Empathy: Separating Us From the Animals- or "Ballet Trumps Trump".

Our trip last night to the local cinema to see a live stream from the Royal Opera House of the ballet Romeo & Juliet was sublime – a high spot of my year so far. I’m no ballet aficionado but was simply swept away by the beauty and skill of it all – the dancers, the music, the sets, the costumes – everything. And of course, it was Shakespeare. I haven’t the words to sufficiently express how wonderfully uplifting and at the same time humbling it all was.

Principal dancers Fumi Kaneko and Vadim Muntagirov were magical, their dancing superb to my eyes but just as important, their ability to tell by movement and expression the great tale of love and tragedy that is Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. This was ballet – not Shakespeare’s mighty words – but as curtain went up to reveal a Verona street scene I could not help reciting silently to myself the wonderful first words of Shakespeare’s masterpiece: “Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean………” . And three hours later as the lovers lay dead on the stage, their families distraught and Verona’s Prince standing angry and saddened by the events in his city I remembered again the sombre final words of the play spoken by the Prince: “A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things: Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished; For never was a story of more woe, Than this of Juliet and her Romeo”.As we left the cinema and drove home along Nottingham’s Ring Road I reflected upon what we had been privileged to be part of. During the intervals, and with the power of technology, text messages appeared on the screen praising the performance and the wonder of it from people all over the world who like us were watching the live stream: Berlin, Cardiff, Croatia, the Philippines, Lille, Madrid and hundreds more – their texts running along the bottom of the screen as they poured in from cyberspace. And as I drove I marvelled at the power of technology to bring us together – the world is indeed becoming smaller. What an opportunity we have to become a better, more united world.

And, following this line of thought I mused on something else. The performance was in London, I was watching in Nottingham. Juliet was performed by a dancer born and raised in Japan and Romeo a Russian born and raised in a city in the depths of that vast country. The orchestra was conducted by Koen Kessels - a Belgian and the ballet choreographed by Sir Kenneth Macmillan – a Scot. The musical score was composed by another Russian Sergey Prokofiev – and of course the whole thing was based upon the words of an Englishman, William Shakespeare. We are, indeed, all interlinked and intertwined across world – all reliant upon everyone else’s talents, ideas, skills, resources, aspirations, dream, hopes and fears. There are words for this: “mankind” or “humanity”. We are all part of humanity whether we like it or not; and as humans, all of us who enjoyed last night’s performance – wherever we were – recognised and understood and related to the very human emotions and events that were set out before us precisely because we are human – it’s called “empathy” - it's one of the attributes that separates us from the animal kingdom.

So, as I reversed the car onto our drive late last night the inhuman, divisive, hateful racist and ethnic rhetoric that we have heard from the American President and his henchmen in recent weeks seemed even more unacceptable. The awful dismissal of empathy as a valid human emotion by Elon Musk a week or two ago says far more about him and his crippled perverted view of humanity than it does about empathy. Musk's comment that "Empathy is the fundamental weakness of western civilisation" not only displays his ignorance of a basic human instinct, it calls in to question his understanding of people and the defining qualities in a "civilisation". But Musk is not alone. Equally depressing and damning is the ill considered, vulgar, crude and violent outbursts from the mindless supporters of these would be tyrants. The actions, too, of alleged “strong men” like Benjamin Netanyahu and Vladimir Putin (no they’re not "strongmen", they are childish thugs who have mistakenly been given, by their mindless supporters, expensive and dangerous toys to play their perverted games with) and their inhumane bombing into oblivion of innocents becomes to me even more of a crime against humanity.

Romeo and Juliet is a story about love being thwarted and it becomes a tragedy. It seems to me that in this hate filled world we need to ensure love and togetherness are victorious. The alternative as we see daily on our TV screens and in our newspapers doesn’t bear thinking about. It's commonly said - and I believe to be true - that Shakespeare's works encompass all it is to be human - all mankind's dreams, failings, misdeeds and triumphs can be found in the Bard's works. Last night's ballet of his mighty tale took that one stage further and brought a beauty and magic to it all - and in doing so showed up the horror of what is happening and being promoted by so many in our modern world.

"ADOLESCENCE" - A Story For Our Times

Good art, it is said, should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable. I don’t know if that is true but I suspect it is – and furthermore, I suspect, that in our mad and worrying modern world never has ”good art” been more needed to provide succour and support for the soul or guidance and awareness in our moral and social responsibilities. And of all art forms literature and poetry are often the most powerful means of comforting or disturbing our sensibilities. The works of Dickens increasingly pricked the consciousness of his Victorian age, and amongst many others, John Steinbeck’s “Grapes of Wrath” and his “Of Mice and Men” profoundly impacted upon my own beliefs about the nature of society and our moral responsibilities within it.

From the earliest times mankind has used stories and verse to pass on its great truths, to make “good societies” and “good human beings”. A hundred years ago the greatest of the First World War poets, Wilfred Owen, and days before his tragic death on the battle fields of France wrote: “All a poet can do is warn. That is why the poets must be truthful.” And more recently author Salman Rushdie commented “A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep…...A poem cannot stop a bullet. A novel can't defuse a bomb. But we are not helpless. We can sing the truth and name the liars.” Indeed, “Comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable”.

In today’s societies it is television and films that carry many of mankind’s messages, reflections and truths that can, or must, mould or change opinions for better or for worse. It is TV and films that bring the world in all its glories and failings into our living rooms and our lives and occasionally – very occasionally – it doesn’t just entertain but crashes into our consciousness, "disturbs our comfort." And as Rushdie said “stops the world going to sleep”.

Sadly, although Dickens, Steinbeck, Owen and Rushdie and the rest have produced numerous books and poems to awaken us to mankind’s discontents and failings TV and films do so only rarely – but when they do, they can be both life affirming and life changing in a way that perhaps books and poems can never be.

