Author Archives: Tim Lenton

Here is the second episode of the Houseago Diaries – recently unearthed and presented exclusively here. They relate in astonishing detail the ongoing battle of Henry (Fred) “Shrimp” Houseago against great crested newts, who threaten to destroy the Norfolk way of life. More episodes will follow on a weekly basis.

October 10, 1996

According to conservationist Eileen Dagenstit, we in Wymondham are only remaining enclave of real Norfolk people. Find this hard to believe. Find conservationists hard to believe generally, like environmentalists. Probably same thing.

October 17, 1996

Quiet week, until read in EDP that Prime Minister John Major was right behind us and anti-newt. Since he also said he was proposing to privatise them, suspect he doesn’t really understand the problem, like most politicians (whatever the problem). Reporter said I was unavailable for comment, which is fair translation of what I actually said. Some things cannot be commented on. 

October 24, 1996

Astonished to see that great crested newts had hit back at suggestions they were harassing Norfolk people. Apparently they made pledge to preserve us and said: “We might even charge an entrance fee.” Did not know newts had sense of humour, but can’t believe they’re serious. Obviously no-one believes anyone who makes a pledge; so they really are threatening us with extinction. Pledge to fight to the last sand dune. They shall not pass. Dorothea agrees.

November 3, 1996

In pro-active mode, released news to press that newts were appearing on residents’ doorsteps and offering to cut down trees. Pointed out that many real Norfolk people were to be found in trees. This stretching truth a trifle, but in war against newts anything goes. No-one likes strangers – newts or not – appearing on doorstep, especially while television on. Suspicious. Could be religious, or selling windows, or both. Think I’ve got public opinion on my side. Dorothea critical, but she has integrity problem. Even persuaded gullible journo that newts had applied for planning permission. Public always panicked by idea of planning permission: they suspect planning committee will pass anything it can’t understand, which is nearly everything. So more anti-newt feeling generated. Good day’s work. Should be in paper tomorrow.

November 4, 1996

Was. Excellent. 

November 11, 1996

Another public relations coup. Managed to persuade EDP to print that great crested newts drank too much, and were ambitious. War going very well. 

November 12, 1996

May have overplayed my hand. Dorothea points out that people who drink too much are folk heroes, unless they kill someone. Everyone who appears in court for violence and says they drank too much gets sentence halved. Strange. Should also not have said no-one knew what newts would do next. Makes them sound exciting, unlike Norfolk people, who talk about doing different, but do the same. Except me, obviously.

For more than ten years over the turn of the century I wrote a commentary page in the Eastern Daily Press, published in Norwich. A feature of the page (some said the only good reason for its existence) were the regular reports on the activities of Norfolk hero Henry (Fred) “Shrimp” Houseago and his battle against a group of sinister great crested newts who were attempting to subvert the Norfolk way of life, among other things.

I am happy to report that I have recently unearthed the Houseago Diaries, covering a period of almost two years from October 1996. These give Mr Houseago’s own views on the events reported in the EDP, and I feel it is important, not to say vital, to give them publicity. I will therefore be serialising them here over the next few weeks and, possibly, months.

October 4, 1996

Could not sleep last night. Had series of bizarre dreams, none of which seemed to make any sense. Asked my fiancee Dorothea about them when I woke, but she didn’t make any sense either, which is not surprising as she is 104. At least, that is what she says. She has certainly been around a long time.

In my dream things were falling out of the sky, but not bombs. Seemed to be speed limit signs, except that they were all very low speeds, and you would think that in the future we would be able to go faster. Very odd. No-one saw them coming, because everyone was looking down, and they hit quite a few people on the head; there were pools of blood all over the place.

Then a place called Hingham, which is somewhere I have only passed through once or twice. Something which looked like a Scout Hut was being blown backwards and forwards, and there seemed to be a kind of wormhole effect, like you get on Star Trek. Suddenly this comet hurtled out of the sky and plunged into a black hole which seemed to be in the middle of a map of Norfolk.

