‘Wichita Lineman’ was composed by Jimmy Bell for Glen Campbell and recorded on his album of the same name in 1968. Bell claims that it was accepted by the record company before he had had time to write a final set of verses. Valiantly filling the gap, I suggest two alternative endings (in italics) below.

I am a lineman for the county,

And I drive the mainroad,

Lookin’ in the sun for another overload.

I hear you singing in the wire,

I can hear you through the whine,

And the Wichita Lineman

Is still on the line.

I know I need a small vacation,

But it don’t look like rain,

And if it snows that stretch down south

Won’t ever stand the strain.

And I need you more than want you,

And I want you for all time,

And the Wichita Lineman

Is still on the line.

When I’m lookin’ down them cables,

That connect me to you.

My heart’s soarin’ high like clouds

Across them skies of blue.

The sun is on my back now,

And the dust is in my eyes,

Still I hear your voice singing,

As I cut through the wires.

or …

The wind is getting high now,

And I can’t do no more,

And soon I’ll beat that road

That takes me back to Wichita.

The sun will soon be settin’,

But the mainroad’s straight and true,

Like the heart that always leads me

Right back to you.

(Wichita Lineman has been described as ‘the first existential country song’. In 2004 it was voted No.192 on Rolling Stone’s list of the ‘500 Greatest Songs of All Time’.)

I was recently commissioned by the National CV Group to write the history of Tadley in an innovative form – that of a ‘c.v.’, as if Tadley were a person. To all appearances, the north Hampshire town is singularly unprepossessing, yet it has a unique character and an astonishingly rich history.

Tadley folk were long regarded as wild, untamed woodlanders. Before World War II, outsiders ventured there with trepidation. If one courted a local girl, one ran the risk of being cast into the legendary ‘treacle mine’ (probably a patch of dark and sticky mud in the adjacent forest). Youngsters out bicycling feared confrontations with the ‘wild lads’ of the village, ‘who seemed as foreign as Red Indians or Hottentots’. The main Basingstoke to Aldermaston road, which ran through Tadley, was much narrower and little frequented in former times. It was out of bounds altogether while ferocious ‘shin-bashing’ contests were taking place, a Saturday-night fixture outside the ‘Fighting Cocks’ until the mid-1800s. Earlier travellers risked encounters with footpads or smugglers.

Since time immemorial the people of Tadley have been sustained by a variety of woodland activities – white-hoop making, hurdle-making, charcoal-burning and, above all, besom broom-making – and by the provision of seasonal labour, especially for the annual coppicing of the surrounding forests and (until the 1960s) for the annual hop-picking in September, during which almost the entire population, in a heightened state of excitement, would migrate south to the Alton area, leaving Tadley a virtual ‘ghost town’.

Many Tadley families have been settled there for generations and in some cases are of well-attested gypsy origin. The ‘Tads’ have been neatly characterised as ‘independent folk, forthright, with a dry sense of humour, a little jealous of their heritage and as united as any Scottish clan’. They have, however, been remarkably tolerant of the Atomic Weapons Establishment and its thousands of employees who have been planted on their doorstep, turning them to their considerable profit and advantage.

The novelty of writing the history of a place in the form of a ‘c.v.’ is that one can describe the current situation and then trace it back to its origins, with often surprising results. For example, it turns out that the mighty Sainsbury’s supermarket that dominates Tadley (pictured above) is the direct successor to Albert Blake’s ‘General Stores’, run a hundred years ago from the front parlour of his house on the same site.

It is interesting to compare the current opportunities for ‘leisure and entertainment’ with those of a century ago. Whilst the adults enjoyed shin-kicking and games of darts in the pub, the favourite diversion of the young was to watch the butcher at work (they thrilled to see him poleaxe a bullock!). The annual killing of the family pig in the darkness by the light of a bonfire was another entertaining spectacle.

Opportunities to receive an education had been almost non-existent before the founding, in 1850, of the Priory School. Earlier generations were illiterate shack-dwellers who eked out a most precarious living. It was beyond their means to buy coal, but wood, at least, was plentiful. Nor, in the early 19^th-century, could they afford tea: they brewed up burnt bread instead.

