Boris Johnson’s book about his premiership is published in October. Whatever he writes in his own defence, one thing is clear: he clearly didn’t have the self-awareness to be alert to his own failings. He should have known he was incapable of staff control. If he had been aware, he would have authorised a tough cabinet secretary with the disciplinary authority to ensure that the staff at Downing Street were under proper control.  If he had done this “party gate” would never have happened. It’s not that difficult.  When I was in the Scots Guards, an Adjutant’s job was to ensure discipline. The commanding officer’s job was to command. That’s all it would have taken. Simple. Very sad, really.

Of course, Boris’ failings ran deeper than that. Glad he isn’t my son-in-law. I never liked the idea of a mistress in Downing Street.  Sad that his wife left him for it seems that she left with his moral compass – if he ever had one-  when she kicked him out. Such a golden opportunity wasted.

Variety is the Spice of Life

Many of our friends and ZANE supporters are “of an age”.

Jane and I have friends and loved ones who are suffering in the iron grip of dementia. Richard Restak’s book, How to prevent Dementia, is catnip to me. I learned lots. Common sense tells us that what’s good for your heart is good for the brain – daily exercise, not smoking, moderate booze, plenty of fruit and veg, reasonable sleep and going easy on the junk food.

What else is new? Well, Restak reckons that the more we know, the more tools we can muster to prevent the onset of dementia. He thinks that we concentrate too much on the memory loss aspects of the disease whilst overlooking the need to consider the disturbance and emotional changes that occur. Dementia can “start with speech problems… disorders of emotions and behaviour, unreasonable anxieties, hoarding, impatience, sudden flares of temper, delusions and hallucinations.”  Restack concludes that “there’s a continuum of dementia in us all, and that we will travel through periods of memory loss, disordered thinking and emotional disturbance”. Sometimes these symptoms reverse, often they worsen.

Restak has interviewed many thousands of creative and successful Americans thriving in their eighth and ninth decades to establish the basis of healthy brain functioning. The following are all key: (a) education, (b) curiosity, (c) energy, (d) keeping busy, (e) regular exercise and physical activity, (f) acceptance of unavoidable limitations, (g) the need for diversity and novelty, (h) enjoying our own company, (i) the maintenance of friends and other social networks, and (j) the establishment and fostering of links with younger people.      

Phew! Inevitably, this is a limited exercise because Restak’s research was bound to be constrained by the fact that only those without dementia could be involved. But Restak tells stories of those whose lives have been enriched by learning new tasks, and by having a reason and purpose to live as we age. We need plenty of social connections across the generations.

All these things may – we hope – delay the onset of dementia. At any rate, they’ll certainly make life more rewarding. 

Moderation in All Things

And, oh yes, Restak claims that we shouldn’t get hung up on getting eight hours of sleep per night. What we need is enough to feel refreshed and alert – and to just take a nap when needed. Alcohol may be good for our social lives but is bad for the memory. Moderation is clearly important.

Restak suggests we should drop activities that we don’t really enjoy ­– parish council meeting anyone? – and we should spend time in “green spaces”. And he’s an evangelist for lifelong learning. 

Finally, our attitude of mind is more productive than we think. What do you think of the statement, “The older I get, the more useless I feel”? In a study of cognitive impairment, 65 per cent agreed. Bad news!

Restak claims we should be positive. Here’s his final lifestyle suggestion: “Stop obsessing about whether you may come down with dementia at some time in the future, for life’s to be lived and not constantly fretted about.”

Perhaps this quote from philosopher Kieran Setiya sums things up: “What’s needed to live a good and satisfying life is the courage to hope well.” 

To hope well is to be realistic about probabilities, and not to succumb to wishful thinking or to be cowed by fear. We should “hold possibilities open”.

Cheer up – and if you can find the bottle, have a (mild) gin and tonic!

Obese City

My buddy and I share a friend who’s grossly overweight. Recently, we discussed which of us should tell him we’re concerned about his health.

Thankfully, my buddy volunteered. But then I discovered he’d told our friend, “Tom’s worried about your weight!”

Good having friends you can trust, isn’t it?

A few weeks ago, I was sitting on a bench in Edinburgh’s Princes Street Gardens. As people walked past, I decided to count just how many were overweight. Out of 100 passers-by, 76 looked obese and only five were slim!

Obesity has long posed a threat to public health. It’s a risk factor for a range of chronic illnesses, including Type 2 diabetes, cardiovascular disease, liver and respiratory diseases and 12 different cancers. NHS statistics for 2022/23 show there were 1.2 million admissions where obesity was a factor, up from 617,000 in 2016/17.

When compared to smoking, obesity is responsible for three times as many hospital admissions.

It’s estimated that last year, the cost of obesity to the NHS was 19 billion so it’s hardly surprising that weight loss drugs are in high demand.

Perhaps Wes Streeting might acknowledge that the real crisis facing the NHS isn’t the lack of funding, but obesity. Unless the nation slims down, we’ll bankrupt the NHS.

Last Meal

We have been hosted by wonderfully kind and generous hosts, and we have enjoyed excellent, wide-ranging debates on, you name it, we have discussed it.

Last evening, we chose what we would select as our last meal before we were to be shot!

Here’s mine. First, a well-made Bloody Mary. It’s a sad fact that hardly anyone knows how to make one. It isn’t a drink, it’s an art form!

