Walking Home

by Clare Balding

  ‘You didn’t come? Why not? I’m sure we would have invited you.’ He looked genuinely puzzled and seemed upset that I’d snubbed him, until I explained that I hadn’t yet been born and, if I had, I may not have been the star guest – certainly not in my grandmother’s eyes.

  Of course, I’d asked my mother to my party as well, but she knows when my birthday is, partly because she’d spent hours in labour bringing me into the world and partly because it is the day after hers. I must’ve seriously ruined her twenty-second birthday, and I’ve never really said sorry for that. Sorry, Mum.

  Alice and I organized my fortieth to take place at Les Ambassadeurs in Mayfair. The theme was red and black, the intention signalled on the invitation by a brilliant graphic designer friend of ours that showed a roulette wheel with the little white ball falling in an added ‘40’ slot. I wore a black and red dress.

  My schoolfriends, university friends and workmates came, and I tried to ignore my father dancing with most of them. We drank Bellinis, ate ‘substantial canapés’ and danced until the early hours. I was tiddly to the point of being relaxed but not pie-eyed. I couldn’t allow myself to get stupidly drunk because I had an important filming commitment the next day.

  James Corden had written a sketch for Comic Relief and asked me to be a part of it. I had one line but, essentially, my job was to sit next to Paul McCartney.

  That’s Paul McCartney of The Beatles. Paul McCartney of Wings. The recently ennobled Sir Paul McCartney.

  ‘Can you come in on Sunday 30 January? It’s the only day Paul can do and I want you to sit next to him,’ James had asked me.

  I took about a tenth of a second to respond in the affirmative. I’d done a few things with James, including an edition of A League of Their Own in which we had invented Mo Farah’s celebration gesture. James had decided he needed something to rival Usain Bolt’s ‘Lightning Bolt’, and we were throwing around suggestions.

  ‘Ooh, ooh! I know!’ I’d said, like a twelve-year-old child in class who thinks they have the answer.

  I put my arms up with my hands on my head to form an ‘M’.

  ‘What about this? You know, like the “M” in “YMCA” …’

  An idea is only a good idea when other people agree it is. For a long second I wondered whether they would all dismiss me as a fool.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ James pronounced. ‘Let’s call it the Mobot.’

  If you have ever seen Mo Farah in action, you’ll know it caught on.

  So there I was in Make-up the day after my fortieth birthday when Sir Paul McCartney walked in with a friend. He was wearing jeans and a donkey jacket. He looked casually cool.

  ‘Hey, team,’ said the voice that had sung ‘Hey Jude’ a million times. ‘How’s it going?’

  I swivelled my chair round, my hair looking particularly attractive in kirby grips.

  ‘Hi, Paul,’ I said, thrusting out my hand. ‘I’m Clare.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I know who you are. I watch you and Willie on the racing. Nice to meet you.’

  He shook my hand, and my mouth made a goldfish shape and I started to move it up and down, no words coming out. Paul told me how way back when The Beatles had just made it big and he had money for the first time in his life, he’d bought his dad a racehorse. They’d gone evening racing at Aintree, when the course still held flat meetings, and this horse had won.

  ‘It wasn’t a big race, ya’know.’ He was smiling at the memory. ‘But it was one of those times with my dad that I just really enjoyed. I could be there, he loved it and the horse won at our local track.’

  He sat next to me to have a bit of powder put on his face and we chatted away like old friends. No entourage, no demands for special treatment, no sign of being one of the wealthiest and most successful artists in the history of music.

  James came over to say hello and talk us through our roles. The concept was a huge round-table meeting with James as ‘Smithy’ at the centre of it, discussing who should go to Africa on a Comic Relief mission. James has never been restrained in his imagination for these sketches, and I am firmly of the opinion that he sits in the ‘genius’ folder of the broadcasting filing cabinet. He can make people do and say anything and, crucially, help them enjoy taking the mickey out of themselves.

