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Telegraph
26-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
I asked Chat GPT how to save horse racing – this is what it told me
I hate memorial services. The idea that one can celebrate something wonderful that has gone is anathema to me. But I felt privileged to be in St Bride's Church in Fleet Street last week to hear about the extraordinary life of Joe Saumarez Smith, the former chairman of the British Horseracing Authority. Trainer John Gosden's rigorously edited rendition of An Equestrian's Prayer hit the spot: 'Dear God in heaven, Give me strength to guide my horse, Make my hands soft and my head clear...' Joe's head was clear right up to the end. Only days before he died he was texting executives at the BHA to highlight how Artificial Intelligence can help horse racing. So when Great British Racing announced a new £3.62 million advertising campaign the next day, I followed Joe's prompting and asked ChatGPT how it would spend that money. The GBR campaign will be aimed at 'people who have never had a relationship with racing but are open to it' and 'casual fans who have either lapsed or are attending only once a year'. I would imagine readers of this column are more likely to fall into the latter category. So with the same guiding principles, I set the brains at ChatGPT to work. And in approximately three seconds I had a very impressive-looking campaign mapped out. Worth a hundred thousand pounds of any client's money in the old days, although it didn't include a boozy lunch in Langan's Brasserie on expenses. But is it genius or is it all fur coat and no knickers? There are 10 main categories of action, which is a slightly suspicious round number, if you ask me. 'Create engaging content' such as 'educational resources', which I think is another way of saying make an idiot's guide, is its first suggestion. That sounds like old hat but 'behind-the-scenes' video content feels as if it could be a YouTube hit as long as it does not just trot out the usual suspects. The best stories in racing are the lives of the people who look after the horses. The second suggestion is that racing should create challenges and contests for participants, who may be fans one day, to play on Instagram and TikTok. And that for me is the knockout idea, as long as it incorporates data creation and interpretation. I have been involved in an idea to create a Virtual horse racing game that could have garnered millions of online horse racing fans. But like so many of these projects, it has fallen by the wayside. And more's the shame. There have been other attempts to recreate what it is like to own and train racehorses, and make decisions that carry real jeopardy, but nothing of any substance. A rather less original suggestion is that racing should enter into 'influencer partnerships', but its lack of originality is not to say that it is a bad idea. If it works for big retail brands it can work for racing. However, imagine the Jockey Club, for example, trying to justify paying hundreds of thousands of pounds to someone like Bella Poarch or Addison Rae? The chances are you have never even heard of them. Nor had I, but according to ChatGPT they are the most popular influencers of 21-year-olds in the UK. Although that can change rapidly! As can your job as CEO of the Jockey Club after you have handed them the money. There are other smart suggestions such as collaborating with other sports and brands. Ascot has shown how well that works with international insurance group Howden when it comes to getting bums on seats at Christmas. But the only other idea that did not sound as if it had come out of a second-rate marketing agency was to 'leverage technology', particularly 'augmented reality experiences'. Racing needs to invest heavily in augmented reality. So few people are lucky enough to ride a horse in a race, so the sport needs to spend big on technology that allows fans to understand what it feels like. Golf has done that, Formula 1 likewise.
