Baptise |
1. verb: to immerse someone in water or sprinkle water on a person as part of the Christian rite of baptism. |
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2. verb: to give a name to. |
Slurry |
noun: solid particles suspended in a liquid, for example, a mixture of manure, cement or clay with water. |
The mountain of unopened mail behind the front door meant that getting into my flat was a difficult task. Once inside I scooped up the pile of letters and carried them through into the living room, dumping them unceremoniously on the sofa. I’d deal with them another day. The little red light on my answering machine was blinking madly, telling me that it too had a stack of messages waiting for me. I unplugged it and tossed it, with even less ceremony, towards the sofa.
The flat felt strangely unfamiliar to me. I hadn’t been there since I’d come home from my trip to Wales. I’d only been away for five or six weeks but so much had happened in that time that ‘home’ had ceased to mean anything. I felt like an intruder. I didn’t want to hang around. I walked through to the bedroom and picked up my car keys; that was the only reason I was here – meeting my next googlewhack was going to be far easier with a car. My mobile phone was lying on the bed where I’d left it. I shrugged, slipped it into my pocket, turned and left the flat.
Kerlonk, went the car door as I pulled it shut, bee-beep, bee-beep, bee-beep, went the phone alerting me to yet more messages. I turned it off once more and threw it into the glove compartment, alongside my gloves (oh yes) and started to drive.
If Bulletproofing Trifle had responded I wouldn’t have needed to confront all these reminders of who I really was, where I lived, what I did, what my life was supposed to be like. I wouldn’t have needed to leave the States for Bulletproofing Trifle. A trip to Boston would have sufficed. But they hadn’t responded and Baptise Slurry had and so here I was; back on the roads of Blighty.
John’s website, www.wirksworth.org.uk was, as its name might suggest, all about the parish of Wirksworth, Derbyshire, some 150 miles north of London. I was heading south on the M3 however, because while his website was devoted to Wirksworth, he actually lived 240 miles away in the small and sleepy seaside town of Poole, or rather its smaller and sleepier suburb, Broadstone.
When I first laid eyes on John I thought I was about to meet a giant but it turned out to be an optical illusion. He was certainly a big man, his height exaggerated by a curl of Mr Whippy ice cream hair that sat on top, giving him an extra couple of inches. He was a bit broad in the beam these days too, but he’d pulled off a real illusory masterstroke by marrying a tiny wife and living in a bungalow. As I parked the car at the foot of their drive, John, who was well over six feet tall and Rosie, a poppet who can’t have been much over five feet, stepped outside to meet me and it really did look as though an average-sized woman had stepped out of an average-sized house with an abnormally large man. It’s only when I got out of the car and approached them that I realised the truth.
The two of them had met when, as a young man, John had placed an advert in a youth hostelling magazine soliciting a cycling buddy for a trip round Ireland. Local girl Rosie had answered his ad and off they’d gone. You have to admire them both for that; it’s one hell of a first date.
John was eager to show me the two ’whacks he’d found so he whisked me into their bedroom, a corner of which was given over to a busy desk crammed with computer equipment. For a moment I thought his computer was fitted with some kind of antique monitor but the screen I was looking at wasn’t wired up to the computer, it was for viewing microfilm.
‘Ah it’s a beauty, isn’t it?’ said John, proud to own such a thing.
‘I thought only spies looked at microfilm,’ I said.
‘Ah no, this is the hub of wirksworth.org.uk,’ said John, and then, rather cryptically he added, ‘it all started with the Mormons.’
‘I’m getting very confused,’ I said to the man who wasn’t a giant, a spy or a Mormon.
‘It all started when I decided to check my ancestors out … well, everyone does when they get to 50.’
I made a mental note to clear my diary in 19 years’ time.
‘So, I went to the International Genealogical Index. It’s run by the Mormons.’
‘I see,’ I said. Not so cryptic now.
‘It’s all online,’ said John, ‘you should take a look at it. It’s www—’
‘Ooo! Ha ha ha!’
The laughter came from behind us. I turned to find Rosie bringing in a tray of tea and biscuits. The mere mention of those three w’s had been enough to raise Rosie’s laughter. It was a laugh that said, There he goes again! Him and his www’s, him and his internet! They may have shared many a bike ride, but I got the distinct impression that the surfing was probably a solo affair. John smiled and started again.
‘It’s www.familysearch.org,’ he said. ‘So, I traced my family back and it led to the town of Wirksworth. Well, I got as far back as 1595 and I got interested in it.’
