London calling.
London Walks connecting.
This… is London.
This is London Walks.
Streets ahead.
Story time. History time.
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A very good afternoon to you, London Walkers. Wherever you are.
It’s August 8th, 2025.
To get us started let’s call in at the London Calling Book Club Corner. Here’s what the distinguished arts critic – and guide extraordinaire – Rick Jones has been reading of late. Rick guides our two Tate Gallery Walks and T.S. Eliot’s Wasteland and several other works and walks and words of wonder. exotic blooms. Here’s Rick.
“Good evening, David. I’m reading Music and Silence by Rose Tremain. It’s a fiction on the life of the Jacobean lute player John Dowland and I play my lute on the Shakespeare tour every Saturday morning. It gives me atmosphere and tension in the dark corridors of Castle Kronenburg at Elsinore where Hamlet is set and where Dowland worked for five years as court musician to the King of Denmark. My reading also doubles as research as next year is Dowland’s 400th anniversary and I’m re-enacting his journey to Elsinore in costume for BBC Music Magazine.”
Wow! Very London Walks, that, isn’t it. Only at London Walks do you get guides with that sort of muzzle-loading velocity. In a word – ok, phrase – guides who are distinguished professionals.
Now, main course. Today – August 8th – is an anniversary. It was 198 years ago today that Prime Minister George Canning met his maker. And it pleases – accounting myself a Londoner now – that George Canning was one of us. His story begins and ends in London. He was born in Marylebone on April 11, 1770. And he dies in Chiswick. George Canning’s parents were both Irish. And he described himself as ‘an Irishman born in London.”
Ok, so let’s hang with George Canning for a few minutes. Get to know him.
As I said, he was Prime Minister. Briefly.
His was the sharpest tongue in Westminster. And yes – there’s a statue of him in Parliament Square. The very first statue in Parliament Square, actually. We’ll get to that. Including the bit where it… killed a man. Because of course it did. It’s London. Nothing’s straightforward.
Anyway — Canning. August 8th, 1827 — the day he died. And if you don’t know much about him – don’t worry. You’re not alone. He’s one of those “blink and you missed him” Prime Ministers. But oh, what a blink.
Let’s start here. Well, regroup. Utter that refrain again. George Canning could talk the paint off the walls.
When one of his enemies in Parliament called him “a turncoat,” Canning – without missing a beat – said:
“Yes, I have changed my opinions. But I have not changed my principles.”
Zing. And again, when another opponent accused him of inconsistency, Canning drawled:
“Sir, I would rather be accused of inconsistency than of obstinate adhesion to error.”
In other words: I may have changed my mind, but you’re still wrong. That was Canning all over. He was Irish. He had the gift of the gab. He was razor sharp, fast, confident – and just that little bit smug about it.
You can context him with the year of his birth. Born in 1770, that’s by way of saying George was a Georgian from the get-go. His father died young. His mother became an actress – a scandalous thing in Georgian society – so young George was sent to live with his uncle, who, full marks to him, made sure the lad got a top-notch education. George Canning went to Eton. And Oxford. And while he was there, he didn’t just hit the books – he started writing satirical poetry. But of course. I mean, after all, George Canning was born to mock. If he were alive today, he’d have a podcast, a column in The Spectator, and a million followers on X.
By 1793 – he’s 23 years old – he’s in Parliament. And not just as a backbencher. No, no – William Pitt the Younger brings this youngster into government. Gives him a desk and a mission: mock the hell out of the opposition. Canning was the government’s attack dog. And he loved it. He wrote essays, pamphlets, blistering little squibs that made the Whigs wince.
But he wasn’t just a talker. He was clever — frighteningly clever — and genuinely forward-thinking for his time.
In 1807, he’s made Foreign Secretary. And now he’s got real power.
And what does he do? He takes on Napoleon, that’s what he does. Canning was one of the key players in British efforts to keep Napoleon bottled up.
Fifteen years later, he helps shape the foreign policy that essentially says: Europe, keep your thieving hands off Latin America. He supports the independence movements there – not out of the goodness of his heart, mind – but because it kept Spain and France from muscling back in.
It was of course the era of the Monroe Doctrine in America. Canning had his own version. He said:
“I called the New World into existence to redress the balance of the Old.”
Come on. That’s pure poetry. Almost Shakespearean. That’s George Canning weaving one of his word spells. Fast forward to 1827… he gets the big job. Prime Minister. The pinnacle. All well and good except he’s a very ill man. And it’s July. And it’s hot. And the job’s killing him.
George Canning dies just 119 into the job. Shortest tenure of any UK PM until Liz Truss came along. (Insert your own lettuce joke here.)
He dies in the Duke of Devonshire’s house in Chiswick. And people wept. Genuinely wept. Because even if you didn’t like him – you respected him. His brain. His courage. The way he could turn a phrase.
Now about that statue. This is the sure takeaway for this podcast. This one’s the lock – you’re never going to forget it. That thought’s going to be in the back of your mind – maybe the forefront of your mind – every time you look at it. Every time you size it up. The statue’s nearly 12 feet high. It weighs nearly four tonnes.
And where’s this killer statue? It’s in Parliament Square. Just along from Abraham Lincoln. Its homicide is what it’s known for. Wasn’t meant to be the case. Pride of place was supposed to go to the statue because it was the trailblazer – the first ever statue in Parliament Square. Way before Churchill and Mandela and Gandhi and Millicent Fawcett and all the rest of them.
