“No Deal” Zimbabwe

We start from Canterbury Cathedral. Present are my wife, Jane, my eldest daughter, Revd Clare Hayns (chaplain of Christ Church, Oxford), Alannah Jeune, a PhD student from New Zealand, and the Revd Jonathan Aitken and some of his family. Alannah is an accomplished trumpet player and gives a fine voluntary to see us on our way.  

Quick check list: toes trimmed, new(ish) hips in place, one half-new knee doing its job, a steroid injection to prevent pain in my antique-road-show back, creamed feet, and plenty of “Compeed” to avoid blisters. I have new sunglasses, assorted hats, Leki walking sticks – and the best boots ever invented, made by Meindl. This pair has lasted two ZANE walks already. Of course, they are manufactured in Germany – they’re so well made, I wonder how on earth Germany lost the war!

Great Aunt Daisy used to say, “I can’t afford to buy anything but the best”. Of course, she was right, for all my cheaper boots were more or less rubbish. As the great Bernard Levin used to say, “Write ‘there’s no such thing as a bargain’ on your mirror each day and remember it.” He would have got on well with Daisy.   

I discussed ZANE’s walks with Rory Stewart very recently when he was the Secretary of State for DFID (for about a month). He’s an excellent chap and has agreed to walk for ZANE when he is not plotting to bring down “No deal Brexit”. All I have to do is pop up to Penrith sometime. I told him I’m sure ZANE donors will understand my starting the ZANE walk from Canterbury to Oxford from Penrith – for it’s a small world these days, and what’s a few hundred miles among friends? All it takes is imagination!  

What’s It All About?

Why are we walking yet again? Well, talk about a cliff edge – because Zimbabwe has been thrown right off it.

Long-standing ZANE supporters will know that each year I claim that conditions in Zimbabwe couldn’t get any worse – and each year, they do get worse. We walk to remind everyone that Zimbabwe is in a terminal state caused by gross incompetence and corruption. Its government is run by about 3,000 rich people, who really couldn’t care if the rest of the people starve. For many years, the government has simply not paid its debts so it’s hardly surprising that the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, the EU and so on refuse to bail them out.

For so many of the poor, ZANE is their only hope of survival. The Mafia government has turned the bread basket of Africa into a racist beggar’s bowl. There is no healthcare and no NHS; and unemployment is at 95 per cent while inflation is at 500 per cent. The bulk of the young, strong and well-educated have fled to Australia and the UK, leaving the less able and old behind.

So we walk. Looking after the poor is what ZANE is about.

Please Understand…

… that many of my blog items are written late in the evening when I am tired. I am centre-right in my views and if you don’t agree with them, then that’s fine by me – but do go on reading! I try not to make party political points but sometimes I can’t resist the odd comment. But take note, I have been as critical of the Conservatives in recent years as of any other party! As Boris recently said, “What a mess!” Whatever you may think of him, that was an understatement.

Please also remember that the views contained in this commentary are mine, and mine alone. They don’t represent the views of any of those who work for ZANE or the trustees’ body. Can I also make the point that the printed version of this commentary is not an indulgence on my part, but generates far more revenue than the cost of printing and dispatch.   

And last but not least, if you have already sponsored us, thank you. If not, please do so!

Of course, it’s good to be back after charging round the South of England.

Back at our house, our little cat is delighted that we have returned. Did you know that when cats are happy they stick up their tails and waggle the top – if you didn’t know that, remember you heard it here first! All night the cat snuggled on our bed clearly determined not to let us out of her sight.

Despite the relentless heat both Jane and I (and Moses, who recovered fast!) are well. I have lost a bit of weight but not as much as I thought, presumably because we were so wonderfully looked after by ZANE’s finest hosts. Jane remains the same. I don’t want to overdo the flattery – remember we are English – but I am of the view that ZANE donors form the core of British backbone and its qualities: generosity, kindness, concern for others, commonsense and sheer decency.

So thanks to the hosts all for your many kindnesses.

Thanks also to Markus. It’s not an easy job looking after me/us for nearly three weeks. I get tired and I am often impatient and moody. Markus is imperturpable, full of common sense and great good humour; he is an excellent driver. So many thanks to Markus for keeping us sane and safe.

Last, as ever, thanks to Jane, kind and loving as ever… but tough, as this is an absolutely necessary quality just to keep me/us all going. And her map reading – despite what I said at the time – is excellent.

Worthwhile Words

People can be destroyed by envy and fear. Having retired, they might be envious of their working friends. Or they might be crippled by fear because they have been made redundant, and without the trappings of work, they lose their sense of identity and feel like a failure.

For many people, self-respect relies to a large extent on their status in an organisation or their standing in a profession. Their job gives them not only an income but an identity too; their view of themselves is a reflection of the high regard in which they are held for being a captain of industry, a professor, a head teacher, a general, a cabinet minister, or whatever it might be. When the work stops, these people are vulnerable, stripped of their self-esteem. Without a defined role, they ask themselves, “Am I still a worthwhile human being?”

Defining Success

Why not take a hard look at what “success” really means? I know of a number of people who look supremely “successful” but it’s not until you really get to know them that you can discern the reality: they are locked into an unhappy marriage, their children are in grave difficulties, or they – or their wife – are drinking too much. So never envy others, for we only ever see the polished veneer that hides the deep fissures.

Years ago, I heard the words of US writer and thinker Ralph Waldo Emerson, who coined the wicked aside, “The more he talked of his honour, the faster we counted the spoons.” Freedom of spirit, respect for the individual and wonder at the world’s mysteries are frequent themes in his work. Emerson redefined the word “success”:

To laugh often and much. To win respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded. 