A glass full of top-class tomato juice, at least a quarter of a squeezed lemon, a decent amount of Worcester sauce to colour the mix light brown, a quarter spoonful of horse radish sauce, a shot of vodka, and crucially, a shot of medium dry sherry, then a sprinkling of pepper. Add ice. Shake it up, and it’s nectar.

Thence to the supper.

A dozen oysters, with Worcester sauce and half a lemon. Two slices of brown bread and butter. Two glasses of white burgundy.

Then, a medium-rare small fillet steak with boiled new potatoes flavoured with mint, hollandaise sauce if available, and fresh peas. A salad with fresh lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes, and a light French dressing. Two glasses of red burgundy.

Raspberries and cream. A glass of iced kümmel.

Coffee

A Bendicks bittermint.

I am now ready to be shot.

Tom Benyon’s Schooldays

Such were the joys of being flogged on my 10-year-old bare bum at Edinburgh’s Angusfield House School. I have no recollection of what my offence could possibly have been – though it couldn’t have mattered much, for it didn’t take a lot for “Tud” (the pervert’s nickname) to bend us over his tweedy knees, stare gleefully at our pink buttocks and inflict pain.

Today, this three-flush floater of a headmaster – whose name prudence dictates I should avoid mentioning – would have ended up serving at least six years at His Majesty’s Pleasure. But those were the days, my friends, that’s just how it was. I got off relatively lightly compared to some of my “pretty” friends who dumbly suffered serious abuse – and the prettier they were, the worse the misery. Would our parents – my father was an Edwardian – have known what to do if I had confided in them? Would they, or the police and the courts for that matter, have understood the long-lasting effects that sexual molestation has on children?  I doubt it.  

And the abuse and bullying grew dramatically worse at public school. Christopher Hitchens relates the tale of a friend captured in 1943 and put to work on the infamous Thai-Burma railway.

Five young officers were sitting in a stinking cell waiting to be interrogated. The heat was stifling, the latrine, a hole in the floor. Mosquitoes and bugs had chosen this particular as their Far Eastern rendezvous, for they clustered in swarms. The screams of an officer being beaten and tortured in an adjacent cell grew to a crescendo.

One of the five, Hitchen’s friend, fell asleep, and soon the exhausted man was in the grip of a nightmare. He began to moan, then shriek and writhe.

“Oh, please stop!” he shouted. “Please stop! I can’t bear the pain anymore.”

His neighbour shook him awake. The man glanced round the cell and muttered, “Oh thank God! I dreamed I was back at Tonbridge School.”      

A to B

Cars are for getting from one place to another, no more, no less. I am always astonished at the sums people squander on them. It all boils down to the vanity of, “Hello Sunshine… I’m much richer than you!”  

Yesterday, I noticed a man sitting in his parked car. Without warning, his sidelights began to semaphore, and then his boot beeped loudly, rising and falling like a runaway guillotine. We couldn’t stop laughing as he tried, wholly unsuccessfully, to control the display. But the more he banged on the buttons, the faster the lights seemed to flash – and the boot was having none of it!

On the (admittedly, remote) off-chance that a motor manufacturer ever reads this, please stop adding electronic accessories to new cars! All they ever do (apart from adding to the gaiety of amused onlookers) is to increase the already vast cost of the car – and they always go wrong, wrong, wrong…   

Fortunately in the UK

On July 4, something remarkable happened that we in the UK take for granted: power changed hands from one party to another. No one died, no one even argued about the process, and control changed peacefully…it just happened.

What astonishes me is that at least one-third of the country just shrugged and failed to vote. They can have no appreciation of how lucky they are to live in a country at peace with established democratic processes, a free press, honest courts and free speech. These non-voters must be plain ignorant as to the quantity of blood that has been shed over centuries to elevate our magnificent country to where it is today. Perhaps they think that the way we are is normal, that all that has happened over the centuries is that the tooth fairy just waived her little wand and bingo! The country provides index linked pensions and an NHS, free education, endless football, and free beer all produced by magic. All they have to do is live on benefits   – which are a right not a privilege – eat pizza, deep fried Mars Bars and whine for an even easier life, all without even bothering to vote.

I think that, in time, they are in for quite a shock.

Tobacco Bastards

Neither of my parents lived to see eight of their grandchildren. They were both killed courtesy of British American Tobacco.

Today, we know that smoking is all too often an early death sentence. So, with horror, I’ve watched the antics of the tobacco companies as they try to lure our grandchildren into taking up the habit that killed their grandparents.

These semi-crooks are spending millions of pounds on research to discredit the idea that vaping is harmful to children. Now you can see an eight-year-old slurping on a cherry-flavoured nicotine bomb – while hoping that someone gives her a Snoopy-shaped e-cigarette holder for her birthday.

Philip Morris International is funding a company that runs pro-vaping “cessation sessions” for hundreds of UK doctors. They are trying to get children hooked on vapes in the hope they will get addicted to nicotine – and then after shelling out hard-earned cash on full-blown ciggies, just shut up and die like the smokers of previous generations! These are the bastards who are selling kids cheap and disposable fruity flavoured vapes with twee names like “Gummy Bear”, “Cotton Candy” or “Strawberry Milkshake” to entice them onto the hard stuff.

Top Your Day with Marlboro!

That’s a slogan from 1968. And indeed, before cigarette advertising was illegal, our fathers were persuaded that smoking would turn them into rugged cowboys or airline pilots, and ordinary women were conned into believing they would morph into hot chicks with a chance to lay “real men”. 

