Celebrity stares

If you had asked me this time last year which celebrities I most disliked, I would have said Piers Morgan, Kerry Katona and Jade Goody.

I stand by my opinions of the odious Morgan and the talentless Katona. But casting aside my desire not to speak ill of the dead, my opinion of Jade softened during her heart-wrenching battle against cancer.

After her embarrassing antics on Big Brother, like most people, I soon dismissed Jade as an ignorant – but harmless – chav. But her appearance on Celebrity Big Brother, when she revealed herself to be an aggressive bully (and, some would argue, a racist), sent her soaring to the upper echelons of my hate list.

A few months later, I stood next but one to Jade, in a queue in the Loughton branch of Abbey. She was braying into a mobile at the top of her voice, with no consideration for anyone within earshot – which must have been half of Loughton. My opinion on her had only been reinforced. The thug she was dating and her foul-mouthed mother provided more fuel to the fire.

But as it became apparent that she was terminally ill, I started to see her in a different light. She was clearly a devoted mother and the fortitude with which she was battling her cancer was admirable. Yes, she was common and ignorant. But was she not just a product of a traumatic childhood and poor schooling? However ‘stupid’ (if a woman who made more than £5m in five years can be called stupid) someone is, they don’t deserve to die at the age of 27.

The day before her funeral, I decided to visit Jade’s house. I had a day off work, and I thought the three-mile walk through Epping Forest would be a pleasant way to spend a morning. I even took my camera with me – to take pictures of the woodland life, rather than anything more morbid. When I arrived in Upshire, I had to ask an elderly lady for directions. We had a conversation about what a tragedy Jade’s death had been.

Outside Jade’s house was a group of three middle-aged men, leaning against the bonnet of a car making small-talk. Paparazzi. As I looked at the rows of cards, flowers and poems, I was approached by a young woman and a man with a video camera. In a heavy accent, she asked me how far I had come. I said not far. She then asked me whether I would be willing to talk on camera about why I had come.

I was horrified. Of course I’m not going to appear on TV talking about the death of a woman famous for asking whether ‘East Angular’ was abroad. I made my excuses and left, with the camera crew looking disappointed (visitors were thin on the ground).

As I walked away, I tried to persuade myself that I had declined the opportunity because, like Chris Moyles or David Mellor, I have got the ‘perfect face for radio’. After all, I had twice been asked by Sky in the mid-1990s to talk about the all-too-regular crises at West Ham – a subject I can speak far more passionately about than I can on Jade Goody – and both times had refused. But the truth was, I was embarrassed to be outside Jade’s house and certainly didn’t want to advertise my presence beyond my immediate social circle (although this blog entry might seem to contradict this). What if someone I knew had seen me, however unlikely it was that anyone I had ever met watched cable TV in southern Europe.

It dawned on me that, although I did sympathise hugely with Jade’s family, my fascination by her death was curiosity that the sleepy corner of Essex in which I have spent the past 38 years was one of the focal points of the UK news. Jade met Jack in a nightclub half a mile from my flat, her boys went to the pre-prep school in Loughton that I attended in the early-1970s and her funeral was to take place at a church a couple of hundred yards from a school at which I spent seven years.

Consequently, the following morning, my mum and I were two of the first people to take our positions on Loughton High Road, opposite the beauty salon that Jade part owned, to watch the funeral procession pass by. We were surprised by how few people were on the streets, with only 30 minutes until the cortege was scheduled to pass through. We clearly weren’t the only ones fascinated by the event, though, as 20 minutes after the hearse was due to have passed by, the streets started to throng with people (the journey was being screened live on Sky). The police shut the main road, a helicopter buzzed overhead and TV crews and photographers appeared from nowhere. The crowds were soon five deep. Loughton had never been so busy.

As the hearse appeared in view, I had a sudden lump in my throat – funerals always remind me of the loved ones that I have lost. The crowd surged forward, as people threw flowers at the hearse and fought to take pictures of Jack, Jade’s mum and the rest of the party, as they walked solemnly behind the lead car. Although it was hardly a national outpouring of grief – I didn’t see a single person shed a tear – as I watched the cavalcade of cars carrying wreaths and mourners, the only comparison I could draw was with Princess Diana’s funeral.

