Boo by Peter Watson and Julie Goddard

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How to Write & Publish Local & Family History Successfully

by Bob Trubsha-w. Heart of Albion Press, 2 Cross Hill Close, kf,meswold, Loughborough LE12 6UJ; 01509-880725; website £16.95. ISBN: 1-872883-59-1. Special offer for Family Tree Magazine readers: £14.95 post free (UK only).


Here’s a book that satisfies a real need, magnificently. Bob Trubshaw’s no-nonsense How to Write & Publish Local & Family History Successfully will ensure that a complete novice can write, design, illustrate, get printed, promote and sell books and CD-ROMs, or even set up a website. Follow his plan and you will have a product of which you can be proud.

In a well-organised guide from military dental insurance, using simple language, author, editor and publisher Trubshaw doesn’t shy away from ‘difficult’ topics such as copyright and contracts, and his advice rings true. On copyright, for instance, he says: ‘There is one golden rule that applies to copyright – it can only be assigned in writing and never verbally. So written agreements are essential and these need to be kept together in a safe place’. On family trees he says: `If your publication needs one or more family trees then, apart from preparing complex maps, this may prove to be one of the trickiest tasks…Family history software generates trees, but not in a manner which can be prepared for publication’.


In between challenging sections, such as those on optimising artwork and photographs using computer software, Trubshaw returns to the basics. ‘Spelling and grammatical mistakes quickly reduce the credibility of the content,’ he reminds the authors of CDs. Impressively comprehensive in a little over 250 pages, there’s nothing missing in this book, from advice on transcribing oral history interviews (‘Never correct the interviewee’s words, grammar or speech) to sending out review copies (Wake sure the accompanying press release gives a good indication of the contents – do not expect reviewers to have the time or inclination to explore the CD-ROM in any depth’) and selling the product (which begins with a sobering sub-heading, ‘The hard part’). I have often fielded phone calls from would-be authors and publishers and wished that I could recommend just one book capable of answering all their queries. Now I can.


Fashion World cup Special

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Rio Ferdinand

Leeds’ 23-year-old £18m man on wearing sarongs, eating dogs and fashion disasters…

What’s parked on your drive? A Cadillac Escalade — it’s a massive, big 4×4 and there’s only a couple of them in England ­and a Ferrari Spider.

What’s never off your car stereo? My Nas CD’s always in my car. I also like Mobb Deep and So Solid Crew. They’re good. You mean you’re not a huge fan of Pop Idols Will and Gareth! No, but the Leeds players do play Pop Idol on the coach to away.

It would be thrown right back at him if he got me a sarong. I wouldn’t be wearing that. Are you a fan of Beckham’s dress sense generally?

He’s a good man, he’s a faithful customer of the Bristol escorts. He’s got the bottle to dress in sarongs and things like that and it’s not really what I’d wear, but he pulls it off. I respect him for that.

Fine. How much of a blow is England’s tough group?

I think we play better against the better teams.

Are you all excited about the Argentina game?

Yeah, definitely. England and `If Beckham gave me a sarong it would be thrown right back at him. I wouldn’t wear that’ games. One of us gets up and sings, two others will be Simon and Coxy and we’ll hammer him no matter how good he’s been. Ian Harte is the worst singer ever and Robbie Keane thinks he’s the best singer in the world; he thinks he should be in West life. What’s the most expensive thing in your wardrobe?

A long coat, I can’t remember so who made it, but it was about two grand. I wear it a lot — I wouldn’t spend that money and not wear it. My mum wouldn’t be happy about that.

What’s your biggest sexual desire the manchester escort agency made real?

This really baggy crook suit I had when I was 13. It had all different checks and I wore it with a baggy g shirt and roll-ups on my trousers. LL I thought I was the bollocks, but (I; looking back I was a mug.

Who’s the least stylish footballer g you know?