Everything changed in 1944 when the American army was encamped there. The site of the camp was developed after the war into a housing estate for employees of the AWRE. It incorporates the original military lines and East Street was re-named Franklin Avenue for the wartime American president, Franklin D. Roosevelt. Some of the original Nissen huts (albeit re-located) survive here and in other parts of the town, still performing useful roles. We feel that all Tadley residents should be made aware of, and take pride in, such a rich heritage.

Tadley’s CV, ‘the world’s first local CV’, can be downloaded from http://www.thenationalcv.org.uk/, and soon also from http://www.tadshistory.com/, together with the accompanying ‘CVpedia’. The following may whet the appetite.

Tadley Headlines            

–          Supplier, since 2004, of the witches’ brooms used in the Harry Potter movies; they were hand-made by A. Nash of 46 Mulford’s Hill, the last surviving firm of ‘broom squires’ (besom broom-makers) in Tadley; the late Arthur Nash had also supplied brooms to the royal palaces, receiving a Royal Warrant in 1999

–          Retains some of the finest heathland in Europe, amid rich forests – notably the historic, 478-acre Pamber Forest of the Benyon family, currently managed by the Hampshire Wildlife Trust

–          Services, and accommodates workers for, the Atomic Weapons Establishment, or ‘Bomb Factory’, on the former Aldermaston Airfield

–          Has consistently (since 1958) been beset by anti-nuclear demonstrations, notably the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament’s ‘Ban the Bomb’ marches 1958-64, which assembled on Tadley turf

–          Included within its boundaries the famous, and once very prominent ‘Hangar 5’ of Aldermaston Airfield, one of two sites used by Vickers Supermarine for the final assembly of the legendary Spitfire fighter planes, 1943-5

–          Housed wartime American soldiers in a vast encampment adjoining Aldermaston Airfield, from which airborne troops were conveyed in Sept 1944 to Holland as participants in Operation Market Garden (famously venturing to capture ‘a bridge too far’)

–          Witnessed the launch of the initial wave of the ‘D-Day’ invasion from the same airfield on 6 June 1944, after which an eerie calm descended over the village

–          Made two further contributions to the development of aviation, for it was around here that Henry Coxwell landed his hydrogen-filled balloon in 1853, a terrified local informing him that he was in ‘Tadley, God help us!’; also provided an early casualty to flight, William Brereton Evans, a famous cricketeer and resident of Fairlawn House, being the luckless passenger in Samuel Franklin Cody’s ‘Floatplane’, which crashed on its test flight at Farnborough in 1913

–          Sacrificed the lives of thirty of its sons in the Great War, their names being remembered on the Tadley War Memorial on the Green; a heavy toll in a small community (World War II accounted for a further seven)

–          Provided the dependable labour force that excavated the buried Roman city of Calleva Atrebatum (in the adjoining parish of Silchester) for the Society of Antiquaries, 1890 – 1909

–          Made a small but significant contribution to the economy in the 19^th century, supplying many thousands of besom brooms to the iron foundries of the North (they were perfect for removing the scale from hot metal)

–          Also supported, until the mid-19^th century, a thriving white hoop-making industry – the circular bands that held the wooden staves of wash-tubs and casks together. The casks of brandy lugged about by 18^th-century smugglers, even the barrels of gunpowder planted under Parliament by Guy Fawkes, may well have been bound by Tadley hoops

–          Maintains a tradition of brass bands that is probably unequalled outside the North of England, the Tadley Silver Band (founded in 1875) formerly ranking in the Premier Grade at the National Brass Band Contest

–          Produced an Olympic (1980, 1984) and Commonwealth (1978-86) medallist in the person of the sprinter, Kathryn ‘Kathy’ Smallwood-Cook, MBE (born 1960), who attended Burnham Copse Primary School

I am greatly looking forward next month to addressing the Kingsclere Village Club, for the second time (Thursday 15 December, 7.30). My talk will be entitled ‘Basingstoke and its Contribution to World Culture’. There is a synopsis on my ‘Lectures’ page.