Then got mixed up with this party of men who were hunting coypu, and we seemed to be lost and got tangled up with lots of discarded fishing tackle. Thought coypu were extinct. But most vivid scene of all was this great army of what appeared to be newts, marching towards me with weapons of all kinds. In fact were about to trample all over me when I woke up. Thought I’d better make a note in case it all fitted together later, like jigsaw.

Put it down to dodgy beef on bone from Jones the Butcher. He has his own supply. Do not trust Welshman who wants to live in Norfolk. Makes no sense. No mountains.

Decided to have quiet day. Was going quite well until happened on copy of yesterday’s Eastern Daily Press, delivered late by recalcitrant newspaper woman on scooter. Amazing item on page nine: “A consortium of great crested newts has put in a planning application to extend its ‘green swathe’ home just outside Wymondham. This plea is expected to be turned down, however, following objections by one of the few remaining small groups of Norfolk people, who say they have a right of way over the disputed land. Conservationists say that the existence of Norfolk people would be threatened by the newt expansion plans. Natterjack toad representatives are backing the newt application.”

Stunned, not to say flabbergasted. Am one of last remaining Norfolk people. Live just outside Wymondham. Great crested newts threatening my very existence. Toads beneath contempt. Everything begins to make sense. Well, some things. Am determined to resist on the beaches, etc. Blood, sweat and tears. I see it now. It’s all up to me. Have been chosen to stand alone against the newt onslaught. Will ask Dorothea to stand with me. Remote possibility. But will be hero anyway.

October 8, 1996

Have been thinking a lot about newts. Walked on green swathe. Saw no newts. Must be experts in camouflage. Dorothea less than enthusiastic about anti-newt crusade, but I insisted. She will come through in end. Like cavalry, only earlier.

October 9, 1996

Decided to be pro-active. Apparently this is good: read it on business page when looking for cartoon. Issued press release to defend Norfolk people against ruthless newts. Said: “There are only a few of us left. And we’ve forgotten almost all the Norfolk dialect we knew. Some people came over from London the other day, and they could understand everything we were saying. Those newts have got to be stopped, or we won’t survive.”

Pack of lies, naturally. People from London never come near Wymondham, because can’t pronounce it. And know Norfolk dialect very well – just never use it because Dorothea allergic. So she says. Still, first blow in war against vicious newts. No such thing as bad publicity. Well maybe item saying Houseago mad fool and should stay in bed at age of 97 might be bad publicity, but also libel if newts said it. Could collect large sums from newt coffers. (Do newts have coffers? Or large sums?)

To be continued

Strange thing, snow.

Not scientifically, of course: it’s quite easily explainable in terms of how it happens and where it comes from, if you stick to the realms of physics and chemistry.

But looked at in a different way, it’s totally mysterious.

We all know it’s unpredictable, and that meteorologists have difficulty knowing exactly how much, exactly where and for how long. But then so is rain.

What makes snow different is that it’s beautiful. A sprinkling of the white stuff sends us dashing for our cameras or reaching for our phones. We love the way it improves the landscape, making it softer and cleaner.

So what’s mysterious about that?

The fact that as well as being beautiful, it also makes life extremely difficult. Travelling becomes problematical. Snow is dangerous because it’s cold, and as well as freezing you, it can bury you.

We use up huge amounts of energy – our own and the national grid’s – combating its effects. Vehicles slide into each other; people break bones. Businesses lose money.

Logically, we should hate the stuff. So why do we find it beautiful? If we simply evolved from nothingness, we would expect to like what’s good for us – what makes it easier for us to survive. Moderate rainfall, sufficient warmth, enough food: a smooth ride, gradually improving.

But in fact we’re beings who have a capacity for wonder, particularly at things that are dangerous, risky and on the edge. On the edge of what? We don’t know, but something that we really want. Something we can’t control.

Poet Rainer Maria Rilke said that beauty is the edge of terror that we’re just able to bear. In other words, there is something out there that we couldn’t survive in our current state, but we desperately want it. Beauty is the nearest we can get.