He took his time and lowered his voice for the word ‘interested’, investing it with as much passion as he could. I knew that he didn’t really mean ‘interested’; he meant ‘obsessed.’ It was a tone of voice I’d hear often that day.
‘So I went to the Derbyshire Records Office and said, “Can I get the Bishops Transcripts?” These are copies of the Parish Registers made for the Bishop – you know, details of all the baptisms and the burials and the weddings and so on. I got them eventually and they’re 400 years old.’
There it was again. He said ‘400 years old’ as if he was tasting a fine wine.
‘Well, every time you rolled them out they’d get a bit more damaged. I didn’t like that at all. So I said to the Records Office, “Look, I’ll do you a deal.” He paused for dramatic effect, lowered his voice again, but raised one finger and two eyebrows to compensate. ‘This changed my life for the next seven years…’
I was half expecting John to tell me he really was a spy. Maybe he was working for the county of Derbyshire, operating across the border in dangerous territory like Nottingham, say, or Mansfield. But he looked about the room, and then explained the life-changing deal he’d struck.
‘I said, “You photocopy them and send them to me and I will transcribe them. I’ll put them into a database”.’ And then, savouring the words, enjoying the sound, ‘Oo I love a database, they fascinate me.’
Six months after doing the deal, John had transcribed the Bishop’s transcripts, putting 50 years of Wirksworth – all the births, deaths, marriages and shenanigans – online. And he had found the whole community much more interesting than just his own family tree. He’d become addicted.
‘I got to know these people,’ he explained. ‘I thought, “Oh … he’s going out with her, is he?” and so on… I did 1650 to 1700 in about a year and … well, I was hooked.’
Seventeenth-century Wirksworth had become John’s soap opera of choice and like any fan he wanted to know what happened next. He’d wanted to know what the next series, the eighteenth century, had in store. So John had gone back to the Mormons and offered them a similar deal, which had allowed him access to further Wirksworth information. Over three years he spent 4000 hours filling up more of his beloved databases. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d also created a database detailing the man hours he’d dedicated to his Wirksworth databases.
Once he’d got through all that information he just hadn’t been able to stop and had managed to feed his habit by using the ten-yearly censuses, all of which were making their way from microfilm to website via John’s keyboard. On the day we met he was working his way through the 1891 census and by the time you read this I dare say he’ll be at the 1901 census or beyond. A two-finger typist, he estimated that he’d now typed over six million words. I was just lucky that baptise and slurry were among them.
The first googlewhack John showed me was Derailleurs Jetsam.
‘Oh it was lovely,’ he said. ‘I tried derailleurs flotsam and got two hits. But the word ‘flotsam’ is only ever used in tandem with ‘jetsam’ and I could see that one of the sites had spelt jetsam wrong, so I knew that it had to be a ’whack and it was!’
‘That really is lovely,’ I said, searching around the site for an email address. It was a site that sold sporting books. It was clearly based in America but I couldn’t work out where exactly.
‘So what does derailleurs mean?’ I asked, as I opened up an email and started to write to my latest prospect.
‘It’s a cycling term,’ said John, ‘part of the gear mechanism.’
‘Do you still ride?’ I asked, as I pressed send.
‘No,’ said John, ruefully. ‘I used to cycle a lot. I’ve cycled across America, but I’m getting on a bit these days. I’m afraid I gave up exercise but I forgot to give up eating,’ he said, patting his tummy playfully. ‘Actually,’ his voice fell to a whisper, ‘I’m supposed to be on a diet … but if you want to have a curry later, it would be a good excuse.’
‘That sounds like a great idea,’ I said. ‘Besides, I should be celebrating; this is my longest chain of ’whacks so far. You’re my sixth in a row. For the first time, I’m passed the halfway point.’
‘A curry it is then,’ said John. ‘Now, here’s the other googlewhack I found for you … Benn Bathysphere.’
‘By the way,’ I said, as the page loaded, ‘I think I’m hearing things. I could swear you just said you’d cycled across America!’
‘Twice,’ said John.
‘I only heard it once.’
‘No,’ said John, ‘I’ve cycled across America twice.’
‘But it’s massive!’ I said. ‘It takes long enough to fly across it and I should know.’
‘I’ve done Oregon to Virginia and California to Florida. I really wanted to go and Rosie couldn’t come,’ said John, ‘so the first time I went I advertised for a buddy and I got ten replies … actually, it was fourteen, but four of them were ladies and I didn’t want to get involved in that!’