  Dermot O’Leary sat to the right of James, plus a couple of the boys from JLS. Paul was on my right, and Rio Ferdinand on my left. When the sketch was broadcast, the table also included David Beckham, Tom Daley in his diving trunks, Gordon Brown, Keira Knightley and a late appearance from George Michael. It was cleverly directed to make it look as if everyone was together, whereas we filmed on different days.

  James had sent me my line in advance, with a note saying, ‘Of course, if you don’t want to say it, that’s fine, but I really hope it’s OK.’

  The joke was that Keira Knightley would be selected to go to Africa and the men around the table were falling over themselves to go with her. Then I put my hand up and say, ‘I’ll go’ – the gag being that everyone knows I’m gay.

  The key to being accepted by society for being who you are is being confident and publicly proud, so I was only too happy to play along. My only request was that I didn’t want to say it in a leering, lechy way, partly because I thought it was funnier to play innocent and partly because I don’t want to contribute to the historic image of lesbians as predatory.

  The whole thing was done in about half an hour. Richard Curtis came in to thank us for our time and said to Paul, ‘It was Clare’s birthday yesterday. Her fortieth.’

  Paul looked at me and started singing. He sang me my own personal, unaccompanied ‘Happy Birthday’. I thought I was having some kind of strange hallucination.

  When he finished, I didn’t really know what to say, so I did that thing of trying to overcompensate.

  ‘Thank you so much, that was wonderful,’ I said. I should have stopped there. But of course I didn’t. ‘You know, if you ever want to come to Aintree again, I can get you badges.’

  I said it because it was the only thing I could think of that I could do for him. What didn’t occur to my slightly fuddled brain was that he’s Paul McCartney. He’s one of the four most famous Liverpudlians ever. If he wants a badge for Aintree, it’s pretty certain that he can a) get one, b) doesn’t need a freebie from me and c) would probably book himself a box.

  He didn’t laugh in my face. Instead he said, ‘Oh, that would be great. Cheers.’

  And off he went with his mate, who was wearing matching faded jeans.

  I’m still half hoping that, if I meet Paul again, he’ll say, ‘I’ve been thinking about coming to Aintree again. I might just take you up on that offer of a couple of badges …’

  I have spent a lot of time in Liverpool over the past twenty years and watched it regenerate. The docklands area is now unrecognizable compared to 1997, when a bomb scare at Aintree meant I had a little more time in the city than I was planning.

  I was working for 5 Live as a junior reporter, my main responsibility being to update listeners on the betting. As the fire alarm went off in the grandstand, I desperately pressed the talkback button to get the attention of the editor of Sport on 5 (now 5 Live Sport). He thought I had a breaking betting story but, instead, I announced on air that the alarm was going off and we were being told to evacuate the stand. I thought there was a fire somewhere.

  None of us had any idea what was happening or how long it would be before we might be allowed back. I remember being worried that I’d left the phone line open to the Press Association, who provided us with the betting information, and that it might cost the BBC a lot of money. Other people had more urgent concerns, such as the Tote operators, who had thousands of pounds in cash to protect.

  The phone signals were blocked by the police as the security cordon tightened, so nobody could get in touch with anyone else. They had received a coded warning from the IRA that there was a bomb somewhere on the racecourse. None of us knew this, so everyone was c
hatting and wondering how long the Grand National might be delayed.

  I thought it was a good idea to go to the working men’s social club opposite the horsebox entrance to the course, now part of the owners’ and trainers’ car park. I sat drinking tea with the trainer Charlie Brooks and his jockey Jamie Osborne, who were responsible for the second-favourite, Suny Bay. I figured that, at the very least, I would know if the race was going to be run that evening, because the authorities would have to let the trainers and jockeys know.

  Just before 4.15 p.m. we heard that the meeting had been abandoned, and then we heard two loud bangs. The police had carried out two controlled explosions. No one panicked. I think we carried on drinking tea and Charlie may have ordered a proper drink once he realized he wasn’t going to be saddling a Grand National runner that day. No one was scared and I never once felt in danger. Most people were just a bit cross that their big day had been ruined.

  I tried unsuccessfully to contact my brother, who was due to ride in the Amateur Race after the Grand National. He left the weighing room, as all the jockeys did, in his breeches and boots, with nothing more than a thin white under-shirt on his top half. I think he ended up in a house on the Melling Road until he worked out a way back to the city centre.

