Another vast switchback walk mainly over  styles through National Trust woodland,  skirting the railway line towards Gomshall; then through Sheer, passing numerous red stone “Pillboxes” from WW2, used apparently by the likes of Captain Mainwaring of Dad’s army, hastily designed in 1940 to frighten away the Germans when they invaded.  Magnificent views and easy going.

Then through the outskirts of Guildford from where we crawled ever upwards towards the magnificent Cathedral, nestling  so as to address God on an equal footing, with both hiding in the clouds.

The New Me

I can’t go on like this – I’ve pressed my personal reset button. For many years, I’ve been seriously disadvantaged by the fact that I’m essentially boring: a white, married, heterosexual male. I’m privately educated, a former Guards officer and a former Conservative MP. To make matters worse, I’ve been married to the same woman for half a century and I’m Father to four happily married children.

So far, no one in the family has been sentenced to jail and I’m known to be something of a Bible basher. So in terms of identity politics, I’m the invisible man on the train, a dinosaur, a man of no special interest to anyone: too old to work yet too young to die. My opinions will never be sought by the media, nor will I ever be targeted by political pollsters. If I was ever caught doing something illegal, I’d be unable to pull the race card. No political party will want to add me to their lists for virtue-signalling purposes and to prove how multi-racial and inclusive of minorities they are.

Minus 20

So now I’m embracing radical change. It’s been growing on me for years. To be honest, it’s been a vast struggle, for I’ve felt very young inside myself all of this time. And I feel far friskier than others in their mid-seventies too, so there!

Of course, I am not alone in coming out of my age closet. Dutchman Emile Ratelband, 69, claims to feel like a young god of 49. The doctors agree he has the constitution of a much younger guy, so Ratelband has been trawling through the Dutch courts to change his legal birthdate from 1949 to 1969.

Ratelband claims that a man who identifies as a woman can claim a new birth certificate stating he is now a she. So why on earth can’t he wipe 20 years off his life to enable him to get a better job and be able to chase women on Tinder – who regard all over-55s as more or less dead?

So, for me, it’s “farewell 1942”, hello “brave new 1962”. Whee, I feel better already. 

All or Nothing

But hang on. Now I’m thinking, why not go the whole hog? Today’s accepted consensus is that biological sex is not real but merely a social construct. This reasoning has swept through liberal US university campuses into the political mainstream and is now accepted wisdom in the UK too. Let me be clear: activists demand that anyone who says she is a woman is entitled to a document stating she was born biologically female even if everyone else knows she is a man and he (or she) has a willy (sorry about that).

Of course, I agree. So I’m now a woman and available to be chased by men on Tinder. And, if you can change your age and gender, why not your race? In the US, a white woman called Rachel Dolezal claims to be black and says she has suffered racial injustice. I can identify with this for I have felt black inside myself for years. Someone called Anthony Lennon – who was apparently mixed race – has popped a Nigerian middle name “Ekundayo” into his full name in order to convince people he is black. I propose to copy this excellent idea.

I’m now Karen “Gorgeous Nahindicere” Benyon, aged 55. Don’t dare mock! I’m a black female and I’m young. I love poetry, dancing, music and women’s clothes. I’m close to my emotions – I laugh a lot and I cry easily. And I am choosing to be bisexual, which is great news as it doubles my chances of a date on a Saturday night.

Oh, incidentally I am likely to be selected to run for the mayoralty of London by the Green party anytime soon. I’m told I will be a shoo-in.

I’ve yet to break this happy news to Jane and the family – never mind the dog, Moses. However, I’m sure the poor dears will be delighted to welcome their new Aunty Gorgeous into the family right away. What fun we’re going to have.  

We walked fast for seven miles through far from the madding crowd woodland, quiet and peaceful and to our surprise no small birds were singing.

Some of the woodland was awash with baby pheasants, to the torment of Moses, who very much wanted to kill them all!

We powered along, probably up to three miles an hour. The first two or three days of walking are always hard work as we sweat off months of lazy living and can literally can feel our old  muscles starting to harden. After three days we get into the easy swing of things and the rhythms start to make walking relatively easy.

No-one walked with us and it was a kind of pilgrimage.

Stuttering Halts

Some of my friends’ careers have come to a stuttering halt at Westminster. It’s bad enough for the great Ken Clarke who is, after all, 79, but this cruel termination of his career appears to be a shock to Rory Stewart. I am amazed he has been taken by surprise. How can this be?  

I don’t know Boris but no-one has ever  suggested that he is a particularly kind man.  Quite the reverse is more probable.  It is  surely obvious that he appears to be in a life or death struggle; rather like Holmes and Moriarty fighting  on the edge of the Reichenbach Falls and he would regard anyone not helping him as being  on in the side of Moriarty.

This is not a time for slapping each other in the back, ”Don’t worry, old chap!” at Whites or Boodles. What’s going on – Boris v Corbyn – is deadly serious.

Save the Last Dance for Me!

Life’s “firsts” are landmarks. Celebrated in TS Eliot’s poem “The Journey of the Magi”, the three kings attend the birth of Christ and realise that this shattering first changes everything.

Of course, our firsts are on a far smaller scale, but they punctuate our lives and it takes time to see them in focus. We remember what matters to us, so the firsts etched into our memories often represent life-changing events. The first time we meet someone we come to love; the day we are awarded a degree; the day we are commissioned as an officer, or get a real job; the day we marry, make love, hear fantastic music; or the day we get elected – or fail to get elected! Then there is the star-spangled day our first child is born and held joyfully in our arms; our children’s first words and tottering steps; and their first day at school.

All these moments are stored away in the file marked “life’s happy events”. The key is to bank plenty of happy “firsts”: that way, when the sweet bird of youth has finally stopped flapping, we will have enough good memories to sustain us as we totter through the foothills of senility towards the summit.

Final Fix

Do we even notice, much less remember, the “last” events? The problem, of course, is that we do not always know it’s a “last” at the time, and it all gets lost in the fog we call memory. And of course, there are no warning bells to ring out at these moments of great significance.

Some last events are obvious: the last time we leave a beloved house, or a last day at work. And I suppose alcoholics – and smokers –note with agonised concentration the date of a final fix.

But sometimes it takes decades to really appreciate that a last has occurred. Was I actually aware when I had changed a nappy for the last time, or read a final bedtime story to my children? Did I realise the last time I tucked them up in bed and said a brief prayer over their heads that another milestone had passed?

