LEXI FOUNDER REVEALS HER INNER WILDNESS

I love the way Sally Wilton – founder of Kensal Rise’s extraordinary state of the art indie cinema, the Lexi which sends all of its profits to an eco village in South Africa – signs herself at the end of her emails, not as chief executive, but as dreamer. Yes, yes, yes. She has certainly ‘dreamed’ her cinema into a thriving community enterprise and has recently set up Nomad, a travelling pop up version of the Lexi soon to arrive at Harlesden’s Misty Moon (Movies at the Misty Moon start on March 1^st with a new documentary called Lover’s Rock) which is, of course, a former cinema. Oh, the cultural satisfaction of turning a pub back into a picture house. Although it will stay a pub as well.

It’s a grim, cold, rainy morning when Sally appears on my doorstep weather-ready in hat and gloves. “We’d call it a ‘mizzly’ morning in Ireland,” she says revealing her Antrim roots. She grew up in Nigeria until she was 8. I thought she might cancel but Sally is made of sterner stuff. As we march down Anson Rd, she’s telling me how she used to put fliers about the Lexi into people’s letter boxes herself back in 2008 when it had recently opened. “I could do a PHD in the potential dangers of letter boxes,” she jests unexpectedly, “there are the ones with teeth that almost bite you, the ones that are hell to push open and the ones that say ‘No Junk Mail’. One day I was about to put a flier through one of the latter when the woman of the house greeted me with an absolute ‘No’, so I explained about the Lexi and she changed her mind instantly. I’ve never thought of Lexi fliers as junk mail.”

Sally Wilton initially appears to be shy and self-deprecating but she is also humorous. Quietly but bitingly.

Sally is a full-time philanthropist, as well as a dreamer. Having sold her business – Etc Venues, which created affordable temporary training and conference facilities – in 2006 for 21 million pounds, she and her directors became not so secret millionaires and Sally found her way to her own causes and passions without the aid of a TV programme. The Lynedoch eco village in South Africa – a community created out of the principles of the Sustainability Institute – was her first commitment destination. The Lexi – her daughter is called Alex – was the second.

Did it really result from the amazing community spirit that emerged at the time of the bizarre micro- 2006 tornado in Kensal Rise? “Well, I was already looking for a building,” she says, “although I had no idea how to run a cinema, it just stemmed from my love of film. I was out in South Africa when it happened. I thought my children were pulling my leg but I flew straight back when I realised it was true. Roofs had been ripped off, one side of a building had gone. Luckily only our house’s windows had smashed because a furniture van outside had taken much of the impact. However, the community spirit was amazing, everyone was helping each other. And the Lexi was very much born in that atmosphere. Today we have 50 volunteers from the community all helping us out, and some of them get involved with the eco village too.”

The Lexi is housed in an Edwardian building that used to be called Pinkham Hall. “Colonel Pinkham created it in 1928 as a theatrical space and as a part of the Conservative Men’s Club next door,” she says. It’s surprising we agree, that he was a Conservative but one who obviously liked the theatre so much he funded one next door. He was apparently big on snooker as well.  “I saw it was for sale,” she says, “and they said it had already been sold, but I instantly wrote a document for what I envisaged as a community cinema and I got it. I had to go and meet the Men’s Club committee which was an experience in itself. The Constitutional Club is like going back into the 1950s. The treasurer is 85 and remembers queuing round the block for the two old cinemas that used to be further down Chamberlayne Road.”

By this time, we are walking up Harlesden High St towards the Job Centre Plus, the brick abomination which was built  at the turn of the century as the very grand Willesden Hippodrome. It became a cinema in 1928 as audiences’ appetites for variety theatre diminished. During that era, there were seven cinemas in the area, now sadly there are none. “I love cinema as a place where you can be with others,” she says, “or to completely escape to, and be alone. The old-fashioned picture houses were magical and they were for the working classes not just the posh. We had two cinemas down Chamberlayne Road near  the Moberley gym, that’s where the Consitutional Club treasurer remembers the queues. Together, they had 3,000 seats, imagine that. Cinema was having its golden time. Of course, that was when we had a train going straight to Liverpool St, so lots of workers from the City lived in Kensal Rise. There were tailor shops then.”

I mention that I first came to Harlesden in the 80s when the Mean Fiddler put on brilliant bands and people travelled to come here for gigs. “I did too,” she exclaims, “I came to see Nico play there, it was amazing.” It turns out that Sally used to live in a squat in Brixton, whilst I lived in a squat in Shepherd’s Bush. That information re-modelled my preconceptions of millionaires! “It was pretty run down,” she says, “we didn’t have hot water. I love London though, it’s always interesting.”

We pass Paddy Power and I can’t help letting her know that over a year ago, I discovered that this had been a cinema called The Picardy. I looked it up on the internet and it showed a photo of the interior where you could see that the films were projected onto that wall that backed onto the street. It looked like the inside of a train and had posters for Barbara’s Stanwyk’s Golden Boy from the 1930s. Later it turned into a night club called Top 32 and I’m sure Mean Fiddler former boss, Vince Power, met his first wife there when he was a teenager! It’s all coming back to me.

There was also a cinema at 24 Harlesden High Street opposite Peacocks. Now it’s a hair shop. And then there was the Odeon – later to become the Roxy theatre where bands used to rehearse in the 70s at the same time as being a fleapit apparently – which was knocked down in the 90s and has now become a faceless ‘new’ build on the corner of Odeon Court. That’s what’s left of the history.

We stand in the entrance to the Misty Moon – formerly the cinema, the Coliseum – where there are old photos of film stars. “Tony Curtis was so sexy in those days,” says Sally in another unexpected  bit of banter. I laugh again.

She then admits what she would really like is “one of the vans that the government used to send out in the 1950s with little cinemas in them for disseminating public information. It would make a brilliant pop up cinema.” There is one out there apparently that has been restored.

I inform her that the Clash and the Slits played here in 1977. She is suitably impressed and surprised.

In the meantime, we notice the amazing statistic on the wall that in 1946, the audiences for cinema is the UK were 31 million. Wow!

What would she like to screen here? “Unusual stuff,” she says, “we don’t want to do the obvious.”

Ah there’s the rub. She explains that the most difficult aspect of screening films is obtaining the rights to old films. “We’re trying to get the rights for Pulp Fiction at the moment but it’s very difficult,” she explains. “That’s where it helps to be a newcomer, I’m endlessly optimistic. I think we can do anything. Others are more pragmatic. I’m a dreamer and I’m determined. I want Twin Peaks. I’d like to do bring your duvet nights at the Lexi like they do at Battersea Arts Centre.”

It also helps if you know a few of the right people. “I’d always wanted to meet David Puttnam,” she says. “His former chauffeur lives down the road from me. So when I was at the same awards ceremony as him, I introduced myself to him with this little fact. He has been to the Lexi and he has helped us out with rights. He’s a very nice man.”

I love that the Lexi always have someone there introduce the film. It feels old-fashioned and caring. “I was inspired by the genuinely wonderfully eccentric gentleman who runs the 600 seater Rex in Berkhampstead,” she says. “He always introduces his film. It makes it an individual experience. It’s cinema with heart. We also do newsletters where we say what we honestly feel about new films, we don’t gush without meaning it and we are critical.”

One of the recent projects of which she is most proud is working in South Africa at Lynesoch teaching schoolkids to be camera men and women. “Then we show what they make at the Lexi,” she says, “there is a 16 year who had been in trouble for violence, and is now going to film school in Cape Town.”

And what would she like at the Lexi? “A second screening room, that would really help with programming.”

The Lexi’s Pop up cinema Nomad is coming to the Misty Moon on March 1^st. It’s a free event with special cocktails to buy. You can find more info about the film here and there will be other screenings over the following few months.

THE WELSH HARP WITH A GREEN SPACE LIFE COACH

The Welsh Harp had been intriguing me for a while. I’d never been been before. Not long ago, I was coming down the stairs at Willesden Library when I saw inscribed on the wall ‘Bear escapes from The Welsh Harp in 1871′.

Bear!!!

So, unusually for me, I looked up the history beforehand. More mundanely the Brent reservoir, it was built in 1835 to supply the Grand Union Canal. The Old Welsh Harp Tavern was the name of the inn on the A5 side of the area – a pub is still there – and apparently, it was so opulent with ornate pleasure gardens that the Prince of Wales used to pop down and do a little pigeon shooting. My dear. It was the height of fashion.

Ah, the bear? The bear escaped from the Welsh Harp menagerie in 1871. Menagerie, a little zoo type affair. So underused as a word these days. I remember my father in the 1960s referring to our household – a 3 storey terrace house in Yorkshire – as a menagerie meaning we were chaotic. We had tortoises, a goldfish and guinea pigs, but I think he was talking about us, the children, rather than the actual animals.

Karen Liebenguth is a Green Space life coach who has offered me a session. Usually, she would choose a green space – park, woods, heath  – in London and you would both meet up there. This time, I have chosen this site of special scientific interest – it’s 17o hectares of open water, marshes, trees and grassland apparently – because I want to know what it’s like. The Welsh Harp, that is.

The idea of life coaching in a green space? “I love the outside,” says Karen, “and people relax and open up more easily when surrounded by trees, grass, water. It also de-intensifies the session. We can stop and breath at times, and appreciate the landscape. It’s good to come to coaching when you are at a point where you want to move on. Often people will have traced the background of the problem, but now they are ready to move on. Life coaching can give you a blueprint for your future. Whereas counselling and therapy focus more on delving into the roots of the difficulty.”

Sorry, but we arrive by car. We park at the Youth Sailing Club on Cool Oak lane. It has the air of having seen better days. Bits of litter, information boards covered in grafitti, but a wonderful view of the reservoir. And no-one around. Karen is looking for somewhere to have a pee. Will she go wild or not?

“I was walking with a group of clients once,” she says, “and they wanted to go to the toilet and there were no facilities. I suggested the bushes and they were shocked and a bit scared. I showed them where to go, and they were fine. It made me realise that there are people who are frightened of green spaces in that way.”

She emerges from a wooded corner, and we set off towards the reservoir. Somewhere here there is a breeding colony of Great Crested Grebes but I have feeling we are not going to find it today. There are weeping willows instead – so deliciously green – and she asks me what my area of focus is today.

I decide to take a risk, and tell Karen, I am having difficulty opening my heart to men. And that’s what I want to change. I’m single. I’m happy and single. But I’d like to be happy and in a relationship with a man, so I want to address whatever it takes in order to allow that to happen.

As we’re passing a noble swan paddles across the reservoir, and a Polish family wander over to feed  him with bread. At that point, Karen asks me what it would feel like if my heart was open. In a quiet, caring voice. She has a very graceful, compassionate presence.

I’m usually good at answering questions, but this is quite difficult. And the start of many similar ones. “Expanded,” I say feeling that is a very limited reply, so I continue, “when I’m camping in summer with a group of friends doing emotional work, I always feel expanded, and because I’ve just done lots of crying and laughing with others, my heart is more open than it normally is.”

I’m circumnavigating her question. She persists. “What would that feel like?” she asks as we notice a sign saying ‘Beware Blue Algae’. Oh dear, not so green after all. The Blue Algae is reflecting my fear of answering that question. I could have said ‘like ice melting’ or ‘like wood disintegrating’, but I can’t quite feel it.

And then we come across the most inspiring sight. A meadow of blue and white vetch. It’s almost unreal, it looks so untouched by fertiliser or gardener. We stand and take it all in – in silence.

This is the point. Difficult questions followed by enough space to reflect a little. We walk on, and talk about what has happened to me in relationships with men. “I’ve been hurt,” I explain, “so I closed my heart to protect myself. I needed to have time to recover and also for my heart to beat gently on its own, without needing another to relate to.”