Michael Parkinson was right when he said: ‘Her death is as sad as the death of any young person, but it’s not the passing of a martyr or a saint or, God help us, Princess Di.’ He may well also have had a valid point when he described Jade as representing ‘all that is paltry and wretched about Britain today’. But when I have the chance to be present at what was, rightly or wrongly, the lead item on the evening news, like thousands of other people, I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. I just hope that no one I knew saw me on the footage.

Pregnant pause

One of the biggest worries in my life is giving up my seat on the Tube. It’s something I do regularly, but whenever I have a seat, I’m always looking guiltily around, wondering whether I have missed someone that needs the seat more than I do – and whether everyone else in the carriage is thinking how selfish I am for not having got up.

Pregnant and elderly women are my main targets, followed by elderly men and people on crutches or with walking sticks. Next come parents with young children. It’s a minefield, though. I once offered my seat to a woman who looked as if she was in her late-60s. She glared at me and said at the top of her voice: ‘I’m quite capable of standing.’ I was so embarrassed.

To minimise the number of potentially humiliating situations, I never sit down unless the train is almost empty or I am staying on it for a long while. But as my local station is the first on the line (or the last), I get a seat every morning on the way to work. On Tuesday, everything was great. I had a seat, but within a couple of stops, there were none available. At the next stop, a heavily pregnant woman entered the carriage. Before the doors had even shut, I was up. She thanked me and I took the last remaining seat (one of those that you perch on at the end of Central Line carriages). A couple of stops later, a woman who looked as if she was carrying triplets got on. It was a no-brainer. She was grateful and I was gratified, although spending the next 30 minutes without being able to even turn the page of my magazine because the carriage was so busy, was a little frustrating.

Non-pregnant women do anything they can to avoid me (if you look up ‘fanny magnet’ in a dictionary of antonyms, you would see a picture of me), but for some strange reason, those with child seem drawn to me. As the Tube train passes slowly along the platform, it’s a near certainty that the one pregnant woman will come through the door nearest where I am sitting.

This morning was one of those potentially embarrassing days. I woman got on the train and stood a few feet down from me. There was a discernible bulge in her dress, but it didn’t look baby shaped. I didn’t know what to do. Is she pregnant or does she just have a phobia of exercise and a penchant for doughnuts? I looked at her again. Then I looked at her finger. She wasn’t wearing a wedding or engagement ring – not that that means anything these days, but I can’t help it if I’m a traditionalist. I sneaked another surreptitious look her stomach, which appeared to be growing in size every second. Then horror of horrors, she caught me looking, and pulled her coat shut. If I’m going to be caught perving at a woman, why couldn’t it be one who looked like one of FHM’s cover models, rather than one who looked as if she was starting out a career as a sumo wrestler?

My dilemma – and potential outing – was solved by one of those religious nutters getting on the train. No sooner was he through the doors, than he started shouting about how Jesus can save us all from the credit crunch. The woman quickly moved as far away from him as she could, leaving someone else to enter the ‘is she or isn’t she?’ debate. I don’t ever think I’ve been so pleased to hear someone shouting in my ear for 10 minutes about how bibles are now £2 in Asda. As I got off the train, he said: ‘There’s more to life than going to work, then coming home to watch EastEnders or West Ham United.’ I had to smile.

Gone to the dogs

There were tears by the bucketload in E17 last night – and not because Brain Harvey and his chav mates had re-formed their boy band. The locals were crying into their beer at the fact that hordes of marauding Hoxtonites in skinny jeans and sporting retro sports bags had invaded their beloved dog track. The former owners were gutted that the crowds that had been staying away from Walthamstow for years, necessitating the sale of the track, had finally returned. The aforementioned ‘trendies’ were braying loudly as their 20p ‘reverse tricasts’ were continually obliterated in a collision of canine fur at the first bend. On a personal note, I was gutted that somewhere that had featured so heavily in my life was to close at the end of the week.