Then there comes the time when we realise the extraordinary fact that we now need our children’s time and love rather more than they need us, preoccupied as they become with their own families.

End Game

What about the death of relatives or friends? When I visited my terminally ill mother, we both knew this would almost certainly be the last time we saw each other. Yet neither of us – locked in polite English denial – acknowledged the fact.

And then there are the times when Jane and I have mercy-killed various horses and dogs. Readers of my blogs will know just how painful such events have been, each one a kind of murder.

With advancing age comes an acceptance of death by a thousand lasts, faint signs that morph into an immovable tattoo: the acceptance of mortality. Before the age of 40, we convince ourselves that death is for those poor sods that have somehow lost life’s game. Then after 40, its time to “grow up”, and by 70, we realise the days of wine and roses are over and it’s time to get serious as we face an unavoidable end game. We idly note the ages of those in obituary notices, and ponder coffins and graveyards at funerals.

We just can’t get away from these inexorable damn lasts. Jane and I hunted for over 30 years. We loved the sport. Recently I discovered my old hunting boots covered in dust in the corner of the attic. They remain beautiful, the inside leather worn down from the friction caused by a thousand hedges. They symbolise great fun, teamwork as well as hunting.

But after 30 years, my hunting gene seeped away. To some extent, this was caused by the death of my last golden hunter, Spinaker. But there was also the friend who crashed a fence and was driven headfirst into the ground like a dart. His horse fell on him and broke his neck at the very top, so all he could move was his chin and eyes. When we visited, he was drinking lunch through a straw – and I swear this is true – watching a euthanasia debate on the telly. A single tear ran slowly down his cheek.

They say the doctors take those who are crippled below the waist to see those who have lost mobility from the neck down, so they can see how relatively well off they are. It begs the question: to who do those with broken necks get taken to see?

I stopped hunting. But I can’t actually recall the last meet, or the last team chase. And child that I am, I can’t quite face up to the fact that a last has even occurred. The chance I will hunt again is more or less zero but it’s painful facing that reality.

Jane is far more ruthless than I am. When I hit the sod, my clothes will be at the charity shop before I am cold. Nevertheless, I can’t quite face flogging my beloved boots, hunting coats and all the rest so another bugger can have fun wearing them. Dog in the manger? Me? Never!

Last Orders

Then of course the sex thing tries to rear it head (if you’ll forgive the pun). I think of the time the great Denis Healy admitted to Edna, “The bird won’t fly from the nest!” The late Alan Clark (who had considerable form) wrote in his diary, “The first time you are impotent does not immediately follow the last time you have sexual intercourse…The last time you don’t know because there is always hope, until much later.”

A friend in his sixties – a cricketing fan – told me that he had “drawn stumps”, presumably for the last time. You know when friends have called it a day because they’re fat. The seventh commandment is now a joke: what’s the bloody point of being thin?

So a few nights ago, on one of my numerous loo visits, I caught sight of my pale, whiskery body in the mirror. Then I wondered at what point in the future I would need to face the fact that a last has occurred: that my dead parrot was only good for facilitating drainage?

I’m sure the reason these “lasts” carry such emotional weight is that they are inexorable steps towards the greatest last of all: the black door, closely guarded by a dismal sod dressed in black and swinging his scythe.

Of course, lovers of God hope that Corrie ten Boom was right when she wrote, “Death is the old family servant who opens the door into the father’s home.”

What fun life can be!

“Last” drink anyone?

A thankful day off from walking. It isn’t too hard, walking 12 miles in a day. The complication and frustrations arise from finding the way across blocked paths and tracks that haven’t been used for years; and then there are sudden and unmarked divisions in the paths with an occasional and often indistinct indication as to which one is right.

Some years ago an intrepid lady walked from Edinburgh to London as the crow flies. She charged across motorways, though factories and then she swam straight across rivers. She remained undeterred by private houses by slamming through French windows and out from kitchens while families were at lunch! Amazingly, she lived to tell her tale. I rather envy her but I reckon my English reserve would betray me when faced with having to carve straight through the law courts still in session.

Chartwell

We visit Chartwell, Churchill’s country house. I wonder what he would have made of Brexit.

What a mess! His grandson, Sir Nicholas Soames, thinks WSC would have been a remainer. I am not convinced. His love of the Commonwealth and the USA convince me that he would have thought such a union right for Germany and France and the rest of the EU members, but that he would have refused continued membership if it meant the UK found itself subordinate to a superstate run from Brussels..

The main difficulty is that parliament knows what it doesn’t want but cannot agree on what it does. We can’t stay and daren’t leave. Unless we do, we run the real risk of making international fools of ourselves on an even grander scale than we already have. But even WSC would have known what to do without a majority.

Nanny State

It’s sad that the introduction of a dizzying number of childish rules and regulations is now the only way in which anti-social behaviour can be reduced in the UK. If people were taught to behave with reasonable consideration for others, these rules would not need to clog up our lives. But our culture of self-control and restraint has been so comprehensively eroded by social change since 1945 that there’s little point in appealing to people’s better nature: it no longer exists.

Of course, I am generalising: there are many decent people around still, but you have to work a bit harder to find them than hitherto.  

Street Food

Where to begin? Let’s start with the small stuff. When I was a boy, I was taught it was simply unacceptable to eat in a public place. Today many people seem unable to move more than a few yards without eating something. If you examine street litter, you will find that the majority of it derives from people eating anytime and anywhere. As a consequence, our streets, lanes, fields and parks are filthy, probably the worst in Europe, simply because people choose to use them as a stable.

You may think this is a trivial observation, but it’s all about self-expression: there are no accepted rules or manners anymore to control society. It would seem that a vast number of young people have never eaten round a table regularly at home with other people, but choose instead to graze, eating when they feel like it and where they want to. In other words, they have never learned to curb their appetite for the sake of the convenience or the happiness of others. They would regard the idea of no eating on the street as an offence against human rights. If you are hungry, so their drivel goes, why not eat at once wherever you may be?

The Mood of the Moment

How has this come about? For starters, unbridled self-expression and the comprehensive destruction of the family. Today, many people hook up and then they stagger off sated, irrespective of the wellbeing of any children they may have sired or society as a whole. The mood of the moment is all that matters.

