Woke World

Napoleon said that you should never disturb your enemy when he’s making a gross mistake.

Why do our enemies, such as Jihadists, Putin and the man in North Korea with the funny haircut, bother to bomb or poison us in the UK when we are making such a good job of destroying ourselves?

Our “gross mistake” is to allow an absurd and destructive ideology to sweep our land unchecked. Unless we face it down, it will eviscerate the few scraps of what’s left of our moral fibre. The champions of this nonsense describe themselves as “social justice warriors”. This is “WOKE!” – it’s pernicious rubbish and it’s intensely damaging.

Hearken to this. More than half of those born after 1996 believe that “systemic racism” is endemic in our society; 64 per cent think that rioting and looting are justified to some degree; 41 per cent support censorship of so called “hate speech”; and 23 per cent would support violence to prevent people being offended.

Cancel Culture

“Woke” nonsense is at its height. Careers are being destroyed or “cancelled” by wicked people on what is politely called social media. The police’s record of detecting the perpetrators of fraud or theft is poor, in part because the cops are concentrating on rooting out so-called “hate crime”.

Authors – google the alarming story of what happened to writer Kate Clanchy – are frightened of describing how women look in their novels in case their books are censored by weak publishers who cannot see a parapet without ducking beneath it. Comedians are struck dumb with fear. Scientific biological certainties are avoided – is a man a man and a woman a woman – for sheer terror of giving offence to the ranting blob trawling the net.

While our enemies are threatening Ukraine and Taiwan with rockets, bombs and tanks, and while the spooks in Teheran are well on the way to perfecting a nuclear bomb to destroy Israel – and anyone else while they’re in the mood – we in the West are obsessing about pronouns, rewriting history and planning to “decolonise” mathematics.

Then, as a treat, we spend time arguing whether men dressed as women should be allowed to use women’s loos.

You couldn’t write this plot line in a novel. Well, if you did, it would probably be censored.

National Treasures

Judy Dench
Maggie Smith
Matthew Parris
The Duchess of Cornwall
Michael Heseltine
Nigel Farage
Diane Abbott
Billy Connolly
Gordon Brown
Elton John
Ed Balls
Ian McKellan

Pleased to never hear of again…

Nicola Sturgeon
Meghan and Mr Markle
Prince Andrew
Many serving Anglican bishops
Donald Trump
Vladimir Putin

Name Dropping

With apologies to Mark Twain, I have been involved in many startling events in my time – some of which actually happened!

On 10 April 1994, I took tea with Mother Teresa. She had heard from a friend that I knew the Minister of Housing (I did), with whom she wanted a meeting. She hoped he could facilitate the purchase of a house in North London to shelter what she described as “fallen women”. (Incidentally, I would like to hear today’s cancel culture trying to correct Mother Teresa’s politically incorrect language. What sanitised name “fallen” women are given today is anyone’s guess.)

Such was Mother Teresa’s fame that she didn’t need me to facilitate a meeting with Sir George Young – or anyone else for that matter. She only had to tilt her rosary and the entire government would have danced a gavotte before her if she had demanded it. But I was told she wanted to see me – and who was I to refuse such a request?

Tea With Mother T

Mother Teresa answered the door of a non-descript house in Tottenham and led the way to tea in the lounge. By that time, I had rung the housing minister and he soon arrived with a buzzing swarm of anxious civil servants. The nun stared unblinkingly at George.

“I need a million pounds… I should tell you the French were generous. The Germans gave me twice what I requested, and the Italians gave me a row of houses in Milan. Now, in the name of God, I appeal to you for a million pounds!”

George muttered something about times being tough and there being no money available. He would need to consult.

With a laser look, the nun knelt down and announced she would pray. Meanwhile, George “consulted” with his team.

After 10 minutes of busy praying had passed, Mother Teresa gazed at George expectantly. He muttered something about only being able to find half the million. She decided to pray for the other half.

Then the photographer from the Sun newspaper arrived. A short time later, George announced he had found the additional funds in a contingency reserve: game, set and match to Mother T! George’s misery was now complete. Meanwhile, the nun gave thanks.

“Allelujah! Praise the Lord – the power of prayer be praised!”

