Honours and Shame

Another roasting day and wandering around in circles. It could be worse. I might be Michael Fawcett, Chief advisor to Prince Charles. No one told Fawcett the way to extract millions from Mahfouz Mubarack in exchange for honours without breaking the 1925 Act. This act was passed to stem the gross activities of Lloyd George’s fixer called Maundy Gregory. Gregory was shame-faced in that he had a list with price tags: I recall that a knighthood cost £15k – big money in those days.

Fifteen or so years ago, Yates of the Yard carried out a full-scale police investigation into what was called then “The cash for honours” scandal into whether Labour’s fixer, Lord Levy, had broken the law in dishing out honours for party funds. I knew from the start Yates would fail because all the political parties know the ropes. What is criminal is to write to a donor: “If you give us money, we will then give you a gong or enoble you.” So what the mover and shakers do today is say to prospective donors, “Give us a generous donation and just wait and see what happens.”
No one told this to the Prince’s team, and they have apparently written a candid letter to a Saudi billionaire, Mahfouz Mubarak, setting out the deal with no finesse.

I presume poor Fawcett will join Yates of the Yard in Outer Mongolia.

The Sins of Our Fathers

Jane told me the real reason why so many of today’s uneducated clots presume to condemn past generations for their links to slavery. It comes down to a lack of forgiveness. 

To my mind, it’s bleeding obvious why the evil trade of slavery flourished all those years ago and I am sure that many of us would have supported it too back then. At that time, most thinking people believed Africans to be what the Germans labelled the Jews, the Untermensch, which translates roughly as less than fully human. Once you believe that, all sorts of inhumanity – and such a sentiment was not unknown at the time of our empire – and cruelty is bound to follow.

They further believed that slaves labouring in say, Jamaica, were bound to be better off than if they were living in Africa.

As communications were hopeless, the stories of atrocities were not widely known. Anyway, few people cared two hoots about slavery at the time. Anyone who raised the subject of banning the trade would have been met with the sort of eye rolling that Remainers used to offer Brexiteers. For commercial reasons, everyone wanted to believe the lies about the trade and so they got on with their lives. When they were faced with the tragic truth of what was going on – mainly from the Christian movement – the trade was slowly abolished. By todays’ standards, we now know that the trade was of course a manifest evil but that was then, and this is now, and surely – and this is the point – we should forgive our ancestors? However, Jane pointed out that forgiveness is a Christian concept. It is not well understood today as people are ignorant about the gospel.

Shifting Sands

Because the statue puller-downers appear to have limited imaginations, I wonder if they realise how future generations may regard some of today’s practices? Let’s take the matter of abortion, for example. Each year, over 200,000 children are aborted. That’s two million in 10 years. Few people discuss this or want to know – I cannot recall the last time I read press comments about it. I have no wish to get involved in the rights and wrongs of this subject, which of course are complex and often about the lesser of evils, except to make my point. In 200 years’ time, views are bound to have undergone radical changes. Perhaps the slaughter of the unborn may be considered to be just as wrong by our great-great grandchildren as slavery is to us today?

Then they may wonder why we allowed a few super-rich “captains of industry” to be paid 50 times more than generals and admirals, and 100 times more than head teachers?

Who knows what future generations may think of us today, but I contend that it’s the height of arrogance and ignorance for one generation to condemn an earlier one! We should forgive our ancestors in the hope that we in our turn will be forgiven by our great-grandchildren.      

Life Lessons

Poor Harry Markle will, I fear, be learning some harsh lessons.

The first is that the gilt does come off the gingerbread – and perhaps the day job wasn’t so bad after all? Second, Meghan’s blood relatives – including her father – apparently can’t stand her and they may not all be wrong. The third is that all the functionaries in Buckingham Palace claim she is a spoiled bully, and they may be right. Fourth, calling their daughter “Lilibet” might not have been such a good idea after all.

And the fifth? Forever is a long, long time.    

Counting Blessings

A day away from roads, brambles, plough and paths that lead nowhere. A day to sort out the car, get clothes cleaned and have a good night’s rest. Breakfast with younger daughter – always a joy – and lunch with her beloved sister so our cup of happiness floweth over. Kariba danced with joy when we arrived back,

There’s a lot to be said for counting one’s blessings, and this we have been doing. Our lives have been as full of snakes and ladders as most readers: so we just get on with it and turn to whatever next confronts us, as do ZANE donors.

Hearts’ Desires

Last night, more or less comatose with tiredness, we found ourselves watching a snippet of the life and loves of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. I had forgotten most of the story, and we were, at the same time, both enthralled and horrified by the saga. Taylor was married eight times, twice to Burton. Their tempestuous relationship was a never-ending battle with booze and with one another.

They were both supremely gifted with an abundance of looks, sex appeal, acting ability, and charisma. If you have never seen the film “Whose afraid of Virginia Wool” or heard Burton’s “Under Milk Wood,” then do so. They are works of genius.
But it seems that none of their Huge gifts satisfied them.
They were like comets soaring far into the night and then burning out. Burton died aged 58 of alcohol. After his death, Taylor was never happy.
The old saying: “ there’s only one thing worse than not getting your heart’s desire and that’s getting it”, has to be true.

Walking the Talk

As I’ve already mentioned, there are five subjects I choose to write about: sex, politics, religion, money and death. So, allow me to turn now to an old theme, the matter of faith…

I always thought that people who once heard the Gospel walked away because they thought it was fabricated nonsense or wishful thinking. I thought their scepticism was best answered by St Augustine or Tertullian who wrote, Credo quia absurdum – “I believe because it is absurd.” This gives a straight answer to those who think it plain daft.