Self-expression is regarded as an intrinsic good in itself. And because the state has made it financially possible for people to behave selfishly, it appears no longer to remember the crucial importance of the family to the welfare of children.

And instead of preaching the Ten Commandments, “Love your neighbour as yourself” or self-control, some (of course, not all) church leaders content themselves by banging on about Brexit, food banks and why doesn’t the government pour even more money into social security? The result of this catastrophic moral neglect can be seen in the rivers of misery that ooze daily through our divorce courts.  

Anti-social behaviour is one of the fields in which Britain leads the world. Bad behaviour is today as much of a UK hallmark as fraud is in Nigeria. It’s no longer a tiny minority who offend by their violence, intimidation and degrading vulgarity, there is a substantial number – and this is a disgrace. Many of our younger fellow citizens do not “socialise” when they get together. They seem unable to enjoy themselves without getting screamingly drunk, vomiting in the street or creating an atmosphere of dark menace. Our holidaymakers compete in their vulgarity; our football crowds are a disgrace; and the centres of our cities at night resemble Gin Lane, glinting with knives and the dark glasses of drug dealers.

In the eighteenth century, philosopher Edmund Burke wrote, “Men (I am sure he would have included women as well, but PC wasn’t around then) are qualified for civil liberty in exact proportion to their disposition to put moral chains upon their own appetites… Society cannot exist unless a controlling power upon will and appetite be placed somewhere and the less of it there is within, the more there must be without. It is ordained in the eternal constitution of things that men of intemperate minds cannot be free…” 

So now the state finds itself in the position of having to repress the very behaviour that has resulted from generations of woeful neglect. The fact we have lost control of ourselves is one of the reasons governments of all stripes feel obliged to pass vast numbers of nannyish rules designed to repress our grossness because we cannot be relied upon to control ourselves. Our loss of self-discipline has led directly to a need for state repression.

The question for our children is how can we return to self-regulation?

Some Light (Tax) Relief

The Inland Revenue recently returned a Norfolk-based man’s tax return to him after he apparently answered one of the questions incorrectly.

In response to the question, “Do you have anyone dependent on you?” he replied:

“2.1 million illegal immigrants, 1.1 million crackheads, 4.4 million unemployable scroungers, 700,000 criminals in 85 prisons, 650 idiots in Parliament, plus the bits of the European Commission we have been unable to leave behind.”

The Inland Revenue stated that his response was unacceptable.

“Who did I miss out!” the man responded.

We pass hundreds of villas, many sporting new cars worth around £60k each. It amazes me that people can be persuaded to spend that sort of money on a car that is destined to depreciate by thousands each year. It’s all about vanity, of course. An MP from long ago told me: ”The only sort of vehicle I approve of is a car crusher.” I agree!

The houses remind me of the great old Lord Rothschild, who once penned a book on gardens. To show how in touch he was with the aspirations of the ordinary citizen he recommended: “All Englishmen, no matter how mean their estate, should sport at least 2 acres of wild woodlands in their gardens.”

Today’s walk is a mix of scrubby fields leading towards a vast long-stay Gatwick car park. We are fighting to be heard above roaring from the M23, a ghastly train line and shrieking from plane engines as, every twenty seconds or so,  they roar past us to land. We walk across a bridge spanning the motorway and soon find ourselves like a couple of tiny ants dwarfed between the vast Southern and Northern terminals. Who could possibly  want to live here?

Is the Lady a Tramp?

They say the past is a foreign country and they do things differently there. Nowhere is this more true than in the matter of men’s manners towards women.

As a child, I was taught that if walking with a lady, I should always walk on the street side to protect her from the mud thrown by passing cars. We were obliged to open doors to allow a lady to pass first and to stand up when one entered a room. I was instructed to offer a hand when a lady was getting out of a car (but not kiss her if she was wearing a hat), and offer up my seat on public transport to any damsel in need. And I was taught never to utter obscenities or tell foul jokes in the presence of the fairer sex. 

But today, all the above is regarded as a ludicrous waste of time by the young. And perhaps they have a point? Why allow a lady to go through a door first when she may be after your job?   

The Zane Lady

In my last blog, I produced a checklist for men to reassure them that they are gentlemen. Now here are 20 rules to guide women in the complicated area of what makes a ZANE lady…

1: She doesn’t take offence easily.

2: She happily carries her own luggage but accepts a man’s offer to carry it gracefully.

3: She fends off unwanted passion with grace and ease.

4: She accepts compliments, even from a silly old fool.

5: She knows that a single, explosive swearword beats a torrent of obscenity.

6: She can change a tyre (but is very grateful when a man does it).

7: She accepts that not everyone wants a cat pawing at them.

8: She will drape an elegant shawl to cover herself while breastfeeding.

9: She wears clothes tight enough to show she is a woman but loose enough to show she is a lady.

10: She will dress unobtrusively at funerals.

11: She can hold a drink or two without falling over.

12: She never talks about house prices.

13: She never applies make-up on a crowded train.

14: She tells adult godchildren how well they are doing, even if their lives are a total train crash.

15: She will give a 100-watt smile to a nervous teenage boy to make his day.

16: She would never kiss and tell like the disgraceful Edwina Currie.

17: She always takes off her stiletto heels to spare the parquet floors of others.

18: She will pay a restaurant bill without making it obvious.

19: She knows when to stop talking and when she is about to leave a house, she will not change the subject.

20: She is kind to nervous men who read lists on how to be a gentleman.

Lefty = Lovely

Why is being “left-wing” supposed to indicate that one is a “good” person, and why is the label “right-wing” synonymous with “morally inferior”? It’s sheer nonsense. Where did this rubbish come from?

My children’s friends occasionally virtue-signal about the iniquities of “right-wing” Tories on the presumption that their listeners will shudder in preening horror. But then my fiercely supportive children respond that their father was once a Tory MP – and before blethering on wantonly about “extreme right-wing Tories”, perhaps they should say when they last started a food bank or a charity for the poor in Africa?   

But, of course, being left-wing has a positive gloss to it. We magic up in our mind’s eye kind folk who are principled, well-meaning champions of social justice – people who care about others.

As for being “right-wing”, that means you are a swivel-eyed supporter of cutting taxes to the bone for the idle rich; you are a supporter of cutting benefits to the needy; and of course, you would cook your granny for tea if there was something in her will for you. 

