We started walking down a road. I dislike and fear roads in equal measure. In fact, I have lost my nerve. Whatever care we take, there will always be some moron in a scarlet Mercedes wearing a reverse baseball hat, cutting a corner and giving us the finger. And look at the death of Stephen Chamberlain who died running near Cambridge a few weeks ago.

It’s astonishing that our river walks are wholly deserted. Here we live in overcrowded Britain, and there is no one to enjoy England’s Garden of Eden. I suppose as there are so many vast people barrelling along; each one thinks their podge is normal.

At a supper party last week, I sat opposite a man who sought to turn every conversation into a stupid joke.  It made me wonder if he was an ass who couldn’t be serious or if he was a serious man trying to be funny. I found him a pain.

The Reverse Jive

This is how it works. Some 3 million Zimbabweans – economic migrants – have fled to South Africa. Every now and then, a few are arrested and sent back to Bulawayo.

Merrylouise, who works in a Jo’burg store, did the “Reverse Jive” a few weeks back. Her Zimbo accent gave her away to the local cops as an “illegal”. She packed a bag, and was then bussed, alongside others, 320 miles north to Beitbridge – the sole crossing between South Africa and Zimbabwe. Outside the arrival hall are stationed the Malaicha, slang for “we will carry you”. They immediately whizzed her and her pals back to Jo’burg.

The Reverse Jive took just 48 hours!   

Go Figure

The economics are as plain as hunger. After decades of oppression and mismanagement, Zimbabwe governments collapsed the economy to a derisory GDP of £24bn, roughly the same as that of Derbyshire. South Africa’s economy is worth £320bn with plenty of jobs in the vast “informal sector”. If you were desperate for work, where would you rather be? Zimbabwe or South Africa?

Go figure. Millions of tough and deeply determined young people aren’t going to be put off by a bureaucracy, or being sent to Rwanda or being taken back to where they started – and who can blame them? Where there’s a will, the resilient and cunning will find a way – even if they must Reverse Jive to get there.

The numbers are staggering. Africa, right on the doorstep of the EU, has billions of poorly educated and unemployed young people with lousy prospects. Take Nigeria alone – between 2018 and 2020, some 20 million young people joined the throng of job seekers, yet only 3.5m new jobs were created.

Young people in dusty villages and urban slums across this vast continent may be poor but they still have access to smartphones – and they can see images of a land of milk and honey full of shiny cars. The UK’s GDP is approximately £2.274 trillion. Who can blame the most able and ambitious for wanting to grab some of it fast? Any number of “smugglers” will pave the way – a few are arrested while others appear to be like knotweed. 

This is bound to turn ugly. Europe faces being overwhelmed by hundreds of millions of immigrants from fundamentally different cultures, all demanding attention and refusing to go away. Racial tensions will make the debates fraught. The welfare state will face collapse as these migrants are bound to be an economic drain. The UK needs highly skilled people but that’s not what we have coming down the track. Just imagine 50 boats arriving on the same day?

The issue was hardly touched upon during the recent election. But it’s vital that we stop playing the nice guy. We need to scrap our asylum system – created in an era before instant travel, smartphones and illegal boat people, and when the population of the world was a quarter of today’s – as unfit for purpose. And then bin the Refugee Convention and the ECHR – and any other law or treaty that stands in the way of the enforcement of our national borders.

To ignore this as scaremongering is to forecast an electoral uprising.  

Reverse Jive anyone?

Another beautiful walk that makes me realise how stupid we are to travel abroad when there is so much pleasure to be enjoyed here in the UK without having to endure the miseries of airports and the costs of foreign travel. As a Doge of Venice exclaimed: “Why should I travel when I have already arrived?”

The kindness of strangers

We have been much blessed with the kindness of strangers, people hitherto unknown to us who have offered the most generous of hospitality. It is a breach of confidence in this commentary  to name them individually, but they know who they are and our heartfelt thank you from us.

Suddenly one day there is a voice from God: “From henceforth thou shall not be able to put on your  socks unaided” and so it came about.

Inevitably some hosts have strong views on the Palestine and Israel conflict. I confine my self to a  story recently told me by a Jewish friend.

A Rabbi and a vicar died and they both went to heaven and, as is the custom, they at once sought an interview with God.

“Dear God,” said the Rabbi, “ please tell us whether or not will there be peace between Palestine and Israel and, if so, when?”

God thought for a moment and replied: “ yes of course there will be… but not in my lifetime.”

 Wounded Healer

“Humankind cannot bear very much reality.”