“What is stopping your heart opening around men now?” she asks. I reply:”Fear and a fierce critic that can find fault with men.”

Are you afraid you are a little too independent now? “Well,”I say, “I know what I want and it doesn’t have to be conventional in terms of a relationship. I don’t need a man to move in. I would be content with someone who has their own projects and passions, but wants to spend some special times with me. I’m at a time in my life where I don’t need to have a relationship but I would like to.”

“So you sound like you know what you want,” she says. And I do.

We stare across the water as moor hens and mallard ducks pootle around. I like that word. It’s an idyllic afternoon.

I wonder where around here the naturists used to gather in their glorious nudity between 1921 and 1930 when some puritanical locals objected vociferously? 200 angry anti-naked voices. This was known as the Sun-Bathing Riot of 1930.

We turn back on ourselves now but via a different route away from the water. We see a group of ancient oak trees and allow ourselves to be truly fascinated by them. In that innocent, wondrous way.

I start to tell Karen about my last true love affair which lasted 5 years, which was torturous and extremely painful. He really couldn’t give in the way that I longed for. “It sounds as though you opened your heart too much to this man,” she says, “and it was wounded for a while, but now you are ready to try again.”

Exactly, I agree. At this moment, we’re walking very slowly and we stop.

Well, I do have a date with an artist this weekend.

This was like manna to a life coach who is eager to give to her clients.

“I’d like you to imagine how your heart would feel if it were really open to this artist?” she says.

I have to close my eyes and really let myself into a situation where my heart is soft. “What does your heart look like?” she continues, refusing to let me off the hook.

“My heart feels like a rose where the red petals are falling off to reveal its centre, and it smells very fragrant,” I say as I sort of sway in an involuntary swoon. Oh gosh, I’m really getting the Mills and Boon of this now.

Will this satisfy her, I wonder. No, no, not quite.

“And how will you know if your heart is open when you meet this artist?” she says.

I have to stop again and really allow myself to feel. “I’ll feel a golden, warm feeling flowing from my heart to his, “ I reply like a true heroine.

Now she seems content. She remarks that I was doing a little dance at the end, and she likes that.

But back to my critic. “What will I do if I feel critical about something to do with him?” she asks.

“I do feel a little critical already,” I say laughing. “because he smokes. And I do smoke but only occasionally when I’m at a party.”

This throws her a little. “Ah, well, there’s criticism and there are value judgements,” she says, “for me, personally, I couldn’t go out with a smoker.”

Ah ha, well, we’ll have to see.

By this time, I can see the Sailing Club car park appearing amongst the trees. “How will you deal with your critic if she raises her head whilst your on the date?” she asks. I suggest I have an internal dialogue to ascertain  how worthy the criticism is, whether it’s coming from a value I hold dear, or is arising from my fear that I will get hurt if I get close to this person.”

Oh good, she’s OK with that. “Yes, remember, an internal dialogue is a great resource,” she says finally.

I want to come back to the Welsh Harp, there are butterfly and moth walks that I’d like to go on. I feel as though that was just the beginning.

And as for Karen’s coaching, I loved being asked lots of questions. Usually, I ask the questions. I revelled in having to reflect, and go through a mini-process with her.

PSThe date was cancelled because the artist injured his back whilst pruning errant roses! So you’ll just have to watch this heart space.

PPS Heard Robert Elms’ on Radio London today declare that he had one of his first jobs cutting grass at the Welsh Harp!

Green Space Life Coaching was set up by Karen Liebenguth. Karen offers life coaching while walking in London’s parks and green spaces, indoor coaching and group workshops to reconnect with nature. The next nature connection country walk will take place on Sunday 16th October in Kent, meeting point at Charing Cross Station. See website for details http://www.greenspacecoaching.com or contact Karen 07815 591 279 karen@greenspacecoaching.com

THE PUBS OF HARLESDEN (WELL, A FEW OLD ONES)

There are a couple of asides to this tale. Firstly, a minor miracle that happened to me last week. I was in a rush. I went to the Santander cash machine, performed the usual card thing, and crossed Manor Park Road to go home. Three minutes later, it dawned on me that I’d left the cash behind. YES! LEFT THE CASH LYING THERE READY TO BE PICKED UP BY ALL AND SUNDRY. I didn’t even have time to panic. I turned back and there was a woman with a huge smile approaching me with £40 in her hands. Gasps all round. Of thanks and incredulity. A singular act of doing the right thing. In Harlesden. I glowed for the rest of the day.

The second aside is more apposite to the story. I invited Malcolm Barres-Baker, a rather grand, booming gentleman from Brent Archives to look at pubs with me. He’s rather charmingly of another era. When manners and politesse were uppermost in the ‘English’ way of being. Anyway, Malcolm – this is typical, I’m sure – sent me a tract from the nineteenth century author, Arthur Machen’s supernatural short story, The Inmost Light, written in 1894, to read beforehand. Because it mentions Harlesden. Oh, what an arcane delight this is.

Of course, at the time, Harlesden was in fact a prosperous middle-class suburb, so it’s slightly shocking to read Machen as he points out its less salubrious side. “A place of no character,” he writes caustically, “it’s too new to have any character as yet. There are rows of red houses and rows of white houses and the bright green Venetians, and the blistering doorways, and the little backyards they call gardens, and a few feeble shops, and then, just as you think you’re going to grasp the physiognomy of the settlement, it all melts away.”

Dear me! He goes on to describe Harlesden as “like a city of the dead”. Even at midday. The polar opposite is true now, of course. It’s hard to think of anywhere more animated. And I forgot, Machen goes on to set the scene for a certain Dr Black who was suspected of murdering his wife. “I dare say that you have never heard of the Harlesden case?” No, I hadn’t either.

Malcolm Barres-Baker and I had arranged to meet inside the Royal Oak. I’ve only been inside once before. Searching for an alcoholic boyfriend who had escaped from my alcohol-free home to pursue his own vision of how life should be. It was 5pm and this charismatic drunk was on a bender. His focus on beer was unwavering. I couldn’t persuade him to leave.

Today, Malcolm is already ensconced  with his half pint, and his archive photos.There’s a great, quite well-known (it adorns the cover of Traditional Pubs of Brent by Cliff Wadsworth) photo of The Royal Oak Tavern and  Railway Hotel (as it was known then) circa 1880 (but there was a building here before as long ago as 1757) when it was a two storey building with Venetian blinds and a huge, classy gaslight outside, there’s a horse and cart delivery in mid-action. The pub looks distinctly posh. Today’s building is a 1892 re-build. “The irony is,” says Malcolm, “the older pub looks more modern.” Now with its baroque-style – in other words, its got lots of fiddly architectural bits – 4 storeys, and red brick, there are always Irish bands playing there, but at 2pm today, it’s a little bit sad in here. Drinkers who’ve seen better days. Health-wise.

Just how upscale Harlesden was in 1900, Malcolm illustrates with a photo of a garden party in Roundwood Park showing the women in flouncy long dresses and the men in top hats and tails.

He also mentions the ‘original’ (ie 1892) tiles in the hallway, so we venture out there to admire the scene – a Parliamentarian trooper hunting for King Charles II after the Battle of Worcester in 1651, Charles hid in an oak tree, hence the name Royal Oark (see first picture)  enshrined in these colourfully painted ceramics. “They’re excellent quality,” intones Malcolm in his own unmistakable way. Posh too.

On the subject of ‘poshness’, Malcolm remarks that there are oodles of old photos and photo postcards of Harlesden in existence. Many more than Willesden. I’m surprised. I’d always assumed that Willesden was richer than Harlesden because there is so much printed coverage of Willesden.  “Harlesden was actually posher than Willesden,” says Malcolm getting into the vernacular.

Ah ha, I really didn’t know that.

And these picture postcards, why are there so many of them? Because the ladies and gents of the area would send them as a way of thanking their recent hosts for tea. “Remember in those days,” says Malcolm, “you could send a card in the morning and it would arrive in the afternoon, there were two post deliveries a day.” Postcards, letters – they were the texts ‘de leurs jours’. Instantly, I want to re-create the sending of postcards and letters in this way. The romance of the postal delivery. And, of course, there were no phones.

Before stepping out on to the High Street – which is rather a daylight shock for Malcolm who is used to being hidden away in  bookish archives – we discuss the contemporary( this being entirely the wrong word for the Royal Oak style) open plan bar. “In many ways, it’s not helping pub trade,” says Malcolm, “because before with a public bar and a lounge one, at least pubs could attract different sorts of drinkers. These days, it’s all-in-one and much more limited.”

We stare up at the sign outside. “What’s wrong with that?” says Malcolm who has a degree in history, and a post-degree in Greek classical archeology. I haven’t a clue. “Well, they’ve put an image of Charles I in the middle of the oak tree, when the king who is remembered for hiding in an oak tree is Charles II.”

We appreciate the mosaic of an oak tree on the side of the building. All gold and green – it is artfully constructed and also from 1892. Looking up is a vital constituent of urban anthropology. “Gladstone said always travel upstairs on a bus if you really want to see London,” says Malcolm helpfully.

This block of buildings including this version of the Green Man – the first one was built before 1778  and was a useful stopping place for stage coaches on their way from Harrow to the City of London – was constructed in 1907. And is pseudo-Dutch. Which I’ve never noticed before. The Green Man has curved gables and even a turret at the side. Malcolm is keen on the architecture and distinctly excited at the turret which he didn’t notice on the plans.

But why Dutch? “It’s in a style called Anglo-Dutch, or sometimes ‘Pont Street Dutch’,” he explains. “Starting in the 1870s, some young British architects wanted to break free from the competing Classical and Gothic styles. They began imitating late seventeenth and early eighteenth century domestic architecture, which in some cases was strongly influenced by the Low Countries, partly because King William III was Dutch. This Anglo-Dutch and pseudo-Queen Anne style was very popular around the time the pub was built. It also turns up in Australia, where it’s called Federation Anglo-Dutch because it was popular around 1901, when Australia became a single Commonwealth.”

Now, the Green Man has become the Portuguese Bi-cafe. Another take over. Or rather a flow from English pubdom to Portuguese eating and drinking location. In the incessant wave of building-use changes.

He stares across the road and declares that the various Somali shops over there had once been a pub too. The Elm Tree. I’m astonished. Again, I hadn’t realised there had ever been a pub there. Afterwards, I find a photo of it, and the building looks Edwardian.

We walk back along the High Street and Malcolm points out a blue sign on the buildings opposite Iceland, it says You May Telephone Here. Not any longer, of course.

We arrive at the newly refurbished Way 2 Save (so much better and cheaper than Tesco’s)  and focus our attention on the other side of the road. “A pub called the Anchor & Cable used to be there,” says Malcolm forever flummoxing me with new information, “which existed in 1670 and it was rebuilt in 1888 and called The Crown.” This building has flounces and flourishes, it almost thinks it’s in a gothic horror story. The more I look at it, the more I see. Additions. Balustrades, terracotta rosettes, grotesque heads, mock tudor black stripes. There’s quite a lot going on. Earlier during archive picture time, Malcolm has shown me a photo of the trade token used at the original pub. “There wasn’t enough small change in 17^th century England so tokens helped,” he explained. “On the back you can see the initials of the husband and wife who ran it.”

The last word has to go to the incisive words of Cliff Wadsworth – local history supremo – he writes –’ in the 1990s, the Crown suffered on of the worst examples of re-naming: someone felt it would do better under the title The Rat And Carrot’. Not surprisingly, it didn’t.