We have finished! We were met at Christ Church and daughter Clare – Christ Church chaplain – bless her, laid on a reception in her rooms. We tottered in and the first thing that Moses did was to be violently sick on the new carpet!

The longest day…

Apparently the normal Roman day’s march was 13 miles and we did the extra mile …quite a feat in this heat. We met no walkers – we so rarely ever do – but we came across a gaggle of children from Wheatley Park School the establishment that Theresa May went to. Poor Theresa, with the world against her I’ll bet she wishes she was still back there. I told the children about our Clubfoot Programme.

At the start of today’s walk we were met by a beady-eyed woman who shot out of her house to complain that one of our party “… was sitting on a wall that was private property,” and was I aware that this was forbidden? She had leaped out the night before to ask why we were “gathering in the road”? As it is a public place I just grinned at her and told her we were “spies”, optimistically thinking I could banter her into some degree of normality. I was wholly wrong. There is always someone who’s whole purpose in life is to take offence at the least pretext and cause trouble. I tried to calm her down and I totally failed. Poor woman. She must be lonely.

A Mixed Blessing

Nigel Biggar, Professor of Moral Theology at Christ Church, Oxford, wrote an article for the Times in essence saying that the British colonial empire was like all human endeavours – a mixed blessing. A great many of our efforts were constructive and of lasting value, yet our history is tragically spotted by terrible incidents like the 1919 Amritsar massacre, about which we rightly feel shame.

This is the point: very little in history has been unequivocally good or bad. As an overarching judgement, this seems to me incontestably true, yet Nigel Biggar was bound to attract criticism because lefty intellectuals – with which Oxford is infested – have always chosen to broadcast that our colonial past is a matter of everlasting shame. And as the left proclaim moral absolutism, there is simply no point in arguing. With shrieks of fury, they insist there can be no challenge. Their mantra is that not only was the empire intrinsically evil but that every misery that today afflicts people who were once subjects of the Crown is the result of British imperialism.

Of course, this isn’t even remotely the case but it is the sophistry of our times: idiotic and deluded. This story reinforces the idea of a spurious victimhood amongst people who, if they are honest, are not victims of empire at all but victims of their brazenly corrupt and vicious leaders.

Greek Chorus

Anyway, one of this lefty tribe wrote an open letter condemning Biggar and all his works. Then he (or she) got 59 other lefties to sign it. It was a perfect example of an attempt at mob lynching. Now I have an Oxford diploma in theology and I am not totally thick, yet having read this open letter three times, I am still unable to understand what the dons – whose collective brainpower has to be the size of Basingstoke – are trying to say. It was clear they don’t like Biggar but all they could claim was that he was out of date and discredited, so there!

Anyway, then the cavalry for Biggar galloped up in the shape of editorials and letters both in the Times and Telegraph. They all backed Biggar’s right to freedom of speech. Further, they alleged that the 59 signatories were trying to bully Biggar into some sort of compliance with their snotty, confused propaganda. It’s interesting that none of the lefties has written to the papers to put the record straight, or maybe some did and it was not fit to publish. I hazard a guess that one of them wrote a letter then asked the Greek Chorus to sign it in lockstep. Once one of them joined, no one wanted to be seen to disagree. How pathetic! I hope they realise now they have made hogwhimpering fools of themselves.

British Pride

Of course, empire had its advantages. There has been plenty of chaos since its withdrawal. All the biggest African states, including the Congo, Nigeria, Sudan and Ethiopia have been crippled by vast civil wars. There have been 40 coups in the last half century, most involving the murder or execution of a head of state.  In Uganda, a tenth of the population has been murdered in two successive reigns of terror, and a million died in Rwanda. Zimbabwe, with its rich gifts of natural beauty, an intelligent people and vast quantities of minerals, has all the hallmarks of a failed state today.

Even the more civilised regimes have imposed one-party rule, abused human rights and supressed civil liberties. Many – including South Africa – are now heroically corrupt and absurdly inefficient. Poverty remains the common bond of too many African states, and the wealth of Midas the lot of too many leaders.

I could name 25 countries whose people would be a great deal better off now under empire: Somalia and Zimbabwe for starters, and what about Pakistan?

We built cities, hospitals, railways, schools and universities. We provided an incorrupt civil service. And what did we teach? Aspirations of freedom, justice and human dignity; humanitarian ideals from the likes of Livingstone; and basic Christian values of honesty, democracy and the rule of law. Of course, the new leaders have junked much of this wonderful inheritance, and replaced it with corruption and barbarism, but the shadow of our influence persists.

Unfortunately, the Empire itself was often unable to live up to what we taught. But all in all, it’s not a bad legacy. Of course, we all have to accept that it has gone with the wind, but I hold my head up high for being British. Further, I am proud of the empire Britain built – and despite its flaws, I am in awe of what our imperial ancestors managed to achieve.

Eleven people in total with me as the Pied Piper, all great fun as the end of the long walk is now in sight. Today was a mix of fields and woods and then for lunch the ancient town of Faringdon. We only got lost a couple of times with “Fred” the little guide on our hand held satnav. Occasionally he goes demob happy: he cocks a snook, points us in the wrong direction, then finally vanishes off our screen.

One of our host houses had a number of stuffed heads of shot animals on the wall, ten point antlers, majestic stags, elk, you know sort of thing.

The worst example of parading these heads – which I dislike – was many years ago when I was taking groups of Americans around Scotland. Major Gregor Grant of Inversneky (not his real name) lived in Sutherland. It was long enough ago for him to be a WW1 veteran and I remember that he was hugely pleased with himself, the sort of man who thinks he farts honey . His house was gothic Victorian and vast. The back wall of the hall was smothered in gruesome heads and he proudly pointed them out to us. There were serried ranks of gnu, stags, bison and and on it went. And then he pointed out, ”There is the head of a German soldier I shot near Ypres!”

