A long walk in a hot sun. Is there a bush or a hedge in Kent that is not nursing a rotting fast food container or an old beer can? All to the shame of the Kent local authority.

Rayner Clouds

“High flying adored”. Am I the only Tory sad to see the end of Angela Rayner – Labour’s Evita? I know she is getting what she asked for, and she is a hypocrite and all the rest. But… she added a touch of “chutzpah” and glamour to a boring collection of grey-suits on all sides of the Commons. So I, for one, am sorry to see her go in such a devastatingly final way, for, as I see it, there is unlikely to be a path back.

And I hate all the lip-smacking glee at her downfall. What a horrid profession.

The Right to Be Wrong

ZANE supporters congratulate me on my “bravery” in writing about subjects they have been bullied into thinking are somehow “off limits”.

A new consensus appears to have emerged: truth is no longer a process of collective discovery, but an orthodoxy known to only a few enlightened people whose job it is to inform everyone else. A few examples: “Trump is a unique danger to the world”; “Out of the EU, the UK is bound to fail”; and “Israel is always in the wrong”. 

Over a long life, I have concluded that just because an opinion is widely held is no evidence whatsoever that it is not utterly absurd – in fact, in view of the silliness of most of mankind, a widespread belief is more likely to be foolish than sensible. To quote Ibsen, “The majority is always wrong.” 

Unfiltered Thoughts

We should all be allowed to express our opinions on anything we like – so let me parade a few. Former US Marine Michael Hopf wrote, “Hard times create strong men, strong men create good times; good times create weak men, and weak men create hard times.” Do you agree? In England, “mentally challenged” people are required to signal their disability by wearing a baseball cap back to front. What do you think of that? And the world is egg-shaped (it is slightly, so there!)

And now to the more contentious:

– Hunting foxes is huge and harmless fun, and the ban was a mean-spirited abomination to pay back the Tories for the closing of the coal mines. The new laws led to the collapse of valuable countryside communities, and many good people had their lives devastated. Certainly, the ban was not for the benefit of foxes, who are today shot or often cruelly wounded or poisoned.

– New cars are a scam. 

– England should be applauded for abolishing slavery.

– Labour will soon run out of other people’s money.

– Flanders and Swann understated things when they sang, “England is best, England is best, I couldn’t give tuppence for all of the rest.”    

If you don’t agree with some (or any) of these views – which is your right – then perhaps they may persuade you to re-evaluate your own. What’s shocking, at least in the Anglosphere, is the shutting down of our ability to say anything that does not agree with the received opinion of the Blob (the people at – among others – the BBC, the Guardian, the New York Times, the Financial Times, CNN, Oxbridge and Harvard).

I quote the late, great Christopher Hitchens: “My own opinion is enough for me, and I claim the right to have it defended against any consensus, any majority, anywhere, any place, any time. And anyone who disagrees with this can pick a number, get in line and kiss my ass.”

Ol’ Man River

Some of our beloved friends are gravely ill, perhaps dying. We try to send messages that are a comfort and not mere clichés – but when the world suddenly turns upside down on a sixpence, the shock can be profound. Yet the roaring world hardly notices, and like Ol’ Man River, it just keeps rolling along.

I read a heartfelt comment on a memorial sheet, “To the world he was just a man; to me he was the world.” 

Then we read of the preoccupation that others feel when someone they don’t know well suffers or dies.

In his poem “Musée des Beaux Arts”, WH Auden writes of Icarus after his wax wings melt:

“…and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen

Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,

Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.”

Then comes grief. In the TV series The Crown, Prince Philip speaks of the loss of his sister in a plane crash: “I learnt then what grief was. True grief. How it moves in the body, how it inhabits it. How it becomes part of your skin, your cells. And it makes a home there, a permanent home, but you learn to live with it… And you will be happy again but never in the same way as before. That’s the point – to keep finding new ways.”

The Best Things in Life

Still, amid the indifferent rhythm of the world, there are plenty of moments that pierce the grey. Here’s a personal list:

• The scan that says “clear”.
• Winter sunshine through a lifting mist.
• Sitting next to a log fire, listening to the teeming rain outside.
• Being with the family.
• Watching Jane asleep.
• Kariba the cat waking me up by headbutting.
• Listening to the massed pipes and drums of the Highland Brigade.
• Attending a play where our grandchildren are performing.
• Watching our children taking church services.
• A meal with friends.
• Most Shakespeare plays at Stratford.
• A dozen oysters, Worcester sauce and lemon.
• Doing anything with the family.
• The smell of wet dogs and horses.
• The poems of, WH Auden, WB Yeats, Edna St Vincent Millay, TS Eliot and a few others.
• Verdi operas.
• The ballet Giselle.
• Reading the Spectator.
• Realising how lucky we are.

We left Gillingham and ended up in the village of Upchurch., The weather was a mix of violent rain and blue skies. But it was a good walk with lunch in The Crown and tended by delightful Cheryl with a megawatt smile and a bubbling personality to match.

Compassionate Clarification

I read in The times yet another Bishop is berating Farage for not being “compassionate” in his views on immigration.

“Compassionate “ is an overworked word. There is no such thing as a ‘compassionate” politician when he or she is performing his or her public role. Anyone can be “compassionate” spraying around other people’s money. Let me explain further. The Good Samaritan was being compassionate when he assisted the traveller beaten by robbers, for that was his private initiative out of the goodness of his heart. However if Caesar had decreed that the Samaritan should help him and paid him to do so, then the man was merely doing his job. It’s not Farage’s job – or that of any politician – to be “compassionate”. Their job is to win votes and get elected.

And bishops would be wise to steer clear of emotive topics for they are vastly complex.

For example, what may be compassionate to the immigrant in providing them with a house may well infuriate the UK taxpayer, who not only has to pick up the bill but also finds that there are insufficient houses left for them and their family. It’s a question that needs an answer: Do politicians assist immigrants first or the UK voters who put them in office?

It’s the politicians who have to grapple with this, not the bishops.