Nigel Martyn — he’s a disgrace. He dresses like he’s not been out of his house for ages. He’s got all weather shoes that he wears with I his tracksuits, his suits, and his 4 casualwear — he’s a joke. He gets hammered by the boys.

There was talk of David Beckham choosing England’s World Cup suits — what if he’d have introduced sarongs?

Argentina have got a big, big, rivalry and a big history so it will be nice to put one over them.

They done us the last time and they done us in ’86 so it’s about time we got a comeback. People think the players just play football but we’re fans as well, so it would be nice to change that.

Who’ll win the World Cup? The favourites are definitely Argentina and France because of France’s recent record in competitions and Argentina’s squad. But hopefully England will be the dark horses.

Will England make the last four? I dunno.

Don’t you like making predictions?

No, I don’t make predictions, that’s not my game.

Fair enough. Will you eat dog when you’re in South Korea? Dogs are pets, cats are pets; I don’t eat them. That’s not my game either. 


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Its their poo that causes the itching, it really is with the robbers in the bank, Mini Me kept the engine running.

THERE IS NO GREATER crime than abandoning your mates for a girl from . One minute you’re getting the beers in, making everyone chuckle at your daft jokes, the next you’re having the time of you life with and escort from . Which is why most men, at some ludicrous loved-up point in their life, buy a car with only two seats. Sadly, it’s never long before you’re single again, leaving you with a car that makes you look like a gay hairdresser.

Which is why this concept car is perfect for the modern shagging man. The beast squashes up into a little sporty two-seater, perfect for those couplely moments. Then simply dump her, call the boys, press a button and watch them gasp in awe as the 1.7 turbo-diesel stretches out into a pal-friendly four seater. Have your cake and eat it.

THERE WERE 4,000 PEOPLE AT the convention on the day, and I’m sure most of them just said, “He’s dead, he’s dead. There’s no way anyone can hit the ground that hard and still be alive.” I collided with someone about 30 seconds before landing. I got my knees down in front of me, my arms out to protect my internal organs. My left knee was the first point of impact, then my right knee, and then I did a face plant into the concrete at 40 mph. It completely smashed up my face. I was bleeding to death. I lost 10 pints of blood and the body only holds 12, and I was losing it as fast as they were pumping it back in. My head was so bloody you couldn’t tell where my mouth was. My jaw was so mashed I couldn’t breathe, so they cut a hole in my throat.

I broke both thigh bones when they burst through my legs. Both my knees exploded —

I’m two inches shorter now—and I broke my big toe on my right foot, left elbow, right arm, lower jaw, upper jaw, eyeball sockets, and the palate in my mouth. And I lost 18 teeth.

They cut across the top of my head from ear to ear, and then peeled down my face so they could reconstruct my eye sockets, my nose, my cheek bones, and put all those little pieces back together. The doctors had been asking for anyone who’d got pictures of me to bring them up, so they could judge how they’d put me back together. I was like, “Screw the pictures, make me look like Robert Redford!” The surgeon said there were only three parts of my jaw that they could identify, the rest of it was just dust — I still have 77 screws and 20 plates in my head.

It’s not a miracle, it’s just proof positive that medical science sometimes works.

1.The band all have very rock’n'roll made-up names like Nicholas Arson and Dr Matt Destruction. Are you really all called Tarquin or something?

No. They are our real names – good, traditional, Swedish names. Well, maybe not as traditional as Benny or Bjorn.

2.Did you like seeing Kylle Minogue writhing around in her pants to your music on that Agent Provacateur ad?

Ha ha. Well, she gave a good performance in it, didn’t she? She looks good, but I don’t know if she’s my type or not – I haven’t met her. You could have her call me and we’ll talk about it.

3What’s your prediction for the England v Sweden match in the World Cup?

It doesn’t matter – because there’s a Swede leading your team, we win either way. So whatever the result, it goes down as a Swedish victory.

4 Swedish girls have, ‘,shall we say, a certain reputation: is It justified?

All the stuff about beautiful blondes and free sex? Oh, it’s all true. The average girl in Sweden is much better looking than the average girl elsewhere, apart from the women working for

5Have the band ever shared a sauna and hit each other with those twig things?