Global Vision

This year marks the centenary of the birth of John Stott, one of the most influential Christians of the twentieth century. Stott was an astounding global preacher and Bible teacher. He believed that people rejected the Gospel, not because they think it false but because they think it “irrelevant”. They claim that “Christianity doesn’t listen”.

Yet the contemporary world is positively reverberating with cries of anger, frustration and pain – and all too often, we turn a deaf ear to those anguished voices. The better way is to read the gospel before we judge it ineffective.          

Stott’s concern extended beyond his tribe, theological tradition and culture. He had a global outlook and he listened to the voices in Latin America, Asia and Africa. He campaigned for climate change, the eradication of poverty and the abolition of arsenals of weapons.

He wrote, “I hope our agenda is not too narrow.” He campaigned against the “sacred secular divide”, and the idea that some parts of life – church services, praying, reading scripture – are important to God, but that everything else – work, the arts, science and sport – is secular.

Stott wrote, “We must not marginalise God or try to squeeze him from the non-religious sections of our lives.” He was committed to the “liberalisation” of the laity, recognising that while the clergy have a crucial job to do, so do solicitors, actors, social workers, scientists, journalists and homemakers.

Stott walked the talk. He didn’t presume to start “Stott’s International Ministries” and during his magnificent life there was never a whisper of impropriety. He gave his money away as he well knew that “pride is without doubt the greatest temptation for Christian leaders”.

It goes against the spirit of our age to think that anyone born 100 years ago has anything to say to today’s young and affect the culture of the moment. But Stott’s writing and vision could not be more relevant or needed by the modern age. 

Checkmate

“Daddy taught me how to play chess last week. Grandad, can we have a game?”

So trilled nine-year-old Amelie Benyon, our delightful elder granddaughter.

I set out the board and reminded Amelie of the moves each piece could make. This was taking candy from a kid! Boring really, but still – this is what grandads are for!

Three moves in and I needed a pee. When I returned, I was surprised to see Amelie with a triumphant grin. Butter wouldn’t melt. 

“Did you mean to lose your queen so early in the game?”    

I stared with horror. I had tried to check her in four moves… and failed to watch her bishop.

I tried to pretend this was all part of a clever ploy, but she wasn’t remotely fooled. She knew!  

The rest of the game was mess. By the end of the evening, Amelie had phoned her mother and father and her other grandfather to tell them in lurid detail exactly what had happened and how she, a total beginner, had hammered Grandad. 

I tried to laugh it off. Unsuccessfully. Jane roared with merriment.  

Moral: Never underestimate Amelie Benyon.

Plough of Despond

A sweaty day. Our joyful mood, stimulated last night by kind friends and a great dinner, gave way to irritation when we found our paths terminally blocked by the HS2 construction site. We zig-zagged to escape only to find the farmer had tractored the right of way into terminal extinction: we were forced to crawl across endless acres of plough, cursing farmer Giles as we staggered along. We ended the day trying to race boats beside the canal towpath – we lost.

Community Service

Jane’s Community Emergency Foodbank (CEF), which she founded in 2007, is blessed by volunteers. As I write this, Jane is trying to change the service back from delivery (we had to make the change because of COVID) to collect. Our volunteers are of all ages and pleased to make a difference to Foodbank clients who find themselves in dire need of food for all sorts of reasons. The people who help Jane do a great job. It’s interesting to see our courts dishing out “‘community service” as a punishment when Jane’s helpers find working at CEF a significant privilege!

In the same way, in my day, schools used to dish out learning poetry as a punishment. No wonder so many people loathe poetry today!

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

Imagine you are lying gravely ill in any hospital or nursing home over the past year. You are approaching the “valley of the shadow” through the effects of Covid or another illness of old age. You desperately plead to see your wife or husband of 60 years’ standing, or members of your close family – and you cannot understand why your pleas fall on deaf ears.

Or imagine you are standing at the door of any hospital or nursing home during the same period, begging to see your beloved husband or wife who you know is close to death. You are told that it may be possible – perhaps – to tap at a glass widow and wave goodbye. 

Brer Rabbit 

I am amazed that the public apparently tolerated this ghastly and inhumane treatment of the dying to happen in modern Britain. I am staggered that people didn’t take axes to beat down doors to see their close family as was their right.

Why didn’t church leaders protest on our behalf? Aren’t they meant to be the conscience of the people? Why didn’t they insist that the rules that dictated that those facing death must die alone, were barbaric and monstrous? This inhumanity was the most dreadful aspect of lockdown and should have been denounced by church leaders. For them to have remained mutely staring at their mitres was iniquitous, a gross failure of leadership and courage.

I note that some bishops – re-moaners all – protested against the alleged lies muttered by Dominic Cummings when he went on a foolish frolic to Barnard Castle. Yet they seemed strangely content to gold-plate the government’s lockdown rules – like Brer Rabbit, they said “nuffin”. What strange priorities. 

How was the monstrosity of people being forced to die alone allowed to happen? Who was really at risk? It wasn’t the patient, for they were already at death’s door through illness, often Covid-related. The visitor (I hate the world “loved one”, for it’s crass and patronising) could have been totally submerged in protective clothing so they were no more of a hazard than any other nurse or doctor. Then after the meeting, the visitor could have stripped off their protective clothing, driven home (or been driven home), then self-isolated. So, for heaven’s sake, why was the supposed risk of added contagion considered to be so acute as to justify these inhumane rules?   