First-World Whinging

Dear ZANE supporter, aren’t we a lucky lot?  Yes, I know all about the cost of living, the awfulness of the present government, illegal immigrants, the difficulties facing the wife and kids, and our inability to get an Uber on a rainy day.

But we must count our blessings… Look around, and you’ll see some of the luckiest people in the world, living their best lives in a stable country. The reason immigrants are streaming into the UK is because they reckon it’s the place to be. None of us are short of food, healthcare or housing. None of our young have been corralled into uniform and sent off to war to kill strangers – like our grandparents were.

Most of us have enough money, and can go where we like, when we like. We can take nice holidays, have access to lifesaving medicines and live in pleasant enough places. Our courts are fair, and we have freedom of speech – and where this is in question, we can campaign without fear of imprisonment. Our political system is not corrupt, and our police do not shoot first and ask questions second or torture us. The rubbish is collected, and houses are being built.

Lighten Up

I visited my grandfather’s grave the other day – he died of a ruptured appendix in 1893. That night, I dreamt he asked me, “How is life today?” I told him we haven’t had a world war in my lifetime – and about the relief of poverty, our present social services, universal pensions, the NHS and much more.   

The old ghost sighed. “What lucky sods you all are, Tom!” he said quietly. “I doubt that anyone has ever had it as good as you do. How happy everyone must be!”

I laughed until tears poured down my face. “Happy? People do nothing but complain. They read the papers, watch TV and look at social media – and they find themselves submerged in a bog of misery, victimhood and “Oooh, isn’t it all awful!”

Dear friends. Lighten up, look around and have a laugh. Get a sense of proportion, read some history books and remember our bloody past. Be thankful you’re living in 2025 with up-to-date dentistry and hip replacement surgery.

Nothing matters very much, and most things don’t matter at all. I’ve learnt not to worry about things when I can’t affect the outcome. Nothing I can do will make the slightest difference to Israel, Netanyahu, Trump or even Starmer (until the next election, that is).

I expect the same applies to you but take a moment to reflect on your life over the past year and take a view of the outlook for the coming one. (Of course, I know some of you are facing real tragedy, and I send you a bear hug of sympathy.)

Delete Facebook and use both the Telegraph and the Guardian as cat litter. Deal?

Woozle

We assume, as a democracy, that our voters are intelligent – and that this collective wisdom will produce fairer laws than those inflicted on societies by dictators. However, Churchill disagreed, remarking, “The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter.”

I have fought five elections – and even won some of them. Yet when I look back, it isn’t the rigours of intellectual debate that come to mind, but rather the story of the Woozle. Do you remember it? Winnie the Pooh was walking in the snow when he noticed tracks behind him. He grew fearful and became convinced he was being stalked by a Woozle. Soon, another set of tracks appeared and then there were two Woozles!

Of course, Christopher Robin spoiled things by pointing out Pooh was walking in circles. 

Round and round the government goes – and voters whirl in tandem.

Debt and Denial

When sober, former European Commission President Jean-Claude Juncker once quipped, “We all know what to do to balance the nation’s books. The problem is that if we do it, we won’t get re-elected.”

This is why the manifestos at the last election were pure Woozle. We’ve run out of money and we’re deep in hock. Soon we’ll be unable to borrow money at any price. Already, our debt interest outstrips spending on defence and education. The lenders are watching.

Recall Greece and its debt crisis – the poorest were hit the hardest. Joblessness and despair soared, while the rich – as they always do – kept on building swimming pools. That’s what awaits us here. Instead of levelling with voters and launching a national survival campaign, what do our gutless governments offer voters? A quadruple lock for pensioners, no material cutbacks on ballooning social spending, fuel subsidies, and tax hikes on the wealthiest – who then bugger off out of the country.

The truth is voters don’t want reality. Politicians pretend that fairies lurk at the bottom of the garden, that there’s such thing as a bargain and that two and two can make five. Our baby voters demand more services yet lower taxes; more homes but not near them; cheap care homes but no more low-skilled immigration; new infrastructure but with their rights of veto intact.

As the promises inevitably fail, leaders come and go in quick succession: Cameron, May, Johnson, Truss, Sunak, Starmer – here today and gone tomorrow. Others will follow and they too will fail to deliver. No one dares to explain to voters that the promises were always risible and that by voting for dummies, they have made themselves the authors of their own betrayal.

A poem by Stephen Crane:

“I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
‘It is futile,’ I said,
‘You can never –’
‘You lie,’ he cried,
And ran on.”

Where is today’s Christopher Robin? When it all finally unravels, it’ll be our turn to cry as we flee. And we will comfort ourselves with the excuse that no one ever warned us about the Woozle.

Playing the Long Game

When Pierre Monteux was appointed principal conductor of the London Symphony Orchestra at the age of 86, he insisted on a 25 year contract – with an option to renew at the end!

All the rain that failed to fall in the summer was blown on us in a series of gales. .
The tiny path led us by the side of where the Medway meets the Thames, and where both rivers meet the mud. The rain acted like a scattering of Vaseline on the cobbles so it was slow and tedious going.

Rochester is a beautiful city, yet the local authority should be ashamed that the roads are smothered in  a veneer of beer cans and litter: this ancient city needs a good scrub.  We walked  through Gillingham and in a suburb we discovered a street with a monopoly of Lebanese, Turkish, and Nigerian shops and full of what Starmer calls “strangers”. Jane and I rather liked it. Sad so many shops are shut and there are  so many nail bars and “casinos”;  the late cabinet minister (under Blair), Tessa Jowell,  had to admit that loosening the “gaming” laws was a catastrophe. The fact the UK is a world gambling centre is shaming with vast quantities of social security cash wickedly sucked from the pockets if those least able to pay.

One day our blinkers will fall away and we will decide that we really cannot go on allowing ghastly cars to pollute our country. They clog up our roads. The only vehicle I admire is a car crusher.

Bring It On!

If I call for an end to asylum, am I immediately condemned as a far-right bigot? If so, too bad. Bring it on!

We can no longer afford to allow absolutely anybody claiming persecution to enter the UK. Why are we granting all foreigners, often with manufactured sob stories, access to our expensive judicial, welfare and healthcare systems? These strangers have never contributed tuppence – and may never do so. For the developing world, the offer of such refuge is irresistible. For us, the poor sodding taxpayers, it’s simply ruinous.

