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.

A perfect day for walking; not hot, lightly clouded and a gentle breeze,  sparkling rivers marching by our side keeping us on track;  we both feel fine as we swing along: a couple of good friends are walking with us who who don’t talk too much and keep us happy company.

We lunched in Bewdley, an antique little town and beautiful in every way. Clearly the local council knows what it’s doing because the centre has not been ripped out and replaced by a small army of matchbox, grey buildings. Nor is the town centre infested with gambling shops, always a sign of poverty and despair.

Since you ask, Tony Blair’s government was the worst ever in a number of ways – incontinent immigration far too fast, ghastly devolution, the war leading to the death of thousands of innocents; last,  it was responsible for relaxing the laws regulating “gaming”; thereby turning the UK into the world centre of gambling. I exaggerate not. This last has caused a growing number of crazed addicts and 420 young men‘s suicides at the last count. If you doubt this,  watch any sporting event on the telly and count the number of “gaming” advertisements seeking to entice the vulnerable to squander their bits of money in a sea of debt. All thanks to Blair’s tame buffoon, John Prescott.  What a glorious legacy.

As it’s a bank holiday, the crowds of the vaping and heroically tattooed are everywhere. I was always taught to serve others, but what the others are for has always been somewhat of an unsolved mystery.

All Hail the Beeb

I was brought up to think that God must be an Englishman and that anyone who was English had won the lottery of life. My parents taught me that our empire was beyond criticism and that its efficient handling of all our affairs made us innately superior.

Later, I learned that things are more complicated than this. Just because our armed forces perform Trooping the Colour brilliantly doesn’t mean the UK has a monopoly on talent or virtue. And then of course, our empire had – to say the least – some serious blemishes!

To be frank, the nature of any UK exceptionalism is very hard to define. It’s not our monarchy, for six other countries in Europe have monarchs, and it’s not the past glories of British rule, for although we had a vast empire (now much reviled), so did others. Then it’s not the war, for although Britain wasn’t invaded or conquered during the Second World War, we certainly didn’t win the war alone. And it’s not George Orwell’s picture of Sunday cricket on the village green, warm beer and ladies cycling to communion on misty mornings. (Let’s face it, today it’s more a case of people leaping out of the path of demon cyclists!)

The UK today is a different country, rapidly changing and confronting a dangerous and uncertain world. It’s a middle-ranking country, fraught with economic problems, and, after Brexit, facing an uncharted future.

However, David Dimbleby reminded me that we do have one exceptional feature and that’s the BBC. As the Capitol riots in Washington made clear, once a country stops believing in a common set of facts, democracy itself is placed at risk. Facing down distortions, lies, fake news and sheer prejudice, the BBC – with all its manifest flaws – is a unique bastion of objectivity and impartiality, whose only ambition is to serve its audience. It is trusted by half a billion people worldwide. Now, that’s exceptional – it needs funding properly and it’s worth fighting for.  

Extra-Mural Activities

Why do those in public life hazard their careers with extra-mural sex?

Many of you will recall Christine Keeler, the 19-year-old model who destroyed the career of Minister for War, John Profumo, and shook the foundations of the Macmillan government. Then there’s Lord Lampton, a minister in Heath’s government, who was caught cavorting with call girl Norma Levy, and Jeffrey Archer, deputy chairman of the Conservative party during Thatcher’s reign, who lied about his liaison with hooker Monica Coghlan.

The list is long – do you recall Cecil Parkinson and Sara Keays, David Mellor and Antonia de Sancha, Jeremy Thorpe and Norman Scott, and John Prescott and Tracey Temple? Then, let’s not forget the sad fall of Air Vice Marshal Peter John Harding, who was brought down by the kiss-and-tell revelations of “Lady” Bienvenida Buck.

The sad roll call trails on to the general entertainment of everyone – except, of course, to those directly involved, whose relationships, careers and reputations are cruelly destroyed.

Why do famous people take such risks knowing that exposure will spell ruin? Of course, it’s complicated. My theory is that politicians are usually on the debit side of the good-looks ledger yet remain irredeemably vain. It’s a case of, “Wow! She seems to have spotted something in me that no one else has” – and so I fall like Lucifer for the first person who puts a hand on my knee.

