Russell 1961

husband, father, son & supporter

A red jumper at a community centre disco. A chapel aisle, some said, he shouldn’t walk. A bus to the wrong end of a cup final and a long, cold trek home from the station after a night in a cell. When I sat down with Russell, I found a life textured by central Scotland in the sixties and seventies—steelworks grit, Friday pay packets, and the tidal pull of Rangers versus Celtic—alongside the quieter courage of choosing love over the lines others drew.

We begin with the culture of sectarian identity and football, where schools and pubs marked allegiances from birth. Russell reflects on how that world shaped him, then walks me through the romance that crossed the divide: marrying Katie, the youngest of a large Catholic family, and navigating the fallout with humour and resolve. From a near-miss at a professional football career to the hard lessons of gravel pitches and hot tempers, he shows how discipline is forged in the small moments no scout ever sees. Work anchors the story as we move from a boutique sales floor to a filthy, formative steelworks apprenticeship, redundancy, and an unexpected pivot to Prudential—where trust, doorsteps, and a thick book of names turned into a top-performing agency.

Our conversation deepens around family and drink: a father who worked hard and drank harder, a mother who held the home together, and a son who asked the right question at the right time. Russell’s answer—that he would choose not to drink—becomes a practical compass, echoed in his son’s turn to CrossFit and Taekwondo. Along the way, you’ll hear the soundtrack of Clyde Valley weekends, the clatter of pool tables, and the comic-serious tale of being stitched up at Hampden. What emerges is a candid, grounded portrait of identity and endurance: the parts we inherit, the parts we refuse, and the parts we build with our own hands.

If Russell’s story resonates, please follow the show, leave a review, and share it with someone who’s wrestled with identity, rivalry, or sobriety. Your support helps these lived histories reach the people who need to hear them.

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"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."

What happens when we pause to truly listen to the stories that shaped us? As Season One draws to a close, I find myself reflecting on ten conversations that revealed how seemingly small decisions can dramatically alter the course of family destinies across generations.

When I began this podcast a few months ago, I had no clear destination—only a quiet curiosity about the turning points tucked inside ordinary lives. I started with my own family, and soon discovered how my grandfather’s move from smoggy 1930s London to the Isle of Wight—on a doctor’s recommendation—completely changed our trajectory. Had he not made that move, my mother would never have met my father. The recordings I made with my aunt (now 89) and my mum have become even more precious, especially as both have faced health challenges since we spoke.

From there, the journey widened. I listened to stories of adventure, loss, and unexpected legacies. Gary left the rat race behind for rhinos and solo Pacific crossings. John unknowingly fulfilled his late father’s dreams in Spain. Moray shared the complexities of growing up with a jazz legend for a dad. I revisited school dormitories with Bas, proving that some friendships truly never fade. And I honoured lives cut short—like Andy’s brother Simon, whose everyday kindness left a quietly profound legacy, and David’s father, remembered through fragments of wartime heroism passed down through generations.

Each conversation reminded me that memory isn’t just about preserving the past—it’s about what we choose to carry forward. These ordinary yet extraordinary lives show how the smallest moments and choices ripple through time.

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"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."

Llewelyn Williams - David 1955

father/son

What remains when a father disappears from a child’s life at the age of seven? When I sat down with David Williams, I found the answer lay not in grand gestures, but in fragments—sausages sizzling on Stanley Beach in Hong Kong, bowling club outings, and the fading images of a man he barely knew, yet whose extraordinary life continues to echo through the decades.

In this episode of Longtime Ago People, I journey through memory and history as David pieces together the remarkable story of his father, Llewelyn Williams. Born in 1922, Lew volunteered for the Royal Air Force at just nineteen, becoming a navigator after an officer famously told him, “Any bloody fool can drive a bus. It takes brains to get it there and back.” The odds were harrowing—more than half of Bomber Command airmen never returned home. Yet Lew flew around thirty missions before being shot down over France in June 1944.