These tobacco conmen pretended that ciggies were a cure for cancer, asthma and other respiratory ailments, and they used their vast profits to promote plain vanilla lies like, “More doctors smoke camels than any other cigarette,” and “You’re never alone with a Strand”. And then they did all they could to bribe doctors to hide the links to cancer, heart disease, strokes, birth defects and all the other unspeakable horrors we now know are caused by tobacco. These creeps are still with us, as are the fat-arsed accountants, lawyers and advertising folk who support them.

My parents must have believed the lies. I recall clearly, when I was 14 – not a good age to lose a father – seeing my handsome Dad, who had fought in both world wars, dying by nicotine-stained degrees of heart disease. He realised too late that smoking was a death sentence and tried to dissuade us from ever taking up the habit. My mother was a courageous and talented scriptwriter who had endured a lot of hardship. Forty years on, I can still see her coughing up her guts against a backdrop of the ghastly paraphernalia of the dying.  By then, she had shrunk to six stone and was addicted to morphine.

Countless others have suffered the same misery, their beloved family members poisoned by these mega-crooks. Direct advertising may have been banned, but this doesn’t stop the conmen from weaselling out loopholes in the legislation with the hope they can add our grandchildren’s names to their tar-blackened butcher’s list. 

A Little List

ZANE supporters know that the chattering classes are routinely disparaging about our empire. A recent book about Churchill describes how India was removed from the “clutches” of Britain. I suppose “clutches” is one way of describing our contribution. Why are we daft enough to expect gratitude for what Britain has done for so many countries? Recall the bleak saying, “If you want gratitude in Washington, get a dog,” and then the Spanish, “Why do you dislike me so much, what favours have I ever done you?” Just watch how they work out today.

In the 1979 film The Life of Brian, John Cleese asks, “What did the Romans ever do for us?” – only to be told, “Education, medicines, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, fresh water and public health!”

It’s a forlorn hope, but before cosying up to the Russians, India might recall a little list of what Britain brought to them: Railways, mass education, irrigation projects, law and order, English as its first lingua franca, democracy, universities, newspapers, standard units of exchange, telegraphic communications, an incorruptible legal system, medical advances and the widespread abolition of the practice of burning widows alive on their husband’s funeral pyres. 

Today’s walk was the worst by far: a boring landscape, overgrown paths, and we often walked beside the river that stank like a monkey’s latrine. The management of those responsible for this disaster should be made to pay for the damage they have done and the disposal of the sewage they have poured in the river.

What do you make of Keir Starmer? He has a bland, featureless face and looks more or less the same as he did when he was six. He has all the charisma of a Mormon actuary. He claims not to have a favourite novel or a poem that makes him cry, nor does he dream. He has no religious beliefs, and he is not long on self-deprecatory humour. He is a Pharisee who loves the law. I wonder what he will be like when several wheels fall off at the same time. In recent times, Gordon Brown was faced with the collapse of the world economies, May faced the meltdown of the Commons, Boris had to deal with Brexit, Covid and Putin. We presently face Gaza, Iran,  N Korea … Just  what will explode next?

I suspect Starmer doesn’t know what he will be like himself until he is faced with having to sort out a series of hog-whimpering and unsolvable disasters.

Poor Rishi Sunak was underestimated. He was balanced, talented, very hardworking, disciplined, and in my view a good Prime Minister, more or less destroyed by the cartoonists who continually sought to portray him as a childish dwarf.

I think he will be delighted to get back to money-making in California.

Those Were the Days

LP Hartley told us that the past is a foreign country, and they do things differently there. And this has never been truer than in the steamy-sex-before-marriage/co-habitation debate.

Jane and I are blessed with clergy children and a good many grandchildren. We “big talk” all sorts of stuff. Often sex.   

Adrift at Sea

Nowadays, it’s about “My truth”, “Who are you to tell me anything?” and so-called “freedom”.  ZANE supporters of a certain age will remember that when we were young, the Christian ethos was a good deal stronger than it is today and social pressure more vivid.

Today’s parents have lost confidence in whether they have the “right” to say how their children should lead their lives and whether their relationships are “wise” or not. Who dares say, “Monica darling, when you are off your smartphone, please listen. Is that man with the delightful ponytail, covered in NAZI tattoos, yes dear, the one with a dog on a rope, is he the very best you can do?”

Or who has the courage to observe, “Henry, your nice girl has told me she wants to become a ‘pole dancer’. Darling, what on earth does she do?” for fear of being labelled an old fart. The concept of “family” is today blurred, leaving the young adrift in a choppy sea without a compass or a map – and all because parents fear giving offence. They want to be “nice” and to have their children as “friends”. But our children aren’t meant to be our friends…

In my day, when we tiptoed down the corridor with our shoes in our hands at 2am, at least we knew that what we were about to do would not be approved of by family, our schoolteachers or the church. It made illicit sex even more fun – or so I was told! 

That’s mostly gone now. My own view is that I’m all for change – provided it’s for the better.

Anything is better than today’s confusion, though. Of course, there was a good deal of hypocrisy and cruelty in Victorian times, but we have long since hurled the baby out with the bath water. There has to be a middle way, a compromise. Think of the words today that have lost meaning: chastity, virginity, purity. Of course, girls are more vulnerable than boys, although this flies in the face of the bollocks bleated by today’s tawdry media.

