Day 11: Henley to Marlow

Dry and a beautiful walk. Chains of pleasure boats. I wonder if I would be bored on a boat. I think I would be.

I was going blind recently. Seriously I was unable to read, and it got worse quickly. Then a consultant in Oxford lasered my eyes; once I was blind, and now I can see. It was a miracle. We are so fortunate to live in 2022, and we are inclined to take it all for granted. So thank you to those who invented this procedure.

A Family Affair

When I started my campaign to wed Jane in the late 1960s – in those days, marriage was the only way I could possibly get her into bed! – I was obliged to ring her home and say, “Hello, this is Tom – can I please speak to Jane?”

Jane’s parents were delightful and would never have tried to stop the relationship (unless, perhaps, if I’d worn a pigtail and walked a dog on a rope). The point is that because of my repeated calls, they knew I was after their beloved daughter Jane!

In time, after endless calls, the relationship hotted up and Jane’s parents held a dinner party to meet me. Later, there was another party so her vast family could meet me and do what families usually do (i.e., pass judgement and say, “Surely she could have done a lot better than that?”) In time, there was an engagement and a wedding, both accompanied by more parties. Then, when the four children emerged, there were more yet more celebrations.

To cut to the chase, mobile phones today mean that the young can start a relationship without their parents or families knowing a thing about it. No parties – and indeed, no family involvement of any kind until long after the event.

I think that is immensely sad.

His Finest Hour

The President of Ukraine, Volodymyr Zelenskyy, is the hero of the hour. I wish him well, and I really mean that. Cometh the hour, cometh the man.

The world desperately needs a hero who can lead, and Zelenskyy is that man today. However, I have learned in a long life that when someone is praised to the skies, the hype is rarely justified. And, in turn, when someone attracts the hiss of the world, I only half believe anything I hear or read. We are all a mix of virtues and faults, and most of us have done things we would rather not read in a banner headline. When the media builds someone up and praises them as if they can do no wrong, it’s usually only a matter of time before they find a reason to tear them down again. Cracks are detected, and faults and mistakes gleefully paraded.

I hope that when Zelenskyy’s enemies have a go at him – and they will – his descent from hero to ordinary man does not destroy him or Ukraine.

Day 10: Reading to Henley

Queen Elizabeth is dead: Long live King Charles 111

Sad day and a great loss of a magnificent woman.

The only time I met her was unfortunate.

As a Scots Guards officer, I was asked to go to Dane in Holyrood to dance with Edinburgh maidens,

Highland reels are a sort of war, not a dance.

I found to my astonishment that I was dancing with the Queen. To my horror, I kicked her sharply, and she was forced to hobble off the floor.
Years later, I mustered the courage to write and apologise. I received a delightful reply saying that I had long since been forgiven!

Our ten-year-old granddaughter Annabelle Benyon wrote a prayer that seems to sum it all up:

Lord Jesus, we are so sad that the Queen died today.
As I speak to you right now, you are likely to be speaking to her as you welcome her into heaven. Please would you make her feel very welcome. Would you tell her what an incredible job she did and that everyone in the world is crying and missing her.

Who Packed my Parachute?

Charles Plumb was a US Navy fighter pilot and Vietnam veteran. After 75 combat missions, his plane was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. Plumb ejected and parachuted into enemy territory. Captured, he spent six years in a communist Vietnamese prison. He survived and went on to lecture on the lessons he learned from that experience.

One day, when Plumb and his wife were sitting in a restaurant, a man at another table approached him.

“You’re Plumb! You flew jet fighters in Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk. You were shot down!”

“How on earth did you know about that?” asked Plumb.

“I packed your parachute,” the man replied.

Plumb gasped in surprise and gratitude. The man vigorously shook his hand and said, “I guess it worked!”

Assuring him it had, Plumb reflected, “If the shute hadn’t worked, I wouldn’t be sitting here today!”

