Longtime Ago people

Tag: books

  • A Man Walks Into a Magic Shop; and Found Jaadugar Jim

    When I sit down with Jim, I’m reminded that a creative life can start at any age. He’s based in Potters Bar near Barnet in North London, and he carries a layered background that includes Indian roots, childhood years in Kenya, and his father’s blue eyes. That mix shapes how people read him. They often guess the “wrong” origin, then look surprised when he switches into an Indian language. As we talk, the episode becomes a way to explore identity, belonging, and how small communities in the UK hold onto tradition while still making space for passions that arrive later in life.


    The turning point in Jim’s story comes through community work rather than ambition. Asked to entertain children at a Navratri event, he wanders into Davenport, a now‑gone magic shop near Charing Cross, and buys simple close‑up props like sponge balls. Five weeks of practice turn nerves into momentum, and the reaction from both kids and parents makes the hobby feel real. From there he follows a classic learning path: a Saturday class, mentorship from an experienced magician, and deeper practice where technique matters but personality matters more. It becomes a grounded look at learning magic, building confidence, and discovering that perfection is less important than keeping people engaged.


    Joining a local magic club becomes the accelerator. Jim talks about the Merlin Magical Society and how a good club culture avoids snobbery, shares methods, and encourages performers to develop their own delivery rather than copy someone else forever. He describes the slow build from practising on friends to birthday parties, care homes, and casual performances that spark conversations on trains or in pubs. There’s a practical lesson for any amateur magician: procedures can be taught, but the performance is personal. When a trick goes wrong, timing, humour, and warmth can still land the moment because people remember how you made them feel, not the hidden move you missed.
    We also get into modern magic’s visibility problem. Online clips, AI tools, and editing make audiences suspicious, so even honest sleight of hand gets dismissed as a filter. Jim’s solution is simple: do it live, sleeves up, and let the shock do the work.

    During COVID, he leans into this by creating weekly WhatsApp magic videos for families and later running free Zoom shows for practice and connection. He learns to keep videos short because attention is scarce, while still protecting the sense of wonder. Add in travel to remote parts of India and Jordan, where language and culture shift the meaning of words like “hypnotism” or “black magic”, and the message becomes clear: magic is about trust, context, and human connection, whether you’re in Barnet or a village deep in the jungle.

  • Made in Harlem: Growing Up Fast, Surviving Even Faster

    When I sit down with Mumu, I realise that Harlem is more than a postcode. It is a lived map with edges, rules and memories. He starts by placing Harlem from 110th to 155th, river to river, then pulls me back into 1990s New York street life, where outside means everything: block parties, basketball, water fights, loudspeakers on hot days and winter streets that feel emptier but never truly quiet. The nostalgia sits beside the afterimage of the 1980s crack epidemic, a crisis that shaped what children saw, what adults feared and how neighbourhoods learnt to survive.

    That wider history becomes personal when he talks about how the crack era slowed down rather than vanished, and how family members were caught in it, recovered and carried the scars. Growing up in Harlem also meant growing up fast. He tells me about taking buses alone to school in Spanish Harlem, getting lost as a child and ending up in Washington Heights at night, terrified and crying. A police officer becomes an unexpected guardian, a reminder that safety sometimes arrives through strangers, even in systems that can also threaten families. It is a vivid picture of urban childhood, where independence looks brave right up until it turns dangerous.

    Family sits at the centre of everything. Mumu describes a father shaped by Islam, connected to Black Panther organising and the Muslim Islamic Brotherhood, and determined to keep a large blended family together. That faith brings structure, but it also brings fear and violence, including being pulled out of church and punished for crossing religious lines. Alongside this is deep tenderness for his mum, who is “sweet” and beloved, but becomes seriously ill with kidney failure. He speaks with the intimacy of a carer, remembering routines, TV nights, jokes and the everyday labour of love that fills a home when illness becomes normal.

    The most painful thread is what remained unsaid. Mumu knew he was gay from early childhood, asked the questions out loud, then learnt to hide the truth from nearly everyone, including the person he felt closest to. He describes the pressure of being Black, Muslim and a young man in a time when HIV stigma and homophobia were everywhere, including friends who threatened violence. That context explains why secrecy felt like survival, and why grief later carried an extra weight. The conversation holds the complexity of identity in conservative environments without reducing it to a single moment.

