician, actor and director, born Scharbeek, Brussels, Belgium, 8 April 1927. Died 1979. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Flemish.
Beau Bridges. American actor and director. Born 9 December 1941, Los Angeles, California, United States.
Robbie Burns. Scottish poet. Born 25 January 1759, Alloway, Ayrshire, Scotland, United Kingdom. Died 1796.
Ali Campbell. English musician. Born Birmingham, West Midlands, United Kingdom. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Scottish.
Ian Carmichael. English actor. Born Kingston upon Hull, East Riding of Yorkshire, England, United Kingdom, 20 June 1922. Died 2010.
James Earl “Jimmy” Carter. American politician, 39th President of the United States of America. Born Plains, Georgia, United States, 1 October 1924. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English.
Dana Carvey. American actor. Born Missoula, Montana, United States, 2 June 1955.
David Cassidy. American musician and actor. Born New York City, New York, United States, 12 April 1950. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Irish, German.
Andrew Castle. English tennis player and television presenter. Born Epsom, Surrey, United Kingdom, 15 November 1963.
Maxwell Caulfield. English actor. Born Duffield, Derbyshire, United Kingdom, 23 November 1959.
Richard Chamberlain. American actor. Born Beverley Hills, California, United States, 31 March 1934.
Richard Clayderman. French musician. Born Paris, France, 28 December 1953.
Montgomery Clift. American actor. Born Omaha, Nebraska, United States, 17 October 1920. Died: 23 July 1966.
Sean Connery. Scottish actor. Born Edinburgh, Scotland, United Kingdom, 25 August 1930. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Scottish, Irish.
Kevin Costner. American actor. Born Lynwood, California, United States, 18 January 1955. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English, German, Irish.
Russell Crowe. New Zealand-Australian actor and musician. Born Wellington, New Zealand, 7 April 1964. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English, Scottish, German, Norwegian, Māori.
Tom Cruise. American actor and producer. Born Thomas Cruise Mapother IV, Syracuse, New York, United States, 3 July 1962. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English, Irish, German.
James Dean. American actor. Born Marion, Indiana, United States, 8 February 1931. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English.
John Denver. American musician and actor. Born Henry Deutschendorff, Roswell, New Mexico, 31 December 1943. Died, 12 December 1997. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: German.
Leonardo DiCaprio. American actor and producer. Born Los Angeles, California, United States, 11 November 1974. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: German, Italian, Russian.
Jason Donovan. Australian musician and actor. Born Melbourne, Australia, 1 June 1968. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Irish.
Michael Douglas. American actor and producer. Born New Brunswick, New Jersey, 25 September 1944. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Jewish, Bermudian.
Paul Draper. English musician. Born Wavertree, Liverpool, United Kingdom, 26 September 1970.
Sergei Esenin. Russian poet. Born St Petersburg, Russia, 3 October 1895.
Died 1925.
Adam Faith. English singer, actor and businessman. Born Terence Nelhams-Wright, London, England, United Kingdom, 23 June 1940. Died 2003.
Bryan Ferry. English musician. Born Washington, County Durham, 26 September 1945.
Peter Finch. English-Australian actor. Born Frederick George Peter Ingle Finch, London, United Kingdom, 28 September 1928. Died 17 January 1977.
F. Scott Fitzgerald. American writer. Born Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald, St Paul, Minnesota, 24 September 1895. Died Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Irish.
Glenn Ford. Canadian-American actor. Born Gwyllyn Samuel Newton Ford, 1 May 1916, Quebec City, Quebec, Canada. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Scottish, Welsh.
Edward Fox. English actor. Born London, England, United Kingdom, 13 April 1937.
Michael J. Fox. Canadian-American actor, producer and author. Born Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, June 9 1961.
Jonathan Franzen. American writer. Born Western Springs, Illinois, United States, August 17 1959. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Swedish.
Billy Fury. English musician and actor. Born Ronald William Wycherley, Liverpool, England, United Kingdom, 17 April 1940. Died 1983.
Peter Gabriel. English musician. Born Chobham, Surrey, United Kingdom, 13 February 1950.
Ricky Gervais. English actor, writer, director and musician. Born Reading, Berkshire, England, United Kingdom, 25 June 1961. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English, French-Canadian.
