Having spent many millions* on bringing this blog into the 21st century, it is my solemn duty to report that I am going to have to keep my head down for a while. Having previous shown no interest in finding out about my ancestry, my partner’s deep dive into hers finally persuaded me to take a cursory glance at what my DNA reveals and while I am not particularly stunned at the outcome, it turns out I’m even less English than I thought I was. In the current climate, I fear for the future. I’ll explain why in a bit.
On the basis of a bit of phlegm, the boffins have been able to determine, with some accuracy, how my DNA matches up.
Here are the scores on the doors:
Dad Mum Both
| Germanic Europe | 0% | 34% | 34% |
|
Norway |
32% | 0% | 32% |
|
England & Northwestern Europe |
4% | 13% | 17% |
|
Wales |
9% | 0% | 9% |
|
Sweden & Denmark |
5% | 3% | 8% |
Much of this is not a surprise. My mother, Neeltje Verburg, was born in Rotterdam in the Netherlands and my father, Anthony Johansen, was born in England and had a lot of Norwegian blood in him, courtesy of his father, Alfred Johansen from Gjovic in Norway. That something like three quarters of my DNA hails from Germanic Europe, meaning the Netherlands (although God knows where my ancestors started out) and Scandinavia, a sixth of me is English (and Northwestern Europe, whatever that might mean) and – horror upon horror – 9% of my DNA is from Wales. It’s not really horror upon horror, not least because I have not the first clue who and whether these folk came from. However, the conclusion is very clear: I’m even more foreign than I thought I was. Should I be worried?
Well, I was born in Bristol, so that I suppose is one thing in my favour, as was my dad, but as for the rest things get a little more awkward. Grandad Alfred, along with much of his family, came here to open the Mustad Nail Factory in Portishead. This means he was an economic migrant of the type so hated by the Conservative government in general and the daughters of economic migrants themselves like Sue-Ellen (yes, that’s her real name) Braverman and Priti Patel. When judging what happens to me in future, I suppose my pale white skin may prove advantageous to my prospects of staying in Bristol and not being flown to Rwanda, but you never know with this lot. Wait until they found out that Neeltje came to England to marry Anthony back in the 1950s. Coming over, taking our jobs etc etc.
Some of it I don’t understand at all, like how have I inherited more English DNA from my mum who was born in the Netherlands than from my dad who was born in England? I’m sure there is a simple answer which the DNA company who have examined mine would like me to establish by giving them more money. I’m only at the stage of poring over the initial findings. Do I have the enthusiasm, patience and commitment to keep on digging? If past experience with everything else in my life is anything to go by, the answer would appear to be a big fat no to all three.
Yet my curiosity was aroused this morning before I had even looked at the results when I got a message from a bloke I don’t know, via the DNA company, asking if I was related to the Ladd family, which given that Ladd was my paternal grandmother’s maiden name is a near certainty, I would suggest. So, this could run and run or my butterfly mind will, as usual, take me off in another direction leading to the inevitable dead end? At the moment, I have no idea.
Whatever you do, keep it to yourself, don’t tell anyone. As far as you know, I’m 100% pure English, fond of village cricket, warm beer and old ladies cycling to communion. Just don’t mention my DNA.
* not literally millions.