    As the timeline moves forward, music becomes a bridge between memory and identity. He names the artists and sounds that scored his youth, from Slick Rick and Big Daddy Kane to dancehall and reggae, painting a picture of Harlem culture that is joyful, loud and communal. Adult life lands with a different rhythm: living near the same public housing development, working as a station supervisor in the New York City subway system and preparing to enforce fares and face the daily aggression that comes with public‑facing roles. It is a grounded look at the invisible work that keeps a city moving.

    COVID‑19 changes the tone again, turning the subway into something eerie and dangerous, with fewer riders, more vulnerability and stories of violence that never fully reached mainstream news. Loss becomes immediate when he speaks about his brother dying during the pandemic, and how that fear helped him stop drinking when he reached the same age. Yet the episode does not end in despair. Travel to Madrid and dreams of London reopen possibility, juggling returns as a surprising turning point, and the future becomes practical: save, invest, retire, buy land, grow fruit and veg and build stability on his own terms.

  • The Vicarage Boy: The Longtime‑Ago‑Person Is Me

    When I sat down with John, I found myself stepping into a world that feels both familiar and impossibly far away. His memories paint a vivid picture of 1960s village life on the edge of Dartmoor, growing up in a large country vicarage in Ilsington. For John, the landscape isn’t just scenery — it’s the main character. A huge lawn, a paddock, an orchard, woodland… all of it forming a child’s entire universe. With hardly any traffic and long stretches between houses, freedom wasn’t a treat — it was the daily routine. Bikes and ponies stood in for lifts, and if you were thirsty, you simply knocked on a stranger’s door for water. That casual trust, and the sense that the village quietly knew who you were, says so much about how community once worked at walking pace.

    Being the vicar’s son added another layer to that world. Weekdays were ordinary childhood, but Sundays brought expectations: smart clothes, church, and the slightly surreal experience of sitting among mostly older parishioners. The church wasn’t just a place of belief — it was the village’s social network, and John’s dad sat at the centre of it, speaking to everyone without pretence. At home, though, he was simply “dad”, and that created a lifelong tension for John between human messiness and the spiritual standards people imagine clergy must embody. It also planted something deeper: a sense of service, belonging, and what it means to look after others.

    John’s stories are full of the textures of analogue domestic life. A big old house with no central heating meant smoky open fires, damp logs spitting sparks, and ice on the inside of the windows. Hot water bottles, an Aga in the kitchen, the smell of burning paper — these become sensory anchors. Village institutions doubled up: the post office was also the sweet shop, and returnable bottles could be swapped for treats. Even the pub had a hatch for buying sweets. Shoes weren’t disposable; they went to the cobbler to be resoled, names and prices chalked up behind the counter — a tiny economy built on repair rather than replacement.

    As John grew older, independence turned into adventure and the occasional rebellion. A father who dropped children in a field with a tent for days feels unthinkable now, yet it made perfect sense then — a time of what John calls “benign neglect”, when competence was learned by doing. Music arrived through a glamorous uncle with a record player and 78s, then shifted to Hawkwind and Black Sabbath. There’s a brilliant moment where teenage John plays Paranoid to his vicar father, who listens politely, trying to make sense of it. And then there’s the long, aimless trek to find a rare osprey — hours outside, no phone, no updates, just curiosity and the certainty that you’d eventually make your way home.

  • A Life in Motion: Diving Deep, Travelling Far, Playing Loud

    Southwick sets the tone for this conversation — a small Sussex village with a stubborn sense of itself, a green at its centre, and a quiet confidence that mirrors the man I’m sitting down with. That grounding matters, because Lee Pryor’s memories are rooted in real streets, real work, and the everyday texture of post‑war Britain. From there, we head back to 1950s Great Yarmouth, a seasonal seaside town full of returning families, guest houses, theatres, piers, and long car journeys before motorways existed. Lee tells me about cleaning rooms on changeover day, earning pocket money from holidaymakers, and learning to harmonise while working — the early signs of how music, community, and graft can grow together inside a family.

