We stay with old friends bang smack in the middle of Cambridge, delightful conversation and great company. Today we walked through Cambridge, the second time we have done this, the last time three years ago while we were walking from York to Canterbury.

In the morning we tottered over freshly ploughed fields as the farmer had thoughtfully reduced the path to the consistency of Weetabix. May his tractor rust away and his fields all turn to set-aside.

We buzzed around Cambridge trying to find somewhere that accepts dogs; at last we found one that sneers at Health and Safety, and Moses was allowed in .

This afternoon we were joined by four supporters who galvanised our walk, particularly Joanna who allowed me to bang on about the five subjects that form the basis of my walk commentaries: sex, politics, money, death and religion. I was fearful of being boring as I wheezed along but bless you Joanna for allowing me to talk. Thank you Christopher and Anthea for loyally walking with us five times. Always a joy to have you with us.

Hamlet and a Lot of Questions

Benedict Cumberbatch was a fine Hamlet but for me he spoiled his performance by announcing that leading UK politicians were “f… useless” because of their inadequate response to the Syrian refugee saga. In terms of virtue signalling and grandstanding on a topic, which he clearly knew nothing about, he is a high scorer. Why does an actor think his views on a subject outside his field of competence are worth hearing? The arrogance of such an intelligent man is breathtaking. As Stanley Baldwin once said (in another context), “Power without responsibility – the prerogative of the harlot throughout the ages.”

Readers of an earlier blog will know that we were once royally entertained as guests of Angela Honeyford, widow of the great late headmaster Ray Honeyford. He lost his career when the attack dogs of political correctness bit his reputation to death after he pointed out that you cannot decant scores of Pakistani hill farmers to Bradford without there being deep social repercussions. What Ray wrote in the mid-eighties is today regarded as simple common sense.

Now we can turn to Sir Andrew Green (now Lord), once UK Ambassador to Syria and Saudi Arabia. After Green retired from the diplomatic service, he founded Migration Watch, because he just knew that the government was out of control on immigration and grossly misleading the public with more or less invented statistics. Of course the default position of the media and politicians was to brand him “racist”.

If you doubt that, just remember the 2010 election campaign when Gordon Brown, questioned by constituent Gillian Duffy on immigration, instantly branded her a “bigot.”  So that was the default position of the liberal virtue-signalling establishment.

Andrew Green was obliged to endure endless media attacks that Migration Watch was a cover to the likes of the National Front, or that he was a bigot. He was obliged to sue the Guardian and the Independent for defamation, and of course he won. As a mark of his integrity, he gave his personal winnings to Migration Watch.

It is now clear that the Migration Watch has always been consistently right and that the number of people coming to the UK has long been spiralling out of control. Green forecast that the numbers of arrivals will prove to be an increasing burden on our schools, the NHS and our housing stock, and may well lead to social unrest.

The German chancellor Angela Merkel invited nearly a million “refugees” to live in Germany. Well of course these “refugees” have no passports, but how long do you think it will take for political pressure to build so they are granted full German citizenship? Then they will be able to invite their aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters to come and live with them.

Does it matter? What are the social consequences?  Recently thousands of women in major cities in Germany gathered in central squares to watch fireworks. Many claim they were grossly sexually assaulted apparently by Arab / African-looking young males. The German authorities were slow to point fingers as to who were the perpetrators of these crimes on the grounds of political correctness. It was the same when the UK authorities covered up over the Rotherham and Oxford rapes of young vulnerable girls.

These assaults are not the first and they won’t be the last. In October 2014, a group of Libyan cadets stationed near Cambridge ran amok. Four young women were assaulted and a young man was raped. The rapists were jailed for 12 years and the men who groped the women were deported. What was amazing was that a Libyan spokesman appeared on television to say that he was sorry but Libyan men didn’t realise that you weren’t allowed to do such things in the UK. This was an unfortunate case of cultural misunderstanding.

Doubtless it was also “cultural misunderstandings” behind the assaults in Germany. It is said that the men looked angry. Why are they angry?

If you come from a society that is doctrinally commanded to cover up women, the sight of attractive and socially liberated women brings temptation to young men and this makes them angry. This anger is not directed where it should go – at their crazy belief system that says that women should be forbidden for behaving as they wish – but at the temptress. In order that male pride can be rescued, the temptress must be humiliated and terrorised, thereby restoring power and dominance to where it properly belongs: to the men.

This is the root of the problem – but it’s hard to raise any of this without being accused of “Islamophobia”.

It seems to me that our new migrants had better wise up and learn that when they are in Rome etc.

In the meantime, we had better brace ourselves for the next tranche of people where the men think that women are inferior, that our society and our values are degenerate, and that it would be better run under Sharia law.

I wonder what that oracle, Benedict Cumberbatch, thinks about that?

We walk our miles in record time over flat country with huge grey skies. Moses, (the dog) goes mad with ecstasy as he rolls in the wheat stubble that scratches his tummy.

We sit in the pub Marcus has chosen with trepidation as all his choices thus far have been poor.

But we are greeted by Rachel’s smile in the Willow Tree in Bourn, an excellent restaurant, to discover that she is a true English Rose, attentive and cheerful. The food is top notch and all in all we are all set to rip off the last five miles in record time.

Life on Mars

David Bowie’s death attracted vast publicity – 13 pages in The Times, no less – as if he had been a reigning monarch. But although he was clearly prodigiously talented and successful, and his message was obviously a potent one, it all soared many miles below my radar. Bowie sought to torpedo just about everything I believed in as a child. I was brought up just after the war, and my heroes were Monty, Slim and Churchill. The films we watched were Reach for the Sky, The Cruel Sea and Lawrence of Arabia. We believed in courage, emotional reticence, decency, fidelity, honour, the family and the CoE.

Bowie shrieked instead that we should be bisexual, wear luminous clothes and paint stripes on our faces. He tried to persuade us all that it’s okay not to work hard or be faithful: and that it’s okay to be sexually incontinent and to be a different person every 10 minutes.

He appeared to try to subvert everything I had ever believed in, so I tried to shut him out of my consciousness. I thought that most of my generation wanted to find meaning, genuine love, and something to do with a purpose – and to grow old knowing roughly who we all were.

