Gone with the Wind

A better day with warm mist and easy to discern walks. We walk through the old Whaddon Chase hunting grounds: all the old bittersweet memories flood back. Too many hunting ghosts and memories soar over fences in my mind’s eye to relate here, but… it was fun being young.

Our children loved the pony club: many of today’s close friends stem from that clean and innocent time. Our horse “Prince Panache” was bred in our stables. We both hunted him for years: he was a superb ride, like a horsey Maserati, he was guaranteed never to dump us, and he would jump anything. Panache was a beautiful animal and as sleek as a seal. He won the world three-day eventing championships in Lexington, US. It was a vast privilege to have bred him and to have ridden him for so long.

Roundabout Rumours

Much of the land we rode over has been swallowed up by Milton Keynes, today a beautifully designed garden city.

The planners have planted so many trees and created so many hidden villages it’s rumoured that one day we’ll find the lost tribes of Milton Keynes. Then there was the rumour about why there are so many roundabouts: the planners started with a single sheet of paper, and then they drank tea. Each time they set down a cup, lo and behold, there was yet another roundabout.

We walk past dozens of boat owners on the canal doing nothing except lounging about. I recall the great Pope John Paul being asked by a reporter, “What would you advise Vatican workers to do at the second coming of Jesus Christ?

“I’d tell them just to try and look busy!”

Hip Hooray

All ZANE supporters who have benefited from a hip replacement like myself should kneel down with me – if they can – and thank God for a miracle. This walk has caused me far less pain than the one we did ten years ago!

More Precious Than Gold

It became clear during television interviews with many Olympic medallists that without the support of “family”, the majority could never have succeeded. It was the volunteer army of mums, dads, uncles, aunts and grandparents who spent money they could ill afford, repeatedly drove miles at dawn, and encouraged and supported athletes through both good times – and of course, the bad – that completed the winning formulas. How many thousands of other families laboured mightily but unseen for those candidates who simply failed to qualify, never mind win a medal?

The family is the greatest welfare state our country has ever known. How can its value be measured? What about the many sacrifices made, the cheering on at the rare successes, the overdrafts negotiated, the ever-ready hankies to mop up the tears of frustration, and the shoulders to sob on that comfort the many failures? What about the reassurance in both good and bad times, and of being a constantly supportive team at our backs?

Of course, not everyone enjoys the blessings of family – but those of us who do should count our blessings that our lives are marinated in unconditional love. A supportive family is more precious than any number of gold medals. And it’s wonderful so many winning Olympians recognised that their victory wasn’t theirs alone.   

It reminds me of the lines from Hilaire Beloc’s “Dedicatory Ode”.

“From quiet homes and first beginning,
Out to the undiscovered ends,
There’s nothing worth the wear of winning,
But laughter and the love of friends.”

The Thousandth Man

The old story relates that the thousandth man will be hanging up his coat to comfort you when everyone else is leaving the house. And it is one in a thousand! It’s rare. It was a staunch atheist, the great and sadly late Christopher Hitchins, who advised readers that when a friend is in trouble, don’t hesitate. Telephone immediately, go at once to see him or her. Don’t worry about what to say, your very presence will be a comfort. 

It seems that the other 999 are so fussed about whether they might do or say the wrong thing that they do bugger all. Because of fear, laziness and emotional inhibition, they fail to be loving.  

One of my senior retired friends – from the church, since you ask, which he had served relentlessly for scrag-end money for 40 years – found himself the subject of criticism for an ill-advised comment he had made in some long-forgotten report or other many years before. The roof fell in, and all the miserable and mean-minded church disciplines clicked into place!

No one bothered to consider which one of us, if all our letters and emails were to be relentlessly trawled through, would find we had never made a single foolish remark that, on reflection, we might regret?

But our church today is so obsessed with political correctness and anxiously wanting to do the right thing that humanity takes second place – if it is considered at all. My friend found his world – and this is the church that bangs on about love – had retreated to its default position of political correctness. It put in the boot and his reputation was wrecked: months later, hardly any of his friends or former colleagues had bothered to ring or visit him to see if he was okay.

The church can be a very cruel and heartless place, sometimes more concerned with being woke and seen to “do the right thing” than demonstrating forgiveness, compassion and love.

The senior clerics involved in this misery should hang their mitres in shame.  

Can’t See the Route for the Trees

Hot and hot again. Lost in the woods as usual. Our maps are dire, and we waste time. I am reminded of the eight POWs who escaped in 1944 and used a map of the route to England one of them had purloined: after they arrived in Dover after months of travelling, they discovered that their “map” was of the London tube Northern Line.

Pop Boris?

The word is out that Boris is too keen on personal popularity to be much use as a Prime Minister.

I would like to see what evidence can be presented to sustain this proposition, for from where I am sitting, indications are all the other way round.
In November 2020, he removed the whip and thereby destroyed the careers of 25 rebellious Tory MPs, including three former chancellors. He axed his one-time buddy Dominic Cummings. Now he has just increased taxes on his supporters and removed the so-called “triple lock” on pensioners’ incomes. In the main, they are the ones who vote and when they do, often vote Tory.
Funny way to win popularity!

Shades of Absurdity

Of course, I lost my sunglasses because I always lose them. Anyway, I stopped at a shop in Stratford and chose a replacement.

“How much? I asked.
“£420.00!

I left and bought a perfectly adequate pair at a chemist for £5:99!

Losing It

Don’t worry about losing things. I read somewhere that if you go into the kitchen and can’t recall why, not to worry – we all do that. But if you go into the kitchen and can’t remember what a kitchen is actually for, then you have a problem. 