    A thread runs right through his life: performance begins early and never really leaves. His dad worked as a beachfront photographer, using a clever trick to spot willing customers before spending film, then posting prints once they were home. Around that, Lee absorbed theatre culture through his mum and nan, even remembering seeing George Formby live. And then comes the pivot: a childhood singing competition on the seafront. He sings a cappella. He wins. A tiny moment with lifelong consequences. Boarding school follows — a shock that becomes a lesson in independence, freedom, and self‑reliance, with bikes, fishing, farms, and open space shaping his confidence.

    From teenage Brighton we get the Mod era in lived detail: scooters, Dyke Road meet‑ups, Kemptown coffee bars, jukebox staples like The Who and Small Faces, and the beach as a social hub. A family argument then becomes the unlikely trigger for joining the Royal Navy, where he trains as an aircraft engineer and later qualifies as a ship’s diver. The dive course sounds brutal: freezing water, leaking dry suits, no gloves, near‑zero visibility, and pressure designed to break you before it builds you. That skill leads to early dives on the Mary Rose site, when only a few timbers showed above the mud and slack tide windows were narrow and unforgiving.

    After the Navy, the story shifts into a travel documentary hiding inside a life story. Lee chases adventure that feels less packaged than naval port calls — London jobs, casino life as a croupier during an era of big money, and then signing up as crew for overland travel across Africa. With almost no notice, he’s handed a Bedford truck, paperwork, visas, and cash, and drives it out of Bond Street despite never having driven one before. Crossing into North Africa, he describes the realities of borders, currencies, and the informal economy of getting through checkpoints. Later, Switzerland brings a different kind of intensity: full‑time DJ work in Montreux, vinyl only, long nights, jazz culture, and famous faces walking through the door — including David Bowie and musicians tied to the town’s recording history.

    The later chapters show a pattern of reinvention as survival and instinct. Financial hardship and poor mortgage advice push Lee into financial services so he can understand money and help others avoid the same mistakes. He rebuilds with the support and organisation of Fran. Then comes a second creative life: auditioning for a Led Zeppelin tribute band, selling his business, and touring the UK as a Robert Plant frontman — a dream that only works with real partnership at home. And in the end, we circle back to character: a maverick streak, a need for individuality, and gratitude for a mother who encouraged him to travel, try, and keep moving.

    For listeners who love personal history, Royal Navy diving, the Mary Rose story, overland Africa travel, Montreux music lore, and the reality of starting again, this episode is a reminder that a life can have many chapters without ever losing its core drive.

  • The Navigator’s Son

    Some stories begin not with words, but with silence—an absence that echoes across generations. That’s where my conversation with David Williams begins. David lost his father at the age of seven. While most children have years to build memories, David was left with fragments: beach barbecues on Stanley Beach, bowling club outings, and the foggy recollections of a child too young to grasp the extraordinary man his father was.

    Llewelyn Williams was no ordinary man. Born in 1922, he joined the Local Defence Volunteers (later the Home Guard) at just seventeen, as war erupted across Europe. By nineteen, he was training as a navigator in the Royal Air Force. The selection process was brutally pragmatic—when young Lew expressed interest in becoming a pilot, an officer reportedly told him, “Any bloody fool can drive a bus. It takes brains to get it there and back.” His mathematical aptitude as a trainee accountant made him ideally suited for navigation—a role demanding precision and quick thinking under the most harrowing conditions imaginable.

    The statistics for Bomber Command aircrews were devastating. Of the 105,000 men who served, around 55,000 were killed—a death rate of over 50%. Each mission carried a 5% casualty rate, meaning few survived a full tour of thirty missions. Against these odds, Lew flew with a Halifax bomber crew, primarily targeting strategic locations in France. This may have contributed to his survival, though it couldn’t shield him from the brutal reality of war.

    On 25 June 1944, everything changed. His aircraft was hit by flak returning from a mission over France. As the crew scrambled to evacuate, Lew reached the escape hatch—just before the plane was hit again. He bailed out, the sole survivor of his seven-man crew. What followed was an extraordinary tale of courage and resilience. Injured but alive, he found shelter with members of the French Resistance. But their safehouse in Paris was raided by the Gestapo, and Lew was sent to Buchenwald concentration camp alongside his protectors.