TS Eliot

A godson was deserted by his wife and at the same time he lost his job. I was reminded of the words above. When he asked me for advice, I wrote him the following letter:

Dear Ed,

First, the easy one, the job. The greatest problem you’ll face (and I tell you this from firsthand experience) is a loss of self-esteem. Confidence is such a delicate flower, and its withering is always painful and devastating – it takes a long time to recover. It must be restored incrementally, brick by brick, but it’s a tortuous process. It’s best not to go for job interviews until you have rehearsed your performance, for each rejection can compound the misery and underscore the loss of confidence.    

The second is more complex and wounding, especially as you are sensitive. We only met Melanie briefly, so what I’m about to write is a general observation of what happens in the vast majority of cases.

Melanie wants to convince herself that, even though she is breaking her marriage vows, damaging your children and hurting you grievously, she remains a “good” person. She must do this not only to maintain her sense of self-worth, but also to convince her friends, family and later, the children, of her virtue.      

So how does Melanie do this? Easy. She alters reality to accommodate what she wants to believe, and she highlights your many faults. Of course, we all have shortcomings –lazy/workaholic, boring/hyperactive, mean/extravagant, the “fire is out” and it’s all down to you, and so on. It really doesn’t matter much which faults she lists because humankind is not very good at inventing new ones.

Then comes the dramatisation of your flaws with illustrative stories (and the invention of a few others for good measure). In this way, Melanie convinces herself and her audience that leaving you is the only reasonable way forward.

This performance is called “cognitive dissonance” (CD) – the invention of a new reality to fit what the “victim” wants to believe, and it’s a commonplace. The most egregious example of CD I know of concerns a wealthy Catholic lady who sought to annul her marriage on grounds of “non-consummation”. One flaw in her pleading was the existence of three lusty sons, so the RCs found the argument a bit of a stretch. But anyway, she nipped off to have a fling with a local CoE vicar and then she discovered that what he wanted wasn’t “love” but a “nurse with a purse”.

Of course, the whole thing ended in bitter tears – she was ditched, he defrocked. Yet to this day, the lady maintains her holiness. It’s not easy but she manages heroically, for where there’s a will, there’s always a way. (I swear this is true).

This sort of thing has happened repeatedly amongst our friends – and we’ve stopped listening to the stories because they are rubbish. But of course, the wicked old world laps them up! 

How should you react? Well, the last thing I’d advise is to try and convince Melanie that she’s wrong. Totally pointless.

Now you know the process, don’t believe any of the garbage about your alleged character flaws. You are a fine man and in time other romantic paths will open for you. I should add that over the years, my Jane has had countless reasons to boot me out, but for some reason, she never did. No skill on my part, just fortune and grace that I found a tolerant and faithful lady. 

First what not to do. Don’t wallow in self-pity or indulge in that never-ending chorus, “Oh, woe is me for I am undone, and a victim.” That way lies despair and the bottle, and many of your friendships will fall by the wayside – and then Melanie will feel justified!

To minimise the damage suffered by you and your children, accept that the marriage is over. For until you do this, you will remain paralysed in the bog of despond. Then you need to adopt total forgiveness and grace. It’s tough, of course, but once you take this path, healing begins. No recriminations, no eye rolling, no arguments. But if you don’t forgive, it’s like drinking a bottle of poison and waiting for someone else to die.

You now have spun-gold experience and can be a “wounded healer” – for in time, you’ll be able to help others with similar problems. And, of course, you now know who your true friends are – and you know more about yourself.

I’m sure that, when the time is right, you’ll find a new career and another partner. You’ll get through these hard times – I guarantee that.

From your loving Godfather.

 Names have been changed to protect privacy

All going fine for three miles and then bang! We are faced with a vast barbed wire fence bang across our path of a height The Donald himself would be proud of.

There are no warning signs, just sod off return to go with no £200.00. There is nothing to be done; we couldn’t even have spotted it on Google Earth. All we can do is curse and hope the local authority involved is infested with fleas! Or are we barred from such unwoke thoughts these days? We embark on a mile detour with as good a grace as we can muster.

A brief visit to Worcester cathedral. Truly awesome. Building it, and others, was of course what the young did in the 10-13 centuries . Today the young infest Apple, Microsoft and banking in the hope of making millions. Before, they built beautiful buildings. I know which I prefer.

Hot and muggy. On we plod and 30 miles or so under our belts.

Twain

It was Mark Twain who reminded us that there are two vital days in our lives: the first, the day we are born: the second, the day when we realise why we were born. This last realisation came to me only recently: I was born to treasure my wife, Jane, and provide some stability for my precious family and… to start ZANE.