Years ago, it was a wonderful idea that anyone facing persecution could find a safe haven. But that was then, and this is now – the past is a foreign country, and they do things differently there. Today, the system is riddled with corruption and has become a playbook for dodgy lawyers. All too often, those claiming “credible fear” of political persecution are economic migrants coached by smugglers or half-witted aid workers on what to tell the authorities to game the rules. As a result, we see mosques full of Muslims who’ve ostensibly converted to Christianity; platoons of young men from socially conservative countries who claim to be gay; and boatloads of heavily bearded men presenting themselves as teenagers.

Why do we remain committed to this farce? Why should the UK abdicate control over its borders? We see the effects of this in the courts. A Gazan family of six gained entry using rules designed to shelter Ukrainians. A Pakistani man imprisoned for rape was allowed to remain in the UK because deportation would be hard on his children – whom he’s forbidden to see without supervision since he’s a paedophile. A Nigerian woman, denied asylum nine times in a row, eventually won her case. Fancy! Nine attempts, all at our expense! How much did that nonsense cost?

Today, migrants in Scunthorpe email their chums in war-torn Congo about the lovely free hotel they’re living in courtesy of the Home Office. Can we really be surprised that people use small boats to get here? After we scrap this daft system, we can choose who is invited to live here. But perhaps countries like the UK – which saw its foreign-born population rise from nearly zero to 20 per cent in 20 years – could be seen as having already done their part. Droves of poorly educated, low-skilled arrivals are diluting social cohesion, increasing criminality, depressing GDP per capita and costing UK taxpayers hundreds of thousands of pounds each over their lifetimes. The government wants to be seen as nice and generous. Well, why can’t it be nice and generous to those of us who already live here – and who are obliged to pay the bills?

Thumb in Bum, Mind in Neutral

I never cease to wonder why so many people go to church. Since you ask, what do I mean?

Recently, at a local church, I heard a truly remarkable sermon. It was a summary of the reasons why we should believe in the resurrection – a key issue, of course, for if the resurrection didn’t occur, our faith collapses into candy floss thinking. The preacher was excellent, blending stories and humour – one of those rare speakers you absolutely must listen to. As ZANE supporters are aware, most preachers are dire, banging on about climate change, the dreadful State of Israel, foodbanks, slavery or some such tosh. So, last Sunday was an electric occasion, powerful and relevant. 

Afterwards, the congregation met for coffee and not a single person commented – not one. This must be heartbreaking for vicars. Preach your heart out, and week after week, all you get are blank, bovine faces staring back at you – without even the faintest glimmer of comprehension or interest!

I think that if Jesus appeared in person and gave the original rendering of the Sermon on the Mount, people would still just sit there wondering what’s for lunch.

Bright sunny morning, birds chirping, alls well with the world, we feel fine; the walk is going well…

We asked our walk creators to ensure we have no hills, no plough, and please no frightening roads…. and Bingo! Is this a hill? , No it can’t be, yes it darn well is, quite the longest hill we have staggered up in years…

Then a series of small, narrow,  winding roads; what do we do? All that has to happen is a genial half-wit to half glance at his messages as he or she zooms along and it’s good night, sweet Prince for us. Then through the gate and what do we see?  So we stagger swearing through miles of bloody plough. The triple whammy. Grrr!

However, the rest of the walk went well and I am in a forgiving vein.

A Little About Me

1. What is your idea of earthly happiness?

To love and be loved.

2. What are your main faults?

 Those that dictate my most urgent material needs.

3. Who are your heroes of fiction?

Horatio Hornblower; Flashman; Jeeves; Jean Valjean (Les Misérables); the King’s General (in du Maurier’s novel); Bathsheba Everdene; Richard Sharpe (particularly at Waterloo); Blaise Meredith (the priest in Morris West’s The Devil’s Advocate).

4. Who are your heroes of history?

First Division: General Sir Harry Smith and his wife Juana María de Los Dolores de León Smith (Peninsular War – google them); Thomas Paine; Socrates; Lord Cochrane; Stonewall Jackson; Ulysses S. Grant (commanding general and US president); Lawrence of Arabia; Rev. John Newton (former slaver, who wrote “Amazing Grace”); Blaise Pascal; William Wallace; Joan of Arc; Norman Tebbit.

Second Division:  John Masters DSO, OBE (soldier and novelist); George MacDonald Fraser OBE (soldier and author of Flashman amongst others); Frederic Manning (soldier and author of the Middle Parts of Fortune).

5. Which people have influenced you most (other than parents)?

Nancy Walters, Kwaku Boateng, Prebendary John Collins, Canon David MacInnes, James Pringle

6. Who are your favourite painters?

Caravaggio; Lucian Freud; Turner.

7. What are your most valued qualities in men and women?

Sense of humour; courage, moral and physical; sense of the absurd; kindness towards others in trouble.

8. What are you most proud of?

A long and loving marriage; passing out of RM Sandhurst; leading the revolt at Lloyd’s of London; the horse Jane and I bred, Prince Panache, winning the Rolex Kentucky Three-Day Event, one of the world’s most prestigious events in the sport of eventing; establishing ZANE and a medical programme for veterans and pensioners; the happy marriages of our children; all our 11 grandchildren; the ordination of three of our children; the establishment of Jane’s Community Emergency Foodbank (CEF); our many cherished friends.

9. Who would you most like to have dinner with?

Saint Peter; Oscar Wilde; Cicero; Prometheus; Robert Burns; Oskar Schindler; Anne Boleyn; Lord Cochrane; Thomas Paine; Bill Clinton; Enoch Powell and Tony Benn (who were friends with each other).

10. What are your most valued qualities in friends?

Their continued existence – and their continued affection towards me.            

11. What are your greatest fears?

 Mental incapacity affecting both Jane and me; loss of love from family; loss of sense of humour.

12. Which public figures do you most despise?

Tony Blair; Robert Maxwell; Nicola Sturgeon; Ted Heath; Ed Miliband; Vladimir Putin; Eamon de Valera.

