General Jane

Powering along ancient rail tracks into East Grinstead with General Jane leading the way. I have long discovered that the simplest way for me to walk in harmony with Jane is to do exactly what she commands me to do. There is little point arguing with high command especially when she has the map.

And Jane she has learned from years of practise to give me short thrift. “Do stop arguing and complaining” she yells at me whenever she sees a glimmer of backsliding.

Jane’s most irritating word after I have spent hours plodding up a vast hill is:
“Oh Bugga!” This means we have to back track half a mile to walk as the satnav walking device has gone haywire or she has misread the map. There is no point in my complaining, I have to grin plod to the next turning and bear it with as good a grace as I can muster.

In an earlier century General Jane would have gained fame by leading a group of distressed orphans over winding, snowy tracks in the Himalayas to save them from a fate worse than death. She is a truly courageous, wonderful, intrepid and immensely kind woman and I am profoundly fortunate to have her in my life.

Where am I?

I am at the stage in the walk when I have been in so many houses when I wake up I have no idea where on earth I am. I tell my hosts that, if they find me wandering round their bedroom at 3am, not to worry: I am just trying to find a loo!

Tsunami

I recall, a couple of years back, a poster in Worcester Cathedral proclaiming, “Worcester Cathedral welcomes immigrants”.

I thought at the time that this was one of the most hypocritical, virtue-signalling balls ever to have shamed the good old C of E. Neither the dean nor his church has to plan the logistics, or pay for the housing, education or health needs to make this “welcome” a reality. I made a vow to ask the man (why man?) how many immigrants he was actually housing in his deanery and personally paying for, but I forgot.

Then I wrote a bit in my last blog about the problem of immigration and I got quite a postbag, as was bound to happen. People are always edgy about discussing this issue because they don’t want to be thought of as “politically incorrect”. I tell those worrying about my imminent arrest from the thought police that I am old and more or less harmless, and so I need counselling rather than Belmarsh. Counselling seems to be all the rage these days, so why not give it a go?  

The Donald Effect

But I digress… so here goes. Good old Donald generates truly ghastly publicity, but occasionally he raises issues that no one else dares discuss. He threatens to close US borders and call in the military to stop tens of thousand illegal Mexican chancers and would-be-asylum seekers from crossing the Mexican/US border to settle illegally in the US. He did this in the sure knowledge that he was bound to offend every liberal-do-gooder and virtue signaller in the world all over again.

The image of millions of tearful women holding screaming babies and insisting never to return to their ghastly homeland is a vision of the future.

Trump tries to excuse his rhetoric by proclaiming these immigrants are “bad” people but of course he misses the point. There are bound to be some rotten apples amongst the immigrant throng, but the point is they are not “bad” people: they are just “people”. Which one of us, if broke, unemployed and living in chaotic and violent conditions, would not try to move our family over the border to a dreamland of milk and honey?

These would-be immigrants want to raise their families in better homes and seek the chance of a decent job. They want to create a better life somewhere else. Of course, they all want to come and live where we live, don’t they? If the tables were turned, wouldn’t we?

They are all deserving folk who in the lottery of life have had the misfortune to be born, for example, in a rat-infested slum in Zimbabwe or some other poor African state. Or they come from Honduras, Nicaragua, Guatemala or El Salvador. These places suffer from high crime, and heroic levels of corruption and instability. Life for their inhabitants can be nasty, brutish and short.

In TV interviews, we see tearful families proclaiming they have travelled vast distances, fought through dreadful dangers, and suffered exploitation, robbery and rape. They are often well-educated, quietly spoken and worthy. All they want is a safe haven in which they can work hard and be good citizens. These interviews are often introduced by an indignant Jon Snow with some poor foreign office minister cowering and stammering uselessly in the background. Each immigrant has a sad and deserving story to tell, and our implacable government clutching its quotas always sounds like a cold-hearted bastard.

In each case, I say to myself: “This poor sod could be me!”

Facing Facts

If the test for entry to the UK was whether a person was a worthy human being, or came from a worse place than here, then it’s a wrap, discussion over. We are nice people and so we have to let them in. All of them. Don’t we?

But the “right” conversation is practically impossible.

Europe sits next to Africa – and Africa is forecast to have the world’s greatest population explosion, with an extra 1.3 billion people living there by 2050. The continent is prone to drought, climate change, often-terrible governance and seemingly never-ending wars. But most Africans have mobile phones so they can see what the likes of leafy Basingstoke, Guildford and Edinburgh are like. However, they are there, and we are here – and of course they can’t all come, can they?   

We face a vast problem. I reckon that the throngs of immigrants we have seen since 2015 are just the first lapping of the waves, for the tsunami is yet to come. You see, organised assaults of people storming borders simultaneously have had astonishing success.

So when the wised-up hopefuls all hit the Med in a Dunkirk flotilla of boats, all setting off on the same afternoon with synchronised watches, what will we do? This is bound to happen, and soon. Just picture it. A tide of tens of thousands of decent people, all weeping and waving their hands, all in need of food, clean water and peace, all holding crying babies, and all coming over here in a vast flotilla. 

This will, I forecast, constitute a potent form of moral blackmail. Will navies be able to use force to turn them back? As they say in Northumberland, Gerraway! Can you really see liberal societies tolerating the sight of soldiers and police shooting at boatloads of unarmed women and children?  Of course not.

If we continue to face the issue of immigration as a matter of kindness and sympathy rather than crude self-interest, then almost anyone can get in.

Over the next few decades, we are bound to be facing immigration pressures, the like of which we have never seen before. How many more “good” people do you want living in your town or village? 

So, chaos or a hard heart? It’s one hell of a choice.

Either way, the left-wing media, and Jon Snow and chums are bound to love it.  