Tweets to Heaven

The reaction to his death was akin to the emotional tsunami that swept many away during the days after Princess Diana’s death.

Millions of tweets were apparently sent to heaven asking God to allow Bowie to come back to earth. How spooky is that? And what’s healthy about 4.3 million tweets, mainly from celebrities, banging on about how they once spent three seconds (by chance) in the presence of the great Bowie?

In fact, Diana and Bowie had a lot in common: they were both deeply into themselves, and both sad and melancholic. Both personalities were deeply hysterical, and they appeared not to know who they were from one minute to the next. And what does reinventing yourself really mean? What sort of credulous ass thinks that this sort of behaviour could ever possibly lead to happiness? Go figure: the reality is that it’s bound to lead to marital breakdown, unemployment, stranded kids, crime, unhappiness and an early death.

Then came the “sob signalling”, a conceited, narcissistic and artificial practice that was paraded on social media. It was contrived rather to draw attention to the emotional state of the author than the dead Bowie. Sob signalling demonstrates that the more I weep, the more sensitive, caring, and loving I am. It’s runny nose, knicker-wetting, self-indulgent whiffle.

One Times headline screamed, “Debauchery seven days a week!” That’s the sort of wet dream I had when I was 14. Why should such behaviour be celebrated? It’s what happened at the end of the Roman Empire. Would you like that headline above your grave? Or above the graves of your children?

The whole thing lacked humour, although I did find one story I read quite amusing. Bowie was playing live at the Hammersmith Empire and during the interval he tottered backstage on his high heels to take a pee. The production manager showed him a stained sink.

“My good man,” said Bowie, “I am not pissing in a sink.”

The man snarled, “If it was good enough for Shirley Bassey last week, it’s good enough for you.”

Great news all round. We are staying just outside Cambridge. A blessed day away from my Plod as guests of one of my favourite people, our younger son, Oliver and his wife Lois and their not so baby girls, Amelie and Annabel. I visited Kings  College Chapel, one of the wondrous things  you should mark high on your Bucket List.

We discover that Oli and Lois are now expecting their third child, our eleventh grandchild so, God willing, in a little time we will be Mr and Mrs Quiverful. I love the grandchildren experience, all Jane and I have are the good bits: the games and the stories and the fun and when they start to smell or cost lots of money they get handed back to their struggling parents.

We read of the English football manager being caught in a sting whereby he was offering to sell influence for £400k to Overseas buyers of his team and other favours that I didn’t understand. Poor man. Why did he need more than the three million pounds he was already getting? What would he have spent it on? It seems that vast piles of cash have ruined the game and so it is no longer just fun but an international industry. It seems the whole bang shoot is riven with corruption and the UK were meant to be setting an example. What a sad day for football lovers.

My Good Name

In retrospect, it was only a matter of time before the police attracted strong criticism for neglecting the vast number of young girls in Rochdale who were being sexually abused by Muslim men. For years the police decided to ignore complaints for fear of attracting criticism of “institutional racism”.

It was only after a Times journalist and a courageous abused girl persisted that the awful truth flowered into a vast scandal. Then there was the horror of the abuses of the grotesque Jimmy Savile who for years managed to rape vulnerable people, wherever he found an opportunity, on an industrial scale.

Open Season

The police sought to avoid more damage by pronouncing that the words of those claiming to have been molested would henceforth be taken “seriously”. This offered open season not only to genuine claimants, but also to every fantasist, opportunist and ambulance-chasing lawyer going.

The disastrous “Operation Midland” included rigorously investigating the late Ted Heath, war hero Lord Bramall, politician Leon Britain and former MP Harvey Proctor for sexual abuse based on the accusations of a single man – whose outpourings were deemed by one senior cop to be “credible and true”. Then Cliff Richard was smeared. In each case the police called the accusers “victims” with the implication that everyone who had been fingered in the enquiry was probably guilty. In each case, the police apparently tipped off the press. The allegations were supported by publicity-seeking MPs (such as the appalling Tom Watson), and an army of solicitors who smell money like sharks scent blood. Allegations where sex is involved are toxic for there is “no smoke without fire”. Of course, the damage to the reputations of the accused is terrible and lasting.

Despite vigorous attempts by the police to generate sufficient evidence to get the cases to stand up they dribbled away to an embarrassing… nothing.

There is a Chinese proverb quoted by Jung Chang, in her book Wild Swans: “Where there is a will to convict, there is always evidence.”

If you want to believe something bad about someone, you will usually find something to justify your prejudice if you look hard enough. We are all fallen and we all make mistakes.

I knew a man once who was responsible for recruiting his company’s graduate intake. He was an odd choice for he nurtured a cluster of prejudices about universities, which he took pleasure in sharing with each new intake. “Graduates,” he claimed flatly, “are by definition work-shy, impractical, prone to lateness with dubious moral behaviour and worst of all… they are always socialists!”

It has to be admitted that granted the strength of his will to convict, he could always find some evidence to convince himself that he was right.

Ruining Reputations

This man’s prejudice is played out every day. When it’s played out by the media, the outcome can be ruinous for the lives of its victims. Once the media have the will to convict then it’s only a matter of time before the “evidence” is collected and backed up by pictures. Should a person be grieving over some disaster, then find a picture of him with a drink in hand. Should he be showing some gravitas, then find one where he is acting the clown, even if taken at a party years ago.

When it’s played out by heads of State (Hitler, or in recent times Donald Trump) it can lead to nations going to war with lives destroyed. When it’s played out by the police and the Director of Prosecutions, reputations can be shredded.

It’s an unfair world and we all have to plead guilty to convicting people we know – and celebrities we don’t – without evidence in the court of our own personal judgements. How do we react to the names of Nigel Farage, Jeremy Corbyn, Rupert Murdoch or Tony Blair? Do we really know all the facts or are we just quoting Daily Mail headlines? Are we joining in the prejudice of the crowd?

We should be careful: take heed of these words from Othello:

“Who steals my purse steals trash…’tis something, nothing;

’Twas mine, ’tis his and has been slave to thousands;

But he that filches from me my good name

Robs me of that which not enriches him

And makes me poor indeed.”