Yahoo
04-05-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
When we fear that cartoons might cause offence, we are in deep trouble
Oh dear, oh dear. It had seemed, for the briefest moment, as if some of the madness that has beset us in the past decade had abated and truth and artistic freedom might once again take priority over the fear of causing offence – a fear with a very hard edge, thanks to our pathological 'non-crime' hate laws. And the Supreme Court decision about women being women, which offended a great many people, will no doubt remain in place. But any rush to relief is clearly overhasty: the curdling effects of a culture where Fear of Offence reigns supreme are still all too apparent. How else to interpret the cancellation of an exhibition of Fleet Street's political cartoons – which included work by The Telegraph's Patrick Blower – for fear of being too political, and thus offensive? It's almost comedic, as so much is these days. The cartoons were to be displayed at Kingston Riverside, a work space run by TownSq, which collaborates with the council and had given permission for the imagery to be displayed. It was meant to run until next month, but the show was pulled at the last minute over fears that the cartoons would cause trouble, not least if their political content was glimpsed during Zoom calls. Blower summed it up nicely. 'In 40 years of freelancing, I've never known anything like it and I think it's a real sign of the times. There is an absolute terror of possibly offending anyone.' Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
Chicago Tribune
05-03-2025
- Entertainment
- Chicago Tribune
‘Travels with Agatha Christie and Sir David Suchet' review: The actor known for Hercule Poirot follows in the author's footsteps
Over the last quarter century, David Suchet became the definitive Hercule Poirot, starring as the fussy but perceptive private detective in 70 screen adaptations of Agatha Christie's murder mysteries. He digs a little deeper into the author's biography in the BritBox travelogue series 'Travels with Agatha Christie & Sir David Suchet,' in which he follows the same route as her 1922 world tour. She undertook the journey, with her first husband Archie, to points in South Africa, Australia, New Zealand and Canada. Because Hawaii was a midpoint on the journey, the couple stopped there as well on holiday. Celebrity-hosted travel shows are often underwhelming. Anthony Bourdain was an exception who brought real vigor and energy to the genre. But I was intrigued by the premise here because Suchet's career is so interwoven with that of Christie's. 'He became my very best friend,' he says of Poirot. Like the fictional character, Suchet is a genial, cordial and elegantly enthusiastic companion and guide. He mentions that his grandfather worked as a Fleet Street photographer, which is perhaps why he is compelled to take portraits of each expert with whom he spends time. It's a nice touch. Christie suffered from acute seasickness, unfortunate considering her trips to each continent were by ship. But it was a trait she would give to Poirot. 'I think travel is a wonderful educator,' Suchet says, but the show itself doesn't take that idea far enough. I was hoping for more insights into how this 10-month tour — upon which Christie embarked before she was famous; she had just one novel published at the time — might have shaped her mindset as a person, but also specifically as a writer. The Christies went on the tour as part of a group tasked with promoting the upcoming 1924 British Empire Exhibition, an event that isn't fully explained but sounds something like a trade convention. The empire of it all is a cringe-making scenario for the TV series, which is smart enough to steer into criticisms of colonialist realities, rather than pretend they don't exist (as Christie and her travel companions surely did). In Cape Town, for example, Suchet visits a residence that belonged to Cecil Rhodes, the English imperialist whose policies paved the way for apartheid. But then Suchet meets with the three founders of a group called Rhodes Must Fall to discuss the 'serious legacies of colonialism that are still not only lingering but are continuing to reproduce themselves.' Too often, however, there's a fraught undercurrent throughout 'Travels with Agatha Christie & Sir David Suchet' when it comes to British exploitation that the series fails to overcome despite its best efforts. While in Africa, Suchet visits Kimberley, the site of diamond mines (and where Rhodes founded the De Beers diamond company), and the plunder and extraction are so clear. Suchet notes that the setting turns up in one of Christie's novels, 'The Man in the Brown Suit': The more he reads the book, 'the more I'm becoming aware of how many of Agatha's own experiences make their way into the plot,' he says, but that's the extent of what we learn. You could argue this is a travel show, not a documentary series about her novels, but I think a better ratio between the two would have resulted in something more compelling. The British characters in Christie's books are forever looking down their noses at anyone considered an outsider or 'foreign,' and that often extends to Poirot himself, a Belgian. There are different ways to read into that. Is Christie skewering their insular attitudes? That's my preferred interpretation, because the aristocrats and other elites in her novels are absurd creatures to begin with. Christie