13. Which public figures do you most admire?

Oliver Cromwell; Golda Meir; Alexei Navalny; Volodymyr Zelensky; Vera Brittain; Lord Denning; Cardinal Basil Hume; Gordon Wilson (Irish draper who publicly forgave the IRA for killing his daughter); WW2 fighter pilots; WW2 naval Arctic convoy commanders; men who gave up their lifeboat seats to women and children on the Titanic; Father Maximilian Kolbe (priest at Auschwitz who sacrificed his life for another prisoner); Chidiock Tichborne (who wrote a famous poem before his execution); First World War poets Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon; Jane Austen; Kate Muir.

14. Who are your favourite poets?

ASJ Tessimond; Francis Thompson; Wilfred Owen; Robert Frost; Edna St. Vincent Millay; Wendy Cope; WH Auden; WB Yeats; TS Eliot.

15. What is your favourite poem?

“Stop all the Clocks” by WH Auden. The poems that make me cry (I have no real idea why) are “Uxbridge Road” by Evelyn Underhill, and “After Apple-Picking” and “The Death of the Hired Man” by Robert Frost.

16. What are your favourite books?

The Pensées by Pascal; A History of Napoleon’s Italian Campaign; The Stars Look Down by AJ Cronin; The Loving Spirit by Daphne du Maurier (in fact anything by her); White Fang by Jack London; The Story of the Treasure Seekers by E Nesbit.

17. What book are you presently reading?

Like the Roman: The Life of Enoch Powell by Simon Heffer.

18. What book are you ashamed not to have read?

The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot.

19. What is your favourite play?

Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller; An Inspector Calls by JB Priestley; The Winslow Boy and The Browning Version by Terence Rattigan.

20. What are your favourite films?

The Magnificent Seven; Cinema Paradiso; Jean de Florette and its sequel Manon des Sources; Il Postino; Love Story; Schindler’s List; The Night Porter; Blow-Up; The Cruel Sea; Brief Encounter; A Man for All Seasons. 

21. What is the last film that made you cry?

Love Story.

22. What is your favourite TV box set?

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh and adapted by John Mortimer.

23. What are your favourite pieces of music?

“Rigoletto” by Verdi and anything by Schubert, while Rachmaninoff’s “Third Piano Concerto” is the music that most cheers me up. At the gym, I listen to Dusty Springfield’s top hits, ABBA and Elton John.

24. What instrument do you wish you could play?

The piano.

25. If you could own one picture, what would it be?

The Penitent Peter by Guercino (hanging in the Scottish Academy).

26. What are your favourite names?

For women: Cressida; Antonia; Clementine; Cassandra.

For men: Oliver; Joseph; David; Raphael.

27. What gifts do you not possess?

Languages; an eye for a ball.

28. Where do you feel happiest?

In bed with Jane.

29. How would you like to die?

In control of my senses and surrounded by those who love me.

A staccato start in Gravesend as we wound our way out of the town. Heavy showers were punctuated  by an African sun so we dried quickly enough . We walked along miles of Thames Estuary,  in the past swarming with ships, today but a sad ship’s graveyard. Just imagine Turner’s tragic “The Fighting Temeraire”, being towed to the breaker’s yard by that smokey tug. We walked through acres of lumpy tundra: next Thursday we are told it’s a rifle range for the London Met. We won’t hang around.

I reflected on the joy generated last weekend when all 21 of the Benyon/ Hayns/ Sinclair  family, gathered in Bladon and in daughter Clare’s ancient Rectory in Iffley and Rosehill in Oxford. The family is so precious. A party of talk, games, even prayer and huge fun. What a privilege they all wanted to come.

So Long, Dear Friend

It would be remiss of me not to pay a tribute to cartoonist, Tony Husband, who died on Westminster Bridge in 2023. Tony enhanced ZANE’s work with great skill. He was a pleasure to work with. Tony was on top of his profession. We were lucky he agreed to work with us. He will be much missed. RIP.

We are fortunate in attracting the excellent Lee Fearnly as our new cartoonist.

The Art of Saying Goodbye

When our beloved daughter Clare left her role as Chaplain at Christ Church, I commented to a friend that one of the things I missed was the occasional parking spot in the heart of Oxford. 

“Of course,” he responded. “Life’s a series of getting things, then having to give them up!”

That observation triggered a memory from half a lifetime ago when I read The Road Less Travelled. The author, US psychiatrist Scott Peck, wrote about several things we must relinquish as we grow older. For starters, the follies of youth; and then, if we marry and truly grasp the soul-searing vows (not mere promises), we must give up much of our former independence. If we are granted children, we inevitably lose much of our social freedom, and because the ball of life bounces forwards, we must then let go of our children as they grow, forge their own paths, build relationships and love others. As we age, our looks – such as they ever were – wither with the passing years, and our sporting abilities abandon us. If I were to collapse whilst skiing now, I’d be unable to rise unaided – beached like a porpoise!

My shooting friends tell me that if balance falters, that’s it (on grounds of safety), while some of my golfing friends, pinched with arthritis, have had to give up the game altogether. We watch aghast as our work – surely, we were indispensable? – is taken up by the young and our “legacy” (if we ever had one) is shredded (just read Shelley’s “Ozymandias”). Speechless, we look on as debilitating illness or death fells our beloved friends and family, and finally, we begin to lose our health – and then, life itself.

And oh yes, I nearly forgot. Our society is marinated in sex, and for much of my life, I’ve felt as though I were handcuffed to a gibbering lunatic. Now the benign God has cast him into a deep cellar, from where, now and then, I still hear the echoes of his obscene yelling. But the days of early to bed and up with the cock are long gone. I’m resigned to the fact (relieved, even?) that the days of wine and roses are more or less over.

Life’s mighty tough and the adventure is best summed up by Churchill (you can see the quote in my last Christmas poetry book, page 6): “The journey has been well worth making – once.”       