And, dammit, there was the skull and German helmet of a soldier mounted on a plinth. Underneath was an inscription:

“Fritz

Shot, Ypres 1917”

I was too young to express my revulsion

This ghastly man had returned to the battleground after the war and simply dug up a head, brought it back and there it is. Perhaps it is hanging there still?

Probably the worst case of bad taste I have ever seen.

Yes, Sir

Boys and girls don’t always do what they are told by their parents

Our elder son was a teacher at St Paul’s boys school in London and occasionally he would be asked to dinner by parents.

On one memorable occasion the mother asked him tentatively:

“Does Henry do what he is told?”

“Yes”, replied Thomas, “he’s a very obedient boy.”

“Oh really” came the reply, “then please will you ask him to go to bed.”

Thomas went to the stairs and called up,
“Henry, it’s Mr Benyon here.”

“Yes sir”

“Please go to bed!”

“Yes sir.”

Lecherous Lines

I tremble at the idea that any of our grandchildren might fall into the sweaty clutches of the likes of Harvey Weinstein or his sleazy chums. Many women faced with the ghastly choice of furthering a career – but at the cost of a greasy fumble with the spotty Weinstein – might dumbly have consented because of fear: unless they let him have his disgusting way, their career might have come to a grinding (no pun intended) halt. What a vicious choice.

The trouble is that for each acting job, there are dozens of good-looking girls in contest, so unscrupulous career gatekeepers have always found themselves prowling around an Aladdin’s Cave of sexual variety. Actor Emma Thompson tells us she spent much of her early career with someone’s tongue stuck down her throat: so it seems Weinstein and chums have always been an occupational hazard for actresses. Although Weinstein may be an extreme case, ever since Bathsheba, young women have faced exploitation from randy, powerful men like King David.

Con Men

As a pre-emptive strike, some years ago I alerted our then teenage daughters to the specious arguments con men might use to get them laid. Although our girls roared with laughter at the time, I hope they found my warnings useful. Of course, nowadays it would appear that everyone is banging away the entire time. But until quite recently, girls – not boys – were a tad reluctant to leap into bed for all sorts of reasons. Some actually thought – old fashioned as it may sound now – that the sexual act was special, and should be kept for the man who would be faithful and true. And they might have pondered on the fact that if you have sexual intercourse with men you don’t really love, what are you going to give the man you do?

Are today’s permissive young happier today than we were in our youth, despite our alleged hang-ups? I doubt it. Wily men have always had persuasive arguments, perhaps first practised on Noah’s Ark. Here are a few – but allow me first to set the scene:

The lights are low, the wine is flowing, the flat is warm, the fancy man is reasonably attractive, and you are alone and vulnerable. However, something is holding you back – perhaps vague memories of biblical teaching – and you are thinking hard. Then he turns down the music and arm snaking, begins to persuade:

“You know I am in love with you… and have been for some time? Perhaps now is the right time to ‘get together’? Aren’t you just a little bit in love with me?

Don’t tell me that this would be your first time? How bizarre.

Your parents will never know: no one will!

Are you afraid of something? There is a rumour you’re frigid.

Come to bed and let me baptise each of your breasts!

I am so lonely. You are the only girl I know who really loves me.

Why do you need to be married to have intercourse? It’s only a piece of paper. That religious nonsense is ancient claptrap.

Virginity is so yesterday!

Religion is boring, irrelevant and untrue. It just leads to guilt. Anyway, I am a Buddhist/Rastafarian/Yogi (Bear?), and these religions are every bit as valid as Christianity. Buddhism – and the rest – allows me to have sex at any time with anyone. So celebrate and change your faith, just for the night!

All the girls are giggling about you and your ludicrous virginity. For goodness sake, give us a break.

If you don’t agree, I’m sorry but there are other girls who want to have a relationship with me: so this is the last time of asking…”

Bucking the Trend

Of course, whether you have a sexual relationship before marriage or not is not the most important issue in the world, but sex is too important to allow your wits to be addled by sexual con men. I hope that the young don’t allow themselves to be bantered into something they may subsequently regret just because, as the old song goes, “Everybody’s doing it”.

Perhaps to say “thanks, but no” in today’s sex-crazed climate is a revolutionary act.

Now there’s a thought.

A few nights ago we were offered a choice: to watch the World Cup or attend a lecture on Dunkirk? I asked Jane and driver Markus for their views.
Jane plumped for the World Cup: Markus said, “With two uncles killed at Stalingrad plus the fact I am German, the UK blithering on about Dunkirk is not really my scene!”

Markus managed to watch our football defeat to Croatia with scarcely a tear in his eye!

Another blisteringly warm and humid day. We walk through Swindon and, to be as polite as possible, we are pleased to have finished this section and to be marching through the fields and woods once more. Ever more locked and shuttered gates and towering nettles blocking our way.

Tough Wife

I’m profoundly fortunate in having had Jane as my wife for the past 50 years.

When we were first married we lived in a small house in Edinburgh. One day Jane fell down the stairs and managed to remove the right-hand banisters with her chin. Ever since then I realised that I married a particularly tough and resolute woman.

This can be proved on the walk where I call her General Montgomery. She has grown into a commanding lady who only the feckless and stupid would dare to gainsay. Jane is in command of the maps and good luck to her with that misery.

Going for Gold

I heard about a couple that suddenly decided to get divorced after being married for 70 years. When they were asked why they had waited so long before splitting, the old lady replied, “We were waiting for our children to die first!”

Meanwhile, author and staunch Catholic Lady Longford (Elizabeth) was once asked by a journalist whether she had ever considered divorcing her husband, the late Lord Longford – who, to put it politely, was not an easy man.

