NO MAN IS AN ISLAND - VOTE REMAIN

Those Brexiters that would have us leave Europe, shut our door on our neighbours, and reject those of other creeds and colours often quote England’s history and sovereignty to back up their claims. “We are the English, a proud and victorious nation” they tell us......”we have won World Wars and don’t need others, we are better alone”. But we always need others – we are not and cannot be alone in the world, no matter how much we desire it or however hard we try. We cannot cut ourselves off from the rest of humanity.

And, Brexiters will conveniently forget great English figures from our great history who, like poet John Donne, would reject their divisive and inward looking ideas. Donne – one of England’s greatest poets - was a lawyer, Dean of St Paul’s, Royal Chaplain, Secretary to the Keeper of the Great Royal Seal, a Member of Parliament, and he fought with Sir Walter Raleigh against the Spanish at Cadiz and in the Azores. He was our history personified - one of the greatest figures in our island's story and he told us, in a few lines of his great poetry and with some of the greatest words in the English language, things about what it is to English and about mankind and humanity itself. Things that Brexiters either don’t understand or conveniently forget:

No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend's
Or of thine own were:
Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.

Written in 1624 and one of his “Meditations” (No XVII) we would, everyone of us, be well advised to remember Donne’s great words when we put our crosses on our referendum ballot papers on Thursday. No matter how much we wish it we cannot cut ourselves off from the rest of mankind. We cannot deny our fellow human beings be they French, Syrian, white, black, brown, straight, gay, Afghan, German, Muslim, Sikh, Jew, Hindu, Polish, Turkish, or any other race, colour or creed – to do so, as Donne suggests, diminishes ourselves because by our very existence and being we are all part of and “involved in mankind”. Whenever we point the finger of disdain, dismay, rejection or revulsion at other members of the human race, whenever we turn love of our country or love of our beliefs into a twisted loathing of other countries and other beliefs then we also point that same twisted finger at ourselves.......”therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.”

Donne's great lines, although written almost half a millennia ago, speak to us across the years and across the great spread of English history; they are the ultimate rebuke to all those 21st century Little Englanders who would drag us away from the rest of mankind.

Vote to Remain in Europe and by doing so confirm that you are also part of the greater body of the human race as well as part of the story of England's great history.

Dangerous Times or Sticking Up Two Fingers To Europe.

Not just a flag or a logo - the EU symbol is a

recognition of how interdependent and reliant we all are

on each other in this modern world

The other night I sat watching the international football match between Italy and Belgium. A few days ago I had watched the game between England and Russia and on the same day witnessed the violence between English and Russian football fans in France for this European competition. As I watched the games my eye was taken by the electronic advertising hoardings around the pitch – a non-stop streaming of great international brand names from around the world: American Coca-Cola, Turkish Airlines, South Korean Hyundai cars, Chinese Hisense TVs, American McDonalds burgers , German Adidas sports-wear, German Continental car tyres, Orange mobile phones, Azerbaijan Energy......the list went on and on. This morning I got the same message again as I stood in our local village greengrocer to buy a bunch of bananas. As I stood waiting to be served boxes and crates of newly delivered fruit, vegetables and flowers from far off places were being carried through the shop, their labels identifying their source: Holland, France, Spain, Argentina, Italy, Denmark, South Africa, Portugal. And, as I sit writing this blog on a wet June morning in the middle of England I am using a Japanese lap top and through the window I can see my two cars – one a German VW but built in Spain and the other a Japanese Nissan with a French Renault engine but all put together in the north east of England. And as I type this blog I am listening on my internet radio to Radio Outback - a radio station broadcasting to the remote and far off outback areas of Australia! What an interwoven and interdependent world we all now live in!

Following this line of thought, in the two European football matches that I have watched so far, and despite the fact that only one of the teams – England – is known to me, many of the names and faces of the rest of the players I recognised because they play in England even though they are Russian or Italian or Belgian. When England play Wales in a day or two the star of the Welsh team, Gareth Bale plays for Real Madrid in Spain whilst the manager of last night’s victorious Italian team will shortly arrive on London to be manager of Chelsea! Last night two players, Belgium’s Marouane Fellaini faced Italy’s Romelu Lukaku; only a few weeks ago they faced each other at Wembley when their respective club sides – Manchester United and Everton - played each other in the FA Cup semi final. And when they return to their clubs they will find new managers in charge – at Manchester United, the Portuguese manager Jose Mourinho and at Everton the Dutch manager Ronald Koeman. Football, like the rest of the world, has become interwoven and global.

England in Europe - sadly not what we want to portray

One might feel that the whole world is moving too fast with all this globalisation; there might be many dangers in it. But it is here, it is out of the bag and will not be put back. It cannot be uninvented. It is the reality of the 21st century and whether we like it or not we have to learn to live with it, control it and use it for our benefit.