Now we approach the outskirts of Cambridge, facing flat, straight walks where I imagine Roman soldiers tramped their extra mile all those centuries ago. Moses (our dog) stirred up a fox and then an otter by the River Ouse and we are fortunate that Moses didn’t see it. We lunched in a garden centre – no pretension there – and we were served by the washer woman from Wind in the Willows: stout, red faced with a white apron and a relentlessly cheerful manner. We chose egg, beans and chips served on a large white plate – no fancy slates there! All washed down with a mug of workman’s tea and at a fraction of the price in the naff pubs.

I am bothered that the Conservative government is all that stands between us and Corbyn’s chaos! Let’s hope that Theresa isn’t gripped by hubris as a heavy responsibility rests on her and her team to rule in a balanced, middle ground way. She looks like my old Latin teacher: severe, perhaps a tad humourless, yet thoroughly decent. When she was around I always felt like an inky fingered schoolboy caught having a fag in the loo, but I knew that deep down she was tough, yet scrupulously fair. Let’s hope she hasn’t changed. Has there ever been a time before when we had a greater need for our political leaders to have competence and high integrity?

The Thin Blue Line

Of course we should all support the police, for they are the body that keeps us one blue line away from anarchy. I always wince when I hear yobs screaming “pigs” at them, they really can have no idea how tough being a good policeman must be.

But my admiration for them is not unqualified when they get things wrong. They seem on occasion to lack wisdom.

Honours for Sale!

Ten years ago, the Blair government was mired in allegations of “cash for honours”. It says a lot about the speed of events today that most people have to scratch their heads to recall what this fuss was all about.

Put simply there were serious allegations that the Blair government, under the guidance of its henchman, Lord Levy, was offering knighthoods, gongs and peerages for cash – just like the bad old days when prime minister David Lloyd George wanted to hoover up some cash following the First World War.

Lloyd George commissioned shady businessman Maundy Gregory to do the spade work. He hove to with enthusiasm and was duly offering knighthoods for £1.24m each and baronetcies for around £2m a time in today’s money. The scheme was a roaring success and the cash raised – about £40m – went to fund the Tory and Liberal parties (alongside a good deal of commission for Gregory).

In 1927, Gregory’s scam was rumbled and he was jailed for two months under the Honours (Prevention of Abuses) Act 1925, which is still in force. No one really knows how Lloyd George escaped censure but wily old sod that he was, of course he managed to do so.

Yates of the Yard

Fast forward to 2006. There were allegations that the Blair government was offering honours for cash and allegedly oiling the wheels by using “loans” instead of cash donations: loans did not have to be reported, while yes, you guessed it, cash donations did.

Assistant Commissioner John Yates was instructed to investigate criminality: had a crime been committed or not? In the process, Blair’s one-time friend Lord Levy was arrested and questioned. The headlines were lurid, the great and the good ran for cover, and everyone waited to see if the government might fall. It was as tense as that.

I could have told Yates how the system works or that he was totally wasting his time. In Gregory’s day, there was a firm link between the payment of cash and the award of an honour. The Blair government (and all governments and political parties since) are far more sophisticated and have learned a lot over the years.

What happens today is that the seriously rich are told by the politicians, “Just give us your money, and wait and see”. So, Mr Big Wallet writes a cheque for a couple of million, and – lo and behold – a year or so later, a recommendation is likely to be made and John Bloggins becomes Lord Bloggins. Of course, if the Lords Appointments Commission rejects the recommendation then Bloggins has no comeback. He has blown his cash for there are no cast-iron guarantees.

So the police had the thankless task of investigating a system that was more or less fool- proof. All the political parties are involved in this soft-core corruption, and no one has any incentive to blow the whistle. The great Denis Healey once scornfully said, “Well I suppose it’s a bit better than shuffling brown envelopes.”

The police were obliged to spend months in the full glare of unfavourable publicity and parliamentary hostility, and poor old Yates of the Yard was never heard of again.

A long haul through flat Bedfordshire fields coated in stubble and clay. In the most part it was particularly hard going as many farmers score out the paths, perhaps to spite walkers.

We lunched with Anne Atkins, one of the most ballsy people I know. She meets adversity with a head butt and a two finger salute and we had a delightful time laughing together. Her younger daughter Rose was with her, a delightful teenager and well able to hold her own despite our rowdy conversation.

Although the company was great the restaurant was dire as usual and makes me wonder why we don’t just take a picnic.

The waiters are part of the problem. Sadly not an alert Bulgarian or an enthusiastic Latvian in sight. Pity, that. We are obliged to endure the usual slab faced, expressionless, taciturn “Who the heck are you?” treatment. This attitude seems to be more or les universal. We have never been greeted by a waiter with, “Welcome and how nice to see you,” or, “Have you travelled far?” for it seems that none have been taught sufficient social graces to allow them to kick-start a conversation with a stranger. It’s very sad. In American restaurants you will be greeted by a fresh faced youngster who plonks a glass tinkling with iced water in front if you. They then give you their courteous attention.

Today’s sloppy crew in our pubs slouch behind the bar, challenging you to come and get it! A request for a drink is greeted by a grunt.

I’ll bet there’s a huge factory sited somewhere near Wigan that supplies these third rate pubs with pre-cooked food: just shove it in a microwave and serve it on slates (not plates) so they can charge a premium.

Then back through Bedford town. A dreary day in a dreary place.

But Anne Atkins and Rose were fun!

Strange Alchemy

One of my friend’s marriages has been teetering on the brink for some time. Last month, it finally collapsed in bitterness and acrimony. Whilst many mutual friends protest that apportioning blame is the last thing on their minds, some have taken sides and seem even to be enjoying themselves in the process. Stephen (the husband) is obsessed by trying to prove to all and sundry that he is 100 per cent in the right, and that the blame for the collapse lies entirely with his now stranded wife, Ellen, for her infidelity.

The Mystery of Marriage

I think this is pure baloney. No one is 100 per cent innocent, for life is more complex than that. Over the years, I have witnessed the failure of several marriages, and I have warmed my hands before some glowing successes. In every case I have wondered at the strange alchemy that is at the heart of it – and I have never found any logic, for marriage is as mysterious as life or fire. I only know it lives privately in its own universe, and what is presented to the onlooker is but a fleeting shadow of the reality beyond.

