Moon Over Covent Garden
London Calling.
London Walks connecting.
This is London.
This is London Walks.
Streets Ahead. Story time. History time.
Announcement time.
Going forward – providing I’m equal to it – I’m going to open each day’s podcast with a word. Going to unpack that word. Explore it. Open it up to view. Where it comes from. What’s inside it. Your word of the day. I’m in good company here. Think of the book of John in the bible. The New Testament. The fourth and last of the four gospels. Remember how it opens. “In the beginning was the word.”
That opening is especially striking. .
Matthew starts with a genealogy. Mark plunges straight into John the Baptist. Luke begins with an address to Theophilus. But John reaches right back beyond Bethlehem, beyond Abraham, beyond creation itself:
“In the beginning was the Word…”
It’s consciously resonating with the very first words of Genesis, “In the beginning God created…” — but John takes us, as it were, to before the beginning.
So, yup – as I used to say all those years ago back in the Land of the Gathering Waters – yup, henceforth, in the beginning is the word. The beginning of every London Calling podcast. London, as always, will be the main course. But for an aperatif, in the beginning, a word. Starting here. Now. Today. Today’s word follows on from yesterday’s podcast. In it we bade farewell to our dear friend, the great Scottish actress, Phyllida Law. I closed it out with the words Ave atque vale, Philly. Ave atque vale. That’s of course the famous classical, Latin phrase. Dignified, eternal, beyond reproach, it means Hale. And farewell. You can’t put it better. But you know something, plain old Goodbye has a lot going for it. Goodbye Philly. How many of you know what you’re actually saying, deep down inside, when you say goodbye. Or even just “bye”. Or “bye bye.” If you don’t know, you’re going to like this. A lot. Here’s what the word “goodbye” is freighted with. As words go, goodbye is a treasure chest. Let’s open it up. First syllable “good” isn’t “good.” It’s “God.” Now look closely at the second syllable. “Bye.” B – y – e. Bye. Those last two letters, y-e, that’s. Ye, as you all know, is an old fashioned way of saying you. And that leaves the letter “b”. And the letter b stands for, indeed, is the word be, b-e. Doesn’t need the letter e because it’s already there when you pronounce the letter b. Now put those three elements together. First syllable “good” meaning “god”. Then the letter b meaning the word be – b-e. Then the two letters y-e – ye – meaning you. And, yes, there’s a missing word. With. It’s the ghost at our little verbal banquet. But it’s there. We supply it. It’s a thought rather than a sound. And hey presto, it,s all come into focus, hasn’t it. When you say goodbye – or even just bye – you’re saying so much more than goodbye. You’re saying, God be with you. Goodbye Philly.
Ok, main course now. London.
August 20th.
Quite a day.
On August 20th, 1940, Winston Churchill stood up in the House of Commons and delivered one of the most famous sentences in the English language:
“Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”
On August 20th, 1912, William Booth, the founder of the Salvation Army, died in London. Tens of thousands filed past his coffin. Vast crowds followed him to his grave.
On August 20th, 1858, Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace’s revolutionary papers on natural selection were published.
And on August 20th, 1940, in Mexico City, Leon Trotsky was struck in the head with an ice axe. He died the following day.
Churchill.
Booth.
Darwin.
Trotsky.
Big hitters, every one of them.
But when August 20th comes round, my mind’s eye always goes somewhere else.
Covent Garden.
Back more than 360 years.
I’m looking up at a balcony in Bow Street.
There’s a young aristocrat on it.
He’s drunk.
He’s naked.
And he’s pissing on the populace down below.
His name is Sir Charles Sedley.
And he died 325 years ago today, on August 20th, 1701.
Here’s the scene.
But for our purposes, it’s June 1663.
Charles II has been back on the throne for three years.
England has had eleven years of Puritan government. Eleven years of buttoned-up seriousness. The theatres have been closed. Christmas celebrations have been frowned upon. Public morality has been policed.
And now the lid has blown off.
The king is back.
The theatres are open.
The wine is flowing.
London is roaring.
This is Restoration London.
And Sir Charles Sedley is one of its brightest, wildest, most privileged young blades.
He’s handsome.
He’s clever.
He’s rich.
He’s a baronet.
He’s a poet, a playwright, a courtier and a dazzling conversationalist.
Charles II himself admired Sedley’s wit. The king said Sedley’s conversation was so good that it made him want to stay sober.
That is some compliment.