As I sit here writing this I can recall vividly the impact that the BBC play “Cathy Come Home” - a tale of a young couple’s descent into poverty and homelessness - had on “swinging 60s” Britain. The outcry didn’t solve the problems highlighted in the play; in many ways they are still with us – but it changed the game, opened up discussions – in short, disturbed our comfortable mindset. A few years later another BBC offering in the early 1970s pricked the nation’s conscience as we followed the travails of “Edna, the Inebriate Woman” as poor, elderly, vulnerable and alcoholic Edna was shuffled through the Kafkaesque Social Services system in an endless downward spiral. Ten years later in the early 80s not only did the nation get another wake up call, it got a new catchphrase for the national vocabulary. “I can do that…Giz us a job” – Yosser Hughes’ plaintive and achingly desperate plea for work so that he could feed and keep his crumbling family together became a national cri de cœur heard on street corners, in pubs, school playgrounds and football stadiums. The series “Boys from the Blackstuff” touched a nerve as few programmes have ever done and brought home to the comfortable - people like me - the impact and desperation being felt by many in Thatcher’s 1980s Britain. Yosser Hughes and his fellow out of work and desperate tarmac layers became alternative and unlikely national heroes. Such was the power of that series, and such is the power of a story; not only retelling a narrative but in moulding the national consciousness by, as Wilfred Owen reminded us just before he died, "telling the truth". Last year the long running UK scandal involving Post Office employees wrongly accused of theft by their employers suddenly became a front page event and forced government, the Post Office and the legal profession to examine their collective consciences and responsibilities after the ITV series "Mr Bates and the Post Office" was broadcast. The outcry at the exposures about faulty computer systems and potentially criminal actions of the part of the Post Office, Fujitsu and others put the government on the back foot and within weeks an issue that had dragged on for years was suddenly acted upon by those in power.

And so to the latest – and for me the most compelling and worrying. A story for our times. “Adolescence”, a series produced by Netflix is harrowing in the extreme, desperately worrying and above all important. [‘The younger me would have sat up and nodded’: Adolescence writer Jack Thorne on the insidious appeal of incel culture | Television | The Guardian ] The story of teenage boy, Jamie, accused of murdering Katie, a teenage girl, it tracks Jamie's arrest, the police investigation, the work of psychiatrists and the disintegration of a family. It pulls no punches but has a grim inevitable everyday reality about it that we can all recognise and in doing so dread. We can feel for all the characters, and we can fear for them because underpinning and running through it is a message, both overt and covert – "This is us, this is you, your family, this is your son, this is your daughter now – today, in the 21st century"; it holds a mirror up to contemporary Britain. It made my wife and I shiver and wipe tears from our eyes. After each episode we were in bits, silent, embarrassed to say what we felt and to feel what we wanted to say - as we thought of our own children and grandchildren and the “underworld” of teenage social media. Snapchat, Instagram, YouTube and the rest, filled with twisted "Internet Influencers" backed up by the sordid and faux philosophies of pseudo/self proclaimed intellectuals like Jordan Peterson spewing their perverted messages and regurgitating ill informed fake facts and hate; perniciously eating into the lives, thoughts and actions of our young people. We learned about the world of the insidious and mind corrupting Incel culture, of Andrew Tate and his evil messages. And we were afraid; finding it impossible to get the words, images and messages out of our minds as we lay in bed at night after each episode, looking at the ceiling in the dark. The series is grim, hard hitting, a desperate watch - but never sensational – and that is its power: it reflects back at us, our children and our society, forcing us to acknowledge what we knew was there all the time but refused to accept, believing that it could not happen to us, to our family, to our children……. except, except......it could.

In the final episode the sobbing, well meaning, frightened and regret filled parents cling to each other, as we all would to gain some respite, consolation or virtue from the horror that they find themselves in, “We did our best….we were not bad parents,…..you can’t watch your kids all the time can you……?” they sobbed. And it’s true – but that doesn’t alter the reality of what is. In days past when a child misbehaved he or she might have been stood on the “naughty step” or sent to his/her bedroom where they can calm down, think about their actions in solitude and perhaps regret. We like to think that we are being good, enlightened parents by giving our children responsibility and independence - be grown up and go with their mates into town, have a room of their own where they can "chill", listen to their awful music and do their homework in a quiet, secure and safe atmosphere - but we were wrong. Our well meaning and, enlightened actions were and are false Gods. The secure welcoming bedroom just right for chilling, the naughty step, the lounge, the street, school, or the school bus are not, in 2025, private and secure, nor are they now safe. Creeping, insidious technology is always there, intruding, always available,  ever with them; in their pocket ready at the flick of a finger on the touch screen to open up different and dangerous worlds with worryingly, frighteningly different values, vocabularies, and ideologies; threats to young immature minds. As I sit writing this it is late afternoon and passing my office window in our quiet little road the village's teenagers are walking past my window on their way home from the school bus. These are “good kids” from “good families” and every one (yes I mean every one) is walking gazing into their mobile phones furiously texting, perhaps soaking up – or sending - the bile, the misogyny, the racist comments and the emojis prevalent on Snapchat, Instagram and the rest. Emojis, not as I previously thought, fun childish things, little innocent cartoons to brighten a text message but each one in the sub culture inhabited by many on Snapchat and Instagram carrying a subtle but clear and frightening meaning, a pernicious and demeaning message, to worm its way into the subconscious of its immature and pliable recipient.