After George left, Mother Teresa prayed for me and my family, and presented me with several medals of the Blessed Virgin Mary. My umbrella began to grow green shoots.

Some years later, I heard that HMG’s offer of a million quid was never taken up because there were too many conditions. Instead, Mother Teresa managed to persuade some allegedly corrupt Irish builder to stump up the money.

Mother Teresa never minded too much if donations to her causes came from dubious sources. She claimed good works would sanctify the money – and I’m sure they did.

I should add that I have photos of my meeting with Mother T. Beat that for name dropping!

Talked to Jacqui on the way and she is a delightful English teacher from Oxford. She tells me her mother is a ZANE supporter and she wondered what else her Mum might do to help the cause? I suggested she might leave a large chunk of her estate to ZANE. Jacqui looked thoughtful.

A long brisk walk with three jolly ZANE supporters.

Long Live Stigma

To boast “left” sends a virtuous signal of being warm and kind, earnestly embracing social justice. On the other hand, mention “right” and you run the risk of being branded a Nigel Farage type on a bad day.

This concept is arrant twaddle. The truth is that the “left” are tribunes of “non-judgmentalism” who demand “lifestyle choice”. And they have taken an axe to the roots of the nuclear family, once the bedrock of society.

All major institutions swing left: look at the Church, Amnesty International, OXFAM, the National Trust and the Church of England. Nothing annoys the left more than the stigma created by “judgmental morality”, but that’s the only kind of morality there is – and the removal of morality has radically gutted the concept of family.

Imagine that your son or daughter is a student at Durham University. Their authorities have decided to make it easy for little Jemima or Piers to participate in the sex industry – how nice for your family. The aim is to remove the stigma faced by prostitutes by rebranding them as “sex workers”. But the blinding reality is, of course, that all people involved in that pernicious trade are hookers, rent boys and “escorts”. Durham is acting the pimp, ignoring the fact that prostitution is rightly stigmatised because the trade is disgusting, immoral, exploitative, illegal and spiritually demeaning. This is not to say that the people involved should be regarded as outcasts, of course not – we must draw a distinction between the sinner and the sin, and we must hope they will turn away. But for goodness’ sake, we must be able to condemn the trade itself as sinful and ghastly and refuse to cast a benign gloss over it. Stigmatising whoring is a good thing, and I suspect that for most people the stigma will not abate.

Everybody’s Doin’ It

Next, the stigma that once surrounded divorce has all but been expunged. People today just shrug as if it didn’t matter. I am sorry if this offends any ZANE supporters who may have suffered divorce as the innocent party (ZANE supporters are always innocent). However, experience tells us that divorce is usually accompanied by mendacity, guilt, sadness, bitterness, and financial hardship, as well as the incalculable damage inflicted on children. As the stigma abates, of course, the number of divorces rise.

Nor is there any stigma now to “living in sin”. Remember the old song “Everybody’s doin’ it, doin’ it”? Today, “hooking up” outside marriage is what everyone’s doing and anyone who claims it’s a bad idea is mocked as an old-fashioned Victorian prude. But’s it’s us who are paying the price, not the Victorians. They knew what they were doing. The stigmas that used to exist surrounding promiscuity, divorce and living in unmarried sin were inherited from Christian teaching and existed mainly for the protection of children. That protection has gone with the wind. The bleak indicators are damning, with children born to cohabiting unions more likely to see their parents separate than if they were married. Parental separation damages a child’s education and future life chances – those brought up by a single parent get worse grades at school, are more likely to suffer addictions or from mental health issues, are far less likely to secure a high-earning job and are more likely to end up in prison. This all costs a fortune, to be paid by the poor old taxpayer.

For years, the left has been sawing at the branch on which the family sat. It has now fallen, not into a bed of scented roses but into a pool of raw sewage, crisscrossed with barbed wire. It will cost a fortune to hook it out.

Long live stigmas! And, oh yes – cross out Durham from your list of preferred universities.

A jolly party consisting of two loyal friends – who deserve a gold medal for cheerfulness and endurance – and daughter Clare, the Chaplain of Christ Church in Oxford. She brought Layla with her, so she and our dog Moses palled up, and they ran all day. Moses lies like a corpse now, as tired as are we.