Unsung Heroes


That night, Plumb couldn’t sleep. “I kept wondering what the sailor looked like in a navy uniform: a white hat, a bib at the back and bell-bottom trousers. I wondered how many times I must have seen him, but never bothered to say, “Hello, how are you?” or anything, because I was a self-important fighter pilot, and he was just a lowly sailor.”

He thought of the hours the man must have spent in the bowels of the ship, carefully weaving the shrouds and folding the silk of every shute. Each time, he held in his hands the fate of someone he didn’t even know.

Plumb went on to give many inspirational lessons to people. He would point out that he had needed many different kinds of parachute when he had been shot down in enemy territory: his physical parachute, his mental parachute, his emotional parachute and his spiritual parachute. He had called on all those supports before reaching safety.

Having read about Plumb, I ask myself how often do I fail to appreciate the help I am given? How often do I fail to say hello or thank you, to congratulate someone when something wonderful has happened to them, to pay a compliment to someone, or just do something kind for no reason at all? How many crucial jobs by kind workers go unnoticed by me? Or what about the people who work so hard behind the scenes, yet get so little reward for their efforts?

I look back at my childhood: my old teachers (one in particular), or an aunt who read to me when I was unhappy and lonely. Fast forward to now – what about the people who have tolerated me, supported me and prayed for me?

There are a good number of people who have been packing my parachute. And, of course, there are the people who have been packing ZANE’s parachute.

Many have worked hard for ZANE, both in the UK and in Zimbabwe, to make this charity a success. It would be invidious to name names – they know who they are, and so thank you!

And our supporters must be thanked too, for without their great generosity and financial parachute packing, ZANE would have been in free fall long since.

The unsung kindness of so many is overwhelming.

Thou Shalt Not Eat Meat

I thought I’d seen it all. However, now I see that the Liberal /Green / Labour majority of Oxfordshire County Council is imposing veganism by diktat. Meat is banned at the council’s official events and only plant-based food will be on the menu. This is on grounds that it will do us all the power of good and benefit future generations. I am all for vegans eating whatever they want, but this is daft gesture politics, a tedious lesson in how not to promote a cause to voters.

Oxfordshire is crowded with farms crammed full of cattle. Such suffocating moral certainties arise from the tyranny of a tiny minority. When did consuming dairy products and steak imply that you are not a good person, or that you don’t want to leave the planet a better place for future generations? Politicians of all stripes need to keep their noses out of other people’s food choices.

Left-Wing Social

Author Robert Conquest has a famous law of politics. If you add the world “social” to any noun, it both demeans the word and at the same time politicises it in a “left-wing” way.

We all revere justice – but what about “social justice”, a lefty degenerate that usually leads to the exact opposite of true justice?

If you remove the word “social”, you get a far more honest (and less left-wing) noun. Try removing “social” from “social market”, “social enterprise”, “social policy”, “social care”, “social housing”, “social media”, and so on.

See what I mean?

Day 9: Streatley to Reading

The Scots call it “drookit”, and that is good enough for me. We were drenched in a proper downpour. We went from drought to Noah’s Ark in a single hour. Neither Jane nor I mind walking in the rain, as we were brought up in the Scottish Borders and in Edinburgh, that is what one does. And as sensible Princess Royal said, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, just inadequate clothing.” Incidentally, I can’t help wondering what that sensible woman thinks of Meghan.

While walking down the Thames Pathway, we were passed by several coppers, all chasing towards an “incident.” I immediately wondered if we were involved in a Telly film.

Notes From a Proud Island

Many years ago, George Orwell warned us that the “most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history”. We should not be surprised, then, that destroyers in our midst are promoting a false narrative. These critics claim that Western history is a litany of cruelty, greed, patriarchal oppression, sexism, racism, transphobia, theft, snobbery, and much more. They praise all other cultures (provided they aren’t Western), and then wonder why anyone should wish to live here in the UK when so much bigotry, racism and hatred is baked into our DNA?

Why these individuals behave thus is a mystery. Perhaps it’s because they hail from countries that have contributed little to the overarching wellbeing of mankind and, knowing that the West has contributed so much, are consumed with envy and bitterness? I am reminded of that old, cynical saying, “Why do you dislike me so much? What favours did I ever do for you?”