We cannot turn the clock back, we cannot unsee what is here. The world of mobiles, laptops, tablets, social media, fake news, AI, and the rest is today’s reality; they cannot be undone. But within them there is another reality potentially making all of our young people victims. Katie, the girl murdered in the play was a victim but so, too, was the murderer – and by association his and her families - his mind, reason and virtue (what a quaint and twee word that sounds in this harsh, modern age!) twisted by the hidden sub culture of the cyberworld made possible by the Elon Musks and Mark Zuckerbergs of this world and driven by Andrew Tate and Hamza Ahmed and other high priests of the smartphone and YouTube "Manosphere", all pushing their divisive and dangerous agendas and hate filled  ideologies: envy, rage, violence, misogyny, fear, retribution, lies, and evil dysfunction to their millions of young followers. And all largely hidden from parents, teachers and other responsible adults. We cannot change the world that we have built but as adults we have the responsibility to ensure that the young do not fall prey to it. Jamie’s father so agonisingly sobbed “We can't watch our kids all the time, can we?” but as adults we have a greater imperative – to take care of our children and young people no matter what. But taking care of our children to ensure only their physical safety is not enough. As this series illustrates so tragically we must, too, ensure their emotional and mental well being - their virtue; none of us want our children to turn out to become emotionally crippled monsters with no awareness of basic humanities like empathy, sympathy and simple goodness. Anything less is a dereliction of our duty as adults.

The other important plays that I mentioned at the top of this post – “Cathy Come Home”, “Boys From the Blackstuff” etc. were vital in raising society's awareness and in changing attitudes. But for most of us they were removed from our worlds. I watched “Cathy” and was angry, upset. But it wasn’t my world, I had a good job and nice house – "Not me" I breathed as I watched. I followed Yosser Hughes and the unemployed tarmac layers in 1980s Liverpool and ranted and wrote letters to The Guardian newspaper haranguing Thatcher and her evil policies. But, again, it wasn’t me or my family - it was somebody else, somewhere else. I watched the Post Office scandal and was delighted when it had such an impact. But then, I had never been falsely accused of theft - it was interesting, worrying even, but removed.
“Adolescence” is different – it’s about us, about the way in which technology is impacting upon all our lives and in the case of young people their vulnerabilities. If you haven’t watched “Adolescence” then you should. You might not have children, you might (and you would be completely wrong) think “My kids aren’t like this”. You might not use social media but whether you like it or not, use it or not, social media now frames and in many respects forms our world; it's a play for our troubled times. It's a hard watch because it spells out in big bold letters the world we are living in; to coin Wilfred Owen's phrase, it "tells the truth" and, sadly, the truth, when we are in denial or unaware is tough to accept and acknowledge - and that is why it's so powerful and important.

"I saw Satan laughing with delight......"

In 1972 Don McLean released his iconic, and at over eight minutes long, epic, song “American Pie” (click on link below to watch McLean performing his epic in 1972). There have been many interpretations and suggestions as to the meaning of McLean’s words but what is not in doubt is that they struck a chord then, and still do today. The words and the “message” if there be a message suggest the demise or death of something of worth – many think it was the tragic early death of Buddy Holly and his music; others suggest the death of American innocence; maybe the death of the American dream, and some posit that the song is a paean or maybe a requiem to JFK and all that he represented to America and the world. Who knows? But whatever McLean’s intentions with his song, its message and theme have stuck – it still has huge popularity and resonates more today than ever before.

Amongst the most powerful words and metaphors in the song are these:

“……….. and as I watched him on the stage

My hands were clenched in fists of rage

No angel born in Hell

Could break that Satan spell

And as the flames climbed high into the night

To light the sacrificial rite

I saw Satan laughing with delight……..

……..And in the streets, the children screamed

The lovers cried and the poets dreamed

But not a word was spoken

The church bells all were broken

And the three men I admire most

The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost

They caught the last train for the coast

The day the music died…..”

McLean could have had no knowledge of what the future might bring but, I for one, cannot read or hear these words without thinking of America 2025 under the monstrous Trump and his grubby minions. “Satan laughing with delight" seems an apt metaphor for Trump, Vance and Musk – and the “good old boys" of the GOP. Nor can I see or hear the words without also seeing the face of Trump with his malevolent and malignant twisted grin seeming to personify George Orwell’s terrifying comment in his dystopian tale “1984” that “If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face….” Is that America's future - and maybe the world? It's a terrifying thought but given the new world order promoted by Trump one that we must consider.

But what of those other words “And in the streets the children screamed…..”? America, allegedly a “Christian country,” seems to me and I think, many more, to be anything but. The perverted “Christianity” that I have witnessed spilling from the mouths of Trump supporters and the hateful legislation being enacted by Trump (abortion clamp downs, reducing social programmes, vilifying other human beings, hateful rhetoric……the list goes on) all strongly suggest to me that in Trump’s America, within the Republican Party, and in the minds of millions of moronic Trump supporters the Good Samaritan would get short shrift. In the transactional world of Trump, Vance and Musk nothing, not even kindness or Christian compassion or empathy, is free – we saw that in the Oval Office when President Zelenskyy visited - "I will only give you this if you give me that" underpins the new morality. The law of the jungle operates, dog eats dog, man eats man; the basic courtesies, dignities and humanities cease to exist, nothing is for free - the new "Christianity" of America is a post-humane society. The Good Samaritan when he found the injured traveller on the road didn’t look down at the injured man and say “You don’t have many good cards in your hand, Mister……so what’s in it for me if you want my help” as Donald Trump and JD Vance would undoubtedly have done. But, to return to McLean’s song, in America 2025 “The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost” truly have “Caught the last train for the coast".

America – and by association – the rest of the world has become in the last two months a terrifying place. French author and philosopher Albert Camus would have recognised what has happened in America since Trump’s Inauguration; “When a democracy is sick” warned Camus, “Fascism comes to its bedside, but it is not to inquire about its health.” Much of America 2025 cannot imagine anything better than their own perverted self indulgences. Shakespeare put it well when he reminded us in King Lear: “Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind”.

Indeed!