Another rather gloomy pub lunch served in that offhand way that is the norm nowadays. I wonder how these undistinguished pubs that punctuate our walk can last when the pinch caused by rising inflation and tax increases is felt by middle England.

The Five Regrets of The Dying

Death’s a dark subject. Peter Pan’s “To die must be a big adventure” is a far better approach than deciding the subject’s so morbid that we should smother it with gin and small talk about the weather. Some men – in particular, men – are so afraid of death, they only go to funerals to tank whisky with chums at the wake. You wonder if that’s fair? Okay… just check the body language when you’re next at a funeral. Look to see who’s gazing steadfastly at a phone, the ceiling, the order of service, a woman’s legs – anything but dear old Henry’s box.

None of us is going to get out of this alive. Funny that Christians seem to be as fearful of this harsh fact as anyone else. Not a good look for the faith, that. Maybe they think Larkin’s gloomy verse, “That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade / Created to pretend we never die” may, at least, have a sliver of truth in it?

But if no one can escape the scythe, how best shall we live with as few regrets as possible when the light’s growing dim?

Old Time Is Still A-Flying

I read The Top Five Regrets of the Dying by Bronnie Ware, an Australian palliative care nurse. She got permission from a few of her patients to summarise their intimate regrets in a fascinating book. Here’s a summary:

One patient, Grace, regretted she’d failed to embrace the preciousness of life while there was still time. She’d lived as if life were a “dress rehearsal” and deeply regretted that “all the dreams I’ve waited all my life to live are never going to happen for it’s just too late.” Grace did not mean this in a self-interested way – she was a dutiful mother and wife. Rather, her words reflected her astonishment that she had regarded life as “normal” or “routine” when it is, in fact, miraculous. As Richard Dawkins writes in Unweaving the Rainbow, “We privileged few, who won the lottery of life against all the odds, how dare we whine at our inevitable return to that prior state from which the vast majority have never stirred.”

“Look at me now,” wept Grace, “I’m dying, bloody dying, I’ve waited all these years to be free and independent and now it’s too late”.

Personally, I think that those with an awareness of the preciousness of life experience less regret when they come to its end. They enjoy a subtly different quality of experience whilst still alive. This was Jean-Paul Sartre’s main point in his book Being and Nothingness, where he encouraged readers to embrace the “existential miracle” of life, even while confronting its finite nature. “This,” he exhorted, “should not lead to hopelessness but to a thrilling kind of meaning.”

Another patient, David, wished he’d had the courage to live a life true to himself and not waste his time living out other people’s expectations. We shoot out of life on fixed steel rails set by our genes, family traditions, upbringing. But if we have sufficient courage, why don’t we climb off those rails and tackle the tasks that God meant us to carry out? For example, as a youth, John Betjeman rejected point blank his parents’ expectations that he work in a shop and thus lived his life as the poet he was created to be. It doesn’t always end so well. Our eldest son taught in a top London school; he was sad to see how many brilliant budding actors and those with marked creative talents march steadfastly into the city as bankers or lawyers to satisfy the wishes of insistent parents instead of following their obvious but more hazardous calling. I went into the army – not a career that matched my gifts by a mile – to fulfil parental expectations. Not that I regret it now, the experience proved valuable, but at the time I knew I was in the wrong job.

Here and Now

Laura’s regret was that she hadn’t allowed herself to be happy. “For goodness’ sake” she pleaded, “happiness is right now, not at a rainbow end. Why did I work so hard at vast cost to my loving relationships with my family and friends?” Laura wished she had lived a simpler life, not one revolving around possessions or the imperative need to “succeed” and make money – just to prove the folly of the saying, “The guy who dies with the most toys wins!”

Markus mourned that he hadn’t bothered to stay in touch with his true friends. Then he wondered if he actually had any real friends? On reflection, he realised that so many of his so-called “friends” were just a cloud of good-time acquaintances from work or the golf club. There was nothing to be expected from them but fleeting emotions, which leave no trace behind them.