MOTHER’S DAY WITH THE SALVATION ARMY

Everything I knew about the Salvation Army could be summed up by – fire and brimstone speeches involving multiple mentions of damnation, novelist, Jeanette Winterson’s strange upbringing, lots of brass instruments, and my friend, Caralinda Booth, now an A & R woman in Bejing, but also the great, great granddaughter of William Booth, its founder. In 1865, I read later. They are also evangelical Christians. There is a large building in Manor Road that proclaims Salvation Army from the outside in big, bold letters, with a brown and white cross to back it up. I’d been meaning to get in touch with them. Somehow, I’d imagined a shabby interior with heaps of second hand clothes ready for the homeless.

So I was genuinely surprised to discover a huge, fairly freshly painted hall/place of worship – in fact, it’s been there since 1903 when there were well over a hundred Harlesden residents at services with a full band on the stage – a very modern screen showing a baby for Mother’s Day and a mixed congregation of about twenty people. Mind you, the original crest declaring more lustily Blood and Fire is still there. And copies of their old-time newspaper, War Cry, are also available.

“Where are the officers?” pipes up one evidently regular member. A ripple of laughter wings its way around the attendees. And territorial envoys – yes, a fascinating title, which makes them sound like they have arrived temporarily from an alien planet and maybe they have – Mark and Julia Cozens appear. To cheers. Another shock is their lack of uniform, well, I should say the casualness of their apparent uniform. They are attired in dress down black trousers, navy blue sports shirts with a up-to-datish red shield Salvation Army logo and black shoes, their navy fleeces are on the backs of their chairs. They look as though they are about to facilitate a social workers’ meeting. Which turns out to be an apt impression.

There are more formal uniforms –  navy, lots of badges, with mini bowler hats – but they are in the congregation. ‘Soldiers’ – I find out later are members who commit to the S A core belief system including no alcohol, no smoking, and no gambling, – are allowed to buy themselves uniforms. The flags, the colours, the uniforms, the ethos – they all remind me of the girl guides. Yes, there’s definitely the same do-gooding spirit. Just this seems like a lot more fun.

Julia takes to the lo-fi pulpit (there are several kerfuffles around sharing a mini-mic) which really is in the midst of the people. There is the Mother’s Day introduction, and then Mark on the piano. Absolutely no pomp and ceremony, not to mention sacraments. This is very much employing the love of God as a community reassurance and inspiration. I’m an agnostic but I can appreciate these sentiments.

Psalm 139, thanks to the mothers, and those who act as mothers for instance, foster mothers, then Mark encourages everyone to dance as they sing. There’s clapping and swaying and giggles. And lovely inclusiveness. Jasmin, is invited to read a poem she found on the internet about mothers, there’s a history of Mother’s Day ( apparently it goes back to Isis days, but Christians typically  appropriated it for the fourth Sunday of Lenten and by the 1600s, it was a day when servants and tradespeople could visit their families) and a lot of little jokes.

Natasha, a British Asian woman, has her husband and her baby son, Adam with her. It’s his first birthday today. We sing Happy Birthday. Where else do you have birthday singing in the middle of a service? Natasha tells us how she was a successful career woman who never even considered having a child. And now, she prefers to stay at home with him rather than go out to work. There are wild whoops.

However, my astonishment rises to its zenith at the next section. Mark actually introduces a Mother and Daughter Quiz using the screen on the wall. I’m thrown into a publand state of altered reality. Princess Grace of Monaco and Stephanie, Judy Garland and Lizzie Minelli and many more are all part of this compelling challenge. All I can say, is thank goodness I am here. Because no-one else recognises Peaches Geldof. Frankly, we could be in the Misty Moon next door and I think that’s the point.

We’re even invited to talk about our own mothers. As you can tell, I’m being swept along on this  wave of participation. And I find myself describing a fish n’chip meal, my mother and I shared  recently up in the market town of Otley(we were both born there). The haddock was so fresh, the batter so light, it’s a Yorkshire thing. We were both in bliss. And that is very much what my mum has taught me. How to derive contentment from the simplest of activities.

A young woman – she must be in her 20s – called Fui stands up to talk about her mother. She’s from New Zealand (like many here, her family are all Salvation Army members) and her roots are Samoan. “I have an extraordinary mum,” she says softly but proudly, “she’s very giving, and she also worked her way up from being a cleaner to being the vice president of the most successful cleaning company in New Zealand. I find her inspiring.”

A daffodil moment follows. “If you are here with your mum,” says Julia, “take a bunch of daffodils and give them to her, and give her a kiss too.” These territorial envoys have been out shopping for mother’s delight.

“There’s one son being very quiet,”mentions Mark and he’s talking about their 17 year old son, Luke who is himself a ‘soldier’ based at the Regent Street Salvation Army.  He’s sneaked out but comes back and makes his way forward to hug his mum.

Informality with a capital I. That’s what impresses and surprises me most about this service. I’d imagined something musty with a large helping of ‘you will die in hell if you step on a crack in the pavement’, and what I found is so much more compassionate and friendly.

There is a moment of prayer led by Mark. He asks us to think about our mothers, those who have cared for us, and extends his invitation to all of those who love and care for children including doctors and nurses and gives us the opportunity to say ‘thank you’. I find it useful to have a little time to reflect in this way. About others.

He reads from the Old Testament, and there’s a “Is that a new bible, you’ve got?”. It’s Carol again, she is a regular who is a bit of a joker. I love these interruptions and the way they are so naturally threaded into the more reverent. This bit of the Bible talks about treating others as though they are your family. Mark quotes a sticker – this is making the Old Testament relevant time – he saw on a bus. ‘Treat  cyclists as if they are your granny.’ Exactly, that’s Mark’s view too. He wants us to know that there would be no trouble in world, if that simple message was adhered to. He’s not afraid to mention the difficulties involved either. “It’s not always easy to love our family,” he says, “but ask God and he will give us the compassion we need. When you meet someone whether a shop keeper or a bank assistant, treat them as a family member and see what a difference it makes.” We end on a song – ‘Let there be love shared around us’.

I find myself smiling despite the potential dreaded sentimentality, and asking Joyce, the 80 year old (OK, I have to admit the majority of the  congregation are over 50), Joyce what had made her decide to attend the Salvation Army services. “My family is Methodist,” she says, “and this was the nearest thing I could find. I would describe it as very comfortable as a place of worship. I come to their luncheon club as well.”

The Salvation Army is the polar opposite to high church, they started up to help the alcoholics and homeless in Bethnal Green and their key words were soup, soap and salvation. They don’t do the sacraments like baptism and holy communion, they focus on the message rather than the rituals of Christianity.

Tea and cakes follow. Someone even saves me a piece of Adam’s first birthday cake. People chat. I ask 64 year old Jean who is a soldier (ie more committed than Joy who is an adherent) how she got involved. “I was brought up in Paddington,” she says,“and the Salvation Army ran the nearest Sunday School. It was the Good Will section and there were a lot of slums in that area at that time. I started helping out and have carried on. I also play the cornet.”

Ah yes, the cornets, back to them in a moment. Jean starts talking to me about the symbols in the SA flag, and Leeroy Simpson, chair of Harlesden Town Team 2010 (in charge of all sorts of action from cleaning up Station Road to Willesden Junction), who has a certain swagger about him, happens to be standing nearby. “The blue is for the purity of God, the yellow is for the Holy Spirit and the red is the blood of Christ,” says Jean quietly. “That’s almost the same as the Jamaican flag,” counters Leeroy noisily,“black is for our skin, gold is for the riches to be found there, and red is for the blood spilled by our people and green is for the lushness of the landscape.”

Mark very kindly shows me a sepia photo of the Harlesden Salvation Band in 1934 – with their trumpets, trombones, cornets in this very hall  – and leads me to a back room where there is a lot of brass ‘umpahing’ going on. Not to mention squeaks and groans. It’s cornet practice taken by David whose family has also been in the Salvation Army for years. “At the turn of the century, it would have been all the local business people who were members here,” he says.

“Julia and I like to make everyone in the service feel at home. For us, the content is all about what we call the Kingdom lifestyle,” says Mark,” we want to talk about God’s kingdom as  it is in our daily life. It’s all about our relationships with each other. That’s why I mentioned treating everyone as if they were a member of our family, and related it to the cyclist and granny poster.”

What does evangelical Christianity really mean, I wonder? Evangelical comes from Greek which translates as bringing good news. I’d always thought it meant that they are ardent proselytizers, in other words, their propensity to stand on street corners proclaiming that we would all go to hell if we did not repent and join them. But my impression is anachronistic if this service is anything to go by. “Living out the core beliefs and sharing them by example,”says Mark as his explanation of the modern ethos. He also mentions that this approach is post-modern in that the realists in the Salvation Army have to take on board the dwindling congregations and develop new ways of telling their story.

Ah ha, it seems these particular territorial envoys are not from alien planet after all.

PRISON, PARAPLEGIA AND THE ROUNDWOOD PARK CAFE

La verite, c’est plus etrange que la fiction. Six months ago, I bumped into an old friend of mine, Sandra Kane, artist and art director, at a dinner she was organising – only for her to tell me that she had just taken over the lease to the wonderful Roundwood Lodge Cafe.

To say I was surprised is an understatement. As far as I knew, Marianne – a buxom blonde with a charismatic personality and a slightly stretched face, who had heroically transformed this battered, little space into a thriving enterprise for local families, having survived numerous vandal attacks along the way – otherwise known as ‘Countess Romanov’ and a well-respected, local primary school governor, was still in charge.

“Haven’t you heard about Marianne?” asked Sandra incredulous that I hadn’t. “She’s in prison.” Again I was stunned. It  was one of those ricocheting moments. The last time, I saw Marianne was during the ‘Save The Cafe’ campaign two years ago (her story was that the council were about to evict her, although this apparently was not true) where I’d been videoed saying how brilliant I thought the cafe was. Monsieur Theroux had also joined in the campaign and been photographed with the Countess herself in the local press. One of her fortes was rallying the troops.

Having seen Sandra, I scoured the internet for all the news I had missed. It turned out that not only is Marianne in prison for fraud, she ia a transexual – (ok, I know this is non-pc to say this, but it does add another kick to the story) born as Robert Duxbury – who had most incredibly been pretending that she was a paraplegic confined to her bed and apparently claimed £197,000 since 1996 in benefits.

Incredible is too restrained a word for it. Phew. This is obviously vying for storyline status in the increasingly tabloid East Enders.

I’m going to have to repeat myself. Marianne (only one of a whole raft of names) was a very public figure running a prominent local cafe, whilst at the same time, maintaining this insane pretence. For twelve years.  Brazen or just in la la land or both? Anyway, she managed it – obfuscation was one of her many talents – for a very long time. Finally in 2008, a Brent Social Services Officer recognised her walking her dogs. Every time, the Social Services visited her at home in Wembley, she apparently had the curtains closed, was wearing a head wrap plus sunglasses as well as being obscured by bedclothes. She also claimed forcefully – she has a fecund and almighty imagination – that she had a twin sister who was out there running the cafe.

After much more fantastical ado in the court, she was sent to prison for four and a half years in March 2010. Hence the opening for Sandra who had already been managing the cafe.

Originally termed a refreshment chalet – wait for it – with a verandah which was built in 1900, it was rebuilt – think scout hut – in 1958. Now there have been various additions like a kiosk, and play areas outside. Even a massage table in the summer. (Now, of course, I’m writing about it in snow-bedecked December.)