And why weren’t clerical voices screaming condemnation from the church steeples? Why were there no howls of protest from the archbishop from atop Canterbury Cathedral?   

Captain Noel Chavasse VC and Bar was a non-combatant in the First World War. A medical doctor, he served in the Somme trenches as a pastor and stretcher bearer. He died of wounds aged 32 after repeatedly offering solace to soldiers dying in shell holes while under heavy fire from the enemy. Another hero was “Woodbine Willy” (Captain Studdert Kennedy MC) who risked his life so the dying and wounded shouldn’t have to face a lonely death away from the loving touch of a friend and vital spiritual solace. Many First and Second World War clergy showed fine examples of sacrifice and sheer bravery – but these were courageous and tough generations taught to live out concepts of honour, courage, duty and sacrifice set deep in their DNA. Walking the Christian talk as laid out in John 15:13 came naturally to them: “Greater love has no one than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

I suppose it’s a characteristic of our present safety-first, look-after-number-one, marshmallow-soft society that today’s church leaders choose to prattle on about Cummings’s shortcomings instead of setting examples of service and sacrifice.  

Cat Games

Readers may recall in my last commentary I wrote about my love affair with Kariba the cat. It must have struck a chord because that piece inspired more messages from readers than any other! For new readers, I wrote of how Kariba loves me more than Jane – far more, in fact. This may sound petty, but I’m afraid that’s what our marriage has been reduced to. I know Jane fancies herself as the favourite human of all animals – and that certainly includes Kariba. As far as pets are concerned, Jane regards me as an also-ran. 

After Jane read my piece, she pretended not to mind my telling you that I have usurped her as Kariba’s favourite human. But I know that privately she does care – quite a lot as it happens, far more than she wants me to know!

Now Kariba is a greedy little tabby, she does nothing all day except eat and sleep and then she starts all over again. She is always asking for more food. But she has a streak of cunning – she is adept at playing Jane and me off against each other, and she knows exactly what she is doing. I watch her as she pretends to sleep, measuring us with her slanting, green eyes, quietly assessing us before she makes her next play.  

I ignore her begging because I am sure if I give in, she’ll grow fat. But that’s not Jane’s way. In order to curry favour, I have seen her sneakily slipping Kariba the occasional “treat.”

This is where the clever part kicks in. When we are in bed, Kariba leaps up, then she gives Jane a quick purr and cuddle to thank her for the snack. Then she slithers across the bed to sit on my chest, staring deeply into my eyes.

So, despite Jane’s attempted corruption, I know that deep down in her feline heart, Kariba still loves me best.

Tee hee!         

Relationships Used to Involve Relations

I think we all regard mobile phones as an unalloyed blessing. However, I think these phones have a serious kickback from the law of unintended consequences.

When I met Jane, I determined to marry her as soon as possible. I suffered what the Italians call “colpo di fulmine”- “a stroke of lightning”. So I just knew!
When I rang Jane, I was obliged to ask for her at her parent’s home in the Scottish Borders. They were delightful…I could imagine them asking Jane if she wanted to speak to me? Amazingly she did agree – oh be still my beating heart – and so the relationship progressed for some months. At each stage, Pam and Humphry Scott Plummer knew what was going on. Soon a family party was arranged, and all the relations came to meet me and tell one another in corners as relations do: “She could have done lot better than I that!” But the family was involved.
Then, as the relationship matured, there was a wedding. When the children appeared courtesy of the stork, there were several other parties, so the family was involved in rejoicing with us.
So in sum, Jane’s family knew exactly what was going on as all my communications had to be tangled up with theirs.

Today, due to mobile phones, children can get married without the families being any the wiser. Not good for family cohesion.

Now you know.

Ooh La La!

Over the years, in response to insistent begging from ZANE supporters, I have suggested ways of invigorating your sadly sagging sex lives.

A few years back, I told readers about my unintended visit to a sex shop in Edinburgh. You may remember that out of curiosity (“I promise this was an out-of-character mistake, Officer!”), I inadvertently switched on a device called the “Magic Rabbit”. This gadget started to leap up and down and wouldn’t stop because, in my growing despair I was unable to locate the right switch. It might, for all I know, still be jumping up and down. (For readers who want a thrill, the shop sits bang next door to the highly respectable gentlemen’s New Club in Princes Street. I refuse to believe that this proximity between club and shop is a coincidence).

In another blog, I described the improbable services provided by the ghastly introductory sites “Blendr”, and “Grindr”. Good luck with that one.

My last commentary reported on an exciting find – erotic German electronic underwear. At $25 a time, what a bargain! One reader questioned me – impertinently – whether I am on commission?    

Dress to Impress

This time, heart racing, I have embarked on a brief investigation as to the choice of erotic clothing from which ZANE’s menfolk can choose a surprise gift for the Missus this Christmas.

Recently, a Californian survey (of course, it would be Californian!) of 1,451 burghers in Los Angeles revealed their top four choices of erotic clothing.

In fourth place, the “Playboy bunny” outfit, complete with bunny ears.

In third place, a police uniform, complete with handcuffs.

In joint second place, a school uniform (one in a very fetching tartan), and a fire fighter’s outfit, paired, of course, with a helmet.   

However, the winner by a country mile was the “pink peekaboo bra and crotchless thong French maid’s outfit” – for short, called “the Ooh La La”. The outfit is made of the finest crimson lace.

This last item strikes me as an appropriate gift, especially if you are still in deep mourning as an EU Remainer.

ZANE supporters! How will your jaded marriage survive without the “Ooh La La” to jazz it up?  

Remember you heard about this exciting survey from me first!  