It was a surreal night all round. Walthamstow Stadium was heaving with TV news crews interviewing members of the group campaigning to save the stadium (Save Our Stow), and photographers taking pictures of old men studying dog-eared copies of the Racing Post, betting shop pens behind their ears – the anachronistic survivors of dog racing's golden era.

The Hoxtonites took to cheering the tractor as it circled the track smoothing the sand between the races, to the bemusement of its driver. The four remaining bookies were equally astounded that they weren’t the only ones bearing satchels, although theirs weren’t Dunlop models costing 30 quid a pop. Then halfway through the evening, the leader of SOS, greyhound trainer Ricky Holloway, grabbed a microphone and gave an impassioned plea for support. This was followed by 100 of his cohorts parading around the track chanting 'Save Our Stow'.

As I touted my camera round every nook and cranny, I found myself putting on a broad Cockney accent and saying things such as, ‘I’ll have a jacksy on the two dog at burlington bertie’, as if to prove my credentials. I sounded like a cross between Frank Butcher and John McCririck.

I may work in the media and have a Tintin-style haircut, but I’ve been coming over the Stow for years, don’tcha know. I’m not one of these Johnny-come-latelies. My dad used to import greyhounds from Ireland. He owned three that used to race here, and as a child, I remember our sideboard being adorned by various tankards that Double Contact, Road Tax and Ginger Kentucky had won. The Paddock Grill restaurant was apparently my parents’ second home throughout the 1960s, and it was also the venue for my 18th and 30th birthday celebrations. When I was a teenager, at a time when I worked for Ladbrokes, I was in the popular enclosure every week. We even hired one of the stadium’s swanky suites to commemorate my parents’ ruby wedding anniversary in 2003. As they say, you don’t appreciate what you’ve got until it is gone.

But all may not be lost. The Save Our Stow group is confident that it can buy the stadium back from the builders, even though the asking price is thought to be approaching £32m. They must have an awful lot of cabbies onboard. Waltham Forest Council has called the development company in for a meeting next week. There is also the small matter of the iconic facade of the stadium, which inspired the artwork for Blur's Parklife album, being a listed building.

The next instalment in the saga will be at noon on Saturday, when the campaigners will be marching from the stadium to Walthamstow town hall to hand in a petition. I think I might just them – it sounds a lot more worthwhile than watching West Ham lose at home to Wigan.

Perhaps they will get to Stay Another Day after all.

DLR ExCeLs itself for stupidity

London Underground is the bane of my life. I'm sure it is the bane of most commuters' lives, particularly those who live on the Epping branch of the Central Line. I've no doubt that it is a subject that will unfortunately crop up on this blog on a regular basis.

But this weekend, the powers that be on the Docklands Light Railway managed to upstage their Tube counterparts for stupidity and sheer bloody mindedness. In their infinite wisdom, they decided to ban competitors in the London Triathlon from taking their bikes on DLR trains.

The world's biggest triathlon takes place at the ExCeL Centre in Docklands, which is accessible either by road or by using the DLR. So for those of us who don't drive, our only option for getting to the ExCeL Centre is to cycle there.

My race was at 07.00 on Sunday. Before the race, I had to register my bike, pick up my timing chip and then prepare for the start (set out my kit, applied vaseline and suncream, put on my wetsuit etc). Basically, I would have needed to arrive at least an hour before the race. As I live in rural Essex, I would have had to set off from home at about 04.00. And then after cycling more than 20 miles, there would have been the little matter of a 1.5km swim, 40km cycle and 10km run.

Needless to say, I never made the start line. And there were hundreds of others in the same boat, many of whom were raising money for charity.

In previous years, special dispensation has been made for two days to allow competitors to transport their bikes to and from the venue. It wasn't ideal for anyone. But it was common sense.

If the DLR operated in a competitive market, it wouldn't have any customers. I'm going to write to the company to ask for it to refund my £90 entry fee. Watch this space.