Of course, the description “extreme right wing” really means you are a supporter of Hitler. The proof of this is that Labour politicians wallow in the label “left-wing” as a badge of honour. I cannot recall a single politician proudly proclaiming on television that he or she was right-wing. Nigel Farage is labelled extreme-right-wing by his detractors as it’s a semi-polite way of calling him a look-alike Trump bigot and racist.

Of course Farage doesn’t call himself right-wing because he knows fine well it’s a pejorative term.

All those ERG (European research group) MPs are habitually called “extreme right-wing” because they actually think the result of the 2016 referendum should be honoured, that we must leave the EU. By lefty implication, roughly half the population is extreme-right-wing. In reality, I reckon that most extremists are on the left.

This whole business started because the left weaponised the conversation, and the media (BBC and Channel 4) have absorbed it too. They can assault their enemies with this nonsense from what they perceive to be the highest point of the moral high ground. As a result, at least half the population have no idea what to call themselves.

Name Calling

If you, dear ZANE donor, believe in an efficient state; one that is well-defended and with a well-balanced budget, one that has generous provision for the genuine poor, and one that has controlled immigration and well-defined law and order – then here’s betting you have no idea what on earth to call yourself. 

I am fed up with name-calling. The left is full of “proto fascists” and the “right” is a dungeon to which the left consign people they do not like – but it’s not a place where any of us want to be.

We need a new political language. What do ZANE supporters suggest? I am a socially liberal and economically inclined Conservative, so where do I sit on the spectrum? I have always thought I was a libertarian, in that I have always thought we should be allowed to do whatever we like as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone – so where does all this name-calling leave me?

General Jane

Powering along ancient rail tracks into East Grinstead with General Jane leading the way. I have long discovered that the simplest way for me to walk in harmony with Jane is to do exactly what she commands me to do. There is little point arguing with high command especially when she has the map.

And Jane she has learned from years of practise to give me short thrift. “Do stop arguing and complaining” she yells at me whenever she sees a glimmer of backsliding.

Jane’s most irritating word after I have spent hours plodding up a vast hill is:
“Oh Bugga!” This means we have to back track half a mile to walk as the satnav walking device has gone haywire or she has misread the map. There is no point in my complaining, I have to grin plod to the next turning and bear it with as good a grace as I can muster.

In an earlier century General Jane would have gained fame by leading a group of distressed orphans over winding, snowy tracks in the Himalayas to save them from a fate worse than death. She is a truly courageous, wonderful, intrepid and immensely kind woman and I am profoundly fortunate to have her in my life.

Where am I?

I am at the stage in the walk when I have been in so many houses when I wake up I have no idea where on earth I am. I tell my hosts that, if they find me wandering round their bedroom at 3am, not to worry: I am just trying to find a loo!

Tsunami

I recall, a couple of years back, a poster in Worcester Cathedral proclaiming, “Worcester Cathedral welcomes immigrants”.

I thought at the time that this was one of the most hypocritical, virtue-signalling balls ever to have shamed the good old C of E. Neither the dean nor his church has to plan the logistics, or pay for the housing, education or health needs to make this “welcome” a reality. I made a vow to ask the man (why man?) how many immigrants he was actually housing in his deanery and personally paying for, but I forgot.

Then I wrote a bit in my last blog about the problem of immigration and I got quite a postbag, as was bound to happen. People are always edgy about discussing this issue because they don’t want to be thought of as “politically incorrect”. I tell those worrying about my imminent arrest from the thought police that I am old and more or less harmless, and so I need counselling rather than Belmarsh. Counselling seems to be all the rage these days, so why not give it a go?  

The Donald Effect

But I digress… so here goes. Good old Donald generates truly ghastly publicity, but occasionally he raises issues that no one else dares discuss. He threatens to close US borders and call in the military to stop tens of thousand illegal Mexican chancers and would-be-asylum seekers from crossing the Mexican/US border to settle illegally in the US. He did this in the sure knowledge that he was bound to offend every liberal-do-gooder and virtue signaller in the world all over again.

The image of millions of tearful women holding screaming babies and insisting never to return to their ghastly homeland is a vision of the future.

Trump tries to excuse his rhetoric by proclaiming these immigrants are “bad” people but of course he misses the point. There are bound to be some rotten apples amongst the immigrant throng, but the point is they are not “bad” people: they are just “people”. Which one of us, if broke, unemployed and living in chaotic and violent conditions, would not try to move our family over the border to a dreamland of milk and honey?

These would-be immigrants want to raise their families in better homes and seek the chance of a decent job. They want to create a better life somewhere else. Of course, they all want to come and live where we live, don’t they? If the tables were turned, wouldn’t we?

They are all deserving folk who in the lottery of life have had the misfortune to be born, for example, in a rat-infested slum in Zimbabwe or some other poor African state. Or they come from Honduras, Nicaragua, Guatemala or El Salvador. These places suffer from high crime, and heroic levels of corruption and instability. Life for their inhabitants can be nasty, brutish and short.

In TV interviews, we see tearful families proclaiming they have travelled vast distances, fought through dreadful dangers, and suffered exploitation, robbery and rape. They are often well-educated, quietly spoken and worthy. All they want is a safe haven in which they can work hard and be good citizens. These interviews are often introduced by an indignant Jon Snow with some poor foreign office minister cowering and stammering uselessly in the background. Each immigrant has a sad and deserving story to tell, and our implacable government clutching its quotas always sounds like a cold-hearted bastard.

In each case, I say to myself: “This poor sod could be me!”

Facing Facts

If the test for entry to the UK was whether a person was a worthy human being, or came from a worse place than here, then it’s a wrap, discussion over. We are nice people and so we have to let them in. All of them. Don’t we?

But the “right” conversation is practically impossible.

Europe sits next to Africa – and Africa is forecast to have the world’s greatest population explosion, with an extra 1.3 billion people living there by 2050. The continent is prone to drought, climate change, often-terrible governance and seemingly never-ending wars. But most Africans have mobile phones so they can see what the likes of leafy Basingstoke, Guildford and Edinburgh are like. However, they are there, and we are here – and of course they can’t all come, can they?   

We face a vast problem. I reckon that the throngs of immigrants we have seen since 2015 are just the first lapping of the waves, for the tsunami is yet to come. You see, organised assaults of people storming borders simultaneously have had astonishing success.