But why? Leaders must exercise iron self-control to get to the top. As a result, successful people live with vast pressure. They must be supremely self-controlled, always watching what they say and do. However, their free-bird instincts are always there, waiting for the chance to fly from this bleak cage of self-denial.

And then comes the chance to naughtily nibble from the sweet, forbidden fruit. Suddenly, they are transported away to a private place, far from the world of groundhog days and tedious discussions with boring and often angry people. What a relief to bask uninhibited on their own private island of pleasure, released from the burden of family responsibilities or the need for crushing respectability, and free to become a different person – if only for a short time.

Of course, I am not condoning such behaviour, but it’s useful to understand the cause. It’s very stupid to put oneself in a vulnerable position and the discovery of affairs causes immense hurt. It leads to loss of work, a breakdown of trust and often the breaking up of the family unit.

So, dear ZANE donor, have you ever felt under such pressure? If not, do you gleefully condemn people whose lives have been destroyed? Does such exposure make us feel better about our own secret weaknesses?

Perhaps you recall the Biblical story about the woman caught in adultery – and Jesus’s response: “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her”.

FOMO

For years, I was plagued by FOMO – the “Fear of Missing Out”. Somewhere, someone was having a better time than I was – and I desperately minded! Now I know this is total rubbish. It really doesn’t matter a jot what so-called fun everyone else is having – why on earth did I ever think it did? 

I suppose it’s just that I was crass and rather stupid in my youth – and FOMO is a disease that attacks the young. It affects those who are unable to grow older gracefully, creating a layer of anxiety between them and the real world. It’s a mirage of foolish dreams that stops people seeing reality – which is, of course, rather sad. US philosopher David Thoreau had a gloomy fix on this – “All men lead lives of quiet desperation.” 

The key to curing FOMO is to understand the difficulties other people are facing. Of course, for young people, particularly males in the first flush of youth, this is easier said than done. Yet, as you squeeze FOMO from your life, you then realise just how much time and energy you’ve wasted on longing to be somewhere else or to be doing something else (or in extreme cases, even wanting to be someone else). It gets better after you’ve stopped caring whether other people like you or not, and it gets even better when you stop being out to impress.

A good thing to do is to cut hurry from your life. Simply slow down and change from “gad about” to “stop and chat”. It’s a much more pleasant way to live. Generally, there’s no reason to rush – and it’s worth appreciating that hardly anything matters very much, and most things don’t matter at all. 

And then comes the joy of losing ambition. For most people over the age of, say, 65, your main goals will hopefully have been fulfilled already. These usually revolve around family, children, career and all that – though after 65, who cares anyway? What on earth is the definition of success and who is the judge? Is it all about money, sex and power? How ridiculous is that!

If you google the lives of airbrushed rich and famous celebrities – the sort of people who look as if they fart honey – you will see (and let’s admit it, with quiet satisfaction) that their private lives are often barnacled shipwrecks. Hilaire Belloc famously wrote, “There’s nothing worth the wear of winning but laughter and the love of friends”, and he was onto something. For as FOMO retreated in me, so my own happiness increased – and so did my sensitivity towards others. I understood the importance of friendship, living out kindness above all else, and not doing anything I really don’t want to do.  

Ambitious… Me?

In no particular order, here’s a random list of things I’ve never done (and have no ambitions to do anytime soon).

I’ve never…

• Watched Love Island, I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here or TV quiz games
• Been to a cricket match, car racing, greyhound racing or a golf tournament (and I never read the sports pages and have no idea what Gary Lineker does)
• Played bingo, visited Crufts or been skydiving
• Attended a fashion show, a rock concert or a séance
• Tried wife “swapping” (Jane will be pleased about that), or taken hard or soft drugs
• Been tattooed or on Twitter
• Worn make-up or moisturiser, or dyed my hair
• Been Morris dancing
• Taken part in wine tasting (and I’ve never been drunk – at least, on purpose, that is!)

Here are a few things I’ve only been to/done once (and I’ve no appetite for an encore):

• New York
• A nightclub (Annabel’s), a “modern” art exhibition and Scottish country dancing
• A bull fight and a football match
• A parachute jump
• The Conservative Party Conference.

All this goes to show how dull and unadventurous I’ve become! 

