A long haul through flat Bedfordshire fields coated in stubble and clay. In the most part it was particularly hard going as many farmers score out the paths, perhaps to spite walkers.

We lunched with Anne Atkins, one of the most ballsy people I know. She meets adversity with a head butt and a two finger salute and we had a delightful time laughing together. Her younger daughter Rose was with her, a delightful teenager and well able to hold her own despite our rowdy conversation.

Although the company was great the restaurant was dire as usual and makes me wonder why we don’t just take a picnic.

The waiters are part of the problem. Sadly not an alert Bulgarian or an enthusiastic Latvian in sight. Pity, that. We are obliged to endure the usual slab faced, expressionless, taciturn “Who the heck are you?” treatment. This attitude seems to be more or les universal. We have never been greeted by a waiter with, “Welcome and how nice to see you,” or, “Have you travelled far?” for it seems that none have been taught sufficient social graces to allow them to kick-start a conversation with a stranger. It’s very sad. In American restaurants you will be greeted by a fresh faced youngster who plonks a glass tinkling with iced water in front if you. They then give you their courteous attention.

Today’s sloppy crew in our pubs slouch behind the bar, challenging you to come and get it! A request for a drink is greeted by a grunt.

I’ll bet there’s a huge factory sited somewhere near Wigan that supplies these third rate pubs with pre-cooked food: just shove it in a microwave and serve it on slates (not plates) so they can charge a premium.

Then back through Bedford town. A dreary day in a dreary place.

But Anne Atkins and Rose were fun!

Strange Alchemy

One of my friend’s marriages has been teetering on the brink for some time. Last month, it finally collapsed in bitterness and acrimony. Whilst many mutual friends protest that apportioning blame is the last thing on their minds, some have taken sides and seem even to be enjoying themselves in the process. Stephen (the husband) is obsessed by trying to prove to all and sundry that he is 100 per cent in the right, and that the blame for the collapse lies entirely with his now stranded wife, Ellen, for her infidelity.

The Mystery of Marriage

I think this is pure baloney. No one is 100 per cent innocent, for life is more complex than that. Over the years, I have witnessed the failure of several marriages, and I have warmed my hands before some glowing successes. In every case I have wondered at the strange alchemy that is at the heart of it – and I have never found any logic, for marriage is as mysterious as life or fire. I only know it lives privately in its own universe, and what is presented to the onlooker is but a fleeting shadow of the reality beyond.

Scripture tells us marriage is a mystical union, and when it fails only cold ashes remain – and a litter of problems to be resolved. Do we stay or do we go? Do we pretend, and if so, for how long? Or do we fight? Can we quicken our jaded senses, or do we deaden them further with drink and pills? What will become of our precious children who must be nurtured and loved come what may? And how do we rediscover the mystery without which there can be no real love?

There but by the grace of God go we all. Poor Stephen and poor Ellen.

Put Down

An actor friend of mind told me how he had managed to deal with a heckler at one of his plays. The man was persistent and wouldn’t shut up.

“Henry, darling,” shouted the actor. “It was wonderful while it lasted, but you have to accept it’s over!”

Last night I asked our host how he had voted in the referendum. He was Brexit. When I asked him how his wife had voted he said he had no idea! A minute later she told me she had voted Brexit too and neither had thought to discuss it! Strange things, marriages.

Today we are joined by two South Africans with a close connection to Zimbabwe and we had a happy time reminiscing about friends ZANE has assisted.

When we were in Worcester cathedral a sign read: “This cathedral welcomes refugees.” I find that sort of soapy nonsense intensely irritating. The church does not have the responsibility to define what refugees are and what they are not. They don’t have to pay for them to come here, house them, educate their children, feed them, pay their health care requirements or their language tuition fees, so all the Dean seems to be doing is “lefty virtue signalling.”

Think about it. The vast majority of persecuted Zimbabweans would love to live in the likes of Guildford if given half a chance; then there are the populations of another dozen or so African countries who would follow in their wake

We have to make some tough decisions about immigration and fast. We have to agree the basics: first, refugees are those whose lives are in threat and, second, entry to the UK is a privilege and not a right.

On we plod.

To Russia With Love

Some years ago, in a spasm of charitable intentions, I travelled to Azerbaijan and then to Nagorno-Karabakh with the redoubtable Baroness Cox (Caroline). Our mission was to assist a group of Christians whom were said to be fighting for their lives. It was the dead of winter and my memories are mainly of feeling frozen.

I soon grew convinced, however, that despite Caroline’s finest hopes, our efforts were not so much about saving lives as prolonging a civil war. So I decided to make my apologies and a quick exit. To that end, I boarded a flight in Yerevan with the intention of flying to London via Moscow.

Rush Hour

The ancient Aeroflot plane was wheezing vapour to add to the frozen morning mist. However, despite the fact the plane looked only a tad more sophisticated than the Wright Brothers’ original, at least it was warm inside. There were no seat allocations so I squeezed in with a crowd of others and hoped for the best. The passengers kept on coming, though, and by the time we were due to take off it was like the London Tube rush hour with people crowded along the aisle. And you should have seen the men – all granite-faced Khrushchev look-alikes!

Then unbelievably there was a knock at the door and four men clambered in carrying jerry cans of diesel that were plunked down in front of the loos. The doors were locked and one of them pulled out a fag and merrily lit up. I wanted out but too late! As the plane took off, the only thing left to me was to shut my eyes and pray.

School Fees

Some years later, a disaster in India compelled me to get involved in charity work once again. A vast flood from the Bay of Bengal had devastated hundreds of villages: tens of thousands had drowned and hundreds of thousands had been rendered homeless. I wanted to build two schools that would benefit the poorest of the poor, and set about looking for the most deprived slums I could find. I searched particularly round the outskirts of Orissa, one of the poorest cities in the poorest state in India. At last I chose two slums, one for leprosy sufferers and another that catered for prostitutes. The district was, I recall, called Jangapally.

I spent about $20k and this went a long way. To ensure it was spent frugally and as sensibly as possible I gathered the councils of the slums together and we debated endlessly about how to proceed. A site was chosen: the easiest part of the process by far. We then bought huge covers to keep out the sun and the rain. Over the next few weeks, we bought blackboards, chairs, computers and schoolbooks; we provided three scooters for teachers. All in all, it proved to be quite a shopping list. A few days before the opening, we held a party to celebrate. But before it could begin, the chairmen of both slums came to ask a favour.