This last has led to many thousands of pensioners being enabled to end their days surrounded by affection with sufficient wherewithal to  allow them to survive in the vale of tears that is today’s Zimbabwe. Today, from eleven sites across the country, over six thousand children who the hideous affliction of clubfoot has afflicted are now able to dance for joy. Cholera treatment, rehabilitation after political violence, “pop-up “ schools, aid for prisoners and feeding programmes. Last, the creation of essential work for our many valued team members.

This all has been transformative. What an unexpected privilege for Jane and me to be at the heart of this essential work.

A Warm Welcome

I would like the following to be read to all potential immigrants when they arrive in the UK.

The UK offers you a warm welcome…

We would like to provide you with some important advice, which will enable you to integrate into our community.  

You will appreciate that our culture and laws have been refined over many centuries of struggles, setbacks, trials and victories. Countless men and women have battled – often in blood – to win our precious freedoms, so please accept them as they are.

Please note that we speak English – not Spanish, Lebanese, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Iranian, Indian, Russian or any other language. Therefore, if you would like to live here, please try to learn English.

The UK does not, and never will, recognise Sharia law. 

Many people in the UK believe in a Christian God because Christian men and women founded this nation and based its laws on Christian principles. This is clearly documented and, as it forms part of our national DNA, it is entirely appropriate to display these sentiments on the walls of our schools. Our Christian God is an essential part of our tradition.

We promote sexual tolerance and gender equality in the UK. It is vital that you accept this.

As part of the process of integration, you must appreciate that neither you nor your faith or culture have any special rights or privileges. You and your religious leaders must learn to tolerate the same harsh mockery and criticism that our citizens have experienced for generations. Free speech is the bedrock of our democracy, and criticism and scorn from all quarters is aimed at our monarchy, the leaders of our institutions, our politicians and our faiths. We have no blasphemy laws and we do not propose to introduce any.

Please understand a crucial truth: free societies, where deep beliefs and feelings can be questioned or even mocked, are the only societies worth living in. You must be prepared to hear – and tolerate – things that you don’t want to hear, and to defend things you don’t want to defend.

Of course, we welcome you, and we will accept your beliefs and not question why. But please accept the country that has offered you safe harbour the way it is. This will allow you to live in harmony and peaceful enjoyment with us.

Holy Osmosis

Wherever I go, be it to the theatre or a film, a restaurant or on transport, I am asked – as I’m sure you, dear reader, are – with a polite request for feedback. How do you rate the service or whatever it was?

The only place I’ve never been asked to pass judgement is in the wake of a church service. The service might have been excellent, or just mediocre; newcomers might have been warmly greeted or not; and the sermon might have been an inaudible ramble about climate change, refugees or foodbanks, or it might have been quite excellent. The point is that no one in the congregation is ever asked for an anonymous summary of their views. 

Whenever I’ve raised this with my vicar friends, they look grey-faced an intimate they sort of know the views of their congregation – perhaps by a process of divine osmosis?

Another perfect walking day overhang by clouds that look like an old tramp’s vest. The Worcester authorities should be ashamed of their neglected paths that makes walking a misery. I remember US billionaire Michael Bloomberg’s advice to all those over seventy: “always hang onto bannisters” and so Jane and I I clutch everything we can at waste height.

Acres of derelict caravan parks, miles of lovely English pasture. We are so fortunate to be alive at this hour with valuable work, and together after all these years.

Arboretum

Michael Heseltine doesn’t expect to be remembered he was once deputy Prime Minister and held many of the important offices of state. (politicians who crave “a legacy” should read Shelley’s bleak poem “Ozymandias”)

Nor, in a hundred years, does he expect to be remembered that he made a lasting impact in Liverpool and the North of England – the original levelling up – because memories are short.

Test for ZANE donors: if you doubt how short memories are: who was Prime Minister 100 years ago? – Answer: Ramsay MacDonald. I ‘ll bet you didn’t know without googling the answer which rather proves my point.

Heseltine thinks that if he is to be remembered by future generations, it will be for the trees he and his wife of sixty years, Anne, have planted. He may be right. But he was one of the heavyweights of his generation to be measured with the likes of Healey, Benn, Jenkins and more recently, Clarke and Hague. But he is the only one, I think, who can demonstrate the double whammy:  building a successful business (Haymarket) from scratch, and without a whiff of scandal,  as well as rising to the top of the political tree.

Our recent visit to the Thenford Arboretum was a delightful occasion:   seventy acres of beautifully positioned flowers, trees, and statues and waterfalls. It is open (see site), and it is a must-visit for for your bucket list.