Within a short time of meeting a possible romantic partner, our grandfathers would have been asked by the woman’s father or brother, “Please may I ask your intentions?” And if a man didn’t pass muster, he would be booted out and not always politely. And if he didn’t play by the rules, he’d be told, “You’re a bounder taking advantage, Sir!  My Gad, you need a horsewhipping!”

Those were the days.   

Sew Gifted

Jane is amazed that I enjoy sewing. I tell her that anyone who has spent time in the army can sew – and to tell you the truth, I find it rather relaxing.

She is also impressed that I can thread a needle. And now I come to think about it, given my age, so am I!  

We are standing on the shoulders of giants.

Requiem for an Admiral

We passed a memorial to Admiral Hopwood. No one has ever heard of him but now you know that he risked his life for his country through all the naval engagements of WW1. He is one of the twelve million servicemen who ran real risks of their lives for future generations. And the reality is that today very few of the “future generations” know anything about history and don’t appear to care a fig!

All honour to Admiral Hopwood.

The State We Are In

“We live in a time of a terrible inflation of words, and it’s worse than the inflation of money.” Eduardo Galeano

For years, schools (and some parents) have awarded prizes to children irrespective of whether they were deserved or not – and now universities are issuing First Class degrees like smarties. These degrees used to be precious and a matter of great pride, but a recent report reveals that a quarter of students with three “D”s at A-level have attained a “First”. Bosses are finding that some of the “achievers” they’ve employed can’t even write a letter in clear English, so they no longer value this nonsense – and that, of course, makes a mockery of the first-class accomplishments of the brightest students.

So, the currency of exams has been devalued… Who’d have guessed the inscrutable workings of the iron law of unintended consequences?

Mad, Mad World

Now the term “bullying” has been inflated beyond recognition. I went to private schools. I was a private in the army and attended RMA Sandhurst, and was a businessman and an MP. I really do know about hardcore bullying. Thankfully, the world has changed and folk are now protected from some of the worst rantings of tyrannical NCOs and bosses.

However, in the workplace, things like eyerolling, mere “glances” and “micro-aggressions” –whatever the hell this last means – can now be described as “bullying”. Has this made people any happier or more contented? The result is that the word “bullying” has lost its true meaning. Hypersensitivity has been legitimised and forthright communications are now almost impossible.

And look what’s happened to the rules around sexual behaviour. We’ve all witnessed the nasty stuff, and of course, it can be hugely distressing. However, one of my senior friends described how, at a party, he dared to tell a female friend how nice she looked in her new dress – he was promptly traduced by a beak-nosed harpy who informed him his words were “highly improper and likely to be misunderstood”! Such acute sensitivity over the small stuff devalues the big – for example, gruesome Alex Salmond’s drunken groping, streams of vile sexual innuendos and vicious harassment.

And suffering from stress is now fashionable – and I don’t mean clinical depression and real illness, for which I have every sympathy. Stress is the illness of the moment, and its victims are everywhere (bar the self-employed). I once asked a bunch of workmen if they’d ever been off with “stress?” Of course, not,” they laughed. “If we don’t work, we don’t eat!”

One theory is that the only people who can afford to stop working because of stress are those who know they’ll be paid anyway – for example, those who work for large charities, nationalised corporations or as civil servants. I know this is a tad cynical, but I’ve been around a long time and know something about human nature. The self-employed do not take time off work lightly.

Today, we live in a marshmallow society, where we are as soft as snowflakes and likely to be blown sideways by every zephyr that passes. During the Battle of Britain, can you imagine the reaction from Bomber Harris if his pilots had requested time off due to stress or insisted on taking paternity leave? We’d all be speaking German today. 

Of course, all sympathy to the mentally ill – whilst recognising the inflationary spiral that classifies mere emotions and even bereavement today as “illness”. Trauma was once an event that indicated grave injury, threat of death or sexual violence. Involvement in a serious accident would qualify. But then, as is the usual pattern, the definition started to inflate so it embraced not only one’s own experiences of harm but those of our “loved ones” (and how I dislike that expression!) too. I suspect this expansion is due, in large part, to pharma companies hoping to prescribe pills to an ever-widening audience of “victims”.

Years ago, when I ran a health authority – Milton Keynes since you ask – I was told that many of my employees were off with “stress” because they were fearful there might be a war, and their children “might” be involved! So, would we provide a free counselling service?

ZANE donors, please be proud, for I blankly refused. For heaven’s sake, most of our parents went through a world war, and then there were no counsellors of any kind. They just had to get on with it. And we’ve all had ghastly stuff in our lives, from our own sicknesses and failures to the deaths of those we love, job losses and all sorts of betrayal… And we just bloody well get on with it, don’t we?  And what we can see coming down the track doesn’t look like a barrel of laughs either. 

Decades of “welfarism” has created a society in which millions of people choose to hyperventilate with emotional stress, live off their fellow taxpayers and consider themselves entitled to do so.

We are living in a mad, mad world, my masters. Simply mad!

Church Matters

As the number of churchgoers is in steep decline, perhaps those running the churches might appreciate an unvarnished view as to why? They should try to find out whether the vicar and his/her team are liked or merely endured, and whether they’re viewed as competent or lazy. No one has to attend church, people can always go gardening or boating instead – and judging from the figures, that’s exactly what they’re doing!

A couple of years ago and on a walk I banged on about the hordes of miserable looking couples who sit in total silence simply staring at the floor.

Most are vast in bulk and potential incubators of diabetes, heart conditions, cancers and worse. Some are smoking and look as fit as a diesel dumper truck. No politician dares tell the truth and announce that we cannot go on like this: unless the population goes on a diet and the NHS is radically overhauled, the UK is bound to go bust.