The Great Escape

Some years ago, Jane and I moved from a much-loved house to a smaller one outside Oxford. We gave away many of our possessions – this reflects how we’ve changed as people. It’s not just that the children have left home, our outlook has changed too. What we want today differs from what we wanted in the early days of our marriage. Gone is the insistent need to be successful, make a fortune or be endlessly social. Now, less burdened by anxieties and responsibilities, we think of what makes us happy – relationships rather than grabbing things and parading status – and we buy less stuff. The idea of buying a new car to demonstrate our standing in society is risible (heck, it always was daft).

Our ability to ride horses has gone with the wind. And although I miss it keenly (though not the bills!), the fact that hunting – ­even trail hunting ­– is now illegal (mean-spirited and absurd) has made the choice rather easier. Perhaps visiting many of our paraplegic friends – and two tetraplegic ones, both now thankfully dead – helped us hang up our saddles, for it’s a mighty dangerous sport. So, some time ago, we disposed of our vast quantity of hunting gear – it was gutting.

Today, we busy ourselves with small, unimportant day-to-day things – family matters – but we try to do them well. 

Will our children really want my father’s pre-war diaries, his old papers and newspaper clips from India, his silver pots and ash trays, and his lamp too dim to read by? It’s a ridiculous trip down memory lane, misled by nostalgia and without purpose. And what will our children do with my army commission, or the certificate showing I passed an exam in theology? Or that piece of paper proving I jumped from an aeroplane 40 years ago? Are all these things some sort of defence against meaninglessness, proof to convince someone – who? – that Jane and I and our parents had a past? These scraps are a museum of our past lives, only dimly relevant to Jane and me – and wholly valueless to anyone else.   

We surround ourselves with briefly fashionable possessions and oppress ourselves by hanging onto them far longer than necessary. Then we burden our children with the miserable task of disposing of them.

Best deal with the clutter now. Brace yourself – what’s the address of the nearest tip?

I reckon the reason ZANE supporters give so generously is that, when they read the walk solicitation over breakfast, they say, “For goodness’ sake, not again. Surely, they’re too darn decrepit to be doing another walk! I suppose we’d better sponsor them – next year, they’re bound to be dead… Now, where’s the cheque book?”

So, lo and behold, here we are once more – asking you, please, to sponsor us again…

Cicero Says…

In 44 bc, the great Roman orator Cicero wrote an essay called Old Age to reassure his chum Attica that retirement and growing old were nothing to fear. He praised exercise, gardening, lively conversation, friendship and a good diet. Thanks Cicero – we tick all those boxes.

Two thousand years on, those over 70 are in better shape than ever. A recent International Monetary Fund report, analysing data from 41 countries, found that a widespread healthier approach to ageing means that the seventies and eighties are the new fifties and sixties. “We are getting smarter and staying smarter for longer.”

Sir Muir Gray, Professor of Primary Care at Oxford and a longstanding advisor on healthy ageing, is unequivocal: “Seventy need not be old, and ageing should not cause many problems until your nineties.

So here we go – boots checked, sticks cleaned, Macs oiled and water bottles filled – let’s hope he’s right!

Disclaimer

I hope you enjoy this commentary on politics, death, religion, sex and money – the issues that really matter. Please note that the views expressed are entirely my own and do not reflect those of ZANE or anyone who work for the charity. You may not agree with them, but I hope you’ll keep reading.

The Centre Cannot Hold

Dennis Silk, a great warden (headmaster) at Radley College, used to tell parents that if they and the school stood united on matters of discipline, many problems would simply dissolve and the boys would flourish.

But times have changed. Today, many parents haven’t a clue what’s truly best for their children. Some even try to be their “friends” – how daft and damaging is that? 

Reins and Rules

Years ago, Jane and I were involved in the management of Whaddon Chase Pony Club. Such clubs are hugely popular havens of innocent fun, mopping up the energy – and hormones – of mostly country-based, adolescent children. Meanwhile, their parents enjoy peace of mind, knowing their kids are safe, healthy and happily engaged.

For one action-packed week in the summer holidays, the schedule was filled with pony trials, races, events, competitions and parties. Our children loved every minute and the bonds they formed with fellow campers were so strong that many of those friendships have lasted to this day.

Of course, there were sensible rules – the young need that. We maintained tough parental control: no smoking, no drinking, no sex and no drugs – ever. If that last rule was broken, the culprits were summarily expelled. Parents hoped for the best and it all worked fine.

So, what’s this got to do with Dennis Silk’s speech to parents? One parent, Henry Dupree (not his real name) was father to two of the campers. His background was impeccable: Winchester; Magdalen, Oxford; and a former cavalry officer. In those days, he was a prosperous banker. Charming, with a pink-cheeked aura of entitlement, he wore tailored waisted suits and a gold chain. A mine of mildly dirty stories, he was “Plum Bum” to his friends. You know the type.

Of course, a few kids nicked wine from their parents for illicit parties, and some smoked fags behind the stables. Snogging in the hay happened, of course – if not then, for goodness’ sake when? But the point is, the children mostly respected the rules.

But then I saw Plum Bum actually giving his daughters wine and gin to smuggle in, thereby undermining the authority of the responsible adults. He was “ho, ho, ho” about the sex stuff as well. When I politely challenged him, he looked me at me as if I was a pompous ass. I can still hear the drawl:

“Come on, Tom, don’t be stuffy. Times are changing, they’re only young once.” All the clichés followed – something about “wild oats” and so on.

I was furious. He had learned nothing from his privileged background and simply couldn’t grasp that by ignoring the rules, he was inviting chaos.     

Years later, at a dinner, Henry told me quietly, “I have two grandchildren… both illegitimate. I must say, I don’t like it.”

I said nothing – for what was there to say? He was a nice guy but stupid… I suppose he meant well.

Bacchanalian Chaos

Let’s fast-forward to July 2025, when press reports revealed that up to 500 teenagers – many attending expensive schools, some as young as 14 – were discovered having sex on Polzeath Beach, the so-called Riviera of Cornwall.

They ripped up young trees for firewood and tore benches worth thousands from their moorings to burn. At dawn, rangers discovered a scene of devastation. The sand was littered with broken glass, excrement, smashed bottles, vapes, cigarettes and girls’ underwear. Scattered among the debris were unconscious teenagers who had been using marijuana, cocaine and ketamine.