In the early 19^th century, this area was known as Hunger Hill Common Field. Its distinguishing feature was the (still remaining) hillock where there used to be a rifle range. No more, of course. By the mid-1800s, Roundwood House had been built – apparently a magnificent, Elizabethan-style mansion – which later was owned by ‘legendary’(ie rich and powerful), local figure, George Furness, a civil engineering contractor whose international contracts later became our road names. Ancona, Paloma, Furness – all tributes to his work. And of course, seriously flawed.

However, Willesden Council (because then it wasn’t Brent) took out a compulsory purchase order on Roundwood House, and it was demolished in 1937. “An act of civil vandalism,” declares local historian, Cliff Wadsworth in his booklet on the park. I have to agree.

The park was opened in the early 1890s. Although Sandra didn’t arrive until the late 1990s, when Marianne was in charge. “She was always very determined and full of energy,”says Sandra. “In those days, she was in a wheelchair. The official story was that she’d fallen down an elevator shaft. I’m not sure what the reality was. But she did do a lot for the community. And in many ways was very generous. I have been to see her in prison but only in a formal way for the signing over of the lease. It is a new era for the cafe now. I’ve got new ideas like the massages in summer and holding art exhibitions here but it will always be a community cafe.”

Sandra, it has to be said, loves the people that come to Roundwood Park. The different ages and the different nationalities, the families, the teenagers. Everyone. “I also really feel so lucky to work in this environment, “ she declares, “ I see the dew on the plane tree burnished leaves on autumn mornings, and hear the first thrushes in spring. I see all the seasons in. And all the different people, the older ones with their dogs, the toddlers, the teenagers letting off steam. Parks are so needed for school children to hang out and be independent. I’m a strong supporter of parks for teenagers.”

And then, there are the old men who frequent the Bowling Green and their little wooden hut. Like a vestige from the 1920s – it was built by the unemployed – in their whites and their whiteness. Louis (Theroux, we’re on first name terms now post-walk) was keen for me to interview these players as an example, I assume, of particularly old-fashioned Harlesden dwellers. Perhaps, I will. Although I’m getting the distinct impression that it might entail entering a viper’s nest of right-wing opinions.

Sandra and I take a walk down to the main entrance. I have to confess that I always feel amused by the flowerbeds here. Yes, in a snotty way. As a sort of perverse bohemian superiority. To me, these flowerbeds are a little garish. Oh, the jolt and the jab of it. Red, oranges, purples, yellows – all  tipped together like the former Paul Grady Show. They remind me of the seaside town flowerbed aesthetic. Bournemouth, in fact.

As Sandra and I gaze at these beds bursting with yellow and orange marigolds, red begonias and purple verbena. I feel mean. To Sandra, who is so obviously a seaside flowerbed fan. I confess to my ugly thoughts. She is politely aghast.

“Look at those beautiful, orange cana lilies,” she says defending her park, “and we have a quite famous tulip tree. The flowerbeds here have always been an award-winning feature right from the beginning. Now we get couples coming to have their wedding photos taken here.”

Aptly chastised, I follow her to the stunning wrought iron gates which were created in 1895 at Vulcan Works in the Harrow Road. Are they still there, I wonder?  And then, there’s the surprisingly grand, faux Elizabethan lodge where apparently Brent park workers now reside. “It’s a great house,” says Sandra, “look at those chimneys and the sun and the plough on the other side, they were Willesden Council’s emblems at the time.”

There is the most hideous water fountain just nearby. Sorry, Sandra. Gothic, over-follied, ridiculously unattractive, unused (no water spurts sally forth, probably because of Health and Safety regulations). Created (I employ the term ill-advisedly) to mark the opening of the park, it really should go immediately to that imaginary, but much-needed museum devoted to the most grotesque of Victorian inventions.

And then, there’s the aviary. Here I go again. It is small and unadventurous. Anachronistic, even. Full of canaries and zebra finches, it lacks space and cleanliness. It doesn’t even have a whiff of the worst of London Zoo. Maybe the children love seeing these little birds, but I’m not sure it’s worth it.

I can feel Sandra’s disapproval from here. I am not, of course, speaking for her.

Another enigma on the right, is the distinctly 1960s, brutalist Open Theatre. Except I’ve never seen it open. It seems like a great idea to have a theatre in this park. Shakespeare has visited especially in summer, I hear. But, it remains firmly closed at the moment and unsupported. Come on, Brent Council, this theatre is an opportunity for youth theatre to happen in the summer months. It needs your support.

Oh goodness, I’ve just read – post-walk – that after World War 1, a German Bomber plane was almost fixed to the bandstand in the park as a decoration. Now that would have almost outdone Damien. There used to be a bandstand on the defining hillock. No more. Now there’s just a  flat area which could also easily be for performance. And it overlooks Wembley Stadium with its football halo. “When the park was built, this looked out on woods and trees,” says Sandra. “Look, you can see the church steeple in Harrow.”

As we’re walking back down towards the cafe, I notice a plaque on one of the oak trees that I’ve never seen before. It says simply that Lance Hamilton died here in 1998. Who was he? What happened? Even Sandra doesn’t know. The internet doesn’t mention him. It’s an enigma.

“Actually, at times of trouble, I have come to sit between these oaks and wept,” says Sandra, “and I have found the solace of nature here in Roundwood park. It really has meant so much to me over the years.”

THE HEADY DELIGHTS OF WILLESDEN JUNCTION STATION

Delight and Willesden Junction station do not sit easily in the same sentence. Terrifying and bleak might spring more naturally from the tongue. Especially after midnight when I have to embark on the long, long, lonely walkway – used to be rat-infested, has improved – towards Harrow Road. It is frightening. I have been known to run the entire distance. In the daytime, it’s more urban desolate. Ugly graffiti, derelict buildings, imposing wire fences, detritus…

However, since I’ve been visiting more often as part of this project, something unexpected has happened. I’ve started to see beauty and intrigue where once I only saw an onerous means to a transport (hopefully) end. Taking the time to look more closely has widened my vision. Literally and aesthetically.

And Willesden Junction station is hugely significant in the development of Harlesden. Demographically and historically. Initially as a station in the 1830s, it allowed City workers to travel into town and then build their rather grand villas in the countryside (yes, Harlesden). There were also trains going to Birmingham on the London and Birmingham Railway and trains going to Bristol on the Great Western Railway, which was built by none other than Isambard Kingdom Brunel. It became a junction in 1844, and gradually trains transported more and more immigrant workers (especially Irish) to the area, which slowly became more industrialised.

Willesden Junction station is big. And I don’t – this is an understatement – understand railways so I have found (through http://gallery62603.fotopic.net/ and Mike Morant) Ian Bull to guide me. He has kindly informed me via email that he has a nose stud, long hair and has a bit of a Goth thing going on, so when I see an elfin-looking man/boy (he’s actually middle-aged but that adjective seems completely wrong) quaffing water on the Harrow Road railway bridge, I assume it is Ian. It is.

He is immediately eager to point out the distinguishing characteristics between the train-spotter and the railway enthusiast. Train-spotters collect train numbers whereas railway enthusiasts are keen on research, taking photographs and history. Naturally, Ian is the latter. Although neither is he a stereotypical railway enthusiast, because apparently they wear grey raincoats and horn-rimmed glasses. And Ian is definitely sporting neither.

“I think I was born with it,” he says intriguingly, “I remember being in the garden when I was about 3 and seeing a steam engine in blue and yellow going by. It was a prototype Deltic and it is very powerful. That was 1962 and it was doing 100mph. I’ve never forgotten.” I had never before contemplated the idea that people could be born as railway enthusiasts but no doubt the Daily Mail has already recorded scientists working on identifying the railway enthusiast gene.

Interestingly, he also mentions that many railway enthusiasts have a touch of Asperger’s Syndrome about them although he omits himself from that category. Rather too quickly, me thinks.

“Willesden Junction used to be a far grander station,” declares Ian passionately as we descend the steps at the entrance, “it used to have an overall roof but there’s not a lot of old stuff left. It’s been re-built so much over the years.”

Ah, first of all, there’s the mysterious metal building on stilt legs that a train-spotter (I say this with new authority) informed me was a water tower where water was stored for the steam trains possibly going back to the 1860s. But Ian disagrees. He looks across at the odd little edifice and gradually as he ponders its enigma, I can hear the mounting excitement in his voice. It starts off slowly and then gains momentum. It’s the thrill of potential triumph that I’m witnessing. “It’s too small to house the water for a steam locomotive and the building is quite modern. I think it’s 1930s because it has rolled steel joints,” he says his voice speeding up not unlike a head of steam, “I suspect that it’s a carriage washing plant.”*

Ian, I will discover, is a bit of a one for inspired guesses.

And then, there’s the disused stone building at the back of it with its broken windows and rows of pigeons. Ian stares up at the windows. “Pure 1904*,” he says with what I can only describe as unadorned joy in his voice, “that’s a transformer station. When the lines were electrified in 1914/15, transformers were needed to change the wattage of the electricity coming in from the power station according to the needs of the railway line. They had to have windows because they were manually operated and the operators needed to be able to see what they were doing with the large levers that they had to use.”

I so enjoy finding out these tasty morsels of information, which otherwise I’d never, never have known. In fact, never have known that I wanted to know.

The graffiti-covered (it’s not very high quality) brick building in front of the old transformer station, is a modern transformer station. No lovely windows, only vents. No people needed to operate them. Much less appealing to the eye. How the means effect the end result!

Blackberry brambles, pink willow herb, deep purple blossoming buddleia trees all scramble together besides the tracks. Nature versus industry. Railway sidings are often prolific in terms of wild life. “Buddleia originally grew in the Himalayas,” says Ian easily stepping out of trainland into plantland, “naturalists think the seeds arrived in the docks with goods from the Far East and got there on axel grease on trains.”

There’s lots of maintenance going on here today. A Sunday. Orange-bedecked labourers “are adding ballast to the tracks to support the rails”. Obviously something I would never have noticed if Ian hadn’t been here. I’m not sure I even knew that ballast was broken up stone. I certainly didn’t realise that railway lines need ballast shoulders. “This is a very good shoulder of six inches,” says Ian approvingly implying that this is well looked after station, “these rails carry a lot of heavy freight and high speed trains.”

The underground system is not working today because of building work. The platforms are being extended, a new footpath is going in, there are new steps being built. The booking office is housed in an almost rural-looking cottage brick building. We walk up a pathway  – that I’ve never been up before – behind it. “It was built at the end of the 19^th century, look at the lead in those windows,” says Ian in one of his favourite refrains, “it’s pure Arts and Crafts movement, look how they’ve used lots of different terra cotta mouldings and brick in different patterns to make it look complex.”

On our right, are the tracks for the North London Line to Stratford and the South Western Railway to Richmond. Unfortunately, the buildings are 1960s. Ian is more interested in a buried entrance to our right. “This footpath has only been here about 10 years,” he says, “that’s when they buried the entrance to this covered walkway.”  Now we’ve emerged near the Station Road exit to Willesden Junction but there seems to be an opening to our left where it is possible to walk. Men in orange jackets are leaving via this route.

Ian is distinctly hesitant at this juncture. “The public never used to be allowed down there,” he says.

“Come on,” I say encouragingly, “let’s go.”  This is what I like – a bit of forbidden adventuring. We wander down and find ourselves in deep Willesden Junction railway wilderness. In fact, later I read that it used to be nicknamed ‘Bewildering Junction’. A high-speed train bolts past. “That was the Birmingham express,” says Ian.

We gaze across the lines – a Virgin express to Glasgow whizzes by – and there over on the other side is something that could be an Anish Kapoor tubular sculpture amid gigantic mounds of earth. It transpires that it is the European Metal Recycling centre.

There are steps to climb and I look back on a bevy of yellow and blue trains, which look like exotic beetles just about to rampage across this urban wasteland. “They are Class 378 engines which have just been built in Derby,” announces Ian, “they travel between Euston and Watford.”