    In a remarkable twist of fate, a Luftwaffe officer discovered Allied airmen being held illegally in the camp. This led to Lew’s transfer to Stalag Luft III—the very site of the famous “Great Escape.” As the war neared its end and the Red Army advanced, prisoners were marched to another camp before finally being liberated. Tragically, the chemicals used to delouse prisoners at Buchenwald would later cause the cancer that took Lew’s life in 1963, when David was just seven.

    What struck me most in speaking with David was how these memories weren’t his own—they were inherited, passed down through stories told by his grandmother Floss, his mother, and his father’s RAF friend Alan. These second-hand memories became the foundation of David’s understanding of the father he barely knew.

    Thankfully, David’s mother remarried a kind and loving man nicknamed “Binks”, who became a devoted stepfather and helped create what David calls “a very privileged upbringing… because there was a lot of love going around.”

    When I asked David what he would say to his father if he could speak to him today, his answer was quietly profound:

    “I’d probably like to say to him, I’m really sorry that you were only with my mother for about basically 14 years, but if it gives you any comfort, I’ve been with the same woman for 50 and I’m very happy.”

    In that simple statement, we hear how the values of commitment and family have transcended generations—even when direct contact was cut short. Though David lost his father young, the legacy of who Llewelyn Williams was continues to shape his son’s life to this day.

  • Family Histories: A Cross-Cultural Love Story Born from the Ashes of World War II

    In an age where we document every moment with our smartphones, I’ve found there’s something profoundly moving about oral history—those intimate stories passed down through generations, often teetering on the edge of being lost forever. In this episode, I had the privilege of uncovering the remarkable tale of Douglas George Thurston and Agnes Franziska—a British soldier and a German woman, my grandparents, whose lives became entwined in the fragile aftermath of World War II.

    The story unfolds through the voice of their daughter, Ingrid, my aunt, now living in Margate, Kent, as she reflects on her earliest memories of her parents. Douglas, affectionately known as “Busty”, emerges as a larger-than-life character—a big man with an even bigger personality, who would regale his children with stories, some perhaps embellished, but all delivered with the conviction of a natural storyteller. Agnes, by contrast, is remembered for her resilience, directness, and unwavering generosity—a woman who, in Ingrid’s words, “never held back, knew what she wanted to say and said it.”

    What makes this narrative particularly compelling is its historical context. Douglas was captured by the Japanese during the Fall of Singapore and survived the horrors of being a prisoner of war. Yet he refused to speak of these experiences. As Ingrid poignantly recalls, “There’s no glory in war,”—a sentiment that led him to decline an offer to write his memoirs, despite the potential for his escape story to become a film. Some wounds, it seems, remain too deep to revisit—even decades later.

    Their unlikely romance began in post-war Germany, where Douglas was stationed in Lippstadt. Their first meeting has the quality of a film scene: Douglas leaning against a lamppost as Agnes walked by with her friend and reportedly declared, “I’ll have the fat one. He looks like he can get us food.” What began as a pragmatic encounter blossomed into a deep bond that endured until death quite literally did them part. Agnes passed away from what Ingrid believes was a broken heart, upon learning of Douglas’s critical condition following surgery.

    Their cross-cultural identity shaped the family’s experience in post-war Britain. The children grew up bilingual, with their parents switching to German when they didn’t want them to understand. Summers were spent with German relatives, and despite the lingering anti-German sentiment of the time, Douglas and Agnes met prejudice with a matter-of-fact attitude: “It’s other people’s problems, not theirs.”

    Perhaps most moving is the legacy they left behind. Douglas instilled in his children the belief that “you can be whatever you want to be, but you work for it, it won’t come to you.” Agnes’s legacy was her extraordinary kindness—opening their home to anyone in need, from arranging a proper bed for a discharged soldier to live in their shed, to ensuring no visitor left empty-handed, “even if it was half a pound of butter.”

    This deeply personal glimpse into my family’s history reminds me why I do this. It speaks to the resilience of the human spirit, the healing power of love across divides, and the quiet heroism of ordinary people navigating extraordinary times. As I listen to these memories, I’m reminded that every family has stories worth preserving—narratives that help us understand not just where we came from, but who we are.