I see that Apple have stopped only catering for the needs of the young (you know, the unmissable apps that facilitate having sex with strangers, looking at Chinese porn or having one’s toenails painted vermillion at midnight by a Brazilian transvestite).

Now the Apple clever clogs have designed a device for those of us of a certain age who lose things! It’s called AirTag. The technology consists of a small stainless-steel disk that you can stick in your wallet or whatever it is you worry about losing. You can ring the device by Bluetooth, and cleverly – don’t ask me the details – it will tell you where the lost item can be found. This will be a change from my having to endlessly ask Jane where I’ve left stuff. She gets fed up with it, and who can blame her? Sometimes she thinks I’m going doolally because she can see the lost item sticking out from my back pocket.  

But I’ll need a box of a dozen of the things to help me find my mobile, my car keys, my wallet, my glasses (all three pairs), my watch, my various books, my good pen, the TV remote and my walking shoes. Sometimes I need an app to tell me why I have gone upstairs, for I’m blowed if I can remember.

It’s a £29 for one AirTag and £99 for a pack of four – and just for the suspicious, no, I’m not on commission.

I hope in the future Apple will develop an invisible device to be connected to my hearing aid that can quietly tell me the name of the person I am talking to. Were they at Sandhurst or at Wycliffe, are they a major ZANE supporter, were they involved with me in Lloyd’s rows, or are they a distant cousin of Jane’s? These people always seem to know me well enough, but often I don’t have the foggiest who they are. After all, Apple can do darn near everything, so why not this?

And keeping the best for last, listen to this idea. An app called Bladder Pal has been designed to calculate the number of times you’re getting up in the night and measure it against the national average for your age and gender. Big market for this one.   

Remember you heard about it from me first!

Fake News

Emma Revie – head of the foodbank umbrella Trussell Trust – implied in a recent Guardian article that the rise in the number of foodbanks and food claimants has come about because of Boris’ Tory government and cuts to social security provision. It’s a good job Jane’s Oxford charity, CEF (Community Emergency Foodbank), never joined the Trussell Trust. I knew when we started it that as sure as you can say baked beans, Trussell would swing left – such charities always do – and start to spout drivel in our name by implying that the wicked Tory government is more or less solely responsible for the rise in the numbers of those attending foodbanks.      

All such charities end up being run by Revie types who virtue signal compassion as they spend other people’s money. I don’t mind opposing political views, but what I can’t abide is people who know better, such as Revie, writing things that she must know are patently false.  

The facts are these: in 2006/07, under Labour, Jane and I founded CEF. Since its foundation, we have supplied emergency food to more than 40,000 of Oxford’s poorest.

Foodbanks stretch right across the world from Tasmania to Los Angeles and are found in all EU countries. No government, of any political stripe, has created a benefit system that caters for the varied reasons people need foodbanks: these include alcoholism, mental illness, desertion, drugs, prison, divorce, family breakdown, loss of work, gaps in benefits, gambling and human folly.

Revie ought to be ashamed.

A better day.

Moses’ Crossing

We nearly faced a disaster. Moses faced a major road: just before I grabbed him, he darted across the road towards our excellent driver, Richard. A lorry flashed by…it missed him by an inch.

Benyon’s law of pain

It’s simple: unless you have a clinical issue – in which case go and see a doctor- most pains and ills fade with walking.

I’ve proved this on each walk. When I started this year’s walk, I had pains in my toes and discomfort high on my left arm. Rheumatism, I suspect, mixed with gout. A week into the walk, I’m a pain-free zone. Both Jane and I sleep like the dead and awake refreshed for the next adventure.

I see a friend has decided to emigrate to Greece. A visit is one thing; permanent living there is another. I reckon it is wise to grow old in your own language.

Apostrophes

“Apprentices close” is just one example of hundreds of offending street signs that upset me as I totter past. Why don’t the sign designers put in an apostrophe? Is it sheer ignorance? Or idleness? Ratepayers should rise up and march in protest!

Nice as Pie

As a member of the older generation, I wince when the phone rings and an unknown voice chirpily says, “Hello Tom!” I always presume I must know the caller and am a touch confused and irritated when I learn that he or she is in fact a complete stranger from, say, the gas board.   

Niceness is everywhere and I’m getting used to it. When someone tells me to have a “nice day” I always reply, “Thanks but I’ve made other plans”.

And my answer to the ubiquitous “Take care”? I usually go for, “No, take a risk!”   

But all these people with their cheery pleasantries are doing is trying to be instantly “nice” – and in so doing, they are seeking to cut out formality by charging straight towards informality. Today’s unease with formality is a concern not to be unfriendly pompous, frosty or old-fashioned. Is this a nice idea?  

The army knows from centuries of experience that command relationships should not be blurred. Formality is vital when orders must be instantly executed. In wartime, there is no, “Dear Freddie, old bean, please can you find the time to do X and Y”. Instead, an urgent order is issued in the clearest possible English.   

Formality is useful. When you are telling someone, “No” or when you are firing someone, it’s surely crass to end the letter with “Cheers”, “Have a good weekend” or “Lol xx”.  

In English, the gap between formality and informality is always harder to establish than say in France and in Germany where they signal grammatically whether they are being formal (vous/sie) or informal (tu/du). If we had that device in English, we would be calling everyone “du”. We are not just changing what we say to those we don’t know; we are changing the way we say it.