Her Crown is Honour…

Here, under the Crown, human life is regarded as sacred, people are endowed with dignity and wrongs are addressed in honest courts. Just consider the eternal beauty of Oxford and Cambridge, or of Salisbury and Ely Cathedrals. Think about Shakespeare and our rich cultural and artistic achievements. Then imagine what life would be like without our social services, our freedom of speech and religious freedoms, and democracy and the rule of law. Has this bounty been exceeded anywhere on Earth, in all recorded history?    

Our critics fail to express gratitude for these blessings, instead expressing resentment and bitterness at all the things they lack. The countries from where many of them come are places where lives are brutish and short, where corruption is endemic, where the young have no chance to make a difference to the way things are run, and where thinkers and critics rot in jail. And they are often places where racism flourishes – but it’s black on white, so no one bothers to comment.

Under our monarchy, citizens experience a form of liberal government and access to justice for which they ought to feel profound gratitude. The blessings of our monarchy are summed up by the chief rabbi, Ephraim Mirvis:

“Her crown is honour and majesty; her sceptre, law and morality. Her concern has been for welfare, freedom and unity, and in the lands of her dominion, she has sustained justice and liberty for all races, tongues and creeds.”

Citizens in the West experience a form of liberal government and access to justice for which they ought to feel profound gratitude. Of course, our Western freedoms and ways of doing things aren’t perfect, but they are better, by far, than any of the alternatives on offer elsewhere. 

The West is under relenting pressure to accept growing numbers of immigrants struggling to get to the UK. In terms of newcomers, we apparently add a city the size of Newcastle to our small and crowded island each year.

I can’t help but note the lack of immigrants desperately risking their lives to settle in Russia, Africa, India or China. Funny that!

Pure Poetry

I recently visited a vicar friend dying of cancer in Oxford’s John Radcliffe hospital.

“Please will you read a psalm?” she asked.

I read the best-known psalm of all, “The Lord is my Shepherd”.

A nurse nearby listened with great care. “That was lovely,” she said. “Did you write it?”

“Oh yes,” I replied, “I knocked it up in the lift on the way up.”

Day 8: Rest Day

The Limits of Forgiveness

How can we offer forgiveness on behalf of people we don’t know or have never even met? The famous Holocaust survivor and Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal illustrated this with a story that began on 10 October 1944. At the time, he was a young architect incarcerated in Janowska Concentration Camp, just outside Lviv, in Ukraine.

One day, Wiesenthal was summoned by guards to the bedside of a young Waffen-SS officer, Karl Seidl, who wanted to “speak to a Jew”. Mortally injured with burns, the dying Seidl whispered to Wiesenthal that the SS had herded dozens of men, women and children into a house, set it alight and shot all those who tried to escape the flames. Seidl admitted his involvement and claimed he was tormented by his conscience – he needed to confess his sin to a Jew and begged for forgiveness.

Wiesenthal listened to this tale of horror, pondered for a minute and said nothing. Then he walked out of the room.

For years, Wiesenthal was tormented by the memory. Had he had done the right thing? Should he have offered the dying Nazi his forgiveness?

However, when he told his story to Jewish friends and rabbis, they agreed that he had been right not to offer forgiveness. How could he do so on behalf of victims he had never met? He was right to walk away.

By the same token, the alleged “sins” of our ancestors should not be visited on subsequent generations.

Day 7: Shillingford to Streatley

Woke World

Napoleon said that you should never disturb your enemy when he’s making a gross mistake.

Why do our enemies, such as Jihadists, Putin and the man in North Korea with the funny haircut, bother to bomb or poison us in the UK when we are making such a good job of destroying ourselves?

Our “gross mistake” is to allow an absurd and destructive ideology to sweep our land unchecked. Unless we face it down, it will eviscerate the few scraps of what’s left of our moral fibre. The champions of this nonsense describe themselves as “social justice warriors”. This is “WOKE!” – it’s pernicious rubbish and it’s intensely damaging.