“Divorce never,” she cried, “murder often!”

Love Bolt

Jane and I met at a wedding, and I was struck by what the Italians call Un colpo di fulmine – best translated as a love bolt from the blue, no half measures. Cupid’s arrow was spot on, and from that moment I laid siege for her hand. It took Jane rather longer to accept I was worth it, but I won in the end.

I spoke at a small party to celebrate our golden anniversary. The lunch was a happy occasion, full of laughter and easy conversation with old friends. But our buddies’ memories are slipping just a little and some of their replies to our invitation were all over the place. One wrote a long letter saying how pleased he was to be asked but failed to say if he and his Missus could come. Another couple said they could attend, then two weeks before the lunch, they wrote to say they couldn’t after all; so we were somewhat surprised to see them in the front row and wondered whose lunch party had two empty places!

Amnesia

The best way to ensure a long marriage is through the gift of amnesia. I know that Jane did something profoundly foolish last week… but then, so did I! The point is that a week later, neither of us can quite recall exactly what these things were. So we have no endless recriminations.

The children have a part to play too. They can reduce me to goo when I get pompous. I recall saying when I passed 60 that I had ceased to be a “sex object” – sadly people simply looked through me.

“Wait a minute,” commanded my eldest daughter, Clare. “Just please tell us when you were ever a sex object? The decade will do!”

Uncharted Waters

In our day, there was no living together before marriage to “try each other out”, or setting up house as “partners”. I have to confess that I don’t think this modern way of casually hooking up is good for anyone, especially for women whose happiness depends on a degree of permanence in a relationship. This has been the accepted wisdom for thousands of years, and I simply don’t believe that just because the young claim to be able to junk it, all will be well.

That apart, if Jane and I could start out afresh, we would definitely have wanted to participate in a “marriage preparation” course. The fact is that neither of us at the innocent ages of 21 (Jane) and 24 (me) had a clue what we were doing. But nothing like that was available in our day! Our marriage was rather like being presented with a boat when neither of us had ever sailed before. Waving hands of good luck after the wedding simply wasn’t good enough. Some lessons about sails and the provision of a reliable compass would have come in handy. Then what about a few tips about tides, and the fickleness of the weather and winds? And to have been given some idea of where the disguised jagged reefs and dangerous rocks were lurking?

In other words, we would have benefitted hugely if we could have tapped into the experience of those wise people who have navigated – and somehow survived – long years of marriage with its inevitable storms and heartbreaks. Looking back, the fact we survived at all is nothing short of miraculous. It would have been really helpful to have been given a few tips about what to do if, for example, one of us met a very sexually attractive someone else a few years into marriage – as usually happens at the exact moment when the excitement and the passion has damped down a bit, the money is tight and the new baby never stops being sick or crying. And we could have used some advice on handling money difficulties, serious illness, a nervous breakdown, job loss, the failure of dreams and the death of close family – for all these things are part of life’s rich pageant.

Jane and I have been obliged to tease out the answers to some of these pitfalls ourselves. Fortunately, we have always had the vital ability to grow with each other – and of course, that is still happening today. Added to that, we have always liked each other. I am told that you can always tell when a marriage faces total death: that is when one side cannot talk of their opposite number without shrugging and “eye rolling”. Thank goodness we have never eye rolled, and pray God, we’re not about to start now.

Reading the Signs

The wife of the late US evangelist Billy Graham, Ruth, was once driving in California when she saw a sign, “Roadworks Ahead”. After waiting for 40 minutes, the jam cleared. At the end was a sign reading “End of Construction – thank you for your patience.” These are the words inscribed on Ruth’s gravestone.

When we sweep aside the gossamer threads of money and possessions, the really important thing is to be able to say at the end, “I have loved, and I have been loved.” Jane and our family are the enduring melody of my life.  In fact, I am able to say I have always been surrounded by this melody and that’s a rare claim.

Let me end this piece with a (slightly adapted) quote from General MacArthur that sums up our attitude to growing old together:

Youth is not a period of time. It is a state of the mind, a result of the will, a quality of the imagination, a victory of courage over timidity, of the taste for adventure over the love of comfort. A man doesn’t grow old because he has lived for a number of years. We grow old when we desert our ideals. The years may wrinkle our skin but deserting our ideals wrinkles our souls. Preoccupations, fears, doubts and despair are the enemies that slowly bow us to the earth and turn us into dust before death. If one day, we turn bitter, pessimistic and gnawed by despair, may God have mercy on our old souls.

Joint Success

My two new hips and right knee have had a tough work-out and are doing well.

On our heroic trek from Edinburgh to London in 2010, to the astonishment of passers by, I was obliged to pray like a Muslim every three hours or so and stretch my hips to obtain some relief. That is history now. All I have to contend with is flagging energy levels. I am not thirty-five any more so get used to it, Tom: “You are fortunate to be alive!”

Joy in the Face of Obstacles

Five walkers with us – a real joy, for they are family and close friends. As Belloc wrote: ”There’s naught worth the wear of living than laughter and the love of friends,” and how true that is. And the older we get the more we appreciate family, close mates and laughter.

As the farmers have tried to turn their fields into Fort Knox with wire, collapsed fences and resolutely growing crops over paths, progress has been, at best, a struggle.
If the Wiltshire local authority actually do have someone whose job us to look after footpaths, then I suggest they might usefully seek an alternative career, say shelf stacking at Lidl, for they are useless!

We always try and smile at the occasional walker and occasionally we get one back. I often wonder why the three in ten glower at the ground and ignore our cheer. Maybe they are having a very hard time and resent our good humour.