“Please can we have simple uniforms for the children? We would like each child to have a mark of distinction.”

Of course, I agreed.

“We have another request.”

“Ask away”.

“Please will you ensure that all parents are obliged to pay a fee – even if it’s very small – to ensure that they don’t take the education for granted?”

I was amazed: “But what if they have no money of any kind?”

They were insistent. “We will loan them a little bit of money: all parents must pay something.”

So that is what we arranged. For all I know this arrangement has been maintained to this day.

How interesting that the poorest and most disadvantaged people on this planet wanted school uniforms for their children, and for parents to pay a little something towards their education. It was important to them that a client/professional relationship could be created and maintained.

Both principles make perfect sense: it is sad that one of the richest nations on earth, the UK, junked both of these vital principles years ago.

Escape… and Capture

Some time ago at the Military Staff College in Camberley, General Sir Leslie McDonald (not his real name) came to give a lecture to students in the aftermath of the Korean War.

It was titled, “How I Escaped from the Chinese Six Times”.

After the session had finished and the courageous general was poised to leave, a captain in the front row raised a languid hand.

“No questions,” he was told, “the general has another meeting to attend”.

The captain insisted.

“All right then, but please make it quick!”

“Has the general any plans to give another lecture titled, “How I came to be captured by the Chinese six times?”

Lessons in Gallantry

We have all heard of the screaming abuse often levelled at Sandhurst cadets by warrant officers.

One of my friends told me of the trouble he caused when he was being screamed at by a red-faced regimental sergeant major.

The alleged “offence” was that he was said to have been less than courageous when diving into a tank on an assault course.

The RSM finished by shouting, “Study my medals!”

There was at least a dozen.

“What do you see?”

“There are 12 Sergeant Major, and none of them for gallantry!”

Another thirteen long miles. We plod through boggy, plowed-up, often clay-based fields, where the adjacent river banks are strewn with rusted barbed wire that would do the Somme battle fields proud. Often we face impassable “pedestrian” access points smothered in brambles. I imagine an overarching statement from the council hanging there: “Why not stay away and watch telly?” to send us swearing on our way.

We end with an easy three mile walk along the Grand Union Canal that connects London and Birmingham.

I was deeply relieved to see our hosts, old friends, a retired Admiral and his wife who are effortlessly hospitable. My host gave me a gin and tonic so strong I wanted to sing the Hallelujah Chorus. It’s amazing what a hot bath and a good night’s rest will do.

One statistic that may be of interest is that out of the many people we have met, only two voted “Remain.” And after careful questioning none of those who voted “Brexit” were concerned about immigration but instead they were deeply bothered by the erosion of democracy.

God Save the Queen

Last week I met a number of other friends who were distraught at the hiatus surrounding the Brexit vote.

“Woe is us!” they cried as they lamented the fact that the dice have been thrown, and that nothing will ever be the same again. There is now no turning back. The change is absolute and heralds the total destruction of all that Ted Heath laboured for all his political life. The faint sound of rustling is the sound of the poor man revolving in his grave in Salisbury Cathedral.

Why does the UK handle domestic crises so well? In a mere couple of weeks the pace of change was furious while the UK gave the world a master class in how to handle the rattling train when the wheels fall off.

The Show Must Go On

British voters decided to vote “Brexit” in total opposition to the solemn advice given by an all-star campaigning team headed by the prime minister, David Cameron, and all the usual establishment suspects – from John Major, the head of the CBI, the Governor of the Bank of England, and the World Bank to Chancellor Merkel and her EU chums. An overwhelming team of the great and the good chipped in, including various generals, leaders of all the political parties, much of the media, and President Obama. Even the Archbishop of Canterbury gave his views, although why anyone would think his opinion was even vaguely relevant beats me (the chief Rabbi wisely remained silent). All Justin Welby did was to irritate at least half of CoE members for no gain at all.

Then the referendum took place and to everyone’s total incredulity the establishment and its advice was given a vigorous two fingers. The prime minister honourably resigned, and within a week a new PM was in place, a fresh cabinet had set to work and the beginnings of Brexit were underway.

Why are we so good at this sort of thing? The UK has been in crisis mode before of course, although the Brexit vote is undoubtedly far more important than anything else that has happened politically since the end of the Second World War. Cast your mind back to the defenestration of Maggie in the middle of the Gulf War in 1991. It passed surprisingly smoothly – for everyone but Mrs T – as the government dusted itself down and we started all over again.

Now to the USA, which has a fundamentally different political system. In 1973, the USA ousted President Nixon after the ghastly Watergate debacle. What an upheaval! Even nearly half a century later, memories of the pain of that incident are still so acute that scar tissue is only just forming. It was the Nixon scandal that had the authorities reluctantly deciding that they simply couldn’t go through that process yet again when President Clinton arguably behaved just as badly over the Monica Lewinski affair. When he insisted “I didn’t have sex with that woman”, everyone knew he was lying.

I submit that if both men had been British prime ministers, the men in grey suits would have torpedoed them within a week: game over.

What’s the difference between our political system and that of the USA? When Thatcher was “replaced”, or when the Cameron referendum blew up in his face and Labour entered meltdown, the “technical” repository of all power in the UK remains vested in our good Queen Elizabeth II. As the dust flies up around her, she continues to sit on her throne while the “here today, gone tomorrow” politicians scrabble around far below.

Of course the queen would never dream of interfering: but the point is she could – she is the head of state, not the prime minister.

When Nixon and Clinton imploded, they were both heads of state and supreme “Hail to the Chief” of the forces. That’s why the scars of the Nixon impeachment were so hard to heal, and it’s why they “forgave” Clinton.

God Save the Queen! Perhaps the USA might like to become a colony again – it does have certain advantages.

The Chilcott Effect

I hate public vilification. I hate the snarl of the pack at the heels of more or less anyone (other than Sepp Blatter! I am rather enjoying that – this shows how fallen I am.)

I know the world now comprehensively condemns the Blair government for the Iraq war. I don’t want to get involved in the rights and wrongs of the conflict but a few thoughts as I walk.

First, I loathe the media circus prancing around the bereaved families. Of course the media loves raw emotion, the more tears the better.