There are interesting historical links between the two towns. The rectory of Kingsclere was once held by Walter de Merton. Bishop of Rochester and Chancellor of England in the 1260s. Walter was a native of Basingstoke, born on the property later known as ‘Merton Farm’. The site of the farm has been buried since the 1960s under the vast concrete ‘superstructure’ that blights the town. Specifically, ‘The Malls’, one of Britain’s least popular retail centres, looms above it. Merton Farmhouse was precisely situated beneath that unlovely feature, the ‘Great Wall of Basingstoke’, an ugly staircase (pictured above) marking the exact spot.

It is regrettable – to say the least – that Walter should be barely remembered in his home town. His great foundation, Merton College, Oxford (pictured left), was the first self-supporting and self-governing university college in England, the model for all that have followed.

As for Kingsclere, Walter was a pluralist and probably had little to do with it, but others of his family were to forge a strong link. Walter’s maternal aunt, Margaret FitzOliver, married William Chasteyne de Kingsmill – the royal mill in Basingstoke, which had been granted to the family by King John. The ‘Chasteynes’ or Castons were well-known in Basingstoke until the 19^th century. Their memory is preserved in Caston’s Yard. They also had an early connection with Kingsclere, owning, until 1322, a hall house next to the church. It was the forerunner of the present Falcon House, which, itself bent with age, is now one of Kingsclere’s most historic buildings.

Furthermore, the descendants of William and Margaret Chasteyne de Kingsmill include the Kingsmills of Sydmonton, whose grand tombs (left) are in Kingsclere Church. These Kingsmills were rich merchants. As well as rebuilding Sydmonton Court in the reign of Elizabeth (for the future enjoyment of Lord Lloyd-Webber), they retained an impressive town-house in Winchester Street, Basingstoke. It was fit to receive Katharine of Aragon in 1501, on her way up to London for her first wedding. Sold out of the family after the Civil War, the Winchester Street house may have been converted (by 1671) into an inn, the ‘Maidenhead’.

I have a theory that this historic building still exists, albeit heavily disguised under later accretions. If my identification is correct, it today houses a betting agency, a charity shop and a laundry: for further details, refer to my ‘News’ page. Its survival would more than compensate for the loss of Merton Farm.

I shan’t mind at all if members of my Kingsclere audience want to invest in my latest book, Basingstoke and its Contribution to World Culture, on which the talk is based. It is designed to be the perfect stocking-filler, so I shall bring some copies just in case. For details, please refer to my ‘Books’ page.

I am a great admirer of Jeremy Irons. He appears, as the fictional Raymond, Count of Tiberias, in one of my favourite films, Ridley Scott’s Kingdom of Heaven. I had much enjoyed being directed by Ridley in his previous film, Gladiator, but hated his Kingdom when I first saw it, put off by the neo-Communist tendencies of the hero. It was hardly credible that Balian of Ibelin would have preferred the life of a common blacksmith to that of an opulent, if beleaguered, lord of Outremer. However, the film is an amazing spectacle, which seems to capture both the look and the spirit of twelfth-century Palestine.

Jeremy Irons delivers a typically magnetic performance. Regrettably, he has since been hopelessly mis-cast as Pope Alexander VI in Sky Atlantic’s current series The Borgias, from which it appears that the scandalous pope and all his family led remarkably dull lives.

Off screen, Irons has a pleasingly elegant and insouciant manner, and a tendency to be ‘tactile’ with women that occasionally lands him in trouble. In an interview with the Radio Times, he maintains that for a man to put a hand on a woman’s bottom is a form of ‘friendly communication’, with which any woman worth her salt ought to be able to deal.