Another matchless day:  fast walking through fields of hops and vines towards Tunbridge; the only hazards are long slow hills that seem never to stop but gently wind towards the unforgiving sky. All we can do is plod one foot at a time and  gently curse as we go.

I have been right round the world and visited most places but between May and October nowhere is as beautiful as Britain. Yet In six days of walking we have seen no other people. Of course there are a few people taking their dogs for a poo but we have seen no  real walkers; and please note that where we are is not the industrial midlands or the centre of Scunthorpe but we are wandering in the midst of Arcadia, the most beautiful countryside God ever made anywhere. I see Matthew Parris is all set to walk in the Hindu Kush  in Pakistan, but why are you bothering, Matthew, when this deserted  paradise is not more than an hour out of London and begging to be enjoyed? 

A Long Game

In 2005, Former Prime Minster Ted Heath was buried in Salisbury Cathedral. In 1997   Former minister Enoch Powell was buried in his Brigadier’s uniform in a Warwick cemetery.

They were both Conservative politicians and implacable opponents.

In 1968, Enoch Powell lost his ministerial career having a been sacked by Ted Heath for making  an allegedly inflammatory  – “rivers of blood” speech about immigration.

Some six years later, mainly on grounds of sovereignty, Powell announced his refusal to contest his Wolverhampton seat for the Tories because Heath was applying for membership of what is now the EU. Not only that, in the November 1974 general election, Powell recommended that conservative voters should vote Labour because that was the party which was then implacably opposed to EU membership.

I contested the 1974 election in question for the Conservative cause against prime Minster Harold Wilson, and I can vividly recall the vast row Powell’s actions caused at the time.

Then Powell tirelessly campaigned against membership referendum called in 1975 by the wily Wilson and he continued to protest after the result was known. He forecast that that one day the UK would come to its senses and we would depart.

It has looked ever since that Heath had won hands down and Powell’s failed campaigns against EU membership would simply be forgotten as an historical footnote.

We are probably about leave the EU one way or another; when that happen Heath’s life work so carefully planned and built will have turned to ashes:  what Powell hoped would happen will come to pass.

Politics can be a long game.

The Way of All Flesh

I have a friend David whose marriage has failed brutally. He found himself out of the door with his luggage and a divorce petition in his hand. He couldn’t see it coming and he was shattered. He was too close to the emotional hiatus and unable to see straight.   

Of course, the initial casualty was his pride and confidence, which sank to an all-time low. Then he found to his astonishment that he was the target of considerable abuse from his erstwhile wife, Sarah, and her large family – who had apparently disliked him from the outset. He heard he had been labelled a bully and all sorts of unpleasant criticism followed.

The family convinced themselves they were rescuing poor, vulnerable Sarah from the death of a thousand miseries. When I had a drink with David, he was wondering if the criticisms were true.

Of course, he had made all sorts of mistakes – we all do. But I know him to be a loving and kindly man who had been doing his best to be a good husband. I had watched him tenderly nurse his first wife through her terminal illness. So he was no marital bully or adulterer.  

Altered Reality

I tried to give David an insight into relationships, for I have had several friends whose marriages have gone the way of all flesh. In each case, there was roughly the same pattern. As an example, one of my Welsh friends, Hugh, married a saintly woman, Mary, in high society. After 20 or so years and three children, she met someone else and wanted to be free. She knew herself to be a good, faithful and decent woman and so in order to retain this good opinion of herself she had to alter reality.   

The only way Mary could do this was in her mind – and she harangued anyone who would listen that Hugh was an insensitive and unloving man. He was a total shit, she 100 per cent innocent – and the more contumely she was able to cast on him, the better she felt about what she had done. To live up to the myth, she refused to speak to him and when they met at weddings or funerals, she avoided him like the plague. A year ago, their 50-year-old son died from cancer – even after that, Mary refused to console poor Hugh or allow any sharing of grief. 

Altering reality by one spouse to blame the other – in order to justify their errant behaviour – happens time and time again.

So, Mary managed to convince herself that she is kind, loving and upright person, and she conveniently “forgot” all of Hugh’s many excellent qualities. He has been cast in the role of bullying, sponging rotter. And her family was always there, criticising him behind his back, and always suspicious of his motives in marrying well-to-do Mary.  

But there is Hugh, an ordinary, kindly man and none of the nasty things Mary has said about him is true.

Amazing Grace

After hearing this sorry tale, David asked me what he should do about his own situation. I told him he had to forgive Sarah and her abusive family. Otherwise he would destroy himself, for bitterness corrodes the soul.

Then he must rely on GRACE.

When Jonathan Aitken was found guilty of perjury, the world media became hysterical in its condemnation. He was facing bankruptcy and jail, his career was over, and then his family collapsed. Jonathan sought the counsel of a priest, Fr Gerard Hughes. After Jonathan had poured out his ghastly tale of woe, Hughes asked him, “Have you thought of thanking God for your problems?”  

Jonathan was outraged and initially thought he was being mocked; but after a time, he realised this was golden wisdom. We all have to redeem the things that go wrong in our lives. Churchill said that his father told him when he was a child that “a man who can’t take a knock-down blow isn’t worth a damn.” He claimed it was “quite a healthy process”. I have to agree.  

So David must pick himself up, dust himself down and start all over again. There is no other way. And who knows what the future may hold, especially as a wounded healer?

Off to another early walk with Cromwell’s prayer:
“Please God  this day remember me even if I forget thee,”
a prayer I have to say rather often these days!

The B-Word

Momentum is doing all its can to create vast civil unrest for it assesses that the more the chaos, the higher the chances of a Corbyn Government.

Without getting too involved in the Brexit row, I reckon the next major hiatus for Monentum  to highlight will be a vast row between Boris and Bercow.