The thing I dislike about general “niceness” is that it’s all too easy somehow. It seeks to lazily blur the crucial divide between the mere crowd and the few who really care about us – those who, as in the words of actor Sarah Bernhardt, “know and appreciate us, who judge and absolve us and for whom we have the same affection and indulgence.”

In previous generations, before formality was stripped away, people got to know others before presuming to be informal, so friendliness was in fact of real value.

Formality is useful. It puts a bit of distance between us and the job we do, and it allows us to engage with strangers in a way that is polite without suggesting we have an affectionate relationship.  

The Great Equaliser

She sniffed in surprise when I told her I did some prison visiting. “All prisoners are losers,” she said. “I don’t know why you waste your time!”  

“It’s easier than you think to find yourself in the nick,” I replied. “Even you!”

“Nonsense.”

“What about these examples?” I asked. And I proceeded to describe three scenarios.

Say you are driving out of Oxford on a February evening. You hit a cyclist wearing dark clothes with no bike lights, and he or she dies. The cyclist was at fault for not having the proper equipment, but you were going at 34mph and not 30, or you had just made a fly call on your mobile to say you were running late. As you were breaking the law, the death is moved from being an “accident” to a criminal offence and you will probably serve a prison term.

Take number two… You have nine points on your licence, and you ask your husband to take the points for you. Something goes wrong and your harmless ploy is discovered (in one case a child told his teacher about his parent’s “game”, and she reported it!”). It’s not considered to be a harmless middle-class parlour game, but rather a case of perverting the course of justice, with at least six months inside.   

Or number three… you fiddle probate and nick the pictures from an estate. Then there is a family fall out and so to get their own back, the aggrieved person tells the police or HMRC about your harmless little plan…”

My friend quickly fell silent. 

There but for the grace of God go I.

Honours and Shame

Another roasting day and wandering around in circles. It could be worse. I might be Michael Fawcett, Chief advisor to Prince Charles. No one told Fawcett the way to extract millions from Mahfouz Mubarack in exchange for honours without breaking the 1925 Act. This act was passed to stem the gross activities of Lloyd George’s fixer called Maundy Gregory. Gregory was shame-faced in that he had a list with price tags: I recall that a knighthood cost £15k – big money in those days.

Fifteen or so years ago, Yates of the Yard carried out a full-scale police investigation into what was called then “The cash for honours” scandal into whether Labour’s fixer, Lord Levy, had broken the law in dishing out honours for party funds. I knew from the start Yates would fail because all the political parties know the ropes. What is criminal is to write to a donor: “If you give us money, we will then give you a gong or enoble you.” So what the mover and shakers do today is say to prospective donors, “Give us a generous donation and just wait and see what happens.”
No one told this to the Prince’s team, and they have apparently written a candid letter to a Saudi billionaire, Mahfouz Mubarak, setting out the deal with no finesse.

I presume poor Fawcett will join Yates of the Yard in Outer Mongolia.

The Sins of Our Fathers

Jane told me the real reason why so many of today’s uneducated clots presume to condemn past generations for their links to slavery. It comes down to a lack of forgiveness. 

To my mind, it’s bleeding obvious why the evil trade of slavery flourished all those years ago and I am sure that many of us would have supported it too back then. At that time, most thinking people believed Africans to be what the Germans labelled the Jews, the Untermensch, which translates roughly as less than fully human. Once you believe that, all sorts of inhumanity – and such a sentiment was not unknown at the time of our empire – and cruelty is bound to follow.

They further believed that slaves labouring in say, Jamaica, were bound to be better off than if they were living in Africa.

As communications were hopeless, the stories of atrocities were not widely known. Anyway, few people cared two hoots about slavery at the time. Anyone who raised the subject of banning the trade would have been met with the sort of eye rolling that Remainers used to offer Brexiteers. For commercial reasons, everyone wanted to believe the lies about the trade and so they got on with their lives. When they were faced with the tragic truth of what was going on – mainly from the Christian movement – the trade was slowly abolished. By todays’ standards, we now know that the trade was of course a manifest evil but that was then, and this is now, and surely – and this is the point – we should forgive our ancestors? However, Jane pointed out that forgiveness is a Christian concept. It is not well understood today as people are ignorant about the gospel.

Shifting Sands

Because the statue puller-downers appear to have limited imaginations, I wonder if they realise how future generations may regard some of today’s practices? Let’s take the matter of abortion, for example. Each year, over 200,000 children are aborted. That’s two million in 10 years. Few people discuss this or want to know – I cannot recall the last time I read press comments about it. I have no wish to get involved in the rights and wrongs of this subject, which of course are complex and often about the lesser of evils, except to make my point. In 200 years’ time, views are bound to have undergone radical changes. Perhaps the slaughter of the unborn may be considered to be just as wrong by our great-great grandchildren as slavery is to us today?

Then they may wonder why we allowed a few super-rich “captains of industry” to be paid 50 times more than generals and admirals, and 100 times more than head teachers?

Who knows what future generations may think of us today, but I contend that it’s the height of arrogance and ignorance for one generation to condemn an earlier one! We should forgive our ancestors in the hope that we in our turn will be forgiven by our great-grandchildren.      

Life Lessons

Poor Harry Markle will, I fear, be learning some harsh lessons.

The first is that the gilt does come off the gingerbread – and perhaps the day job wasn’t so bad after all? Second, Meghan’s blood relatives – including her father – apparently can’t stand her and they may not all be wrong. The third is that all the functionaries in Buckingham Palace claim she is a spoiled bully, and they may be right. Fourth, calling their daughter “Lilibet” might not have been such a good idea after all.

And the fifth? Forever is a long, long time.    