Raising Our Game

I used to think that sharpness and cleverness were foremost virtues. Now I believe kindness trumps them hands down.

We can so easily become irritated by people. Some bring out the worst in us: people we find plain unlikeable and we quickly attribute to them the lowest motives for everything they do. These individuals have a rare talent for pressing our anger buttons and making us scowl. Spend just a little time with them and our worst instincts come bursting to the fore: sometimes its personal, and sometimes we’re infuriated by someone who commands just a fleeting moment of authority over our lives. When was the last time you were angered by a call-centre operator instructing you to “hold”? When did you last have a happy session with a traffic warden poised to give you a ticket?

Be Kind

Very few people actually set out to be gratuitously rude, unpleasant, unhelpful or stupid. At least their irritating behaviour makes sense to them: it’s usually a cocktail of their genes and upbringing all mixed up with the role they have to play. We must try and ensure that we don’t express irritation in return, for that escalates into anger. That’s the way of the world; we have to raise our game.

One method President Lincoln used to defuse his anger was to write a “hot letter”. He would pour out all his anger and vituperation, and then after he had cooled down, he would file the letter “unsent”.

In the 1981 film On Golden Pond, the character played by Henry Fonda angers his daughter (played by Jane Fonda, his real-life daughter). Katharine Hepburn (Jane’s mother) tries to bring harmony:

“Sometime you have to look hard at a person [Jane] and realise that he’s doing the best he can. He’s just trying to find his way, that’s all. Just like you!”

I am sure that if you asked everyone you know if they are engaged in some sort of battle, they would say “yes.”

I read somewhere of an inscription on the tombstone of Dr Jenny Cohen in Highgate Cemetery: “Be kind: for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” Good on you, Jenny!

We know all about our own battles. Perhaps an acknowledgment that everyone has their own personal battles might lead us to an onset of tolerance and kindness.

Eleven miles through Cotswold countryside, walking through endless fields, many of them more or less rendered impenetrable by selfish farmers who appear to have no consideration for walkers. Theresa May claims the worst thing she has ever done wasto run through a cornfield! Well I have charged through several recently and in my view blazing such a trail is manifestly in the public interest.

It started like this…

We were heralded right-royally last night and I was asked to talk about the work of ZANE and how it began fourteen or so years ago. It all began by accident, really, as so much does that happens in life. We think we are in tight control but that is an arrogance.

It began in response to a cry for help. I met a woman whose husband was murdered in 2002 by Mugabe’s henchmen at the beginning of the troubles. She fled to the UK in fear of her life with two children. As she was a polio victim I thought she deserved help and so I gave her some money and off we went.

Then other sad cases appeared, and then more, and so the work of ZANE began in earnest.

I have  learned  the hard way that, if you can come to someone’s help when they are in need, then do so.

Fighting Fear

The shortcomings of St Peter and John Wayne are easy to criticise. Their human weaknesses remind us that there is nothing very original about mankind. It’s all too easy for us to condemn others for sins that don’t hold any temptation for us, but it requires courage to take a long, hard look at ourselves and confront our own failings with a clear eye.

Turning a Blind Eye

I have a memory that even after 60 years still haunts me. I was about 12 at the time, at an Edinburgh prep school. In my class, there was a solitary Nigerian boy – let’s call him Martin. He was a sad child, tall, weedy and withdrawn. He had a high, rather effeminate voice, and a perpetually runny nose. Of course, being black, he was a rarity in post-war Edinburgh.

The net effect of all this was that his life was a torment, a grisly episode from Lord of the Flies. Children can be devilish to other children who are different and Martin was an obvious target. He was beaten and mocked, his food was spat on, and he was subjected to vicious racial abuse. I have no recollection of where the teachers, an inadequate bunch of war-scarred has-beens, were during these incidents – but I can still see Martin’s contorted, weeping face turning from side to side as he desperately sought the support of anyone who might come to his aid.

Now I didn’t take part in the bullying or the name-calling, and the fact that it was happening upset me. But I’m sorry to say I never tried to help Martin: I was afraid, of course, that the bullies might turn on spotty, stammering Benyon instead.

Even at my tender age, I learned a harsh lesson. I was frightened of the bullies and behaved like a coward. But I discovered that that being ashamed of myself was worse than any fear. Everything boiled down to one simple proposition: whatever the consequences, we all must act so we can live with ourselves.

This is how it works in so many bad situations in our cruel world. We know that what is happening is wrong, but we keep our counsel and busy ourselves with tidying our desks in the hope that the problem will just go away. We sidle along waiting for someone else to do the martyr bit and expose the bullies.

I have now learned that occasionally we have to face down what is unjust – and to hell with the consequences. As former concentration camp survivor Elie Weisel said in his 1986 Nobel Prize acceptance speech: “We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”

Perhaps we think that those who speak out have to be virtuous superheroes –like Martin Luther King – but that is not true. The ones who act are often unsure of themselves. Moses was a murderer and stammered; Jeremiah was a depressed melancholic; Jonah was a coward and ran away; and Isaiah thought he was wholly unworthy. So, if we are fearful and doubt ourselves, we are in good company. But there are ways to defeat fear. Anna, in Richard Rodgers’ The King and I, sings:

 Whenever I feel afraid,
I hold my head erect,
And whistle a happy tune,
So no one will suspect,
I’m afraid…

The Blessing of Anger

The truth is, you can become as brave as you pretend you are. That’s one way to come to terms with our terrors. Fear has always been with us: fear of being bullied, fear for our reputation, fear of pain, fear of upsetting someone, or the fear of losing friends. To avoid being crushed by our fears, we have to coax them out into the open and then crush them. Only if we do this, can we speak up for the voiceless, the weak and the poor.