Much Tattoo About Nothing

I can’t stop my instant reactions. When I see someone – and it’s nothing to do with sex – my heart either warms with pleasure or feels an icy chill. Call it chemistry, or whatever you like, but it’s involuntary.

And whenever I see someone smothered in tattoos (and I don’t mean a lone one), I instinctively think “moron”!

Endgame

This was one of the finest walks, a combination of wonderful countryside and unstinting hospitality from generous ZANE supporters. It’s not our custom to list those so generous to us individually, but they know who they are. Thank you from Jane and me and Moses. You turned what could have been a weary drudge into a pleasure.

At home, Kariba, our 14 year old cat. She was sort of pleased to see us. Sort of. She doesn’t like to overdo the emotion.

I suppose it’s nice to see you back again,” she purred, “but I can tell you I haven’t missed your miserable children’s ghastly dogs chasing me all over the place. I am not as young as I was. I have warned you before that I may still be off…you may think I am nothing but a clapped-out old moggie, but I can tell you there is life in me yet!. I can still shake a leg and have more admirers than that neutered old mongrel, Moses. Appreciate me while you still can!”

Last, our grateful thanks to our driver and good friend Richard, who endured us both, looked after us with great kindness and drove us with great skill.

So to Lowestoft and thence to home via Norwich and a visit to the cathedral.

Screen and Not Heard

One of our close relations tells me that one of his major worries for his children is “screens”, that is, the addictive nature of the devices that are inclined to stop children from thinking and participating socially. It’s a growing problem.

Walking down a Norwich street, I saw what he meant. A woman was pushing her two children lolling back in a pram. She was preoccupied with her mobile as she walked, and her children sat still, bored, motionless, and blank-faced.

Further on, another woman was talking to her children in a small park. She was laughing and – I think – telling a story; they were bouncing up and down as they listened and laughing back at their mother.

The point about screens is well made.

Happiness

The American Constitution grants to all citizens the inalienable right to be “happy”. But what on earth does that mean?

When the late Anthony Clare, Professor of Clinical Psychiatry at Trinity College Dublin, was asked to define “happiness”, he claimed that number one was to have something at the core of our lives that we are passionate about – something that so involves us and is so absorbing that we can forget the iron-clad fact that none of us is going to get out of this life alive.

Be a Leaf

Number two is to be a “leaf upon a tree”. That means being an individual, in the sense of realising we are unique and that we matter, while at the same time knowing that we are part of a bigger organism, perhaps a strong family or a community. Apparently, some interesting experiments have been conducted on “networks”. It seems that the people best insulated against certain ghastly diseases – typically cancer and heart disease – are part of a community or group so that they feel socially involved.

One of the sad losses connected to the abolition of hunting is that it has wrecked strong country communities – after all, there are few enough of them. (Incidentally, please don’t write to me supporting the abolition of hunting for I am making a wholly different point about the loss of community). A lack of community leads to great loneliness.

If you ask how many friends someone feels close to, those with the biggest list of mates are always the happiest, and those with the smallest list by far the unhappiest. It’s bleeding obvious, really.

Clare said that number three is to avoid introspection and an intense preoccupation with yourself. One litmus test to is recall when you meet new people, do they ask about you or do they merely talk about themselves and the miseries that tattoo their parched lives?

If you drift about carrying a tank of worries to pour on anyone with a pulse, don’t be surprised if people duck when they see you coming. Who can blame them? However, if you project good feelings, then you are bound to attract friends much as a flower draws a honeybee. Often, when people proclaim how unhappy they are, the reason is they are projecting misery like a grey mist. Do you remember the “ITMA” (“It’s That Man Again”) character, Mona Lott?

Turn with the Times

Professor Clare’s fourth point was that we shouldn’t spend time looking forward to things for “time’s winged chariot is hurrying near” fast enough as it is. We should live in the moment.

We should be prepared to embrace change and turn with the wheel. This doesn’t mean making massive changes – like moving house every couple of years, for that’s plain daft – but we need enough variety to keep life stimulating. A close relation of mine had “her views”, but through a combination of laziness and fear, no matter how much the facts might have changed, she clung to them as if they were water wings in a choppy sea.

A bishop said to a church warden at his leaving party, “Ah, Mr Jenkins, after 60 years, you must have seen a lot of changes in your time.”

“Yes,” the old man grunted sourly, “and I’ve resisted every single one of them!”