Counting Blessings

A day away from roads, brambles, plough and paths that lead nowhere. A day to sort out the car, get clothes cleaned and have a good night’s rest. Breakfast with younger daughter – always a joy – and lunch with her beloved sister so our cup of happiness floweth over. Kariba danced with joy when we arrived back,

There’s a lot to be said for counting one’s blessings, and this we have been doing. Our lives have been as full of snakes and ladders as most readers: so we just get on with it and turn to whatever next confronts us, as do ZANE donors.

Hearts’ Desires

Last night, more or less comatose with tiredness, we found ourselves watching a snippet of the life and loves of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. I had forgotten most of the story, and we were, at the same time, both enthralled and horrified by the saga. Taylor was married eight times, twice to Burton. Their tempestuous relationship was a never-ending battle with booze and with one another.

They were both supremely gifted with an abundance of looks, sex appeal, acting ability, and charisma. If you have never seen the film “Whose afraid of Virginia Wool” or heard Burton’s “Under Milk Wood,” then do so. They are works of genius.
But it seems that none of their Huge gifts satisfied them.
They were like comets soaring far into the night and then burning out. Burton died aged 58 of alcohol. After his death, Taylor was never happy.
The old saying: “ there’s only one thing worse than not getting your heart’s desire and that’s getting it”, has to be true.

Walking the Talk

As I’ve already mentioned, there are five subjects I choose to write about: sex, politics, religion, money and death. So, allow me to turn now to an old theme, the matter of faith…

I always thought that people who once heard the Gospel walked away because they thought it was fabricated nonsense or wishful thinking. I thought their scepticism was best answered by St Augustine or Tertullian who wrote, Credo quia absurdum – “I believe because it is absurd.” This gives a straight answer to those who think it plain daft.

Global Vision

This year marks the centenary of the birth of John Stott, one of the most influential Christians of the twentieth century. Stott was an astounding global preacher and Bible teacher. He believed that people rejected the Gospel, not because they think it false but because they think it “irrelevant”. They claim that “Christianity doesn’t listen”.

Yet the contemporary world is positively reverberating with cries of anger, frustration and pain – and all too often, we turn a deaf ear to those anguished voices. The better way is to read the gospel before we judge it ineffective.          

Stott’s concern extended beyond his tribe, theological tradition and culture. He had a global outlook and he listened to the voices in Latin America, Asia and Africa. He campaigned for climate change, the eradication of poverty and the abolition of arsenals of weapons.

He wrote, “I hope our agenda is not too narrow.” He campaigned against the “sacred secular divide”, and the idea that some parts of life – church services, praying, reading scripture – are important to God, but that everything else – work, the arts, science and sport – is secular.

Stott wrote, “We must not marginalise God or try to squeeze him from the non-religious sections of our lives.” He was committed to the “liberalisation” of the laity, recognising that while the clergy have a crucial job to do, so do solicitors, actors, social workers, scientists, journalists and homemakers.

Stott walked the talk. He didn’t presume to start “Stott’s International Ministries” and during his magnificent life there was never a whisper of impropriety. He gave his money away as he well knew that “pride is without doubt the greatest temptation for Christian leaders”.

It goes against the spirit of our age to think that anyone born 100 years ago has anything to say to today’s young and affect the culture of the moment. But Stott’s writing and vision could not be more relevant or needed by the modern age. 

Checkmate

“Daddy taught me how to play chess last week. Grandad, can we have a game?”

So trilled nine-year-old Amelie Benyon, our delightful elder granddaughter.

I set out the board and reminded Amelie of the moves each piece could make. This was taking candy from a kid! Boring really, but still – this is what grandads are for!

Three moves in and I needed a pee. When I returned, I was surprised to see Amelie with a triumphant grin. Butter wouldn’t melt. 

“Did you mean to lose your queen so early in the game?”    

I stared with horror. I had tried to check her in four moves… and failed to watch her bishop.

I tried to pretend this was all part of a clever ploy, but she wasn’t remotely fooled. She knew!  

The rest of the game was mess. By the end of the evening, Amelie had phoned her mother and father and her other grandfather to tell them in lurid detail exactly what had happened and how she, a total beginner, had hammered Grandad. 

I tried to laugh it off. Unsuccessfully. Jane roared with merriment.  

Moral: Never underestimate Amelie Benyon.

Plough of Despond

A sweaty day. Our joyful mood, stimulated last night by kind friends and a great dinner, gave way to irritation when we found our paths terminally blocked by the HS2 construction site. We zig-zagged to escape only to find the farmer had tractored the right of way into terminal extinction: we were forced to crawl across endless acres of plough, cursing farmer Giles as we staggered along. We ended the day trying to race boats beside the canal towpath – we lost.

Community Service

Jane’s Community Emergency Foodbank (CEF), which she founded in 2007, is blessed by volunteers. As I write this, Jane is trying to change the service back from delivery (we had to make the change because of COVID) to collect. Our volunteers are of all ages and pleased to make a difference to Foodbank clients who find themselves in dire need of food for all sorts of reasons. The people who help Jane do a great job. It’s interesting to see our courts dishing out “‘community service” as a punishment when Jane’s helpers find working at CEF a significant privilege!

In the same way, in my day, schools used to dish out learning poetry as a punishment. No wonder so many people loathe poetry today!

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

Imagine you are lying gravely ill in any hospital or nursing home over the past year. You are approaching the “valley of the shadow” through the effects of Covid or another illness of old age. You desperately plead to see your wife or husband of 60 years’ standing, or members of your close family – and you cannot understand why your pleas fall on deaf ears.