Hearken to this. More than half of those born after 1996 believe that “systemic racism” is endemic in our society; 64 per cent think that rioting and looting are justified to some degree; 41 per cent support censorship of so called “hate speech”; and 23 per cent would support violence to prevent people being offended.

Cancel Culture

“Woke” nonsense is at its height. Careers are being destroyed or “cancelled” by wicked people on what is politely called social media. The police’s record of detecting the perpetrators of fraud or theft is poor, in part because the cops are concentrating on rooting out so-called “hate crime”.

Authors – google the alarming story of what happened to writer Kate Clanchy – are frightened of describing how women look in their novels in case their books are censored by weak publishers who cannot see a parapet without ducking beneath it. Comedians are struck dumb with fear. Scientific biological certainties are avoided – is a man a man and a woman a woman – for sheer terror of giving offence to the ranting blob trawling the net.

While our enemies are threatening Ukraine and Taiwan with rockets, bombs and tanks, and while the spooks in Teheran are well on the way to perfecting a nuclear bomb to destroy Israel – and anyone else while they’re in the mood – we in the West are obsessing about pronouns, rewriting history and planning to “decolonise” mathematics.

Then, as a treat, we spend time arguing whether men dressed as women should be allowed to use women’s loos.

You couldn’t write this plot line in a novel. Well, if you did, it would probably be censored.

National Treasures

Judy Dench
Maggie Smith
Matthew Parris
The Duchess of Cornwall
Michael Heseltine
Nigel Farage
Diane Abbott
Billy Connolly
Gordon Brown
Elton John
Ed Balls
Ian McKellan

Pleased to never hear of again…

Nicola Sturgeon
Meghan and Mr Markle
Prince Andrew
Many serving Anglican bishops
Donald Trump
Vladimir Putin

Day 6: Abingdon to Shillingford

Name Dropping

With apologies to Mark Twain, I have been involved in many startling events in my time – some of which actually happened!

On 10 April 1994, I took tea with Mother Teresa. She had heard from a friend that I knew the Minister of Housing (I did), with whom she wanted a meeting. She hoped he could facilitate the purchase of a house in North London to shelter what she described as “fallen women”. (Incidentally, I would like to hear today’s cancel culture trying to correct Mother Teresa’s politically incorrect language. What sanitised name “fallen” women are given today is anyone’s guess.)

Such was Mother Teresa’s fame that she didn’t need me to facilitate a meeting with Sir George Young – or anyone else for that matter. She only had to tilt her rosary and the entire government would have danced a gavotte before her if she had demanded it. But I was told she wanted to see me – and who was I to refuse such a request?

Tea With Mother T

Mother Teresa answered the door of a non-descript house in Tottenham and led the way to tea in the lounge. By that time, I had rung the housing minister and he soon arrived with a buzzing swarm of anxious civil servants. The nun stared unblinkingly at George.

“I need a million pounds… I should tell you the French were generous. The Germans gave me twice what I requested, and the Italians gave me a row of houses in Milan. Now, in the name of God, I appeal to you for a million pounds!”

George muttered something about times being tough and there being no money available. He would need to consult.

With a laser look, the nun knelt down and announced she would pray. Meanwhile, George “consulted” with his team.

After 10 minutes of busy praying had passed, Mother Teresa gazed at George expectantly. He muttered something about only being able to find half the million. She decided to pray for the other half.

Then the photographer from the Sun newspaper arrived. A short time later, George announced he had found the additional funds in a contingency reserve: game, set and match to Mother T! George’s misery was now complete. Meanwhile, the nun gave thanks.

“Allelujah! Praise the Lord – the power of prayer be praised!”

After George left, Mother Teresa prayed for me and my family, and presented me with several medals of the Blessed Virgin Mary. My umbrella began to grow green shoots.

Some years later, I heard that HMG’s offer of a million quid was never taken up because there were too many conditions. Instead, Mother Teresa managed to persuade some allegedly corrupt Irish builder to stump up the money.