  • Father of Jazz: A Son’s Complicated Legacy

    The Legacy of Bill McGuffie: Musical Genius, Flawed Father

    In this episode, I sit down with Moray McGuffie to explore the extraordinary life of his father, Bill McGuffie—a man whose brilliance in the world of big band jazz and film composition was matched only by the complexity of his personal life.

    Born in Glasgow in 1927, Bill’s musical journey began with a jaw-dropping moment: stepping in at age twelve to perform at a major concert, sight-reading pieces he’d never seen before. That debut set the tone for a career defined by genius, discipline, and resilience. His mother’s strict training methods—ruler in hand—shaped his early development, and even after losing a finger to gangrene, he adapted with a distinctive style that became his signature.

    By his twenties, Bill was performing with legends like Joe Loss, Ted Heath, Bing Crosby, and Bob Hope. He composed for Doctor Who (with Peter Cushing) and Hammer Horrorfilms, and his home was frequented by celebrities including June Whitfield and members of Monty Python.

    Yet behind the acclaim lay a more turbulent reality. Moray speaks candidly about his father’s volatile behaviour, especially when drinking, and the emotional toll it took on their family. Their relationship fractured, leading to ten years of silence before Bill’s death in 1987—a silence Moray still regrets.

    What moved me most were the intimate details: music scribbled on Player cigarette packets, a child’s drawing turned into melody, and the innocent memory of chasing a golf ball, unaware of the rules. These moments reveal a man who was at once playful, distant, brilliant, and slighty broken.

    This conversation isn’t just about one father and son—it’s about legacy, reconciliation, and the enduring imprint of those we love, even when love is complicated.

  • Manchester to Namibia: A Life Less Ordinary

    Growing up in Whitefield, a small town near Manchester, Gary always had an adventurous spirit. Even at seven years old, he was leading his younger brother Karl and their friends on what they called “adventures“—day-long explorations fuelled only by jam sandwiches and bottles of tap water. While other children spent their pocket money on sweets and toys, Gary poured his into Collins wildlife books, unknowingly laying the foundation for a life shaped by a passion for nature.

    I first learned about Gary’s remarkable journey while speaking with his brother, who recounted how Gary transformed from a restless young man in early 1980s Britain into a respected safari guide and adventurer. Faced with the economic struggles of Thatcher’s Britain and feeling suffocated by what he called the “rat race,” Gary made a decision at 21 that would alter his course entirely. With just £150 in his pocket and a suitcase filled with practical gifts from his parents—a travel iron and a hairdryer among them—he left for France, armed only with a cassette course from which he taught himself French.

    What followed was an extraordinary 15-year stretch during which his family barely heard from him, save for the occasional letter. These letters, now treasured family artefacts, offer glimpses into a life lived on the fringes of conventional existence. He worked for the New York Times in Paris, sold ice cream in the south of France, bartended in Berlin, and taught English in Spain’s Basque country, picking up languages and experiences at every turn. By the time he set foot in Africa, he was fluent in French, Spanish, and several other languages—skills that would prove invaluable as his travels took increasingly audacious turns.

    The African chapter of Gary’s story began with a perilous solo hitchhike across the Sahara Desert, through Mali and Timbuktu, into Equatorial Guinea and Cameroon. One particularly chilling episode saw him navigating Angola during civil unrest, where he had to sign a disclaimer with the British Embassy acknowledging they wouldn’t repatriate his body if he were killed by UNITA rebels.

    Eventually, Gary reached his destination: Namibia, a vast, untamed wilderness that would become his home for the next 35 years. In Damaraland, a Mars-like expanse of red basalt rock, he found work tracking endangered rhinoswith the Save the Rhino Trust. Living in a tent for years, working with local Damara tribesmen as trackers, Gary developed an unparalleled intimacy with the land and its wildlife.

    To the Himba people, a nomadic tribe of the region, he became known as “N’garikatuki”—the man of the mountains. In one particularly moving moment, Karl shared how, during a visit after many years apart, a Himba tribesman recognised Gary’s name by reputation alone, despite never having met him. His stories had become woven into their oral tradition.