Undiscovered Country

You will have been appalled by the deaths in coincidental freak accidents over a few days of the vastly rich Mike Lynch – by drowning – and his accountant colleague and co-defendant, Stephen Chamberlain who was hit by a car whilst running. In June, they were both found not guilty in a US court from allegations of fraud: then… whilst celebrating…bang! And like the Titanic, Lynch’s boat, “Bayesian” was reported to be unsinkable.

Those of us who try to buttress our little lives with security, and think childishly that we are the exception to the iron rules of life, are suddenly reminded that, no matter how rich and clever we are, none of us will get out of this life alive.

Those with long memories will recall the dark film Alfie. Its theme song, by Cilla Black, asked “What’s it all about Alfeee?” Inevitably, the film left the question unanswered.

These days, even mentioning death in polite company can be deemed too morbid for modern sensibilities. Instead, people resort to euphemisms such as “She’s pushing clouds around”, or they dredge up the story of the dead waiter – “God finally caught his eye.” And so, ho ho ho, the awful mystery is reduced to something more palatable.

“We are all dead men on leave,” declared German communist revolutionary Eugene Levine as he faced death after his trial in Munich, in 1919 – but not everyone takes the subject as seriously as he did.

Death on the Prowl
The subject is shocking. I have Christian buddies with enamelled views on the certainty of heaven and eternal life – and after a great deal of reflection, I admire their convictions and wish them well.

My own views are tempered somewhat by a sermon given by the Rev Dick Lucas of St Helen’s, Bishopsgate. Once, he told us, he knocked on the door of a parishioner. It was opened by a distraught woman – she was carrying a half-naked, squirming baby in her arms, while two screaming children could be heard from the murk of her sitting room.

“I have come to discuss the Gospel and eternal life,” intoned Lucas.

“Eternal life?” the woman retorted. “I can’t think of anything worse!” Then she slammed the door in the reverend’s face.

Ever since, the endgame has seemed something beyond my radar – a deep mystery and so we must rely on Christian promises in Cor 15.

About 10 years ago, a group of our friends died suddenly. Death seemed to be sated for a while and so there was a brief pause. Then without warning, we recently lost two Tims, a Joe, a Barry and a Jinx. They were all people we dearly loved, and their deaths have been profoundly upsetting – few of them, as far as I can see, lived with much Christian conviction.

Of course, none of us is going to get out of this life alive and we all know death is on the prowl for us like a roaring lion. Yet still, I find the departure of my beloved friends bewildering. Why were they chosen to die when they did? What has happened to them? Where are they now?

Unless we have genius to elevate us to the ranks of the few immortals – the likes of Churchill, Mozart and Shakespeare – none of our lives will be remembered for long. Our work, even the “legacy” beloved by politicians pretending to be statesmen, will begin to corrode the moment we cease to be. Anyone who doubts this should read Shelley’s chilling poem “Ozymandias”. The harsh reality is that, after the funeral, our bodies will simply disappear into a grave and the waters will close over us  – while the living quickly get on with their lives. And the residue? Usually a will, some fading memories and a few yellowing photos – while the dead travel to Hamlet’s “undiscovered country”, the “bourn” from which none return.

Poet Dylan Thomas proclaims we should “rage, rage against the dying of the light”. Then, in rather more gentle fashion, Edna St Vincent Millay writes:

“Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely
Crowned with lilies and laurel they go; but I am not resigned…
A formula, a phrase remains, – but the best is lost…
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love, –
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses…
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world…
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.”

Shakespeare’s Prospero said of the mystery:
“These our actors
Are melted into air, into thin air….;
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”

Let us rest now. There’s no more to say.

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

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

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

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

All Hail the Beeb

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

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

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

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

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

Extra-Mural Activities

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOMO

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ambitious… Me?

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

I’ve never…

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

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

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

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

Much Tattoo About Nothing

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

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

Endgame

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

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

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

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

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

Screen and Not Heard

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

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

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

The point about screens is well made.

Happiness

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

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

Be a Leaf

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

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

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

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

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

Turn with the Times

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

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

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

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

What’s Your Cause?

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

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

A sand parable

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

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

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

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

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

Lies and the Rack

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

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

“Him?”

“No!” 

“Him?”

“No!”

“Him?”

“No, but he’ll do!””

Rigged

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

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

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

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

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

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

We await UK judges to declare the same.  

Breaking Lives

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pray for those caught on the modern-day rack.

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

I Don’t Really Do Scenic…

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

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

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

Vulgar Bulge?

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

Money, Money, Money…

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

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

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

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

Goosing Attila

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

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

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

Memorial

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

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

“Why?” I asked.

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

And so, I respectfully declined.