Robert’s profound sadness is a commonplace for men: emotion had been filleted from him by frozen parents and the harsh disciplines of school. “Real boys don’t cry, or read poetry or books”, all that nonsense. Robert ended up without the courage to express his feelings. He had never told those people he really cared about – particularly his sons – just how much he loved them. He had never even hugged them. Was it too late? Did he have the courage to start now?

“Do they really know I love them?” he asked. “Can I express this so late?”

Then Robert paused, and he wept.

Nearly turned my ankle trying to avoid the vast number of cracks in the path caused by a lack of rain. Then Jane is furious with me for allowing gates to slam in her face. She has every right to be cross. The problem is that when I walk, I go into a sort of torpor, a dream world, as I ponder the meaning of life! Not that I have come to many great conclusions, but if I do, ZANE donors will be the first to know.

Our walk is punctuated with small concrete bunkers, built we are told to provide a lookout nest for Dad’s Army to spot German frogmen swimming up the Thames! As there is no record that any was ever caught doing so, I reckon that acting as a spotter had to be the most tedious job imaginable.

Life Isn’t Fair

I have never stated my political views or shared my opinions on Brexit, and I never will. They may be glimpsed in my writing, of course, but why be explicit and run the risk of alienating at least 50 per cent of ZANE supporters?

However, I do enjoy pointing out the manifestations of the law of unintended consequences – and here is another on proportional representation (PR). People proclaim its beneficial effect in bringing about “electoral fairness”. Ah, but didn’t Nanny say, “Life isn’t fair”? Was Nanny right? Surely PR brings about the joys of democracy, thereby enabling minority parties to have a say in government?

Many years ago, when I was a politician, I thought that PR was more democratic than our present “First Past the Post” (FPTP) system. So, with the enthusiasm of youth, I co-authored a pamphlet called, “Electoral Reform, as Easy as ABC” for the Tory party Bow Group. It is, I hope, gathering dust somewhere, for I have to say it was throughout no more than naive rubbish. Here’s why.

Under FPTP, each party submits its manifesto to the public and, in the event of winning the election, enacts it. If it doesn’t, then the electorate will chuck them out at the next election, and a good thing too. That’s democracy working well.

PR would see effective minority governments replaced by coalitions in which all the parties would be obliged to dump their manifestos and agree a new policy programme – which, of course, the electorate hasn’t approved. Then politicians – freed up from the irritations of prior obligations – can do whatever they like. Since MPs would no longer be expected to deliver on their promises, they could not be held to account for their failure to do so.

If you doubt this dismal scenario, then please see the way PR is working in the EU countries that use PR. Take Belgium, for example, which is in a state of political paralysis.

FPTP is not an ideal system, nothing is, but as far as democracy is concerned, it’s better than PR any day.

Sorry about that.

Nanny, as usual, was right.

Mwah, Mwah, Hug

I have an unworldly friend who, surprisingly late in life, fell deeply in love. As the marriage to his beloved approached, he realised he knew nothing about the – ahem – physical side of marriage. (Reader, bear with me, there was a time before the Internet!) So, my friend ventured to a local second-hand bookshop, and, hidden away on the back shelves, found just what he needed – a handsomely bound book called How to Hug.

The book was wrapped in brown paper and my friend hurried home. That evening, he discovered, to his profound dismay, that he had purchased Volume Five of the Oxford English Dictionary.

I’ve railed against the unhealthy practice of promiscuous kissing in previous blogs. So universal is the custom of greeting friends with a casual kiss that attempts to avoid the snog can easily be misconstrued as rudeness. And now, on top of kissing anyone with a pulse, it’s de rigeur to hug them too!

Of course, touch is important – I’m all for hugging family members and the small group of people I dearly love and who love me. But lingering hugs with everyone we meet devalues what should be an act of genuine intimacy, and it’s plain creepy. When I’m grabbed by someone, I’m left wondering what the hug means – does it communicate something the hugger is unable to say verbally? It’s a kind of mime, a substitute for words. Perhaps dumb silence can be excused in the context of an unexpected death, the jolting news of a one-way cancer diagnosis or a catastrophic accident. But that’s very different from hugging someone in the street you hardly know: “Karen, my goodness… what a long time… you haven’t changed at all!” Then comes the hug-hug – and it devalues the currency of the hug.