A local resident said, “There are drugs on the beach. There are teenagers often drunk on alcohol supplied by parents. They drop their young children here at night, in the dark, and leave them with hundreds of older teenagers with no adults present. I cannot understand it.”

Why do the likes of Plum Bum and the parents of the children on Polzeath Beach allow such degenerate chaos? Are they stupid, negligent or just hopelessly naive? Do they simply fail to understand what a duty of care to their children entails? Or worse, do they even know what a duty of care is?

But it’s not just moronic “posh” parents – children are being abandoned across the adult world. The police have all but given up enforcing laws against illegal drugs, thereby effectively decriminalising them – and in doing so, they are enabling more children to use them, causing enormous damage to their bodies and brains. And children are being prematurely sexualised – instead of being protected by adults in a position of authority and trust, they are losing their precious innocence – exposed to debauchery, and in some cases, gross abuse.

Plum Bum might protest that what happened in Cornwall was extreme. But as soon as he and his kind encouraged children to break the rules and defy authority, the seedy Bacchanalian events on Polzeath Beach became an inevitable outcome.

A culture endures through its children. Parents instil in them the values of the society they inherit so that they, in turn, can pass those values on to future generations. Without this, things fall apart – and the centre cannot hold.

Plum Bum may be dead now, but his legacy marches on.

From Our Weaknesses…

Sometimes, it’s not a whole poem that gets me – a mere line can be enough.

I was reading “She Teaches Lear” by Iain Crichton Smith. It’s not a poem that touches me particularly, but then the third line of the last verse smacked me right in the guts:

“From our weaknesses only are we kind.”

Now there’s a thought…  

Booze, Bets and Sex

Let’s unpack this. A friend is not a smoker, so when he sees someone in a cloud of smoke, although he says nothing – he’s English, dammit! – he concludes the person is a moron and is predisposed to look down on him forever.

Then, the demon drink – not his problem! Just a bit of wine now and then, and rarely spirits. He used to share a flat with a buddy who got regularly “stoshered” – a great Scottish slang word – and who regularly lay on the floor, his mouth agape and smeared with vomit. Reasoning with him was wholly pointless ­– and in time, the poor sod pickled his liver and died in his fifties.

So, booze isn’t my pal’s problem, and he feels free to despise all drunks as morally weak. Nor is he a gambler, so he has no sympathy for losers on either horses or tables. And he’s as thin as a string of spaghetti! He could live on a diet of deep-fried Mars Bars, Big Macs and Hob Nobs without adding an ounce. So, of course, as soon as he sees a barrel of lard waddling towards him, his lips curl in horror at the self-indulgent slob!

Is he faultless? Well, I happen to know that sex is his torment. He told me once that fate appears to have chained him to a gibbering sex lunatic and he has difficulty keeping his flies up. So, when a close friend was caught “sleeping” – a ridiculous euphemism, for sleep’s not the thing you do (so I’m told!) – with a hooker, he was hugely supportive. My friend understands that temptation only too well.  

So, “from our weaknesses only are we kind”. Now you know!

I am sure that most ZANE supporters are perfect, but perhaps one or two of you will recognise this more-or-less universal tendency to condemn others for sins that – by the grace of God – are not ours?

Pascal’s on the Phone

French philosopher Blaise Pascal (1623–62) wrote, “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone”. Of course, he was making the point that without entertainment or distractions, humankind must confront the harsh realities of suffering, pain and death. 

Enter the ultimate distraction: smartphones. They’re hugely addictive because whenever the devices are checked, a stimulating substance called “dopamine” is generated, which affects emotions and behaviour. Of course, its effect is transitory and then users suffer from “Nomophobia”, or NO MObile PHOne PhoBIA. This fear of being without is partly responsible, we now know, for loss of self-esteem and acute depression. And it’s total catnip for the bottom line of the smartphone industry.

Glassy eyed phone addicts stagger down the road, and I expect to bump into one anytime soon. And then at my gym, the cardio machines are strewn with teenagers barely exercising and squinting vacantly at their devices.  

How can this new generation, with a paper-thin tolerance of boredom, produce poets, authors, playwrights, thinkers, actors or philosophers? Instead, it would seem their creative juices are draining into the bottomless fog of Facebook, TikTok, Instagram and X.         

Vets

In 2017 I met a veteran in Bulawayo who was more or less destitute. He was living on a meal a day yet had served the UK and Empire all his military career. And he was dying of prostate cancer, and he couldn’t afford treatment. The services charities were more or less skint.  So what to do?

I asked General Lord Richards (David) whether he would assist if I set up a committee to raise money. He agreed. I then asked Sir Malcolm Rifkind, former Foreign Secretary, if he would act as chair. He agreed.

We had a stroke of fortune in that Penny Mordaunt was Secretary of State for DFID, and when we approached her, she agreed that DFID would fund the operation in partnership with the services’ charities.

So it has come to pass that over 6,000 veterans across the Commonwealth now have two meals a day.

In Zimbabwe, we have established a basic medical programme whereby all the veterans get not only two meals a day but also free pills for diabetes, heart complaints, nervous disorders, and cancer scans.

Three cheers for Richards, Rifkind and Mordaunt.

All is Vanity

Upper-class individuals care a lot about status. Up until the 1980s, they indicated their social standing by owning expensive goods such as a Maserati. However, luxury cars are now more accessible, so proving innate superiority has become much harder. How can they broadcast their high social status to the masses? A clever solution has been found – “luxury beliefs”.

These are today’s new vanity plays, whose sole purpose is to boost the speaker’s reputation in the eyes of listeners. Those who do this know they are insulated from the pernicious effects of the drivel they are touting. 

So, when you hear someone supporting drug legalisation, open borders, defunding the police or permissive sexual norms; or using terms like “white privilege”, they are engaging in status display. “We belong to the upper classes,” they are declaring – but they never face the social consequences of what they are promoting.

