A POT POURRI OF FINCHLEY 1266 words

Chris Champness

When my Editor directed me to do this piece for the Saturday review, I was at first mystified and then flattered. Mystified, as I am at heart a political and not a social journalist and - yes - even journalists are capable of being flattered. Especially if they work for that well known newspaper the Washington Post to which even Hollywood paid obeisance.

It struck me quite forcibly as I started writing that I was, for once, following in the footsteps of W.T. Stead, the father of investigative journalism which paved the way for the modern tabloid newspaper. Stead was not only a journalist but also, in mid Victorian Britain, a vocal advocate of social reform and an outspoken critic when he detected matters which he believed it was in the interests of the public to air. A good example of this was one article pointing out that, at a time when the majority of international travel was by sea, the Board of Trade regulations failed to provide British registered ships with a sufficiency of lifeboats. It was a cruel irony that 26 years later he lost his life when the Titanic went down to Neptune's locker.

But enough of this. Let us turn our attention to the borough of Finchley. Love her or hate her, it was the seat of our first female Prime Minister - and not before time many people would claim, one with which I heartily concur. Did this borough then mirror the nation's sentiments of its MP? Let us take a look at some of her constituents. We'll start with Stanley Moore, a 56 years old pensions clerk at the Army Pensions Office in Stanmore. I should say at the start that I have changed the names of all those good enough to give me their time and personal histories. Mr Moore is a good example of the many thousands of lower grade civil servants who have devoted their working lives to various parts of our society - in this case the soldiers who devoted their lives to the defence of their country. He is a perfect example of Lady Thatcher's core beliefs installed into her by her grocer father: straighforward beliefs and an advocate of a just society earning its living honestly and, as championed by Mr Micawber, not spending beyond its means. This is well demonstrated by his modest semi detached house, his wife and two children and his equally modest small saloon car. The more cynical amongst us might argue that , as such, this family arouse little, if any, public interest. How wrong you would be to hold such a view. For a start, Stanley is neither the first husband of his wife or the father of either of the children. In the years before the election of Mrs Thatcher as its MP bestowed upon the borough at least the venue of middle class respectability, there had been dark goings on at the flat where the now Mrs Moore lived with her children and her first husband. Libel laws constrain me from any details, but the neighbourhood is alive with sufficient gossip for any eager journalist. And it is highly unlikely that the sadly disfigured ears of Mrs Moore were obtained in any wrestling ring. What I can reveal however is that Mr Moore had, during his period of National Service, been his Regiment's middleweight boxing champion. And that his arrival in the family locality coincided exactly with the sudden and unexpected departure of husband number one.

Let us turn now to a more sedate resident: Wes(ley) Thampstead, the Vicar of the local parish church of St Thomas the Reformer. The good Reverend is no reformer himself but is true to his calling as a good Protestant member of the Church of England. The very mention of the Holy See or of Rome itself will light his indignation fuse and result in utterings of incense and other matters of a more - it must be said - sexual nature. But the good Vicar's demeanour is much altered by contact with anyone he would imagine to be of a higher social class. A few discreet enquiries at the Pig and Whistle, conveniently located adjacent to the parish church, resolved this issue. The Good Shepherd had not been born into gentility: it turned out his father had been a naval gunfitter in Chatham dockyard, an uncle a Chief Petty Officer in the Royal Navy, and another uncle a shipwright in a Thames boatyard. Such fidelity to our nation's maritime heritage was quite lost on our subject. It seems as though his elevation from this background to the middle classes had sowed seeds of doubt he appeared unable to assuage, something not uncommon in such cases. Which is probably why he became a Vicar in the first place.

At the other end of the social scale, and in the outer reaches of Finchley on the North Circular Road, is The Caff. Originality does not figure amongst its virtues. A greasy spoon to its (equally greasy) fingertips, it is run by a large and uncomromising woman more than ready to take on any of the bikers who frequent her premises. As well they know. Supporting her, or more likely keeping out of her way much of the time,is her partner. Who is, would you believe it, the very same man who made Mrs Moore's life such a misery. Only now the boot is well and truly on the other foot. He has lost all desire to return to his former spouse. Which is just as well, as he has now no idea where she lives. One violent session with Mr Moore and the lesson was well and truly learnt. Serendipity at last for Mrs Moore. For all she know, or cares, her former husband could be at the other end of the earth.

And now, with our concluding character, we move onto a multicultural theme. Mr and Mrs Chawla. Of the two, Mrs Chawla is the more interesting. Born in India, moving to Uganda as a small girl, and then, when Idi Amin booted out all the Asians, to Liverpool where her father is now a Professor at the University. No lilting Indianised English accent here: the lady is a pure scouse - by sound anyway. She is also a gifted designer of jewellery and has inherited from we know not which forbear an unusually effective entrepreneurial talent. Her husband, with his several yards of turban, is a Sikh. Now you may think that he should be Mr. Singh and not Mr Chawla. But here's a thing: all Singhs are Sikhs but not all Sikhs are Singhs. Not many people know that. He himself has some inherited wealth so has no need to work for a living. But he keeps himself busy by buying top quality hunting rifles from Indian Maharajas who have fallen onto hard times and selling them to nouveau riche Englishmen and Europeans.

Based on the above, we have, I think, proved not that the inhabitants of Finchley mirror the views of their MP but that the cross section chosen is representative of the country as a whole.

So there we have it. Those French linguists amongst you may well wonder why I have entitled this piece as a 'pot pourri' since literally translated it means 'putrid pot'. Well, the French can say what they like but I much prefer it to mean 'a mixture of seemingly unrelated items, an unusual assortment'.

So, as the French say, Voila.

Until next week then: 'Au Revoir.'