Or imagine you are standing at the door of any hospital or nursing home during the same period, begging to see your beloved husband or wife who you know is close to death. You are told that it may be possible – perhaps – to tap at a glass widow and wave goodbye. 

Brer Rabbit 

I am amazed that the public apparently tolerated this ghastly and inhumane treatment of the dying to happen in modern Britain. I am staggered that people didn’t take axes to beat down doors to see their close family as was their right.

Why didn’t church leaders protest on our behalf? Aren’t they meant to be the conscience of the people? Why didn’t they insist that the rules that dictated that those facing death must die alone, were barbaric and monstrous? This inhumanity was the most dreadful aspect of lockdown and should have been denounced by church leaders. For them to have remained mutely staring at their mitres was iniquitous, a gross failure of leadership and courage.

I note that some bishops – re-moaners all – protested against the alleged lies muttered by Dominic Cummings when he went on a foolish frolic to Barnard Castle. Yet they seemed strangely content to gold-plate the government’s lockdown rules – like Brer Rabbit, they said “nuffin”. What strange priorities. 

How was the monstrosity of people being forced to die alone allowed to happen? Who was really at risk? It wasn’t the patient, for they were already at death’s door through illness, often Covid-related. The visitor (I hate the world “loved one”, for it’s crass and patronising) could have been totally submerged in protective clothing so they were no more of a hazard than any other nurse or doctor. Then after the meeting, the visitor could have stripped off their protective clothing, driven home (or been driven home), then self-isolated. So, for heaven’s sake, why was the supposed risk of added contagion considered to be so acute as to justify these inhumane rules?   

And why weren’t clerical voices screaming condemnation from the church steeples? Why were there no howls of protest from the archbishop from atop Canterbury Cathedral?   

Captain Noel Chavasse VC and Bar was a non-combatant in the First World War. A medical doctor, he served in the Somme trenches as a pastor and stretcher bearer. He died of wounds aged 32 after repeatedly offering solace to soldiers dying in shell holes while under heavy fire from the enemy. Another hero was “Woodbine Willy” (Captain Studdert Kennedy MC) who risked his life so the dying and wounded shouldn’t have to face a lonely death away from the loving touch of a friend and vital spiritual solace. Many First and Second World War clergy showed fine examples of sacrifice and sheer bravery – but these were courageous and tough generations taught to live out concepts of honour, courage, duty and sacrifice set deep in their DNA. Walking the Christian talk as laid out in John 15:13 came naturally to them: “Greater love has no one than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

I suppose it’s a characteristic of our present safety-first, look-after-number-one, marshmallow-soft society that today’s church leaders choose to prattle on about Cummings’s shortcomings instead of setting examples of service and sacrifice.  

Cat Games

Readers may recall in my last commentary I wrote about my love affair with Kariba the cat. It must have struck a chord because that piece inspired more messages from readers than any other! For new readers, I wrote of how Kariba loves me more than Jane – far more, in fact. This may sound petty, but I’m afraid that’s what our marriage has been reduced to. I know Jane fancies herself as the favourite human of all animals – and that certainly includes Kariba. As far as pets are concerned, Jane regards me as an also-ran. 

After Jane read my piece, she pretended not to mind my telling you that I have usurped her as Kariba’s favourite human. But I know that privately she does care – quite a lot as it happens, far more than she wants me to know!

Now Kariba is a greedy little tabby, she does nothing all day except eat and sleep and then she starts all over again. She is always asking for more food. But she has a streak of cunning – she is adept at playing Jane and me off against each other, and she knows exactly what she is doing. I watch her as she pretends to sleep, measuring us with her slanting, green eyes, quietly assessing us before she makes her next play.  

I ignore her begging because I am sure if I give in, she’ll grow fat. But that’s not Jane’s way. In order to curry favour, I have seen her sneakily slipping Kariba the occasional “treat.”

This is where the clever part kicks in. When we are in bed, Kariba leaps up, then she gives Jane a quick purr and cuddle to thank her for the snack. Then she slithers across the bed to sit on my chest, staring deeply into my eyes.

So, despite Jane’s attempted corruption, I know that deep down in her feline heart, Kariba still loves me best.

Tee hee!         

Relationships Used to Involve Relations

I think we all regard mobile phones as an unalloyed blessing. However, I think these phones have a serious kickback from the law of unintended consequences.

When I met Jane, I determined to marry her as soon as possible. I suffered what the Italians call “colpo di fulmine”- “a stroke of lightning”. So I just knew!
When I rang Jane, I was obliged to ask for her at her parent’s home in the Scottish Borders. They were delightful…I could imagine them asking Jane if she wanted to speak to me? Amazingly she did agree – oh be still my beating heart – and so the relationship progressed for some months. At each stage, Pam and Humphry Scott Plummer knew what was going on. Soon a family party was arranged, and all the relations came to meet me and tell one another in corners as relations do: “She could have done lot better than I that!” But the family was involved.
Then, as the relationship matured, there was a wedding. When the children appeared courtesy of the stork, there were several other parties, so the family was involved in rejoicing with us.
So in sum, Jane’s family knew exactly what was going on as all my communications had to be tangled up with theirs.

Today, due to mobile phones, children can get married without the families being any the wiser. Not good for family cohesion.

Now you know.

Ooh La La!

Over the years, in response to insistent begging from ZANE supporters, I have suggested ways of invigorating your sadly sagging sex lives.