Now we’re crossing a footbridge – steel, 1960s – which Ian has never been over before. Let alone me. I’m feeling the excitement of previously uncharted (to us anyway) landscape. And on our right is a wooden signal box, which is still used and goes back to the 1860s. “Look at the distinctive finials on the ends,” says Ian pointing to wooden decorative pieces that look almost like could spin wool or at the very least, appear in a gothic church. He’s right they are remarkable.

We’re getting nearer to the huge mounds, which Ian has guessed might be crushed cars. After passing a couple of noble Spruce trees, we see dozens of white bags full of some sort of mechanical parts. “Oh, they are fridge compressors,” says Ian his voice ascending towards the highlands of an inspired guess, “ so those mounds of rusty metal must be old fridges.”

Fridges. Whoever would have thought it? But it’s true, the mounds are not earth but rusty metal. Wow, I’m impressed. “Can you smell that oil in the air?” says Ian.

I couldn’t but now I can. On this hot sunny day, it’s like a weird garage extra. The wire fences are covered with over-active morning glory or more prosaically, bindweed, and bushy horsetails burst out of the poor soil beside them. Suddenly – we’ve been totally alone so far – a denimed man is approaching us. “Where have you been?” I ask him cheekily. “Car Giant,” he says somewhat disappointingly. I was imagining something more industrially romantic like a tryst in the railway wilderness.

The path ends and we find ourselves near Scrubs Lane, but we turn right into more of the industrial heartlands. There’s a Portuguese Bi-café with fake pink flowers outside and gingham, there’s a Lebanese foodstuff warehouse, the Icehouse, an ice cream centre and another footpath that leads to the Grand Union Canal.

“I wonder if there’ll be a footbridge,” says Ian. And there is. It looks straight onto the disused Old Oak Common locomotive shed. “Cross Rail should emerge here in the future,” says Ian, “which I think is a good idea. There’s even a railway turn-table over there on the right which is still used.”

Fascinatingly, he then reveals a little of the inner sanctum railway bitchery that goes on. “This is Great Western Railway and it’s a very self-important railway. Magnificent steam trains ran along it from 1900 to 1922 and somehow the people connected to the GWR think they are superior. I don’t get on with it.” Somehow the railway has become imbued with the attitude of its employees. This must be a railway enthusiast thing.

We’re walking beside the canal now but before we know it, there are two railway bridges. The first is the London and North West Railway to Acton, and then there’s the South Western Railway to Richmond. Normally, I wouldn’t even have registered that they are railway bridges. We exit at Oak Lane because there are railway cottages up the road, however, I know Ian is going to be interested in the derelict tower block over the road. Broken glass, gas cylinders, plastic bags, every imaginable bit of rubbish has gathered like a polluted sea around it.  Blot on the landscape totally underestimates the power of this eyesore. Probably an office block – I’ll look it up later – it has been attacked by urban marauders. Burnt, broken, covered in graffiti – it is nevertheless somehow amazing.

When something or someone is broken open, there is always the opportunity for beauty. As Lenard Cohen sings; ‘The crack that lets the light in.’ It’s hideous, dystopian and falling apart but there’s something gloriously wonderful about it. Like Detroit now. Like The Road. Like me when I was breaking up with the father of my son. The decay almost radiates in its slow dying.

On the other side of the road, there’s a 70s concrete building that Ian thinks – wrongly this time – used to be a pub. In fact, it’s Willesden Junction Maintenance Depot. Ah ha, more railway stuff. We peek around the corners, find an overgrown garden – the out of control limbs of honeysuckle, sedum and traveller’s joy tangle together – beside the Richmond line. The lights are on, but I can’t get them to answer the door. I was going to ask them about the derelict building over the road.

Even Ian doesn’t have an answer, and even more surprisingly, no inspired guesses. Huge concrete blocks have been dropped at the entrance. “To stop gypsies moving their vehicles in,” says Ian. We spot a canal-viewing ledge where evidently itinerant drinkers – there’s quite a few of them who frequent the canal – repose on a regular basis. Although not today. There’s a brown velveteen sofa and a wooden crate, presumably where they put the TV when the world cup was on

Oak Lane railway cottages have become quite gentrified. Window boxes and sometimes BMWs. However, Ian is more interested in the bricks. “They would have housed workers in the 19^th century or lodgings for travelling engine men,” he announces, the pace of his words quickening,  “but what’s fascinating are all the different sorts of brick that they are made out of. London brick over there is yellow and stains really easily, but these ones are from Staffordshire and much smoother and redder. These cottages are made from so many different types of brick, I think the railway could have been using them as part of an exhibition which would demonstrate how many places their trains visited.”

I have a feeling Ian is off again into inspired guessland. He has been a very entertaining, not to mention, railway host. And I have to admit my feelings about Willesden Junction station have changed. I’m actually feeling inspired by everything that I didn’t know. Knowledge!

*Afterwards Ian contacts me to say that those windows are actually from 1909.

* New inspired guess arrives by email two weeks after the walk. Ian believes it could have been used by British Railway’s laundry.

WHEN ROSE MET LOUIS THEROUX FINALLY

I’ve known for at least the past five years that the ever so quizzical and now apparently sexy – the other day, a 20 something data designer told me that the gig audience her friend had been part of the previous evening, was a sea of  Louis’ which was a very desirable thing – documentary maker, Louis Theroux was a neighbour of mine. Not close close, but I had spotted him at my local newsagents, the one where British Asian Dar (he came over from Pakistan in the 60s) calls himself Danny and sells boxing gloves as well as newspapers. And I’d heard that Louis was a member of the Neighbourhood Watch in my area.

So for the past few months, I’ve been trying to persuade him to walk with me. Via his agent and emails. At first, he declined. However, he declined in a way that made me think that he would eventually agree. He took a typically ‘Louis’ softly, softly approach. ‘I don’t think I can help you,’ he wrote indicating to me that there was at least a small part of him that thought he could.

I persisted in a slow, lightly determined manner. A few weeks ago, he relented politely. Always finishing his emails with ‘Best Regards’ as though he is deliberately adhering to a time warp. I suggested we meet down Park Parade. He had other ideas. “Dora’s Delights,” he wrote, “at 9 15am.” The delightfully named Dora’s Delights is a new café that has recently opened right next to the Jubilee Clock.

And there he is, reading The Sun. That’s a surprise. Initially, I nearly fall into a seductive trap. Louis, of course, starts to ask me questions about myself. I suddenly hear myself talking about The Face and interviewing sculptor and in the 1960s dubbed Scotland’s most violent man, Jimmy Boyle, and stop myself. Otherwise, I won’t find anything out about Louis.

It’s all a bit polite at the beginning. He’s lived here for nine years, he’d like to be even more active locally (he’s pretty active already, he was out on the streets earlier this year promoting the shop locally campaign), the negative press that Harlesden attracts, the regeneration project, (which I haven’t explored yet), the Keep Harlesden Clean campaign and the local shops.

“I do try to shop locally,” he says, “I’ve become a bit of a mango snob since living here. There are at least three different types including honey mangos.” And then, there’s his list of good local fishmongers and restaurants.  Oh dear, I’m in danger of getting bored with Louis Theroux already.

Does he get recognised here, I ask? “Less than elsewhere,” he says, “for instance, my Polish neighbour, Ryzard, has just got back from a trip home. He got really excited because he’d seen me over there on TV, he hadn’t realised what I did before that. A lot of people in Harlesden are watching their own national TV by satellite so they wouldn’t see me.”

It soon becomes clear that Louis’ head really is full of questions. He is wont – as we see in his TV documentaries on everything from medicating children to interviewing the inmates of San Quentin prison or sex workers in Nevada – to ponder possibilities endlessly. He has been accused of being faux-naïve, but I experience him as just eternally wanting to find out more. “I am curious to know,” he says uttering one of his favourite phrases, “how the demographics evolved here. It was posh wasn’t it at the turn of the century, so how did it change?”

I explain badly about the railways, then the industrialisation, for instance, McVities then the arrival of cheap housing for the workers. And the departure of the middle classes in the 1920s and 30s. Later I read that Louis has a first in history from Oxford University. Oh, the satisfaction of not even getting an O level in it and being able to lecture Louis!

But before long, we’re onto to shopping again. Louis reckons – is he right? – that Harlesden is the only place in London where you can buy black beans in a tin. I do like his quirky adherence to such little known ‘facts’. Apparently, he – he has two young boys, Albert and Frederick, and a partner called Nancy – cooked a Nigella dish last night which included one of those remarkable tins of black beans, plus Thai fish sauce and lime.

We talk about shops like Harlesden Fresh Fish – my local fish shop, which is owned by a large smiling Afghani – opposite Iceland, when Louis demonstrates one of his most charming attributes. “I worry about the shops in the week,” he says and I think he genuinely does, “they might be busy at the weekend but they’re almost empty in the week.” There’s something deeply ok about a man who worries about the livelihood of his local shopkeepers.

I’d planned to take Louis on a walk to Stonebridge. I wanted to know what he thought of all the architectural changes. But he had a slightly different idea. “Have you ever been to that hotel up there?” he says eagerly, “I’m curious to know what goes on there. Who stays there? Why do they stay there?”

In fact, I’ve been meaning to go to this Victorian hotel. Right in the middle of Stonebridge – the estates, the towers – stands this vestige of another era. It is weird. Out-of-place. Faintly ridiculous. The Stonebridge Park  Hotel – it was built when commuters from the City stayed there in the mid 19^th century.

And so we’re walking at last. Past Subway, and Wrights photography and lingerie – “What’s all that about?” he laughs – and the old Mean Fiddler. “I read your piece about Vince Power,” he says, “but he can’t really be soft can he? He runs nightclubs and music venues.” Afterwards, I think about this and decide that actually he can be soft as well as tough. Do people have to be just either one or the other? The questions are evidently infectious.

Now we’re outside another fresh fish shop window in the High Street and we witness a crab moving. It’s still alive. “Do you think that’s cruel?” he asks. I turn the question back on him. And he’s not sure. There are a lot of different fish on display here. “Can you name many of them,” he asks. I don’t think I can. These constant questions make me realise what a permanent state of inexactness I live in.

Outside the newly refurbished library, a little group have gathered waiting for it to open. Our communal gaze is immediately drawn to a couple of shaven headed men who are sitting on the steps and falling slowly and drunkenly into one another in a very intimate way for 10 o’clock in the morning. Of course, Louis, the documentary maker isn’t a teensy bit fazed by staring at them for quite a long time. Past most people’s comfort threshold. “It’s funny they look as though they are cuddling,” he says. And they are. “They’re probably Eastern European,” he adds.

He points out Odeon Court – a row of bland, 1990s houses. Like Barrett homes. Of course, it’s where the Odeon, which originally opened in 1937, once was. In fact, this is also where Vince Power meant when he was talking about the location of the famous Harlesden Roxy where the Clash played and Don Letts was a DJ in the 70s, but I have realised that punk bands like the Sex Pistols and the Slits also played at

The Coliseum up the road. There were two venues. That’s what was confusing. “I find myself lamenting the demise of the Odeon,” says Louis admitting a kind of longing for a lack of change, “but I do have neo-phobic tendencies so I just have to stop myself.”

I can feel his neo-phobic tendencies almost constantly. They settle in the relentless pondering and the almost comical grimace that so often appears on his face.

As we look down Hillside and onto the new Stonebridge estates, I ask him if he’s ever thought about doing a documentary on Harlesden?  “I’ve thought about it,” he says, “but it’s good to keep work and home separate. There are so many questions that I haven’t asked about Harlesden in the nine years that I’ve been here, that I would have asked in the first hour out on the street with a camera crew.”