One cannot deny that there are many real or potential downsides to globalisation and interdependency. From refugee or immigration crises and rioting football fans, to financial crashes, global economic downturns and terrorism we are all subject to the highs and lows of the world at large. Only a year or two ago the whole of the middle east was alight with revolution and the quest for “democracy” – the “Arab Spring” fuelled by 24 hour news and social media spread like wildfire as autocratic governments were challenged and sometimes disposed off. Inevitably other nations became involved as western governments sought to support their interest in these areas or restore order. Today, one of the fall outs from that period of turmoil is Syria where refugees are flooding away from a civil war and into Europe in the hope of a better life. Never can it be more true that a butterfly flapping its wings in some South American jungle can cause a tsunami elsewhere; whether it be football, high finance, terrorism, war, commerce, industry, recreation, food, cars, TVs or computers what happens in one place can and does have an effect elsewhere. We cannot, today, avoid the repercussions of our links with other nations. That is the modern reality of life.

Against this back drop, however, here in the UK we are hurtling towards the unforgivable and nonsensical situation where, it seems, we are happy to bury our communal heads in the sand and refuse to believe that any of this is true. With each day that passes it seems that we are more likely to deny that we are part of this great global interdependency and vote to remove ourselves from the action by leaving the EU and going it alone. When PM David Cameron, in his wisdom decided that a referendum on the issue should be held should be held it looked as if and exit from Europe was unlikely but his calculations appear to have gone badly wrong. He has opened the proverbial can of worms. Cameron only went down this route to satisfy a number of his own party’s Little Englanders all of whom live in some bizarre time warp where they deny the modern world’s international interdependency. Sadly and worryingly we now have a position where it seems Cameron’s worst nightmare is likely to become a reality – as a nation we are about to cut ourselves adrift from the rest of the world and most importantly from our nearest friends and neighbours. Cameron will not be forgiven but more important this is unquestionably a nightmare scenario for the nation.

The Sun brainwashes its mindless readers

The Little Englander reality deniers leading the calls for the UK to leave Europe have used the anti-immigrant card and as each day passes we see and hear more and more extreme views being expressed all in the name of us 'getting back our nation’ from the much vilified and feared refugees, the job taking immigrants and faceless European bureaucrats who are all perceived by Brexiters to have one intention in mind – namely to take over and do unmentionable damage to the UK. The tabloid newspaper, The Sun has come out in favour of the UK leaving the EU and is advising its readers as such. The Sun has past form on this and sadly its rabble rousing headlines and lowest common denominator content have an impact. I seriously doubt that many readers of The Sun could spell Europe or place any European countries on a map of the world but in the end that doesn’t matter, because The Sun has told them so many times that all the nation’s ills will be solved by getting out of Europe that its readers will vote for exit. It is the same with other tabloids – notably the Daily Mail which, for added flavour, will add in the jingoistic “Britain is best” and recall the name of Winston Churchill and remind the nation that we “won the war” and won’t be ruled by “Johnny Foreigner” in Brussels or Paris or Berlin. In short the right wing media is effectively brain washing the unthinking and uncaring, preying on their fears and prejudices. It is not difficult for them to do this; our island status has historically bred a suspicion in the national psyche of any foreigners that would cross the English Channel to this fair isle and the added fact of two World War victories constantly reminds the Little Englanders amongst us that “Britain is best” and that we are (they believe) naturally superior to the French, the Italians, the Germans and the rest. Finally, if they need any more convincing then they need only reflect upon two verses from our National Anthem which sing the same jingoistic 'Britain is best song' and remind we English of how we should feel about those not fortunate enough to be born English (and I choose that word carefully):

O Lord our God arise
Scatter her enemies
And make them fall
Confound their politics
Frustrate their knavish tricks

On Thee our hopes we fix
God save us all

Lord grant that Marshal Wade
May by thy mighty aid
Victory bring
May he sedition hush
And like a torrent rush
Rebellious Scots to crush
God save the Queen

Confounding the politics of other nations, scattering them wide, crushing the Scots, frustrating the knavish tricks of these unfortunates who did not have the good sense or foresight to be born English – hardly the stuff of peace and getting along together as we must all do in this interdependent world. It should be of no surprise to anyone that as England football fans smashed bottles and chairs and fought Russian hardcore extremists on the streets of Marseilles at the weekend they chanted to the Russians, the local French people and the French police “F**k off Europe, we’re all voting out”; it’s the 21st century equivalent of the National Anthem reminding knavish, rebellious enemies that they will be crushed by good old England!