was a world traveler by the time her career began in earnest; it's fair to wonder if that informed how she viewed, and wrote about, the bigotries and narrow-mindedness of the British upper crust. The series doesn't broach the topic, maybe because there's just no way to know. She didn't keep a journal during the trip, despite telling a newspaper reporter before her departure that 'the tools of my trade are going around the world with me — typewriter, notebooks and heaps and heaps of paper.' In that same interview, which Suchet reads ahead of his own departure, she anticipates the reception she might receive in each new place: 'I'm not sure that the people in the overseas dominions are going to like me. They may find my love of crime objectionable.' And then, with an early 20th century version of 'welp,' she adds: 'It can not be helped.' 'Travels with Agatha Christie & Sir David Suchet' — 2 stars (out of 4) Where to watch: BritBox
Telegraph
22-02-2025
- Business
- Telegraph
I swapped my home ownership dream for a 42-foot narrowboat
Swapping bricks and mortar for boats and water may seem a pretty extreme way to handle the soaring cost of home ownership. But with house prices, rents and the general cost of living rising beyond anything I could afford, that is exactly what I've done. I have swapped my dream of owning a house for the reality of owning a 42-foot narrowboat, which is now a home for me and my greyhound, Meg. As a child, I had always assumed that I would be merrily funnelled through the pipeline of work hard, save up, buy house, watch house price rise, pay off mortgage, retire comfortably. But thanks to high house prices, that model is increasingly broken, especially in the south of England – and particularly if you are not buying with a partner. Combine that with the cost of living crisis, which is still very much with us, and you have a situation perfectly designed to leave single hard-working adults in their 20s and 30s still living at home with their parents or renting shared properties. At times, adjusting to that reality left me very dejected. It felt like a social contract had been broken by house prices rising far more quickly than wages, with no fix in sight. Then my rebellious streak kicked in. If the housing system is no longer working for me, then maybe it was time to live outside that system. Stop worrying, start living. I did briefly consider renting a home, but there were certain things I wasn't prepared to compromise on when it came to accommodation. I'm 37, and my days of sharing a property are over – especially when you bring soaring rental prices into the equation. A one-bedroom property in Kent, where I live, now costs north of £1,000 a month, and that is very much out of my budget. My dog limits my rental options even further. Out of interest I had called a few landlords that advertised properties as allowing pets, only to discover that, for the vast majority, 'pet' does not mean 'dog', it means 'a goldfish, maybe, if it's well-behaved'. So the path of my life led me inexorably towards the canals. The idea of buying a boat had coalesced slowly in my mind. When I rented a shared flat by the Grand Union canal in London many years ago, I had been fascinated by the colourful narrowboats and some of the equally colourful characters that lived on them. Some lifestyle changes had also nudged me towards narrowboats. I have recently set up a freelance journalism business, Barker Editorial, after many years of working on Fleet Street newspapers. All I need to work is a phone, a notepad, a laptop and an internet connection, all of which I can do from anywhere. Also, a breakup and house sale meant I was sitting on just enough money to buy a boat, which I had tucked away in Premium Bonds. But save as I may, I knew that pot of money would never be enough to get me back on the housing ladder in the South, where my friends and family live. Not unless NS&I sent Agent Million to knock on my door to tell me I'd won the £1m jackpot. Monthly costs are low A major attraction of owning a narrowboat was the relatively low monthly cost of living compared to a house. I bought mine outright for £33,000. You don't pay a mortgage or rent or council tax, provided you are a continuous cruiser without a home mooring. You also don't pay water bills, as these are included in the yearly fee paid to the Canal and River Trust to use their waterways, which for me is £1,118.64 a year. The reduced space and simplicity of narrowboat life also lends itself to saving money. I have very limited space on a 42-foot boat, especially when four feet of that space is taken up by my dog. The restricted storage means you can't own as much, or run an array of expensive electrical items, and that means saving money. You are also extremely incentivised to conserve costly things like food, diesel, smokeless fuel, gas and electricity, as all of these either need to be moved by me on to the boat or else generated onboard. My typical monthly outgoings now are between £600 and £1,000, which includes all boat-related costs as well as groceries and things like vet bills and the cost of running a car. Anything I earn above that can be swept into savings or my pension. Another part of the appeal of a boat is the security of ownership. In the past I have been made redundant, unhelpfully during the initial Covid lockdown, where employers battened down the hatches and stopped hiring. At points I have also been unable to work for long