So when the wised-up hopefuls all hit the Med in a Dunkirk flotilla of boats, all setting off on the same afternoon with synchronised watches, what will we do? This is bound to happen, and soon. Just picture it. A tide of tens of thousands of decent people, all weeping and waving their hands, all in need of food, clean water and peace, all holding crying babies, and all coming over here in a vast flotilla. 

This will, I forecast, constitute a potent form of moral blackmail. Will navies be able to use force to turn them back? As they say in Northumberland, Gerraway! Can you really see liberal societies tolerating the sight of soldiers and police shooting at boatloads of unarmed women and children?  Of course not.

If we continue to face the issue of immigration as a matter of kindness and sympathy rather than crude self-interest, then almost anyone can get in.

Over the next few decades, we are bound to be facing immigration pressures, the like of which we have never seen before. How many more “good” people do you want living in your town or village? 

So, chaos or a hard heart? It’s one hell of a choice.

Either way, the left-wing media, and Jon Snow and chums are bound to love it.  

Another matchless day:  fast walking through fields of hops and vines towards Tunbridge; the only hazards are long slow hills that seem never to stop but gently wind towards the unforgiving sky. All we can do is plod one foot at a time and  gently curse as we go.

I have been right round the world and visited most places but between May and October nowhere is as beautiful as Britain. Yet In six days of walking we have seen no other people. Of course there are a few people taking their dogs for a poo but we have seen no  real walkers; and please note that where we are is not the industrial midlands or the centre of Scunthorpe but we are wandering in the midst of Arcadia, the most beautiful countryside God ever made anywhere. I see Matthew Parris is all set to walk in the Hindu Kush  in Pakistan, but why are you bothering, Matthew, when this deserted  paradise is not more than an hour out of London and begging to be enjoyed? 

A Long Game

In 2005, Former Prime Minster Ted Heath was buried in Salisbury Cathedral. In 1997   Former minister Enoch Powell was buried in his Brigadier’s uniform in a Warwick cemetery.

They were both Conservative politicians and implacable opponents.

In 1968, Enoch Powell lost his ministerial career having a been sacked by Ted Heath for making  an allegedly inflammatory  – “rivers of blood” speech about immigration.

Some six years later, mainly on grounds of sovereignty, Powell announced his refusal to contest his Wolverhampton seat for the Tories because Heath was applying for membership of what is now the EU. Not only that, in the November 1974 general election, Powell recommended that conservative voters should vote Labour because that was the party which was then implacably opposed to EU membership.

I contested the 1974 election in question for the Conservative cause against prime Minster Harold Wilson, and I can vividly recall the vast row Powell’s actions caused at the time.

Then Powell tirelessly campaigned against membership referendum called in 1975 by the wily Wilson and he continued to protest after the result was known. He forecast that that one day the UK would come to its senses and we would depart.

It has looked ever since that Heath had won hands down and Powell’s failed campaigns against EU membership would simply be forgotten as an historical footnote.

We are probably about leave the EU one way or another; when that happen Heath’s life work so carefully planned and built will have turned to ashes:  what Powell hoped would happen will come to pass.

Politics can be a long game.

The Way of All Flesh

I have a friend David whose marriage has failed brutally. He found himself out of the door with his luggage and a divorce petition in his hand. He couldn’t see it coming and he was shattered. He was too close to the emotional hiatus and unable to see straight.   

Of course, the initial casualty was his pride and confidence, which sank to an all-time low. Then he found to his astonishment that he was the target of considerable abuse from his erstwhile wife, Sarah, and her large family – who had apparently disliked him from the outset. He heard he had been labelled a bully and all sorts of unpleasant criticism followed.

The family convinced themselves they were rescuing poor, vulnerable Sarah from the death of a thousand miseries. When I had a drink with David, he was wondering if the criticisms were true.

Of course, he had made all sorts of mistakes – we all do. But I know him to be a loving and kindly man who had been doing his best to be a good husband. I had watched him tenderly nurse his first wife through her terminal illness. So he was no marital bully or adulterer.  

Altered Reality

I tried to give David an insight into relationships, for I have had several friends whose marriages have gone the way of all flesh. In each case, there was roughly the same pattern. As an example, one of my Welsh friends, Hugh, married a saintly woman, Mary, in high society. After 20 or so years and three children, she met someone else and wanted to be free. She knew herself to be a good, faithful and decent woman and so in order to retain this good opinion of herself she had to alter reality.   

The only way Mary could do this was in her mind – and she harangued anyone who would listen that Hugh was an insensitive and unloving man. He was a total shit, she 100 per cent innocent – and the more contumely she was able to cast on him, the better she felt about what she had done. To live up to the myth, she refused to speak to him and when they met at weddings or funerals, she avoided him like the plague. A year ago, their 50-year-old son died from cancer – even after that, Mary refused to console poor Hugh or allow any sharing of grief. 

Altering reality by one spouse to blame the other – in order to justify their errant behaviour – happens time and time again.

So, Mary managed to convince herself that she is kind, loving and upright person, and she conveniently “forgot” all of Hugh’s many excellent qualities. He has been cast in the role of bullying, sponging rotter. And her family was always there, criticising him behind his back, and always suspicious of his motives in marrying well-to-do Mary.  

But there is Hugh, an ordinary, kindly man and none of the nasty things Mary has said about him is true.

Amazing Grace

After hearing this sorry tale, David asked me what he should do about his own situation. I told him he had to forgive Sarah and her abusive family. Otherwise he would destroy himself, for bitterness corrodes the soul.

Then he must rely on GRACE.

When Jonathan Aitken was found guilty of perjury, the world media became hysterical in its condemnation. He was facing bankruptcy and jail, his career was over, and then his family collapsed. Jonathan sought the counsel of a priest, Fr Gerard Hughes. After Jonathan had poured out his ghastly tale of woe, Hughes asked him, “Have you thought of thanking God for your problems?”  

Jonathan was outraged and initially thought he was being mocked; but after a time, he realised this was golden wisdom. We all have to redeem the things that go wrong in our lives. Churchill said that his father told him when he was a child that “a man who can’t take a knock-down blow isn’t worth a damn.” He claimed it was “quite a healthy process”. I have to agree.  