The strangely out of place Stonebridge Park Hotel is before us now. Only it’s changed its name to the Bridge Park Hotel. Obviously because Stonebridge has too many crime, gangs and shootings connotations.  It has wrought iron balconies and a feeling of distant grandeur turned into nouveau tackiness. We push open the door and somehow Louis transforms into his documentary maker self. Newly assertive, he takes the lead.

“Can we see a room?” he asks and he won’t take ‘No’ for an answer when the blonde (maybe Slavic) receptionist informs us that the rooms have yet to be cleaned. Suddenly, I’m in a situation where Louis and I are pretending to need a room together. At least, he asks to see a twin one which would cost us £60 for the night.

In the meantime – we wait to see whether we will be allowed in – we survey the reception area. There’s a huge, Argos catalogue-type chandelier, a souvenir display case and lots of brochures about Paris and Wembley, then some decorative 19^th century posters.  Louis is bizarrely impressed and incredibly enthusiastic. He’s come alive in some way that wasn’t there earlier.

“Someone has obviously spent some money on this hotel recently,” he says, “there’s a feeling of it being taken care of. It looks clean and looked after.” And he says it quite a number of times. “Am I going overboard?” he asks. He is.

Finally, we triumph. We wander down back corridors crammed with kitsch pictures of elephants, storks and crying women with peculiar little words of wisdom. For instance – To Be Happy, We Must Not Be Too Concerned With Others. “That’s odd, isn’t it,” he says and I agree it is very odd.

The room is small and unremarkable. Louis is far better than me at making small talk about this frankly unimpressive twin room. “Do you have non-smoking and smoking rooms?” he asks as though he is making a vitally important enquiry. I can tell he is enjoying himself. It’s the thrill of the chase of ‘the genuinely odd in the most ordinary setting’ that drives him.  I’m not sure how odd this is though. “I think I can smell smoke,” he observes in a detective-like manner. The receptionist concurs but adds that it probably is from a few nights ago rather than the previous evening.

On the way back, we look out of the back door on to one of the two remaining Stonebridge tower blocks. Confusingly, it has scaffolding around it. We’re fooled into thinking that they are re-furbishing the façade. My son puts me right when I get back. “That’s because they take it down bit by bit,” he explains to his ignorant mother.

As we walk away from the Bridge Park Hotel, I wonder aloud about the dramatic changes in architecture around here, and whether the low rise buildings will encourage more community and less crime. “I think Corbusier said something like ‘we shape our buildings and thereafter, they shape us’,” he says.

You were sounding rather anti-smoking back at the hotel? “No, I’m a smoker,” he smiles, “I smoke about three cigarettes a week.”

At this point, he produces a shopping list on the back of an envelope and we end up at Blue Mountain Peak Cash And Carry, the quintessentially Caribbean food shop, searching out very English ingredients for the Theroux family dinner. But Louis is unabashed. “Can you see the broccoli?” he says amid the mountains of yams and cassavas. I can. But definitely not the crème fraiche. Oh, and he has a very cute shopping bag with him!

“I’m so glad we went to that hotel,” he says seeming genuinely pleased. “Why?” I laugh. “Because now I can speak with authority about it,” he explains.

Hilarious. Why would you want to? “Well, it would make a great place to disappear in,” he adds tellingly, “haven’t you wanted to totally disappear?”

Ending on a series of questions seems only right and proper after an encounter with Louis…

PS His next BBC documentary is called Law and Disorder In Lagos. It’s about the city’s civic structure or lack of it. “I spent a month there,” he says, “it is dangerous but not as much as you would expect. Nigeria is not really far away. It’s much closer than the US, and there is so many connections with the UK.  So many Nigerians who live here, families who send money back there. I like that.”

ON THE TRAIL OF THE BLACK MADONNAS

Ah ha, apparently, there are around five hundred Black Madonnas – a black version of the Virgin Mary, who various scholars suggest is a pre-Christian mother figure with the goddess Isis as an ancestor – scattered around Europe and three of them are in Harlesden and Neasden. The Black Madonna is also said to teach us to embrace our dark and light sides, our negative and positive characteristics. Very much my kind of woman in this case.

But instead of visiting two of these local Black Madonnas – the priest at the Catholic Our Lady of Willesden church in Harlesden is on his day off – I find myself at a shop called All Eyes On Egypt on Park Parade that has been intriguing me for some time. Is it the home of a mysterious cult? I must be following the Isis thread instead.

I’m greeted by the very spirited, Amsu Re who happens to look like Eddie Murphy.

He sparkles and crackles with preacherly zeal, but on the side, I can’t help seeing that he’s a bit of a laugh. “People are robots,” he says in an American accent, “they don’t want to know the truth or talk about the deceptions. This shop is about education.”

A few weeks ago, I saw a poster on the window of the One-Stop Jerk Chicken shop in the High Street, advertising a talk entitled The Angry Vagina, which was taking place here at this shop.  “Oh yeah,” says Amsu Re, ”the author, Queen Afua was over from the US so we launched her book Overcoming The Angry Vagina here.”

Queen Afua advocates natural remedies and the health of the womb. In other words, don’t let the medical world intervene and remove wombs when it’s not necessary. She’s also concerned that young women ‘don’t give themselves away too easily.’ Originally called Helen Robinson, she’s now an African queen. I love the idea of re-appropriating names in this grand re-positioning manner. I want one myself. Maybe not African but more appropriately Celtic. Similarly, Amsu Re was probably born with a name like Colin Walker but has become the vastly more mysterious and kingly, Amsu Re.

Queen Afua – she’s a holistic practitioner who’s worked with Stevie Wonder and Erykah Badu – asks a vital question. Is your vagina happy or angry? Or more appositely, is your spouse’s vagina happy or angry?  She also makes suggestions of ways to increase vaginal contentment – to men and women. And watch out, because she has hinted that her next book could be about the Angry Penis.

There are pictures of Bob Marley, natural oils, soaps, posters of black women and men who fought against slavery and for women’s rights, then there are those of sports stars like the magnificent Usain Bolt. All Eyes On Egypt seems to be about inviting black people to become more aware of the richness of their culture. Instead of being in the media as the victim or perpetrator of a killing. A re-education.

Mercifully, Amsu – who tells me he was born in Paddington but later brought up in one of the towers at Stonebridge, “I remember us all playing outside together in an innocent way” before he and his family went to live in the US – has a sense of humour too. “You know why Usain Bolt can run so fast. It’s because Jamaica is where all the rebel slaves went,” he says, “so they had already learnt how to run away from their owners.”

And Egypt is African and the cradle of civilisation. “The word Egypt means those with brown faces, “ he explodes with passion, “and ancient Egypt included North and South America.”

Mmmm, did it? And then, he adds – “Did you know that John Hanson was the first black President of the US in 1781, forget Barack Obama?” he says in an authoritative fashion. There are photographs of this black ‘President’ around the shop but later I check out the facts around this assertion and discover that John Hanson was more probably a white merchant which is what white history recalls, and the black John Hanson was a 19^th century senator who promoted the relocating of black people to Liberia. This seems to be a photo of the latter as photos weren’t around until the 1800s.

So truth takes a strange turn at All Eyes On Egypt. I agree with their premise – redress the status of black people in history – but advise caution on some of their wilder shores. Amsu Re despite being charming, committed and fun, has a conspiracy theory edge to him, which is a step too far for me personally. There are books about Jay-Z being a member of the Illuminati, the Moorish Paradigm and much more.

However, it makes me smile to see one of their posters is the pope kneeling in front of – guess who – yes, a Black Madonna in Poland in 1999. “Yeah, you see, even the pope respects the Black Madonna,” he grins.

He also shows me two photos of dignified black women from the early 19^th century in the US. “This one is Harriet Tubman,” he says, “and she escaped from slavery but went back to the plantations to rescue another seventy slaves using something called the Underground Railroad which was a system of safe houses. She was an abolitionist and suffragette. The other one is Sojourner Truth who was also a slave who ran away. She was the first black woman to take a white man to court and win the case. She managed to get one of her children back from a slave-owner.”

At home, I read about these incredible women and when the text says “born into slavery” I feel instantly moved by what that actually meant. They were incredible women. And Amsu Re? “I’ve seen a lot of unjust things, “ he says finally, “you can make a choice in life and I try to be a better person.” And I believe him.

There’s a sign above a door saying ‘Hold On To The Rope’. What does it mean? “Stay firm,” he says giving one of his ever-ready smiles, “don’t give up.”

The next morning – yes, this is a walk in two parts – I’m going to find a real Black Madonna. I’m straying a little out of Harlesden into Neasden and is actually the parish of Willesden – to St Mary’s Church.

St Mary’s – C of E but high church, anglo-catholic, as they say – is an unexpected pleasure. I walk down past Roundwood Park – formerly the grounds of Victorian grandee in these parts, George Furness who had a manor house here – but now a wonderful council-run park, and up to Church Road. Over the bypass and next to a big roundabout, I come upon an unexpected vista. Suddenly, the grim urban surroundings melt away, and there is St Mary’s looking as though it is still set in a village. Yes, a village.

A place of worship – there were a series of wooden churches that burnt down – has been here since 938 and it is the ancient shrine of Our Lady of Willesden. Pilgrims came from far and wide to visit ‘The Black Virgin of Willesden’ and the well to which miraculous powers were ascribed. By 1475, it was an unusually popular and drunkenness and gambling were reported. But, in 1538, Thomas Cromwell stripped the church of its carvings and the Black Madonna was burnt in Chelsea.

I push open the heavy fourteenth century door and the scene is pure Vicar of Dibley. It’s 9 30 am on a Saturday and a couple of the ten parishioners welcome me in a very affable manner. Suddenly, the vicar sweeps in and kisses one of the alters on his way. Singing, incense, Hallelujahs and communion all follow. I try to keep up – there’s a delightful mixture of black and white stalwarts. My eye wanders over to a plaque, which commemorates Cyril Verres Davis, the first black churchwarden here from 1985 to 2000.

At the end of the service, the vicar, David Clues shakes my hand. Immediately warm, friendly, witty and urbane – he oozes confidence and obviously adores his job, his congregation and his church. He reminds me of the Cameron/Clegg tribe with a bit of Ben Bradshaw thrown in. And it turns out, that he is also a Lib-Dem counsellor, the only one in this ward to be re-elected.

“Come and have coffee with us,” he says shunting me into a backroom which takes me back in time to the 1960s in an institutional way, it reminds me of my own childhood Yorkshire village church, “you’ll have to be brave, they all like to talk a lot.” He waves me in and like a perversely young father – he’s in his 40s, they’re all older – tells them to be nice to me.

They are. Of course. There’s a lot of bustling going on – staple guns at the ready for programme work – because they are in full preparation for the annual pilgrimage next week. “Oh, it’s great fun,” says local historian, Roger Macklen, who informs me that he started off as low church and has ended up high, “pilgrims come all over the country, there is a procession and balloons.”

There’s a flurry of excitement as I ask about the oldest part of the church, and Steve, an ex-engineer who’s been a member of this church since 1972, leads me to the other end. “Look at this pillar,” he says proudly, “it’s from the 12^th century and was discovered in 1872 during some renovation work. You can see this was originally the outer wall before this extension was put on to make the church bigger. In 1800, there were 200 people in Willesden, by 1872, there were 20,000, they needed more space in the church.”

