Our Proprietor’s somewhat unusual choice.

Your choice of hero can reveal a lot, I reckon. Ronnie Reagan revered the ‘Duke’, John Wayne, and his canon depicting the lone cowboy standing up for freedom, decency and love of the land. In the 1980s, Neil Kinnock, trying to reform a dysfunctional Labour Party, wanted to be thought of as a winner: tough, hard-nosed and someone that got things done… His hero? Gareth Edwards. And what of John Major, the South London lad, who reached the top through hard work? His hero was the archetypal English gentleman amateur who won matches with apparent effortlessness: PBH May. 

At boarding school in the 1970s, the hero index was measured by poster square footage on study walls. Some of the regulars were Meatloaf, David Bowie, Farah Fawcett, Fonzie, JR, JPR, David Steele, Tony Grieg, Tommy Cooper, ABBA and the tennis girl, of course. But I’m pretty sure no school study wall had a poster of my man.

For if you had asked me, circa 1970-75, who my hero was, I would have answered, Michael Ramsay. Yes, Archbishop Michael Ramsay, he of the bushy eyebrows. I need to explain. 

At around this time my grandfather was (different kind of) canon at a glorious priory in Hampshire and I liked nothing better than to sit in the dark, cool vestry and watch him get ready for the next service. In particular, I loved the cassocks, the chains, the bells and the smells that formed part of those extensive high church, Anglo Catholic preliminaries. I was also very conscious of the hierarchy within the priory: curates, vergers, organists, bell ringers, choir masters, church wardens… The splendour of the dress was a big clue as to the pecking order, of course, but I was also aware that, at a given point during the service, it was my grandfather who would ascend to the pulpit and everyone would listen to him. He was a marvellous, ex tempore, preacher and, after the service, many would wait to speak to him and look so much happier once they had.