So, I say, no more hugging as a default greeting! It’s lazy. How often should we be saying something original, but can’t be bothered – so we hug instead? A casual hugger is virtue signalling, too: “Hey! I’m a warm and loving kinda person, and I like you – so please like me too!” Ugh!

You would have thought that Covid might have put a stop to universal hugging, but if anything, it’s only made things worse. People are so pleased to see a human in the flesh that they incline towards squeezing whoever’s presented.

I hope automatic hugging will wither away… but, until such time, we’ll just have to go on performing like seals.

How stupid can you get!

Fancy being daft enough to go walking in the UK without a waterproof! The Princess Royal says wisely that there is no such thing as bad weather, merely inappropriate clothing and, boy, did we prove that true today! There have only been a couple of times in the walks when we have been caught in a downpour and today was one of them. We arrived home like dripping rats, and it served me right.

River all the way

I think I saw Ratty and Mole along the way, with several sightings of Toad Hall.

The Law of Unintended Consequences

The reason why we are out of the EU can fairly be placed at the door of the late Paddy Ashdown. How can this be accurate when he was such a Remain supporter? Surely it is Farage and Cameron who were responsible?

Pay attention, for this history is yet another example of the mysterious workings of the law of unintended consequences!

After the EU introduced a parliament, elections for membership in the UK used the “first past the post” system – the same system that is currently used in Westminster parliamentary elections. It makes it vastly hard for candidates of minority parties to get elected.

In 1999, the then Lib Dem leader, Paddy Ashdown, persuaded Tony Blair to allow a “list” system of proportional representation to be adopted for UK voters in the EU elections.

This system acted like rocket fuel for UKIP. Farage won a bridgehead, and then over the years – largely due to his relentless refusal to accept the role of patron saint of lost causes – UKIP won more and more seats, until it forged an unstoppable momentum. In 2016, its success threatened Cameron’s Tory heartland to such a degree, he decided to conclude the issue by holding a referendum he was confident he would win.

The rest, as they say, is history. If the “list” system of proportional representation had not been introduced by Blair (as a concession to Ashdown), we would never have heard of Nigel Farage, UKIP, the Brexit party, or roles for Dominic Cummings and Boris. There would never have been a referendum, Cameron would still be PM – and we would still be in the EU.

Come to think of it, Ashdown’s career was based on his passionate enthusiasm for the UK’s membership of the EU, and his desire for proportional representation to build up his beloved Lib Dem party.

Be careful what you wish for.

Pussy Galore

Kariba spoke to me yesterday. I know it sounds daft, but she really did. It was early in the morning, and she wasn’t best pleased. Her green eyes flashed with irritation and her purr grew into a growl.

“Listen Sunshine,” she warned, “I’m the boss here so please don’t forget it. You are darn fortunate to have me as your cat. But I’m putting you on notice – I’m considering leaving. I know you’ll be devastated if I go, and in many ways, I’d miss you too. But a cat must look after herself these days, and there’s no such thing as a free bowl of milk.

“If you really want to know, it’s about those darn dogs you bring into the house. Your own stupid Moses is bad enough, a mongrel with the fancy name of “cockapoo”. Of course, I marked his nose with a slash years ago, so he leaves me well alone. But your daughter Milly! She brings with her a dog spawned from the sweepings of Bulgaria. All the silly creature does is eat, fart, wee on the lawn and chase me! I am not as young as I used to be, and simply put, I’m fed up.

“Just thought you should know.”

Luckily Milly went… and Kariba stayed.

A good collection of kind ZANE donors to encourage us at the outset of the walk. Warm and dry and easy walking. Thames very low.

To remind readers, my blogs are my views only and do not reflect “ZANE’s” views or the views of any of the people working for ZANE in Zimbabwe or in the UK.

Six sets of walking sticks, eight pairs of boots, five walking outfits to date on ZANE’s walks.

It’s been fun so far…

Old Habits Die Hard

A 1970 advertisement for Guinness read, “I’ve never tried it, and I don’t like it.”