What’s Your Cause?

I reckon that the key to happiness can be summed up as a battle to fight, a maiden to woo and a cause bigger than us to live for.

My answer to the last feature in that list is ZANE. What’s yours? 

A sand parable

A fine day, a pale blue sky. All was well with the world.

I watched a small boy – perhaps about four – with doting parents standing close by. He was busy building a sand castle. With a tiny spade, he carefully fashioned turrets and a moat, then crafted a deep ditch, the full works, and in about 15 minutes, it was Edinburgh Castle. Then he produced a couple of tiny plastic soldiers, which he proudly planted on each turret. And he sat back, and with a vast smile, he admired his creation.

Then came the twentieth wave; there was no warning. It smashed through the fortifications, and instantly, the walls were mud, the soldiers vanished, and in twenty seconds, all that was left of the little boy’s careful creation was a shapeless mound of sand.

He cried out, scalded by shock and dismay. His mother swept him into her arms and cuddled him, and I heard her say in consolation: “ I am so sorry Timmy. Life’s like that!”

I reckon with such a mother, that boy will fly!

Lies and the Rack

A sergeant major was reviewing a parade and noticed a soldier talking to his neighbour.

“Arrest that man!” he shrieked at the corporal, pointing vaguely at a suspect.

“Him?”

“No!” 

“Him?”

“No!”

“Him?”

“No, but he’ll do!””

Rigged

Andy Verity sets out a scandal in his book Rigged. Cast your mind back to the 2008–09 banking crash that nearly destroyed world financial markets – the eye-watering losses were, inevitably, paid for by the taxpayer while the abusing bankers walked away vastly rich. But, of course, such was the fury that there was a raging public appetite for someone, anyone, to be jailed. (For detail read Michael Lewis’s The Big Short).    

But who? Vast greed and purblind folly aren’t necessarily criminal. The desire for vengeance ended up focusing on who rigged LIBOR – the London Inter-bank Offered Rate. This is the interest rate average calculated from estimates submitted by London’s leading banks. 

Who would be easy meat? Without exception, the senior management muttered, “Not me Guv” and played Macavity, while the traders on the desks were duly charged.

Judges had to be seen to do something, so they just invented a crime! They decided that any LIBOR rate set that made a profit for the banks was, simply, criminal. Thirty-eight traders – working in both the US and the UK – were subsequently prosecuted. An allegedly inept “expert” witness, with little idea of what he was talking about, was duly found, and 19 were jailed. Families were rendered destitute, and lives were wholly ruined.

It’s now been discovered that the traders were following a direction from the banks’ management to vary the LIBOR rate, and that the management was under pressure from the UK government – and even from the Bank of England. Of course, none offered any help to the poor sods at their trial. Banking small fry are considered expendable. 

But lo! After 10 years of campaigning, US appeal courts have declared there was no fraud or criminality! And it was all a mistake. So very sorry!

We await UK judges to declare the same.  

Breaking Lives

Amazingly, some of the victims now deemed innocent originally pleaded guilty. Why did they do that? Surely, they only have themselves to blame?

I’ll tell you why. Up until 1741, English prosecutors used the rack to “persuade” unwilling prisoners to confess guilt. They only had to show someone being racked, with their bones nicely popping, to extract a gibbering confession!    

Of course, that was then, and this is now. What’s the medieval rack got to do with US court processes today?

Easy! Imagine you’ve just been indicted in the US courts. You’re offered a plea bargain. Ninety per cent of those prosecuted in the US end up in jail unless they have an endless moolah supply to throw at lawyers, you’re told. But listen… there’s a way out. If you plead guilty and give the “right” evidence to convict your chums, you won’t end up wearing an orange jumpsuit and eating soggy pizza in a Florida prison for the next 20 years (and with no time off for good behaviour. On the other hand, if you plead guilty, you’ll go to a nice country jail in the UK for a year, and that’ll be that!

What would you do? It’s a cruel world – and I’d probably lie too.

The US “plea bargaining” system is the modern equivalent of the rack. But instead of breaking bones, it breaks lives.

Pray for those caught on the modern-day rack.

Two groups of seals were lazily wallowing on the beach sunshine, grunting and wheezing as we passed. Another morning of hard walking towards Caister and then the penultimate day.