“Tell me Mrs Peabody, what did you feel when you learned your son had been maimed?”

“Do you think the war is “right”?

“Do you think the equipment was sufficient? Don’t you think the war is a disaster and that the prime minister is culpable?”

Of course, if a member of my family had been killed in war, I too would give way to an emotional response, and whatever new facts were presented, it is unlikely my feelings would ever change. To many of the bereaved, Blair is murderous scum and he can never be forgiven.

As a highly intelligent, man Blair must know this. We are all sensitive and he and his family must loathe the threats and the never-ending hatred that will be his lot until he dies.

Of course, I am desperately sorry for the families of people who have been killed in conflict. But for heaven’s sake, the bereaved are the last people on earth who can be reasonably expected to give a measured and balanced response to any question about the morality of the conflict, the competence of the way the conflict was conducted and its aftermath, or the decisions and methods of those in charge.

Chilcott and his like are a new phenomenon. Thank goodness he was not around 100 years ago when the Somme casualties were of an industrial order and the catchy phrase “lions led by donkeys” had yet to be penned. Then what about Churchill’s Dardanelles fiasco?  If that had been “Chilcotted” at the time, Churchill would never have survived past 1916 to confront the evils of Hitler.

Regarding the so-called “dodgy dossier”: historically the accusations facing Blair, even if true, are thin gruel.

In 1941, Roosevelt bolstered support for Britain’s war by “sexing” up a naval incident into a Nazi act of aggression. By claiming to have possessed a secret map of NAZI designs on Latin America – a map far more dodgy than any dossier Blair is accused of manufacturing since the British had forged it and Roosevelt knew this – America edged closer to war.

Few would infer today that it was wrong then to have taken any steps necessary to get the USA involved in the war against Hitler. So perhaps when Churchill said that “the truth is so important, it has to be guarded by a circle of lies”, he might have had a point.

Remember that from 1939–42, the UK failed to win any battles until Alamein. All that time, men died probably because of being under-prepared and under-armed – who knows?  And don’t forget the Norway, Dunkirk and Dieppe fiascos; and then the fall of Singapore and Operation Market Garden.

What would Chilcott have made of it all?

All wars are ghastly yet men queue up to take part! Lord Byron summed it up by writing, “All wars are a brain-splattering, windpipe-splitting art”. Just as well, for otherwise men would love them so.

But no battle plans survive contact with the enemy, and all men (and women) in war make dreadful and costly mistakes. How unforgiving we have become.

And another thing. I reckon that the penalties of going to war today are so draconian that only a foolhardy prime minister would ever dare to act for fear they might end up in the Hague. That’s a thought for us all.

We walk a full twelve miles through Northamptonshire countryside where we hunted with the Grafton Hunt all those years ago; memories of the wide fields and the golden bricks of the houses all flooded back to us.

Charles Clayton was the CEO of the UK international charity, World Vision, and now one of his consultancies is ZANE. He is a source of valuable information and advice, in particular, what works and what doesn’t. Yesterday I mentioned a couple of charitable ideas that, although popular, are flawed and can actually damage the very people we are trying to help. In fact a great deal of charitable effort is, in my view, misplaced, and amongst the most hazardous are orphanages. They sound as if they are a valuable resource, but as Charles points out they remove children from the community.If they are well run they can create jealousy, they can institutionalise children so they find it almost impossible to live normal lives when they return to the community as adults. More or less anything is better than that.

We stay in a comfortable house as the guests of a couple of professionals with a hoard of children, some their own, others were friends and there was a team of Argentinean young who I think are exchange students from Northampton High School. The daughter of the house is called Bonnie who I am sure will either be an actress or the heir to Theresa May.

Take a Risk!

One of my friends told me that she was certain all the pupils in her class of 18-year-old boys were involved in a sexual relationship – not some of them, but all of them. In my experience nothing as bleak as that statistic can occur without paying some sort of future cost in terms of vague promiscuity. I may be wrong but I recall the old song, “Everybody’s doing it, doing it, doing it” and when this becomes the norm there are usually unfortunate repercussions.

Sweet Sixteen

When both of our daughters turned 16, I sent them a letter with many of the arguments a man might use to get then into bed. Imagine: the lights are low, the house is empty, the bed alluring, and soft music is playing. The boy is handsome and you want to please him. But something makes you hesitate.

Then he will gently say some of the following:

“You can’t possibly be telling me that this is your first time, how quaint! Look your parents will never know, and you shouldn’t let them dominate you. Come on, forget the old religious claptrap, it’s sooooo yesterday… I think you must be frigid – just prove you aren’t! Why not just enjoy the moment and show you love me? Do you know, everyone is saying that you are a tease, all talk and no action. I hate to say this, but there are several girls who really like me  – so unless you come to bed with me, I’m sorry but I’ll be off. Live for the moment, this moment! Let me baptise each breast, one by one.”

Well these are a few of the ploys I know men have used in the past. The truth is that the girls – and they have most to lose – walk really tall if they say “no” and are known to be chaste; even if the boys jeer at the time, they much respect the girls who stand their ground.

But isolation at any age is a real fear and not following your peer group is very hard. When all the girls are talking about boys and you are the one who keeps herself to herself, how will you cope? Especially when everybody’s doing it, who wants to be labelled a freak?

In Ibsen’s play The Enemy of the People, the hero discovers that the majority is always wrong. In my opinion, nowhere is that more true than in the area of sex for the young.

Bulging Britain

I went to a charity presentation last weekend and there had to be about 300 people there – all professional and well pensioned, they were Oxford’s finest. I reckon the average age was a little over 60, and to be cruel at least two thirds looked to be at least two stone overweight. This is the new norm – why?

If you lunch at local caffs in Oxford Central the reason for Britain’s weight issues becomes blindingly obvious. There are tureens of creamy soups, piles of macaroons and stacks of creamy cakes larded with jam. Chocolate eclairs compete with double-sided chocolate biscuits, puff-pastry custards and caramel cream confections. Mountains of sugary snacks and crisps are meant to be washed down by latte coffee and sugary drinks.

When overweight people are in the majority then rapidly plumpness becomes the norm.

Down in the poorer parts of the city, say in Cowley, the food is even faster and far less healthy, and the food is laced with sugar and carbohydrates. You can see pre-teenaged children swelling up like Tweedle Dum and Dee, straining the zips and the buttons of their Lycra trousers.