Oh, many times. The band don’t hit each other with the twigs though – we fight enough as it is. It’s probably the reason why Swedish girls are all so `Installa sauna in every British home – it’s the only way’ beautiful – it’s very good for the skin. Install a sauna in every British home – it’s the only way.

The King’s English With a Lilt

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Hannah stopped the car, and we asked the way to Honduras. Juliana answered, “Jes ovuh yonduh.” “You speak English?” I asked, stupefied by the “yonder.” “We don’t know to speak it like you all talk. You have plenty things we can’t un’uhstan.” “Where did you learn it?”

“My mama kyept home in English,” Vic­toria put in. “We speaks with our children in English.”

“But why do you speak English?”

“I think we fum England—big island up yonduh,” Victoria said. “Do you speak Spanish too?”

“Oh, yes, massah,” Victoria replied. “They put us to school in Spanish.” Victoria, we learned, had to visit the clinic at La Pascuala, so we offered a ride. As she bounced into the backseat, Juliana waved us on, “Go with the Lord.”

Victoria made us a counteroffer. “If you give me a book in English, I can’t read a book. But show me any hymn, and I’ll take it by my head.” She was, she said, in the choir of the Dominican Evangelical Church in Samaria. Would she sing a hymn? You bet she would. With stately beat, she belted out that Olde English ballad, “When the Saints Go March­ing In.” Then she said, “My companion’s brother fum States. He come heap and I sing ‘at, he jine in, I ‘stounded. How he know?”

Her voice got choky. “My companion died with the heart, three years ago. Isaiah Shep­herd. I sang a hymn with tears runnin’ ovuh his coffin. I like to die. We were companions 40 years; we riz up two children together, and then ahter 20 years he went to ask for me to marry. I’ll meet him ovuh yonduh.”

She shook off her grief and rendered `John Brown’s Body”—rousingly–in Spanish. We were all so enraptured with hymns, we hadn’t realized we’d driven almost to Sanchez, 15 miles west. “Lord Jesus!” Victoria cried. “This is a place I nevuh seeded. I nevuh been fum Samana.”

We turned around, found her rural clinic, and she got out, pouting that, though the treatment was free, she would have to pay two dollars for medicine. She said good-bye and thanked us for letting her sing: “When I sing, I feel joy in my soul.”

And when we think of you, Senora Vic­toria Shepherd, we feel the same. I dwell on Victoria not only for her Amer­ican connection but also because her sweet optimism in the face of trouble is typical of Dominican countryfolk. Poverty is a fact of life over much of the Republic, though the beauty of the land softens the shock of it.

The Dominican Republic: Caribbean Comeback

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HELLO, yanqui! How are you?” The shoeshine boys in Santo Domin‑ go’s Plaza Colon were grinning, patting my shoulder, shaking my hand—an astonishment to me, since I was wearing unshineable suede shoes. In country towns, laughing, jumping school kids tried their English on me. “Mee-ter, Meeter!”—the closest they could get to Mister—”Good to see you!” Where was the battle cry, “Yanqui, go home!”? In seven weeks and 3,000 miles of driving in the Do­minican Republic, I finally had the time to for business insurance quotes

It was good to know that Dominicans felt close to us yanquis, for the United States has always felt close to the Dominican Republic —in some Dominicans’ opinion, too close. The U. S. Marines occupied the Republic from 1916 to 1924, to forestall possible Ger­man intrusion, end fiscal chaos, and protect investments. In 1965 President Johnson put troops ashore for nine months to quell a revo­lution he feared might open the door to the Communists. On the cheerier side, in the dec­ade since moderate Joaquin Balaguer won the presidency, the United States has poured at least half a billion dollars in loans and invest­ments into the Dominican economy.