What Trump and the Republican Party have wrought in America is, as I suggested above, a post-humane society, They offer neither food nor drink — neither intellectual or spiritual consolation - to sustain the individual. the society or the soul. They lead nowhere and satisfy no ideal. They conform to no intellectual standard or any degree of civilisation which America might have achieved or prized. Trump has brought to Washington an anti-Camelot, an inversion of the mythical, majestic and virtuous citadel that became synonymous with Kennedy. While Kennedy inspired with his movie-star looks, his culture, his eloquence, his intelligence and his wit, Trump has turned all on its head. Trump was, and is, born from a culture that relentlessly deconstructs ideals; he sneers at the very notion of idealism or virtue or truth. In his embrace of wealth and power, Trump is enacting another ugly truth that today so much of America and its “culture” is rooted in lies, money, and corruption. The 19th and early 20th century’s ruthless multimillionaires, the “robber barons” – Carnegie, Rockefeller, Morgan and the rest - at least built museums, libraries, universities and hospitals to improve society’s lot. But they have now given way to ruthless multibillionaires - Trump, Musk, Bezos, Zuckerberg et al - who build nothing but Bitcoin server farms and space rockets to fulfil their own perverted self-indulgences.

Seven hundred years ago in Renaissance Italy Dante Alighieri wrote his “Commedia” (or “Divine Comedy” often commonly referred to as “Dante’s Inferno”) one of the world's most important and profound works – an epic poem leading us, in turn, through Hell, Purgatory and Paradise and emphasising the splendour and dignity of the human soul. In arguably the best known line in the work the Greek hero Ulysses, condemned to spending eternity in Hell, cries out “You were not made to live your lives as brutes,” and in doing so emphasises the importance of human potential for growth, learning, virtue and striving for something higher than mere animalistic existence. Dante would have recognised the brutality of Trump, his administration and America in 2025 for what they represent – to use Don McLean’s 1971 analogy “Satan laughing with delight”. Dante, however described Satan differently from McLean; he pictured “….a silent frozen Lucifer, eternally masticating the bodies of sinners with tears of ice on his cheeks”. Three hundred years later in England, poet John Milton saw a different Satan in his epic poem “Paradise Lost”; Milton’s vision was of a furious, manically talkative, feverishly resentful Satan. Both descriptions seem to me to sum up Donald Trump and his acolytes, men of no virtue, brutal and displaying the basest of animal instincts - inhumane, sub-human devoid of the very characteristics that define mankind.

Seventy years ago this year the great American novelist Jack Kerouac published his iconic and seminal work "On the Road" - a book that arguably changed the world (including me when I read it as a nineteen year old). In that book he posed the question "Whither goest thou America in thy shiny car in the night....". America and Americans need to ask that same hard question now in 2025. For just as McLean sang over half a century ago "Satan is laughing with delight" and as Dante’s writing suggested it is well on the pathway to Hell for it has lost its soul.

"DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT, MOVE ON" - A FABLE FOR AMERICA 2025

A few weeks ago much of the world sat aghast as the new President of America promised to withdraw from the many climate commitments that it had previously agreed to with other nations. We despaired when he gloatingly promised to “Drill, Baby Drill”. He is in league with the richest man in the world who spends his time and money not for good causes but for sending space vehicles towards other planets with the declared intention of landing on Mars – presumably so that it too might be desecrated – and in the past 24 hours we have seen his space debris falling to Earth in the Caribbean. But of course, all that was a sort of “overture” to whet the appetite of his mindless followers – people for whom thought and morality are alien concepts. In these early week’s of Trump’s presidency we have seen an upturn in hate rhetoric and destructive legislation, the vilification of particular individuals and groups and the fracturing of the agreements, treaties and laws that America had previously sponsored, desired or occasionally bullied other nations into accepting. The result, it increasingly seems, is that both America and the world are now, like Musk's defunct space craft (see picture below!) in a chaotic and downward spiral – its crashing end being difficult to imagine or forecast.

As I ponder this I am reminded of a story that I first used to tell when leading assembly in my school in the early 1970s. The story. which I told many times - with its wonderful punchline - always brought a gasp from the kids. In the early 1970s green issues were largely unknown, just beginning to become mainstream, the world was a much simpler place. But over the years I  added bits to make the story more relevant to what the children saw on their TV screens or heard adults discussing. I doubt very much that Donald Trump or JD Vance or Elon Musk - and certainly not the legion of intellectually challenged and morally bankrupt Republican followers of that unholy trinity - are capable of understanding the hidden truths, the moral standpoints and nuances of fables, myths and metaphors. From what I have seen and read Trump and his acolytes deal in the black and white, the brutal unsubstantiated assertion, the lie. 

And if I was still in charge of a school and leading a daily assembly, this might be my 2025 edition of that fable.  I would begin the assembly, as I always did, by playing a short extract from Debussy's famous work "Clair de Lune" and tell the children that the music is a musical picture of the beauty of moonlight. I'd ask the children if they liked the music and what did it remind them of and then, I would ask "How can you tell that it's about the moon from the work's title and, always, one of the older children would put her or his hand up and say that another word for the moon is "lunar"..................and so I would begin my story:

“I’m going to take you into the future today children. Imagine two small planets hurtling through space, they circled around their sun for millions of years. One of the planets was populated by beings called Lings. The other planet had a population of Tics. At night the Tics would look at the planet of the Lings, quite unaware of the existence of life on that planet. On the planet of the Lings, they, too, would gaze upwards and look at the silver ball in the sky never dreaming it was full of Tics.

The millennia passed.

Then, one day a small space craft set off from the planet of the Lings and powered its way through space.  Three or four days later it landed on the planet of the Tics. Its door opened and out clambered three space suited Spacelings. They climbed into their buggy and began to investigate this new world, their own planet's nearest neighbour. It was soon apparent to the Lings that the planet was quite uninhabited. There was no sign of life of any kind. No trees, no plants, no insects or animals, no water. Nothing but dust and dirt. There was no sign whatsoever of people of any kind.

