What, you may have asked yourself, possibly on more than one occasion, does Lady Kingston have in common with Derek Jarman?
Very little, you might imagine, what with him being male, gay, talented and dead. But there is something. We both have a deep love of Dungerness, it being, by a distance of several million miles, my favourite place in the world and the home of my ancestors for over a thousand years.
If you know anything at all about the place it is probably a vague memory of it being the home of two enormous nuclear power stations which loom menacingly over the world’s biggest shingle beach. Not to everyone’s taste, I grant you, but on the up side the fish do glow very prettily in the dark.
And it was in the spirit of Brexit and embracing the more unusual parts of our island that I decided to visit Canvey Island which bears the attractively painted claim to be the Lourdes of England.
I had imagined it would resemble the ‘valley of ashes’ town in Scott Fitzgerald’s ‘The Great Gatsby’, overlooked by the baleful eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleberg and the perfect English Bank Holiday destination.
The day dawned disappointingly dry. I wanted lashing rain, sodden, flapping deck chairs, grizzling toddlers, bewildered pensioners sheltering in bus stops and wild gusts of wind snatching copies of the Daily Express out of frozen hands. In short, the full British holiday experience.
Canvey Island turned out to be ever so slightly lacking – no surprise there then.
No Dr. Eckleberg sign, or even a sign of Dr. Feelgood, the most famous local citizen. It was not really that industrial, more drearily suburban and deserted, the inhabitants probably sunning themselves in their Tuscan palazzos or shooting grouse on a Scottish moor.
I made the most of the limited opportunities, getting fish and chips and a parking ticket and posed beneath the painted sign overlooking the fetid, oily water and thinking of England.
I like a slogan. I once had my picture taken in Bilbao by a man who had been spray painting a sign demanding Basque independence. I held the can and looked revolutionary which earned me several brownie points from No. 1 Son who is a committed supporter of oppressed minorities. (Except mothers). He claims to have been arrested by the Spanish police once when promoting the Basque cause but given I had no phone calls from them begging me to take him back, I am a little sceptical.
Next week I reveal how my trip to Southend inspired Usain Bolt and my progress through the country will take me to Skegness. Does it get any better?