Teams of fat people suffering from diabetes are lining up at the doors of the NHS. In the face of this tide of flab, surely it can’t survive. Diabetes and heart problems are facing the NHS like a tsunami.

Don’t Take Care!

When I walked into my gym the other week, I saw a little boy – aged perhaps five or so – on his own. When I asked him if he was lost, he looked horrified. When I smiled, his lip trembled and he started to whimper. His mother appeared, gave me a sour look, grabbed the boy and stalked off.

Of course he had been warned not to talk to dirty old men, and his mum chose not to give me the benefit of the doubt. But it’s a sad day when all elderly men are to be lumped together as potential gropers. I suppose mothers hope that if they snarl enough at us all, this might help to create a risk-free environment for their children? When, for heaven’s sake, will these mothers allow their children to take on a few gentle risks? Parents today apparently believe that because a miniscule minority of people may be dangerous, all strangers must be avoided… just to be on the safe side.

What a lonely, isolated and fearful society we are becoming. The power of the 24/7 media has become so pervasive that when someone is molested in say Scarborough, everyone the length and breadth of the UK knows about it instantly – and in great detail. This wall-to-wall media coverage gives the impression that since an army of no-gooders is lurking poised to molest children everywhere, it’s best to snarl at any stranger – just in case he (or she) turns out to be a Jack-the-Ripper sort.

Teaching children to be suspicious of everyone is misguided. There has been no golden era when people were “better” than they are today. The number of rotten people has remained constant since Adam and Eve scoffed the apple.

It’s sad to be snarled at for an act of kindness. So to all mums: don’t take care! Take a risk, and teach your children that when they are smiled at there is no harm in smiling back.

A couple of calls that are hard to cope with without giving terminal offence…

A dear friend with a great heart want to join our teams in Zimbabwe and “help the poor.”

The trouble is that it is not as simple as it sounds. Unschooled friends always need a great deal of looking after and by the time they are into the job they are gone! The poor are not exhibits in a zoo, they are real life human beings with pride, as we all have, and they do not want to be patronised by amateurs, however well intended. And strange faces are a security risk. What are we do do if they are arrested and banged up in the local slammer?

Another caller wants us to “partner them” and I know what that means. There is an old advertisement that is said to read: “Communist with spoon seeks partnership with capitalist with pork pie.” Our caller has an idea and he wants ZANE to pay for it. I have been around, you know, and I fob this off in as kind a way I can muster! Raise your own money, sunshine.

Last month another person wanted us to lend our authority and networks to supply her funds to help a village school. I had to gently explain that she has to have a long term commitment and the programme has to be sustainable; if the donor gets bored or runs out of money expectations in the village will be thwarted.

All these initiatives may sound good but they have more to do with making donors feel good rather than helping the poor escape their poverty and grow tall.

Behind the Mask

An old friend told me, “Everything in moderation, except vegetables, laughter and sex.”

Not everyone has such a well-developed sense of humour at all times. He died recently, one of life’s great survivors who ended his days cheerfully and surrounded by his family. Many are not so lucky; it can be a viciously lonely world out there and many people are floundering with no one to turn to. Real friendship is a rarity.

Solitude

Do you remember Lady Isobel Barnett? She was a celebrity in the late 1950s and 1960s appearing on panel games such as “What’s My Line?” With her cut-glass accent and polished poise, people thought she was an aristocrat but in fact she was no such thing. Her husband had been knighted as Mayor of Leicester and she came from a perfectly ordinary background, although she was a qualified doctor. As the years passed, the invitations to chat shows began to dry up, and requests for after-dinner speeches stuttered to a halt. Her husband died and her only child lived abroad. As the wheels of her life began to fall off, she was engulfed by the gnawing despair of loneliness.

The poem “Solitude” with the lines “Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone” often proves true enough. Perhaps as a response to her loneliness, Lady Barnett began to shoplift and was caught with a tin of tuna and cream worth 87p. She had sewn a bag to the inside of her coat to hide the goods so she had no excuse. Found guilty and fined £75, she killed herself just four days later by throwing an electric heater into her bath.

Dying and Done For

When I was a district councillor, the chairwoman was a delightful lady, bright and commanding in a mumsy sort of way and with a naughty twinkle. We got on well. She was a paragon of respectability and married to a local headmaster. There were no children.

Then the locusts moved in: she lost her chairwoman’s role and then her council seat. Problems don’t come in platoons but in battalions: her husband died, and then her wrinkles widened into cracks. Some years later, the local news blared that she had been banned from driving for a drink offence; then there was another offence and a suspended sentence. I went to her house to commiserate and found her so drunk she could hardly stand. Soon afterwards she died from alcoholism.

In the Aykbourn trilogy of plays The Norman Conquests there was a wild party with the guests dancing along in a conga line around the house. They circled round the legs of their host who had hanged himself in the stairwell, and no one saw anything awry.

Mother Teresa used to say that although the poor of Calcutta had no money or assets, they at least had community. The poor can weep together and comfort one another. They can pray and share the little they have. All too often, all we have in the affluent UK are our masks of respectability and the good old NHS; oh yes, and our chanting we are “all right thank you”, and an endless drone about the weather.

In Betjeman’s poem “Song of a Nightclub Proprietress”, the protagonist says:

“But I’m dying now and done for
What on earth was all the fun for?
I am ill and old and terrified and tight”.

It sort of sums it up really, doesn’t it?  Cheerful old soul, aren’t I? Still, stop moaning and count our blessings. Offenbach wrote in one of his operas: “When you cannot have what you love, then you must love what you have.”

I’ll settle for that.

Peas Please

Jane was recently away looking after our two granddaughters. I felt bereft even though she had left me copious notes about what to eat and when. She provided me with a tidy supply of excellent soup and cottage pie in the freezer, so I had no reason to grumble. (I never have good reason but that doesn’t stop me.)

One task was to look after and feed our grandson Daniel (aged 10) before he was due to star in a children’s production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat.

Daniel is delightful… though not altogether easy! He accepted that I was to feed him – he had little choice – with ill-disguised incredulity.

I set the table and produced the food.

“Where are the vegetables?” he demanded.

“Sorry, there are no vegetables… Granny must have forgotten.”