Scripture tells us marriage is a mystical union, and when it fails only cold ashes remain – and a litter of problems to be resolved. Do we stay or do we go? Do we pretend, and if so, for how long? Or do we fight? Can we quicken our jaded senses, or do we deaden them further with drink and pills? What will become of our precious children who must be nurtured and loved come what may? And how do we rediscover the mystery without which there can be no real love?

There but by the grace of God go we all. Poor Stephen and poor Ellen.

Put Down

An actor friend of mind told me how he had managed to deal with a heckler at one of his plays. The man was persistent and wouldn’t shut up.

“Henry, darling,” shouted the actor. “It was wonderful while it lasted, but you have to accept it’s over!”

Last night I asked our host how he had voted in the referendum. He was Brexit. When I asked him how his wife had voted he said he had no idea! A minute later she told me she had voted Brexit too and neither had thought to discuss it! Strange things, marriages.

Today we are joined by two South Africans with a close connection to Zimbabwe and we had a happy time reminiscing about friends ZANE has assisted.

When we were in Worcester cathedral a sign read: “This cathedral welcomes refugees.” I find that sort of soapy nonsense intensely irritating. The church does not have the responsibility to define what refugees are and what they are not. They don’t have to pay for them to come here, house them, educate their children, feed them, pay their health care requirements or their language tuition fees, so all the Dean seems to be doing is “lefty virtue signalling.”

Think about it. The vast majority of persecuted Zimbabweans would love to live in the likes of Guildford if given half a chance; then there are the populations of another dozen or so African countries who would follow in their wake

We have to make some tough decisions about immigration and fast. We have to agree the basics: first, refugees are those whose lives are in threat and, second, entry to the UK is a privilege and not a right.

On we plod.

To Russia With Love

Some years ago, in a spasm of charitable intentions, I travelled to Azerbaijan and then to Nagorno-Karabakh with the redoubtable Baroness Cox (Caroline). Our mission was to assist a group of Christians whom were said to be fighting for their lives. It was the dead of winter and my memories are mainly of feeling frozen.

I soon grew convinced, however, that despite Caroline’s finest hopes, our efforts were not so much about saving lives as prolonging a civil war. So I decided to make my apologies and a quick exit. To that end, I boarded a flight in Yerevan with the intention of flying to London via Moscow.

Rush Hour

The ancient Aeroflot plane was wheezing vapour to add to the frozen morning mist. However, despite the fact the plane looked only a tad more sophisticated than the Wright Brothers’ original, at least it was warm inside. There were no seat allocations so I squeezed in with a crowd of others and hoped for the best. The passengers kept on coming, though, and by the time we were due to take off it was like the London Tube rush hour with people crowded along the aisle. And you should have seen the men – all granite-faced Khrushchev look-alikes!

Then unbelievably there was a knock at the door and four men clambered in carrying jerry cans of diesel that were plunked down in front of the loos. The doors were locked and one of them pulled out a fag and merrily lit up. I wanted out but too late! As the plane took off, the only thing left to me was to shut my eyes and pray.

School Fees

Some years later, a disaster in India compelled me to get involved in charity work once again. A vast flood from the Bay of Bengal had devastated hundreds of villages: tens of thousands had drowned and hundreds of thousands had been rendered homeless. I wanted to build two schools that would benefit the poorest of the poor, and set about looking for the most deprived slums I could find. I searched particularly round the outskirts of Orissa, one of the poorest cities in the poorest state in India. At last I chose two slums, one for leprosy sufferers and another that catered for prostitutes. The district was, I recall, called Jangapally.

I spent about $20k and this went a long way. To ensure it was spent frugally and as sensibly as possible I gathered the councils of the slums together and we debated endlessly about how to proceed. A site was chosen: the easiest part of the process by far. We then bought huge covers to keep out the sun and the rain. Over the next few weeks, we bought blackboards, chairs, computers and schoolbooks; we provided three scooters for teachers. All in all, it proved to be quite a shopping list. A few days before the opening, we held a party to celebrate. But before it could begin, the chairmen of both slums came to ask a favour.

“Please can we have simple uniforms for the children? We would like each child to have a mark of distinction.”

Of course, I agreed.

“We have another request.”

“Ask away”.

“Please will you ensure that all parents are obliged to pay a fee – even if it’s very small – to ensure that they don’t take the education for granted?”

I was amazed: “But what if they have no money of any kind?”

They were insistent. “We will loan them a little bit of money: all parents must pay something.”

So that is what we arranged. For all I know this arrangement has been maintained to this day.

How interesting that the poorest and most disadvantaged people on this planet wanted school uniforms for their children, and for parents to pay a little something towards their education. It was important to them that a client/professional relationship could be created and maintained.

Both principles make perfect sense: it is sad that one of the richest nations on earth, the UK, junked both of these vital principles years ago.

Escape… and Capture

Some time ago at the Military Staff College in Camberley, General Sir Leslie McDonald (not his real name) came to give a lecture to students in the aftermath of the Korean War.

It was titled, “How I Escaped from the Chinese Six Times”.

After the session had finished and the courageous general was poised to leave, a captain in the front row raised a languid hand.

“No questions,” he was told, “the general has another meeting to attend”.

The captain insisted.

“All right then, but please make it quick!”

“Has the general any plans to give another lecture titled, “How I came to be captured by the Chinese six times?”

Lessons in Gallantry

We have all heard of the screaming abuse often levelled at Sandhurst cadets by warrant officers.

One of my friends told me of the trouble he caused when he was being screamed at by a red-faced regimental sergeant major.

The alleged “offence” was that he was said to have been less than courageous when diving into a tank on an assault course.

The RSM finished by shouting, “Study my medals!”

There was at least a dozen.

“What do you see?”

“There are 12 Sergeant Major, and none of them for gallantry!”

Another thirteen long miles. We plod through boggy, plowed-up, often clay-based fields, where the adjacent river banks are strewn with rusted barbed wire that would do the Somme battle fields proud. Often we face impassable “pedestrian” access points smothered in brambles. I imagine an overarching statement from the council hanging there: “Why not stay away and watch telly?” to send us swearing on our way.

We end with an easy three mile walk along the Grand Union Canal that connects London and Birmingham.

I was deeply relieved to see our hosts, old friends, a retired Admiral and his wife who are effortlessly hospitable. My host gave me a gin and tonic so strong I wanted to sing the Hallelujah Chorus. It’s amazing what a hot bath and a good night’s rest will do.