What followed reads like a wartime thriller: the sole survivor of his seven-man crew, rescued by the French Resistance, captured by the Gestapo, imprisoned in Buchenwald concentration camp, transferred to Stalag Luft III (the site of the infamous “Great Escape”), and finally liberated as the war drew to a close. Tragically, the chemicals used to delouse prisoners would later cause the cancer that claimed his life in 1963.

But David’s story isn’t solely about wartime heroism—it’s about how we preserve the memories of those we’ve lost, how family stories sustain us, and how love finds a way to endure across generations. Through vivid recollections from relatives and his father’s friends, David has assembled a portrait of a man he barely knew, yet whose legacy shaped his life in profound ways. And when a loving stepfather named “Binks” entered the picture, David experienced what he describes as “a very privileged upbringing… because there was a lot of love going around.”

This conversation is a moving exploration of family history, resilience, and the powerful ways our ancestors remain present in our lives—even in their absence.

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"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."

Douglas & Agnes Thurston - Ingrid 1956

parents/daughter

In this deeply affecting conversation, I speak with my Auntie Ingrid about her parents (my grandparents) —Douglas George Thurston and Agnes Franziska—whose improbable love story unfolded amid the devastation of post-war Germany. Douglas, a British soldier known affectionately as “Busty,” had survived the horrors of being a Japanese POW during the Fall of Singapore. He rarely spoke of it, once telling Ingrid simply: “There’s no glory in war.” Agnes, a German woman with a commanding presence and a generous heart, made sure no one ever left her home empty-handed.

Their story is stitched into the fabric of 20th-century history. They met in occupied Germany—Agnes reportedly chose Douglas because “he looks like he can get us food”—and built a life together in Britain, raising bilingual children who spent summers with German relatives despite the lingering post-war prejudice. Their household was a blend of cultures, resilience, and quiet defiance.

The most poignant moment comes in the telling of their deaths. Agnes died suddenly at 57, upon hearing that Douglas was critically ill after surgery. He followed her 15 months later. Ingrid’s grief is palpable: “I was angry for a long time that I was so young when she died… that my children didn’t see her.” Yet through her recollections, we glimpse the legacy they left behind—values of hard work, compassion, and quiet strength.

It’s a story that reminds me how love, even in the toughest of times, can forge something enduring. And how memory, when shared with tenderness, can illuminate lives that might otherwise fade into history’s margins. I came into the conversation with a few familiar threads, but I uncovered so much more--details, emotions, and stories about my grandparents that I'd never known. It deepened my understanding of who they were, far beyond the fragments I'd grown up with.

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"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."

Simon Redhead - Andy 1957

brothers

What happens when the quiet cornerstone of a family disappears? I speak with Andy about his younger brother Simon — a man whose life, and sudden death, left a lasting imprint far beyond what anyone had imagined.

Simon grew up in Leeds, surrounded by teachers, and went on to become a much-loved PE teacher himself. It wasn’t until his funeral, attended by hundreds of former pupils, that the full extent of his influence became clear. “The place virtually came to a standstill,” Andy tells me, describing mourners packed “up in the rafters.”

Though five years apart in age, the brothers grew close over time, bonding through sport and their shared devotion to Everton. Andy’s recollections of 1960s Yorkshire are vivid — seaside holidays in Filey and Scarborough, pushing prams to school, and kicking footballs down quiet streets where “you could stop every five minutes when a car came along.”

But it’s Simon’s character that lingers most. Andy describes him as the family’s mediator — someone with “no isms or ists,” who could “look at things from other people’s hilltops.” He was the quiet strength that held everyone together.

When I ask Andy what he’d say if he had one more conversation with Simon, his reply is heartbreakingly simple: “I would ask him to help me.” A decade on, he still misses Simon’s calm wisdom, admitting he’s “about two out of ten compared to his ten out of ten” when it comes to resolving family tensions.

This conversation left me asking: What legacy do we leave behind? Who will remember our best qualities when we’re no longer here to show them? Perhaps it’s the quiet, everyday kindness that endures longest.

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"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."

Bembridge School - Bas & Miles 1964

friends

There’s something quietly remarkable about friendships that endure across decades. I recently sat down with my old school friend Bas—now living in Sydney—for a conversation that spanned forty years yet felt like no time had passed at all.