I Don’t Really Do Scenic…

One kind donor has wondered why I don’t write more descriptive items on the walk, especially in such a wondrously glorious place as the coastal path of Norfolk. The reason is that that is my wife Jane’s preserve; she writes the scenic commentary, but that only goes into the written version.

I can’t do both, which is just as well because Jane does an excellent job of it, far better than me. So she leaves me the subjects of politics, religion, death, money and sex!

Religion is difficult because our clergy children (we have lots!) veto all my comments on the CoE on the grounds that they are intemperate rubbish. I agree to such censorship on the grounds of family harmony! Who can blame me? And what can I remember about sex?

Vulgar Bulge?

I see Sienna Miller parading “a bare pregnancy -bumped midriff”.  They say that all publicity is good publicity, but I have always thought that saying was foolish.  If I were her father, I would be plain ashamed of her. There are various words that you never see these days: grace, modesty, and chastity are but three. I am all for change if it brings better ways of doing things, but so much today has degenerated to my mind as cheap,  vulgar and tawdry and parading your bulging body in such a way comes into that category! But I am an old man now, and the past is a foreign country.  And so what do I know!

Money, Money, Money…

Thank goodness it’s considered bad manners to mention Brexit these days. The subject only reminds us of arguments that are – like Marley in A Christmas Carol – as dead as a doornail.

My friend Miles Morland tells me he is no longer as nervous as he used to be about our ability to make our way in a non-EU world – and that’s because of the UK’s extraordinary dominance in industries that require “brain” capital as opposed to the strength the continent has in industries that require “money” capital. The UK either leads the world, or is a close second behind the US, in education, law, accounting, investment banking, fund management, information provision, entertainment, music, theatre, advertising and financial services. These industries require little investment and are wonderfully profitable.

Morland gave as an example a beverage company called SABMiller, which was bought by Belgian multinational drink and brewing company AB Inbev. The deal generated fees of £1.9bn paid to only a few London-based people whose sole capital investment was a few square metres of office space. That was twice as much as Renault’s 170,000 hardworking people made in profit in the whole of 2021 after billions of euros of capital investment. Nice work if you can get it. 

One example of the UK’s “soft power” can be seen in the names of those people being called to the English Bar. Many are from places like Nigeria, China, Malaysia, India or the Caribbean, with a very English education planted in them that they will carry around with them for the rest of their lives. If that’s not “soft power” then I don’t know what is!

Goosing Attila

Until Dame Alison Rose’s downfall – which, of course, came after she was caught giving the BBC details of Nigel Farage’s history with Coutts – we were told she was a talented CEO of NatWest.

Her job didn’t seem to be particularly demanding. Evidently, some of her time was spent telling other people less rich than herself, or those she didn’t approve of, just “to butt off” and find another bank. This must have been fun if you get your kicks out of humiliating others, but giving the finger to the great disruptor Nigel Farage was an unwise career move – rather like goosing Attila the Hun on his bad hair day!  

Now Dame Alison didn’t start NatWest. In fact, it’s part-owned by us taxpayers after it had to be bailed out after nearly going bust in 2008–09. Rose took no appreciable financial or career risks in her role with the bank, so could someone please tell me why she was paid £5.2m and is likely to benefit from a vast farewell handout? All this is 25 times more than the prime minister or the chancellor receive, not to mention top leaders in the army or the police, senior civil servants and leading surgeons! If the answer is that banking and financial services have always been special cases, and that £5.2m is the norm, then a radical reform of financial services pay structures is overdue to bring them into line with the remuneration of other equally valuable leaders of our community. It’s our money that’s being wasted on the likes of the wilting Rose.

Memorial

After my stint as chairman of the Milton Keynes Health Authority board had come to an end, I was asked if I would accept the honour of having my name blazoned on a new building. Although conceit and vanity are not part of my nature, I was delighted.

To my surprise and irritation, however, a staff member tried to persuade me to turn the offer down.

“Why?” I asked.

When he informed me that the new building was to be a centre for venereal diseases, I had to agree that perhaps it wasn’t the best use of the Benyon name.

And so, I respectfully declined.

Norfolk’s coastal path has to be one of the great triumphs of nature in the UK. We walked along with the sea churning for six glorious miles today.