One statistic that may be of interest is that out of the many people we have met, only two voted “Remain.” And after careful questioning none of those who voted “Brexit” were concerned about immigration but instead they were deeply bothered by the erosion of democracy.

God Save the Queen

Last week I met a number of other friends who were distraught at the hiatus surrounding the Brexit vote.

“Woe is us!” they cried as they lamented the fact that the dice have been thrown, and that nothing will ever be the same again. There is now no turning back. The change is absolute and heralds the total destruction of all that Ted Heath laboured for all his political life. The faint sound of rustling is the sound of the poor man revolving in his grave in Salisbury Cathedral.

Why does the UK handle domestic crises so well? In a mere couple of weeks the pace of change was furious while the UK gave the world a master class in how to handle the rattling train when the wheels fall off.

The Show Must Go On

British voters decided to vote “Brexit” in total opposition to the solemn advice given by an all-star campaigning team headed by the prime minister, David Cameron, and all the usual establishment suspects – from John Major, the head of the CBI, the Governor of the Bank of England, and the World Bank to Chancellor Merkel and her EU chums. An overwhelming team of the great and the good chipped in, including various generals, leaders of all the political parties, much of the media, and President Obama. Even the Archbishop of Canterbury gave his views, although why anyone would think his opinion was even vaguely relevant beats me (the chief Rabbi wisely remained silent). All Justin Welby did was to irritate at least half of CoE members for no gain at all.

Then the referendum took place and to everyone’s total incredulity the establishment and its advice was given a vigorous two fingers. The prime minister honourably resigned, and within a week a new PM was in place, a fresh cabinet had set to work and the beginnings of Brexit were underway.

Why are we so good at this sort of thing? The UK has been in crisis mode before of course, although the Brexit vote is undoubtedly far more important than anything else that has happened politically since the end of the Second World War. Cast your mind back to the defenestration of Maggie in the middle of the Gulf War in 1991. It passed surprisingly smoothly – for everyone but Mrs T – as the government dusted itself down and we started all over again.

Now to the USA, which has a fundamentally different political system. In 1973, the USA ousted President Nixon after the ghastly Watergate debacle. What an upheaval! Even nearly half a century later, memories of the pain of that incident are still so acute that scar tissue is only just forming. It was the Nixon scandal that had the authorities reluctantly deciding that they simply couldn’t go through that process yet again when President Clinton arguably behaved just as badly over the Monica Lewinski affair. When he insisted “I didn’t have sex with that woman”, everyone knew he was lying.

I submit that if both men had been British prime ministers, the men in grey suits would have torpedoed them within a week: game over.

What’s the difference between our political system and that of the USA? When Thatcher was “replaced”, or when the Cameron referendum blew up in his face and Labour entered meltdown, the “technical” repository of all power in the UK remains vested in our good Queen Elizabeth II. As the dust flies up around her, she continues to sit on her throne while the “here today, gone tomorrow” politicians scrabble around far below.

Of course the queen would never dream of interfering: but the point is she could – she is the head of state, not the prime minister.

When Nixon and Clinton imploded, they were both heads of state and supreme “Hail to the Chief” of the forces. That’s why the scars of the Nixon impeachment were so hard to heal, and it’s why they “forgave” Clinton.

God Save the Queen! Perhaps the USA might like to become a colony again – it does have certain advantages.

The Chilcott Effect

I hate public vilification. I hate the snarl of the pack at the heels of more or less anyone (other than Sepp Blatter! I am rather enjoying that – this shows how fallen I am.)

I know the world now comprehensively condemns the Blair government for the Iraq war. I don’t want to get involved in the rights and wrongs of the conflict but a few thoughts as I walk.

First, I loathe the media circus prancing around the bereaved families. Of course the media loves raw emotion, the more tears the better.

“Tell me Mrs Peabody, what did you feel when you learned your son had been maimed?”

“Do you think the war is “right”?

“Do you think the equipment was sufficient? Don’t you think the war is a disaster and that the prime minister is culpable?”

Of course, if a member of my family had been killed in war, I too would give way to an emotional response, and whatever new facts were presented, it is unlikely my feelings would ever change. To many of the bereaved, Blair is murderous scum and he can never be forgiven.

As a highly intelligent, man Blair must know this. We are all sensitive and he and his family must loathe the threats and the never-ending hatred that will be his lot until he dies.

Of course, I am desperately sorry for the families of people who have been killed in conflict. But for heaven’s sake, the bereaved are the last people on earth who can be reasonably expected to give a measured and balanced response to any question about the morality of the conflict, the competence of the way the conflict was conducted and its aftermath, or the decisions and methods of those in charge.

Chilcott and his like are a new phenomenon. Thank goodness he was not around 100 years ago when the Somme casualties were of an industrial order and the catchy phrase “lions led by donkeys” had yet to be penned. Then what about Churchill’s Dardanelles fiasco?  If that had been “Chilcotted” at the time, Churchill would never have survived past 1916 to confront the evils of Hitler.

Regarding the so-called “dodgy dossier”: historically the accusations facing Blair, even if true, are thin gruel.

In 1941, Roosevelt bolstered support for Britain’s war by “sexing” up a naval incident into a Nazi act of aggression. By claiming to have possessed a secret map of NAZI designs on Latin America – a map far more dodgy than any dossier Blair is accused of manufacturing since the British had forged it and Roosevelt knew this – America edged closer to war.

Few would infer today that it was wrong then to have taken any steps necessary to get the USA involved in the war against Hitler. So perhaps when Churchill said that “the truth is so important, it has to be guarded by a circle of lies”, he might have had a point.

Remember that from 1939–42, the UK failed to win any battles until Alamein. All that time, men died probably because of being under-prepared and under-armed – who knows?  And don’t forget the Norway, Dunkirk and Dieppe fiascos; and then the fall of Singapore and Operation Market Garden.

What would Chilcott have made of it all?

All wars are ghastly yet men queue up to take part! Lord Byron summed it up by writing, “All wars are a brain-splattering, windpipe-splitting art”. Just as well, for otherwise men would love them so.

But no battle plans survive contact with the enemy, and all men (and women) in war make dreadful and costly mistakes. How unforgiving we have become.

