Hostler.com

My turn to fess up, having been tagged by Claire in this season’s blog meme.

1. Tom is not my real name.

OK, i’m easing into this with an gentle one. Many of you will know this already, but I am in fact a Sam rather than a Tom according to my birth certificate, with Tom being my middle name. Before the flurry of “I like the name Sam” comments I usualy get when explaining this, i’ll head you off at the pass with a resounding “so do I”. The name switch is nothing to do with me, it was my folks idea. They always wanted me to be called Tom but preferred the way Samuel Thomas Hostler sounded as opposed to Thomas Samuel Hostler. So there. It always was a nice talking point, upto the point when the banks cracked down on identity fraud and now it’s total nightmare processing anything financial.

2. One of my legs is longer than the other

Again, a few of you will know this, but owing to a mystery bone illness I contracted when I was eight, my left leg is about 3/4 of an inch shorter than my right leg, plus I have a super-size me scar down my left hip where various explorations were undertaken during a 3 month stint in hospital. Never found out what it was, and i’m largely fine, but have to be careful when walking for long periods of time and - as someone recently pointed out to me - given enough slope i’d probably ski in circles - thus ending my Ski jump hopes for the 2012 Olympics.

3. I think I might be a Dutch

When considering the roots of the (reasonably rare) name “Hostler” we’ve always assumed that it was originally derived from the term ‘Ostler’ - the name given to the chap (or chap-ess) that tended horses in large houses or Inns - somewhere gaining a H at a time when everyone else was dropping theirs. Fair enough. Makes sense.

Until recently that is, and I picked up my father’s trail of geneological reserach into the name. My fathers family are from Northumberland - the area around Ashington to be exact - historically a big mining community. This is true for several generations, right back to the early 19th century when the trail moves due south to a village just outside Norwich called Costessy, where there were generation after generation of farming Hostler’s living in the same street (it was a one street town back then too). The current trail runs cold around 1650, and until i can spare some time to bunker down in the local church records office, we can’t get any further back.

However, a chat with a dutch-speaking friend revealed an intriquing new theory. In dutch, the sound of “Ostler” is very close to the word meaning “easterner” - or “someone from the east”. Now what does East Anglia and Holland have in common? They both have large tracts of reclaimed agricultural flat land. So, it’s possible that at some point some enterprising Dutch farmers came over on the Harwich Ferry and setup shop in Norfolk, as they had the immediate skills and knowledge of farming that kind of land, being known the locals as the “easterners”. The timing broadly coincides with the Civil War when many English men were pressed into service never to return. Also at that time, Holland was the original world super-power with it’s shipping and trade routes extending all over the globe.

I can also eat an entire packet of Stroopwafels in one sitting. That’s the clincher for me.

4. I’ve appeared on the front page of the Sun newspaper.

Unfortunately I don’t have a copy to prove this, but I was captured on film caught up in a riot at a Sigue Sigue Sputnik gig in Coventry in 1985. I’m not sure which is more embarassing, but it was a “Holy Moly” moment when I rocked up to the papershop the following morning to deliver my usual paper round and there I am on the front page of the biggest selling tabloid, ahead of Sam Fox even.

5. I was Head Boy at school.

Perhaps not all that surprising, but I think they really regretted it quite quickly. You see, I was by any measure a pretty good school boy unto 15. Always did my homework, was very polite, got excellent grades and was generally super-sensible. I did find school pretty easy really. So, on the one hand a natural choice when they called me into the headmasters office one Friday and told me the news.

Trouble is, i’d already planned that weekend with my mate Johnny to transform myself in true teenage angst fashion, from mild-mannered wouldn’t-say-boo-to-goose Tom into the fifth member of the Clash. This new look was achieved with judicial use of scissors on my school uniform cutting it up, a lighter to burn holes in my nice M&S jumper, and an entire Saturday afternoon fashioning dreadlocks out of my (Dutch) blond hair. Yes, dreadlocks, albeit ones caked in hairspray and soap. So, Monday morning arrives and inaugral assembly ceremony and their shiny new Head Boy now looks like a cross between Robert Smith of The Cure and Steptoe and the crusty man with a dog-on-a-string that sells you The Big Issue outside Temple Tube. The look on the headmasters face was priceless.

What followed was actually a great year. It meant I could pretty much do as I please, giving me and the gang free rein over the school. I could even opt out of games to pursue “personal projects” - which I certainly did - choosing to turn the electronics lab at lunchtime over to manufacturing guitar distortion effects pedals for the various bands that we were all starting. Ace.

That’s my five. Passing the baton to Cookie, Iain, Nico, Gor and Paul now …