This month (9 August), he has been pictured in the Daily Telegraph in an encounter with someone called Sienna Miller. He rests his hand on her shapely hip, whilst gazing admiringly at her cleavage. She seems not to mind, but one must accept that such behaviour is not generally tolerated. This sort of gesture may pass ‘in thespian environs as a camp affectation,’ writes the Telegraph columnist, Hannah Betts. ‘In the real world, though, it is regarded less as “communication” than sexual assault.’ What it communicates to Miss Betts is the message that Irons is a ‘tragic soon-to-be pensioner having a belated mid-life crisis’. (See http://fashion.telegraph.co.uk/beauty/news-features/TMG8691481/Time-that-men-such-as-Jeremy-Irons-got-a-bum-steer.html.)

Irons floats a rather more interesting idea in his interview with the Radio Times, in which he admits to having ‘a salacious private life, which I hope most people have. We only live once.’ It is as well for me that Pope Alexander enjoyed a notably salacious private life, as I myself am the fruit of his loins, directly descended from his son Cesare. (See Patrick van Kerrebrouck, La Maison de Bourbon, 1256 – 2004, IV (Villeneuve d’Ascq, 2004), pp.789-96; Rupert Willoughby, ‘Cesare Borgia – his Marriage and his Descendants’, in John Campbell-Kease ed., Tribute to an Armorist: Essays for John Brooke-Little to mark the Golden Jubilee of the Coat of Arms (London, 2000), pp.102-16.) In the first episode, when the newly-elected Alexander mounts the famous hollow throne to have the said loins inspected – thereby ruling out the embarrassment of another Pope Joan – and is declared to have ‘duos testiculos, et bene pendentes’, I found myself positively glowing with pride. I shall therefore follow the series with familial interest, if only for the inevitable re-enactment of the notorious ‘chestnut orgy’.

Meanwhile, I should like to propose that Mr Irons try the following approach with women. It is harmless, and may prove more effective.

You should solemnly kiss the woman’s hand, then ask to kiss the other one too. You should then say something along the lines of: ‘Not only are you the kindest and most amenable woman in the world, but you are grace personified, and they should build temples of white marble to you in groves of myrtle. I am very much afraid that what happened to Psyche may happen to you as well, and that Venus will become jealous of you.’

At this point, join the two hands together and press them both to your lips. You may be asked whether you have learned such fine phrases by heart, in which case you must quickly say: ‘Not at all. You are certainly worth turning a fine phrase for, and lovely enough to have lyrics specially composed in your honour’ etc. etc. (After Théophile Gautier, Mademoiselle de Maupin (Paris, 1835), Chapter VII – the supreme Romantic novel.)

On 5 April, the beautiful actress Helen Mirren was pictured in the Daily Telegraph. Dressed in a lime-green top and black skirt, a resigned expression on her face, she holds her arms aloft in a curious pose, exposing her statuesque profile to the camera.

Miss Mirren is well used to being photographed, with pleasing results. However, on this occasion she had been forced to submit to a ‘full-body scan’ by the security staff at Los Angeles International Airport, an outrageous indignity to have inflicted on one of our great tragediennes.

The scanners now in use at Los Angeles produce remarkably graphic, nude images of the subject, leaving nothing to the imagination. I have suggested in the past (see my blog of 13 January 2011)  that travellers be allowed, as an alternative, to wear ‘lycra’  body-suits, of the type worn by the ‘celebrity’ contestants on TV’s Bring on the Wall, for the duration of their journey. These outfits are extremely tight-fitting and do not allow for the concealment of any form of contraband.

Sadly, my suggestion has not been taken seriously, and full-body X-ray machines have since been installed at many US airports and at a few in Britain. Old people, children, the fat, the thin and the morbidly self-conscious are all prey to this hideous innovation.

My concern is that prurient airport staff, with every passing traveller at their mercy, may derive dubious gratification from the task. What reassurance is it to know that one’s picture will only be viewed by a person of one’s own sex? What if that person is homosexual, or indeed bisexual? Are we to believe that the images are routinely destroyed, or are the ‘fat or funny ones’ indeed pinned to the staff noticeboard, as suggested in tonight’s Now Show? Why is it acceptable, in this context only, to produce ‘indecent images’ of children?