So David must pick himself up, dust himself down and start all over again. There is no other way. And who knows what the future may hold, especially as a wounded healer?

Off to another early walk with Cromwell’s prayer:
“Please God  this day remember me even if I forget thee,”
a prayer I have to say rather often these days!

The B-Word

Momentum is doing all its can to create vast civil unrest for it assesses that the more the chaos, the higher the chances of a Corbyn Government.

Without getting too involved in the Brexit row, I reckon the next major hiatus for Monentum  to highlight will be a vast row between Boris and Bercow.

I cannot be the only person who rather resents the fact the the Speaker, who constitutionally is meant to  be impartial, compromised himself three years ago with a car sticker saying “Bollocks to Brexit” and he has compounded this since then.  Today he seems to indicate that he wants to skew the system in Parliament to bring “no deal” to a halt. I suspect he is preparing to tread roughshod over conventions to do so. I am sure, if so, that the government will do the same and I will be able to hear the rows in darkest Kent.

I also read that  Archbishop Welby has kindly offered  his services to broker a deal amongst the fractured people over Brexit. Unfortunately, three years ago, very unwisely, he announced he was a “Remainer” and, as such, of course his impartiality is thereby hopelessly compromised.

Dog’s Gratitude

It is bleakly depressing how divided and intolerant our churches can be. For example, some vicars are against vestments; they bridle at the sight of gowns and processions, or choir members in bibs and tuckers – and claim that all this is unbiblical and divides them from the people. That may be true to some degree. However, what about those parishioners who dislike the sight of vicars dressed in jeans, jerseys and T-shirts looking like shelf stackers at Aldi? Some churchgoers dislike praise songs and tambourines; others seem to loathe plainsong and anthems. A balance has to be struck.

I dislike this intolerance: why on earth does it matter provided Christ is at the centre? Some people want to go to cathedral-style services and be taken out of themselves so they can sit at the back and listen, think and pray in their own time and solitude. They may dislike being sandbagged by displays of enthusiasm and Alpha courses, or the sense of being “got at.” Other worshippers want exactly this!

I recall the late Michael Mayne, Dean of Westminster, saying that he thought services should appeal to all the senses. There should be drama, a pleasing use of space, beautiful music, the sight of lovely vestments, soaring choir voices and the scent of incense to create a sense of awe. He told me how he loathed the scruffiness and informality that plague other churches so that they too closely represent the secular world. 

When all’s said and done, we are all different – and it’s important we remember this!   

Good Grief

We read that a precocious Swedish child called Greta Thunberg has made a speech berating politicians for failing to “even mention” climate change. This child encouraged a vast number of kids in the UK to take a day off school and bleat the same nonsense to us all.

The result was that teachers had to “catch up” the children who were absent – the whole exercise was a total nuisance. In spite of this, the head teacher’s union (NAHT) apparently gave this nonsense their blessing by announcing, “A day of activity like this could be an important life experience.”

Was this wise? It wasn’t just a single day of activity, it was one of many planned by the organisers. What will happen when this crowd of spotty adolescents all start to campaign for other issues, for example to lower the age of voting to, say, 16? No one wants to discourage the little darlings. Well I do for starters.

Thunberg’s message is always the same: “Adults are doing nothing to combat climate change.” She is not saying they are not doing enough, she claims they are not doing anything. This is a wild exaggeration. This child must have been brought up on planet ZARB. What she is parroting is false. Every nation in the world signed up for the Kyoto Protocol in 1997, and 174 states signed the Paris Agreement in 2016. As a result, numerous government initiatives have been taken to reduce emissions including the Climate Change Levy in the UK, which is set to increase in July. And in Oxford – where I live – they seem to talk of little else.

It’s manifestly obvious that the mass of blinkered children are being fed “fake news” by this infant activist. Shouldn’t NAHT be encouraging members to teach children the difference between exaggeration and real news?

If teenage tots have time to spare, they might pick up litter or read some improving literature. They might also learn that they would do us all a favour simply by shutting up.  The Victorian command that children should be “seen and not heard” wasn’t altogether without merit.

The fact that so many people have been taken in by Thunberg makes me want to raise the voting age to 21.

Biting the Hand…

Some time ago, when I was at a party at a country club, I heard a splash and saw an elderly Second World War veteran I knew leap into the water fully clothed. At first I thought he was drunk until I saw that he had a little boy in his arms. The lad had been drowning quietly just outside his depth until someone had shouted for help: this old boy was the speediest person to act.

I recall two things about the incident. One was the veteran’s attitude: “No fuss; anyone could have done it!” to those who sought to congratulate him on his action. That was absolutely in character. The second thing was the glare of undiluted rage and hatred from the little boy’s father who should have been paying attention and who had instead been boozing and joking with his friends. That look says a lot about human nature.

More recently, when I was involved in the Lloyd’s market, I learned that a young man had been imprisoned for some fracas in a pub. I was outraged at the attitude of the authorities that had him instantly dismissed from his job. I hired the man to work for a small business I was involved in. He was highly intelligent with great ability. I did everything in my power to get his sentence quashed and to rehabilitate him as far as it was possible to do so.

The business flourished and it took only a couple of years before the man demanded to be allowed to go it alone. Fast forward another year, and he had decided that he was being exploited. And then, to my astonishment, he sought every opportunity he could find to damage me in every way possible.

It was not until I saw a Spanish proverb that I understood: “Why do you dislike me so much? What favours have I ever done you!”

It’s best summed up by former US president, Harry Truman: “You want a friend in Washington? Get a dog.”      

A beautiful walk to Sissinghurst and miles through Hemsted Wood, where,  dappled and mysterious, you would expect to see Robin Hood fighting with the Sheriff of Nottingham at any time. Then, last, ”Rogers wood” where the missing apostrophe jars with me.

Scots Free?

I hear that Ruth Davison has resigned from the leadership of the Conservative party in Scotland. Sad, yet another example of the gulf between mothers and fathers. In my experience many women’s priorities change when they get “Mumsie”, but I know of no example of a man putting his career on hold because his wife has had a baby! I know of course that fathers play a more substantial role today with their children and that is a good thing. I also know that men can demand paternity leave to help look after their newborn. But I am sure that men who run their own businesses can’t possibly afford such a luxury, so paternity leave is pretty much limited to those working in the public  service and charities.