I cannot be the only person who rather resents the fact the the Speaker, who constitutionally is meant to  be impartial, compromised himself three years ago with a car sticker saying “Bollocks to Brexit” and he has compounded this since then.  Today he seems to indicate that he wants to skew the system in Parliament to bring “no deal” to a halt. I suspect he is preparing to tread roughshod over conventions to do so. I am sure, if so, that the government will do the same and I will be able to hear the rows in darkest Kent.

I also read that  Archbishop Welby has kindly offered  his services to broker a deal amongst the fractured people over Brexit. Unfortunately, three years ago, very unwisely, he announced he was a “Remainer” and, as such, of course his impartiality is thereby hopelessly compromised.

Dog’s Gratitude

It is bleakly depressing how divided and intolerant our churches can be. For example, some vicars are against vestments; they bridle at the sight of gowns and processions, or choir members in bibs and tuckers – and claim that all this is unbiblical and divides them from the people. That may be true to some degree. However, what about those parishioners who dislike the sight of vicars dressed in jeans, jerseys and T-shirts looking like shelf stackers at Aldi? Some churchgoers dislike praise songs and tambourines; others seem to loathe plainsong and anthems. A balance has to be struck.

I dislike this intolerance: why on earth does it matter provided Christ is at the centre? Some people want to go to cathedral-style services and be taken out of themselves so they can sit at the back and listen, think and pray in their own time and solitude. They may dislike being sandbagged by displays of enthusiasm and Alpha courses, or the sense of being “got at.” Other worshippers want exactly this!

I recall the late Michael Mayne, Dean of Westminster, saying that he thought services should appeal to all the senses. There should be drama, a pleasing use of space, beautiful music, the sight of lovely vestments, soaring choir voices and the scent of incense to create a sense of awe. He told me how he loathed the scruffiness and informality that plague other churches so that they too closely represent the secular world. 

When all’s said and done, we are all different – and it’s important we remember this!   

Good Grief

We read that a precocious Swedish child called Greta Thunberg has made a speech berating politicians for failing to “even mention” climate change. This child encouraged a vast number of kids in the UK to take a day off school and bleat the same nonsense to us all.

The result was that teachers had to “catch up” the children who were absent – the whole exercise was a total nuisance. In spite of this, the head teacher’s union (NAHT) apparently gave this nonsense their blessing by announcing, “A day of activity like this could be an important life experience.”

Was this wise? It wasn’t just a single day of activity, it was one of many planned by the organisers. What will happen when this crowd of spotty adolescents all start to campaign for other issues, for example to lower the age of voting to, say, 16? No one wants to discourage the little darlings. Well I do for starters.

Thunberg’s message is always the same: “Adults are doing nothing to combat climate change.” She is not saying they are not doing enough, she claims they are not doing anything. This is a wild exaggeration. This child must have been brought up on planet ZARB. What she is parroting is false. Every nation in the world signed up for the Kyoto Protocol in 1997, and 174 states signed the Paris Agreement in 2016. As a result, numerous government initiatives have been taken to reduce emissions including the Climate Change Levy in the UK, which is set to increase in July. And in Oxford – where I live – they seem to talk of little else.

It’s manifestly obvious that the mass of blinkered children are being fed “fake news” by this infant activist. Shouldn’t NAHT be encouraging members to teach children the difference between exaggeration and real news?

If teenage tots have time to spare, they might pick up litter or read some improving literature. They might also learn that they would do us all a favour simply by shutting up.  The Victorian command that children should be “seen and not heard” wasn’t altogether without merit.

The fact that so many people have been taken in by Thunberg makes me want to raise the voting age to 21.

Biting the Hand…

Some time ago, when I was at a party at a country club, I heard a splash and saw an elderly Second World War veteran I knew leap into the water fully clothed. At first I thought he was drunk until I saw that he had a little boy in his arms. The lad had been drowning quietly just outside his depth until someone had shouted for help: this old boy was the speediest person to act.

I recall two things about the incident. One was the veteran’s attitude: “No fuss; anyone could have done it!” to those who sought to congratulate him on his action. That was absolutely in character. The second thing was the glare of undiluted rage and hatred from the little boy’s father who should have been paying attention and who had instead been boozing and joking with his friends. That look says a lot about human nature.

More recently, when I was involved in the Lloyd’s market, I learned that a young man had been imprisoned for some fracas in a pub. I was outraged at the attitude of the authorities that had him instantly dismissed from his job. I hired the man to work for a small business I was involved in. He was highly intelligent with great ability. I did everything in my power to get his sentence quashed and to rehabilitate him as far as it was possible to do so.

The business flourished and it took only a couple of years before the man demanded to be allowed to go it alone. Fast forward another year, and he had decided that he was being exploited. And then, to my astonishment, he sought every opportunity he could find to damage me in every way possible.

It was not until I saw a Spanish proverb that I understood: “Why do you dislike me so much? What favours have I ever done you!”

It’s best summed up by former US president, Harry Truman: “You want a friend in Washington? Get a dog.”      

A beautiful walk to Sissinghurst and miles through Hemsted Wood, where,  dappled and mysterious, you would expect to see Robin Hood fighting with the Sheriff of Nottingham at any time. Then, last, ”Rogers wood” where the missing apostrophe jars with me.

Scots Free?

I hear that Ruth Davison has resigned from the leadership of the Conservative party in Scotland. Sad, yet another example of the gulf between mothers and fathers. In my experience many women’s priorities change when they get “Mumsie”, but I know of no example of a man putting his career on hold because his wife has had a baby! I know of course that fathers play a more substantial role today with their children and that is a good thing. I also know that men can demand paternity leave to help look after their newborn. But I am sure that men who run their own businesses can’t possibly afford such a luxury, so paternity leave is pretty much limited to those working in the public  service and charities.