For example, when you hear someone bewailing the effects of police “stop and search”, you can be sure they don’t have to worry about their own child being struck with a zombie knife. Another will bad mouth capitalism whilst living on a fat state pension. And I know a young Harrovian who advocates the joys of communism – to be sure, he knows nothing of the reality of the gulags, and I don’t think he’s even read Animal Farm. All he’s doing is demonstrating his luxury belief. Then come the Scottish “hate crime laws”. There is no better example of the consequences of this nonsense, for it won’t be the “progressive” political classes who reap the consequences, but rather the poor souls existing on benefits in the slums of Edinburgh and Glasgow.     

“Luxury beliefs” links naturally with “virtue signalling”. The expression of such views is not to fix a problem but rather to demonstrate how “progressive” the speaker is.

The most damaging luxury belief is the notion of sweeping away the very idea of the stable family. Socialist “experts” claim the traditional family is old hat and pretend that children are bound to thrive in all types of care. But this is rubbish – most mandarins and thinkers live in stable relationships, but those at the bottom on the ladder don’t and their families continue to deteriorate. In 2007, when we started the Oxford Community Emergency Foodbank, families were usually a traditional unit. In 2024, it’s rare to see a child raised by two parents.

Those who are focusing on smartphones and devices as the reason for the misery of the young should look instead at the two-plus generations of unmarried parenting. Today, divorce has been normalised and few couples are prepared to “hang on in there” for the sake of the children – the only thing that matters is one’s own happiness.

The result? We are seeing Zoomers in their twenties raised by a single parent – who were also raised by a single parent. The mandarins have snipped the golden thread of stability that links one generation to the next and are instead passing on chronic instability. It’s hard to turn the clock back – and I doubt even Starmer knows where to look for the key.

Poet Philip Larkin wrote:

“Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself”.

Leader of the Free World

The BBC’s John Sopel wrote that it’s a shame Americans speak English because otherwise we would understand that America is a foreign country.

It’s difficult not to notice – despite all the other worries we face, such as the guy with the funny haircut and bombs in North Korea, Putin’s ghastly war and the miseries in Gaza and Iran – that the leader of the free world, his finger poised on the nuclear button, has the intellectual capacity of a pickled gherkin. And another thing – people in the US don’t seem outraged when the Donald announces the legal system has been rigged against him. Why? US judges are elected and have to please voters along party lines. Al Capone would have loved it.

How can the USA, supposedly the greatest democracy in the world, pretend to be a role model to, say, Zimbabwe?  

A watery few days in beautiful scenery.

Some of those who have hosted or walked with us (and they will, of course, remain anonymous) have related tragic stories of the conduct of their children or in-laws behaving cruelly towards them. Our friends are elderly and vulnerable and, in the main,  widows.

In two cases, the children are denying their parents the opportunity to see their grandchildren unless substantial money is paid.

Of course, we have only heard one side of the story, but we do know the people: we are convinced they are telling the horrid truth.

In a short story somewhere, readers are warned that because of escalating costs, the country will be obliged to cull those over seventy-five by obliging them to go to one of a series of houses where they will be given a dry martini, a medal for past services rendered and then a lethal injection! This may be too true to be funny because my spies tell me that the Starmer government will shortly introduce legislation to allow assisted dying with all the unintended consequences this will bring about. Here are a few thoughts.

The law changes will be irreversible and as years go by – as has happened in Canada  – the scope of the permissions will inexorably widen.

And not all of the younger generation are kind. Many bitterly resent, for example, watching their parents’ cash wasted on care home fees and here is an opportunity to do something about it. Inevitably, intolerable pressure will be applied. Relations in many families will change fundamentally and not for the better.

And if you think that the cautionary barriers promised by the government to protect the vulnerable from abuse will prove to be effective, gosh,  look at those rose-coloured pigs flying past my window.

Rebel Women

When I last drove to Scotland, Jane was rude to me. I concede she had good reason. I was pondering the meaning of life (and as supporters will know, I have a beautiful and sensitive mind), only to discover that instead of nearing Manchester, we were hurtling towards Bristol.   

“You,” she said, “are a freshly minted moron!”

Career Path

Today, Jane is a confident and feisty woman with serious career achievements to her name. However, the fact she has turned out this way is not because she was primed to forge a career. Her brother’s future prospects were taken seriously. He went to “good” schools, and thence to Cambridge and off to make a fortune in the city. But she was not offered the same chances.

When Jane was a child, no one said specifically, “Listen Sunshine, you don’t have to trouble your pretty little head with learning how to earn your living because your destiny is to be number two to men.” But, through a process of social osmosis, she picked up the thousands of negative messages floating around intended to destroy the average girl’s ambition for independence. Many young women were persuaded not to go to university or seek jobs that were deemed “unladylike” – such as joining the police (I know of an actual case of this cruel sabotage in my own family).

So, Jane was sent to a girls’ school that pretended to provide education. There the pupils fluttered around with ghastly nicknames such as “Goonie” and “Dunce” (and there were twins called by their father “Thick” and “Thickest”!) Like many of her chums, Jane was hardly taught anything. She then went to a Swiss finishing school where the agenda was cooking and “how to get on in society”.

The young women of Jane’s generation ended up as cooks, chalet girls, secretaries, flower arrangers or junior teachers (like one O-level Princess Di), waiting for broad shoulders to rescue them. Some, teeming with ability and grit, and blessed by forward-looking parents, couldn’t be stopped by such nonsense, and rose high in the few careers then open to women. But the bulk of Jane’s contemporaries had no proper training or confidence-building, so, if they didn’t marry, or were dumped or widowed, they ended up unable to forge an independent life. By then, the sweet bird of youth had flapped off, leaving them middle-aged, disconsolate and vulnerable.

Where did this misogyny come from? I believe St Paul is largely responsible. In Tim 2, 11–12, his message is parodied by comedian Harry Enfield: “Women know your place!”

In these damaging verses, Paul claims that women should not be in leadership roles and that they should be submissive to men. Because Eve fell for the wiles of the serpent in the Garden of Eden, they can only be redeemed by childbearing.     

My vicar friends insist these verses should be read in conjunction with many others that claim that women are loved by God and are equal to men, but this is sophistry. The verses are as clear as “Don’t walk on the grass”! There’s no ambiguity whatsoever, just wishful thinking.    