A few years back, I told readers about my unintended visit to a sex shop in Edinburgh. You may remember that out of curiosity (“I promise this was an out-of-character mistake, Officer!”), I inadvertently switched on a device called the “Magic Rabbit”. This gadget started to leap up and down and wouldn’t stop because, in my growing despair I was unable to locate the right switch. It might, for all I know, still be jumping up and down. (For readers who want a thrill, the shop sits bang next door to the highly respectable gentlemen’s New Club in Princes Street. I refuse to believe that this proximity between club and shop is a coincidence).

In another blog, I described the improbable services provided by the ghastly introductory sites “Blendr”, and “Grindr”. Good luck with that one.

My last commentary reported on an exciting find – erotic German electronic underwear. At $25 a time, what a bargain! One reader questioned me – impertinently – whether I am on commission?    

Dress to Impress

This time, heart racing, I have embarked on a brief investigation as to the choice of erotic clothing from which ZANE’s menfolk can choose a surprise gift for the Missus this Christmas.

Recently, a Californian survey (of course, it would be Californian!) of 1,451 burghers in Los Angeles revealed their top four choices of erotic clothing.

In fourth place, the “Playboy bunny” outfit, complete with bunny ears.

In third place, a police uniform, complete with handcuffs.

In joint second place, a school uniform (one in a very fetching tartan), and a fire fighter’s outfit, paired, of course, with a helmet.   

However, the winner by a country mile was the “pink peekaboo bra and crotchless thong French maid’s outfit” – for short, called “the Ooh La La”. The outfit is made of the finest crimson lace.

This last item strikes me as an appropriate gift, especially if you are still in deep mourning as an EU Remainer.

ZANE supporters! How will your jaded marriage survive without the “Ooh La La” to jazz it up?  

Remember you heard about this exciting survey from me first!  

Peace (or Piss?) for Our Time

In 1974, I contested Harold Wilson in Huyton (I lost!) 

In one of my (thinly attended) meetings, I concluded my speech by claiming that if the Tories were to be elected, we would “bring peace to the Middle East!” (It wasn’t my finest hour).

There was a dead silence before a woman at the front called out, “I live in the tower block over the road. Can you stop people pissing in my lift?”  

After moment’s careful reflection, I responded that it might prove difficult.

“Well, I don’t see you bringing peace to the Middle East then!” she heckled.

Oh, it’s a Hat!

I was amazed that the pub sign was a flag that contained quite clearly male genitalia: I was surprised because the village simply didn’t look that sort of a place! The last time I saw such a sign was in Pompeii, for brothels were the sort of thing the Romans went in for big time. Then one of the walkers spoiled my day by telling me primly that the sign was of a chef’s hat: a disappointing end to my story.

A great walk through Stratford, and we walked miles with a delightful couple called Liz and Malcolm- 150 years of marriage between us.

Brown and Clown

I dislike violent criticism aimed at senior politicians, often levied by otherwise rather quiet and gentle people. One of our walkers claimed former Prime Minister Gordon Brown to be “the most useless politician of modern times”. I pointed out that, in fact, under Blair, Brown was a first-class chancellor who kept us out of the Euro in the face of wild and continuous exhortations to join by leaders of every other political party, media pundits and the likes of the CBI. I told my friend that if he didn’t understand the implications of that stroke of genius, then he needed urgent therapy! I also told him that PM Gordon Brown and his Chancellor Alistair Darling managed to save the entire world banking system at the time of the banking crash in 2009: rather a useful thing to do!

In my view, Brown is a very great man.

I read Max Hastings describes Boris as a “clown”. I don’t know either Hastings or Johnson personally other than what I have read about them. I know Hastings to be a fine writer and journalist, and I enjoy his work. I am aware also that he has had his fair share of personal disasters and career setbacks. I wonder why he thinks he has the right to be so gratuitously offensive. Hastings’ style is patronising and disdainful, the head boy of Pop: wearing a fancy waistcoat and a sense of entitlement, scornfully dismissing inky fingered dunces like Boris of the lower fourth.

Now to Boris. I am deeply relieved Boris isn’t my son in law, but give the devil his due. He was twice mayor of Labour-dominated London. An extraordinary political feat. And when were any of us acclaimed columnists in the Telegraph?

A mere two years ago, the country was more or less ungovernable with rebelling MPs seeking to take over the levers of power in order to thwart Brexit. Whether you were a Remainer or a Brexiteer, you must surely concede that this shambles was dangerous to our democracy. We couldn’t go on as we were. Johnson threw out 25 rebels and managed to get an (admittedly pretty rotten) deal with the EU. Then he managed to get an election called – not easy when a fixed-term Parliament Act was in place. He then went on to win the general election with a generous majority. Since then, I submit he has managed COVID as well – or as poorly – as any other government anywhere as far as I can tell.

You may disagree with my list of accomplishments and think I am being wildly over-generous; that is your prerogative. But whatever you may think of Johnson or his politics, to call him a “clown” is more than absurd.

Party Time

To celebrate the easing of Covid restrictions, we decided to throw a party for friends. What a lunatic idea because of course, since it was a personal matter, I had to do the organising myself (and not make use of the excellent ZANE and CEF administration). Jane was adamant!

“You are a fool for even trying… you are a walking chaos at this sort of thing.”

I was determined to prove how wrong she was.

“Oh no, just leave it all to me.”

I booked the venue, arranged the catering, prepared lists of chums, got the invitations printed and proudly posted them myself. Then I carefully noted who was coming – and of course who could not come – on a list.   

Organised Chaos

Then, dear reader, I lost my list. It was totally gone. Zap! It was nowhere to be seen.