Finally, David stops running around and sits down. He’s a bit of an X factor vicar. He likes the limelight and doesn’t mind admitting it. He’s theatrical in a charming way. “I’d heard about St Mary’s because of its soup kitchen,” he explains, “which was fantastic and happened every night. But last Xmas, we sat down to eight turkeys and there was only one homeless person. Other places had opened up similar provisions so we called it a day. We suffer here geographically, there used to be streets of terraced houses around here but they were all pulled down. Now we’ve got a bypass and a roundabout around us, but not so many people. But we always keep the doors open because I believe we are a valuable place of refuge and solace.”

At last we’ve come to the Black Madonna moment. We step out into the church again and there amidst all the finely carved 19^th century sculptures sits the Black Madonna and Child. It is a bold, modern, primitive piece of religious sculpture.  Baby Jesus stands on his mother’s knees with his arms outstretched in a gesture that is surrendered, trusting and welcoming. Funnily enough, it reminds me of the major arcana tarot card, the Sun. In the 19^th century Rider Waite pack, a child rides naked on the back of a horse – it is a powerful image, which urges you to trust the universe and not to fear it.

“I’m tremendously proud of our Black Madonna,” says David, “it was commissioned in 1972, and a woman sculptor, Catharni Stern carved it out of lime wood. They were uncertain political times and I think its solidity gives reassurance. Pilgrims do come to visit and also take holy water from the well. It’s very special to us.”

This Black Madonna looks out of place in a good way here. She’s got solid peasant woman limbs in a church that is full of slender figures. No-one knows what the original statue was like – Cromwell had it burnt in 1538 – only that it was in black wood (and some think it was candle soot-blackened) and covered in silver plate. But for hundreds of years, people came to worship her here.

MEAN FIDDLER MOGUL, VINCE POWER RETURNS

It’s beautiful spring day and a huge, silver Lincoln is sweeping – in that hushed wide way that only old American cars can – into the Plaza car park. It contains Vince Power who was literally a powerhouse in Harlesden for many years. Well, 23 years to be exact. He used to own the Mean Fiddler – seminal music venue on the High Street now closed down – which became the Mean Fiddler Group (Jazz Café, the Forum, Reading Festival, the Grand and many more), which he sold in 2005 for £60 million. Not that he’s retired, now he runs VPMG that owns the Bloomsbury Ballroom, the Pigalle club and runs Hop Farm Festival (Ray Davies and Dylan this year, July 3^rd) and Benicassim Festival in Spain.

As he gets out of his stylishly unfashionable car, I remember the reputation that goes before him. That he’s some sort of Svengali Irish gangster.  But the stocky, stubbly-chinned man who pats me on the arm in an affable gesture of friendliness seems much softer than that.

“You’re the reason I first came to Harlesden,” I say, “because I used to review people like Billy Bragg up here for Sounds.” He laughs the sort of unassuming chortle that is pleased that he should have that kind of influence.

Before I know it, Vince is opening a very green metal door to a new-to-me alleyway in the High Street. “We used to own the whole block,” he says, “but this was the box-office and entrance down here.” There is a tangible poignancy about this alleyway for Vince. It’s neglected and rundown. And it was here that his music venue empire began in 1982. On his website, he’s justifiably called The Godfather of Gigs. But here he is looking watery-eyed about the past.

“I recognise those doors,” he says pointing to the old entrance now locked and scruffy, ”we bought them from a chocolate factory in Scrubs Lane, you could still smell the chocolate on them. I know this place so well because I built it. It does make me sad looking at this building now, it had such soul and such spirit, but like the old Marquee is no more, you just have to move on. Van Morrison, Johnny Cash, Paul McCartney, John Martyn, Dr John, Christy Moore and many more all graced this stage. I had to wage a one-man war in order to get people to come to Harlesden. But I was so determined, I did manage to get them. It was the beginning of my business. The money from here paid for Subterania, the Jazz Café and all the rest to start.”

We walk a little further to the old stage door at the back. “I remember standing out here with musicians,” he says, “on summer’s evenings. One night, country musician, Dwight Yoakam was having a fit of nerves before going on, so I was out her trying to persuade him to perform. He did go on in the end.”

Vince is standing next to an old street lamp also painted green which is quite odd in the middle of this alleyway. “We restored it,” smiles Vince revealing his inner DIY spirit aglow, “it was originally from the nineteenth century.”

Apparently, it used to be a dodgy drinking club owned by boxer, Terry Downes, before Vince bought it. “It was hard for them to get a license,” he explains, “so it was illegal. There were a lot of heavy gangsters who used to come here then. A couple of bodies were found in this alleyway at one point. I bought it in 1981 because I wanted to turn it into a honky tonk bar. I used to go to Nashville so that inspired me. I loved country music.”

Back in the 8os, John Martyn was supposed to play at 10 pm one night. “He came on at 12pm and was promptly sick over the front row of people. I had to give a lot of people their fivers back,” he says.

My own strongest memory of the Mean Fiddler was going to a Sun Ra – crazy, inspired jazz singer, musician and controversial cosmic philosopher – gig. I’d never see so many people, his Arkestra – I think there were 13 – on the tiny stage. Sun Ra was wearing something on his head that resembled an extra-terrestrial hair net and I kept thinking he looked like Ena Sharples on Coronation Street. It was 1990. They played music which startled and amazed in equal measure. It was one on those extraordinary gigs, which takes you out of the present and into the improvised space of the joyful imagination. He was to die at 79 three years later. But he was truly dancing to the beat of his own drum. I even got to interview him.

Back on the High Street, Vince surprises me by saying that he actually came over from Waterford in Ireland to Harlesden when he was 16 in 1964. On his own. He was one of 11 children. He has a much longer relationship with Harlesden than I thought. “I lived in a back room of the house of a Jamaican woman who treated me like her son,” he says, “it was very unusual for someone Irish to board with someone Jamaican in those days. But I loved it.”

It turns out that he met his first wife who was also Irish when he was 18. Also in Harlesden. “At the 32 Club,” he says, “which used to be opposite the Royal Oak pub. We got married in the big Catholic Church, Our Lady of Willesden, up Acton Lane. We were very young, both 18, my mother came over from Waterford. It was just what you did. We had three children before I was 21.”

As we verbally go back and forth between the present and the past, we’re also observing the High Street. “In the 60s, it was upmarket here,” says Vince rather shockingly, “There used to be a Marks and Spencer’s here in those days. Employment was easy in the 60s, so everyone had money from working in the factories round here. But I must say it is very lively here, much more so than Kilburn High Road which is my shopping area now.”

At this point, we’re just passing plantains and Scotch Bonnets piled up high at a nearby grocers, when a guy with his long grey locks in a ponytail, shouts out to me because he sees I have a notebook. “Are you from ‘Elth and Safety?” he calls out.  “No,” I reply horrified to have been mistaken for someone from the council. For goodness sake, I have a bejewelled feather in my hair. What is the country coming to? Traditionally, a notebook in hand translated as a journalist, now it’s Health and Safety? Oh, the poverty of reference points.

We go back to talk to him and his friend. It turns out that both he and Vince have bad backs! What on earth is going on with these men? Alexei also had a painful back. They exchange supportive back care tips whilst I chat to Ronald, who says he volunteers with young people in the area and lives in Rucklidge Avenue, the same road as Sabrina Washington’s parents.

By the time we reach the newly re-opened Library, Vince has to sit down because of sciatica in his leg. Later, he tells me he has a gym in his house and a visiting yoga teacher. Evidently, he’s not using their services on a regular basis.

“First of all, my wife and I lived in a room in Bramshill Road, then we moved to a beautiful house in Stonebridge Park. In the 60s, there were some wonderful houses there but they were demolished to make way for the tower blocks. I know because I demolished some of them. At that time that’s what I was doing,” he explains. “There was nothing wrong with the original houses, but I do remember how excited people were at the idea of getting new bathrooms and kitchens, they couldn’t wait for those blocks. But those tower blocks destroyed the community. But I have been up there and had a look at the new developments and they’ve done a good job.”

Vince points in the direction of Stonebridge and explains that there was an Odeon cinema just up the road, ‘a fleapit’ which became the Roxy Club in the 70s. That the Sex Pistols rehearsed in. Oh la la. I was under the impression that the Roxy had been at the Coliseum cinema, which is now the Misty Moon pub. I was wrong.

In fact, back in the 60s and 70s, it was people moving out of their houses, sometimes to the Stonebridge tower blocks, that created work for Vince’s new business. “For 15 years, I ran a second hand furniture business,” he says giving insights into how he became so successful in the music venue business, “the main shop was in Kilburn High Road. I was good at making money. I just liked picking my wits against another human being and getting twice as much as I paid for whatever it was.”

That’s quite a contrast with today. Hasn’t he gone posh these days with his Berkley Square Ball, his Bloomsbury Ballroom and his Pigalle Club? “You can’t make me posh,” he exclaims in a jokingly serious way as we walk back, “you can’t pimp me.”

But what about his gangster image, he’s definitely got a reputation? “I think it came about because I used to do lots of support gigs for the Guildford Four and the Maguire Sisters. All of them were innocent. Because I did those gigs, people assumed I was an IRA member. I’ve always been political and left wing but I’ve always been against any kind of violence. I did a lot of the Red Wedge gigs in the early 90s, and everyone like Hank Wangford came and celebrated at the Mean Fiddler after the 1997 Labour election victory.”

It’s 5pm and we’re at the bar at the Misty Moon ordering a tea and a coffee. Very rock n’roll. At 62, Vince has eight children and seven grandchildren, he’s been married three times. “I think when I split up from Alison, my third wife, I did reassess my life and wonder what I was doing with it? It was five years ago and that’s when I sold the business. I wanted to do something new. But I’m no good at doing nothing, so I ended up finding some new venues and festivals. I’ve just announced Bob Dylan is playing at the Hop Farm, a one day festival in Kent. It’s in its third year and it’s back to basics, there are no VIP passes. Everything became too inflated. I was guilty of it too. Now I’m interested in everyone being treated in the same way.”

Briefly, he had a mid-life bachelor crisis and acquired a penthouse in Paddington, but now his feet are back on the ground and he’s back in a family house in Willesden. His youngest children – 13, 15 and 18 – visit for a couple of days a week. He’s single and he admits somewhat mistily that he definitely prefers the family unit as a way of living.

And what does he make of Harlesden these days? “Well, there was a time in the 90s when young people were shooting each other here and everyone assumed it was a terrible place. But I never thought that. For me, it was always a family place, and I think it still is.”

Fittingly for the gentleman he shows himself to be, he gives me a lift home in the Lincoln. Not since, multimillionaire publisher, Felix Dennis sent me home in his chauffer-driven silver Rolls Royce, have I arrived home in such style. But that’s another story.

At home, a friend of my son’s, on hearing who I’ve been out with, says “Oh, isn’t he that heavy gangster guy?” So the old image is till working. I get the impression he quite likes it.

THE IRREPRESSIBLE FORCE THAT IS LABOUR MP, DAWN BUTLER

It’s raining, it’s 2pm, and I’m sheltering in the doorway of fruit machine-heaven, Casino, and I’m wondering whether local Labour MP, (the countdown is running to the election now) Dawn Butler will turn up? On her website, it says she was the first ever black woman to be elected to a British Government. Yes, but will she keep her word to walk round Harlesden with a woman she’s never met before?

I decide I’d better put myself in a more obvious position, and stand next to that landmark, the Jubilee clock which is has its own little paved area – often home to the Nation of Islam* or Jesus choirs – in the midst of a triangle of oncoming traffic. I feel somehow vulnerable, even though no-one is taking any notice of me. It is a place for performance. Instead I stare at the its date of completion – 1888 – and wonder at this arts and crafty tribute to Queen Victoria and how it’s found itself in 2010 in the heart of such a wild mixture of peoples. What a paradox, this clock, a delicately crafted acknowledgement of Vic’s successful colonialising, ends up in the middle of Harlesden, a new colony of poverty, often from the old colonised nations. They’ve just geographically shifted.