The Spacelings explored but to no avail. The planet was quite empty and dead. But, as they made their way back to their spacecraft they came across a cave. They stopped to explore and to their amazement found an old book lying in the dust and at the side of the book a few bones. It had clearly lain there for many thousands of years. They buried the bones and carefully picked up the book and headed back to the space craft -  anxious to report back to their superiors at home.

Back on board they carefully opened the book and found page after page of ancient, neat writing. It told the story of the great Tic civilizations that had once lived on the planet. They read that once the planet had been filled with millions of Tics. Tics of every colour and every belief. There were yellow Tics, white Tics, red Tics, black Tics. There were Tics who drove buses, Tics who taught in schools, Tics who worked in banks, Tics who worked in hospitals, Soldiertics,  Scientics and Footballtics and Shopkeepertics, every kind of person and job you can think of just like on their own planet of Lings. There had been cities, farms, factories, motorways, animals, forests, rivers, mountains, deep oceans and all the other things that the Spacelings knew so well. It was just like at home.

But as they read further, they realised that all was not well. The book told them that the Tics often argued amongst themselves. White Tics hated the black Tics and red tics fell out with the yellow Tics. There was colour prejudice. They had different religions and Tics from one religion often fell out with people from another, Some Tics were looked down on by other Tics. There were different classes of Tics and some had special privileges. These Upper Classtics went to special schools and looked down on the Ordinary Tics.  Many Tics were greedy and took more than their share of the planet’s resources. Other Tics became overweight in some parts of the planet whilst others starved in other Tic countries. The various Tic governments were often corrupt and allowed some Tics to become extremely wealthy whilst ordinary Tics were often unemployed and poor.  The planet was filled with great inequality which made many Tics angry and often violent. Often the young Tics could not find work and so could not afford to buy a home of their own and so became angry with the older Tics.

Some Tic countries polluted the atmosphere and said that this was the price you had to pay for progress – one UStic shouted when he became POTUStic “We’re gonna Drill Baby Drill” even though everyone knew that this would cause irreversible damage to the planet's atmosphere. Tics across the planet were using more and more of the planet's resources and then throwing  things away so that the lands and the oceans became filled with rubbish, plastic and the like. Many Tics had polluting cars which harmed the atmosphere and caused illness and the Scientics spoke out and said “If we carry on like this our planet will become polluted and die. The atmosphere will warm, causing many places to become deserts and the ice caps to melt so that the seas will rise and cause great floods in other places”. But no-one took any notice.

Many Politiciantics and Religioustics warned that unless the governments did more to help people, tackle pollution and become more caring then the Tic society was in grave danger.  But many Tics wouldn’t listen, "We must have our cars and our TVs and all the other things that we like" they said. Nor would many of those in power listen – they said ‘No this is progress - it is what the Tics want, there is no alternative, it is what makes us rich.’ But it didn’t make Tics in some countries rich, it made them poor for they were forced to labour in sweat shops in order to provide cheap products for the rich Tics in the rich lands of the planet. And the poor Tics became angry and resentful. Many wealthy Tics and Tic companies cheated on the amount of Tictax for which they were liable and as a result countries and governments had less money to provide for things like schools and healthcare.  

There were also, the book said, some Tics who wielded great power. For example, Mediatics who wielded  influence through  newspapers and TV empires and these Mediatics encouraged everyone   to live the good life; "Go on", they said, "buy what you  want - you know it makes sense and you're worth it" And these Mediatics told ordinary Tics to vote for who the Tic newspapers approved of rather than think for themselves.  And many Tics did. And many Tics stopped thinking and asking questions, they couldn't be bothered and so more and more Eviltics were allowed to gain power because nobody cared.   More and more Tics said "Politics is boring, all politicians are the same so I can't be bothered to vote I just want to enjoy my TV, watch Strictly Come Dancing, the Apprenticetic, or soap operas, or go with my Tic friends to the pub or go on holiday, and have a nice life. I can't be doing with all these so called experts who tell me that life can't go on like this - they need to move on, get over it, get a life"   

And the UStic which was the richest Tic nation and used up more and more of the planet’s resources and exported much of its violent culture in films and the like to other Tic nations. And other Tics watched and copied, thinking that the Tics in UStic land had a great life. And, just like in UStic land violence and guns and drugs became part of life across the planet.  And things got worse and worse and Tic nations became more and more divided. More and more disputes, and then wars broke out. There were Terrortics who planted bombs and although ordinary Tics  were angry and outraged at that, no-one did anything to solve the problem - they just sent more and more people to prison or started another war, rather than do what was necessary to make things better. But most Tics just said, 'What can I do, I can’t do anything, it's nothing to do with me, it's the government’s problem. And, anyway, I'm alright I have a nice life'.

But slowly at first, and then faster and faster, the planet began to fail and then die. The weather began to change and great storms and droughts occurred. Crops began to fail. There were more and more Terrortics attacks as some Tic countries began to feel the effect of the planet’s climate  changes and their people needed food. Millions of these  starving Tics from poor countries began to move to what they hoped were better places as Refugeetics, escaping from the climate change and the wars. And there was anger everywhere. The UStic and the UKtic, who had a special relationship, built walls or and tried to stop these Refugeetics getting into their country and keep them out of their lands. But still they came because they were desperate.........."

The Spaceling who was holding the book turned over the last page to continue reading and his eyes, and those of his colleagues, took in the final words. Their hearts began to race and their mouths fell open as they took in the words. Then they looked at each other in disbelief and horror.

The three Spacelings, in silence, closed the book and wide eyed looked at each other. Still without speaking they  hurried across the surface of the barren planet to their space ship and fired up the rockets and began their journey back home. Three days later they arrived back. They climbed out of their craft and were quickly taken to see their superiors to be debriefed.