One of my friends reading my bleak prognosis told me that I underestimated how many saints are doing wonderful things quietly and I should be ashamed at my lack of charity.

He is of course quite right. But we still face going bust!

Sod Being Nice

“Isn’t she nice? No one ever said a bad word about her, ever…”

Really! Nice? No criticisms at all?

In common with many ZANE donors, I’m sure, I attend a lot of funerals. At the most recent one, someone said that the deceased was a “very nice man” and that he didn’t have any enemies.

I said nothing. That’s fine as far as it goes, but when facing the last trump, is that reallyhow you’d like to be summed up? Remember, Jesus never said, “Blessed be the “nice”!

Shaking Things Up

Those who have achieved much – or strive to do so – can’t be merely “nice”. In fact, they must surely face active dislike from some quarters. When Maggie Thatcher died, some sad souls proclaimed (disgracefully), “Ding, dong, the witch is dead”. That says more about them than her for she changed Britain substantially for the better and she played a part in ending the Cold War. She wasn’t “nice” – instead, she was magnificent. 

Acute dislike and criticism are occupational hazards for anyone who makes waves or dares to shake things up. Perhaps that’s why so many contemporary politicians are relative lightweights. They want to be liked and popular, and most can’t see a parapet without ducking beneath it. Which UK politician is calling out the unemployed millions who would rather draw benefits than work?

The head of Frontex, Dutchman Hans Leijtens – who sounds very “nice” – says, “Nothing I do can stop people crossing the borders”. He doesn’t want to do his job properly for that would involve being “mean”. US President Biden lifted the Donald’s border controls because they were “mean and bad”. US electors are keen to stop illegal immigration, but Kamala Harris wants to be nice and cuddly – and it may cost the Democrats the US election. In whatever way you choose to describe the ghastly Trump, “nice” is not a word that comes to mind. That’s maybe why instead of wearing an orange jumpsuit – to match his face – and living in a Florida nick, the old sod might just win.

That’s why – and this list is at random so please add who you will – Napoleon, Winston Churchill, Ernest Bevin, Margaret Thatcher, Arthur Scargill, Tony Benn, Mary Whitehouse, Peter Tatchell, JK Rowling, Nigel Farage and Douglas Murray are all great people (forget whether you agree with their views or not, just accept they are all mighty consequential). They have stood up for their causes – and possibly failed many times – but in the end they’ve put up with the inevitable abuse and mockery that are an occupational hazard. None of them cared/cares much about being “nice”.  Because if you are an achiever, you are bound to accept that people will tell lies about you, and that you may face lawsuits or even threats to life and limb. And I’ve not heard that any of the great achievers needed counselling, either!

 This poem, “No Enemies” by Charles Mackay is said to have been on Thatcher’s desk:

You have no enemies, you say?

Alas, my friend, the boast is poor.

He who has mingled in the fray

Of duty, that the brave endure

Must have made foes! If you have none,

Small is the work that you have done.

You’ve hit no traitor on the hip,

You’ve dashed no cup from perjured lip,

You’ve never turned the wrong to right,

You’ve been a coward in the fight.

So, sod being nice. Where’s the next “cup to dash from perjured lip”?

King of the World

I see Tony Blair is on his way to becoming world king. He’s offering consultancy to all emerging countries, teaching them how to govern efficiently. 

His advice should carry a “risk warning” for he was a disastrous British prime minister. With Clinton-style gifts of persuasion and charm, he won elections of course, but we are still paying a high price for his premiership.

Take your pick of his irreversible disasters. He encouraged more young people to go to university instead of training to become plumbers, plasterers and electricians – so now we have semi-educated “graduates” with no jobs. He allowed the buffoon John Prescott to relax the gaming laws resulting in a vast rise in the number of gaming addicts. The UK is now the world centre of gambling. His devolution dreams of a better future for Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland have morphed into a costly nightmare.

Then, in a fit of apparent absence of mind, he allowed Home Office minister Barbara Roche to reset our immigration rules to far too many people, far too quickly – and guess what? Anyone who objected was deemed to be, you guessed it – “racist”. Today, our attention is being diverted by the “small boat” saga, but this masks the real problem that, legally, the number of immigrants arriving in the UK (every four years) rivals the size of the population of Birmingham. Don’t forget that the genesis of this problem can be traced back to Blair.     

And all that before the Iraq war. Good luck indeed to all Blair’s clients.   

We started walking down a road. I dislike and fear roads in equal measure. In fact, I have lost my nerve. Whatever care we take, there will always be some moron in a scarlet Mercedes wearing a reverse baseball hat, cutting a corner and giving us the finger. And look at the death of Stephen Chamberlain who died running near Cambridge a few weeks ago.

It’s astonishing that our river walks are wholly deserted. Here we live in overcrowded Britain, and there is no one to enjoy England’s Garden of Eden. I suppose as there are so many vast people barrelling along; each one thinks their podge is normal.

At a supper party last week, I sat opposite a man who sought to turn every conversation into a stupid joke.  It made me wonder if he was an ass who couldn’t be serious or if he was a serious man trying to be funny. I found him a pain.

The Reverse Jive

This is how it works. Some 3 million Zimbabweans – economic migrants – have fled to South Africa. Every now and then, a few are arrested and sent back to Bulawayo.