Snow is like that. So are mountains, storm-tossed seas and killer deserts. Touch and see, but don’t get too close, or stay too long.

I’m struggling a bit. For years now, I’ve been responsible for writing an alternative carol service for St Augustine’s Church in Norwich. I don’t know quite how that happened, but I suspect it’s because if you volunteer to do something once in the Church of England, you’re pretty much landed with it till the end of time.

The idea is probably that you get to think about eternity quite a lot.

It’s a bit of a challenge, thinking up a new way of working songs, poetry, monologues and drama – not to mention carols and readings – into a period of about three quarters of an hour when most people have their minds on the Christmas lunch to follow.

I have also tried to work in a few topical and local references, with the result that when you go back and read the scripts (as I have recently been doing) some elements come over as rather mysterious. Which again, I suppose, is not a bad thing.

We have had the Nativity as reported on radio and in newspapers. We have had a talking sheep, and an angel on Mastermind. We have had health and safety calling the whole thing off. We have had incompetent soldiers, unwise men and … well, you get the idea. Our most recent vicar, now resident in Aspen, Colorado, always called it a Christmas play. I don’t know why. Perhaps because he used to be in advertising.

What, you may justifiably ask, is this alternative carol service an alternative to? I have been asked that before, and the answer is that it’s an alternative to not having one. I don’t know if that clarifies things.

Anyway this year, as I said, I’m struggling. What new approach can I try? Last year I went for radical ideas about what the first Christmas was really like, and I’m not sure that worked. Too much comfortable propaganda for the traditional tales. I have tried repeating excerpts of previous years; so I can’t really do that again. I need something really new.

Or do I? Maybe I’ll just go for a traditional carol service. A bit of singing and reading. That should confuse them. They’ll probably be thinking about the turkey anyway.

To previous generations, flight was a vision of freedom. We looked up longingly at the birds and saw them released from the chains of gravity, able to float like angels on the invisible breeze and get a whole new perspective on life.

This was what we wanted, wasn’t it? To be released?

So it’s ironic that when most of us fly nowadays – now the miracle has happened – we find ourselves much less free than when we walk around, tied to the ground.

Airports are prisons, with strict rules about where you can venture and what you can take with you. You are forced to wait in a cell-like area for much longer than is necessary, you may be searched, and your belongings are examined. Flights are always late taking off. It’s a nightmare.

And even when you get airborne, there is no experience of freedom. You are shut into a metal tube with not enough room for your legs or any other part of your body. There is a risk of blood clots, and a much higher risk of catching something from one of the other passengers, since the air you breathe is constantly recirculated, together with the germs and viruses. You can’t sleep.

You may catch a glimpse of the huge airy spaces outside, but more often than not, there is nothing to see. The whole experience has to be endured, rather than enjoyed. Freedom doesn’t enter into it.

This is all true for the average human being. For the more fragile among us, it is much worse.

Of course the more privileged – by which I mean the rich (and there seem to be a lot of them) – have a rather more benign experience, involving special lounges, beds, silver service and unlimited drinks.

While imprisoned in a departure lounge not long ago, waiting to board, I discovered just how many people were more privileged and shiny than me and who would therefore board first. It started with ruby and continued through platinum, sapphire, executive platinum, emerald, business and, eventually, first class. Then, at last, came groups one to four. I was in group four. I know my place.

But even for the exalted creatures who go before me, it’s still a long way from freedom, and not at all what our ancestors might have envisaged.

Should we abandon the whole idea and revert to roaming free on land and sea? Should we try paragliding or Autogiros? Perhaps a Cessna would be a step in the right direction.

Sadly, having stepped into the prison of commercial flights, it’s hard to step back. The time saved in reaching “desirable” destinations is a magnet to which we become firmly attached, and we accept the huge restrictions that it involves. I wish I never had to fly again, but I will.

In my dreams I tell myself it’s for the birds. But I’m locked into it. I have to get away.