Mother Teresa never minded too much if donations to her causes came from dubious sources. She claimed good works would sanctify the money – and I’m sure they did.

I should add that I have photos of my meeting with Mother T. Beat that for name dropping!

Day 5: Port Meadow to Abingdon

Talked to Jacqui on the way and she is a delightful English teacher from Oxford. She tells me her mother is a ZANE supporter and she wondered what else her Mum might do to help the cause? I suggested she might leave a large chunk of her estate to ZANE. Jacqui looked thoughtful.

A long brisk walk with three jolly ZANE supporters.

Long Live Stigma

To boast “left” sends a virtuous signal of being warm and kind, earnestly embracing social justice. On the other hand, mention “right” and you run the risk of being branded a Nigel Farage type on a bad day.

This concept is arrant twaddle. The truth is that the “left” are tribunes of “non-judgmentalism” who demand “lifestyle choice”. And they have taken an axe to the roots of the nuclear family, once the bedrock of society.

All major institutions swing left: look at the Church, Amnesty International, OXFAM, the National Trust and the Church of England. Nothing annoys the left more than the stigma created by “judgmental morality”, but that’s the only kind of morality there is – and the removal of morality has radically gutted the concept of family.

Imagine that your son or daughter is a student at Durham University. Their authorities have decided to make it easy for little Jemima or Piers to participate in the sex industry – how nice for your family. The aim is to remove the stigma faced by prostitutes by rebranding them as “sex workers”. But the blinding reality is, of course, that all people involved in that pernicious trade are hookers, rent boys and “escorts”. Durham is acting the pimp, ignoring the fact that prostitution is rightly stigmatised because the trade is disgusting, immoral, exploitative, illegal and spiritually demeaning. This is not to say that the people involved should be regarded as outcasts, of course not – we must draw a distinction between the sinner and the sin, and we must hope they will turn away. But for goodness’ sake, we must be able to condemn the trade itself as sinful and ghastly and refuse to cast a benign gloss over it. Stigmatising whoring is a good thing, and I suspect that for most people the stigma will not abate.

Everybody’s Doin’ It

Next, the stigma that once surrounded divorce has all but been expunged. People today just shrug as if it didn’t matter. I am sorry if this offends any ZANE supporters who may have suffered divorce as the innocent party (ZANE supporters are always innocent). However, experience tells us that divorce is usually accompanied by mendacity, guilt, sadness, bitterness, and financial hardship, as well as the incalculable damage inflicted on children. As the stigma abates, of course, the number of divorces rise.

Nor is there any stigma now to “living in sin”. Remember the old song “Everybody’s doin’ it, doin’ it”? Today, “hooking up” outside marriage is what everyone’s doing and anyone who claims it’s a bad idea is mocked as an old-fashioned Victorian prude. But’s it’s us who are paying the price, not the Victorians. They knew what they were doing. The stigmas that used to exist surrounding promiscuity, divorce and living in unmarried sin were inherited from Christian teaching and existed mainly for the protection of children. That protection has gone with the wind. The bleak indicators are damning, with children born to cohabiting unions more likely to see their parents separate than if they were married. Parental separation damages a child’s education and future life chances – those brought up by a single parent get worse grades at school, are more likely to suffer addictions or from mental health issues, are far less likely to secure a high-earning job and are more likely to end up in prison. This all costs a fortune, to be paid by the poor old taxpayer.

For years, the left has been sawing at the branch on which the family sat. It has now fallen, not into a bed of scented roses but into a pool of raw sewage, crisscrossed with barbed wire. It will cost a fortune to hook it out.

Long live stigmas! And, oh yes – cross out Durham from your list of preferred universities.

Day 4: Bablock Hythe to Port Meadow

A jolly party consisting of two loyal friends – who deserve a gold medal for cheerfulness and endurance – and daughter Clare, the Chaplain of Christ Church in Oxford. She brought Layla with her, so she and our dog Moses palled up, and they ran all day. Moses lies like a corpse now, as tired as are we.