  He may have been cold, but his unusual clothes turned out to be a winning move, because all the jockeys were offered accommodation in the Adelphi Hotel. They shared a massive dormitory but, before any of them went to bed, they made the most of Liverpool hospitality, as they were bought drinks by fellow guests at the hotel bar.

  The actress Martine McCutcheon, who at the time was a big star on EastEnders, was there. My brother asked her to sign his shirt and, when she asked who he was, he replied, ‘My name’s Tony McCoy. I’m the champion jockey.’

  She was suitably impressed and Andrew still has the autographed shirt with ‘To Tony, love, Martine McCutcheon’ written on it.

  I went back to the Atlantic Hotel, near the docklands, where the BBC had managed to keep the rooms they had booked the night before. I had no washbag or change of clothes, as they were in my car, which was impounded at the racecourse, but at least I had a room for the night.

  At a press conference the next day it was announced that the Grand National would be run on the Monday evening at five fifteen. Peter O’Sullevan, who was in his final year as BBC Television’s lead commentator, called home Lord Gyllene as the winner, beating Suny Bay by twenty-five lengths. The rescheduled race was watched by 15.1 million people on television, making it the most popular sporting event of the year. Millions more listened on the radio.

  I stood up in the commentary position with Peter Bromley, giving betting updates and doing Peter’s ‘You said’ cards, which required me to write down exactly the finishing order he had given.

  ‘Even if you think I’ve got it wrong,’ he said to me sternly, ‘you write down what I said. Not what you think. I can cope with my own mistakes, but I can’t cope with yours.’

  I concentrated very hard, because I never wanted to let Peter down. He came across as a gruff, stern military man, but he was always very kind to me. One day, when I had a sore throat, he offered me a swig of his cough mixture. It tasted like firewater, but the deadly mixture did the trick. I certainly didn’t cough again that day, or even that month.

  Standing with Bromley gave me the best view in the house, but 1997 was my final Grand National for 5 Live. The following year, I became a fully fledged member of the TV team, working with Des Lynam, Richard Pitman and Peter Scudamore.

  I enjoyed the unscheduled stop in Liverpool and used it to explore the city on foot. I have walked there a couple of times since, and it is remarkable to see the effects of investment and development, the success of which helped earn Liverpool the right to be European Capital of Culture in 2008.

  Similarly honoured in 1990, and also recovering its identity in the aftermath of a molten shipbuilding industry, Glasgow is a good example of a city that reveals itself only when you start looking a little closer, on foot.

  Glasgow was known as the second city of the Empire in Victorian times and was once the fourth-biggest city in Europe, behind London, Berlin and Paris. The River Clyde provided it with a huge, gaping mouth through which the city was fed by trade and shipbuilding. Since then, Glasgow has been through torrid times, suffering huge unemployment, poor health and low life expectancy, but hosting the Commonwealth Games allowed it a chance to celebrate its twenty-first-century regeneration.

  In autumn 2010 I headed into the city centre to meet a group of historians from the Glasgow Women’s Library. One of them, Christine, is a ‘history detective’. I was rather taken with the idea of being a spy of the past, if a little disappointed that she wasn’t wearing a cape and a deerstalker. We walked north from the pink sandstone blocks of their building.

  ‘Look up!’ she cried. ‘You must look up if you want to really appreciate these buildings.’

  There on the corner of what used to be a bank was a skull staring out from the stonework. Gargoyles laughed at us from on high, macabre monuments crafted by long-dead stonemasons.

  Revving engines and whining sirens formed the background music of our early steps as we walked east, away from George Square and its impressive, grey stone City Chambers and pink square. George Square is marked in history as the only place where tanks have ever been deployed on mainland Britain against the country’s own people. It happened on 1 February 1919, after sixty thousand striking shipbuilders and engineers had demonstrated for a forty-hour working week; the tanks that had made their debut in the First World War were used to contain the demonstration (eventually, a compromise was reached and the working week was reduced from fifty-seven to forty-seven hours).