Merrylouise, who works in a Jo’burg store, did the “Reverse Jive” a few weeks back. Her Zimbo accent gave her away to the local cops as an “illegal”. She packed a bag, and was then bussed, alongside others, 320 miles north to Beitbridge – the sole crossing between South Africa and Zimbabwe. Outside the arrival hall are stationed the Malaicha, slang for “we will carry you”. They immediately whizzed her and her pals back to Jo’burg.

The Reverse Jive took just 48 hours!   

Go Figure

The economics are as plain as hunger. After decades of oppression and mismanagement, Zimbabwe governments collapsed the economy to a derisory GDP of £24bn, roughly the same as that of Derbyshire. South Africa’s economy is worth £320bn with plenty of jobs in the vast “informal sector”. If you were desperate for work, where would you rather be? Zimbabwe or South Africa?

Go figure. Millions of tough and deeply determined young people aren’t going to be put off by a bureaucracy, or being sent to Rwanda or being taken back to where they started – and who can blame them? Where there’s a will, the resilient and cunning will find a way – even if they must Reverse Jive to get there.

The numbers are staggering. Africa, right on the doorstep of the EU, has billions of poorly educated and unemployed young people with lousy prospects. Take Nigeria alone – between 2018 and 2020, some 20 million young people joined the throng of job seekers, yet only 3.5m new jobs were created.

Young people in dusty villages and urban slums across this vast continent may be poor but they still have access to smartphones – and they can see images of a land of milk and honey full of shiny cars. The UK’s GDP is approximately £2.274 trillion. Who can blame the most able and ambitious for wanting to grab some of it fast? Any number of “smugglers” will pave the way – a few are arrested while others appear to be like knotweed. 

This is bound to turn ugly. Europe faces being overwhelmed by hundreds of millions of immigrants from fundamentally different cultures, all demanding attention and refusing to go away. Racial tensions will make the debates fraught. The welfare state will face collapse as these migrants are bound to be an economic drain. The UK needs highly skilled people but that’s not what we have coming down the track. Just imagine 50 boats arriving on the same day?

The issue was hardly touched upon during the recent election. But it’s vital that we stop playing the nice guy. We need to scrap our asylum system – created in an era before instant travel, smartphones and illegal boat people, and when the population of the world was a quarter of today’s – as unfit for purpose. And then bin the Refugee Convention and the ECHR – and any other law or treaty that stands in the way of the enforcement of our national borders.

To ignore this as scaremongering is to forecast an electoral uprising.  

Reverse Jive anyone?

Another beautiful walk that makes me realise how stupid we are to travel abroad when there is so much pleasure to be enjoyed here in the UK without having to endure the miseries of airports and the costs of foreign travel. As a Doge of Venice exclaimed: “Why should I travel when I have already arrived?”

The kindness of strangers

We have been much blessed with the kindness of strangers, people hitherto unknown to us who have offered the most generous of hospitality. It is a breach of confidence in this commentary  to name them individually, but they know who they are and our heartfelt thank you from us.

Suddenly one day there is a voice from God: “From henceforth thou shall not be able to put on your  socks unaided” and so it came about.

Inevitably some hosts have strong views on the Palestine and Israel conflict. I confine my self to a  story recently told me by a Jewish friend.

A Rabbi and a vicar died and they both went to heaven and, as is the custom, they at once sought an interview with God.

“Dear God,” said the Rabbi, “ please tell us whether or not will there be peace between Palestine and Israel and, if so, when?”

God thought for a moment and replied: “ yes of course there will be… but not in my lifetime.”

 Wounded Healer

“Humankind cannot bear very much reality.”

TS Eliot

A godson was deserted by his wife and at the same time he lost his job. I was reminded of the words above. When he asked me for advice, I wrote him the following letter:

Dear Ed,

First, the easy one, the job. The greatest problem you’ll face (and I tell you this from firsthand experience) is a loss of self-esteem. Confidence is such a delicate flower, and its withering is always painful and devastating – it takes a long time to recover. It must be restored incrementally, brick by brick, but it’s a tortuous process. It’s best not to go for job interviews until you have rehearsed your performance, for each rejection can compound the misery and underscore the loss of confidence.    

The second is more complex and wounding, especially as you are sensitive. We only met Melanie briefly, so what I’m about to write is a general observation of what happens in the vast majority of cases.

Melanie wants to convince herself that, even though she is breaking her marriage vows, damaging your children and hurting you grievously, she remains a “good” person. She must do this not only to maintain her sense of self-worth, but also to convince her friends, family and later, the children, of her virtue.      

So how does Melanie do this? Easy. She alters reality to accommodate what she wants to believe, and she highlights your many faults. Of course, we all have shortcomings –lazy/workaholic, boring/hyperactive, mean/extravagant, the “fire is out” and it’s all down to you, and so on. It really doesn’t matter much which faults she lists because humankind is not very good at inventing new ones.

Then comes the dramatisation of your flaws with illustrative stories (and the invention of a few others for good measure). In this way, Melanie convinces herself and her audience that leaving you is the only reasonable way forward.

This performance is called “cognitive dissonance” (CD) – the invention of a new reality to fit what the “victim” wants to believe, and it’s a commonplace. The most egregious example of CD I know of concerns a wealthy Catholic lady who sought to annul her marriage on grounds of “non-consummation”. One flaw in her pleading was the existence of three lusty sons, so the RCs found the argument a bit of a stretch. But anyway, she nipped off to have a fling with a local CoE vicar and then she discovered that what he wanted wasn’t “love” but a “nurse with a purse”.