Another rather gloomy pub lunch served in that offhand way that is the norm nowadays. I wonder how these undistinguished pubs that punctuate our walk can last when the pinch caused by rising inflation and tax increases is felt by middle England.

The Five Regrets of The Dying

Death’s a dark subject. Peter Pan’s “To die must be a big adventure” is a far better approach than deciding the subject’s so morbid that we should smother it with gin and small talk about the weather. Some men – in particular, men – are so afraid of death, they only go to funerals to tank whisky with chums at the wake. You wonder if that’s fair? Okay… just check the body language when you’re next at a funeral. Look to see who’s gazing steadfastly at a phone, the ceiling, the order of service, a woman’s legs – anything but dear old Henry’s box.

None of us is going to get out of this alive. Funny that Christians seem to be as fearful of this harsh fact as anyone else. Not a good look for the faith, that. Maybe they think Larkin’s gloomy verse, “That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade / Created to pretend we never die” may, at least, have a sliver of truth in it?

But if no one can escape the scythe, how best shall we live with as few regrets as possible when the light’s growing dim?

Old Time Is Still A-Flying

I read The Top Five Regrets of the Dying by Bronnie Ware, an Australian palliative care nurse. She got permission from a few of her patients to summarise their intimate regrets in a fascinating book. Here’s a summary:

One patient, Grace, regretted she’d failed to embrace the preciousness of life while there was still time. She’d lived as if life were a “dress rehearsal” and deeply regretted that “all the dreams I’ve waited all my life to live are never going to happen for it’s just too late.” Grace did not mean this in a self-interested way – she was a dutiful mother and wife. Rather, her words reflected her astonishment that she had regarded life as “normal” or “routine” when it is, in fact, miraculous. As Richard Dawkins writes in Unweaving the Rainbow, “We privileged few, who won the lottery of life against all the odds, how dare we whine at our inevitable return to that prior state from which the vast majority have never stirred.”

“Look at me now,” wept Grace, “I’m dying, bloody dying, I’ve waited all these years to be free and independent and now it’s too late”.

Personally, I think that those with an awareness of the preciousness of life experience less regret when they come to its end. They enjoy a subtly different quality of experience whilst still alive. This was Jean-Paul Sartre’s main point in his book Being and Nothingness, where he encouraged readers to embrace the “existential miracle” of life, even while confronting its finite nature. “This,” he exhorted, “should not lead to hopelessness but to a thrilling kind of meaning.”

Another patient, David, wished he’d had the courage to live a life true to himself and not waste his time living out other people’s expectations. We shoot out of life on fixed steel rails set by our genes, family traditions, upbringing. But if we have sufficient courage, why don’t we climb off those rails and tackle the tasks that God meant us to carry out? For example, as a youth, John Betjeman rejected point blank his parents’ expectations that he work in a shop and thus lived his life as the poet he was created to be. It doesn’t always end so well. Our eldest son taught in a top London school; he was sad to see how many brilliant budding actors and those with marked creative talents march steadfastly into the city as bankers or lawyers to satisfy the wishes of insistent parents instead of following their obvious but more hazardous calling. I went into the army – not a career that matched my gifts by a mile – to fulfil parental expectations. Not that I regret it now, the experience proved valuable, but at the time I knew I was in the wrong job.

Here and Now

Laura’s regret was that she hadn’t allowed herself to be happy. “For goodness’ sake” she pleaded, “happiness is right now, not at a rainbow end. Why did I work so hard at vast cost to my loving relationships with my family and friends?” Laura wished she had lived a simpler life, not one revolving around possessions or the imperative need to “succeed” and make money – just to prove the folly of the saying, “The guy who dies with the most toys wins!”

Markus mourned that he hadn’t bothered to stay in touch with his true friends. Then he wondered if he actually had any real friends? On reflection, he realised that so many of his so-called “friends” were just a cloud of good-time acquaintances from work or the golf club. There was nothing to be expected from them but fleeting emotions, which leave no trace behind them.