periods due to accidents and ill health. Although I am in a better place now, I remember all too well that corrosive fear of losing work, burning through my savings and falling into arrears. The idea of owning a boat outright that I can't be kicked out of – and isn't subject to sudden rent or mortgage increases – is very comforting. And of course, if I don't like my neighbours, or the view, then I can just fire up the engine and get some new ones. ...but there's a time cost However, only a fool would think boating is automatically some sort of silver bullet to the housing crisis. There are some very good reasons why houses have caught on and we're not all living on the water. Firstly, there is a lot of time and cost associated with maintaining a boat, more than most houses. For example, the hull needs repainting every few years and the engine servicing every couple of hundred hours. Diesel and water tanks must be cleaned, and batteries maintained. A narrowboat is an off-grid home with everything you need to live, but is also a series of hidden pipes, pumps and cables that can and will fail in the least convenient time and place. Frequent high repair bills mean barge owners joke about 'boat' standing for 'bung on another thousand'. Then there's the cost of diesel for the engine, wood and smokeless coal for the fire and gas bottles for the oven, all of which have to be sourced and often lugged manually on to the boat. There is a cost to time itself, and there can be a lot of time associated with keeping a narrowboat going. Unlike a house, it is also a depreciating asset. If you buy one then you need to be comfortable knowing that you will almost certainly sell it for less than you bought it for. A well-maintained narrowboat will last for decades, and even some of the old working boats that are 80-plus years old are still afloat. But realistically most have a natural lifespan. If you buy one towards the end of that then you also need a plan for what happens when you have to move off it and sell it for scrap. But so long as you buy the right boat, in my view it remains one of the cheapest ways to live. 'It can be as safe as living in a shed' There are other downsides to boat life besides cost. You are forced to deal with the elements far more than when living in a house, for example. Safety is another issue. A narrowboat is not much harder to break into than the average garden shed, and unlit towpaths at night can attract all sorts of urchins. Things that go bump in the night definitely knock a lot harder when you live alone on a boat, so you have to take sensible precautions, rely on the watchful eyes of other boaters and get good insurance. Fortunately, I love the lifestyle. I was brought up on a farm, so I'm used to the rain and the cold and the mud and the chores, and I'm in love with the natural world and the changing of the seasons, so living on a boat doesn't faze me. The process of buying a boat is simultaneously entertaining and fraught with pitfalls. Some of the boats I looked around had ceilings so low I could not stand up in them, which brokers tenaciously ignored during the viewings. With others, the sales photos hid a multitude of sins, from corroded hulls to rotten wood and dangerously bodged plumbing and gas pipes. So it is important to get a survey where the boat is hauled out of the water, which will likely cost £1,000 or more. Just like buying a house, some parts of the boat are inaccessible when it comes to surveys, so there is always a slight leap of faith. The two most expensive things on a narrowboat to go wrong are the hull and the engine. My survey came back fine, showing the metal of the hull was just as solid as the day the boat first hit the water 22 years ago. The boat has a reliable, British-made Beta Marine engine with relatively low running hours and had been regularly maintained. If Vladimir Putin ever hits that big red button, that engine will share the apocalypse with the cockroaches. Buying a boat at below-average rates for its size can also present you with more bills almost immediately, which bump up the overall cost of purchase. Some would-be sellers put off the regular work that boats need when they want to sell up, because why spend lots of money on something you want to get rid of anyway? This can include things like painting the hull (£600-plus), four-yearly safety certificates (£200-plus) or expensive repair work, which can cost thousands, and which all has to be factored into the overall cost. Some work needed to be done on my boat, but not much: a new cooker and fridge, the gas boiler needs a service, the walls need to be sanded and varnished, the rudder is slightly skewed and some windows need renovating. I've hired tradesmen for some of the work, but a lot of work ends up being done by the boaters themselves – though it is still an extra cost. Learning how to service an engine involves a lot of swearing and scuffed knuckles, as well as a badly bruised wallet. But the upsides to boat life, for me, make up for all the negatives. There are worse ways to start a morning than drinking coffee on the roof of the boat while the sun burns the mists off the water and curious ducks paddle up to say hello. Likewise, it is hard to picture a better working environment than writing an article next to a cosy fire while my dog snores happily at my feet. While I may never be able to own a house, at least when everything on the boat goes right I've bought peace with my money.