Of course, the whole thing ended in bitter tears – she was ditched, he defrocked. Yet to this day, the lady maintains her holiness. It’s not easy but she manages heroically, for where there’s a will, there’s always a way. (I swear this is true).

This sort of thing has happened repeatedly amongst our friends – and we’ve stopped listening to the stories because they are rubbish. But of course, the wicked old world laps them up! 

How should you react? Well, the last thing I’d advise is to try and convince Melanie that she’s wrong. Totally pointless.

Now you know the process, don’t believe any of the garbage about your alleged character flaws. You are a fine man and in time other romantic paths will open for you. I should add that over the years, my Jane has had countless reasons to boot me out, but for some reason, she never did. No skill on my part, just fortune and grace that I found a tolerant and faithful lady. 

First what not to do. Don’t wallow in self-pity or indulge in that never-ending chorus, “Oh, woe is me for I am undone, and a victim.” That way lies despair and the bottle, and many of your friendships will fall by the wayside – and then Melanie will feel justified!

To minimise the damage suffered by you and your children, accept that the marriage is over. For until you do this, you will remain paralysed in the bog of despond. Then you need to adopt total forgiveness and grace. It’s tough, of course, but once you take this path, healing begins. No recriminations, no eye rolling, no arguments. But if you don’t forgive, it’s like drinking a bottle of poison and waiting for someone else to die.

You now have spun-gold experience and can be a “wounded healer” – for in time, you’ll be able to help others with similar problems. And, of course, you now know who your true friends are – and you know more about yourself.

I’m sure that, when the time is right, you’ll find a new career and another partner. You’ll get through these hard times – I guarantee that.

From your loving Godfather.

 Names have been changed to protect privacy

All going fine for three miles and then bang! We are faced with a vast barbed wire fence bang across our path of a height The Donald himself would be proud of.

There are no warning signs, just sod off return to go with no £200.00. There is nothing to be done; we couldn’t even have spotted it on Google Earth. All we can do is curse and hope the local authority involved is infested with fleas! Or are we barred from such unwoke thoughts these days? We embark on a mile detour with as good a grace as we can muster.

A brief visit to Worcester cathedral. Truly awesome. Building it, and others, was of course what the young did in the 10-13 centuries . Today the young infest Apple, Microsoft and banking in the hope of making millions. Before, they built beautiful buildings. I know which I prefer.

Hot and muggy. On we plod and 30 miles or so under our belts.

Twain

It was Mark Twain who reminded us that there are two vital days in our lives: the first, the day we are born: the second, the day when we realise why we were born. This last realisation came to me only recently: I was born to treasure my wife, Jane, and provide some stability for my precious family and… to start ZANE.

This last has led to many thousands of pensioners being enabled to end their days surrounded by affection with sufficient wherewithal to  allow them to survive in the vale of tears that is today’s Zimbabwe. Today, from eleven sites across the country, over six thousand children who the hideous affliction of clubfoot has afflicted are now able to dance for joy. Cholera treatment, rehabilitation after political violence, “pop-up “ schools, aid for prisoners and feeding programmes. Last, the creation of essential work for our many valued team members.

This all has been transformative. What an unexpected privilege for Jane and me to be at the heart of this essential work.

A Warm Welcome

I would like the following to be read to all potential immigrants when they arrive in the UK.

The UK offers you a warm welcome…

We would like to provide you with some important advice, which will enable you to integrate into our community.  

You will appreciate that our culture and laws have been refined over many centuries of struggles, setbacks, trials and victories. Countless men and women have battled – often in blood – to win our precious freedoms, so please accept them as they are.

Please note that we speak English – not Spanish, Lebanese, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Iranian, Indian, Russian or any other language. Therefore, if you would like to live here, please try to learn English.

The UK does not, and never will, recognise Sharia law. 

Many people in the UK believe in a Christian God because Christian men and women founded this nation and based its laws on Christian principles. This is clearly documented and, as it forms part of our national DNA, it is entirely appropriate to display these sentiments on the walls of our schools. Our Christian God is an essential part of our tradition.

We promote sexual tolerance and gender equality in the UK. It is vital that you accept this.

As part of the process of integration, you must appreciate that neither you nor your faith or culture have any special rights or privileges. You and your religious leaders must learn to tolerate the same harsh mockery and criticism that our citizens have experienced for generations. Free speech is the bedrock of our democracy, and criticism and scorn from all quarters is aimed at our monarchy, the leaders of our institutions, our politicians and our faiths. We have no blasphemy laws and we do not propose to introduce any.

Please understand a crucial truth: free societies, where deep beliefs and feelings can be questioned or even mocked, are the only societies worth living in. You must be prepared to hear – and tolerate – things that you don’t want to hear, and to defend things you don’t want to defend.

Of course, we welcome you, and we will accept your beliefs and not question why. But please accept the country that has offered you safe harbour the way it is. This will allow you to live in harmony and peaceful enjoyment with us.

Holy Osmosis

Wherever I go, be it to the theatre or a film, a restaurant or on transport, I am asked – as I’m sure you, dear reader, are – with a polite request for feedback. How do you rate the service or whatever it was?

The only place I’ve never been asked to pass judgement is in the wake of a church service. The service might have been excellent, or just mediocre; newcomers might have been warmly greeted or not; and the sermon might have been an inaudible ramble about climate change, refugees or foodbanks, or it might have been quite excellent. The point is that no one in the congregation is ever asked for an anonymous summary of their views. 