We all have a will, and if we don’t stand for something, we will fall for anything. When this happens, we are not just asleep: we grow spiritually dead. There is a wonderful Franciscan prayer:

May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half-truths and superficial relationships… May God bless you with anger at injustice and exploitation of people, so that you may work for justice, freedom and peace… May God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you can make a difference in this world, so that you can do what others claim cannot be done…

Poor Martin. I hope that if ever he reads this, he could bring himself to forgive me.

We walk through Bradford on Avon which surely has to be in of the loveliest small towns in the UK: all compact and clearly with an ancient and rich history from the wool trade. And from what we saw not as plagued by tourists as other Cotswold towns. We bought an ice cream from a shop that mainly sells bicycles!! – and why not? And then after lunch the views began to change from flat wide fields and big skies to smaller fields. These were bracketed by woods and then the paths grew crazy as if rammed together by giant hands. Then we faced switchback paths whirling us up and down – exhausting walking in the heat. Moses had a great time plunging for sticks in the occasional pools in the river along the way.

Behind the Masks

I wonder if Donald Trump is really the tough guy that he seems? I wonder if he is happy with his Midas riches? What would his mother’s island family have thought of their grandson? Does he have any self awareness?

We aren’t always what we seem to be are we?

Mugabe’s Zimbabwe was a fraud: he pretended it was a democracy and that he governed under the rule of law but the reality as very different: it was like the rule of the Mafia but without the charm of Al Pacino.

Hart Felt Words

Lorenz Hart was one of the greatest lyricists if the last century until he died as a drunk in his early forties. Until then it was “Rogers and Hart” and after he died it became “Rogers and Hammerstein”.

Hart’s lyrics get under my skin. He was brilliant on the subject of deception: “Skimmed milk masquerades as cream”, is one l recall, and how about, “When love congeals, you can smell the aroma of performing seals, hear the clicking of high heels, I wish I was in love again”.

So, are we as we seem? What’s going here? Do we live in fear that our backstages may collapse onto the front stage?

Penitent Peter

Google the painting St Peter Penitent by Guercino, painted in 1639. Today it hangs in Edinburgh’s National Gallery. It shows Saint Peter, face stricken with remorse after he three times denied knowing Jesus.

It’s a truly great picture, demonstrating a great deal about human nature. Peter was an impulsive boaster and when it became clear that Jesus was to be arrested on charges of sedition and blasphemy, his protests of loyalty grew even louder: “Everyone may desert you master, but I never will. I would rather die than forsake you so I say to any one coming for you, you’ll have to go through me first.”

Lead Me Not into Temptation…

Peter meant what he said. He really thought he was steadfast and loyal, and that was the kind of man he wanted to be.

Of course, when officials came for Jesus in the middle of the night, his death sentence was already a certainty. Peter followed the group in the shadows, watching what was happening.

And then in the following hours, three times Peter was challenged as to whether he was a friend of Jesus, and three times he denied it, each denial louder than the last.

Luke tells us that after Peter’s third denial, Jesus turned to look at him and Peter wept bitterly. Anyone who has let down a friend, a family member or a colleague – and which of us has not done so at some time or other? – knows that feeling. Just thank God that our underhand behaviour will not be a talking point to millions 2,000 years from now!

Guercino’s painting makes me want to weep just looking at it. Peter did not know he was going to betray his friend until he was faced with a choice. But when the test came, he did exactly the opposite of what he had wanted to do. He wasn’t brave and loyal: he was fearful and weak. Past Lord Chancellor Quintin Hogg said that the only joke Jesus ever told was when he described Peter as his “rock!”

Peter probably saw – and hated – his own faults in others. But to be fair to him, the story relates how many years later he died bravely for his saviour.

Jesus knows how easy it is to go through life untested and therefore ignorant of our own true natures. He warns us not to condemn others for failing tests we have not yet faced ourselves. That’s what “lead me not into temptation” in the Lord’s Prayer is all about.

El Dorado

Fast-forward 2,000 years. Celebrities are carefully manicured productions, designed to weave dreams amongst fans living tedious lives. Sadly the reality of the stars’ lives is very different from what is projected on screen. Dreadful loneliness, fear of ageing and broken relationships can affect us all, including the rich and famous. The pictures we so admire are usually “cosmetically enhanced” so that lines, pimples and unwanted whiskers are airbrushed out. And if you think that stars are always happy, just take a look at the life of Liberace in Behind the Candelabra. The truth shocks.

Another example? When I was a youngster, I hugely admired the great screen hero John Wayne who played the archetypal western hero of my fantasies. He rode through my childhood telling us that “a man has to do what a man has to do”, and there was clear blue water between the good and the bad guys. Courage and decency always won. I only had to watch Wayne’s slouch and hear his gravelly voice telling the girl, “Honey, you’re safe with me!” to be entranced and comforted – for even then I knew that the real world was full of confusion, fear and doubts. Wayne always sorted it out. He made his own rules and lived free amongst the grey smoke of campfires. It was all so real, that we, huddled wide- eyed in the stalls, could almost smell the coffee. It was a world where Wayne was always the brave and decent winner.

But it was skimmed milk masquerading as cream. The realty is that John Wayne was born Marion Morrison. In mid-life, his films were best shot before noon because after that he was drunk, and often mean and nasty with it. By then he was bald and paunchy. He must have hated being bald because he wore a toupee. In his films, he always played the undaunted hero pitted against the bandit gangs and the cattle thieves; but in reality he managed to wriggle his way out of being drafted to fight in the Second World War. John Wayne walked and talked tall, just like a hero, but his heroics were an act. He may have known the reality: perhaps that’s why he drank.

Well, it’s fine to put the boot in on Saint Peter and John Wayne, but how perfect are we? What’s behind our masks? Are we phoneys too?