Bill Gates once said that his biggest problem was people not knowing how to want what he could offer them. He must have had my old aunt in mind when he said that. She hated dishwashers – they were “new-fangled” – and she was comfortable with the good old ways. Of course, she only used a dishwasher once and that was when she dropped her spectacles into its guts. Her language when she saw them vanish into the bubbles would have caused Billy Connolly to blush! Of course, it was the dishwasher’s fault, and that was that.

But it wasn’t just dishwashers. My aunt didn’t like duvets – “Sheets and blankets are best, dear” – or multi-channel TV either. It was just as well she died before the advent of mobile phones or iPads. And what she would have made of Japanese-style bum-wash toilets doesn’t even bear thinking about!

No Change, No Progress

You can’t easily teach people with ingrained habits that there is a better way of doing something. I doubt commuters would have readily accepted there was a superior way of working to commuting wearily back and forth every day at substantial financial cost and stress to family life. Many things are only appreciable in the light of experience. It was Covid that forced people to accept another way of working, and now we will never go back to the old ways.

Indeed, many good things are as unappetising in theory as they are enjoyable in practice. Re-read the Guinness advertisement at the start of this piece to see what I mean. However hard it may be to make people accept a new idea, once they have exhausted their grumbles and actually tried the new toy, that’s it, there’s no return. Take automatic cars, for example – who wants to revert to manual transmission?

Let’s see how long it takes electric cars to freeze out diesel and petrol.

You may be wondering why we’ve called this year’s walk blog Don’t Take Care, Take a Risk!?

Well, to start with, people telling me to “take care” really gets my goat! It’s a wholly negative sentiment, the sort of warning teachers must spell out to pupils to comply with health and safety laws, and the polar opposite of Katharine Hepburn’s lovely, “If you obey all the rules, you’ll miss all the fun.”

You don’t have fun taking care. You get bored to death. When people hear about our walk, they say, “Ooh… You know you shouldn’t be doing that at your age. You must take care!”

Get real! I’m old enough now to be playing with the casino’s money. I’m at an age when you wonder if it’s wise to buy green bananas or if it’s worthwhile starting War and Peace. The astute author Kingsley Amis suggested that no one over a certain age should stop doing what they enjoy on the off chance they might get to spend an extra year in the home for the bewildered, say in Doncaster’s Sea View. There you’d sit on a plastic-covered chair (don’t ask why) in a room whiffing of cabbage and wee, and with daytime TV burbling away. Bald, batty, doubly incontinent and gently dribbling, you’d be sucking lunch through a straw. And, of course, it would be raining.

The children would be complaining, “It’s your darn turn to visit Grandad…” and the reply would be, “No, it’s your turn”. And then they’d think, “What’s the point? He won’t know who the hell we are anyway!”

Sorry if that’s a bit close to the bone for some supporters – but we all know that life in extreme old age can be a total sod.

So, I say, while the going’s still good, walk away! I know we’re doing something useful by walking for the poor of Zimbabwe. If we die in a ditch, what the hell! And please, don’t take care – take a risk! Have a song in your heart and be with the people you love and who love you. Better by far than slowly rusting away in Sea View, Doncaster! Don’t you agree?

Paragliding anyone? Or a spot of white-water rafting?

Times Past

When I was young, prizes were for those who came first in a school subject or won a race. Now it seems that children are given an award just for enrolling in a subject (whose name they can’t even spell) or for coming last in a race! Apparently, it’s called “encouragement to be mediocre”. In my day, we knew we had to accomplish something of significance before we deserved a prize or congratulations.

Experts now agree that it’s okay for children to play in the dirt with their dogs and cats so they can build up some immunity… Well, goodness me! Who would have thought that?

My mum used to cut chicken, chop eggs and spread butter on bread, all on the same cutting board with the same knife, but we didn’t seem to get food poisoning. Our school sandwiches were wrapped in wax paper and stuffed in a brown paper bag, not in ice-pack coolers, but I can’t remember getting E. coli. We mucked out horse stables and played Kick the Can in muddy farmsteads – amazing that we suffered no ill effects.