Peace (or Piss?) for Our Time

In 1974, I contested Harold Wilson in Huyton (I lost!) 

In one of my (thinly attended) meetings, I concluded my speech by claiming that if the Tories were to be elected, we would “bring peace to the Middle East!” (It wasn’t my finest hour).

There was a dead silence before a woman at the front called out, “I live in the tower block over the road. Can you stop people pissing in my lift?”  

After moment’s careful reflection, I responded that it might prove difficult.

“Well, I don’t see you bringing peace to the Middle East then!” she heckled.

Oh, it’s a Hat!

I was amazed that the pub sign was a flag that contained quite clearly male genitalia: I was surprised because the village simply didn’t look that sort of a place! The last time I saw such a sign was in Pompeii, for brothels were the sort of thing the Romans went in for big time. Then one of the walkers spoiled my day by telling me primly that the sign was of a chef’s hat: a disappointing end to my story.

A great walk through Stratford, and we walked miles with a delightful couple called Liz and Malcolm- 150 years of marriage between us.

Brown and Clown

I dislike violent criticism aimed at senior politicians, often levied by otherwise rather quiet and gentle people. One of our walkers claimed former Prime Minister Gordon Brown to be “the most useless politician of modern times”. I pointed out that, in fact, under Blair, Brown was a first-class chancellor who kept us out of the Euro in the face of wild and continuous exhortations to join by leaders of every other political party, media pundits and the likes of the CBI. I told my friend that if he didn’t understand the implications of that stroke of genius, then he needed urgent therapy! I also told him that PM Gordon Brown and his Chancellor Alistair Darling managed to save the entire world banking system at the time of the banking crash in 2009: rather a useful thing to do!

In my view, Brown is a very great man.

I read Max Hastings describes Boris as a “clown”. I don’t know either Hastings or Johnson personally other than what I have read about them. I know Hastings to be a fine writer and journalist, and I enjoy his work. I am aware also that he has had his fair share of personal disasters and career setbacks. I wonder why he thinks he has the right to be so gratuitously offensive. Hastings’ style is patronising and disdainful, the head boy of Pop: wearing a fancy waistcoat and a sense of entitlement, scornfully dismissing inky fingered dunces like Boris of the lower fourth.

Now to Boris. I am deeply relieved Boris isn’t my son in law, but give the devil his due. He was twice mayor of Labour-dominated London. An extraordinary political feat. And when were any of us acclaimed columnists in the Telegraph?

A mere two years ago, the country was more or less ungovernable with rebelling MPs seeking to take over the levers of power in order to thwart Brexit. Whether you were a Remainer or a Brexiteer, you must surely concede that this shambles was dangerous to our democracy. We couldn’t go on as we were. Johnson threw out 25 rebels and managed to get an (admittedly pretty rotten) deal with the EU. Then he managed to get an election called – not easy when a fixed-term Parliament Act was in place. He then went on to win the general election with a generous majority. Since then, I submit he has managed COVID as well – or as poorly – as any other government anywhere as far as I can tell.

You may disagree with my list of accomplishments and think I am being wildly over-generous; that is your prerogative. But whatever you may think of Johnson or his politics, to call him a “clown” is more than absurd.

Party Time

To celebrate the easing of Covid restrictions, we decided to throw a party for friends. What a lunatic idea because of course, since it was a personal matter, I had to do the organising myself (and not make use of the excellent ZANE and CEF administration). Jane was adamant!

“You are a fool for even trying… you are a walking chaos at this sort of thing.”

I was determined to prove how wrong she was.

“Oh no, just leave it all to me.”

I booked the venue, arranged the catering, prepared lists of chums, got the invitations printed and proudly posted them myself. Then I carefully noted who was coming – and of course who could not come – on a list.   

Organised Chaos

Then, dear reader, I lost my list. It was totally gone. Zap! It was nowhere to be seen.

I informed Jane and she intoned words never before heard in our marriage. “You are total fool! I told you so. How on earth did anyone as inept as you ever manage to start up a successful business or charity? It totally defeats me!” And on it went – for some considerable time.

Then Jane announced she would handle the list side of things. So, I tried to recall who I had invited and who had replied, with both of us occasionally wondering, “Oh, not them… for goodness’ sake. She’s a drunk and he’s the biggest bore yet unhung.” (You know, the sort of remarks people make about friends when they aren’t there.) 

Two weeks later, Jane told me she had lost her list. (I promise you this really did happen!) I was surprisingly kind – taking advantage is simply not in my nature.

“Oh well, dear, we will just have to rely on our joint defective memories to work out who’s coming.”

Party With a Swing

A party at our ages! After the invitations had been sent out, I was asked by one invitee if the party was to celebrate Britain leaving the EU, while another wondered if we were in mourning for having left! I said, “no” on both counts – either reason would be plain crass, and would upset at least 50 per cent of the guests!

Another wondered what the tickets cost for it didn’t say on the invitation. That was a thought! I have never considered charging a fee for one of our parties. What a novel idea. Perhaps I might ask our grandchildren to wander round with buckets… that would really make the party go with a swing!   

Someone else asked why I was choosing to throw a party now – why not wait for a significant birthday? The answer to that is bleeding obvious – wait any longer and most of my contemporaries will be dead!

I am reminded of the party held by the redoubtable Daphne Park (Baroness Park of Monmouth), which took place in a Lord’s tearoom to celebrate her ninetieth birthday. She announced to her elderly guests, “The trouble with holding a party at my age is that all my lovers are dead!”   

There was a long silence before a shaky hand went up at the back of the room. A quavering voice called out, “No, no! Daphne, dearest – I’m still here!”