    His adventures didn’t end with land-based exploration. During what he calls his “midlife crisis,” Gary bought a 30-foot yacht with barely any sailing experience and embarked on a solo circumnavigation. That voyage saw him face hurricane-force winds, equipment failures, and a treacherous Pacific crossing reliant on makeshift repairs. At one point, the boat was buried in a sand pit on a Fiji beach for a year while he returned to Namibia to earn enough moneyto continue.

    Today, Gary runs his own safari company, guiding small groups to hidden corners of Namibia that few others know exist. His deep-rooted expertise and ability to converse in multiple languages make him especially popular with French, Spanish, and Italian tourists. His knowledge of Namibia’s wilderness—paired with decades of extraordinary experiences—even caught the attention of filmmakers. French director Eric Valli, known for the award-winning film Himalaya, drew inspiration from Gary’s stories for La Piste (The Trail).

    Gary’s life, chronicled in dozens of letters to his mother over the years, provides a rare window into the kind of adventure few would dare to pursue. From facing down lions alone in a tent to sailing single-handedly across oceans, his journey—from Manchester to Namibia—is a testament to how far curiosity and courage can take us.

  • From London to the Isle of Wight: The Story of Thomas and Helen Miles

    This oral history captures a vivid snapshot of British life from the 1940s through the 1960s, told through my conversations with my Aunt Chrissie about her parents, Thomas Augustine Miles and Helen Gladys Reygate known as Rae. Their story begins dramatically in London, where Thomas and Helen—unaware she was pregnant—welcomed a daughter born four weeks premature, weighing only four pounds. In those days before modern neonatal care, that was a dangerously low birth weight. When doctors advised them to leave polluted London for their daughter’s health, they made the significant decision to relocate to the Isle of Wight, where Helen’s sister lived.

    That move was a turning point that shaped their lives forever. They initially rented a small house before acquiring Rose Court Hotel in Sandown. The hotel soon became central to their world, with the whole family involved—Thomas waiting tables, Helen cooking, and their children helping in the dining room and bedrooms. As the hotel operated seasonally, most of its income was generated between May and September. Careful financial planning was essential—whatever they earned in the summer had to sustain them through the winter.

    Chrissie’s recollections offer fascinating insights into post-war British holiday culture. Their guests were mostly working-class families from industrial areas like the Potteries, visiting during annual factory closures. These weren’t the package holidays to Spain that would later dominate British tourism—back then, a trip to the Isle of Wight, involving a train journey and ferry crossing, felt exotic for many working families from the Midlands. The hotel built strong relationships with regular guests, even ensuring their preferred newspapers were waiting for them upon arrival.

    Life revolved around simple pleasures. The local Catholic church was both a religious and social hub, hosting whist drives, dances, and other gatherings. Cinema outings were hugely popular in an era before television, with films changing frequently enough that locals could visit multiple times a week. Managing resources carefully was a necessity—worn bedsheets were cut and resewn to extend their use, and nothing was discarded if it could be mended.

    Later in life, Thomas and Helen moved to Steyning, West Sussex, purchasing a derelict house for around £4,000-£5,000 in 1969. Thomas, who had worked in construction, put his carpentry skills to good use renovating the property. He also worked as a steward at a Foreign Office estate, managing the bar despite being teetotal himself. Helen, meanwhile, volunteered for the hospital car service, reflecting their continued commitment to community life even in retirement.

    Talking with Chrissie also brought up stark reminders of healthcare before the NHS. She recalled waiting in long charity clinic queues, where doctors saw patients on a charitable basis until time ran out. When she needed treatment, her parents had to trek to clinics, hoping she’d be seen before the doctor finished for the day. It’s a striking contrast to universal healthcare, which would later transform life for families like hers.

    Some of the most touching moments are the insights into Thomas and Helen’s relationship. While Helen was the strong organiser, Thomas was the quiet pillar of wisdom. One memory stands out—Chrissie once found them having a cuddle, her mother saying she “still laughed at his jokes.” Another speaks to Thomas’s gentle encouragement—when Chrissie doubted whether she should complete her nursing training, he reassured her, telling her that the qualification would serve her for life rather than forcing the decision upon her.

    These recollections paint a rich portrait of post-war British family life—from economic struggles and the rhythm of tourism to simple entertainments and the adaptability required to keep moving forward. They remind me how much Britain has changed, but also how enduring family support and resilience have always been.