"F**k off Europe we're all voting out"

I am absolutely certain that leaving the EU is the worst possible thing that we as a nation can do. No one suggests that the EU is perfect, no one can claim that the EU has quick fix solutions to the many problems that we as a world face but what is equally certain is that nor do we English have the answers. And to turn our back upon our neighbours is not only contrary and perverse it flouts all common sense and good judgement. Those that would take this path are being led there by dubious politicians with other agendas – namely their own self aggrandisement. In recent months we in the UK have mocked US Presidential hopeful Donald Trump and laughed at his bizarre policies and outbursts. We have also shaken our heads in disbelief that the citizens of the US are voting for this man in their droves. But we doing just the same. The equally bizarre and unpredictable Boris Johnson is our Donald Trump and he is ably abetted by a phalanx of other political half wits and self promoters : Michael Gove, Ian Duncan Smith, Nigel Farage and the rest; all people who have tuned into the prejudices and fears of ordinary citizens and are skilfully and insidiously manipulating these for their own ends. And sadly, the readers of The Sun and the Daily Mail, and thousands of other non-thinkers up and down the land are too dim or naive to see it.

I wonder, do these people who propose to vote for the UK to leave Europe believe for one minute that this will solve the nation’s and the world’s problems? If they do then they are far more stupid that even I take them for. Do they really believe that if we leave the EU that a new Prime Minister – likely to be Boris Johnson – with his rag bag collection of devious and nutty as fruit cake followers will be capable of making the sort of decisions that will turn around the whole tide of European and the wider world progress? Do they really believe that somehow this little island in the North Atlantic will have the magic bullet that will enable us to go it alone, ignore the great and complex web of interdependence and come out on top? If they do believe all this then we should all be very afraid.

But of course these people conveniently forget reality when it suits them. Someone comes along, preys on their fears and promises nirvana and they buy into it. And as the referendum gets closer and the "outers" increasingly play the immigrant card and bellow that 'England and St George is best, stuff the EU and the French, the Germans, the Italians and all the rest who are all so nasty to us poor little Englanders', then people like these will be in the ascendancy. Whether it be in the stadia or on the streets the message will be loud and clear from the Brexiters - 'Let's show these Johnny Foreigners who is boss - keep 'em out, send 'em back, let them know their place as our inferiors'. 

And yet only a few months ago Wembley Stadium was filled as everyone joined together and sang the French National Anthem following the terrorist atrocities in Paris. It brought a tear to our eyes - this was how we would defeat terrorism we were assured and we promised ourselves to stick together and show our love for each other and for all mankind. A few months before that we all put the French national colours on our Facebook pages; we were as one, we said, with our French brothers and sisters and we lit up our public buildings with the red white and blue of the French Tricolor  in solidarity with Charlie Hebdo ...... But now all this is forgotten: English politicians and tabloid newspapers beat the drum of division, jingoistic patriotism and simple prejudice and Englishmen are running the gauntlet of the police baton and tear gas on the streets of France. How short and shallow is goodwill to all men when tribes go to war be it on the football pitch, on the battlefield or on our streets. 

Boris Johnson - our very own Donald Trump

But when prejudice and fear raises its head the snake oil salesmen, politicians with a quick fix, the press barons, the extremists and terrorists are amongst us - not just from Afghanistan or ISIS but just as often from within our midst posing as the voice of “common sense”, They claim that they speak with the common sense voice of the people; a claim that frequently fell from the mouths of Hitler and Mussolini eighty years ago. And just as Hitler and Mussolini had their uniformed Black Shirt thugs on the streets of Berlin and Rome we now have the shaven headed, jingoistic football flag wavers loose on the streets of France. Many of these 'fans' would have been at Wembley a few months ago joining in with the French National Anthem and showing solidarity with their French footballing brothers. Now they are singing a different song to their neighbours - one of violence and thuggery and, in two weeks time many of them will again stick two fingers up to our European neighbours by voting to leave Europe. They will repeat their chant of last weekend but now it will be in the ballot box:“F**k off Europe, we’re all voting out”.

We live in very dangerous times – in the UK (or more specifically England) – we are becoming increasingly prejudiced, uninformed and unthinking; swayed by the tabloid headlines and the snake oil salesmen. And across the Atlantic the USA is in a similar predicament and increasingly looking a society in turmoil and terminal decline. It is easy to influence the uninformed and unthinking and, as Edmund Burke, the Enlightenment philosopher, a reminded everyone "When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle." But in 21st century Britain we are not talking of association, of coming together with our friends and neighbours to overcome our mutual problems and fears – we are talking instead of division, disunity and disharmony. Lemming like, we are stampeding towards the cliff edge driven by the unthinking, uninformed mass of EU “outers” and cheered on by the snake oil salesmen dressed up as “common sense politicians” preaching the message of disunity and disharmony. Like ostriches we are burying our heads in the sand and rejecting the interdependence of the world which is so obvious on our TV screens, in our football stadia and in our grocer’s shops.