Almost all of us preferred swimming in a lake or the sea to a pristine, chlorinated pool (talk about boring)? We all took PE and risked permanent injury by wearing gym shoes or going bare foot. We didn’t have cross-training athletic shoes with air-cushioned soles and built-in light reflectors that cost as much as a small car. I can’t recall any injuries, but they must have happened because they tell us how much safer we are now.

Ps and Qs

We were taught “manners” by our parents, how to be polite to older people and to offer our seat on the bus or train to those older than us. And we were expected to write a “thank you” letter when someone gave us a gift. Funny how we found the time to do that.

There were at least 40 kids in my class at school. Somehow, we all learned to read and write, do maths and spell almost all the words needed to write a grammatically correct letter. Funny that!

If anyone called us an unpleasant name, we worked out how to handle it, even had a fight or two. We never went crying to Teacher or Mummy for help or went into a state of nervous collapse or suffered “stress”. We learned the hard way how to handle bullies and discovered that life can be mighty tough and is often unfair. Oh, and parents rarely complained to schools that they were being too hard on their beloved children.

We all said prayers in school, irrespective of our religious background; we sang the national anthem and saluted the flag, and no one got upset. We accepted discipline and detentions and grew up to accept rules and regulations. It went without saying that we honoured and respected those who were older than us.

I just can’t recall how bored we were without computers, phone screens, Play Station, Nintendo, X-box or 270 digital TV cable stations. We weren’t! We talked to friends, we read and re-read books, we kicked balls around – and don’t even mention the rope swing across the river or climbing trees!

Oh, yes… where was the sterilisation kit or the antibiotics when I got that bee sting? I could have been killed!

We played “King of the Castle” on piles of dirt or gravel left in vacant building sites and when we got hurt, our mums pulled out the 2/6d bottle of iodine and then we got our backsides spanked. Now it’s a trip to A&E followed by a 10-day course of antibiotics, and then Mum calls a lawyer to sue the contractor for leaving a horribly vicious pile of gravel where it was such a threat.

To top it off, not a single person I knew was told they came from a dysfunctional family. How could we possibly have known that? We didn’t know anything about drugs or porn. Our worst excesses were confined to a ciggie behind the bike shed. We never needed group therapy or anger management classes. And we didn’t even notice that the entire country wasn’t taking Prozac! How did we ever survive?

Love to all of us who shared this era – and to those who didn’t, sorry for what you missed. We wouldn’t trade it for anything!

Those were the days.

Two Weeks Later…

Day of relative rest – relative because Jane is working at the food bank, and I am dealing with loads of overdue administration. Many thanks to donors for their sponsorship and kind wishes. And to the excellent ZANE team for their background support. We were fortunate in our driver, Richard, who has all the gifts we required, crucially patience and a sense of humour.

Two weeks is a long time: it went like a flash, yet the start days seem an eternity ago.

The African Way

A doctor friend, who has spent much of his life in southern Africa, tells me that years ago when Cherie Blair was apprehended on the Underground without a tube ticket, a senior African friend was astounded.

“How did the ticket collector dare to stop the wife of the British prime minister for dodging a fare? Why isn’t the man in jail? That could never happen in a southern African country. No one would dare to say anything!”

So, what can be done about gross corruption and mismanagement in Southern Africa? Sadly, the answer is nothing. 

Most African countries – including South Africa – are either in ruins or heading that way. The misrule and corruption will never come to an end, for an “end” doesn’t exist, not in relation to a country. 

The ordinary people in African countries do not expect much from their politicians because they are used to tired and empty slogans. Few, apart from cock-eyed optimists, harbour any illusions about the alien concepts of morality and governance.

The idea that the “state should be an instrument for people’s development” is a Western concept. The notion that leaders are there to serve the people is as real as the tooth fairy. African leaders don’t follow the ideas of Socrates, Kant, and Hegel, for these figures are from a different world. They are content to remain African and do things “the African way”.

The “African way” is to rule through kings and tribal chiefs – they adopt unwritten rules, made up as they go. Has anyone seen a book of African customary laws?

The very idea that a commoner could raise issues about the abuse of public money spent for example, on the house of a president is simply risible: it’s not the African way. To ask a ruler to be accountable is a Western idea. It never happens.