I think it’s best to remember that when somebody seems too good to be true, that’s probably the case. And recall Emerson’s line about boasting: “The more he talked of his honour, the faster we counted the spoons.”

A magnificent walk through England’s finest countryside, all drowsing in the heat; sometimes the scent of the wild flowers was so powerful it stung my nose. As we passed, arcades of trees were nodding at us in the gentlest wisp of a breeze; Cows lay in corners of their fields drowsing silently with their paws crossed; We made good time, our map reading helped by a kind local ZANE supporter. Half-way through the morning in the middle distance we could see a vast white horse eternally cantering across across a chalk hill; this apparently marks the site of an ancient, gory battle fought between the Danes and King Alfred in the ninth century. Churchill was right enough when he claimed that the history of man is the history of war for man causes trouble as certainly as sparks fly upwards.

I wearily read yet another press report, this time involving “Save the Children”, another series of allegations of child abuse. Tragic for the children, tragic for that fine charity and a costly nuisance for all us smaller charities who, irrespective of past unblemished records, now have to prove a negative to the regulators: that we do not abuse. Not a problem for the big charities whom, I suppose, can afford rooms full of box-tickers. And I also suppose that, with tens of thousands of staff, whatever they do they are bound to have some bad apples amongst their throng of employees. I also have to speculate that, however many boxes charities are forced to tick, the real abusers are clever and cunning and will always find a way though the rules.

Note to ZANE donors and management: “Thank God we are small and that the bulk of our staff have been with us over ten years.”

For trust takes years to build and vanishes in a flash.

Lefty Charities

ZANE has never criticised the work of other charities. Of course, the work that many of them do is just as valuable as ZANE’s and we wish them well. However we cannot help but notice that the bigger some charities become, the more towards the “left” of the political spectrum they appear to drift – much like the Church of England.

Let’s start with a look at the CoE. I know something about it, for it’s more or less my family business. Four members of my immediate family have attended theology colleges. I can vouch that the ones who hold centre-right political opinions keep their views to themselves. No one says this outright, but it’s implicit that the consensus is that the teaching of 2 Thessalonians 3:10 – “…that if any would not work, neither should he eat” – is ignored.

Lefty Campaigning

Why do the biggest charities feel justified in spending donor money on vastly expensive “lefty” political campaigning?  Examples? Why do OXFAM trustees allow the executive to waste donor money on a Global Wealth Survey, designed to bite hard the very hand of government that feeds it?  This report, backed by a Corbynistic commentary on the “erosion of worker’s rights”, claims that the richest 1 per cent have bagged 82 per cent of wealth created. It’s a piece of slanted nonsense because poverty is actually falling faster than ever before. It also claims that UK companies are indulging in “a relentless corporate drive to minimise costs in order to maximise returns to shareholders”. Last year, OXFAM released a video that depicted tax dodgers as masked thieves who break into a hospital and steal medical equipment from a screaming baby.

A year ago, the Red Cross announced that the NHS was in a “humanitarian crisis”. Then Save the Children ran a multi-million campaign stating, “It shouldn’t happen here”. Focusing on child poverty in the UK, it was a thinly disguised assault on HMG’s attempts to live within the nation’s means and limit the vast national debts our grandchildren will have to pay for in the future.

Religious Fervour

These lefty charities treat politics like a sort of religion; they judge without fear of being judged, and demand from their followers that they do as they say and not as they do. This leftish faith is maddening to those who don’t agree. It’s not because their arguments are palpably simplistic and plain absurd – “the rich should be ashamed” or “public expenditure is always good” – but because they are insulated from criticism as Holy Writ. Their arguments are launched from the virtue signalling moral high ground with the clear implication that if you don’t agree, you are morally defective.

The irony is that these charities are substantial beneficiaries of the taxes generated by the very businesses and people they are criticising. I reckon that the more these charities campaign against government, the more likely it is that the aid that is funnelled through them will be reduced.

Note that the National Opera is funded by the Hamlyn Trust, wealth created from a private publishing fortune. Then Andrew Carnegie gave his vast fortune to promoting public libraries. Recently, Bill Gates, one of the richest businessmen of all time, linked up with money bags Warren Buffett to give the majority of their vast fortunes to humanitarian causes.   Carnegie/Hamlyn/ Gates/Buffett never attract public criticism for waste and dottiness. Perhaps that’s because it’s their money they are spending and they are beady-eyed businessmen.

In 2016, Cecil Rhodes was criticised – amazingly by a Rhodes scholar – for being a greedy exploiter (you couldn’t make this up). The fact that he died more than a century ago in a different world was forgotten: his statue had to fall.

Of course he wasn’t a “lefty”. What is not mentioned is that he and his business partner, Alfred Beit, gifted the totality of their wealth for the good of humanity. Through the Rhodes Scholarships scheme and the Beit Trust, their well- managed wealth continues to provide opportunities for and to bless the poorest of the poor today.

PC World

These days, you can’t be too careful with the jokes and banter!

Last week, I had a medical and the nurse – whom I know well – had to attach a number of electrodes to my chest for a heart scan. I’m fine, thanks for asking!

Stripping them off when it was over was slightly painful so I yelped, “You monster!” She roared with laughter…

Afterwards, I wondered what she would have made of my banter had she been ill-disposed towards me. Headlines in paper: “Old man with OBE roars verbal abuse at nurse”.

It was joke, was it really! Call that a joke! Fine sense of humour you have, and so on.

Last week, I was coming out of church alongside a lady I know who’s in a wheelchair. There’s a hill close by, and so I couldn’t resist saying to her and her husband, “Why don’t we take you to the top of the hill and let you run down to the bottom? I’ll catch you, promise!”