The Guardian
13-02-2025
- General
- The Guardian
As a young reporter, I was sent to cover the Moorgate train disaster. I had no idea it had killed my father
Friday 28 February 1975 was the day that changed my life. At half past eight that morning, I was sitting down to write a newspaper feature. At 9.35am, I was standing in the press enclosure outside Moorgate station. I was 25 years young, a freelance journalist who covered occasional news stories for a Fleet Street agency, but I had never been sent to report on one quite like the Moorgate train disaster. My brief was simple: find out what, who, when and how. We knew the 'where', and when I arrived there were just 10 journalists cordoned off next to the underground station entrance. Half an hour later came the first of the day's many press conferences. I had my shorthand notebook at the ready. 'Good morning. I am Brian Fisher, head of disaster planning for the City of London police. At 08:46 today there was a major incident, when the three front carriages of an underground train telescoped into a short dead-end tunnel. The front two carriages were forced upwards on impact and the driver's cab is embedded in the tunnel roof. We believe there may be up to 40 people trapped in the train …' I remained at Moorgate station, and at Barts hospital, interviewing the injured, until just after lunchtime and then filed my copy from a telephone box. I was told by the on-duty editor I had done well and should now go home and send in my invoice. I wanted to remain on the assignment, but I realised that this was turning into a major story and a more senior reporter would take over from me. What I had no idea of, as I was filing my copy, was that 60ft beneath the pavement at Moorgate station lay my own father. He was killed instantly as the train hit the concrete wall. My dad, a 68-year-old ex-copper, was on his way to work at Liverpool Street station that morning. Had he been able to find a parking space near Finsbury Park station, where he dropped off his wife (my stepmother), he would have taken the Piccadilly line from there, then changed on to the Central line to Liverpool Street. But there were no parking spaces, so he went to nearby Drayton Park station, to change at Moorgate station to Liverpool Street. The lack of parking spaces at Finsbury Park cost him his life. The Moorgate train crash was to become the biggest City of London disaster since the blitz: 43 people died and nearly 80 were seriously injured. By 4pm on the afternoon of the accident, more than 100 reporters, photographers and film crews from all over the world were squeezed in and around the narrow station entrance. My father, being Jewish, was the first victim to be buried, a day after his body was removed from inside the twisted second carriage. At the gates of the cemetery on that freezing cold Sunday morning were many reporters and film crews, and I was charged with asking them to respect my family's and the mourners' privacy – explaining that I, too, was a journalist and this really was a very heart-rending moment for me. They respected my wishes, and one, from the Sunday Times, must have noted my words and passed them back to his editor. Five days later I was recruited by the legendary Insight investigative section of the Sunday Times, under the leadership of Harry Evans. Why would such an august newspaper recruit a novice? Because it was Evans's belief that the relatives of the deceased, the transport secretary, the coroner, the police – indeed, everyone involved in the disaster and its aftermath – was more likely to speak to a journalist whose father had been a victim. Evans's hunch was correct. My grief opened the doors of offices and homes that would have otherwise closed in my face. I knew it was going to be challenging, though. Was it possible to separate my mourning from a deep investigation into the cause of the crash? It soon became apparent to me that confusing the personal and professional would prevent me from grasping this God-given opportunity properly. And so I found I was able to leave home each morning and leave behind me the photograph I had of my dad. He belonged in my council flat, and I belonged in the world of investigative reporting. For the next 50 weeks I interviewed every major player in the disaster, every family who lost a loved one, even some conspiracy theorists – yes, even half a century ago. I had access I couldn't have believed. With the words, 'This is Laurence Marks, Insight, the Sunday Times', officials that were 'unavailable', 'on holiday this week' or 'in a meeting' suddenly arrived pretty damn quickly on the other end of the phone. Everyone, that is, except London Transport, who were intent on not becoming involved lest compensation claims started piling up on their desks. In the event, there was just a small handful of inquiries about claims, and, as far as I can recall, only one payout. I attended the coroner's inquest six weeks after the disaster and for three days listened to all the evidence. Dr David Paul, the City of London coroner, offered the jury four possible conclusions as to the driver's role in causing the crash: manslaughter; accidental death; suicide; and an open verdict. The jury returned accidental death, but in a private interview with Dr Paul weeks later, he confided in me that I should pursue the line of suicide. He felt that the evidence pointed to it, but without a note he couldn't have led the jury in that direction. The interview I wanted beyond all others (as did every journalist) was with the driver's widow, Helen Newson. I had written to her on more than one occasion and, unsurprisingly, never received a reply. But a week before my Moorgate story went to print, I took a gamble. I drove over to the south-east London block of council flats where the Newson family lived, and delivered a handwritten note explaining how much I desperately wanted to talk to them, and that I would be sitting downstairs in my car. Forty-five minutes later there was a tap on my window, and there stood a young woman saying that her mum would like to talk to me. As a