Robert’s profound sadness is a commonplace for men: emotion had been filleted from him by frozen parents and the harsh disciplines of school. “Real boys don’t cry, or read poetry or books”, all that nonsense. Robert ended up without the courage to express his feelings. He had never told those people he really cared about – particularly his sons – just how much he loved them. He had never even hugged them. Was it too late? Did he have the courage to start now?

“Do they really know I love them?” he asked. “Can I express this so late?”

Then Robert paused, and he wept.

Day3: Buckland Marsh to Bablock Hythe

Nearly turned my ankle trying to avoid the vast number of cracks in the path caused by a lack of rain. Then Jane is furious with me for allowing gates to slam in her face. She has every right to be cross. The problem is that when I walk, I go into a sort of torpor, a dream world, as I ponder the meaning of life! Not that I have come to many great conclusions, but if I do, ZANE donors will be the first to know.

Our walk is punctuated with small concrete bunkers, built we are told to provide a lookout nest for Dad’s Army to spot German frogmen swimming up the Thames! As there is no record that any was ever caught doing so, I reckon that acting as a spotter had to be the most tedious job imaginable.

Life Isn’t Fair

I have never stated my political views or shared my opinions on Brexit, and I never will. They may be glimpsed in my writing, of course, but why be explicit and run the risk of alienating at least 50 per cent of ZANE supporters?

However, I do enjoy pointing out the manifestations of the law of unintended consequences – and here is another on proportional representation (PR). People proclaim its beneficial effect in bringing about “electoral fairness”. Ah, but didn’t Nanny say, “Life isn’t fair”? Was Nanny right? Surely PR brings about the joys of democracy, thereby enabling minority parties to have a say in government?

Many years ago, when I was a politician, I thought that PR was more democratic than our present “First Past the Post” (FPTP) system. So, with the enthusiasm of youth, I co-authored a pamphlet called, “Electoral Reform, as Easy as ABC” for the Tory party Bow Group. It is, I hope, gathering dust somewhere, for I have to say it was throughout no more than naive rubbish. Here’s why.

Under FPTP, each party submits its manifesto to the public and, in the event of winning the election, enacts it. If it doesn’t, then the electorate will chuck them out at the next election, and a good thing too. That’s democracy working well.

PR would see effective minority governments replaced by coalitions in which all the parties would be obliged to dump their manifestos and agree a new policy programme – which, of course, the electorate hasn’t approved. Then politicians – freed up from the irritations of prior obligations – can do whatever they like. Since MPs would no longer be expected to deliver on their promises, they could not be held to account for their failure to do so.

If you doubt this dismal scenario, then please see the way PR is working in the EU countries that use PR. Take Belgium, for example, which is in a state of political paralysis.

FPTP is not an ideal system, nothing is, but as far as democracy is concerned, it’s better than PR any day.

Sorry about that.

Nanny, as usual, was right.

Mwah, Mwah, Hug

I have an unworldly friend who, surprisingly late in life, fell deeply in love. As the marriage to his beloved approached, he realised he knew nothing about the – ahem – physical side of marriage. (Reader, bear with me, there was a time before the Internet!) So, my friend ventured to a local second-hand bookshop, and, hidden away on the back shelves, found just what he needed – a handsomely bound book called How to Hug.

The book was wrapped in brown paper and my friend hurried home. That evening, he discovered, to his profound dismay, that he had purchased Volume Five of the Oxford English Dictionary.

I’ve railed against the unhealthy practice of promiscuous kissing in previous blogs. So universal is the custom of greeting friends with a casual kiss that attempts to avoid the snog can easily be misconstrued as rudeness. And now, on top of kissing anyone with a pulse, it’s de rigeur to hug them too!