They both laughed. But afterwards I reflected, if they had been a sour old couple, she could have reported me for incitement to murder!

I can hear the cop in my minds’ eye. “You said what, Sir? A joke, you say? The lady is 95 – have you any idea of the shock you have given her!” And on it would go…

Best to play it safe in future. No more risks. Thus “jokes” or banter are off my agenda for good. I’ll be deadly serious from now on, Officer!

A long walk passing through the outskirts of Salisbury plain on a track that led through a number of hilly woods; then we passed by two enormous Bronze Age earthworks on Sratchbury Hill with ancient crosshatching like a vast birthday cake. Then down we stumbled through the town of Warminster where, an age ago, I somehow passed the Regular Commission Board despite walking over the lunch of an irascible Marine Major who was as trying to assess my more or less non-existent capacity to work a radio and read a map. I can still see his outraged face and bulging eyes even now in my dreams. How I passed is still a mystery to me. I often wonder about my poor guardsmen, who must have been as astonished as I was that I was in charge and only followed me out of curiosity rather than any real belief that we would end up where we were supposed to be.

Toddler Tyrant

Picture the scene, a bustling departure lounge at Tel Aviv airport. The air was suddenly rent by the piercing screams of a three-year-old child lying rigid on the floor, her mouth forming a perfect “O”.

As she hollered, I saw her eyes flickering round the watching bystanders to assess the disruption she was causing. It was clear she was practised and had “form”.

Her mother tried to stem the shouting without success. In fact the noise grew to a crescendo – and then became even worse. A well-meaning stranger tried her best to distract the child, and failed. The youngster then squirmed through the legs of the crowd to the information stall and, like a childish version of Gypsy Rose Lee, started to remove her clothes, item by item, and throw them into the shocked crowd.

The child’s father, a tall bespectacled man, was clearly anxious that the family would miss their flight. Losing patience, he elbowed his way to the front, grabbed the child and attempted to stalk towards the departure gate.  The youngster began to Mike Tyson his face with her fists. Then she had a brainwave. Squinting with concentration, she grabbed her dad’s spectacles, twisted them like barley sugar, and hurled them to the ground where they shattered.

The family was in despair. I hunkered down, gathered the fragments and handed them over. I tried to be reassuring:

“I have been where you are today when our eldest daughter behaved exactly like this. But don’t worry, it does gets better… she’s now ordained and the chaplain of Christ Church, Oxford!”

Gentlemen

So Lord Carrington has died – one of the last of the “old school” gentlemen who fought in the last war. He was so honourable he failed even to mention in his autobiography that he won an MC in the last war for bravery. How the forest oaks are falling!

A True Gentleman

I was asked recently whether I knew what it takes to be a “gentleman”. If truth be told, I had never given any thought to the topic – perhaps automatically presuming that I am one! But I was told that after responding to some simple statements, the matter could be proven beyond doubt.

They are as follows…

A gentleman:

1: Can negotiate an airport with ease.

Well, I can just about manage. The trouble I have is that even when I arrive with plenty of time to spare, I can become so engrossed in a book that I end up nearly missing my flight!

2: Never lets a door slam in someone’s face.

I’m all right with this one. In addition, when I was a child, I was taught always to walk on the outside of a pavement so that a lady would be protected from splashes from a passing car. It was also important to always hold a door open for a lady.

3: Never gives offence by accident.

Agreed.

4: Never talks about Brexit to strangers.

Definitely!

5: Never has more than eight people to dinner.

Other than our sprawling family, I agree.

6: Never asks a woman to take off her shoes when she enters your house, however plush the carpet.

Granted.

7: Never boasts about the size of his income.

Absolutely!

8: Is aware that facial hair is temporary but a tattoo is for life.

As you have probably come to realise, tattoos are one of my pet hates…

9: Possesses a well-made dark suit, a tweed suit and a dinner jacket.

And I can get into all of them, even after 50 years!

10: Turns his mobile off at dinner and does not produce it at mealtimes.

Always!

11: Carries his houseguest’s luggage to their room.

Only when the butler is having a day off…

12: Is unafraid to tell the truth.

Yes… although unvarnished truth can end friendships, so we have to be careful with this one. For example, when a lady asks, “Do I look okay in this?”, diplomacy is advised!

13: Arrives five minutes before an agreed time.

Essential! But the trouble is that London is so difficult to navigate that I am either half an hour early or running late.    

14: Talks to the lady on both sides at dinner and asks interested questions about their lives.

I always do this, but Jane tell me that it is about as common as hen’s teeth. Men usually bang on about themselves.

15: Never gives “goodie bags!”

What do you take me for?

16: Is polite to waiters.

Always.

17: Can undo a bra with one hand.

You might ask the question; I couldn’t possibly comment.

18: Is not a vegetarian.

Rest assured, I am a carnivore and not a herbivore.

19: Can ride a horse.

Jane and I hunted for 30 years.  

20: Never kisses and tells.

Difficult to remember, but I hope I never did!

21: Would never own a Chihuahua.

An absurd idea. Imagine a canine rat on one of our walks!

22: Has read all the classics.

Yes, pretty much, but I prefer Daphne du Maurier, Robert Harris and history.

23: Can tie his own bow tie.

What a question. Goes without saying!

24: Never wears sandals.

A ridiculous idea.

25: Wears a rose, not a carnation.

Every time.

26: Never utters the phrases “take care” (when he is leaving) or “no worries”, and never replies “good” when asked how he is!

Agreed. I understand this rubbish comes from Australia; if that is so, then it can’t travel back quickly enough for me.

26: Never blow-dries his hair.

What hair? 

***
Well, I think I made the grade. I apologise to the ladies, but I’m sure all male ZANE donors qualify too!