His voice grew steely and he threw me one of the withering looks that are his speciality.

“Granny always gives me peas and potatoes.” The silence grew as he ate.

The show was a great success then I delivered him home. We were both quietly thankful his stay was over and he was still alive.

When I saw his mother, Clare, I asked for Daniel’s confidential report on me?

It was short and pithy. “He said you were as he expected… though he did wonder how anyone can reach the age of 73 without being able to boil peas and potatoes?”

Another day off to allow my injured little toe to recover its poise. The colour has subsided from vermillion to a delicate pink and the pain has lowered to my gloomy awareness that there is still some way to go. I want the toe to recover but not so much as I forfeit whatever sympathy I can squeeze from Jane as I limp along.

I gave her a party at Christ Church last night because she has an important birthday shortly. I asked only our local friends who, in the split second when you see them coming, cause your heart to rise up rather than fall down. You know exactly what I mean: it’s quite involuntary.

I told guests that the only time I fall out violently with my beloved is when we are driving or, to be accurate, when I am driving and Jane is the back seat passenger. Before the satnav was invented we occasionally came to blows as Jane has a high regard for her map reading skills and she raps out curious instructions at random with all the insistence of a speaking clock. When the satnav appeared I thought that this device would herald harmony…. dream on, because all that happened was the transference of her demands from me to the satnav!

“What a stupid route”, she would snarl, “the little man yammering away inside this thing is an idiot. Any fool with half a brain must know we should be on the A32, not the M4,” and on she would rant. Then I discovered to my astonishment that she was studying a second satnav, the first is built into the car, the other is on her mobile phone and, what’s more, there’s a map spread across her knee. Of course they were all at odds with one another and apparently each suggested direction varied diametrically as to where we hoped to get to!

The last time we traveled north she stopped and reversed four times in the first ten miles at the suggestions of the different satnavs and maps.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked her quietly.

“Why are you shouting?”

“It’s not me, Darling, it’s the poor people shouting about your parenthood in the cars behind!”

The party was a joyous celebration. Our youngest daughter Milly gave a passionate speech about her Mum, far too personal to detail here but it was a heart warming occasion. We don’t have enough parties and celebrations nowadays and we need a break from wakes and funerals and the memorial services that punctuate our lives.

All notable events should be punctuated with parties, any excuse will do. They don’t have to be lavish, just get lots of your loving friends together and encourage them to have a good time, with lots of happy talk and lots of laughter, for, as Hilaire Beloc tells us: “There’s naught worth the wear of living but laughter and the love of friends.”

A friend told me that when he was about go be married he knew nothing of the birds and the bees (half a century is a long time ago and many of us were innocents then!) and so he searched for a suitable tome that might teach them the basics. He found one in a second hand book shop called:

“How to Hug”.

It wasn’t until he got home he found he had bought volume five of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

Jekyll and Hyde

I read The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde by genius Robert Louis Stevenson the other day. Although I first read it many years ago, only now do I see how the book packs such a potent message. Of course, Stevenson came from my hometown of Edinburgh.

It’s a fascinating book. Dr Jekyll comes to the conclusion he is “an incongruous compound of good and evil.” He becomes convinced that his bad nature is restraining his good one, and finds that his bad side prevents him from following through his good intentions. So he concocts a potion that will separate his two selves. Believing his good nature will be allowed to shine, free from the taint of wickedness, Jekyll thinks he will be able to achieve his goals.

The Darkness Within

However, one night Jekyll drinks his potion and discovers his evil nature is far more developed than he thought possible. He describes his evil self thus:

“I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my original evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine…. (Edward Hyde’s) every act and thought centred on self.”

As his name suggests, Edward Hyde is “hidden”. He only thinks of his own pleasure and desires; and he couldn’t care less whom he hurts to gratify his needs. He will kill if someone is in his way.

Stevenson is saying that even the best people try to hide – from others as well as themselves – the evil that is within. Hyde’s self-absorption and his regard for his own interests are total.

Self-aggrandisement is the cornerstone of so much of the misery in this world: it’s the reason why the rich seldom care for the plight of the poor; it’s the reason for so much of the violence and destruction in the world; and it’s at the heart of most family misery and break-ups, or rows at work. We often hide from ourselves our self-centred capacity for evil acts but situations arise as a “potion” and out they come.

Once Jekyll understands Hyde’s capacity for evil, he decides to clamp down on this frightful self-centredness and pride at the core of his being. In other words he gets “God” and so he solemnly resolves not to take the potion anymore. He devotes himself to charity and good works, in part to atone for the sins of his past and also to smother his sinfulness with acts of kindness and charity.

One day, while sitting on a bench in London’s Regent’s Park, he starts to brood about all the good he is doing and how he is a much better man – despite Edward Hyde – than the vast majority of people.

“I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with honesty that my resolve was fruitful of some good…. And then I smiled, comparing myself with other men, comparing my active goodwill with the lazy cruelty of their neglect… And at the very moment of that vain-glorious thought, a qualm came over me, a hideous nausea and the most dreadful shuddering…. I looked down… I was once more Edward Hyde”.

This is a ghastly turn of events. For the first time Jekyll becomes Hyde without the potion. In despair, Jekyll kills himself.

What happened? Jekyll knows he is a sinner and he tries to cover up his sins with a vast heap of good works. Yet his efforts never shrink his pride and selfishness, quite the reverse. They lead him to feel superior, self-righteous and proud and – Bang! – Jekyll becomes Hyde again, not in spite of his goodness but because of his goodness.

What a plot.

Strange World

Some 50 years ago, a cult leader by the name of Jim Jones managed to persuade over 900 of his “followers” to commit suicide by drinking cyanide in Guyana in the hope of a better life after death.

In the 1930s, Hitler managed to persuade the bulk of the very sophisticated German people to elect him; then he persuaded the majority to accept that the Jews, the mentally ill, homosexuals and gypsies were “less than fully human”, and that it was okay to kill them then steal their money and assets. Oh yes, and he wanted more “living space” for the German people. Hitler’s war ended up by killing 62 million – and that includes the 32 million folk accounted for in Stalin’s Russia.

In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, we in the UK persuaded ourselves – churches too – that negroes from Africa were less than fully human, and that is was okay to treat them as assets to be bought and sold, and killed at will. We also believed, until the myth unravelled in the trenches of the First World War, that we the British were morally superior to everyone else on the planet.