I hear a hearty voice next to me. Ah ha, Dawn has arrived. Has she brought a flunkie? No, Mat, who has come along too and is wielding a camera and carrying a host of Dawn (sorry, local Labour Party) newsletters, is a volunteer helper. This walk, of course, is a pre-election walk. And Dawn is no-shrinking violet. In fact, I was planning to take her to the new housing estates around Church Rd and talk to her about that area. Difficult but changing. But from the offset, it’s obvious that this is a High St walkabout. The electoral boundaries are changing – at the moment, there is a Brent East and a Brent South, they will become Brent Central – are changing at this election, which means Dawn (who is a present, MP for Brent South) is up against  local Lib-Dem MP, Sarah Teather (who is at present MP for Brent East). And Dawn does have a fight on her hands, because Sarah is a very popular, committed MP.

Not that you would know it today. Dawn doles out a newsletter to the Somalis at an internet shop with unforced jollity. One of the local beggars asks for a pound. I gave the same man some money last week. I gave it because I felt disturbed by him and didn’t know what else to do. He looks as though he’s a crackhead, but I’m not an expert. Dawn vacillates, and then gives him a pound coin. This is where I start to like her. She doesn’t automatically give him money because I’m there, to look good. No, she almost doesn’t give him anything, then she changes her mind. I find that more directness more appealing, than robotic goodwill. “My mindset is that I’d rather give people like that something to eat or drink,” she says.

The next moment we’re popping round the back of a fish shop. “There was a resident dispute that I got involved in,” she says, “the resident was complaining about the smelly mess in the passageway.” Lo and behold, it is tidy. Not a hint of a red snapper in sight. Does she eat much fish, I wonder? People in Harlesden eat a lot of fish. “I always eat a lot of sprats at Easter,” she says.

I ask her if she knows anything about the boarded up Park House that apparently used to be the Job Exchange. Not the Job Centre Plus, that’s much later and down the road. And whether it’s squatted? “I’m very involved with getting Brent to release more empty property for housing,” she says more on politico track, “they’ve only released 100 properties so far.”

Hawkeye Enterprises – winningly both a record shop and a bakers – is a legend in Harlesden. Dawn knows the bloke who owns it – this is the same person that Charlie(who I met on the first walk at Paddy Power) had recommended that I search out if I wanted to know about dancehall – and calls him ‘Dr’ but he’s not around today. But his mate is. He decides to give a Dawn a hard time. “I asked my niece, 20, and nephew, 18, whether they are going to vote,” he says, “but who are they going to vote for. Politics, it’s a disgrace.” Not that Dawn is one tiny bit daunted. “Get lost,” she declares with a laugh.

No, she’s already telling me how fantastic JJ’s winebar is over the road, how they grow their own vegetables out the back and how they help young people out with different projects. That’s something I love about Harlesden. Whilst the rest of London is heavily into brasserie and gastro-pub territory, Harlesden actually thinks it’s being a little adventurous with a winebar. And, in a way, it is. By bucking any trends altogether.

A 20something DJ stops to have a word. Does she know any youth projects he can get involved with? She does and tells him to email her. Next, she’s chatting to an elderly Somali gentleman. “We need to campaign in the Somali community because so many people are not registered to vote,” she says. He agrees.

Before I know it, she’s whisked us into Lords Shoe shop. Another famed Harlesden retail outlet. Dawn spots a pair of high-heeled, silver, padded boots. “Perfect campaign shoes,” she opines. Another shopper expresses her doubts about their lack of conventionality and the effects on the voters. “In Brent, we don’t do straight,” guffaws Dawn in recognisable Butler style. The shopper sells properties on the recently refurbished Stonebridge estate. How much is a two bedroom flat there now? £200,000. “Not long ago, you couldn’t give them away,” says Dawn.

Apparently local resident, Louis Theroux was out on the streets the other day promoting a Brent Council ‘Support Your Local Shops’ campaign by handing out their hessian bags. But I haven’t managed to persuade him to walk with me yet. I will. I will.

An ex-nurse – says she’s 67, she looks in her 50s – declares herself disgusted that Harlesden shops are all open on Sundays. “It’s all changed,” she says to Dawn, “years ago, they all closed at 5pm. It upsets me. Sunday should be our day of rest. Of course, Harlesden is wonderfully vibrant, it always has been.”

But here we are in Miracle Fashions, and Dawn has been drawn magnetically towards a orange and green matching pair of shoes and bag in colourful Kente material. Only £45 for both. “Wicked,” she says as she tries them on. Dawn definitely has a shoe thing going on. But being Dawn, she totally unabashed about it. She wants a pair for her mother too. “I won’t get her flowers, I buy her these shoes, she’ll love them. I’m supporting local businesses,” enthuses Ms Butler. The shop owner is delighted. She wants to have her picture taken with Dawn. For the wall.

We pop into BASES (Brent Adult &Children’s Education Service) which is being closed down and moved across the road to the new library. The receptionist wants to know what is happening about the number 18 bendy buses. “They’ll soon turn into double deckers,” says Dawn. “I hope they’ll put more on,” says the receptionist. One of Boris’ electioneering pledges was to get rid of the bendy buses. Of course, this is a ridiculous waste of money. Now everyone has got used to the bendy bus. Dawn agrees with me.

The new library – it will be officially opened tomorrow by the mayor – is a triumph. I’m not sure it has that many books, but certainly has lots of entertainment.  Re-designed, refurbished, modernised – it’s a brilliant new public facility for Harlesden. Big windows, flat screens, light lecture rooms – we have a quick look but I’ll return tomorrow for the grand event itself. Of course, Dawn will be there.

The last leg of our High Street tour consists of Dawn popping in on a few old friends. Like Mr Chaudrai who runs Zak’s Shoe Service. “It’s one of the only places in London where you can actually come and get your shoes mended still,” she says. An old Jamaican gent extols the virtues of Harlesden past. “It was so clean when I came in 1960,” he says, “all the shops and streets, you could lie down on them. Look at them now. It was mostly Jamaicans and Irish here back then. You’d have notices in Willesden newsagents saying ‘No blacks, No Irish and No dogs’”.

Next is Aston Insurance where I discover the owner has been there for 26 years. He even went to Capitol City Academy down the road in Willesden when it was a grammar school. He says Harlesden is a very friendly place. Does he know when M&S left? “1984,” I think, “there was too much stealing going on.” And where was the horsemeat shop? Dawn is horrified. “There was a horsemeat shop here, I didn’t realise we used to eat it,” she says. No, he doesn’t know. Sadly.

I don’t know when Jesse Jackson came to Harlesden but he did. Because in the next shop, the misleadingly named AvantGarde – an upscale men’s outfitter’s, trad-cool, I’d call it – the owner, George, a very hip Jamaican man, has a very large photo of himself and Jesse in this very shop. It’s a shock but a good one. Now Dawn wants to be on that wall too. So the photo is taken.

Last stop is JJ’s for patties. Dawn treats us.  JJ comes out – all beatific face, white hair and possibly the longest locks I’ve ever seen gathered together down his back in what looks like a brown knitted dreadlock bag. They fall down far below his waist. He’s got such an incredible smile, easy, warm, mischievous. Then he shows us round his wine bar. That one, the hidden gem. I’ve never even noticed it before. But it really does look like a good place to have a drink. Posh even, with an aquarium, old posh, rather than zeitgeist posh.

What’s happening to plot of land at the back? “It’s been ploughed,” laughs JJ, “ready for new crops.” Meanwhile Dawn is having her photo taken at the bar for JJ. Local MP comes to my wine bar kind of vibe. “I can’t be seen drinking alcohol,” she says being hyper-vigilant re our puritanical culture, “put a bottle of orange juice in front of me.” JJ wants to put on a party to help Dawn with her political campaign. “Let’s get Lascelles,” she says, “he’s just helped me out with events for Alan Johnson and Jack Straw.” Lascelles is a saxophone player.

By this time, Dawn has had her photo taken with an ex-nurse, the Dawn-loving owner of Miracle Fashions, a baby in the library, George and JJ at the very least. As we pass the City Challenge office, there it is another picture of her. This one has a widely smiling Dawn (she does smile very well, I’ve tried this and it’s not easy) and Prince Charles. She points it out in a winsome way. It’s not a boast, more a little joke between us. Prince Charles came to Harlesden High Street in 2007 when the Prince’s Trust was supporting a new local business initiative called Connect. Interestingly, he said at the time just after doing a little jive to Good Thing Going by Sugar Minott with local councillor, Bertha Joseph who apparently grabbed him: “I don’t think I have enjoyed myself so much for a long time going down the high street and popping into one or two shops. I’m sorry I couldn’t go into a few more of them.”

It’s not often I concur with royalty but I have to agree.

And Dawn Butler has been a revelation. Before I met her, I was going to support Sarah Teather in the election, but now I’m in a quandary. Dawn is a great mixture of laid back, warm, concerned and feisty. I like her. They are both women, which is great. I’m a traditional Labour supporter but this time, I am going to vote for change. But not the Tories. The Lib-Dems need to pay attention to getting more non-white candidates, but Sarah Teather will get my vote because I want national political change – in fact, a hung parliament (we need a new word) could be a good thing, they would have to work together – and she is a very committed local MP.

THE NEXT DAY

I go down to the new library opening. It’s been re-designed with Big Lottery money – £1.4 million of it. The old building has been modernised in a way that is light, airy and doesn’t destroy the old. Dawn is there chatting to the mayor of Brent. Irish. I’ve forgotten his name. There’s hubbub of local people in the children’s area, at the sugar decoration class upstairs and the creative writing class. Now Dawn is chatting to lithe, tall in vertiginous heels, young woman wearing what I now assume to be a glossy wig.

It must be Sabrina Washington, I surmise. Sabrina is local girl made good. She was in girl group Misteeq, and Celebrity Get Me Out of Here last year. Now I’m looking around wondering who people are. There’s a tall, elegant man near me in glasses. Who’s he? I ask someone. “That’s Shaun Wallace,” they say, “he’s a barrister, has won Mastermind and was on the steering committee for the re-development of the library.”

I go and ask the impossibly tall Sabrina what she thinks of Harlesden. “My parents still live here, “ she says, “they won’t move. It’s a vibrant neighbourhood with lots of great people. I love it here. I’m always coming back.” She’s a bit bland but she’s got luscious lips. And then, she says something significant. “I live in Hertfordshire these days,” she explains. I understand – from Harlesden to Hertfordshire – that’s where successful Harlesden girls want to go. Oh dear.

I start thinking about the meaning of words as the speeches commence. This is not just a library anymore. It’s called Harlesden Library Plus, in the same way that it’s the Job Centre Plus down the road. What is it with this PLUS?  Does it denote the failing of the idea of ‘enough’ in this age of recession realism when surely materialist maximalism is so over.  I know it’s a branding exercise, which denotes more facilities (the One Stop Shop upstairs, adult education, computers, a cheerful children’s area) but it does seem to mean LESS books.

Shaun in his speech mentions the diverse faces in the crowd. The now word – diverse. But Sabrina talks about multiculturalism. And it sounds strangely old-fashioned. But Sabrina – I wonder why? – gets the biggest cheer. “Harlesden is happening,” she declares passionately, “and it’s always been happening.”

The crowd agree. Me too.

*Headed by the infamous Louis Farrakhan and inspired by leaders like Malcolm X, the militant Nation of Islam espouses its own kind of Islam in its own black-promoting way.