Of course, touch is important – I’m all for hugging family members and the small group of people I dearly love and who love me. But lingering hugs with everyone we meet devalues what should be an act of genuine intimacy, and it’s plain creepy. When I’m grabbed by someone, I’m left wondering what the hug means – does it communicate something the hugger is unable to say verbally? It’s a kind of mime, a substitute for words. Perhaps dumb silence can be excused in the context of an unexpected death, the jolting news of a one-way cancer diagnosis or a catastrophic accident. But that’s very different from hugging someone in the street you hardly know: “Karen, my goodness… what a long time… you haven’t changed at all!” Then comes the hug-hug – and it devalues the currency of the hug.

So, I say, no more hugging as a default greeting! It’s lazy. How often should we be saying something original, but can’t be bothered – so we hug instead? A casual hugger is virtue signalling, too: “Hey! I’m a warm and loving kinda person, and I like you – so please like me too!” Ugh!

You would have thought that Covid might have put a stop to universal hugging, but if anything, it’s only made things worse. People are so pleased to see a human in the flesh that they incline towards squeezing whoever’s presented.

I hope automatic hugging will wither away… but, until such time, we’ll just have to go on performing like seals.

Day 2: Lechlade to Buckland Marsh

How stupid can you get!

Fancy being daft enough to go walking in the UK without a waterproof! The Princess Royal says wisely that there is no such thing as bad weather, merely inappropriate clothing and, boy, did we prove that true today! There have only been a couple of times in the walks when we have been caught in a downpour and today was one of them. We arrived home like dripping rats, and it served me right.

River all the way

I think I saw Ratty and Mole along the way, with several sightings of Toad Hall.

The Law of Unintended Consequences

The reason why we are out of the EU can fairly be placed at the door of the late Paddy Ashdown. How can this be accurate when he was such a Remain supporter? Surely it is Farage and Cameron who were responsible?

Pay attention, for this history is yet another example of the mysterious workings of the law of unintended consequences!

After the EU introduced a parliament, elections for membership in the UK used the “first past the post” system – the same system that is currently used in Westminster parliamentary elections. It makes it vastly hard for candidates of minority parties to get elected.

In 1999, the then Lib Dem leader, Paddy Ashdown, persuaded Tony Blair to allow a “list” system of proportional representation to be adopted for UK voters in the EU elections.

This system acted like rocket fuel for UKIP. Farage won a bridgehead, and then over the years – largely due to his relentless refusal to accept the role of patron saint of lost causes – UKIP won more and more seats, until it forged an unstoppable momentum. In 2016, its success threatened Cameron’s Tory heartland to such a degree, he decided to conclude the issue by holding a referendum he was confident he would win.

The rest, as they say, is history. If the “list” system of proportional representation had not been introduced by Blair (as a concession to Ashdown), we would never have heard of Nigel Farage, UKIP, the Brexit party, or roles for Dominic Cummings and Boris. There would never have been a referendum, Cameron would still be PM – and we would still be in the EU.

Come to think of it, Ashdown’s career was based on his passionate enthusiasm for the UK’s membership of the EU, and his desire for proportional representation to build up his beloved Lib Dem party.

Be careful what you wish for.

Pussy Galore

Kariba spoke to me yesterday. I know it sounds daft, but she really did. It was early in the morning, and she wasn’t best pleased. Her green eyes flashed with irritation and her purr grew into a growl.

“Listen Sunshine,” she warned, “I’m the boss here so please don’t forget it. You are darn fortunate to have me as your cat. But I’m putting you on notice – I’m considering leaving. I know you’ll be devastated if I go, and in many ways, I’d miss you too. But a cat must look after herself these days, and there’s no such thing as a free bowl of milk.

“If you really want to know, it’s about those darn dogs you bring into the house. Your own stupid Moses is bad enough, a mongrel with the fancy name of “cockapoo”. Of course, I marked his nose with a slash years ago, so he leaves me well alone. But your daughter Milly! She brings with her a dog spawned from the sweepings of Bulgaria. All the silly creature does is eat, fart, wee on the lawn and chase me! I am not as young as I used to be, and simply put, I’m fed up.

“Just thought you should know.”

Luckily Milly went… and Kariba stayed.