There is an apocryphal story of a British ambassador who, just before the First World War, wanted to know from the Buckingham Palace protocol unit who would take precedence at a dinner: he or the Dali Lama? The reply snapped back, “The Dali Lama thinks he’s God: you take precedence.” The point is this is said to be true!

So it appears that mankind can believe in more or less anything – including sun, ancestor and animal worship, and money, sex and golf worship. However far-fetched the proposition may be, given the right circumstances and often under the influence of a charismatic leader, people will fall into line.

Well you may think that things are different today, that we are cleverer and wiser, and that we have learned from the mistakes of the past. Just stop for a moment. What evidence is there that this is true? Our contemporary advertising industry thrives on the improbable proposition that however unpromising the raw material, if Joe or Mary Soap wears this scent or drives that car, or carries that case or handbag, they will transform from frogs into princes and become irresistible to anyone of the opposite sex. And since the dawn of time, mankind has tried to validate the experiment that money, sex and power will bring happiness. In any other scientific field, this experiment would have been scrapped long since, but no: as if riding on a tight loop, mankind keeps on trying!

Well many of you may think that the beliefs of the religious communities are all equally daft, and on the same level as the “tooth fairy” of childhood. Well of course that’s a matter of opinion but some strange quirks catch the eye.

In 1999, the English football manager Glen Hoddle announced that he believed in a rather peculiar theory of “reincarnation” and that today’s physically handicapped people are paying for the sins of past generations. These arresting remarks generated an inevitable firestorm of criticism. The then prime minister, Tony Blair, said that Hoddle’s views were so disgusting he should resign as football manager, and soon Hoddle was forced from his job.

Then in 2009, the bones of St Therese of Lisieux came to London at the invitation of the Catholic Church. Thousands of the faithful were able to file past these relics for a fee. I presume the idea – apart from making money – was that some of the sanctity of the saint would rub off on the viewer.

Matthew Parris noted that Prime Minister Blair was queuing. Now Parris and I think that the saintly bones are just bones and that treating them as a sort of good luck charm is just as bizarre – if not as offensive – as Glen Hoddle’s beliefs.

I am reminded of the Yorkshire saying, “There’s now’t so queer as folk!”

Now is the time for me to read ‘Power and Pragmatism” by past Foreign Secretary Malcolm Rifkind who is speaking for ZANE in early November. An excellent and insightful book about an extraordinary career by a man crackling with ability and high achievement. Defence Secretary and foreign Secretary and today an elder statesman whose views are continually being sought.

I am also reading David Coltart’s book “The Struggle Continues” that outlines in terrible detail the plight of Zimbabwe today. David describes the many attempts on his life as if they were an occupational hazard or a commonplace in his role as education secretary in the coalition government.

No Sex Please, We’re Godly…

On a recent holiday, a couple of good friends showed Jane and me a YouTube clip of a comic called Danny Bhoy comparing the Italian and British parliaments, and demonstrating how the Italians wish one another “good luck”.

After we had laughed we were left wondering which of our friends would enjoy Bhoy’s act and who would be shocked? Okay, Bhoy swears, and deploys vulgarity and mild sexual innuendo – but not gratuitously, and so what? Why do sexual references produce such anxiety amongst the religious community? And why don’t money, anger, jealousy, or envy produce an equal reaction, for it’s apparently okay to make jokes about these subjects, but not sex?  Go figure. In fact, when you come to think about it, I suppose the two subjects of God and sex cause the greatest fear and anxiety in people; the same topics that form the basis of most so-called “jokes”.

The Christian “Walk”

Anyway we have friends whose default position where vulgarity is concerned is a permanent sniff of disapproval and so we have to be careful. Don’t forget that Christians are expected not to tell smutty stories; not to gossip or boast; and not to exaggerate events. In fact, it seems to me there is very little we can talk about other than what the vicar said last Sunday, and the weather – which is, I suppose, why the latter is such a popular topic! No wonder the Desert Fathers maintained a vow of silence.

I know some people who are “good” in the worst sense of the word. These are the Christians who wander about with downcast eyes and turned-down mouths. They can be relied on to parade their interpretation of scripture as the “right one”, or to condemn gay rights and disapprove of women vicars. Quick to condemn joy, fun and sex, these deeply dreary types are the ones who put off non-Christians (who take one look and not surprisingly say “no thanks”). They can be heard talking in “holy” voices in church, and have a special vocabulary in which they detail their Christian “walk”; or they can be heard muttering about what God confided to them that very morning, or celebrating the car space that was miraculously made available. They read lessons in church, not as the good news but as a final demand for payment; and when they are around, the temperature drops at least five degrees as the sun vanishes behind the nearest cloud. Who can blame it?

Old-School Humour

What is wrong with a bit of vulgarity provided it doesn’t hurt anyone? I don’t like gratuitous swearing, crudeness or blasphemy. But salty stories and earthy humour (see Danny Bhoy) is different as it lightens the day and does no harm – there is no therapy better than a good laugh. Humour doesn’t change much throughout the ages. I visited Pompeii recently, and saw graffiti drawings of cocks and balls – as have been drawn on loo walls since the Garden of Eden (were there loos there?) So what’s new?

By all accounts, Jesus spent a good deal of his time talking to fallen women, tax collectors, drunkards, down-and-outs, and deeply flawed people like me. He was an attractive man, charismatic and wildly popular. I doubt he told his low-life friends to “shut up” whenever they started to tell an off-colour story. Sex has been a source of vulgar humour since the world began. Jesus must have heard all the old jokes and he probably had a good laugh at them too. I’ll bet he would have laughed at Danny Bhoy because he had a sense of humour. In fact, the late former Lord Chancellor Viscount Hailsham once proclaimed that Jesus told a joke when he called Peter “His Rock”!”

So if you are a Christian, does Danny Bhoy’s act offend you? If so, why?

I managed to slip down a flight of stairs in my stockinged feet in one of our host’s houses and jammed the little toe of my left foot in the banisters. This brilliant move may have broken my fall but it twisted the toe just this side of snapping. Not a good move in the early stages of a long walk. Donors will realise that I have been limping this past week and delighted to have a short break to allow the toe that strongly resembles a prize winning radish to recover its past poise.

