Dodging the DNA Bullets

 

Family trees are funny things. Beyond living memory the people are just names and even further back you have so many ancestors there is nothing special about anybody. If Danny Dyer can trace his family tree back to Edward III then it’s all a bit ‘so what? My great grandfather x 40 was Aelfrog, warrior king and retained dustman of the north Saxons.’

The furthest I can go back (thanks to the Sussex Parish Registers being online) is Roger Sayers, a greengrocer from Horsham (1500-1575) and Johan, his mysterious wife. No more idea about either of them, but all I can picture is a Tudor version of Mr Hodges. Henry VIII visited Horsham in 1519, so I would hope Roger was able to see Harry in his prime.

To take this to the limit, I decided to do a DNA test. I also roped in my mum, who is gathering speed with dementia but still capable of spitting into a tube (this still makes her more capable than the Labour front bench). This would also finally end the speculation about mum’s Irish roots, especially as I’ve followed my Brady bunch back to the 1820s with no actual bogtrotting to be found. In fact, they are all from London (my grandad is a proper cockney, being born within the sound of Bow Bells in Monopoly’s cheapest property).

So, kits were ordered, phials gobbed into and the family DNA swamp was dispatched back to Ireland whence it came (possibly) to be tested.

My test came back first. BORING! You’d think one of my NNNNN whatever grannies could have banged a Mongolian for a bit of exotic, but no. Mostly English, a bit of sheepshagger, then what amounts to Saxon, Angle, Jute and Frisian (termed ‘North German Raider’ in some circles).

The Mem said that large dollop of Hun is concentrated in my ‘bossy’ gene but had entirely missed the ‘efficiency’ one, indicating the lack of skirting boards in the conservatory (14 years and counting…). And I’ve spent the last 25 years taking the widdle out of her Welsh ancestry, so that little avenue of pleasure is now closed.

No rubber dinghies with my lot

Meeting the Welsh

Then the old dear’s arrived with something of a shock: a Shock Jock, in fact…

It’s true, I am descended from the Isle de Bogs - Connacht, to be precise - but the real surprise is the Jockinese blood, which actually comes from my nan’s side. Now, the furthest I’ve gone back there is to Great Yarmouth in the late 1700s and they are all Norfolk mariners, so could the link be a visiting McMatelot? Anyway, none of that rubbish has made it into me so I can happily remain racist towards the more base elements of the Celtic fringe and my mum can continue to occasionally burst into the terrible Oirish accent beloved of American actors and Plastics.

The most disappointing aspect of this, however, is that there is no sign of my father’s known Huguenot ancestry, so that has potentially been blocked in the same way mum’s Scots and Irish traces have been weeded out. The only Huguenot artefact passed down to me is an old cupboard made by my Drouet-stock Great Grandfather. It needs a bit of repair work but sadly the German Efficiency gene didn’t make it either. Just ask the Mem.