journalist I received vital details nobody else had, but Mrs Newson could offer no more idea of what had overcome her husband than I could, and her pain was evident in her eyes. She kept apologising to me for her husband's actions, and I kept telling her it wasn't her fault and there was nothing she should be sorry for. When I wrote my Insight feature, it was headlined: 'Was It Suicide?' The answer is, we shall never know. The driver didn't leave a note, so there was no evidence. London Transport's chief engineer told me the train that crashed was in perfect working order, and had the driver applied the brakes at any time it would have slowed down and stopped. The engineer added: 'The driver stopped the train at every station quite normally that morning, except at Moorgate. He could have done and didn't.' I spent days with the eminent pathologist Prof Keith Simpson, who took me through the postmortem performed on the driver. He concluded that there was simply no condition that could be discovered that would have prevented the driver from letting go of the 'deadman's handle' (the spring-loaded brake). Prof Simpson was unwavering in his professional opinion that the driver had not suffered a stroke, heart attack, gone blind, undergone an epileptic seizure or been electrocuted. He simply did not apply his brakes. What's more, he increased the acceleration of the train as he shot into the daylight of Moorgate station. When my feature was published, in certain quarters I was castigated for even suggesting that the driver may have taken his life and the lives of others. I felt it was now time for me to step aside and let the entire matter rest in peace. Yes, I had lost my father, but nothing I could now write – and I was offered appearances on TV, radio and even a publishing contract to write a book on the subject – would bring him back. My year-long investigation elevated me up the journalistic ladder and there I thought my future lay. I worked for national newspapers and the ITV current affairs programme This Week. I could be excused for believing that my career was on an upward trajectory and that perhaps I might even become a 'front of camera' television reporter. But comedy stood in the way of that dream. For years I had been secretly writing comedy sketches and half-hour situation comedies – all rejected, but very encouragingly. In 1977, my co-writer, Maurice Gran, and I were commissioned to write the Frankie Howerd Variety Show, thus kicking off a career in television comedy, creating shows such as The New Statesman, Goodnight Sweetheart, Shine on Harvey Moon and Birds of a Feather. 'Perhaps,' said one psychiatrist to me, 'you are using comedy to blank out the tragedy that was the Moorgate train disaster.' Who was to gainsay her? Whatever the reason, my comedy career skyrocketed and Moorgate faded into the background of my life and imagination. I was the subject of a 2006 Channel 4 documentary entitled Me, My Dad, and Moorgate, which was more focused on my television career than on the disaster, after which those dusty old Moorgate files were placed in my university archive. It was in 2023 that Maurice tentatively suggested that I should blow the dust off the mountain of old research documents and perhaps write a drama about that life-changing day in February 1975. My initial reaction was: 'Why would I want to relive the pain of losing my dad in a 65ft-long train carriage that was reduced to just 15ft?' Maurice and our manager put up a very good argument and, when I finally agreed, the next question was: for what medium would we write it? After significant discussion, we opted for radio. Maurice and I decided to tell the story of Friday 28 February 1975 in two parts: first from the point of view of the rescue operation outside the wreckage; and in our second play from inside the front carriage, focusing on the last two survivors, who were trapped for 12 hours. Out came my considerable library, the cassette-recorded interviews, the shorthand notes, the papers and other documents I should never have been given in the first place. From these we put together the content of the two 45-minute plays, which will be broadcast on Radio 4 later this month. The two plays were constructed and written in 2023, then revised last year when more information was brought to our notice from those who had read about the project on social media. Ambulance workers, doctors, firefighters, and London Transport engineers came out of the woodwork to tell me about their involvement. It was all treasured; it heightened our drama and transported me back 50 years to Moorgate station's press enclosure. As I reflect today on the young me – the journalist who, it might be said, found his professional feet and lost his dad – I ask myself, would I have done it all again? Without question I would. I was ambitious and, furthermore, I cannot see how anything I did was wrong. In so many ways it served as a form of grief therapy. Each day I discovered a new fact, both about my dad's life and what actually occurred on the train that morning. Whereas I felt better about my published piece and the process that led me to write it, this certainly wasn't the case with Helen Newson, whose family were appalled at my suggestion that her husband, her daughters' father, may have died by suicide. Other relatives of the deceased were divided; many thanked me for taking the trouble to discover just how their loved ones were killed, others were appalled that I was digging into their private pain. How do I feel about returning to the past? It was creepy revisiting the young me, hearing him interview such eminent players in the drama (now almost all dead), and reviewing my theory about what happened on that morning in 1975. Yet, had the train arrived as it usually did at Moorgate station, and had all the passengers, including my father, stepped from the carriages and gone about their daily business, I can say with some sureness that my life wouldn't have turned out as it did. Moorgate will be broadcast on Radio 4 on 26 and 27 February, and will be available on BBC Sounds.