We went to a service in one of the many churches we attend to favour and the sermon was about the need to avoid sin, and it was implied, particularly sexual sin. Glancing round the congregation I concluded that, as gross self indulgence has reduced most of them to such proportions, both adultery and fornication would merely be an exercise in the ridiculous.

Another couple of days off and then back to the walk.

The Grim Reaper

Another friend of mine is at death’s door. His wife is convinced he will be saved by a miracle cure – not “may”, mind, but “will”. I worry about this. Not so long ago, one of my employee’s husbands was afflicted with pancreatic cancer, and then it spread to his liver and lungs. It seemed clear that it was “Good night, sweet Prince” for him, but no – Rachel had received a sign that he would be cured. Then she heard about a clinic in Acapulco that offered a diet and drug cure for a mere £20k – would I cough up?

Call me a cynical old thing if you will, but in my view if the Oxford Nuffield can’t crack it then why would a South American clinic? Of course, there will always be some snake-oil clinic that claims to have a miracle cure (no guarantees mind) – provided, of course, you have the dosh.

I have known three cases of partners so hooked on the idea that their loved one was not going to die that it inhibited the process of saying “farewell”. Further, the failure of healing to take place resulted in great resentment and a broken-hearted loss of faith.

Cheerio, Here I Go…
Death, of course, comes to us all, and it’s a lonely business. We all have to deal with it in our own way. Here’s what I think:

I am a profoundly fortunate man to have survived thus far. When I am diagnosed with my galloping ab-dabs – and it’s not “if” it happens but “when” – I hope I shall dwell upon how incredibly lucky I’ve been to have experienced a life marinated in love for as long as I can remember. And I will give thanks for I have been the beneficiary of undeserved GRACE to such a degree that I wonder just to think about it.

I am now an old man and most of what I was meant to do has been done (or not done). So, if I am due to die soonest then I shall of course have a few regrets, and I will be profoundly sad to leave my family and friends behind. But broadly speaking, the timing will be fine by me for I am in God’s hands. His will be done, all will be well, and thank you for the joy and laughter. I hope I will be able to say all this cheerfully enough for unless one is actually facing the end then how we come to terms with it is bound to be theory.

Many of my dear friends are dying with distressing rapidity and I seem to spend an increasing amount of time at funerals and memorial services. It all appears so arbitrary: some of the finest people seem to be “gathered”, as the Scots quaintly put it, and then there are those whom I think could easily be spared that seem grimly to soldier on. Broadcaster David Frost died in 2013 and then his 31-year-old son Miles died last year. Poor Carina Frost had to face the double whammy of losing her husband and son within a short period of time. Mother Teresa once said she intended to have a strong word with the Recording Angel when she arrived in Heaven, and I propose to do the same!

All Will Be Well
I have to admit I’ve never witnessed a “miracle cure” as such, but that’s not to say these manifestations do not occur – just that they seem to be rare. For me, miracles are not necessarily to do with physical cures, but instead may provide profound spiritual healing: the resolution of deep personal traumas, such as a lack of forgiveness; the occasion for true repentance and the resolution of family disputes (often those that have lain unrecognised for years); and the forgiveness of sins and a spiritual awakening that can transform not only the lives of the dying, but of those who are agonisingly left behind.

My view is that whatever happens, all will be well and all manner of things will be well. Our lives are gifts from God, and He (or She) can take back that gift at any time.

We walk back towards Stratford to pick up the car and leave for a couple of days off.  Marcus, our excellent driver. comments about Jane’s and my relationship  and tell me we are a great team.

I ask him who he thinks is the boss?

He grins: “it’s obvious, ” he says. “Jane of course,”

There is no more to say really is there.

The Real Me

In Zimbabwe, ZANE looks after hundreds of very old and frail people. When you’re running a charity with finite resources, there is always the temptation to talk in numbers and thereby depersonalise people, simply regarding them as a group to be financially supported.

But if  Helen, now a feeble old bag of bones hunched up in a bed, was able to speak fluently, she might tell us of how she was brought up in an orphanage in the Transvaal, and left school at 13; or how before the war she won a beauty contest, and how she wished we could see her as she was then with a trim figure, gorgeous brown eyes and thick hair with autumn tints.

Then she married Jim and things were tough. There are no NHS or social services in Zimbabwe – if you need help, there are only local friends who might be able to sympathise briefly, but then again they have their own problems for everyone is fighting some sort of battle.

Jim bought a farm from the government, about 20 km from Marondera. Feisty Helen helped Jim literally hack a home and productive fields from the raw bush. For 45 years, grass was endlessly cut back, scrub and weeds were hooked out, fencing was put up, cattle were tended and dams were built. It was a hard life but a happy and rewarding one too. Sadly, the grown children left with one-way tickets for Tasmania and Toronto –having children leave home for work reasons is an occupational hazard for most Zimbabwe families these days.

Then in a blaze of lurid publicity the world watched as the farm invasions began. In Helen and Jim’s case, they were violently thrown off the farm that had been their home. They saw their pedigree cattle being starved and then hacked to death; they watched their dams silt up and mature trees cut down. Machinery was sold and crops left to waste, and their workers were assaulted and turfed out of their houses. The couple watched the nightmare unfold in slow motion – and a lifetime of love and hard labour was reduced to a car crash.

Six years ago, Helen was obliged to nurse Jim as he lay dying from a broken heart.

If Helen could speak now, I bet she’d say to her carers, “My body may be worn out but I am still a feisty woman with a vibrant soul. Stop waking me when I want to sleep, stop putting me to bed when I want to stay awake. Stop rationing my brandy and stop treating me like a schoolgirl when you find fags in my handbag. After all, what’s the point of my living for yet another week or so – it’ll only be raining! And stop talking to me as if I was an educationally sub-normal child. Look beyond and beneath what you think you see, and talk to the person I have been – and still am. Above all, respect my wish to stay in control of what remains of my life.

We saw Helen crouching in a foetal position. It’s amazing how tiny a space this human being occupied. The carers nudged her gently and told her that we there to see her. They talked in the way carers do when they spend their lives communicating with people who are losing their brain cells fast.

“Hello Helen… Tom is here, dear. He has come all the way from Oxford to see you. Will you say “hello” to him?”

The little bundle moved slightly and the head lifted ever so warily, just enough for the mouth to be freed and one eye to open.