Especially from Charles II.
Sedley and his friends belonged to that glittering, dangerous Restoration world of wits, rakes and libertines. Men with money, rank, charm, talent and almost no brakes.
And on that early summer day in 1663, Sedley is drinking at the Cock tavern in Bow Street.
Covent Garden is already one of London’s great gathering places. There are market traders, servants, porters, apprentices, shopkeepers, prostitutes, pickpockets, gentlemen and ladies.
London in all its glorious mixture.
Sedley and two companions go upstairs at the tavern.
They step out onto the balcony.
And they take off their clothes.
A crowd gathers below.
Of course it does.
It’s Covent Garden.
Three naked aristocrats on a balcony will always pull a crowd.
Sedley launches into what appears to have been a mock sermon. There are blasphemous jokes. Obscene gestures. Bottles are passed around.
And then comes the moment.
The accounts are guarded.
Mine is a hunch.
I think Sedley turned round.
I think he mooned them.
I think he waggled his aristocratic arse at the crowd below.
And then he pissed on the populace.
And I’d wager a crown, literally not metaphorically.
He hosed down the populace.
The crowd was not amused.
Things were thrown.
The mood turned ugly.
A riot threatened.
And suddenly this wasn’t just a drunken prank.
It was a picture of Restoration England.
The powerful and enormously privileged, quite literally, pissing on the populace.
Sedley and his friends could behave as though the city belonged to them.
The people below could look up, jeer, rage and throw things.
But the men on the balcony had the titles, the money, the connections and the king’s favour.
There it is.
The social order, neatly arranged.
The upper classes above.
Everybody else below.
Except that Sedley had gone too far.
He was arrested and brought before the court.
The presiding judge, Sir Robert Foster, was furious. Sedley’s behaviour, he said, was an offence against public morality and against God.
He reportedly told Sedley that it was because of men like him that God’s anger visited the nation in the form of pestilence, fire and judgement.
An interesting prophecy.
The Great Plague was two years away.
The Great Fire of London was three years away.
Sedley was fined £500.
That was an enormous sum.
Not ruinous for a man of his standing, perhaps, but certainly painful.
And the scandal followed him.
But it did not destroy him.
This was Restoration England, after all.
Sedley continued to write.
He produced plays, poems and songs. Some of his lyrics are delicate, musical and graceful. Rather surprising, perhaps, if your introduction to the man is his naked backside hanging over Bow Street.
He also went into politics.
He became a Member of Parliament and, in later life, an opponent of James II.
There was a personal edge to that opposition.
Sedley’s daughter, Catherine, became James II’s mistress. The king made her Countess of Dorchester.
Sedley is said to have remarked that, as the king had made his daughter a countess, the least he could do was help make the king’s daughter a queen.
And that is exactly what happened.
Sedley supported the revolution of 1688, which drove James II from the throne and installed James’s daughter Mary and her husband William.
It’s a splendid Sedley line.
Elegant.
Deadly.
And very funny.
The naked young rake on the Bow Street balcony had grown into a shrewd old political operator.
And then, on August 20th, 1701, Sir Charles Sedley died at Hampstead.
Another Hampstead death.
He was sixty-two.
One account said that he faced death calmly, like a philosopher, without fear or superstition.
And that should be the end of him.
Except it isn’t.
Because the wonderful thing about London is that the past doesn’t disappear.
It waits.
It waits behind walls.
Under pavements.
Inside street names.
At windows.
On balconies.
And sometimes a trapdoor opens.
You’re walking through Covent Garden on August 20th.
Thousands of people are surging past you.
They’re shopping.
Talking.
Eating.
Taking photographs.
Hurrying to the theatre.
Everybody else sees Covent Garden.
You see through it.
The pavement opens and down you go into Restoration London.
For a few seconds you’re the only person there who can see the scene unreel.
The tavern.
The crowd.
The balcony.
The naked baronet.
Sir Charles Sedley, waggling his aristocratic arse and pissing on the populace.
Out of all those thousands of people, you’re the only one watching it.
How special does that feel?
Deeply satisfying.
It’s like winning the Lottery.
Churchill’s great speech.
William Booth’s funeral crowds.
Darwin and Wallace.
Trotsky’s ice axe.
Big hitters, every one of them.
But on August 20th, my mind’s eye will always be in Covent Garden.
Looking up at that balcony.
And thinking:
Only in London.
See you tomorrow.