Even today, my wonderful, talented ordained daughter is unwelcome to preach in some churches because of these unfortunate verses. And they are why so many women, called by God over the years, were blocked from ordination – and why the Catholic Church still justifies blocking them from leadership.  

Former archbishop Donald Coggan proposed that when he reached heaven, he would ask Paul for an explanation. “Goodness me,” he imagined Paul replying. “Did I actually write that?”

Yes, Paul, I fear you did – and the effect has been profoundly damaging, for these verses have echoed down the ages, allowing men to stymie the careers of generations of capable women.   

Crazy Taxes

The government treats us like idiots.

Tuppence of tax here or there and it’s not what the country needs. For a start, we should be treated as adults.

What the chancellors fiddle about with simply doesn’t help as a political trick and it’s not what we need as a country. Just look at a few features of our tax system that are holding up growth and productivity. 

First are the crazy marginal rates of tax on earnings of £50,000 and above – when child benefit and personal allowances begin to taper, and “free” children’s schemes are lost. Someone earning £99,999.00 with two children under three loses an immediate £20,000 when they earn a penny more! Many studies show how people deliberately cut their hours to avoid marginal rates of tax of 80 per cent or even higher. It makes no sense to earn between £100,000 and £145,000.

Then take the VAT system. If a coffee shop sells £84,000 of coffee, no VAT is payable. At £85,0000, you must charge 20 per cent more on everything so, compared to your competitor next door, you’re no longer competitive! That means tens of thousands of small businesses quite sensibly will do anything to stay under the VAT threshold. For example, they might be reluctant to recruit more staff or a retailer might shut shop in February.

Then why not just scrap National Insurance?  If employers didn’t have to pay 13.5 per cent on wages, people would earn more.   

If Tory chancellors have been hopeless, what can we expect from the new government?

A friend tells me he is about to tell me a funny story. I want to tell him, “Just tell me the story…I ‘ll tell you if I find it funny or not,” but I haven’t the heart to do so.

Victimhood

Politicians of all stripes treat the electorate as babies.

Social security benefits are morphing into a malingerers’ slush fund. There are now millions of adults of working age – excluding students – out of work. Meanwhile, nearly a million vacancies are filled by hard-working immigrants.

Between a fifth and a quarter of the residents of Birmingham, Glasgow and Blackpool are living on out-of-work benefits. The majority, we must presume, are genuine cases, but with human nature being such as it is, of course the system is open to abuse. The malingerers are throwing away their lives, and wasting billions of taxpayers’ cash that could be spent on better things.

Politicians are dodging their duty to tighten the criteria for benefits eligibility for fear of being abused by the media. Anyone who dares to say what he or she thinks risks attracting a cacophony of noise from lobby groups/think tanks/quangos/commissioners/tsars, all poised to scream in self-righteous anger about persecution. Today, victimhood is all.  

Get on Your Bike

Thatcher is of course history and sadly political courage died with her. Her doctrine of “Don’t accept being a victim, pull up your socks and get on with it” is long since forgotten. So too are her messages, “The state can’t solve all your problems, it’s your money they are spending, not theirs” and “Money doesn’t grow on trees”. And what happened to “Taxpayers would spend the cash far more wisely than HMG”?

In 13 years of Tory rule, the Iron Lady’s legacy has gone with the wind. The country is today more or less bankrupt, and self-reliance has become a dirty word. We are all victims now in the sense we are unable to tell the truth to ourselves about ourselves.

Former Tory MP James Daly was flayed when he said that struggling children in his constituency were not victims of insufficient money being spent on them by taxpayers but rather of “crap parenting”. His Labour rival responded by asserting that instead of insulting parenting skills, we would do better to face the fact that children in gangs or carrying knives have nothing to do with poor parenting and everything to do with a “failure to invest in public services”.  

So now the claim is that parents have no real part to play in the crucial narrative of bringing up their own children, and our lives are shaped by forces beyond our control. The focus of shame has moved from the person doing something wrong to the person who has the gall to point it out! All problems, you see, are caused by government, and must be solved by it.

The person “left” teachers most love to hate is “Britain’s strictest headmistress”, Katharine Birbalsingh. Why? Because she is too “judgmental”. Yet intelligent teachers admit privately that poor grades are all too often about crap parenting. in an ordinary comp school, set in one of London’s most deprived areas, Birbalsingh proves it QED. By insisting on firm discipline and manners, she has produced every teacher’s dream – a silent and happy school that achieves top grades. “A school’s problems won’t be fixed by more money,” she claims, but by “better ideas, by tackling bad behaviour and reducing bureaucracy.”   

Will she survive? I doubt it!

Straight to the Point…

Forget small talk. I like a good discussion about sex, money, politics, religion or death. Someone says something, then we discuss it and conclude (or not), possibly modifying our opinions along the way. As Bernard Shaw once said, “Those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.”

Sadly, a close friend is not open to changing her views. There’s no point discussing anything or introducing new ideas, for her mind is as closed as a clam.

Her prejudices encompass colonial history and empire (a thing of unalloyed beauty, no criticisms to be tolerated); apartheid (acceptable because pornography was banned); the monarchy (totally for); the EU (totally for – Cameron’s a dolt for the referendum, and the fact that all parties – including the LibDems – promised a referendum is conveniently forgotten); abortion and assisted dying (totally for); and gay partnerships (very much against, and this, apparently, is when the CoE moral rot started – once again, the fault of Cameron. That all free-world governments and their political parties support gay partnerships is overlooked).

No discussion on any of the above issues can be tolerated, for this lady’s iron-clad opinions are primed to be fired even before she opens her mouth. And if you dare to argue with her, she stomps away, quivering with righteous indignation.     

Why is she so submerged in “confirmation bias” that she rejects any discussion that might conflict with her embalmed views? I suspect her aggression is down to fear – she runs scared that debate would require her to think. Intellectually lazy, she has simply closed her mind. Her fixed views are water wings – without them, she’s terrified she might drown.

Lots of people are like this. Sad really.

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