“Piss off!” she hissed, and that was it.

So I did. It’s a great privilege to be able to help such a courageous women as Helen.

Last night we had dinner with the talented and rightly famous cricket star Andy Flower. In 2003, Andy and Henry Olonga decided to wear black armbands in an international match in Harare to mark the horrors taking place in their beloved country. Because of the violence of the row they generated both men decided that their families would be under threat and they left for the UK. England’s International cricket status has been immeasurably enhanced by Andy’s coaching and be has agreed to attend a ZANE event this Autumn.

Today we marched through Stratford on Avon, past the swans, the theatre and dozens of Anne Hathaway tea shops and notched another 12 miles on our walk scorecard. If ZANE donors have never seen a Shakespeare play in the new Stratford theatre make it a “bucket list” essential. The RSC Actors could make the Albanian telephone directory entertaining.

Boys Don’t Cry

When I was young, most of my contemporaries seemed fearful of intimacy. Of course they looked normal and sounded normal, but they were afraid of meaningful communication. What had happened to them? Frozen relations at home, bullying at prep schools, being beaten at public school (it still happens in Zimbabwe and in South Africa), parents who told them “boys don’t cry”….

As a result, a good number grew up deeply anxious and a few even stammered, just like Bertie in the film The King’s Speech. I thought that there would have been a generational shift by now but one of my grandsons tells me that things are more or less the same. Anyone who expresses emotion at an expensive school today is deemed “moist” or a “big girl’s blouse”. And it seems the locker-room is still open season for dirty jokes, with “little” women treated as playthings and not to be taken seriously: how sad is this?

Chit Chat

If we fail to express emotions for long enough then they start to atrophy. One of my friends told me that he feared communion because it was too personal. He was telling me, I suppose, that he found it hard to be human. He’s a brilliant public speaker and can win over any audience, but he’s fearful of one-to-one conversations. That may sound like a paradox but it’s easily explained: speeches can be controlled, for these formal encounters are on the speaker’s terms: you can say exactly what you want to, and then it’s over. When my friend has finished a speech, he darts from the room to ensure that he doesn’t have to participate in any unscripted personal encounter, the agenda of which he can’t control.

Personal encounters can be frightening. That’s why people want to depersonalise God’s love and play it down, otherwise it can be threatening. The small talk and social contrivances of polite society are designed to protect people from the confrontations inherent in a meaningful personal exchange. I won’t play this game because I find it irritating: small talk can be so exquisitely constructed that in a room full of people the talk may never extend beyond surface chit-chat. One of my friends controls conversation by telling prepared “stories” as his defence mechanism.

I think that quite a number of church services are designed to parallel social etiquette. They help us avoid any meaningful encounter with God – we escape from having a real dialogue with God into a parallel universe where “religion”, “respectability, morality” and “the Church” are just empty concepts.

Why do so many fear personal encounters and loving relationships? I think it because at one time or another – and we may have forgotten it – our intrinsic tenderness has been violated. Therefore all future potential encounters spell violation. What has happened in practice? A poet has read his most sacred secrets to an audience, who jeer and scorn. A lover offers his heart to another only to be cruelly rejected, or a first affair is ended by a brutal email. A baby stretches out his arms to his universe (his mother) only to be repelled because she is busy. Once bitten twice shy: if an attempt towards intimacy is rejected then the pain is great, the cost is too high, and we may permanently withdraw.

However, the cost of withdrawal is also high. C.S. Lewis describes what can happen:

“Love anything and you heart will surely be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with little hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket – safe, dark, motionless and airless – it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation.”

Under Fire

Have you ever wondered how you would behave under enemy fire?  It’s not a common occurrence today; some readers may have been fired on in Northern Ireland, and some sons of donors may have seen battle in the Falklands debacle or perhaps served in Afghanistan or Iraq. However, as I say, the experience of warfare is a relatively rare one compared to that of earlier generations who served in two world wars.

The veterans left today are now pinched by old age and slowly vanishing from view over the landscape of memory but many of them have told me that the business of killing is a skilled trade and it reaches its apotheosis in all-out war. The paradox is that although there is fear, terrifying fear – and no one who has ever been involved in a conflict can possibly deny that – there is also elation, a discovery that there has never been an experience more supremely thrilling than the achievement of some appalling destruction. It’s shaming to admit that many attest this to be true. My generation was saved from finding this out for themselves by Harold Wilson’s decision to resist the invitation from Lyndon Johnson to join the American war in Vietnam. (Prime ministers should be judged by what folly they prevent just as much as by what they do, and Wilson rarely gets credit for making that difficult judgement call that saved my generation from much carnage.)

I served in two colonial armies: one in Kenya before independence, and then I served in the Sultan of Muscat’s Northern Frontier Regiment where I was shot at by rebels on my twenty-first birthday (and I have to say I was unaware of what had happened until shortly afterwards). But I have never crouched terrified in a trench, or been fired upon, say, by a machine gun. I wonder how I would react? Would I conquer my fear or would I melt into snivelling immobility like the “coward” in the excellent film Saving Private Ryan? Or might I morph into a warrior like “Dam Buster” Guy Gibson VC, or Audie Murphy, the most decorated American soldier of the Second World War?

Were they supermen? Did they have no fear? Of course not. They battled with fear as we all would. In Gibson’s book, Enemy Coast Ahead, he wrote of what happens to a bomber and its crew after it is hit by enemy fire, falling steeply out of the sky for a terrible minute of two: “…then it is all over and you hit the ground. Petrol flames come soaring up into the sky, almost reaching to meet you as they rocket your soul to Heaven.” So Gibson knew all about fear, he just knew. He was killed in 1944 flying a Mosquito without sufficient practice near the Dutch town of Steenbergen.

Audie Murphy is quoted as saying, “I have a deadly hatred of fear. It has me by the throat, and I have it by the throat. We have been struggling for many years and I still don’t know which will win the battle but that very hatred of fear has driven me to do a lot of things which I have never bothered to explain and which nobody understands. Fear is the blot on my thinking process, crippling an individual’s ability to act. I simply perform first and think later.”

In my experience this has the ring of raw truth. Men who act bravely in war do so because they dread succumbing to fear more than they dread getting killed. Most heroes fight as many battles with themselves and their fear as they do with the enemy.