Andy Gibb. English musician. Born Manchester, England, United Kingdom, 10 March 1988. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English.
Barry Gibb. English musician. Born Douglas, Isle of Man, 22 December 1948. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English.
Bobby Goldsboro. American musician. Born Marianna, Florida, United States, 18 January 1941.
Bruce Greenwood. Canadian actor. Born Naranda, Quebec, Canada, 12 August 1956.
Bobby Gee. English singer. Born Robert Gubby, Epsom, Surrey, United Kingdom, 23 August 1953.
Carl Halling. English writer, actor and musician. Born London, England, United Kingdom. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English, Scottish, Scots-Irish.
Mark Hamill. American actor. Born Concord, California, United States, 25 September 1951. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Swedish.
Noel Harrison. English actor, musician and athlete. Born London, England, United Kingdom, 29 January 1939.
Lawrence Harvey. English actor. Born Zvi Mosheh Skikne, Joniškis, Lithuania, 1 October 1928. Died 1973. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Jewish.
Justin Hayward. English musician. Born Swindon, Wiltshire, England, United Kingdom, 14 October 1946.
Louis Hayward. South African actor. Born Johannesburg, South Africa, 19 March 1909. Died 1985.
Nick Heyward. English musician. Born Beckenham, Kent, England, United Kingdom, 20 May 1961.
Ernest Hemingway. American writer, born Oak Park, Illinois, 21 July, 1899. Died 1961. Ethnicity: English.
Benny Hinn. Palestinian-Canadian Evangelist. Born Toufik Benedictus Hinn, Jaffa, Israel, 3 December 1952.
Billy Idol. English musician. Born William Broad, Stanmore, Middlesex, United Kingdom, 30 November 1955.
Elton John. English musician. Born Reginald Kenneth Dwight, Pinner, Middlesex, England, United Kingdom, 25 March 1947.
Brian Jones. English musician. Born Lewis Brian Hopkins Jones, Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, England, United Kingdom, 28 February 1942. Died 1969. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Welsh.
Christopher Jones. American actor and painter. Born William Frank Jones, Jacksonville, Tennessee, 18 August 1941.
Jon Bon Jovi. American musician. Born John Francis Bongiovi, Jr., Amboy, New Jersey, United States, 2 March 1962. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Italian, Irish.
Stephen King. American writer. Born Portland, Maine, United States, 21 September 1947.
Alan Ladd. American actor. Born Hot Springs, Arkansas, United States, 3 September 1913. Died 1964.
Peter Lawford. English-American actor. Born London, England, United Kingdom, 2 September 1924. Died 1984.
Nick Leeson. English financier. Born Watford, Hertfordshire, United Kingdom, 25 February 1967.
Matthew Lillard. American actor. Born Lansing, Michigan, 24 January 1970.
Limahl. English singer. Born Christopher Hamill, Wigan, Lancashire, England, United Kingdom, 19 December 1958.
Rob Lowe. American actor. Born Charlottesville, Virginia, 17 March 1964.
David McCallum . Scottish actor. Born Glasgow, Sctoland, United Kingdom, 19 September 1940.
Patrick McGoohan. Irish actor. Born New York City, New York, United States, 19 March 1928. Died 2009.
Paul McCartney. English musician. Born Liverpool, England, United Kingdom, 18 June 1942. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Irish.
Peter McEnery. English actor, born Walsall, England, United Kingdom, 21 February 1940.
Ewen MacGregor. Scottish actor. Born Perth, Scotland, United Kingdom, 31 March 1971.
George Michael. English musician. Born Bushey, Hertfordshire, England, United Kingdom, 26 June 1963. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English, Greek, Jewish.
Roger Moore. English actor. Born London, England, United Kingdom, 14 October 1927.
Vic Morrow. American actor and director. Born New York City, New York, United States, February 14, 1929. Died 1982. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Jewish.
Audie Murphy. American soldier, actor and songwriter. Born Kingston, Hunt Country, Texas, United States, June 20, 1924. Died 1971. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Irish.
Sam Neill. New Zealand actor. Born Omagh, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom, 14 September 1947. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English, Scottish.