What is astonishing is that these wondrous beaches are more or less deserted. Miles of glorious sand – and litter-free- and rolling waves. Why don’t holidaymakers follow the advice of the eighteenth-century Doge of Venice, who once wrote, “Why should I travel when I have already arrived!”

We pass the submerged Eccles village. We were told that passersby occasionally hear the church bell of the old St Mary’s tolling dolefully. Once, after a storm that raged across the churchyard, a horrified passerby saw skeletons standing erect with polished skulls staring out at the sea. I hope that’s true!

We saw a small seal cub inching his (or her, how can you tell?) way to the sea.

Sweeties for Everyone

A few days ago, we were with a delightful lady who kept calling me “sweetie”!  You read it right, not sweaty! Which would have been accurate. I was quietly pleased, for such endearments don’t come my way too often these days.  Then I heard her calling her dog sweetie as well, so my old heart simply drooped. I recall the great Richard Attenborough was said to call everyone “darling”;   he did this, we are told, on good authority, because he could’ve remembered anyone’s name, and so it saved time.

Front Page Folly

I recall reading some years ago in the Times Letter’s columns:

“There isn’t a picture of Princess Diana on your front page today. Is she ill?” The same thing is happening to Princess Kate, and there she is today, all over the front page with a bruised finger!

I sometimes want a break.

End Game

Prime Minister Balfour once said, “Nothing matters very much, and most things don’t matter at all.” ZANE supporters know my commentaries concentrate on politics, money, sex, religion and death. In my view, everything else is small talk.

And, so to death… None of us is going to get out of this life alive, and at this late stage it’s time to get serious! If not now, when?

I spend a good deal of time – as doubtless, dear reader, do you – at funerals and the memorial services of my friends and relatives. It’s so easy to get hardened to the miseries of life. I recall the late actor David Niven saying, “Life is such a sod, you have to laugh or you will be crushed”.

 What else can we do but try to get on with our own little lives as best we can?

But however often we attend the services of those close to us, however stiff we pretend our lips may be and whether we have a faith to sustain us or not, death remains a profound shock. The late Queen Elizabeth said, “Grief is the price we pay for love.” When the scenery on the little stages on which we jig and prattle away suddenly vanishes, just how are we meant to react? Please don’t say, “You will of course, get over it”, for grief’s not a common cold.

How long does it take to get used to the gaps in our new stage set? How do we dredge up the courage to continue the dance? Now the light of our life has been extinguished, who’s going to bother to talk to us with any real interest? Who’s going to care when we face extreme old age? Who do we shop or dress for now? And although we may be able to find someone else to do something with, will we ever be able to find someone to just do nothing with? Can we ever rekindle the fires of love and mutual interest that have been extinguished, so only grey ash remains? Does it matter if we live or die?

Deathmin

The shock of death is partly the speed with which the rest of the world spins by without missing a roll. How do we face the gloomy clutter of dying without complaint? (Incidentally, I have a file marked “Deathmin”, and respectfully suggest you might do the same). Then comes the reading of the will for, of course, where there’s a will, there’s always a relative.

Gloomy old man that I am, I raised the issue of planning for death the other day with four close friends who all happen to be vicars. We discussed the details of the end game. We all know that death makes money with many firms competing for the business.

“Tell me,” I started. “As professionals, do you really care whether you are buried or cremated, and why do you care? Would you prefer to be shunted down the aisle by half a dozen bored, retired policemen wanting a smoke, or do you plan that family members will do the lifting?

“And do you need a fancy coffin with mock brass handles, or will a cheap pine job – or cardboard – do?

“Do you need a hearse with someone wearing a frilled top hat prancing around – and the next day waiving a hefty invoice – or would you prefer a simple service and then to be buried at sea? Or how about a quiet service in a country church and to be laid to rest among the grey, slanted graves?

“Have you written your funeral wishes (please don’t include Sinatra’s “My Way”) or, as you will be pushing clouds, will you leave that for others to deal with? Will a family member read the eulogy or will that be the vicar’s job?

“Do you mind being forgotten?”

One said that crematoria were dumbed down to such a degree – probably so as not to offend people of any faith, or of none – that they reminded him of a dentist’s waiting room. Another said the fire part made him think of the Nazi gas chambers and he hated the idea of being ground to ashes. Nor did it help that it’s usually raining at crematorium services. And he didn’t much like the strict time rules, either – 30 minutes then, “Next!”