And another thing. I reckon that the penalties of going to war today are so draconian that only a foolhardy prime minister would ever dare to act for fear they might end up in the Hague. That’s a thought for us all.

We walk a full twelve miles through Northamptonshire countryside where we hunted with the Grafton Hunt all those years ago; memories of the wide fields and the golden bricks of the houses all flooded back to us.

Charles Clayton was the CEO of the UK international charity, World Vision, and now one of his consultancies is ZANE. He is a source of valuable information and advice, in particular, what works and what doesn’t. Yesterday I mentioned a couple of charitable ideas that, although popular, are flawed and can actually damage the very people we are trying to help. In fact a great deal of charitable effort is, in my view, misplaced, and amongst the most hazardous are orphanages. They sound as if they are a valuable resource, but as Charles points out they remove children from the community.If they are well run they can create jealousy, they can institutionalise children so they find it almost impossible to live normal lives when they return to the community as adults. More or less anything is better than that.

We stay in a comfortable house as the guests of a couple of professionals with a hoard of children, some their own, others were friends and there was a team of Argentinean young who I think are exchange students from Northampton High School. The daughter of the house is called Bonnie who I am sure will either be an actress or the heir to Theresa May.

Take a Risk!

One of my friends told me that she was certain all the pupils in her class of 18-year-old boys were involved in a sexual relationship – not some of them, but all of them. In my experience nothing as bleak as that statistic can occur without paying some sort of future cost in terms of vague promiscuity. I may be wrong but I recall the old song, “Everybody’s doing it, doing it, doing it” and when this becomes the norm there are usually unfortunate repercussions.

Sweet Sixteen

When both of our daughters turned 16, I sent them a letter with many of the arguments a man might use to get then into bed. Imagine: the lights are low, the house is empty, the bed alluring, and soft music is playing. The boy is handsome and you want to please him. But something makes you hesitate.

Then he will gently say some of the following:

“You can’t possibly be telling me that this is your first time, how quaint! Look your parents will never know, and you shouldn’t let them dominate you. Come on, forget the old religious claptrap, it’s sooooo yesterday… I think you must be frigid – just prove you aren’t! Why not just enjoy the moment and show you love me? Do you know, everyone is saying that you are a tease, all talk and no action. I hate to say this, but there are several girls who really like me  – so unless you come to bed with me, I’m sorry but I’ll be off. Live for the moment, this moment! Let me baptise each breast, one by one.”

Well these are a few of the ploys I know men have used in the past. The truth is that the girls – and they have most to lose – walk really tall if they say “no” and are known to be chaste; even if the boys jeer at the time, they much respect the girls who stand their ground.

But isolation at any age is a real fear and not following your peer group is very hard. When all the girls are talking about boys and you are the one who keeps herself to herself, how will you cope? Especially when everybody’s doing it, who wants to be labelled a freak?

In Ibsen’s play The Enemy of the People, the hero discovers that the majority is always wrong. In my opinion, nowhere is that more true than in the area of sex for the young.

Bulging Britain

I went to a charity presentation last weekend and there had to be about 300 people there – all professional and well pensioned, they were Oxford’s finest. I reckon the average age was a little over 60, and to be cruel at least two thirds looked to be at least two stone overweight. This is the new norm – why?

If you lunch at local caffs in Oxford Central the reason for Britain’s weight issues becomes blindingly obvious. There are tureens of creamy soups, piles of macaroons and stacks of creamy cakes larded with jam. Chocolate eclairs compete with double-sided chocolate biscuits, puff-pastry custards and caramel cream confections. Mountains of sugary snacks and crisps are meant to be washed down by latte coffee and sugary drinks.

When overweight people are in the majority then rapidly plumpness becomes the norm.

Down in the poorer parts of the city, say in Cowley, the food is even faster and far less healthy, and the food is laced with sugar and carbohydrates. You can see pre-teenaged children swelling up like Tweedle Dum and Dee, straining the zips and the buttons of their Lycra trousers.

Teams of fat people suffering from diabetes are lining up at the doors of the NHS. In the face of this tide of flab, surely it can’t survive. Diabetes and heart problems are facing the NHS like a tsunami.

Don’t Take Care!

When I walked into my gym the other week, I saw a little boy – aged perhaps five or so – on his own. When I asked him if he was lost, he looked horrified. When I smiled, his lip trembled and he started to whimper. His mother appeared, gave me a sour look, grabbed the boy and stalked off.

Of course he had been warned not to talk to dirty old men, and his mum chose not to give me the benefit of the doubt. But it’s a sad day when all elderly men are to be lumped together as potential gropers. I suppose mothers hope that if they snarl enough at us all, this might help to create a risk-free environment for their children? When, for heaven’s sake, will these mothers allow their children to take on a few gentle risks? Parents today apparently believe that because a miniscule minority of people may be dangerous, all strangers must be avoided… just to be on the safe side.

What a lonely, isolated and fearful society we are becoming. The power of the 24/7 media has become so pervasive that when someone is molested in say Scarborough, everyone the length and breadth of the UK knows about it instantly – and in great detail. This wall-to-wall media coverage gives the impression that since an army of no-gooders is lurking poised to molest children everywhere, it’s best to snarl at any stranger – just in case he (or she) turns out to be a Jack-the-Ripper sort.

Teaching children to be suspicious of everyone is misguided. There has been no golden era when people were “better” than they are today. The number of rotten people has remained constant since Adam and Eve scoffed the apple.

It’s sad to be snarled at for an act of kindness. So to all mums: don’t take care! Take a risk, and teach your children that when they are smiled at there is no harm in smiling back.

A couple of calls that are hard to cope with without giving terminal offence…

A dear friend with a great heart want to join our teams in Zimbabwe and “help the poor.”

The trouble is that it is not as simple as it sounds. Unschooled friends always need a great deal of looking after and by the time they are into the job they are gone! The poor are not exhibits in a zoo, they are real life human beings with pride, as we all have, and they do not want to be patronised by amateurs, however well intended. And strange faces are a security risk. What are we do do if they are arrested and banged up in the local slammer?

