London's East End has lost one of its most recognisable and beloved characters. George Major, who held the title of Pearly King of Peckham, passed away on August 1 at the age of 88. His death marks the end of a life spent in the public eye, dedicated to charity, tradition, and the preservation of a uniquely Cockney form of showmanship. For decades, his sequin-covered suits and quick wit made him a fixture of local life and a magnet for camera lenses.
Major was a familiar figure to anyone who spent time in the East End, the historic working-class heart of the British capital. He was often seen navigating the streets in a black suit and flat cap, both heavily decorated with mother-of-pearl buttons, sequins, and sparkling embellishments. Across the back of his jacket, his regal-sounding title was spelled out in shimmering buttons: Pearly King of Peckham. It was an outfit designed to be noticed, and it never failed to draw attention.
His fame extended far beyond his home neighbourhood. In 2016, an American radio reporter on one of her first assignments in London arranged to interview Major, then 78 years old. The two walked together through the East End, a district where the factories and docklands that defined Major's childhood during World War II have largely been replaced by modern glass skyscrapers. As they strolled, a street vendor rushed out of his shop to give Major a high-five, while tourists stopped to take photographs. He was, by any measure, a local celebrity.
Yet for a visiting journalist, understanding him was another matter entirely. Major spoke in a dense mixture of Cockney rhyming slang and what he called "backspeak," a technique of reversing words or syllables. His sentences were a linguistic puzzle. One remark about costermongers—street sellers who once dominated London's markets—and their habit of "fly-pitching," or selling goods illegally from temporary spots, left the reporter completely baffled even after replaying her recording multiple times. At one point during their video interview, she turned to the camera and joked that a translator might be needed.
That linguistic barrier, however, was part of Major's charm. Cockney rhyming slang is a centuries-old tradition in which a common word is replaced by a phrase that rhymes with it, often with the rhyming word then dropped entirely. "Frog and toad" becomes "road." "Apples and pears" becomes "stairs." The dialect evolved in the East End as a form of coded speech among market traders and dock workers, and it remains one of the most distinctive features of London's cultural heritage. Major was not just a speaker of this dialect; he was a living archive of it.
The Pearly tradition he embodied stretches back to the nineteenth century. It began with Henry Croft, an orphan and street sweeper who sewed mother-of-pearl buttons onto his trousers to attract attention to his charitable fundraising efforts. Other costermongers, who already wore decorative "flash" suits with pearl buttons, joined him in organising charitable collections. Over time, each London borough gained its own Pearly King, Queen, Prince, or Princess, with families passing the titles down through generations. The Pearlies became synonymous with community fundraising, turning heads on the street while raising money for hospitals, orphanages, and other causes.
Major took his role seriously. He was a charming wheeler-dealer, as one acquaintance described him, but he was also a committed philanthropist and a keeper of East London's history. He founded the Cockney Museum, an institution dedicated to preserving the language, customs, and everyday life of the area he loved. The museum stands as a monument to a culture that has been radically transformed by gentrification, immigration, and the decline of the docks that once provided work for thousands of local families.
When Major died on August 1, the news hit the reporter who had interviewed him a decade earlier harder than she expected. This summer, a former colleague alerted her to an item in the local press, and the announcement brought back vivid memories of that confusing but unforgettable encounter. Ten years after their meeting, she still chuckles whenever she lands at Heathrow Airport, where a portrait of Major covers an entire wall. The image of the Pearly King, in all his buttoned splendour, has become part of the visual landscape of arrival in London.
His funeral, held on September 14, was a ceremony that matched the colour and character of his life. He was buried in a cemetery not far from the Cockney Museum he had established. A horse-drawn cart carried his casket to a small chapel, where the walls shook with the sound of mourners belting out raucous pub songs. Outside, one of the gardeners looked on in bewilderment, unaccustomed to such a joyful and noisy send-off. The atmosphere was less sombre than celebratory, a fitting tribute to a man who had spent his life entertaining and helping others.
At the gravesite, the reporter who had interviewed him years ago approached the Major family to offer condolences. She hesitantly shared the story of her brief, confusing 2016 encounter with their loved one. A large group of Pearly Kings, Queens, Princes, and Princesses—four generations of Major's family, all dressed in matching pearly suits—turned to look at her. Some were in tears. Then they threw back their heads and laughed, recognising the familiar bewilderment of an outsider confronted with the family's famous linguistic code.
The loss of George Major is not just the passing of a colourful individual. It represents the fading of a particular kind of London life, one rooted in the street markets, music halls, and tight-knit working-class communities of the East End. The docks that once employed his neighbours are gone. The factories have closed. The terraced houses where costermongers lived have been replaced or renovated beyond recognition. In that context, the role of a Pearly King becomes something more than ceremonial. It becomes an act of cultural preservation.
Major's family, with four generations proudly wearing the pearly suits, suggests that the tradition will not disappear entirely with his death. The title of Pearly King of Peckham may pass to another member of the family or to a chosen successor. But Major himself was irreplaceable—a charming, fast-talking, sequin-clad ambassador for a corner of London that no longer exists as it did in his childhood. His portrait at Heathrow ensures that visitors will continue to encounter his smiling face, even if they cannot understand a word he might have said.
For those who knew him, and for those who simply saw him walking the streets of the East End, George Major was a reminder that tradition, charity, and a sense of humour can survive even the most dramatic urban transformation. He was buried to the sound of singing, surrounded by generations of his family. And though his language may have been impossible for an American reporter to decode, his message was clear: look after your community, keep your history alive, and never be afraid to wear a little mother-of-pearl while you do it.
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