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.      

“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.