Another caller wants us to “partner them” and I know what that means. There is an old advertisement that is said to read: “Communist with spoon seeks partnership with capitalist with pork pie.” Our caller has an idea and he wants ZANE to pay for it. I have been around, you know, and I fob this off in as kind a way I can muster! Raise your own money, sunshine.

Last month another person wanted us to lend our authority and networks to supply her funds to help a village school. I had to gently explain that she has to have a long term commitment and the programme has to be sustainable; if the donor gets bored or runs out of money expectations in the village will be thwarted.

All these initiatives may sound good but they have more to do with making donors feel good rather than helping the poor escape their poverty and grow tall.

Behind the Mask

An old friend told me, “Everything in moderation, except vegetables, laughter and sex.”

Not everyone has such a well-developed sense of humour at all times. He died recently, one of life’s great survivors who ended his days cheerfully and surrounded by his family. Many are not so lucky; it can be a viciously lonely world out there and many people are floundering with no one to turn to. Real friendship is a rarity.

Solitude

Do you remember Lady Isobel Barnett? She was a celebrity in the late 1950s and 1960s appearing on panel games such as “What’s My Line?” With her cut-glass accent and polished poise, people thought she was an aristocrat but in fact she was no such thing. Her husband had been knighted as Mayor of Leicester and she came from a perfectly ordinary background, although she was a qualified doctor. As the years passed, the invitations to chat shows began to dry up, and requests for after-dinner speeches stuttered to a halt. Her husband died and her only child lived abroad. As the wheels of her life began to fall off, she was engulfed by the gnawing despair of loneliness.

The poem “Solitude” with the lines “Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone” often proves true enough. Perhaps as a response to her loneliness, Lady Barnett began to shoplift and was caught with a tin of tuna and cream worth 87p. She had sewn a bag to the inside of her coat to hide the goods so she had no excuse. Found guilty and fined £75, she killed herself just four days later by throwing an electric heater into her bath.

Dying and Done For

When I was a district councillor, the chairwoman was a delightful lady, bright and commanding in a mumsy sort of way and with a naughty twinkle. We got on well. She was a paragon of respectability and married to a local headmaster. There were no children.

Then the locusts moved in: she lost her chairwoman’s role and then her council seat. Problems don’t come in platoons but in battalions: her husband died, and then her wrinkles widened into cracks. Some years later, the local news blared that she had been banned from driving for a drink offence; then there was another offence and a suspended sentence. I went to her house to commiserate and found her so drunk she could hardly stand. Soon afterwards she died from alcoholism.

In the Aykbourn trilogy of plays The Norman Conquests there was a wild party with the guests dancing along in a conga line around the house. They circled round the legs of their host who had hanged himself in the stairwell, and no one saw anything awry.

Mother Teresa used to say that although the poor of Calcutta had no money or assets, they at least had community. The poor can weep together and comfort one another. They can pray and share the little they have. All too often, all we have in the affluent UK are our masks of respectability and the good old NHS; oh yes, and our chanting we are “all right thank you”, and an endless drone about the weather.

In Betjeman’s poem “Song of a Nightclub Proprietress”, the protagonist says:

“But I’m dying now and done for
What on earth was all the fun for?
I am ill and old and terrified and tight”.

It sort of sums it up really, doesn’t it?  Cheerful old soul, aren’t I? Still, stop moaning and count our blessings. Offenbach wrote in one of his operas: “When you cannot have what you love, then you must love what you have.”

I’ll settle for that.

Peas Please

Jane was recently away looking after our two granddaughters. I felt bereft even though she had left me copious notes about what to eat and when. She provided me with a tidy supply of excellent soup and cottage pie in the freezer, so I had no reason to grumble. (I never have good reason but that doesn’t stop me.)

One task was to look after and feed our grandson Daniel (aged 10) before he was due to star in a children’s production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat.

Daniel is delightful… though not altogether easy! He accepted that I was to feed him – he had little choice – with ill-disguised incredulity.

I set the table and produced the food.

“Where are the vegetables?” he demanded.

“Sorry, there are no vegetables… Granny must have forgotten.”

His voice grew steely and he threw me one of the withering looks that are his speciality.

“Granny always gives me peas and potatoes.” The silence grew as he ate.

The show was a great success then I delivered him home. We were both quietly thankful his stay was over and he was still alive.

When I saw his mother, Clare, I asked for Daniel’s confidential report on me?

It was short and pithy. “He said you were as he expected… though he did wonder how anyone can reach the age of 73 without being able to boil peas and potatoes?”

Another day off to allow my injured little toe to recover its poise. The colour has subsided from vermillion to a delicate pink and the pain has lowered to my gloomy awareness that there is still some way to go. I want the toe to recover but not so much as I forfeit whatever sympathy I can squeeze from Jane as I limp along.

I gave her a party at Christ Church last night because she has an important birthday shortly. I asked only our local friends who, in the split second when you see them coming, cause your heart to rise up rather than fall down. You know exactly what I mean: it’s quite involuntary.

I told guests that the only time I fall out violently with my beloved is when we are driving or, to be accurate, when I am driving and Jane is the back seat passenger. Before the satnav was invented we occasionally came to blows as Jane has a high regard for her map reading skills and she raps out curious instructions at random with all the insistence of a speaking clock. When the satnav appeared I thought that this device would herald harmony…. dream on, because all that happened was the transference of her demands from me to the satnav!

“What a stupid route”, she would snarl, “the little man yammering away inside this thing is an idiot. Any fool with half a brain must know we should be on the A32, not the M4,” and on she would rant. Then I discovered to my astonishment that she was studying a second satnav, the first is built into the car, the other is on her mobile phone and, what’s more, there’s a map spread across her knee. Of course they were all at odds with one another and apparently each suggested direction varied diametrically as to where we hoped to get to!

The last time we traveled north she stopped and reversed four times in the first ten miles at the suggestions of the different satnavs and maps.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked her quietly.

“Why are you shouting?”

“It’s not me, Darling, it’s the poor people shouting about your parenthood in the cars behind!”

The party was a joyous celebration. Our youngest daughter Milly gave a passionate speech about her Mum, far too personal to detail here but it was a heart warming occasion. We don’t have enough parties and celebrations nowadays and we need a break from wakes and funerals and the memorial services that punctuate our lives.