Daphne peered long and hard at him through her lorgnette before saying sternly, “Good heavens, Henry… But I thought you were dead!”  

Tub-thumping Pub

Hooray… a great pub at last. Just as well after yesterday’s ill-tempered rant at down at heel pubs with which the UK is infested. We lunched at “The Bridge” at Bidford-on-Avon. This pub is excellent. . The staff seem genuinely pleased to see us. It’s clear someone had taken trouble with the decor -,and a first-class menu. It was, of course, crowded as quality always attracts customers, so we lunched in style. Two friends walked with us.

Discussing Death

We discussed “living wills” … no small talk this time. We agreed we find “assisted dying “distasteful. Who is to stop us from refusing, say, chemotherapy after a certain age if we so wish?

Two friends have died in the last few months. In each case, the funeral was limited to “close family only.” Sad that! Jane and I are thereby denied the chance to roar out a few hymns, shed a tear, and say a fond farewell to our old mate. Surely simple ceremonies serve a vital social function punctuating key occasions in our lives – births, marriages and deaths. They are important because they are the glue that keeps our communities together, and they remind us powerfully that we all need each other.

A family I know faced the tragic death of a daughter who was crushed in a riding accident. She had massive head injuries. She was on life support for a month: then, the family met to decide whether or not to turn off the life support system. The family of nine all voted to turn off the machine, bar one. The mother tearfully begged to allow one more week. On the fourth day, the daughter opened her eyes…the next day, she was reading normally. Today she is back on a horse. No one in the family has told her the detail of the family conference!

You can hardly blame them.

The Mystery of Faith

I wonder if you know of American poet Don Marquis and the toad “Warty Bliggens”?

Warty is convinced that the world was created especially for him. We are told that the sun was made “to give him light by day”, and the moon and wheeling constellations designed “to make beautiful the night for the sake of Warty Bliggens”.

The poem ends with Warty being asked, “to what act of yours do you impute this interest on the part of the creator of the universe? Why is it that you are so greatly favoured?”

“Ask rather,” replies Warty “what the universe has done to deserve me.”

I know lots of self-centred folk just like Warty Bliggens. If people regard themselves as being at the centre of the universe, what’s the point of church? To the likes of Warty, church is an irrelevance. Sad that, for time marches on and it’s later than you might think…

A Sense of Awe

So why do I go to church?

It’s precisely because I don’t see myself as Warty Bliggens. Far from being at the centre of the universe, I am hanging on at the edge and my knuckles are white – so give me the drama of a high church service to whisk me away from tedious reality. I favour a style of service far removed from my day-to-day existence. I like the soft-coloured light that slants through stained-glass windows, rich robes, singing that soars to the roof, and the spectacle of the solemn procession where clerics solemnly carry crosses and Bibles. I like the mystery of it all – the choir, a cleric expounding something wonderful (no jokes for it’s too serious for that, and anyway, vicar jokes are never funny) and a transcendent sense of awe. 

I don’t expect something profound to happen every time I go to church because I rarely have an illuminating revelation. Nor do I think being distracted matters much for the service will happen anyway. I need somewhere calm, and I want to be taken out of myself and away from my absurd worries. My preoccupations don’t matter. What’s important is being somewhere where people throughout the ages have said prayers of joy and thanksgiving or expressed remorse and guilt. This is where prayers are valid.

I relish the ancient ritual, the handing out of bits of paper, the singing with others, the standing up and kneeling down, the offering of peace to people you have never met before, the democracy of the queue for communion. I repeat words I did not compose, and only ever say in church.

None of us are expected to do anything, nor do our opinions matter much, if at all. The words were all agreed by clerics long since and the poetry has been repeated endlessly throughout the ages.

Calm in a Storm

The mystery of faith reminds me to forgive others, however difficult that may be, and I am commanded to love others whether I feel like it or not. I am told of the promise of life after death. I listen once again to the stories I have heard so many times before – to the radical absurdity of the Gospel where my world is turned upside down, where the rich and powerful stand little chance of entering heaven, where the winners are losers, and the losers – the hopeless and weak, people like me – are, miraculously, the favoured ones. I am reminded of the place just over the horizon where injustices, small as well as monstrous, can be reconciled.

Whatever my mood, the service calms my chaotic soul, and it calms others as well. It’s the routine of little acts, the repetition of the same words that bring a comforting harmony. The service interrupts my deadly doing. It makes politics less cruel and less relevant because I am reminded that deep in the root of my being is the knowledge that the ultimate questions that face us all, the ones that really matter, can never be resolved on Earth and it’s plain stupid to even try.      

These are some of the reasons why I go to church. So sad for those who don’t. 

Pub Grub Grumble

Another lunch in yet what sadly turned out to be yet another bog-standard pub. It was sited by a river with all the natural romance of Wind in the Willows: you could imagine mole and ratty rowing lazily by on their way to their famous picnic. Anyone with even the beginnings of design sense – any sense – could have made the interior far more interesting than it turned out to be. Instead, we had the same old swirly carpet that makes your eyes water, and the rest of the decor was like a down market old persons home in Scunthorpe.

To get over the national shortage of cooks, today’s pub food appears to be manufactured in a vast shed somewhere in the UK North and thence delivered weekly to pubs. Therefore, pub cooking is reduced to waiters shoving frozen food into a microwave and banging it on tables. Complaints are pointless: any shortcomings are the fault of COVID. So Pub menus are the same everywhere. The waiters are masked with muffled voices so that no one can understand a word.