We found ourselves transported back to Bembridge School on the Isle of Wight, where we spent our formative years in the late ’70s and early ’80s. Boarding school life then had a curious blend of austerity and enchantment—freezing dormitories with ice on the inside of the windows, the five "houses", and house ties that marked your allegiance. It was, in hindsight, a kind of Hogwarts before Rowling imagined hers.

Our chat meandered through the odd rituals that shaped us: nicknames so entrenched that real names were practically forgotten, the infamous “Island Walk”—a 30-mile overnight trek through darkness—and ghost stories that haunted us in the best possible way. These shared rites stitched us together, forging bonds that have somehow survived time and geography.

Music was a lifeline. Bas credits ABBA with getting him through boarding school, while I remember The Jam as the soundtrack to our adolescence. Those songs weren’t just background—they were emotional anchors.

What struck me most was our shared sense of what Bembridge gave us. “It taught you respect,” Bas said, and I agreed. Independence, resilience, and a kind of emotional literacy that’s hard to quantify but easy to recognise. Though the school itself now stands empty, its legacy lives on in us.

This conversation wasn’t just nostalgic—it was affirming. Proof that the past isn’t lost, just waiting to be revisited with someone who remembers it too.

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"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."

Bill McGuffie - Moray 1957

father/son

What happens when musical brilliance collides with the complexities of fatherhood? In this episode, I speak with Moray McGuffie about his father Bill—a Scottish piano prodigy whose life was as dazzling as it was difficult.

Bill’s story begins with a jaw-dropping moment: stepping in at age twelve to play with a professional band, sight unseen. Despite losing a finger to gangrene, he became one of the world’s top jazz pianists, composing for film and television—including Doctor Who with Peter Cushing—and performing alongside icons like Bing Crosby and Bob Hope. Their home was a revolving door of celebrities, from June Whitfield to Monty Python regulars.

But behind the glamour was a more tangled reality. Moray opens up about his father’s struggles with alcohol, erratic behaviour, and the decade-long estrangement that preceded Bill’s death in 1987. It’s a story laced with tenderness: music scribbled on cigarette packets, a trombone bought to nurture his son’s talent, and the enduring advice—“Be yourself.”

This conversation is a reminder that even flawed relationships leave lasting imprints. Moray’s words—“If anyone’s listening, sort it out if you can, because it hurts”—echo with quiet urgency. His reflections will resonate with anyone who’s navigated complicated family dynamics or longed for just five more minutes with someone they’ve lost.

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"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."

George Palmer - John 1966

father/son

Every family has its storytellers—the keepers of memories that might otherwise slip away. In this conversation, recorded on the sun-drenched Mediterranean coast of Spain, I spoke with my brother-in-law who, John, without even realising it, had found himself living out his father George’s dream.

Early on, a quiet revelation set the tone: “I just found out from my sister that I’m probably living his dream.” From there, the conversation unfolded gently, full of memories—family holidays to Cornwall where his dad hand-sewed wetsuits, an old air raid shelter reimagined as a music-filled bedroom, and the comfort his father George, found in the sound of a distant motorway, which reminded him of the sea.

A vivid portrait emerged of a man driven by creativity and curiosity. He once hang-glided off cliffs, built tennis ball machines before they were mainstream, developed photos in makeshift darkrooms, and turned everyday materials into tools of adventure. Through his son’s John’s recollections, we glimpsed a spirit who valued ingenuity as much as imagination—and passed down a musical legacy stretching from Johnny Cash to alternative country.

What would he make of smartphones and AI? John & I both believed he’d have embraced the possibilities, while staying true to his love for authentic sounds and hands-on crafting. That reflection led to a quietly profound moment: “The sad thing about life is that when people are no longer there, everything they ever thought or believed disappears too.”

And yet, by sharing stories like these, something vital is kept alive—not just memory, but meaning. As I sat there listening, I couldn’t help but wonder: what stories of your loved ones deserve to be remembered?

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"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."