Whenever I’ve raised this with my vicar friends, they look grey-faced an intimate they sort of know the views of their congregation – perhaps by a process of divine osmosis?

Another perfect walking day overhang by clouds that look like an old tramp’s vest. The Worcester authorities should be ashamed of their neglected paths that makes walking a misery. I remember US billionaire Michael Bloomberg’s advice to all those over seventy: “always hang onto bannisters” and so Jane and I I clutch everything we can at waste height.

Acres of derelict caravan parks, miles of lovely English pasture. We are so fortunate to be alive at this hour with valuable work, and together after all these years.

Arboretum

Michael Heseltine doesn’t expect to be remembered he was once deputy Prime Minister and held many of the important offices of state. (politicians who crave “a legacy” should read Shelley’s bleak poem “Ozymandias”)

Nor, in a hundred years, does he expect to be remembered that he made a lasting impact in Liverpool and the North of England – the original levelling up – because memories are short.

Test for ZANE donors: if you doubt how short memories are: who was Prime Minister 100 years ago? – Answer: Ramsay MacDonald. I ‘ll bet you didn’t know without googling the answer which rather proves my point.

Heseltine thinks that if he is to be remembered by future generations, it will be for the trees he and his wife of sixty years, Anne, have planted. He may be right. But he was one of the heavyweights of his generation to be measured with the likes of Healey, Benn, Jenkins and more recently, Clarke and Hague. But he is the only one, I think, who can demonstrate the double whammy:  building a successful business (Haymarket) from scratch, and without a whiff of scandal,  as well as rising to the top of the political tree.

Our recent visit to the Thenford Arboretum was a delightful occasion:   seventy acres of beautifully positioned flowers, trees, and statues and waterfalls. It is open (see site), and it is a must-visit for for your bucket list.

Undiscovered Country

You will have been appalled by the deaths in coincidental freak accidents over a few days of the vastly rich Mike Lynch – by drowning – and his accountant colleague and co-defendant, Stephen Chamberlain who was hit by a car whilst running. In June, they were both found not guilty in a US court from allegations of fraud: then… whilst celebrating…bang! And like the Titanic, Lynch’s boat, “Bayesian” was reported to be unsinkable.

Those of us who try to buttress our little lives with security, and think childishly that we are the exception to the iron rules of life, are suddenly reminded that, no matter how rich and clever we are, none of us will get out of this life alive.

Those with long memories will recall the dark film Alfie. Its theme song, by Cilla Black, asked “What’s it all about Alfeee?” Inevitably, the film left the question unanswered.

These days, even mentioning death in polite company can be deemed too morbid for modern sensibilities. Instead, people resort to euphemisms such as “She’s pushing clouds around”, or they dredge up the story of the dead waiter – “God finally caught his eye.” And so, ho ho ho, the awful mystery is reduced to something more palatable.

“We are all dead men on leave,” declared German communist revolutionary Eugene Levine as he faced death after his trial in Munich, in 1919 – but not everyone takes the subject as seriously as he did.

Death on the Prowl
The subject is shocking. I have Christian buddies with enamelled views on the certainty of heaven and eternal life – and after a great deal of reflection, I admire their convictions and wish them well.

My own views are tempered somewhat by a sermon given by the Rev Dick Lucas of St Helen’s, Bishopsgate. Once, he told us, he knocked on the door of a parishioner. It was opened by a distraught woman – she was carrying a half-naked, squirming baby in her arms, while two screaming children could be heard from the murk of her sitting room.

“I have come to discuss the Gospel and eternal life,” intoned Lucas.

“Eternal life?” the woman retorted. “I can’t think of anything worse!” Then she slammed the door in the reverend’s face.

Ever since, the endgame has seemed something beyond my radar – a deep mystery and so we must rely on Christian promises in Cor 15.

About 10 years ago, a group of our friends died suddenly. Death seemed to be sated for a while and so there was a brief pause. Then without warning, we recently lost two Tims, a Joe, a Barry and a Jinx. They were all people we dearly loved, and their deaths have been profoundly upsetting – few of them, as far as I can see, lived with much Christian conviction.

Of course, none of us is going to get out of this life alive and we all know death is on the prowl for us like a roaring lion. Yet still, I find the departure of my beloved friends bewildering. Why were they chosen to die when they did? What has happened to them? Where are they now?

Unless we have genius to elevate us to the ranks of the few immortals – the likes of Churchill, Mozart and Shakespeare – none of our lives will be remembered for long. Our work, even the “legacy” beloved by politicians pretending to be statesmen, will begin to corrode the moment we cease to be. Anyone who doubts this should read Shelley’s chilling poem “Ozymandias”. The harsh reality is that, after the funeral, our bodies will simply disappear into a grave and the waters will close over us  – while the living quickly get on with their lives. And the residue? Usually a will, some fading memories and a few yellowing photos – while the dead travel to Hamlet’s “undiscovered country”, the “bourn” from which none return.

Poet Dylan Thomas proclaims we should “rage, rage against the dying of the light”. Then, in rather more gentle fashion, Edna St Vincent Millay writes:

“Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely
Crowned with lilies and laurel they go; but I am not resigned…
A formula, a phrase remains, – but the best is lost…
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love, –
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses…
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world…
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.”

Shakespeare’s Prospero said of the mystery:
“These our actors
Are melted into air, into thin air….;
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”

Let us rest now. There’s no more to say.