When Time is Over

The anguish of death is summed up by American poet Emily Dickinson in her poem “XXXIX”:

“I shall know why, when time is over,
And I have ceased to wonder why;
Christ will explain each separate anguish
In the fair schoolroom of the sky.
He will tell me what Peter promised,
And I, for wonder at his woe,
I shall forget the drop of anguish
That scalds me now, that scalds me now.” 

Waddle We Do about it?

There they were, as we were striding along the Norfolk Coast Path, two obese parents waddling along with two small children equally plump.

What a tragedy! Tony Blair’s present views on our obesity problems are spot on. Over the last decade of our walks, Jane and I have watched with growing incredulity that people are growing fatter and fatter. The problem is that now obesity is the new normal; as everyone appears to have grown larger, few seem to be noticing what‘s happening around them. I suppose teachers and doctors feel constrained to comment for fear of causing offence. The healthcare bills for heart conditions, worn-out joints and diabetes are overwhelming.

A new tax on fatty foods has to be the answer, however unpopular this may prove to be.

Woke World

Noel Coward once said to Ivor Novello, “Ivor, Darling, if you ever hear that I’ve made rude comments behind your back, rest assured, the rumour is entirely true – I have!”

ZANE often observes the activities of large charities with interest to see is there’s anything a small charity like ours can learn. It’s been an interesting study. Many charities have created “Human Resources” departments, with staff who presumably spend donor money on woke issues such as “gender recognition” and “progressive ideologies”. They give much space in their reports to “environmental and social” issues, or to another preoccupation, “biodiversity” – whatever that may be. Others proclaim to be at the cutting edge of “inclusion, diversity and purpose”, while one claims a social duty not to spend all its donor money on humanitarian relief – which is what it was set up to do – but a significant proportion on combatting climate change.

And what can ZANE learn from one of the best-known charities, which has decreed that instead of writing “woman”, we should instead write “people who menstruate”? Apparently, it may be better to write “Womxn” (as a mark of “solidarity and inclusion”) and we should avoid using the acronym “BAME” (Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic) and instead use “BIPOC” (Black, Indigenous and People of Colour). It seems that both these former terms are outdated.

Granny Again…

Granny told me that unless you can say nice things, you should say nothing at all. Well, although I won’t do everything Granny said, I will at least try to be brief.

Will ZANE change its conservative ways? The answer is, of course, an emphatic “no”! We have always relied simply on common sense in the way we operate. We believe in “Do as you would be done by”. Showing integrity in all our dealings and doing what’s written on our tin – which is to spend donated money wisely and on the issues that our supporters want their money spent on – are the things that matter to ZANE. Over the years, we have been privileged enough to develop a solid relationship with our supporters – one that is built on trust – and ZANE does not propose to play fast and loose with that trust by wasting money on fashionable nonsense.

We are told that all institutions turn “left” in time unless there are people around who stop the drift. ZANE forges its path looking neither left nor right, but straight ahead. 

Firing Squad

DEFRA authorised a report into to why black, Asian, and other minority groups see the countryside as a “white environment”. Now I hear there is to be a study on racism in the countryside. It is bound to be damning, encouraging victimhood on the part of ethnic minorities and making it a win-win for them. But if the report concludes that the countryside is not “racist”, then the work will be condemned as a “whitewash”. So being human and wanting to be paid, the report’s members will form the usual firing squad and find racism in hedgerows and up trees.

I understand the Leverhulme Trust is funding some of these reports. Leverhulme was a hard-bitten businessman who made his money out of Sunlight Soap. He must be spinning in his grave.    

Allow me to be helpful… If I and my family emigrated to India, we might discover that most people living there aren’t white. I suppose, I could wander around loudly condemning the population and shouting “hate crime” – if I could find anyone who would quietly listen to me (doubtful). But I think I’d probably see that I was being unrealistic and plain rude. I could well be stoned – or banged up by unfriendly police who might reasonably conclude I was deranged.

Being a friendly and decent society brings problems. Everyone comes to the UK because of our virtues, and then a vociferous minority abuses these virtues. Then another group of fanatics abuses us further because our society doesn’t resemble the country they left.   

What a nonsense it all is.