We walk towards Evesham. The town is doughnutted by estates of new-build. Despite the fact all these new houses are tiny and exactly the same, they are overhyped as “stunning”: the estates are called grand names like “Simon De Montford Estate” that fools no one.

Evesham smells of poverty and is suffering the collapse of retail chains: empty shops that will probably end up filled with charity shops scar the High street.

A great deal of political capital is being spent on the so-called “red wall” constituencies that turned Tory at the last election. We are told a great deal of money will be spent to “level” them with the richer south of England. I wonder how the voters of the likes of Evesham will feel about this promise at the next election.

A New Jerusalem 

How sad to see the Labour Party in steady decline, for all governments need vigorous opposition.

I suspect there is little chance that Labour will form a future government. This is in part because it has lost nearly all its Scottish seats to the SNP – and to be blunt, without them, that’s it. It’s an irony that Blair, who had so many gifts, was the agent of his party’s destruction – it was his government that introduced devolution and created Sturgeon. It’s the law of unintended consequences biting viciously.

Labour’s forlorn election tally is lose, lose, lose, lose, Blair, Blair, Blair, lose, lose, lose, lose. And there is no return to the Blair years. Though there are plenty of voters who loathe Boris and all he stands for, many are now totally opposed to Labour. Meanwhile, the Liberals are often seen as sitting to the left of old Labour. Sadly, Labour will produce another lefty who will fail yet again. What can be done?

Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Man – or Woman!

I believe that somewhere, in a school or college perhaps, a bright, young person has the Mandela, Obama, Clinton, Blair, Thatcher and Boris qualities needed to form and lead a new centrist party (not easy in our first-past-the-post system). Perhaps this individual hasn’t even been born yet, but when he or she arrives on the political stage, they will understand that many voters aren’t instinctively Liberal but right of centre. They will see that such voters intuitively distrust those who tarnish British history or who spend their time indulging in national flagellation and running down our heritage – and that in the broad sweep of things, Britain has been a force for good in the world.

This new leader will distrust those who bang on about “my truth versus your truth” vapidity (dear old Meghan) that is endemic amongst Labour’s youth wing and the default position of many universities. This is the idea that “lived experience” counts for more than objective reality.

They will understand that many voters distrust “cancel culture”, whereby people of opposing views are denied a platform. Such voters do not believe that culture wars should be all-or-nothing fights to the death, and nor do they agree that people with opposing views must be destroyed. Most want to eradicate racism and other forms of discrimination, but calmly please – they are unimpressed with people who “take the knee’ and they distrust change that is brought about by hatred and confrontation. Instead, they believe in the nation state and look for a feeling of national solidarity. They seek controlled borders, pride in Britain and free market economics.

Cometh the need, cometh the talent! We need a fresh young leader with foresight and brains – someone with a stout heart and a short sword.

I forecast that he or she would in time sweep the pool. All today’s political parties should beware. This new party would change the face of Britain!

The Man’s Not for Turning…

“Darling! You have to turn round. Now!”

Please note the way she weaponizes the word “Darling!” so it crunches my skull like a sledgehammer. 

So commanded General Jane after a lunch near Watford.  

“Why”?

“My satnav says there are crashes on the M4… If we continue on this route, it will take us five hours to get home instead of 40 minutes!”

Readers of my past blogs may recall that one of my beloved’s little endearing ways is to double-guess the car satnav with two competing satnavs and sometimes a map. Then she argues with them all.

Something about it all emboldened me to ignore Jane, so I drove on trusting my instincts and praying.

She repeated her instructions rather like Montgomery before the Battle of Alamein.

I ignored her and kept praying.  

Suddenly the traffic melted. We soared along the empty road and then onto the uncluttered M4.     

There was a sulky silence from the passenger seat. “I have to admit,” she eventually conceded, “that I inadvertently clicked a bike timing on the satnav.”

I promised to say nothing.

Going Round in Circles

Once again, Jane and I – and of course, Moses the dog – are setting off on a “circular” walk. And as was the case last year, rather than staying in the homes of kind ZANE supporters, we will be sleeping in our own bed at home for much of the trip. (That’s Covid for you!)

But before we begin, a reminder… Many of my pieces are written late in the evening when I am tired. I try to stick to the topics that interest me most: sex, politics, religion, money and death (though not necessarily in that order). Occasionally, though, I stray off the beaten track into uncharted territory – you’ve been warned!

Please note that the views expressed in this commentary are mine and mine alone: they do not represent the views of anyone else working for ZANE, or the body of the trustees or council of reference. 

I can have no idea of the political stripe of ZANE’s supporters, so I try to take some – though not excessive – care. If living in a free country means anything at all, then freedom of speech is vital as is the right to give offence. If you don’t agree with my sentiments, then of course, that’s fine – but please don’t take anything personally. I used to be on the centre left, but the tide and mood have shifted. Astonishingly, all political parties are today liberal, leaving me stranded on the centre right. I try not to do party politics, but as a former Conservative MP, sometimes I cannot resist the temptation to growl the odd sour comment.

As ever, I have been influenced by others, including Richard Holloway, Rev’d Professor Nigel Biggar and Douglas Murray, and stimulated by Rod Liddle. 

I am also indebted to my UK co-workers who do most of the work (and put up with me), and to the ZANE trustees for their tolerance. Thanks to Brigadier Clendon Daukes for his friendship and candour, our design team under Tom Van Aurich and our wonderful cartoonist, Tony Husband.

Warm congratulations to the leader of the ZANE team in Zimbabwe, Lynda Crafter, on her well-earned OBE, and much credit must go to the other members of the ZANE team in Zimbabwe who work tirelessly and bravely in often challenging circumstances. 