They told their superiors what had happened and what they had read. They took out the book and held it up.  "It is just like our planet" they said. "We Earthlings fight amongst ourselves. We pollute. Our governments are corrupt. We face disaster if we continue in this way - the Tics tell us so in this book. We fight wars and we cause people to hate us. Half our world starves while the other half is overweight. Our young are unemployed and our governments do nothing about it but tell us that this is how it has to be. A few get very rich at the expense of the poor. Our great companies don't pay the taxes they should and so those in greatest need suffer. We must do something about it" said the Spacelings'.

'Well that’s all very interesting" said their superiors, "But it's not our problem, we are just Earthlings. Stick to flying rockets - that's your job, it's nothing to do with you. That's what we have politicians for to solve problems like that. Don't worry about it, there's more to life. Get over it. Move on."

There was silence and then the leader of the Spacelings stepped forward said 'Well, Sir, read the last page.' He opened the book at the last page and placed it in front of his superiors who looked at the  ancient spidery script.

'Beware, heed my message'  said the writing, 'I am the last surviving Tic. My planet has died. Pollution, wars, violence, prejudice,  greed, people not caring, corruption has killed the  planet and killed our great Tic society. We didn’t listen. We didn't act. We didn’t learn. We didn't care and now the great planet Luna is no more. I am the last of the Lunatics.'

 

A Caliph is made great by the love of his people and his wisdom, justice and understanding.

 

As I angrily watch and read about to the awful events in the White House Oval Office, when the most powerful man in the world, and his vice President continue to humiliate and rage against their own countrymen, the world and other nations I have reflected upon Trump and Vance and their abhorrent rhetoric which says much about them as people - none of it remotely good. And as I have watched I have been taken back 20 years, back to my days in the classroom. But to be more specific I have been taken back to the four or five days each week when I led the school assembly.

The assemblies weren’t religious, or if they were they were not focused upon any particular religion, and simply an opportunity to bring the school together for a few minutes as a community and reflect upon some issue - and hopefully learn something from it. It might be some school event like sports day, or something in the news, or something topical like the weather or the time of year or perhaps a celebration of some kind, for example Halloween or Remembrance Day or Harvest. What ran through them all, however, was that I liked to think that it was a time to give the children something to think about and perhaps learn from, something to make them better more understanding and aware human beings. I liked it, too, to be a time when it wasn’t just me talking from the front, telling them stuff, but rather an opportunity for the children to say something, explain what they thought of what I’d said or what they thought the “message” of the assembly or the story was.

I occasionally, if appropriate, used some of the stories from the “Tales from the One Thousand and One Nights” – often referred to as the “Arabian Nights”. The tales found in that magnificent work of literature are thousands of years old; they are full of humour, excitement and above all gentle wisdom and feature such famous characters as Ali Baba and Sinbad. Legend has it that they came about because Scheherazade a young wife of the cruel King Shahryar wanted to change her husband’s violent and murderous intentions. She did this by each night, for a thousand and one nights, telling him a story which, she hoped. would slowly change his mindset and encourage him to become a wiser and more loved ruler.

As I have watched Trump and Vance savagely and publicly make their disingenuous and hateful comments in recent days and weeks I was reminded of one of Scheherazade’s tales. It seems apposite to relate it today, and if I was still working as a teacher it would definitely be my theme for my next assembly. The tale goes something like this:

“There was once a great drought, no rain fell and the rivers, even the mighty Euphrates was but a trickle and the wondering tribesmen of the land, the Bedouins with their flocks of sheep and goats were desperate for the life giving water as they moved from the dried up rivers to the increasingly dry oases. After many weeks of searching for Allah’s blessed water the chieftain of one of these tribes commanded his six best young men to ride far and wide across the wilderness to seek water that their flocks and their tribe might drink of Allah’s sweet water. And so, these young men left on their important mission; “Do not return until you have found water, our very lives depend upon you” commanded the elderly Sheikh as they left.

Hassan, the youngest of these brave men, rode hard. For days he searched in vain and his own water bottle was empty and dry – with no water for himself or for his fine stallion. At last, on the sixth day, as the light was fading, he fell exhausted from his horse and lay on the desert sand hardly breathing. Many hours later he was awoken by the sound of wolves crying as they hunted and he realised that his faithful horse was nowhere to be seen. Stumbling to his feet, and by moonlight he followed the horse’s footprints which led into a dark cave. Hassan crept to the very back of the cave and again fell exhausted into a deep sleep.

He awoke as dawn sunlight reached the back of the cave, and suddenly realised that his arm and garments were wet and that his faithful stallion was lapping at a small spring of water that was bubbling from the dirt of the cave floor. Hassan knelt and cupping his hands greedily drank of the cool water. Then he threw water upon his burnt face and filled his water bottles to the brim and kneeling he gave thanks to mighty Allah and taking, his horse, he rode off into the morning sun to bring the good news to his people.

All day he rode and as evening fell, he came upon a group of riders, fine rich men out hunting with their hawks. They stopped Hassan and two of them roughly dragged him from his horse asking why he rode so swiftly across the Caliph’s lands and where was he travelling to in such great hurry. What was his business they commanded of him. He was taken in front of a fine gentleman sitting astride a magnificent stallion and was told to bow before the mighty Caliph Harun al-Rashid, Emperor of all the Arab lands.

Hassan, terrified, bowed before the Caliph and answered “Master, I am called Hassan by my brothers, I am but a poor goat herd, a Bedouin, and my tribe have suffered much under the burning sun with no water, our oases have dried up and there is but little water in the rivers. Our flocks are perishing for the want of Allah’s blessed water. I have been commanded by my Sheikh that I seek water and today, Allah has been good, for after six days of searching I have found the sweetest and purest water, truly the water of paradise”.