I served as a lance corporal stationed in Fort George with the Queens’s Own Cameron Highlanders and, as a privately educated Englishman, I know something about the visceral loathing “Hey Jimmy, are you looking at me?!”  of many Scots towards the English.

But I managed to survive well enough.

So, I think I know why the SNP are keen to keep Scotland tied to the European Union where they will suffer material democratic consequences yet they want to sever the ties with England and wreck our ancient and very successful union. Why?  It makes no sense until you recognise the history of Bannockburn, Cromwell, Culloden and all the rest.

I think the SNP and their supporters actually hate the English. Otherwise, why do they want to wreck the Union? Maybe they are guilty of a crime?

Scottish Love

I remembered some of the people I have loved who are long since dead. I thought of Pam and Humphrey Scott Plummer – my Jane’s parents – such warm and kindly people who welcomed me into their Borders home with trust and great kindness a lifetime ago.

They formed a core part of an old established farming community in the Scottish  borders. The key word is “community”, the enduring melody of a world of farming, hunting, horse and dog shows, gardening and quiet country pursuits and quiet enjoyments that have been core for generations. Some people living there were probably prodigiously rich, others made do with very little, but no one really cared. If you fitted in you were accepted.

The word “gentlefolk” sum up Pam and Humphrey and I mourn their passing to this day.

Island Story

“British history shows what a disgraceful people we are”, she wittered with the finality of a 19-year-old. “Our past is full of vicious, selfish wars… then there is the story of slavery. We should hang our heads in shame!”

She had that look so much favoured by the left, by those squatting on Corbyn’s moral high ground: the look that says, “Don’t even dare to disagree with me, or you’ll soon find out you’re beneath contempt and not even worth arguing with!”

So, dear ZANE reader, I shut up. After all, she was only an elderly child and I suppose if you can’t blither lefty nonsense when you’re that age, when can you?

Slanted View

She thought the British empire was a wicked conspiracy against the world’s most vulnerable people and that we mercilessly pillaged and exploited at will – instead of a mix of good and not so good, which is usually the case in all human endeavour. Of course, we made dreadful mistakes, but she was unaware that we built hospitals, railways, schools and universities – the infrastructure the colonies needed to develop. She wasn’t aware we built an admirable civil service and police forces; that we taught aspirations of freedom, justice and human dignity; or that we introduced humanitarian ideals from the likes of Livingstone and the basic values of honesty, democracy and the rule of law.

All she seemed to know about were the errors. She went to a leading public school for at least eight years and I couldn’t help wondering what exactly her parents thought they had bought with their money. For example, she had no historic perspective or real knowledge of the history of slavery or the role of our churches. She hardly knew who Wilberforce was or what he did. She had dimly heard of Churchill and only vaguely knew what the last two world wars were about. Nor did she have any appreciation of how ignorant she really was. Who had “taught” her and what did they think they were teaching? I suppose her excuse might be, “I forgot to ask” or “I didn’t ‘do’ history”. But all this is general knowledge: everyone should know the basic facts about our island story, it should be rooted in our DNA! If I were her parent, I would be asking for my money back.

I am proud of the empire Britain built and what our forebears managed to achieve. I am proud of the fact that no country on earth has given as much to the world in terms of ideas, language, the rule of law, democracy, literature, the arts, sport and political structures as the UK. Our children, the future youthful ambassadors for the UK, should raise their heads from Twitter and Facebook, and gently remind their friends in other countries of the truth about British history. Then they can play their vital part in building a diverse, tolerant and dynamic country that, once again, can be the envy of the world.     

Dead Funny

Baroness Park, a former principal of Oxford’s Somerville College, told the story of an octogenarian baroness holding forth in a House of Lord’s tearoom.

“The trouble of being my age is that all the men I have slept with are now dead,” the formidable woman declared.

There was stony silence and then a shaky hand was raised by an old man at the end of the table. “Hang on! What about me?” he asked.

The baroness reached for her glasses and stared at him before announcing, “Sorry, I thought you were dead.” 

Low humidity and clear skies: one of those peerless days when you are conscious that it is great to be alive.

Feeling Alive

The late Jim Slater once said that if you are over seventy and you wake up without hurting somewhere, it means you are dead! That said, resolutely walking through aches and pains validates my pet theory that by keeping going that they fade. I wonder also if, as we age, our natural resistance to life’s ghastlies – cancer, tumours, and the rest of the feast of life’s horrors – grows thinner, leaving us ever more vulnerable as we age.

Fighting, Wooing and a Cause

There is nothing you can do about it so stop being so morbid! So one day you will drop in your tracks and that will be that. It’s not “if” but “when”. What on earth does it matter anyway. I have spent a full life surrounded by loving family and friends with the three vital blessings of a rich life fulfilled: a battle to fight, a maiden to woo, and a cause bigger than myself to live for. It is not everyone that can say that. I am a fortunate man.

Eton Mess

I remember the occasion clearly… it was just after the dreadful Edwina Currie shamelessly announced that she’d once had a run-in with John Major. Our party was seated for lunch when barrister Ann Mallalieu, a Labour peer – and in her loudest upper-crust voice too – announced that anyone who was unfaithful to his wife couldn’t be trusted in public life. “If you have lied to the person you know intimately and who trusts you, and to whom you have solemnly pledged fidelity in front of witnesses,” she proclaimed, “then why should members of the public, whom you have never met, believe a single word you say?”

The room temperature crashed to at least zero. Ann’s then husband – notoriously as faithful as a tomcat – blushed a deep vermillion and weakly grinned. Or perhaps it was an attack of indigestion. Many guests stared fixedly at their shoes and wished they were in Acapulco, wherever that may be.