  There are buildings all over the city that are worth examining in closer detail – the Central Hotel, Central Station, the Glasgow School of Art (currently being restored after a major fire), the Royal Exchange (now the Museum of Modern Art), the Mitchell Library and St Aloysius Church, which was the home of the Jesuit order in Glasgow – but we were heading not to a place or a building but to a space of commemoration. We walked past the University of Strathclyde towards the Necropolis, the city of the dead.

  You might think it depressing to want to walk around a massive graveyard, but Glasgow’s Necropolis is magnificent and majestic, rather than macabre. It contains around fifty thousand graves, three and a half thousand of which have monuments or mausoleums. The different hues of sandstone give it either a pink tinge or a warm, yellowy-brown glow. Originally a park full of fir trees called – yes, you’ve guessed it, Fir Park – the Necropolis was conceived in 1832 to contain the city’s expanding numbers of dead. The fir trees didn’t appreciate the fumes of industry spewing forth from the city and started to fade, to be replaced by ash trees and willow. Consequently, the place has a softer, less threatening feel to it than some graveyards.

  ‘This feels like crossing a drawbridge into a fort,’ I said, as we walked over the Bridge of Sighs on to an island of green patterned with grey slabs and square tombs, an occasional obelisk rising up into the sky. We were passing ‘to the other side’.

  It’s an enormous space – some thirty-seven acres in total – and the suggested walk around the Necropolis takes at least two hours, longer if you pause to read inscriptions and investigate families. An army of schoolchildren were running round the lower section, their faces glowing with exertion as a teacher with a clipboard waited for them at the iron gates.

  Christine told me that until the 1950s women were not allowed to attend a funeral. They could follow the coffin and come to the gates but they could not enter the Necropolis or witness the burial. So, even when a woman was buried, her daughter, sister or mother could not be by the graveside. Instead, they would turn back at the gates and head off to prepare the feast for the wake. Christine had discovered the Necropolis when she was working nearby and used to come for a walk at lunchtime. She started to get more and more interested in the place and its peop
le and pointed out interesting memorials.

  ‘That’s Corlinda Lee,’ she said, indicating a tall monument with a pointed top. The stone was tinted green with lichen and the relief of Corlinda’s face had worn away, the original bronze portrait having been stolen aeons ago. ‘She was queen of the gypsies. She married George Smith, uniting two influential gypsy families in the nineteenth century.’

  George Smith was a wily old fox and had come up with the ingenious idea of taking his extended family on a grand tour of Great Britain and Ireland, showing people how real Romany gypsies lived and staging a ‘Gypsy Ball’ in every city they visited. It was the nineteenth-century equivalent of Channel 4 filming a fly-on-the-wall documentary, and it caused quite a stir. Even Queen Victoria paid a visit to their encampment in Dunbar in 1878, and some stories suggest that she had her palm read by Corlinda Lee.

  We walked on upwards, climbing through foliage and up uneven steps, turning to look down on the city. It was a clear day, and we could see for some forty miles to the south and east, as far as Tinto Hill, one of the highest peaks of the Southern Uplands. The columns of smoke rising from the chimneys near the River Clyde represented a mere fraction of the industry that would once have turned the skies grey with smog.

  The name ‘Glasgow’ means ‘beloved green place’, and from the height of the Necropolis you can see that the city is built in the river valley, which would once have been green and fertile. The locals told me that when you drive to Glasgow at night and see its lights twinkling in the darkness, you can still get that sense of it being in a hollow.

  Daniel Defoe, the author of Robinson Crusoe, visited in 1707, and described Glasgow in his book A Tour through the Whole Island of Great Britain:

  Glasgow is, indeed, a very fine city; the four principal streets are the fairest for breadth, and the finest built that I have ever seen in one city together. The houses are all of stone, and generally equal and uniform in height, as well as in front; the lower storey generally stands on vast square dorick [Doric] columns, not round pillars, and arches between give passage into the shops, adding to the strength as well as beauty of the building; in a word, ’tis the cleanest and beautifullest, and best built city in Britain, London excepted.