If only the officials responsible had seen Miss Mirren in the National Theatre production of Phèdre – as I did in July 2009, when it was broadcast live to the Picture House at Henley and other selected cinemas, an absolutely unforgettable experience – they might have treated her more respectfully.

Read ‘Bring on the Wall!’ at http://www.rupertwilloughby.co.uk/archives/date/2011/01.

The uniqueness of Rupert Willoughby appears to have been short-lived.

It began on 2 September 2010 with the death of my only known namesake, Rupert A. Willoughby of Cleveland, Ohio – though apparently there have been other Rupert Willoughbys in America, including one born at Lafayette, Indiana, on 2 February 1889. The musical director of the City of Sunderland Millennium Orchestral Society, Rupert Willoughby Hanson, has otherwise been the nearest approximation to a namesake that I have ever come across. (There was an earlier Rupert Willoughby Hanson, too, appointed a Companion of the Order of the Indian Empire in 1927.)

Willoughbys are numerous in England, yet none seems ever to have borne so distinctive and euphonious a combination of names. Since the death, last year, of Cleveland Rupert, I proudly bore it alone.

All that has changed since the birth, on 23 February 2011, of Rupert James Hugh Willoughby, younger son of James and Lady Cara Willoughby (nee Boyle). James is the grandson of Lord Middleton and Cara is a daughter of the Earl of Cork and Orrery.

We belong to different tribes of Willoughbys. Their earliest-known male-line ancestor was William Willoughby of Willoughby-in-the-Marsh, Lincolnshire, in the time of Richard I. Mine was an Elizabethan yeoman, John Wilby of Colchester. ‘Wilby’ was a common variant of ‘Willoughby’: see, for example, the famous MS of the arms of the English nobility, now in the Bibliotheque de l’Arsenal in Paris, where the arms of ‘de Wylby’ depicted (second row from bottom, second from right) are those of the Lincolnshire Willoughbys. Though these arms were also borne by a George Willoughby who was living at Colchester at the same time as the yeoman John, my stock may just as easily derive from Wilby in Suffolk as from Willoughby in Lincolnshire – not to mention the Wilbys in Norfolk and Northamptonshire whence they might also have come.

As all these villages were within the Danelaw, our shared Viking ancestry is, at least, beyond reasonable doubt. The eponymous ‘Willa’ who gave his name to the ‘byr’ or ‘by’ in each of these counties was no doubt some sea-rover or ‘creeker’ who had daringly penetrated far inland, founding the homestead or single farm that had developed, over time, into a village. The movements of these settlers, throughout the British Isles, can be traced very conveniently through the place names that they left behind.

My father, Christopher, had many namesakes and was regularly confused in military circles with Brigadier Christopher Willoughby, young Rupert’s great-grand-uncle. However, it is likely to be some time before the lad is lecturing on the Bayeux Tapestry, writing books about Basingstoke or preparing his own website. I am therefore delighted to welcome him into the charmed circle of Rupert Willoughbys.

I am delighted that my letter of 17 February 2010 to the Daily Telegraph has been included in Iain Hollingshead’s compendium, I Could Go On. As the original letter has been severely pruned, I am taking the opportunity to publish it in its entirety for the amusement of my loyal readers.

They will recall that the new ‘scanner’ reveals nude images of travellers. These are so graphic and detailed that examples have had to be ‘pixillated’ before publication in the media.

Re-reading this poem, I noticed that it was written precisely a hundred years ago, in December 1910. It wears remarkably well. I particularly relish the Swinburnian lines, ‘We shall go down with unreluctant tread/Rose-crowned into the darkness’. Brooke was to do so in April 1915.

Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,

Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

You said, ‘Through glory and ecstasy we pass;

Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,

When we are old, are old …’ ‘And when we die

All’s over that is ours; and life burns on

Through other lovers, other lips,’ said I,

‘Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!’

‘We are Earth’s best, that learnt her lesson here.

Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!’ we said;

‘We shall go down with unreluctant tread

Rose-crowned into the darkness!’ … Proud we were,

And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.

– And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.