The Caliph, the wise, merciful and just Harun al-Rashid, looked down upon Hassan and smiled saying “Do not be afraid Hassan. I am pleased for you and your people, but tell me, what does the water of paradise taste like? Hassan turned and took his water bottle from this saddle and handed it to the Caliph saying, “Master, would you taste Allah’s blessed water?” A servant passed the Caliph a golden goblet and Hassan poured his water into it. At the sight of the water the Caliph’s friends gasped, for it was brown and filled with dirt, but the Caliph smiled and bowed in thanks, and putting the goblet to his lips drank deeply. When the goblet was empty he smiled and looking down at Hassan said, “My friend, truly you have found the water of paradise, I am honoured that you shared your precious gift with me. I wish you well. Go now, you must return to your people in all haste with the good news and guide them to this spring from paradise”.

Mumbling his thanks Hassan bowed and turned to remount his horse, but as he did so, the Caliph continued and said “Here, Hassan, take this small gift, use it well for your people” and he took from his saddle bag a small leather purse filled with gold dinars. Hassan gasped, never before had he seen such wealth and he fell to his knees before the Caliph who continued, “When your people have drunk and watered their flocks with the water of paradise then I command you to come, with your Sheikh, to Baghdad, to my palace and make yourself known to me. I would dine with you and will then send workmen with you to the spring. They will build a well that your people might never thirst again. Now, go you home and tell the good news. Allah is great”.

Again, bowing and mumbling his thanks Hassan climbed back on his horse and fled both in terror and amazement at what had occurred, and disappeared into the evening sunset. As he disappeared, the Caliph’s friends gathered around the Caliph in amazement and his Grand Vizier, Yahya bin Khalid asked “Sire why did you drink of that water, it was dirty and unfit for your majesty’s mouth. We have crystal clear water enough in our water bottles. We could have taken him to Baghdad and given him clean water; he would have seen the great fountains that decorate our halls and drunk his fill of Allah’s water and he would have seen your mighty power and known truly the cool, clear water of paradise”.

Harun al-Rashid smiled and looked at his Vizier and his friends. “No, my learned friend, on this you are wrong” he replied. “It was right that I drank his water. He was offering me the most precious thing that he had in his whole world and yet he was prepared to share it with me. To him it was the water of paradise, and who knows it may be so if it gives life to his people and his flocks. It would have been ungracious and churlish and tactless of me to refuse to drink, or to ridicule him, or make him think that what to him was the most precious thing in the world was unworthy. Such words from me, his Caliph, would have belittled him and made him feel of little worth. I command you all to remember that a Caliph is not made great by the size of his army or the sharpness of his sword or the magnificence of his palace or the beauty of his wives but by the love of his people and the wisdom, justice and understanding that he brings to them. When Hassan returns to the bosom of his people he will tell them of what has passed and they will marvel and give praise and love him and love their Caliph. I command all of you, the great men of my kingdom, remember this as you go about my business”. And so saying the Caliph rode off leaving his friends to think on these things.”

As I remembered this tale from my past I wondered if it would be understood in the Oval Office. I somehow doubt that the intellectually challenged and emotionally immature President and Vice President of the USA would be capable of understanding its message or its nuances – and certainly it would be lost on the millions of Republican supporters in America and elsewhere who mindlessly follow and worship these two charmless individuals. The recent treatment of President Zelenskyy, the manner in which hard working and honest US government employees in Washington and elsewhere ("drain the swamp"!), the unforgivable comments about Mexico, Canada and, in the past few days, Vance's comments on the soldiers of the UK and France tell us so much about the perverted and pernicious mindset and the impudicity, amorality, an animus in the seats of power in Washington. America and, It seems, many Americans (and we in the UK are not far behind), have misunderstood the qualities that one needs in a leader. Leaders do not need to be business men skilled in making "deals" or intellectually brilliant able to quickly solve some particular problem in a flash, or tough and able to brush aside all before them. These qualities may or may not be desirable but they are side issues. A leader needs to be above all wise - and that doesn't mean clever or quick or sharp. But wisdom, it seems to me, is in short supply in today's world and almost non-existent in the USA and we should all be worried. Children invariably understood this and in my assemblies were always quite capable of understanding the message of the story and its implications for their everyday lives. And that, perhaps, is the saddest verdict upon the current state of the body politic in the USA.

“Listen, my children, and you shall hear…….”

 “Listen, my children, and you shall hear…….”. I think that I first read or heard those words when I was about eight or nine years old. We didn’t have much when I was growing up – my Dad a lorry driver and my Mother a cotton weaver in Preston, a north Lancashire industrial town. We lived in a tiny terraced house, no hot water, no bathroom and a lavatory at the end of the back yard but despite frequent shortages of money we managed and I never really wanted for anything. In today’s terms I suppose I might be described as a deprived child but in those long gone days about 70 years ago it didn’t feel like it; my friends on the street were all in the same boat and we knew no different.

One Saturday morning – it must have been summer since I remember it as being hot with a brilliant blue sky - I was taken by my Mother and Auntie on a trip. My Dad would have been at work hence them taking me with them. We caught the bus to a small village, Longridge, just outside Preston and after a short walk arrived at a large rambling house. There were lots of people there and I soon established that a sale was going on – an auction of the house’s contents. My Mother and Auntie bought one or two bits and pieces as I remember and as we walked around the house I spotted a set of books – ten thick volumes all sitting in a polished wood frame. Taking one of the books I remember flicking through it and being entranced. Even to my young eyes I could tell from the pictures that the books were old (I later discovered that they had been printed in 1925). The ten volumes were a complete set of “Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopaedia” and after badgering my Mother and Auntie we came away clutching them. I remember having aching arms by the time we got back home from carrying those weighty tomes.