I served as a lance corporal stationed in Fort George with the Queens’s Own Cameron Highlanders and, as a privately educated Englishman, I know something about the visceral loathing “Hey Jimmy, are you looking at me?!”  of many Scots towards the English.

But I managed to survive well enough.

So, I think I know why the SNP are keen to keep Scotland tied to the European Union where they will suffer material democratic consequences yet they want to sever the ties with England and wreck our ancient and very successful union. Why?  It makes no sense until you recognise the history of Bannockburn, Cromwell, Culloden and all the rest.

I think the SNP and their supporters actually hate the English. Otherwise, why do they want to wreck the Union? Maybe they are guilty of a crime?

Scottish Love

I remembered some of the people I have loved who are long since dead. I thought of Pam and Humphrey Scott Plummer – my Jane’s parents – such warm and kindly people who welcomed me into their Borders home with trust and great kindness a lifetime ago.

They formed a core part of an old established farming community in the Scottish  borders. The key word is “community”, the enduring melody of a world of farming, hunting, horse and dog shows, gardening and quiet country pursuits and quiet enjoyments that have been core for generations. Some people living there were probably prodigiously rich, others made do with very little, but no one really cared. If you fitted in you were accepted.

The word “gentlefolk” sum up Pam and Humphrey and I mourn their passing to this day.

Island Story

“British history shows what a disgraceful people we are”, she wittered with the finality of a 19-year-old. “Our past is full of vicious, selfish wars… then there is the story of slavery. We should hang our heads in shame!”

She had that look so much favoured by the left, by those squatting on Corbyn’s moral high ground: the look that says, “Don’t even dare to disagree with me, or you’ll soon find out you’re beneath contempt and not even worth arguing with!”

So, dear ZANE reader, I shut up. After all, she was only an elderly child and I suppose if you can’t blither lefty nonsense when you’re that age, when can you?

Slanted View

She thought the British empire was a wicked conspiracy against the world’s most vulnerable people and that we mercilessly pillaged and exploited at will – instead of a mix of good and not so good, which is usually the case in all human endeavour. Of course, we made dreadful mistakes, but she was unaware that we built hospitals, railways, schools and universities – the infrastructure the colonies needed to develop. She wasn’t aware we built an admirable civil service and police forces; that we taught aspirations of freedom, justice and human dignity; or that we introduced humanitarian ideals from the likes of Livingstone and the basic values of honesty, democracy and the rule of law.

All she seemed to know about were the errors. She went to a leading public school for at least eight years and I couldn’t help wondering what exactly her parents thought they had bought with their money. For example, she had no historic perspective or real knowledge of the history of slavery or the role of our churches. She hardly knew who Wilberforce was or what he did. She had dimly heard of Churchill and only vaguely knew what the last two world wars were about. Nor did she have any appreciation of how ignorant she really was. Who had “taught” her and what did they think they were teaching? I suppose her excuse might be, “I forgot to ask” or “I didn’t ‘do’ history”. But all this is general knowledge: everyone should know the basic facts about our island story, it should be rooted in our DNA! If I were her parent, I would be asking for my money back.

I am proud of the empire Britain built and what our forebears managed to achieve. I am proud of the fact that no country on earth has given as much to the world in terms of ideas, language, the rule of law, democracy, literature, the arts, sport and political structures as the UK. Our children, the future youthful ambassadors for the UK, should raise their heads from Twitter and Facebook, and gently remind their friends in other countries of the truth about British history. Then they can play their vital part in building a diverse, tolerant and dynamic country that, once again, can be the envy of the world.     

Dead Funny

Baroness Park, a former principal of Oxford’s Somerville College, told the story of an octogenarian baroness holding forth in a House of Lord’s tearoom.

“The trouble of being my age is that all the men I have slept with are now dead,” the formidable woman declared.

There was stony silence and then a shaky hand was raised by an old man at the end of the table. “Hang on! What about me?” he asked.

The baroness reached for her glasses and stared at him before announcing, “Sorry, I thought you were dead.” 

Low humidity and clear skies: one of those peerless days when you are conscious that it is great to be alive.

Feeling Alive

The late Jim Slater once said that if you are over seventy and you wake up without hurting somewhere, it means you are dead! That said, resolutely walking through aches and pains validates my pet theory that by keeping going that they fade. I wonder also if, as we age, our natural resistance to life’s ghastlies – cancer, tumours, and the rest of the feast of life’s horrors – grows thinner, leaving us ever more vulnerable as we age.

Fighting, Wooing and a Cause

There is nothing you can do about it so stop being so morbid! So one day you will drop in your tracks and that will be that. It’s not “if” but “when”. What on earth does it matter anyway. I have spent a full life surrounded by loving family and friends with the three vital blessings of a rich life fulfilled: a battle to fight, a maiden to woo, and a cause bigger than myself to live for. It is not everyone that can say that. I am a fortunate man.

Eton Mess

I remember the occasion clearly… it was just after the dreadful Edwina Currie shamelessly announced that she’d once had a run-in with John Major. Our party was seated for lunch when barrister Ann Mallalieu, a Labour peer – and in her loudest upper-crust voice too – announced that anyone who was unfaithful to his wife couldn’t be trusted in public life. “If you have lied to the person you know intimately and who trusts you, and to whom you have solemnly pledged fidelity in front of witnesses,” she proclaimed, “then why should members of the public, whom you have never met, believe a single word you say?”

The room temperature crashed to at least zero. Ann’s then husband – notoriously as faithful as a tomcat – blushed a deep vermillion and weakly grinned. Or perhaps it was an attack of indigestion. Many guests stared fixedly at their shoes and wished they were in Acapulco, wherever that may be.

Well however unfashionable this attitude may be today, perhaps Ann had a point worth addressing?       

Blond Bombshell

Of course nowadays – since, I suppose, the Clinton saga – we are supposed to have become more “liberal”, whatever that may mean. Well, we may be more liberal, but does this detract from the validity of Ann’s point? And since Boris now occupies centre stage, perhaps we should address it. Is it good enough to say that as Nelson, Wellington, Palmerston, Lloyd George and JFK were all at it like stoats in a sack, there’s no question to answer?

Of course, it’s not true that all politicians are as randy as Weinstein on steroids. But does the fact that Boris is a serial fornicator matter? His second marriage has been cast onto the tip, and there’s been many a glancing blow as he’s charged along. He’s now onto the third “permanent” lady in his life. Of course, he’s a superb writer and speechifier, and he was a competent mayor of London… but do you honestly believe him? Do his colourful infidelities affect your view of him as prime minister?    