‘Of course not,’ I said, ‘you’ve got form.’
‘So I went with this fellow, nice chap he was, and we had a great time. We did about four and a half thousand miles and it took us 66 days; the roads were good, the gradient was good; it was amazing.
‘You see, the thing is,’ he continued, ‘there’s this company that make these fantastic maps for cyclists with everything you might want to know – history, weather, recommended routes and so on. So before we went, I sat down and typed it all into a database …’
‘You really do love a database, don’t you?’
‘Oh I do. I really do,’ said John. ‘Well I printed them off on strips of paper and attached them to my handlebars. Then you can do all the navigating on the move. Brilliant.’
‘Amazing,’ I said, ‘now, let’s take a look at this googlewhack … ah ...’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked John.
‘I’m afraid Benn Bathysphere isn’t a ’whack.’ I felt like a vet breaking bad news to a child about a beloved pet. ‘You see, benn isn’t underlined so it’s not in dictionary.com and in any case, it leads to a wordlist. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said, ‘I really am.’
‘No, no,’ said John, being very brave about the whole thing, ‘that’s fine.’ He looked out of the window and composed himself. ‘Benn Bathysphere is no good, but that’s OK because I can find a new ’whack, can’t I?’
‘Of course you can,’ I said, geeing him up, ‘and it’ll be just as good, if not better.’
John began ’whack hunting and while he thought of random words and tried them out, he regaled me with more tales of travels and databases. His home was littered with souvenirs of his travels, and so was his conversation.
‘See that, Dave,’ he’d say, pointing at something that looked like a rock and was the size of two fists. ‘That’s the kidney stone from a cow.’
‘Have you ever seen one of these before?’ he’d enquire, holding up something long, straggly and dead. ‘It’s dried beef. It’s called “biltong”; it’s like Kendal Mint Cake for meat eaters.’
‘Never have an egg in Peru,’ he’d advise. ‘It’s too high up, they can’t boil it properly.’
I wasn’t surprised to discover that a man who provided such eclectic conversation made for a talented googlewhacker and before long he’d discovered a replacement ’whack in the shape of Yoyo Triptychs.’
‘Well done,’ I said, delighted with the find. ‘Now, let’s take a look at Chinese-art.com …’
The site was obviously concerned with Chinese art but it was impossible to work out where it was based. It carried news about Chinese artists living all over the world and links to galleries not only in Beijing and Hong Kong and so on, but also in Paris, Switzerland, San Francisco and New York, for example. One link led to a gallery called Chinese Contemporary, which was located just off Oxford Street in central London. The man responsible for the site went by the distinctly un-Chinese name of Robert Bernell. I hoped he worked at Chinese Contemporary, but more importantly, wherever he was, I hoped he’d agree to meet me.
As I fired off the email, Rosie appeared in the doorway.
‘How are you two boys doing?’ she asked.
‘It’s going swimmingly,’ said John. ‘Two lovely googlewhacks.’
‘Absolutely,’ I added, ‘and do you know what? It’s been such a pleasure and this is now the longest chain I’ve had so I’d like to celebrate. I don’t know if the two of you like a curry?’
‘Oh yes,’ said John, ‘what a good idea.’
‘You know you shouldn’t,’ said Rosie, ‘but seeing as we’ve got company …’
John winked.
*
I slept in my own bed in my own flat that night. It felt cold but I liked it that way. I didn’t want to get too comfortable. Any desire to stay would be unhelpful. Nothing was going to get in the way of my googlewhacking.
I woke early the next morning and went straight to the desk, my own desk, and checked my emails. Yes. The longest chain was going to get longer. Robert Bernell, Yoyo Triptychs, had come good.
I rushed out of the house. Five minutes later I was at Bethnal Green tube station; 25 minutes later I was emerging on to Oxford Street. I walked up Regent Street, past the familiar shop fronts, H&M on my left, Nike Town on my right. McDonalds, Burger King, Starbucks; I could have been walking through any city, anywhere in the world but then the road curved round and suddenly the landscape was unmistakably London. For a split second I stood and looked in awe at the splendour of All Souls Church with its gothic spire and classical rotunda and then at the glorious galleon-like BBC Broadcasting House, but I didn’t have time to hang around; I had somewhere special to go.
I crossed the road and completed the bend taking me into Portland Place and a parade of tall, grand Georgian buildings and I was there. The Embassy of the People’s Republic of China.
I joined the back of the queue. I had my passport, two passport photos and 45 quid. If I was going to go to Beijing, I needed to apply for a visa.