Well however unfashionable this attitude may be today, perhaps Ann had a point worth addressing?       

Blond Bombshell

Of course nowadays – since, I suppose, the Clinton saga – we are supposed to have become more “liberal”, whatever that may mean. Well, we may be more liberal, but does this detract from the validity of Ann’s point? And since Boris now occupies centre stage, perhaps we should address it. Is it good enough to say that as Nelson, Wellington, Palmerston, Lloyd George and JFK were all at it like stoats in a sack, there’s no question to answer?

Of course, it’s not true that all politicians are as randy as Weinstein on steroids. But does the fact that Boris is a serial fornicator matter? His second marriage has been cast onto the tip, and there’s been many a glancing blow as he’s charged along. He’s now onto the third “permanent” lady in his life. Of course, he’s a superb writer and speechifier, and he was a competent mayor of London… but do you honestly believe him? Do his colourful infidelities affect your view of him as prime minister?    

My view is that it doesn’t matter, but I’d rather not know about it.

Odd Couple

We were in a greasy spoon cafe on London’s South Circular and they were sitting in a far corner. They were probably in their twenties. Both were rather overweight. She had a spotty, misshapen moon face that, if you were a painter, you would want to scrub out and start again. Her body was shaped like a Swiss roll – you had to study hard to identify even a gesture of a waist. Her hair was purple with black roots, her eyes behind thick glasses a watery blue. The teeth were Himalayan crooked.

His hair was scraped back in a greasy man bun. As demanded by today’s fashion, he was unshaven. A beer belly hung over his jeans, and his hands and wrists were heavily tattooed.

If either had been alone, my instinct would have been to feel sorry for them. But one thing changed all that, a powerful transforming thing. They were clearly in love. Not just the “keen on”, “going out” or “seeing each other” type of love, but the real McCoy! They swooned together, clearly fascinated by one another and were totally oblivious to me – or anyone else.

For the hour I sat there, they traded with each other using their eyes more than words. There was a tenderness that excluded all of us as they created their own special world. They were a couple who, in the face of all the aridity and disenchantment we suffer daily in our cynical old lives, were proving that love is as perennial as the grass. This made them beautiful. They were short-changed on physical allure certainly, but their love made them just a little lower than the angels.

Of course, they were certainly unaware that behind my map I was lifting my stained coffee cup to my lips and toasting them.     

A great send off outside Canterbury Cathedral with our friend Allanah playing us off on her trumpet. Then chaos as teething problems with the new handheld GPS meant that we set off four miles in the wrong direction. Boom! Who is the guilty party, who’s to blame?

We crawled back to the centre and started all over again. Guests Jonathan Aitken and daughter Alexandria were kind – but then what could they do? I am sure privately they are wondering how on earth we have managed to walk over 2000 miles round the UK whilst remaining sane and together!

Oh My Lords!

News to ZANE supporters: Get into the House of Lords!

Usually no material work – just check in to clerk each day and bingo! £40k tax free per year. The math is like this. Each day the House “sits” the members get a daily rate of £329 tax free and costs for hotel the night before covered no questions asked. You don’t have to do anything for the cash. Free phones, office, car parking and a title. What more can you reasonably want? Payment for sitting on a committee is extra lolly.

I am told that reform is simply too much effort for any government and so the party rolls on!

Bilking

Good to have dear Markus driving for us again. I am reminded that a week after the end of the first walk the police called at my Oxford home.

“You have been accused of “bilking” sir”

“Really, gosh! What on earth is “bilking?”

He cop told me that “bilking is driving off without paying for petrol.”

I was amazed and when I searched my diary I learned that the alleged offence occurred on the first day of the walk, and Markus’ first ever day in the UK.

I explained to the policeman about the walk and that I expected the driver to pay the petrol bills. So clearly I had not explained this properly to Markus.

“Where does he live?”
“Bulawayo!”

That was the closure of the case. I wonder however if my Mugshot is still being paraded
As a “bilker” In garages on the South coast!

Tom’s Big Five

Blog readers will recall that the only topics I ever discuss are sex, politics, religion, money and death. As you know, these happy subjects have focused my attention for years. You may think this is a shade limited – but may I remind you it’s a little more adventurous than the poet Yeats, whose conversation was limited only to sex and death.

However, I am pleased to announce I’ve added some further subjects to my repertoire. These interest me because they have been banned as topics that are “too hot to handle” by various book publishers – who despite wanting to make a living also desire a quiet life! These subjects (my thanks to author Lionel Shriver) are gender, race, immigration, disability, social class, obesity and Islam.

All are banned. But not here! I will, of course, try to cover them as vigorously as possible in this blog. So let’s get stuck in! (But first, let me tell you about my medical exam).

Lost and Found

Readers beware: if you hold me in high regard, please stop reading!

Before each jumbo walk, I have an MOT to see if anything is likely to fall off on the journey. So it was off to the Churchill Hospital in Oxford.

It was a lovely day to think about the meaning of life and the generosity of ZANE donors. In a trance, I shunted the car into a space only to find that the Churchill car parks are apparently the only ones in Oxford that don’t accept card payments! 

Cursing, I headed off to the nearest cashpoint, then back to the car park. I fed the meter and staggered towards a hospital door. Directions came from a passing male nurse who was clearly suffering from ghastly halitosis: he shuffled up close and muttered, “Up three flights of stairs, down three corridors, turn left, then right, back down another flight of stairs, up another flight, then second door on the right.” By this time, his breath was undoing my tie.

If Bojo is serious about funding the NHS – now the only god the public cares about (the NHS, not Bojo) – he might consider spending cash on having the walls painted. Then what about renewing the chipped and clapped-out linoleum?  