My view is that it doesn’t matter, but I’d rather not know about it.

Odd Couple

We were in a greasy spoon cafe on London’s South Circular and they were sitting in a far corner. They were probably in their twenties. Both were rather overweight. She had a spotty, misshapen moon face that, if you were a painter, you would want to scrub out and start again. Her body was shaped like a Swiss roll – you had to study hard to identify even a gesture of a waist. Her hair was purple with black roots, her eyes behind thick glasses a watery blue. The teeth were Himalayan crooked.

His hair was scraped back in a greasy man bun. As demanded by today’s fashion, he was unshaven. A beer belly hung over his jeans, and his hands and wrists were heavily tattooed.

If either had been alone, my instinct would have been to feel sorry for them. But one thing changed all that, a powerful transforming thing. They were clearly in love. Not just the “keen on”, “going out” or “seeing each other” type of love, but the real McCoy! They swooned together, clearly fascinated by one another and were totally oblivious to me – or anyone else.

For the hour I sat there, they traded with each other using their eyes more than words. There was a tenderness that excluded all of us as they created their own special world. They were a couple who, in the face of all the aridity and disenchantment we suffer daily in our cynical old lives, were proving that love is as perennial as the grass. This made them beautiful. They were short-changed on physical allure certainly, but their love made them just a little lower than the angels.

Of course, they were certainly unaware that behind my map I was lifting my stained coffee cup to my lips and toasting them.     

A great send off outside Canterbury Cathedral with our friend Allanah playing us off on her trumpet. Then chaos as teething problems with the new handheld GPS meant that we set off four miles in the wrong direction. Boom! Who is the guilty party, who’s to blame?

We crawled back to the centre and started all over again. Guests Jonathan Aitken and daughter Alexandria were kind – but then what could they do? I am sure privately they are wondering how on earth we have managed to walk over 2000 miles round the UK whilst remaining sane and together!

Oh My Lords!

News to ZANE supporters: Get into the House of Lords!

Usually no material work – just check in to clerk each day and bingo! £40k tax free per year. The math is like this. Each day the House “sits” the members get a daily rate of £329 tax free and costs for hotel the night before covered no questions asked. You don’t have to do anything for the cash. Free phones, office, car parking and a title. What more can you reasonably want? Payment for sitting on a committee is extra lolly.

I am told that reform is simply too much effort for any government and so the party rolls on!

Bilking

Good to have dear Markus driving for us again. I am reminded that a week after the end of the first walk the police called at my Oxford home.

“You have been accused of “bilking” sir”

“Really, gosh! What on earth is “bilking?”

He cop told me that “bilking is driving off without paying for petrol.”

I was amazed and when I searched my diary I learned that the alleged offence occurred on the first day of the walk, and Markus’ first ever day in the UK.

I explained to the policeman about the walk and that I expected the driver to pay the petrol bills. So clearly I had not explained this properly to Markus.

“Where does he live?”
“Bulawayo!”

That was the closure of the case. I wonder however if my Mugshot is still being paraded
As a “bilker” In garages on the South coast!

Tom’s Big Five

Blog readers will recall that the only topics I ever discuss are sex, politics, religion, money and death. As you know, these happy subjects have focused my attention for years. You may think this is a shade limited – but may I remind you it’s a little more adventurous than the poet Yeats, whose conversation was limited only to sex and death.

However, I am pleased to announce I’ve added some further subjects to my repertoire. These interest me because they have been banned as topics that are “too hot to handle” by various book publishers – who despite wanting to make a living also desire a quiet life! These subjects (my thanks to author Lionel Shriver) are gender, race, immigration, disability, social class, obesity and Islam.

All are banned. But not here! I will, of course, try to cover them as vigorously as possible in this blog. So let’s get stuck in! (But first, let me tell you about my medical exam).

Lost and Found

Readers beware: if you hold me in high regard, please stop reading!

Before each jumbo walk, I have an MOT to see if anything is likely to fall off on the journey. So it was off to the Churchill Hospital in Oxford.

It was a lovely day to think about the meaning of life and the generosity of ZANE donors. In a trance, I shunted the car into a space only to find that the Churchill car parks are apparently the only ones in Oxford that don’t accept card payments! 

Cursing, I headed off to the nearest cashpoint, then back to the car park. I fed the meter and staggered towards a hospital door. Directions came from a passing male nurse who was clearly suffering from ghastly halitosis: he shuffled up close and muttered, “Up three flights of stairs, down three corridors, turn left, then right, back down another flight of stairs, up another flight, then second door on the right.” By this time, his breath was undoing my tie.

If Bojo is serious about funding the NHS – now the only god the public cares about (the NHS, not Bojo) – he might consider spending cash on having the walls painted. Then what about renewing the chipped and clapped-out linoleum?  

At last, I was in the right place. Competent and friendly nurses X-rayed my right knee – the only remaining joint still 100 per cent Tom Benyon. 

Then it was back to the reception: “Please, where’s the car park?

“Which one? There are six!”

Pride prevented me from saying, “Sorry, I’m a total fool… in which one did I leave the car?” How could they know!

They gave me a map that looked like the London Underground and I tottered round all the car parks looking for my tatty, black car. All the parks seemed to be crowded with tatty, black cars.  

It took me 40 minutes: there it was, lurking in the fourth park.

Each time I muddle over where on earth I’ve left my car, I promise that next time I will take careful note of its precise position. I swear to be practical and stop thinking beautiful thoughts. But my poetic nature wins through each time.

Donkeys and Cats

I read that a charity supporting donkeys generates £34m per year, and another supporting cats raises £45m per year! Per year!

I like both donkeys and cats, but this is surely extraordinary. Our partners, RCEL – who look after 8,000 starving veterans across the Commonwealth who have served the Crown – find it a struggle to generate any material cash from the public. So what’s going on?

I guess there are millions of lonely people out there: people who have been bruised in love, and rejected in family and work relationships to the degree they have been reduced to meeting their emotional needs through animals. Hence, when they die, leaving their fortunes to charities that care for cats and donkeys seems obvious: they are the only living things that have never betrayed them. Probably true – and very, very sad.