Mike Nolan. English-Irish musician. Born Dublin, Ireland, 7 December 1954. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Irish.
Ian Ogilvy. English-American actor, novelist and playwright. Born Woking, Surrey, England, United Kingdom, 30 September 1943.
Ryan O'Neal, American actor. Born Charles Patrick Ryan O’Neal Jr., Los Angeles, California, United States. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Irish, Jewish.
Richard O'Sullivan. English actor. Born 7 May 1944, London, England, United Kingdom.
Peter O’Toole: English-Irish actor. Born Leeds, West Yorkshire, England, United Kingdom, or Connemara, County Galway, Ireland, 2 August 1932. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Irish, Scottish.
Simon Pegg. English actor, writer, film director and producer. Born Simon Beckingham, 14 February 1940, Brockworth, Gloucerstershire, England, United Kingdom.
George Peppard: American actor. Born Detroit, Michigan, 1 October 1928. Died 1994.
Gerard Philipe. French actor. Born Cannes, France, 4 December 1922. Died 1959.
Brad Pitt. American actor and producer. Born Shawnee, Oklahoma, 18 December 1963. Certified/Alleged Ancestry: English.
Dick Powell. American actor. Born Mountain View, Arkansas, 14 November 1904. Died 1963. Certified/ Alleged Ethnicity: Welsh.
Ronald Reagan. American politician and actor, 40th President of the United States of America. Born Tampico, Illinois, United States, 6 February 1911. Died 2004. Certified/Alleged ancestry: English, Irish, Scottish.
Robert Redford. American actor, director and producer. Born Santa Monica, California, August 18 1937 . Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English, Scots-Irish.
Cliff Richard: English musician and actor. Born Lucknow, India, 14 October 1940. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English.
Jean Paul Sartre. French writer and philosopher. Born Paris, France, 21 June 1905. Died 1980. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: French, Alsatian.
Friedrich Schiller. German poet, playwright, philosopher and historian, born Marbach, Germany, 10 November 1759.
Frank Sinatra: American musician and actor. Born Hoboken, New Jersey, 12 December 1915. Certified/Alleged Ancestry: Italian.
David Soul: American-English actor and singer. Born David Solberg, Chicago, Illinois, 28 August 1943. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Norwegian.
David Spade: American actor. Born Birmingham, Michigan, July 22, 1964.
James Spader. American actor. Born Boston, Massachusetts, 7 February 1960.
Sting: English musician and actor. Born Newcastle-upon-Tyne, England, United Kingdom, 2 October 1951.
Andy Summers: English musician. Born Poulton-le-Fylde, Lancashire, England, 31 December 1942.
Gerry Sundquist: English actor. Born Manchester, England, 6 October 1955. Died 1993.
Kiefer Sutherland. English-Canadian actor. Born London, England, 21 December 1966. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Scottish.
Richard Thomas. American actor. Born New York City, New York, United States, 13 June 1951.
Josh Turner: American musician and actor. Born Hanahan, South, Carolina, United States, 20 November 1977.
Bjorn Ulvaeus. Swedish musician. Born Gothenburg, Sweden, 25 April 1945.
David Van Day. English musician. Born Brighton, East Sussex, England, United Kingdom, 28 November 1956. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Jewish.
Jon Voight: American actor. Born Yonkers, New York. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: German, Slovakian.
Christopher Walken: American actor. Born Queens, New York City, March 31, 1943. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: German, Scottish.
Scott Walker: American musician. Born Hamilton, Ohio, United States, 9 January 1944. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: German.
Tom Watt: English actor, broadcaster and journalist. Born London, England, 14 February 1956.
Orson Welles: American actor, writer, director and producer. Born Kenosha, Wisconsin, May 10 1915. Died 1985. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English.
Andy Williams: American musician. Born: Wall Lake, Iowa, December 3, 1927.
Tennessee Williams: American writer. Born Columbus, Mississippi, March 26 1911. Died February 25 1983. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: English.
Brian Wilson. American musician. Born Inglewood, California, June 20 1942.
Owen Wilson: American actor. Born Dallas, Texas, November 18 1968. Certified/Alleged Ethnicity: Irish.


Tag der Veröffentlichung: 07.10.2011

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