Antiques Road Show

I saw a Desperate Dan look alike with a shiny bald head on the weight machines at my gym. I decided to try the equipment out and made a new friend.

Henry is a delightful Pole working at BMW – it’s daft to judge by appearances – and he told me about himself.

The next time I was exercising, I saw that Henry and a friend were both staring intently at me while muttering. Later, I asked him who his friend was?

“I had to persuade him to come to a gym,” he told me. “He’s 55 and thought he was too old to exercise and would surely die. I told him that I have a friend who is ancient… and I persuaded him to come and look at you!”

The gym has a nubile recruit. Perhaps they should put me on commission?

“A robin redbreast in a cage puts all of Heaven in a rage,” wrote William Blake in 1803 in his famous “Auguries of innocence”. No one can know what he might have written in disgust at seeing dogs being walked on empty beaches or fields on leads!

Of course, dogs should be restrained near a town or a group of people, but keeping overweight dogs waddling along and restricted on leads on a permanent basis is no less than cruelty. The people who own dogs should learn how to get them to return as soon as commanded, but, for heaven’s sake, set them free to leap and dance freely for the joy of being alive.

Oh yes…On the walk, we saw a number of people walking with dogs peering out of prams! Well, I suppose it takes takes all sorts.

Rage, Rage…

Dylan Thomas was right. We should not “go gentle into that good night”.

Some care homes are excellent, and others are not. I visited Helen in hers recently. She’s a beautiful woman of great character who, with her doctor husband, carved out a magnificent life as a nurse and missionary in the Australian outback. Now widowed and in her early nineties, her energy levels may have been sapped by time, but her mind is sharp and clear.

Battery Hen

Helen told me quietly that since Henry died her will to live is faltering. “I hoped death would come easy,” she confided, “but it hasn’t!”  

There’s no real conversation in the home to stimulate her apart from workaday chit chat with Romanian carers. Someone told her “mobile phones don’t work in your room” and she accepted that as fact. Mine worked perfectly.

Because she’s a member of the church reticent, she never complains. Grey gloom hovers like a shroud.  

Government legislation allowed homes to gold-plate lockdown rules and in so doing they made darn sure that even the great escapist Houdini would be stymied. Walking up and down stairs is risky – as is doing most things – so why allow risk? Homes operate in our litigious society, and they are afraid of being sued by vengeful and greedy relatives. It’s in their interest to say as to a dog, “Sit!” – and Helen does just that.  

Helen hasn’t been on an outing for over a year. In the distant past, she used to climb in the Welsh mountains. Today her legs have atrophied and she can only just stagger to the loo. I guess the home is doing the best it can by keeping her like a battery hen on £5,000 per month until her savings are finally pecked dry. But what then? Best not to ask.

Helen might just as well be in any nick’s hospital wing and chained to a bed. Same ghastly result but at least the nick’s free. Now here’s a thought for the future… announce you are an arsonist and boom! Broadmoor hospital wing, here we come!

“Old age should burn and rage at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Best Before

I knew Clement Freud – Clay to his friends – when we were in parliament together. Did I like him? Well like is the wrong word for he was possibly an abuser, and I could see that he had something of the night about him. His humour was original, lethal, quite cruel – and relentless. When Scots-born Teddy Taylor with a broad accent was bussed in for election in Southend, Freud arranged for him to be followed by an interpreter.

Clay’s constituency included “Bury St Edmunds”. He couldn’t resist a campaign with the slogan, “Dig up St Edmunds”. When someone once suggested, “Let’s run upstairs and make love,” his repost was, “Only one of those suggestions is possible at the same time.”

His advice to the elderly who were worried about their mental health was this: “If you go into the kitchen and you can’t remember what for, don’t worry for we all do that. But if you go into the kitchen and you can’t remember what the kitchen is for, then you have a problem.” And his helpful advice to new authors? “Any fool can write a book, but it takes a genius to sell one!”

When I last lunched with him in his Marylebone flat, Clay showed me his great uncle’s election poster in a US senatorial campaign. “Bring back slavery!” it read – I think it was from 1863, in Alabama. “And he nearly won!” chortled Clay.

A while back I visited Burford Priory where Clay is buried. The gravestone reads, “Sir Clement Freud, 15 April 2009, and underneath: “Best before”.