All notable events should be punctuated with parties, any excuse will do. They don’t have to be lavish, just get lots of your loving friends together and encourage them to have a good time, with lots of happy talk and lots of laughter, for, as Hilaire Beloc tells us: “There’s naught worth the wear of living but laughter and the love of friends.”

A friend told me that when he was about go be married he knew nothing of the birds and the bees (half a century is a long time ago and many of us were innocents then!) and so he searched for a suitable tome that might teach them the basics. He found one in a second hand book shop called:

“How to Hug”.

It wasn’t until he got home he found he had bought volume five of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

Jekyll and Hyde

I read The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde by genius Robert Louis Stevenson the other day. Although I first read it many years ago, only now do I see how the book packs such a potent message. Of course, Stevenson came from my hometown of Edinburgh.

It’s a fascinating book. Dr Jekyll comes to the conclusion he is “an incongruous compound of good and evil.” He becomes convinced that his bad nature is restraining his good one, and finds that his bad side prevents him from following through his good intentions. So he concocts a potion that will separate his two selves. Believing his good nature will be allowed to shine, free from the taint of wickedness, Jekyll thinks he will be able to achieve his goals.

The Darkness Within

However, one night Jekyll drinks his potion and discovers his evil nature is far more developed than he thought possible. He describes his evil self thus:

“I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my original evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine…. (Edward Hyde’s) every act and thought centred on self.”

As his name suggests, Edward Hyde is “hidden”. He only thinks of his own pleasure and desires; and he couldn’t care less whom he hurts to gratify his needs. He will kill if someone is in his way.

Stevenson is saying that even the best people try to hide – from others as well as themselves – the evil that is within. Hyde’s self-absorption and his regard for his own interests are total.

Self-aggrandisement is the cornerstone of so much of the misery in this world: it’s the reason why the rich seldom care for the plight of the poor; it’s the reason for so much of the violence and destruction in the world; and it’s at the heart of most family misery and break-ups, or rows at work. We often hide from ourselves our self-centred capacity for evil acts but situations arise as a “potion” and out they come.

Once Jekyll understands Hyde’s capacity for evil, he decides to clamp down on this frightful self-centredness and pride at the core of his being. In other words he gets “God” and so he solemnly resolves not to take the potion anymore. He devotes himself to charity and good works, in part to atone for the sins of his past and also to smother his sinfulness with acts of kindness and charity.

One day, while sitting on a bench in London’s Regent’s Park, he starts to brood about all the good he is doing and how he is a much better man – despite Edward Hyde – than the vast majority of people.

“I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with honesty that my resolve was fruitful of some good…. And then I smiled, comparing myself with other men, comparing my active goodwill with the lazy cruelty of their neglect… And at the very moment of that vain-glorious thought, a qualm came over me, a hideous nausea and the most dreadful shuddering…. I looked down… I was once more Edward Hyde”.

This is a ghastly turn of events. For the first time Jekyll becomes Hyde without the potion. In despair, Jekyll kills himself.

What happened? Jekyll knows he is a sinner and he tries to cover up his sins with a vast heap of good works. Yet his efforts never shrink his pride and selfishness, quite the reverse. They lead him to feel superior, self-righteous and proud and – Bang! – Jekyll becomes Hyde again, not in spite of his goodness but because of his goodness.

What a plot.

Strange World

Some 50 years ago, a cult leader by the name of Jim Jones managed to persuade over 900 of his “followers” to commit suicide by drinking cyanide in Guyana in the hope of a better life after death.

In the 1930s, Hitler managed to persuade the bulk of the very sophisticated German people to elect him; then he persuaded the majority to accept that the Jews, the mentally ill, homosexuals and gypsies were “less than fully human”, and that it was okay to kill them then steal their money and assets. Oh yes, and he wanted more “living space” for the German people. Hitler’s war ended up by killing 62 million – and that includes the 32 million folk accounted for in Stalin’s Russia.

In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, we in the UK persuaded ourselves – churches too – that negroes from Africa were less than fully human, and that is was okay to treat them as assets to be bought and sold, and killed at will. We also believed, until the myth unravelled in the trenches of the First World War, that we the British were morally superior to everyone else on the planet.

There is an apocryphal story of a British ambassador who, just before the First World War, wanted to know from the Buckingham Palace protocol unit who would take precedence at a dinner: he or the Dali Lama? The reply snapped back, “The Dali Lama thinks he’s God: you take precedence.” The point is this is said to be true!

So it appears that mankind can believe in more or less anything – including sun, ancestor and animal worship, and money, sex and golf worship. However far-fetched the proposition may be, given the right circumstances and often under the influence of a charismatic leader, people will fall into line.

Well you may think that things are different today, that we are cleverer and wiser, and that we have learned from the mistakes of the past. Just stop for a moment. What evidence is there that this is true? Our contemporary advertising industry thrives on the improbable proposition that however unpromising the raw material, if Joe or Mary Soap wears this scent or drives that car, or carries that case or handbag, they will transform from frogs into princes and become irresistible to anyone of the opposite sex. And since the dawn of time, mankind has tried to validate the experiment that money, sex and power will bring happiness. In any other scientific field, this experiment would have been scrapped long since, but no: as if riding on a tight loop, mankind keeps on trying!

Well many of you may think that the beliefs of the religious communities are all equally daft, and on the same level as the “tooth fairy” of childhood. Well of course that’s a matter of opinion but some strange quirks catch the eye.

In 1999, the English football manager Glen Hoddle announced that he believed in a rather peculiar theory of “reincarnation” and that today’s physically handicapped people are paying for the sins of past generations. These arresting remarks generated an inevitable firestorm of criticism. The then prime minister, Tony Blair, said that Hoddle’s views were so disgusting he should resign as football manager, and soon Hoddle was forced from his job.

Then in 2009, the bones of St Therese of Lisieux came to London at the invitation of the Catholic Church. Thousands of the faithful were able to file past these relics for a fee. I presume the idea – apart from making money – was that some of the sanctity of the saint would rub off on the viewer.

Matthew Parris noted that Prime Minister Blair was queuing. Now Parris and I think that the saintly bones are just bones and that treating them as a sort of good luck charm is just as bizarre – if not as offensive – as Glen Hoddle’s beliefs.

I am reminded of the Yorkshire saying, “There’s now’t so queer as folk!”