Starting How We Don’t Mean to Go On

Miles of spider’s web tracks, all guaranteed to make me irritate map-reading Jane who is going the wrong way – I’ve been writing about it and muttering: “Here we go again!”

Poor Jane. It wasn’t her day. I charged on and didn’t know she had fallen flat on her face breaking her vastly costly specs in half and bruising her eye. She will have a multi-coloured black eye tomorrow, and people will think I thumped her!

It’s fascinating walking through the Cheltenham suburbs to count the number of expensive cars parked by modest houses. The cars must cost around £60,000 each, and I wonder at the strange – to me anyway- priorities. Why buy a new car? So people really admire their neighbours more if they have a new car? If so, why?

The Forgotten Legion

Ahead of the walk, we spent some time pondering the work of which ZANE supporters can be most proud. It is a difficult contest with so much valuable work completed over the years. It includes the work assisting pensioners, including food aid to care homes; the “pop-up” classrooms; the work to assist damaged women; and, of course, our clubfoot programme, where some 4,300 previously disabled children can today jump for joy. 

ZANE supporters generously supplied funds that paid for medical supplies and additional food for the many veterans who form the “Forgotten Legion”. Prior to April 2018, some 600 pre-Independence veterans and their widows living in Zimbabwe were struggling on just one meal a day. They received no medical aid whatsoever. Can you imagine living in a country with no medical state aid of any kind? Despite serving the Crown and being promised an entirely different retirement, all these old soldiers were living in extreme poverty. Through the generosity of ZANE supporters, we were able to increase food provision to two meals plus a snack each day, and we implemented a life-saving medical programme.

It is this programme of which ZANE supporters should be proudest. As a direct result of your generosity, ZANE was able to fund over 3,800 medical claims. Our dedicated team in Zimbabwe encountered tragic and desperate stories, mass hunger in their communities, and children and grandchildren struggling through a lack of work and hunger. But today, veterans who were previously exhausted and malnourished are thriving with the right medication and increased calories.

The ZANE medical fund has provided diagnosis and treatment to save and prolong lives. Over the course of three years, it has provided over 280 hypertension prescriptions, 135 diabetes treatments, 99 rounds of prostate cancer drugs and 36 cataract operations. (In many cases, veterans claimed for treatment more than once).

Take the life of 80-year-old Corporal Enoch Moses. He was enlisted into the Signals Corp in 1961 and discharged in 1966. He suffers from severe asthma and is prone to pneumonia, especially during the winter months. Funded by the ZANE medical programme, he was at last seen by a doctor. Being able to procure a regular supply of asthma medication saved his life.

I have witnessed first-hand the life-changing impact of the medical fund for these veterans and widows – the weight gain, the change in complexion from a deathly pallor to a healthy glow, and pride and dignity restored. Best of all, I have seen lives saved and the quality of lives enhanced.

From all of these veterans, their message is that they have not been forgotten, that their service has been recognised.

ZANE will continue to provide a medical fund for these veterans who assisted us in our hour of need; we owe it to them to help them in the evening of their lives.

Thank You…

Please note that this commentary is not a self-important indulgence on my part. To my surprise, it generates far more income than the cost of its printing and despatch. 

If you have already sponsored this walk, then thank you. And if not please do so.

Hedge Hogging

Some of the paths were a bit overgrown today. Here is a video, taken by my daughter Milly, who joined us on the walk:

Everyone is being suspiciously kind to me (and Jane and Moses) as we set off. I see them staring with a look tinged with disapproval as they wonder: “why isn’t he an exhibit on the Antiques Roadshow rather than tottering out like Captain Tom on yet another trek, at his age?

They can think what they like – if we didn’t think we could do the walk we wouldn’t start. Of course, TS Eliot was right, “humankind cannot bear very much reality”. Our obduracy to continue walking is probably our attempt to deny the harsh reality that we are scaling at speed the foothills of senility, but we have thought it through; if we fall over and slowly expire in a ditch,  then bring it on. We would rather burn out than rust out, and so what,  it’s been a heap of fun!

As Cold as Charity

A friend of mine set up a charity in South Africa. He raised a substantial sum to support street children in Addis Ababa and hired a local couple to do the work. A couple of years later, he paid a flying visit to look at the progress: he found the couple had built a lovely house and a large swimming pool: the street children were still begging and hungry.

Running a charity is complex. You can easily find that you are doing damage and not helping the poor at all; all you are doing is making yourself feel virtuous. ZANE is frequently asked if we would assist in, say, financing a school a donor has fallen in love with, sited in a remote village they visited on a recent trip to Zimbabwe. We are told that the local managers are truly wonderful, the need is acute, the teachers excellent, and if a little money is provided, the school will thrive: the generous couple offer to match whatever ZANE is prepared to fund.

The first thing we ask (kindly) is, “Are you prepared to put up the same sum of money every year for, say, ten years”? They often look askance at this request until we explain that unless the work is “sustainable”, that is, the same support is provided year after year, and suddenly one fine day the donor money vanishes, ZANE will be left with a large unbudgeted commitment. If we are hard-nosed and refuse to continue alone, the money will dry up, and the school’s expectation of continued support will be thwarted. Therefore, unless we can be reasonably sure that we can continue the work for at least a decade, then it makes sense not to start in the first place. The second issue is that if we did proceed, what about the dozens of other schools in the area that will remain poor? If this school is given the “special treatment”, the other schools will lose their brightest pupils to the favoured school, and we will have created an enormous and growing pool of resentment in the locality.