I informed Jane and she intoned words never before heard in our marriage. “You are total fool! I told you so. How on earth did anyone as inept as you ever manage to start up a successful business or charity? It totally defeats me!” And on it went – for some considerable time.

Then Jane announced she would handle the list side of things. So, I tried to recall who I had invited and who had replied, with both of us occasionally wondering, “Oh, not them… for goodness’ sake. She’s a drunk and he’s the biggest bore yet unhung.” (You know, the sort of remarks people make about friends when they aren’t there.) 

Two weeks later, Jane told me she had lost her list. (I promise you this really did happen!) I was surprisingly kind – taking advantage is simply not in my nature.

“Oh well, dear, we will just have to rely on our joint defective memories to work out who’s coming.”

Party With a Swing

A party at our ages! After the invitations had been sent out, I was asked by one invitee if the party was to celebrate Britain leaving the EU, while another wondered if we were in mourning for having left! I said, “no” on both counts – either reason would be plain crass, and would upset at least 50 per cent of the guests!

Another wondered what the tickets cost for it didn’t say on the invitation. That was a thought! I have never considered charging a fee for one of our parties. What a novel idea. Perhaps I might ask our grandchildren to wander round with buckets… that would really make the party go with a swing!   

Someone else asked why I was choosing to throw a party now – why not wait for a significant birthday? The answer to that is bleeding obvious – wait any longer and most of my contemporaries will be dead!

I am reminded of the party held by the redoubtable Daphne Park (Baroness Park of Monmouth), which took place in a Lord’s tearoom to celebrate her ninetieth birthday. She announced to her elderly guests, “The trouble with holding a party at my age is that all my lovers are dead!”   

There was a long silence before a shaky hand went up at the back of the room. A quavering voice called out, “No, no! Daphne, dearest – I’m still here!”

Daphne peered long and hard at him through her lorgnette before saying sternly, “Good heavens, Henry… But I thought you were dead!”  

Tub-thumping Pub

Hooray… a great pub at last. Just as well after yesterday’s ill-tempered rant at down at heel pubs with which the UK is infested. We lunched at “The Bridge” at Bidford-on-Avon. This pub is excellent. . The staff seem genuinely pleased to see us. It’s clear someone had taken trouble with the decor -,and a first-class menu. It was, of course, crowded as quality always attracts customers, so we lunched in style. Two friends walked with us.

Discussing Death

We discussed “living wills” … no small talk this time. We agreed we find “assisted dying “distasteful. Who is to stop us from refusing, say, chemotherapy after a certain age if we so wish?

Two friends have died in the last few months. In each case, the funeral was limited to “close family only.” Sad that! Jane and I are thereby denied the chance to roar out a few hymns, shed a tear, and say a fond farewell to our old mate. Surely simple ceremonies serve a vital social function punctuating key occasions in our lives – births, marriages and deaths. They are important because they are the glue that keeps our communities together, and they remind us powerfully that we all need each other.

A family I know faced the tragic death of a daughter who was crushed in a riding accident. She had massive head injuries. She was on life support for a month: then, the family met to decide whether or not to turn off the life support system. The family of nine all voted to turn off the machine, bar one. The mother tearfully begged to allow one more week. On the fourth day, the daughter opened her eyes…the next day, she was reading normally. Today she is back on a horse. No one in the family has told her the detail of the family conference!

You can hardly blame them.

The Mystery of Faith

I wonder if you know of American poet Don Marquis and the toad “Warty Bliggens”?

Warty is convinced that the world was created especially for him. We are told that the sun was made “to give him light by day”, and the moon and wheeling constellations designed “to make beautiful the night for the sake of Warty Bliggens”.

The poem ends with Warty being asked, “to what act of yours do you impute this interest on the part of the creator of the universe? Why is it that you are so greatly favoured?”

“Ask rather,” replies Warty “what the universe has done to deserve me.”

I know lots of self-centred folk just like Warty Bliggens. If people regard themselves as being at the centre of the universe, what’s the point of church? To the likes of Warty, church is an irrelevance. Sad that, for time marches on and it’s later than you might think…

A Sense of Awe

So why do I go to church?

It’s precisely because I don’t see myself as Warty Bliggens. Far from being at the centre of the universe, I am hanging on at the edge and my knuckles are white – so give me the drama of a high church service to whisk me away from tedious reality. I favour a style of service far removed from my day-to-day existence. I like the soft-coloured light that slants through stained-glass windows, rich robes, singing that soars to the roof, and the spectacle of the solemn procession where clerics solemnly carry crosses and Bibles. I like the mystery of it all – the choir, a cleric expounding something wonderful (no jokes for it’s too serious for that, and anyway, vicar jokes are never funny) and a transcendent sense of awe. 

I don’t expect something profound to happen every time I go to church because I rarely have an illuminating revelation. Nor do I think being distracted matters much for the service will happen anyway. I need somewhere calm, and I want to be taken out of myself and away from my absurd worries. My preoccupations don’t matter. What’s important is being somewhere where people throughout the ages have said prayers of joy and thanksgiving or expressed remorse and guilt. This is where prayers are valid.

I relish the ancient ritual, the handing out of bits of paper, the singing with others, the standing up and kneeling down, the offering of peace to people you have never met before, the democracy of the queue for communion. I repeat words I did not compose, and only ever say in church.

None of us are expected to do anything, nor do our opinions matter much, if at all. The words were all agreed by clerics long since and the poetry has been repeated endlessly throughout the ages.

