Felicitations and very happy centenary celebrations to the educator par excellence and one of the most inspirational humans on Planet Earth, Mr David Attenborough (sorry, not sorry, but the anti-establishment rebel rebel in me refuses to acknowledge knighthoods in titular form), who has just turned 100. What a wonderful blessing this fella has been to the world. We owe him so much.
Shameless namedrop alert, but before I abandoned Britain at the start of 2014, Attenborough, Mick Jagger, Jerry Hall and I were virtually next door neighbours in a scenic riverside town on the outer fringes of London, where the capital meets Surrey.
OK, four and five doors away to be precise: after the Jaggers’ ‘divorce’ (cough), the future-for-five-minutes Mrs Rupert Murdoch cunningly bagged Downe House, the labyrinthine Georgian pile the couple made their main family home in Britain, with Mick forced to buy a little pied-à-terre next door so he could be near the kids.
Going from Grade II listed to the rather more top-notch Grade I, The Who’s windmill axemaster Pete Townsend had his own rockstar retreat on the other side of the road. Residing ten doors further east at The Wick, he was lord of the manor at the gorgeous Georgian gem that sits on the crest of the hill that was once owned by diminutive thespian John Mills, grand-papa of ‘Crispy’ Mills, chisel-cheeked frontman of Kula Shaker, of course.
Absconding to Buckinghamshire in 1972, the venerated actor then sold The Wick to Ronnie Wood, who wasted no time in building a basement studio that played host to the creation of the Rolling Stones’ shoulder-shrugging anthem It’s Only Rock ’n Roll, which famously emerged out of a drunken jam session between Wood, Keef, Jagger and his on-off chum David Bowie.
By 2013, home for me was atop Park House, a handsome red-brick Edwardian mansion block where Richmond Hill meets Friars Stile Road. A friend said to me at the time, “Trust you to choose here to live, so you can look down at the rest of us.”
He had a point. I did have a bit of a viewpoint, which was exactly what I had gone West for. I could look out my lounge window and see not only the beautifully sculpted Terrace Gardens that sloped down from our building to the river, but also a panoramic prospect of the meandering Thames bend famously depicted by pre-eminent Georgian painters such as Turner and Holland, and beyond that the outline of Richard E Grant’s almost rural residence in nearby Petersham. It remains the only listed view in the entire country.
Not only that, but if you’re really into salubrious star spotting, from my back bedroom I could catch a faint glimpse of the rear garden of David Attenborough’s lovely light blue property, with its cathedral shaped windows and the remnants of an old pub he annexed and turned into his personal library.
Born in nearby Isleworth on 8 May 1926, the incomparable broadcaster and naturalist told Time Out London that Richmond was his “favourite place by a long way. Partly because I live there, partly because my friends and family are there.”
Of course, if an Attenborough likes something then you’re almost certainly assured of greatness. At three times the size of New York’s Central Park, the hugely stunning Richmond Park situated at the end of our road would have been a major plus point in moving there too, naturally.
The conservationist’s older brother, eminent actor and director Richard Attenborough, died in 2014, just after I left Blighty. Both bruvs were very well respected locally, and Dickie, as he was colloquially known, lived in a gargantuan abode that looks out on the Surrey town’s Richmond Green and which was once part of Henry VIII’s Richmond Palace haven.
By all accounts the Attenborough elder was a kindly, dear old man. Though back in the summer of 1982 I kinda hated him for making Gandhi, though not because it was a bad film. The Oscar-winning biopic of the Indian icon starred Ben Kingsley in the title role, though try telling my interminable Bucks classmates that. Because I had easily-tanned olive skin and John Lennon-style horn-rimmed spectacles, the miscreants decided it would be “hilarious” to give 13 year-old me the nickname Gandhi and pretend it was me in the film, repeatedly. I’m still laughing. Not.
If I’m totally honest, it’s one of the few things about England I’ve missed. The zone 4 haven I mean, not celebrity neighbours. Indeed, Richmond upon Thames has been named the happiest place to live in the capital, for several years in a row, according to the emotion arbiters at Evening Standard Homes & Property. Of course, we all know it’s really Surrey, not only historically but mentally and aesthetically.
Of course, you don’t need me to point out that David Attenborough is the very definition of (cue clichés) a living legend; a national treasure in the traditional sense of the term before it became as devalued as the pound. Growing up with that warm and comforting voice, and the myriad images of unfettered unfiltered nature in all its glory, it feels strange to even contemplate the planet without this incredibly impressive individual.
Excellency and intellect outshines cruelty and bigotry, and this great Briton has remained dignified through intensely undignified moments. This species of human outlived Queen Elizabeth II, who was born just days before him, and I can‘t think of anybody that has fulfilled their role as well for such a long period of time. It’s mind-boggling how sharp he is for his age. Attenborough has possessed one of the most brilliant minds of our times and as a still active centurion he‘s more lucid and coherent than so many inhabitants of the crazy and endlessly surprising globe he cares so much about.
Attenborough has seen more natural habitats and more species than anyone. He’s truly had a phenomenally wild and fascinating ride, living through the Great Depression of the 1930s and the horrors of World War II to seeing Planet Earth evolve from no TV to Director of Programming at the BBC, the national institution that aided him in building such an extraordinary career. Clearly an individual in the upper echelons, and we’ve all been fortunate to have him in our life in some capacity.
In that same interview with Time Out a few years back, the broadcaster said: “If I can make programmes when I’m 95, that would be fine.“
Well, he’s 100, he’s still here and he’s still making programmes.
Thank bloody God. Raising not only one’s feet but a glass in your honour, sire. Just the one, dear?
Steve Pafford