At last, I was in the right place. Competent and friendly nurses X-rayed my right knee – the only remaining joint still 100 per cent Tom Benyon. 

Then it was back to the reception: “Please, where’s the car park?

“Which one? There are six!”

Pride prevented me from saying, “Sorry, I’m a total fool… in which one did I leave the car?” How could they know!

They gave me a map that looked like the London Underground and I tottered round all the car parks looking for my tatty, black car. All the parks seemed to be crowded with tatty, black cars.  

It took me 40 minutes: there it was, lurking in the fourth park.

Each time I muddle over where on earth I’ve left my car, I promise that next time I will take careful note of its precise position. I swear to be practical and stop thinking beautiful thoughts. But my poetic nature wins through each time.

Donkeys and Cats

I read that a charity supporting donkeys generates £34m per year, and another supporting cats raises £45m per year! Per year!

I like both donkeys and cats, but this is surely extraordinary. Our partners, RCEL – who look after 8,000 starving veterans across the Commonwealth who have served the Crown – find it a struggle to generate any material cash from the public. So what’s going on?

I guess there are millions of lonely people out there: people who have been bruised in love, and rejected in family and work relationships to the degree they have been reduced to meeting their emotional needs through animals. Hence, when they die, leaving their fortunes to charities that care for cats and donkeys seems obvious: they are the only living things that have never betrayed them. Probably true – and very, very sad.      

“No Deal” Zimbabwe

We start from Canterbury Cathedral. Present are my wife, Jane, my eldest daughter, Revd Clare Hayns (chaplain of Christ Church, Oxford), Alannah Jeune, a PhD student from New Zealand, and the Revd Jonathan Aitken and some of his family. Alannah is an accomplished trumpet player and gives a fine voluntary to see us on our way.  

Quick check list: toes trimmed, new(ish) hips in place, one half-new knee doing its job, a steroid injection to prevent pain in my antique-road-show back, creamed feet, and plenty of “Compeed” to avoid blisters. I have new sunglasses, assorted hats, Leki walking sticks – and the best boots ever invented, made by Meindl. This pair has lasted two ZANE walks already. Of course, they are manufactured in Germany – they’re so well made, I wonder how on earth Germany lost the war!

Great Aunt Daisy used to say, “I can’t afford to buy anything but the best”. Of course, she was right, for all my cheaper boots were more or less rubbish. As the great Bernard Levin used to say, “Write ‘there’s no such thing as a bargain’ on your mirror each day and remember it.” He would have got on well with Daisy.   

I discussed ZANE’s walks with Rory Stewart very recently when he was the Secretary of State for DFID (for about a month). He’s an excellent chap and has agreed to walk for ZANE when he is not plotting to bring down “No deal Brexit”. All I have to do is pop up to Penrith sometime. I told him I’m sure ZANE donors will understand my starting the ZANE walk from Canterbury to Oxford from Penrith – for it’s a small world these days, and what’s a few hundred miles among friends? All it takes is imagination!  

What’s It All About?

Why are we walking yet again? Well, talk about a cliff edge – because Zimbabwe has been thrown right off it.

Long-standing ZANE supporters will know that each year I claim that conditions in Zimbabwe couldn’t get any worse – and each year, they do get worse. We walk to remind everyone that Zimbabwe is in a terminal state caused by gross incompetence and corruption. Its government is run by about 3,000 rich people, who really couldn’t care if the rest of the people starve. For many years, the government has simply not paid its debts so it’s hardly surprising that the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, the EU and so on refuse to bail them out.

For so many of the poor, ZANE is their only hope of survival. The Mafia government has turned the bread basket of Africa into a racist beggar’s bowl. There is no healthcare and no NHS; and unemployment is at 95 per cent while inflation is at 500 per cent. The bulk of the young, strong and well-educated have fled to Australia and the UK, leaving the less able and old behind.

So we walk. Looking after the poor is what ZANE is about.

Please Understand…

… that many of my blog items are written late in the evening when I am tired. I am centre-right in my views and if you don’t agree with them, then that’s fine by me – but do go on reading! I try not to make party political points but sometimes I can’t resist the odd comment. But take note, I have been as critical of the Conservatives in recent years as of any other party! As Boris recently said, “What a mess!” Whatever you may think of him, that was an understatement.

Please also remember that the views contained in this commentary are mine, and mine alone. They don’t represent the views of any of those who work for ZANE or the trustees’ body. Can I also make the point that the printed version of this commentary is not an indulgence on my part, but generates far more revenue than the cost of printing and dispatch.   

And last but not least, if you have already sponsored us, thank you. If not, please do so!

Of course, it’s good to be back after charging round the South of England.

Back at our house, our little cat is delighted that we have returned. Did you know that when cats are happy they stick up their tails and waggle the top – if you didn’t know that, remember you heard it here first! All night the cat snuggled on our bed clearly determined not to let us out of her sight.

Despite the relentless heat both Jane and I (and Moses, who recovered fast!) are well. I have lost a bit of weight but not as much as I thought, presumably because we were so wonderfully looked after by ZANE’s finest hosts. Jane remains the same. I don’t want to overdo the flattery – remember we are English – but I am of the view that ZANE donors form the core of British backbone and its qualities: generosity, kindness, concern for others, commonsense and sheer decency.

So thanks to the hosts all for your many kindnesses.

Thanks also to Markus. It’s not an easy job looking after me/us for nearly three weeks. I get tired and I am often impatient and moody. Markus is imperturpable, full of common sense and great good humour; he is an excellent driver. So many thanks to Markus for keeping us sane and safe.

Last, as ever, thanks to Jane, kind and loving as ever… but tough, as this is an absolutely necessary quality just to keep me/us all going. And her map reading – despite what I said at the time – is excellent.

