An article in this weekend’s newspaper supplements really made me think. It was about a tramp who lived in Hampstead, known to its residents and to those who run businesses there, considered by some a friend. He was known as Bronco, although it is thought his name was John. He had a passion for tea, drinking up to forty cups a day, and carrying tea making paraphernalia at all times. He died last year on Boxing Day, and a funeral was held for him a month later, attended by these friends and acquaintances, who included both local and more widely-known celebrities.
His story is interesting from two points of view. He defied the stereotypes which we generally hold of the vagrant. And, probably as a consequence of this, people’s response to him also defied the stereotypical.
At his funeral, in his obituary, and in the various pieces written about him since his death, it has been noted that he was a friend and inspiration to Peter Cook, and at various times during his life, enjoyed the acquaintance of Pierce Brosnan, the Rolling Stones, footballers Freddie Ljungberg and Thierry Henry, Peter O’Toole and Peter Sellers. But from what I have read, it is clear that in none of these cases was this a patronising relationship: he wasn’t some sort of mascot. He was well read and intelligent, being known for his knowledge of history and of music. So much so that Sir Simm, who when he was UK chairman of KPMG once spent two hours talking to him on his way to the tobacconists, says ‘I know heads of major corporations less intelligent than John’. It is also claimed that he had a gift for prediction, and some of those who knew him claim he had an affinity with eastern mystics.
His passion for music led to him playing the piano in the vegetarian restaurant Pippin in the seventies, and his relationship with other restaurateurs in the area was good. The owner of Villa Bianca, Giuliano Ferrari, would feed him, not, as many kind-hearted people would do, out of the kitchen, but in the restaurant, where he was served like other customers (apparently even complaining, on occasion, about an unclean knife!). And if any of the paying customers complained about either the sight or smell of this homeless man, they would be told to move tables.
It is the seemingly endless kindness that people showed the tramp which confounds me. In a time when more and more people are ignoring the pain and suffering which has led foreigners to seek asylum in this country, a time when they cower behind misconceptions and political nonsense which allows us to condone legislation which takes away rights from suspected (supposed) terrorists, a time when people are shoring themselves up in their comfortable existences, all in order to protect their own perceived self-interest, there was a group of very wealthy, privileged, middle class people who not only stopped to speak to this man in the safe territory of the street, but took him into their own homes.
It seems that several residents took him in at various times. From Geraldine March, who gave him her keys when she went away for a month, and subsequently housed him, and his odd and difficult habits, in her front room for two years, to Giles Daubeny who allowed him to sleep on the sofa, also for a number of years, to the man who allowed him to sleep in his house, eventually causing it to wreck his marriage, these people displayed a humanity and a caring for someone on a lower strata of society, which I find surprising in Londoners.
Many of those who new him have said that they feel a loss at Bronco’s death. There has been an inevitable interest shown by his acquaintances, and the press, in his background. And the local church is unveiling a plaque to him. But to me, these details are incidental. The interest in his story, apart from an enjoyment of someone who was obviously so unusual and captivating, is how he inspired decent behaviour from the people around him, and why it is that reading about this behaviour it strikes me as unusual, rather than the norm.
Hampstead is an anomaly in the sense that it is a ‘bohemian artist’ community albeit a well heeled one at that – I think Brixton is a less likely backdrop for such a story.
There are pockets of good in the world, they just get smothered by hyperbole, suffering and bullshit in the press. Good post, I’d meant to mention it to you at some point but you beat me to the punch.
I wrote this article for the Observer. Thankyou for the thoughtfulness of your comments.
Many thanks John. And apologies for not crediting your article, and posting the link. I have amended that now.