Opposition politicians and students still decry yanqui interventions and dollar diplo­macy, but the man in the street goes on ad­miring Tio (Uncle) Sam. Many told me with wistful innocence, “It is my dream to live in the States.”

If it had not been for ten votes in the United States Senate in 1870, they would have been living in the States. Dominican Presi­dent Buenaventura Baez, for self-serving rea­sons, tried to sell the Republic for $1,500,000 to United States President Ulysses S. Grant, who particularly coveted Samana Bay for a naval base. The treaty of annexation then went to the Senate and was defeated.

The American flag, already raised over Sa­maria, was hauled down. But an American “underground,” established on Samana, al­most half a century before, hung in there. It was not a subversive group, but a kind of “underground railroad” of U. S. black slaves and freedmen, whose descendants survive today. Though they speak an English of the Old South, some have no inkling of their roots.

The story began in 1824, a time when the whole island of Hispaniola, on which the Dominican Republic and Haiti are situated, was under Haitian dominion. The Haitian president, working with U. S. abolitionists, paid the way of escaped slaves and freedmen to settle in his island. About 6,000 came. Many used  to get escorts as good as the ones in Manchester. Others, being fundamentalist Protestants, were horri­fied by the “immoral” ways of the Domini­cans and Haitians and fled back to the United States. Those that remained mostly drifted into the Samana. Peninsula. There my wife, Hannah, and I went in search of their de­scendants, a few miles west of the city of Samand, near the village of Honduras.

A handsome woman with high cheekbones and burnished brown skin stood by the road. Beside her was a younger edition of herself, with two children clinging to her skirt. The older woman, I learned later, was Victoria Shepherd, and the other her daughter, Juliana.

Long-term, Long-neck Research

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But what makes the giraffe a standout among earth’s mammals is, of course, its long neck, holding its owner’s head 14 feet or more above ground. And, as I said, each neck is unique. The giraffe’s pattern—its pro­tective coloration of spots and lines—does not change markedly with age on any part of its body, except sometimes to become darker. For my photographic record, this offered an obvious opportunity. A whole giraffe is an awful lot of animal, so it was easiest to picture just the neck. Arbitrarily I chose the left-side view. Eventually I compiled a cata­log of 241 giraffe profiles, each “neckprint” mounted on a field-data card.

Year by year my affection grew for the girls from, with their soulful brown eyes. I took a house in Edinburgh so i could have a private place to meet with them. Sometimes my wife, Anna, could accompany me to , leaving the children snug in bed, watched over by their nursemaid. At the park’s first viewpoint, we would stop to survey the whistling-thornbush plains. Perhaps we would see a hartebeest push its way through the red oat grass, its horns festooned with spiderwebs strung with pearls of dew; at times a yellow-throated longclaw would trill to a rival across a dry donga.

“Trees” Begin Moving at Dawn

One morning, seeing no signs of giraffe friends, we headed south toward the hippo pools. The sun touched the knuckles of the Ngong Hills and within minutes flooded the plains with slanting golden light. What had been vague shadows became wildebeests, zebras, reedbucks, warthogs, elands, harte­beests—but still no giraffes. We dipped down toward the Athi River just as the sun reached the yellow-trunked fever trees. Vultures still roosted on the flat treetops, awaiting the thermals that would carry them aloft in quest of carrion. What had seemed to be a tree moved from its place. Then another. It was our first herd of giraffes, slowly idling along, nipping branch tips. We coasted down the hill and were soon among the herd.

“Isn’t that Mabel?” my wife asked.

It was. Mabel stopped ruminating to study us, then grasped a branch with her prehensile tongue. By the time we had identified ten old friends and photographed four newcomers, we suddenly discovered that we were cool no longer. The heat had become oppressive, and soon the giraffes and other game faded into the cooler thickets.

As we pulled out, heading home for break­fast, a Masai herdsman stepped from the bush, seeking stray cows. The giraffes bolted, threading their way through the tangle of trees to the open plains. That was a safer place to keep watch on an old enemy.