Worthwhile Words

People can be destroyed by envy and fear. Having retired, they might be envious of their working friends. Or they might be crippled by fear because they have been made redundant, and without the trappings of work, they lose their sense of identity and feel like a failure.

For many people, self-respect relies to a large extent on their status in an organisation or their standing in a profession. Their job gives them not only an income but an identity too; their view of themselves is a reflection of the high regard in which they are held for being a captain of industry, a professor, a head teacher, a general, a cabinet minister, or whatever it might be. When the work stops, these people are vulnerable, stripped of their self-esteem. Without a defined role, they ask themselves, “Am I still a worthwhile human being?”

Defining Success

Why not take a hard look at what “success” really means? I know of a number of people who look supremely “successful” but it’s not until you really get to know them that you can discern the reality: they are locked into an unhappy marriage, their children are in grave difficulties, or they – or their wife – are drinking too much. So never envy others, for we only ever see the polished veneer that hides the deep fissures.

Years ago, I heard the words of US writer and thinker Ralph Waldo Emerson, who coined the wicked aside, “The more he talked of his honour, the faster we counted the spoons.” Freedom of spirit, respect for the individual and wonder at the world’s mysteries are frequent themes in his work. Emerson redefined the word “success”:

To laugh often and much. To win respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded. 

We have finished! We were met at Christ Church and daughter Clare – Christ Church chaplain – bless her, laid on a reception in her rooms. We tottered in and the first thing that Moses did was to be violently sick on the new carpet!

The longest day…

Apparently the normal Roman day’s march was 13 miles and we did the extra mile …quite a feat in this heat. We met no walkers – we so rarely ever do – but we came across a gaggle of children from Wheatley Park School the establishment that Theresa May went to. Poor Theresa, with the world against her I’ll bet she wishes she was still back there. I told the children about our Clubfoot Programme.

At the start of today’s walk we were met by a beady-eyed woman who shot out of her house to complain that one of our party “… was sitting on a wall that was private property,” and was I aware that this was forbidden? She had leaped out the night before to ask why we were “gathering in the road”? As it is a public place I just grinned at her and told her we were “spies”, optimistically thinking I could banter her into some degree of normality. I was wholly wrong. There is always someone who’s whole purpose in life is to take offence at the least pretext and cause trouble. I tried to calm her down and I totally failed. Poor woman. She must be lonely.

A Mixed Blessing

Nigel Biggar, Professor of Moral Theology at Christ Church, Oxford, wrote an article for the Times in essence saying that the British colonial empire was like all human endeavours – a mixed blessing. A great many of our efforts were constructive and of lasting value, yet our history is tragically spotted by terrible incidents like the 1919 Amritsar massacre, about which we rightly feel shame.

This is the point: very little in history has been unequivocally good or bad. As an overarching judgement, this seems to me incontestably true, yet Nigel Biggar was bound to attract criticism because lefty intellectuals – with which Oxford is infested – have always chosen to broadcast that our colonial past is a matter of everlasting shame. And as the left proclaim moral absolutism, there is simply no point in arguing. With shrieks of fury, they insist there can be no challenge. Their mantra is that not only was the empire intrinsically evil but that every misery that today afflicts people who were once subjects of the Crown is the result of British imperialism.

Of course, this isn’t even remotely the case but it is the sophistry of our times: idiotic and deluded. This story reinforces the idea of a spurious victimhood amongst people who, if they are honest, are not victims of empire at all but victims of their brazenly corrupt and vicious leaders.

Greek Chorus

Anyway, one of this lefty tribe wrote an open letter condemning Biggar and all his works. Then he (or she) got 59 other lefties to sign it. It was a perfect example of an attempt at mob lynching. Now I have an Oxford diploma in theology and I am not totally thick, yet having read this open letter three times, I am still unable to understand what the dons – whose collective brainpower has to be the size of Basingstoke – are trying to say. It was clear they don’t like Biggar but all they could claim was that he was out of date and discredited, so there!

Anyway, then the cavalry for Biggar galloped up in the shape of editorials and letters both in the Times and Telegraph. They all backed Biggar’s right to freedom of speech. Further, they alleged that the 59 signatories were trying to bully Biggar into some sort of compliance with their snotty, confused propaganda. It’s interesting that none of the lefties has written to the papers to put the record straight, or maybe some did and it was not fit to publish. I hazard a guess that one of them wrote a letter then asked the Greek Chorus to sign it in lockstep. Once one of them joined, no one wanted to be seen to disagree. How pathetic! I hope they realise now they have made hogwhimpering fools of themselves.

British Pride

Of course, empire had its advantages. There has been plenty of chaos since its withdrawal. All the biggest African states, including the Congo, Nigeria, Sudan and Ethiopia have been crippled by vast civil wars. There have been 40 coups in the last half century, most involving the murder or execution of a head of state.  In Uganda, a tenth of the population has been murdered in two successive reigns of terror, and a million died in Rwanda. Zimbabwe, with its rich gifts of natural beauty, an intelligent people and vast quantities of minerals, has all the hallmarks of a failed state today.

Even the more civilised regimes have imposed one-party rule, abused human rights and supressed civil liberties. Many – including South Africa – are now heroically corrupt and absurdly inefficient. Poverty remains the common bond of too many African states, and the wealth of Midas the lot of too many leaders.

I could name 25 countries whose people would be a great deal better off now under empire: Somalia and Zimbabwe for starters, and what about Pakistan?

We built cities, hospitals, railways, schools and universities. We provided an incorrupt civil service. And what did we teach? Aspirations of freedom, justice and human dignity; humanitarian ideals from the likes of Livingstone; and basic Christian values of honesty, democracy and the rule of law. Of course, the new leaders have junked much of this wonderful inheritance, and replaced it with corruption and barbarism, but the shadow of our influence persists.