It was unveiled in 1832. Ok, here’s the nitty gritty. And we can go there. It’s not far. The sculptor was Richard Westmacott. Like George Canning, Richard Westmacott was a big hitter. He did the statue of Achilles in Hyde Park. And the statue of the Duke of Bedford in Russell Square. And Charles James Foxx in Bloomsbury Square. And the first statue of Admiral Nelson in this country. It’s in Birmingham. He did the statue of the Duke of York on top of the column in Waterloo Place. And Westminster Abbey is practically a gallery of his stuff. And you can see his imprimatur on the relief panels on Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square. The government asked his advice on how they should be done.
Anyway, Richard Westmacott had his own foundry in Brewer Street in Pimlico, just a stone’s throw away from Parliament Square. It’s Wednesday afternoon, December 28th, 1831. Richard Westmacott’s principal assistant, one Vincent Gahagan, and four other assistants are putting some finishing touches on the statue. It’s a lot of statue, remember, nearly four tonnes of bronze. It’s leaning forward but it’s secured by a chain and tackle attached to a triangle affixed to the ceiling. Vincent Gahagan is in a stooping position in front of the statue. The rope breaks. Four tonnes of George Canning – well the four tonne George Canning statue – crushes down on Vincent Gahagan. Crushes him. Kills him. The Times was across the story. The Times story says, “Mr Parslee, the surgeon, was instantly called in, but life was extinct.” Vincent Gahagan left a wife and six children. So maybe when you look at the ponderous figure of that politician – all four tonnes of him in his Roman robe and cloak – but with modern trousers and laced shoes – you will of course see, in your mind’s eye, that terrible moment – maybe think of the split second when Vincent Gahagan heard the robe snap and didn’t have time to get out from under what was coming down on him – maybe also think about his six kids. And his widow. Historians and biographers talk about the silver-tongued satirist. I can’t stop thinking about four tonnes of bronze.
There’s something Shakespearean about that terrible moment, that tragedy. As if even in death, Canning was still making headlines.
Ok, summation time. Why should we take any notice, why should we care?
Because George Canning was brilliant, that’s why. Difficult, yes. Arrogant, certainly. But brilliant. He helped shape British foreign policy. He believed in Britain as a moral power, not just a military one. And he could string a sentence together like no one else.
There’s a reason that statue stands so close to the corridors of power. Canning was Westminster to the core. Part poet. Part street fighter. Always quotable.
So, yes, you’re on that Old Westminster walk with us – or soloing or with a friend – do make sure you have a good look. Dare I say this? Weigh him up. The big fellow. The one with the Roman garb and laced shoes and the windswept hair and the knowing expression. That’s George Canning.
Prime Minister for a moment. Legend for a lot longer.
But don’t stand too close.
Just in case.
You’ve been listening to This… is London, the London Walks podcast. Emanating from www.walks.com –
home of London Walks,
London’s signature walking tour company.
London’s local, time-honoured, fiercely independent, family-owned, just-the-right-size walking tour company.
And as long as we’re at it, London’s multi-award-winning walking tour company. Indeed, London’s only award-winning walking tour company.
And here’s the secret: London Walks is essentially run as a guides’ cooperative.
That’s the key to everything.
It’s the reason we’re able to attract and keep the best guides in London. You can get schlubbers to do this for £20 a walk. But you cannot get world-class guides – let alone accomplished professionals.
It’s not rocket science: you get what you pay for.
And just as surely, you also get what you don’t pay for.
Back in 1968 when we got started we quickly came to a fork in the road. We had to answer a searching question: Do we want to make the most money? Or do we want to be the best walking tour company in the world?
You want to make the most money you go the schlubbers route. You want to be the best walking tour company in the world you do whatever you have to do
to attract and keep the best guides in London –
you want them guiding for you, not for somebody else.
Bears repeating:
the way we’re structured – a guides’ cooperative –
is the key to the whole thing.
It’s the reason for all those awards, it’s the reason people who know go with London Walks, it’s the reason we’ve got a big following, a lively, loyal, discerning following – quality attracts quality.
It’s the reason we’re able – uniquely – to front our walks with accomplished, in many cases distinguished professionals:
By way of example, Stewart Purvis, the former Editor
(and subsequently CEO) of Independent Television News.
And Lisa Honan, who had a distinguished career as a diplomat (Lisa was the Governor of St Helena, the island where Napoleon breathed his last and, some say, had his penis amputated – Napoleon didn’t feel a thing – if thing’s the mot juste – he was dead.)
Stewart and Lisa – both of them CBEs – are just a couple of our headline acts.
Or take our Ripper Walk. It’s the creation of the world’s leading expert on Jack the Ripper, Donald Rumbelow, the author of the definitive book on the subject. Britain’s most distinguished crime historian, Donald is, in the words of The Jack the Ripper A to Z, “internationally recognised as the leading authority on Jack the Ripper.” Donald’s emeritus now but he’s still the guiding light on our Ripper Walk. He curates the walk. He trains up and mentors our Ripper Walk guides. Fields any and all questions they throw at him.
The London Walks Aristocracy of Talent – its All-Star Team of Guides – includes a former London Mayor. It includes the former Chief Music Critic for the Evening Standard. It includes the Chair of the Association of Professional Tour Guides. And the former chair of the Guild of Guides.
It includes barristers, doctors, geologists, museum curators, a former London Museum archaeologist, historians,
university professors (one of them a distinguished Cambridge University paleontologist); it includes a criminal defence lawyer, Royal Shakespeare Company and National Theatre actors, a bevy of MVPs, Oscar winners (people who’ve won the big one, the Guide of the Year Award)…
well, you get the idea.
As that travel writer famously put it, “if this were a golf tournament, every name on the Leader Board would be a London Walks guide.”
And as we put it: London Walks Guides make the new familiar
and the familiar new.
And on that agreeable note…
come then, let us go forward together on some great London Walks.
And that’s by way of saying, Good walking and Good Londoning one and all. See ya next time.