Arthur Mee’s Encyclopaedias sat in my bedroom for the rest of my childhood and teenage years until I left home to come to College in Nottingham as a 19 year old – and boy were they well used! In many ways they were hopelessly out of date; the Encyclopaedia had been published from 1908 until 1964 (the year I left home) so my set was quite an early edition but that mattered not to me. I would lie in bed at night poring over them, learning of British and world history, geography, famous people, strange places, scientific facts, poetry, reading précis of great books by authors like Dickens and the plots of Shakespeare plays, and trying (and too often failing) to learn basic French from the “lessons” that were dotted about in the volumes.……..In short, those old books opened up my world in an age when we didn’t have a TV or few other opportunities to learn about the world beyond our little street.

And it was in one of those books that I came across “Listen, my children, and you shall hear…….” – the great poem by American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow called “Paul Revere’s Ride” telling in wonderful verse the exciting tale of Paul Revere during the American War of Independence in the late eighteenth century. I was smitten, excited, as I read and re-read it. In time I could recite it in full – and even today, in my 80th year, I can still recite sections of it.

For those unfamiliar with the poem it tells of Paul Revere a man, a messenger charged with taking news of any invading British troops arriving in the harbour or across the land to the farms and hamlets of Massachusetts. He rides through the night warning the inhabitants so that they can get their guns out to fight off the invaders and to me, a ten year old, this was the stuff of high adventure:

“Listen, my children, and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march

By land or sea from the town to-night,

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch

Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,—

One if by land, and two if by sea;

And I on the opposite shore will be,

Ready to ride and spread the alarm

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,

Just as the moon rose over the bay,

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay

The Somerset, British man-of-war:

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar

Across the moon, like a prison-bar,

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified

By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street

Wanders and watches with eager ears,

Till in the silence around him he hears

The muster of men at the barrack door,

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,

And the measured tread of the grenadiers

Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church,

Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,

To the belfry-chamber overhead,

And startled the pigeons from their perch

On the sombre rafters, that round him made

Masses and moving shapes of shade,—

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,

To the highest window in the wall,

Where he paused to listen and look down

A moment on the roofs of the town,

And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,

In their night-encampment on the hill,

Wrapped in silence so deep and still

That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,

The watchful night-wind, as it went

Creeping along from tent to tent,

And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”

A moment only he feels the spell

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread

Of the lonely belfry and the dead;

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent

On a shadowy something far away,

Where the river widens to meet the bay,—

A line of black, that bends and floats

On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.

Now he patted his horse’s side,

Now gazed on the landscape far and near,

Then impetuous stamped the earth,

And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;

But mostly he watched with eager search

The belfry-tower of the old North Church,

As it rose above the graves on the hill,

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight

A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,

And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,

The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,

Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;

And under the alders, that skirt its edge,

Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.

He heard the crowing of the cock,

And the barking of the farmer’s dog,

And felt the damp of the river-fog,

That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,

When he galloped into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,

Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,

When he came to the bridge in Concord town.

He heard the bleating of the flock,

And the twitter of birds among the trees,

And felt the breath of the morning breeze

Blowing over the meadows brown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

Who that day would be lying dead,

Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,

How the British Regulars fired and fled,—

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,

Chasing the red-coats down the lane,

Then crossing the fields to emerge again

Under the trees at the turn of the road,

And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;

And so through the night went his cry of alarm

To every Middlesex village and farm,—

A cry of defiance, and not of fear,

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

And a word that shall echo forevermore!

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

The people will waken and listen to hear

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,

And the midnight message of Paul Revere.”

A stirring tale, one to make those early Americans and today’s American proud. It really is the stuff of legends. All peoples and nations need stories and legends to help them make sense of the world and give a context to their lives and place in the great scheme of things. At the time Paul Revere made his ride and throughout the War there were militia men who were called “Minute Men” and these part time soldiers were ready to drop everything and at a minute’s notice defend their infant nation against the invading British Redcoats. It was to these Minute Men that Revere was riding that night and I can remember reading twenty or so years later that some of America’s ballistic missiles pointing at Russia were also called “Minute Men” – ready at a minute’s notice to defend modern America. A nice, if thought provoking touch.

But, as I think of and re-read this wonderful poem and the stirring tale that it tells, today in 2025 I can't help feeling a tinge of disappointment. America, a nation that was born out of the need and desire to throw off the yoke of occupying British forces and British rule has, for the whole of my life, seen itself, and told the world, that it is “the land of the free”, the guardian of freedom and democracy. In short, fulfilling the first “American Dream” - freedom from oppression. Indeed, many thousands of Americans have died across the world striving to fulfil that perception and that desire to bring "freedom" to others. In the American War of Independence, and I guess in the minds of the Minute Men, and, I suspect, Paul Revere there was no thought of compromise, of making “a deal” – America and the American colonists wanted freedom from what they saw as British oppression – full stop. So, it was for me a disappointment and, I think, a complete reversal of what America has always stood for, believed in and been about, when its current President treated another President and nation so poorly – being unable to support Ukraine’s valiant quest for freedom unless they were prepared to compromise, “make a deal”. And I wonder if President Trump and his charmless cronies have any sense of history, of culture, of their nation's short but meaningful and sometimes glorious narrative. It is true, the USA does not have the ancient and rich historical tapestry that many European lands have but I wonder would not Trump be stirred by such words as these to describe his country's past and beliefs: "And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat." I have absolutely no doubt that President Zelenskyy would understand the meaning and the feelings of those words for he sees a land, his land, "kindled into flame" every day and night in Ukraine. And what of "A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear....".Sadly, America 2025 in the shape of Donald Trump does not "waken and listen to hear" - it seems that the American narrative, the march of history has been halted while "a deal" is made by a charmless and ignorant man and a group of philistines with no sense of their nation's history or long held purpose. Paul Revere (and, I would hope, many present day Americans) would, I suspect, find that unacceptable and very difficult to understand.