Unfortunately, the Empire itself was often unable to live up to what we taught. But all in all, it’s not a bad legacy. Of course, we all have to accept that it has gone with the wind, but I hold my head up high for being British. Further, I am proud of the empire Britain built – and despite its flaws, I am in awe of what our imperial ancestors managed to achieve.

Eleven people in total with me as the Pied Piper, all great fun as the end of the long walk is now in sight. Today was a mix of fields and woods and then for lunch the ancient town of Faringdon. We only got lost a couple of times with “Fred” the little guide on our hand held satnav. Occasionally he goes demob happy: he cocks a snook, points us in the wrong direction, then finally vanishes off our screen.

One of our host houses had a number of stuffed heads of shot animals on the wall, ten point antlers, majestic stags, elk, you know sort of thing.

The worst example of parading these heads – which I dislike – was many years ago when I was taking groups of Americans around Scotland. Major Gregor Grant of Inversneky (not his real name) lived in Sutherland. It was long enough ago for him to be a WW1 veteran and I remember that he was hugely pleased with himself, the sort of man who thinks he farts honey . His house was gothic Victorian and vast. The back wall of the hall was smothered in gruesome heads and he proudly pointed them out to us. There were serried ranks of gnu, stags, bison and and on it went. And then he pointed out, ”There is the head of a German soldier I shot near Ypres!”

And, dammit, there was the skull and German helmet of a soldier mounted on a plinth. Underneath was an inscription:

“Fritz

Shot, Ypres 1917”

I was too young to express my revulsion

This ghastly man had returned to the battleground after the war and simply dug up a head, brought it back and there it is. Perhaps it is hanging there still?

Probably the worst case of bad taste I have ever seen.

Yes, Sir

Boys and girls don’t always do what they are told by their parents

Our elder son was a teacher at St Paul’s boys school in London and occasionally he would be asked to dinner by parents.

On one memorable occasion the mother asked him tentatively:

“Does Henry do what he is told?”

“Yes”, replied Thomas, “he’s a very obedient boy.”

“Oh really” came the reply, “then please will you ask him to go to bed.”

Thomas went to the stairs and called up,
“Henry, it’s Mr Benyon here.”

“Yes sir”

“Please go to bed!”

“Yes sir.”

Lecherous Lines

I tremble at the idea that any of our grandchildren might fall into the sweaty clutches of the likes of Harvey Weinstein or his sleazy chums. Many women faced with the ghastly choice of furthering a career – but at the cost of a greasy fumble with the spotty Weinstein – might dumbly have consented because of fear: unless they let him have his disgusting way, their career might have come to a grinding (no pun intended) halt. What a vicious choice.

The trouble is that for each acting job, there are dozens of good-looking girls in contest, so unscrupulous career gatekeepers have always found themselves prowling around an Aladdin’s Cave of sexual variety. Actor Emma Thompson tells us she spent much of her early career with someone’s tongue stuck down her throat: so it seems Weinstein and chums have always been an occupational hazard for actresses. Although Weinstein may be an extreme case, ever since Bathsheba, young women have faced exploitation from randy, powerful men like King David.

Con Men

As a pre-emptive strike, some years ago I alerted our then teenage daughters to the specious arguments con men might use to get them laid. Although our girls roared with laughter at the time, I hope they found my warnings useful. Of course, nowadays it would appear that everyone is banging away the entire time. But until quite recently, girls – not boys – were a tad reluctant to leap into bed for all sorts of reasons. Some actually thought – old fashioned as it may sound now – that the sexual act was special, and should be kept for the man who would be faithful and true. And they might have pondered on the fact that if you have sexual intercourse with men you don’t really love, what are you going to give the man you do?

Are today’s permissive young happier today than we were in our youth, despite our alleged hang-ups? I doubt it. Wily men have always had persuasive arguments, perhaps first practised on Noah’s Ark. Here are a few – but allow me first to set the scene:

The lights are low, the wine is flowing, the flat is warm, the fancy man is reasonably attractive, and you are alone and vulnerable. However, something is holding you back – perhaps vague memories of biblical teaching – and you are thinking hard. Then he turns down the music and arm snaking, begins to persuade:

“You know I am in love with you… and have been for some time? Perhaps now is the right time to ‘get together’? Aren’t you just a little bit in love with me?

Don’t tell me that this would be your first time? How bizarre.

Your parents will never know: no one will!

Are you afraid of something? There is a rumour you’re frigid.

Come to bed and let me baptise each of your breasts!

I am so lonely. You are the only girl I know who really loves me.

Why do you need to be married to have intercourse? It’s only a piece of paper. That religious nonsense is ancient claptrap.

Virginity is so yesterday!

Religion is boring, irrelevant and untrue. It just leads to guilt. Anyway, I am a Buddhist/Rastafarian/Yogi (Bear?), and these religions are every bit as valid as Christianity. Buddhism – and the rest – allows me to have sex at any time with anyone. So celebrate and change your faith, just for the night!

All the girls are giggling about you and your ludicrous virginity. For goodness sake, give us a break.

If you don’t agree, I’m sorry but there are other girls who want to have a relationship with me: so this is the last time of asking…”

Bucking the Trend

Of course, whether you have a sexual relationship before marriage or not is not the most important issue in the world, but sex is too important to allow your wits to be addled by sexual con men. I hope that the young don’t allow themselves to be bantered into something they may subsequently regret just because, as the old song goes, “Everybody’s doing it”.

Perhaps to say “thanks, but no” in today’s sex-crazed climate is a revolutionary act.

Now there’s a thought.