Calm in a Storm

The mystery of faith reminds me to forgive others, however difficult that may be, and I am commanded to love others whether I feel like it or not. I am told of the promise of life after death. I listen once again to the stories I have heard so many times before – to the radical absurdity of the Gospel where my world is turned upside down, where the rich and powerful stand little chance of entering heaven, where the winners are losers, and the losers – the hopeless and weak, people like me – are, miraculously, the favoured ones. I am reminded of the place just over the horizon where injustices, small as well as monstrous, can be reconciled.

Whatever my mood, the service calms my chaotic soul, and it calms others as well. It’s the routine of little acts, the repetition of the same words that bring a comforting harmony. The service interrupts my deadly doing. It makes politics less cruel and less relevant because I am reminded that deep in the root of my being is the knowledge that the ultimate questions that face us all, the ones that really matter, can never be resolved on Earth and it’s plain stupid to even try.      

These are some of the reasons why I go to church. So sad for those who don’t. 

Pub Grub Grumble

Another lunch in yet what sadly turned out to be yet another bog-standard pub. It was sited by a river with all the natural romance of Wind in the Willows: you could imagine mole and ratty rowing lazily by on their way to their famous picnic. Anyone with even the beginnings of design sense – any sense – could have made the interior far more interesting than it turned out to be. Instead, we had the same old swirly carpet that makes your eyes water, and the rest of the decor was like a down market old persons home in Scunthorpe.

To get over the national shortage of cooks, today’s pub food appears to be manufactured in a vast shed somewhere in the UK North and thence delivered weekly to pubs. Therefore, pub cooking is reduced to waiters shoving frozen food into a microwave and banging it on tables. Complaints are pointless: any shortcomings are the fault of COVID. So Pub menus are the same everywhere. The waiters are masked with muffled voices so that no one can understand a word.

We walk towards Evesham. The town is doughnutted by estates of new-build. Despite the fact all these new houses are tiny and exactly the same, they are overhyped as “stunning”: the estates are called grand names like “Simon De Montford Estate” that fools no one.

Evesham smells of poverty and is suffering the collapse of retail chains: empty shops that will probably end up filled with charity shops scar the High street.

A great deal of political capital is being spent on the so-called “red wall” constituencies that turned Tory at the last election. We are told a great deal of money will be spent to “level” them with the richer south of England. I wonder how the voters of the likes of Evesham will feel about this promise at the next election.

A New Jerusalem 

How sad to see the Labour Party in steady decline, for all governments need vigorous opposition.

I suspect there is little chance that Labour will form a future government. This is in part because it has lost nearly all its Scottish seats to the SNP – and to be blunt, without them, that’s it. It’s an irony that Blair, who had so many gifts, was the agent of his party’s destruction – it was his government that introduced devolution and created Sturgeon. It’s the law of unintended consequences biting viciously.

Labour’s forlorn election tally is lose, lose, lose, lose, Blair, Blair, Blair, lose, lose, lose, lose. And there is no return to the Blair years. Though there are plenty of voters who loathe Boris and all he stands for, many are now totally opposed to Labour. Meanwhile, the Liberals are often seen as sitting to the left of old Labour. Sadly, Labour will produce another lefty who will fail yet again. What can be done?

Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Man – or Woman!

I believe that somewhere, in a school or college perhaps, a bright, young person has the Mandela, Obama, Clinton, Blair, Thatcher and Boris qualities needed to form and lead a new centrist party (not easy in our first-past-the-post system). Perhaps this individual hasn’t even been born yet, but when he or she arrives on the political stage, they will understand that many voters aren’t instinctively Liberal but right of centre. They will see that such voters intuitively distrust those who tarnish British history or who spend their time indulging in national flagellation and running down our heritage – and that in the broad sweep of things, Britain has been a force for good in the world.

This new leader will distrust those who bang on about “my truth versus your truth” vapidity (dear old Meghan) that is endemic amongst Labour’s youth wing and the default position of many universities. This is the idea that “lived experience” counts for more than objective reality.

They will understand that many voters distrust “cancel culture”, whereby people of opposing views are denied a platform. Such voters do not believe that culture wars should be all-or-nothing fights to the death, and nor do they agree that people with opposing views must be destroyed. Most want to eradicate racism and other forms of discrimination, but calmly please – they are unimpressed with people who “take the knee’ and they distrust change that is brought about by hatred and confrontation. Instead, they believe in the nation state and look for a feeling of national solidarity. They seek controlled borders, pride in Britain and free market economics.

Cometh the need, cometh the talent! We need a fresh young leader with foresight and brains – someone with a stout heart and a short sword.

I forecast that he or she would in time sweep the pool. All today’s political parties should beware. This new party would change the face of Britain!

The Man’s Not for Turning…

“Darling! You have to turn round. Now!”

Please note the way she weaponizes the word “Darling!” so it crunches my skull like a sledgehammer. 

So commanded General Jane after a lunch near Watford.  

“Why”?

“My satnav says there are crashes on the M4… If we continue on this route, it will take us five hours to get home instead of 40 minutes!”

Readers of my past blogs may recall that one of my beloved’s little endearing ways is to double-guess the car satnav with two competing satnavs and sometimes a map. Then she argues with them all.

Something about it all emboldened me to ignore Jane, so I drove on trusting my instincts and praying.

She repeated her instructions rather like Montgomery before the Battle of Alamein.

I ignored her and kept praying.  

Suddenly the traffic melted. We soared along the empty road and then onto the uncluttered M4.     

There was a sulky silence from the passenger seat. “I have to admit,” she eventually conceded, “that I inadvertently clicked a bike timing on the satnav.”

I promised to say nothing.