A couple of months back, ZANE was told of a child living in the N part of Zimbabwe – where we have no workers or experience – who had trodden on a land mine: today, he is alleged to be one-armed, one-legged and partially sighted. Of course, we wanted to help.

But by now, we have a lot of experience in what can go wrong with good intentions: before we spend hard-earned donor money on assisting this poor child, two hard-edged questions must be answered: (a) Who do we send the money to, and (b) how can we be assured that the cash will be spent on the child? For two months, despite our enthusiasm to help, we have not been able to satisfy ourselves that the money will be well spent.

ZANE has been supplying aid for nearly 20 years, and we now have learned what not to do, which comes easier sometimes than knowing what to do.

Before we spend money, we have to be as sure we can be that we are helping the poor and not making ourselves feel better.

If we want a clear example of how good intentions can go awry and how vast quantities of aid – and tragically lives – can be wasted, just take a long hard read of the stories that are flooding out of Afghanistan.

Now the walk of 143 miles is over, our 11th walk! – the weather was kind to us – In fact it was perfect.

A couple of last thoughts.

If I am denounced for expressing my views, I shall of course demand ”counselling”: apparently it’s all the fashion these days.

I was told that my nemesis could come by twitter!

What an extraordinary world we are living in where we are seemingly unable to express our views and disagreements clearly to one another.

It would seem that little has changed since the early seventeenth century.

Trial by Twitter

On 11 April 1612, despite being given the chance to repent at his trial in Lichfield, Edward Wightman was burned as a heretic.

That was said to be the last time. Just think how enlightened we are today. How could our ancestors ever have been so plain stupid and wicked to kill people because their beliefs were contrary to our own?

Doomed!

Yet 400 years on we still are condemning people as heretics. At least Wightman had a trial… well, a trial of sorts. Today on social media, trolls are destroying people’s reputations, careers and livelihoods… without trial. Why? Just because the victims disagree with some arbitrary consensus – usually to do with race or gender – and because it’s such fun to sit in cruel judgement.

Look at what George Orwell wrote: “If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” It appears to have been junked…  

Today, we all have to conform – or else! I have been warned that my simple blog is a bomb waiting to explode, and if the social media trolls get wind of it, like Dad’s Army “We’re doomed!” It’s ridiculous. I find it hard to believe that we have regressed to the days of Savonarola. But the trolls believe that their “views” make them morally superior to everyone else – and that if you disagree with them, then you are not only lower than vermin, they will destroy your career and livelihood and as publicly as possible to show the world the fate of heretics, just as they did in 1612.

This is monstrous. Today, talented people are running scared of saying anything that could be distorted, because once it’s been weaponised by the trolls, employers will be fearful of employing them, commercial firms won’t sponsor them, and TV producers will be frightened of hiring them. Who can blame anyone with a living to earn for being terrified? Once careers are destroyed, they stay destroyed. 

What’s the motive? It’s a power play: a controlling minority are just as cruel and vicious and hungry for power now as they were in the days of the Spanish Inquisition. The trolls get their kicks by inflicting cruelty by Twitter: they tap away, anonymous and giggling with glee, safely hiding behind the narrow consensus of “the mob”.   

That’s what happened to actor Laurence Fox. He simply argued on Question Time that Meghan Markle may have had grounds other than racism for leaving the UK. He now worries he may never work again. Then the reputations of Germaine Greer, Toby Young, JK Rowling and the late Sir Roger Scruton – to name but a very few – have all been thrown under a bus. An article by journalist Kevin Myers in the Sunday Times was purposefully misunderstood: despite the fact he never said what was reported, he was denounced worldwide for misogyny and anti-Semitism, his career destroyed. 

At least the “heretic” Edward Wightman was given a trial. That’s more than Laurence Fox and the others were granted. 

Face Value

People take you at face value and life isn’t fair when it comes to faces. In repose, my beloved wife Jane has a face that clearly shows the world she’s a good and kind person; but in contrast, my face looks like an agitated horse and it’s not fair.

When they first meet me, people assume I’m a grumpy sort of guy, but in fact I’m just as nice as Jane. Well, I suppose not quite as nice, for that wouldn’t be possible, but at least a great deal nicer than I look. But people are bound to take you at face value; they assume that the way you look reflects character. Oh look, here comes that miserable old git. One look and its judgement day! And usually there’s no second chance to show a critical world my true colours.

But I’m sure that looking grumpy is better than being a continual smiler. The vicar of the church I used to go is an all-the-time smiler: every time you look at him, he’s grinning away as if he’s just heard some private joke. I find that irritating and it must be difficult for his parishioners. There you are, deserted and penniless with angina and fallen arches, and there’s old Fred grinning away as if he’s chorusing, “No worries!” Or you’re dying of the dreaded lesser-spotted lurgy and here he comes grinning like a Cheshire cat. Or you’re corpsed, the family’s in deep mourning, and there’s Fred again grinning like a ragtime band to spoil your misery.  

On balance, I’ll settle for looking like a horse!

Superstar Queen

Our youngest grandson, Raphael Benyon (Raph), took it upon himself to write to the queen as follows:

“Dear Your Majesty the Queen,

I am writing to you because I wanted to say “thank you” for being such a brilliant and superstar queen for such a long time.

My two brothers and our little dog Lotti have enjoyed playing and doing puzzles with my dad and riding my bike in lockdown. I wonder what you have enjoyed doing?

My family are praying for you in this very strange time. We hope you will be happy and full of hope.

Yours truly

Ralph Benyon, aged 7

Nothing else to be said really, is there?