In most African countries, anti-corruption campaigners are an oddity.

No African leader likes an educated populace – educated people are difficult to govern.

People used to wonder if South Africa, under Mandela and Mbeki, might be an exception to this bleak analysis. I fear not. That country will end up broke like Zimbabwe. Just give it a bit more time.    

Making Plans?

Some have questioned me about next year’s walk. I remind them, “Do you know what makes God laugh?”

“People making plans!”

The Final Day

The final day. Perfect weather and good company. We met the food bank contingent for lunch, and then we marched up Shotover Hill and down the other side into Oxford.

For the last couple of weeks, as we have tottered from theatre to theatre in a great arch, we have been blessed with great company and, in the main, fine walking weather. The administration was fine, and we are grateful for all the kind messages you have sent us as encouragement. We have been fortunate to attract an excellent driver who has been a fund of tolerance, wisdom and good cheer when we were feeling what the Scots call “peely wully.”

Avoiding the Net

All the walkers saw Emma Radicanu’s outstanding tennis performance. One of them – experienced in the ways of the media – wondered how long it would be before a hack unearthed some occasion where the poor woman allegedly behaved badly. I hope she will be well looked after.

Young Blood

I have never liked getting drunk myself. It’s simply not in my genes. But when I was young, hard drinking was all around me. The measure of the enjoyment of the jocks in the Cameron Highlanders in which I served all those years ago was the degree to which they could get “effing stoshered!” Their recreational antics – vomiting and fighting – were a commonplace to be regarded with approval by the officers, a sign of their renowned fighting spirit.

Later, in Edinburgh, I shared a flat with a man who often used to drink until he was rendered unconscious. I can see him in my mind’s eye, lying on the floor covered with vomit. He was delightful in many ways, but incapable of sobriety.

There was little social disapproval of excess boozing in those days. In my subaltern days, drink driving was a sport and dodging the police was never condemned. Instead, it was regarded as an amusing campaign of dodging authority: the fun-loving youngbloods versus the killjoy plods.

For a while, the mood shifted. Slowly my friends realised that the addiction to alcohol wasn’t a just bit of fun. A friend’s son was sent to jail for killing a cyclist and the jokes seemed to die down. But then the booze game came back with a vengeance. Today, expressions like “down the hatch,” “quenching our thirst” and a “night out with the boys” are all euphemisms for getting wasted. As a result, alcohol-related deaths in England and Wales are rising, 20 per cent higher than in 2019. Hospital admissions related to alcohol stand at a ghastly 1.26 million! Just imagine the national reaction if this statistic was related to Covid-19?

Sober Reflection

Today, nearly 40 per cent of incidents connected to violence relate to drunkenness. And the geographical inequalities are shocking. In southern England, there are two deaths per thousand from drink, in south Tyneside it’s a staggering 22 per 100,000!

Today, half of all ambulance callouts are related to drink. If you’re obliged to wait in A&E with an ill child for, say, four hours, then at least two of them are probably down to someone else’s drink problem. And please note, not criminal drugs but socially acceptable drink. “Have another gin, ho ho!”  

We have a culture problem. We take a hostile view of drug abuse, but we treat the most dangerous drug of all as a national joke, often to be encouraged as “fun”, always to be tolerated and never to be condemned except by killjoys.

We should review this acute problem – soberly.    

Thanks, But No Thanks…

Years ago, I was the chairman of the board of the Milton Keynes Health Authority. Nearing the end of my tenure in office, I was approached by a woman who asked whether I would like my name attached to the new building next door? My pride kicked in! I had raised money for it, and no one had even noticed. They say that the most exquisite pleasure of all is to do good secretly –and then to be found out. This was proof of that saying!

Okay, it wasn’t quite a statue but at least a plaque is better than nothing? How could I refuse?

I was a little surprised she had asked me because I didn’t like her particularly and I was sure my vague feelings of animosity towards her – and she was a lady of little taste! – were reciprocated.

Something bothered me, so I asked the chief executive what the purpose of the new building would be? 

Oh, it’s to be the “Buckingham Centre for Sexually Transmitted Diseases,” he replied. 

I gratefully declined…