And when the flagpole breaks...........

When, on June 23rd , we have rejected interdependence and our association with Europe and have left the EU we will stand alone, a tiny island in the North Atlantic. We will then, as predicted by Burke fall, unpitied sacrifices increasingly dependent on the goodwill not of our friends in Europe but on the USA – a society in terminal decline and possibly led by the unpredictable and unpleasant President Trump. And, if we do leave our European friends there is every likelihood of a domino effect - others may follow so we are not simply talking about our own disharmony and disunity we are endangering the harmony, goodwill and unity of a whole continent. In these unpredictable times that  not only threatens the peace of the world but almost certainly will cause economic and social consequences that cannot be controlled.  We are being led into a maelstrom by the uninformed, the uncaring, the snake oil salesmen, the hardcore right wing media, the thugs and the plain stupid. We should all be very afraid.

Making a Difference - Postscript

Ali victorious against Sonny Liston

The ink of my previous blog had hardly dried when I read this morning of the death of Muhammad Ali – the former boxing heavyweight Champion of the World. Today the media is full of his remarkable story and whether or not you have any feelings for boxing or for the man himself one cannot deny that he has been one of the great influences and characters the second half of the twentieth century. Even those like myself who are perhaps at best indifferent to boxing cannot deny that his story and what he brought to his sport in particular and to wider sport in general was both unforgettable and, many might argue with some credibility, magical. In a world obsessed with faux celebrities and glamorous fourth rate “stars” he was truly a celebrity.

A measure of his claim for celebrity status is that it was not only in the world of boxing that he was a star and a champion; he was a star and a champion of causes and beliefs on a wider front. In many ways his story, with the benefit of hind sight, anticipates our modern world. His conversion to Islam, his refusal to become part of the Vietnam War, his uncompromising arguing for civil rights in his own country and the wider world, and his ability to use the media to promote himself and intimidate his opponents in a way not seen before were all ground breaking and, I would argue, in many ways building bricks of our modern world – for good or ill.

Against Britain's Henry Cooper - a fight Ali almost lost

But as I read the many tributes and commentaries one thing stood out – how he initially came to boxing and thus his celebrity status. He came from the humblest of origins – a black man in America’s deep south when segregation and racial violence were taken as the order of things. He was born the eldest son of Cassius and Odessa Clay in Louisville, Kentucky, and named Cassius Marcellus after his father. His mother was listed on the birth certificate as a household domestic, his father as a signwriter. The family lived in the segregated city’s black west end. In the Kentucky state census rolls, all four of his grandparents were described as “free coloureds”. One of Odessa’s grandfathers, Tom Moorehead, was the son of a white man called Moorehead and the partner of a slave named simply as Dinah. Odessa’s other grandfather was a white Irishman, Abe O’Grady, born in County Clare, who married a “freed slave woman, name unknown”. Reading his background and heritage is to  read the history of the USA in just a few sentences.

It was, recalled Ali, a small but happy family in which penury was taken for granted. Ali and his brother were both good boys, neighbours later recalled, and unfailing attendees of the Baptist Sunday school. Odessa was a good homemaker, although Ali’s father liked to drink which led to occasional court appearances. He paid the fines and, as a self-imposed additional penance painted religious murals for various Baptist chapels around the city. The two boys would sometimes help. “Louisville was more peaceful, less dangerous then,” Ali’s brother Rudolph  recalled many years later, “except if we strayed off-limits, then white boys would threaten: ‘Hey, nigger, get back to your own.’”

At school the young Cassius Clay was no scholar, and by the end of his schooling, only an occasional attendee. He could scarcely read or write when he graduated from Central High School in 1960, and ranked 376th in the graduation class of 391.

A young Cassius Clay with his mentor Joe Martin

Long before then, however, he was devoted to boxing. When he was 12, in October 1954, his bicycle was stolen. Clay had sheltered from the rain with his friend Johnny Willis at an annual bazaar run by and for the black community called the "Louisville Home Show" held at the Colombia Auditorium. When he came out several hours later, full of free popcorn and hot dogs, he found his brand new red and white bike had gone - stolen.  He frantically looked round for the bike and for help. Someone told him the nearest policeman was in the basement of the Columbia.  In tears, the young Cassius raced downstairs to tell the policeman. What he found when he got downstairs was a boxing gymnasium. The white policemen, Joe Martin was a boxing coach in his spare time In his autobiography  Ali - as Clay had by then become – recalled that first experience of the boxing world: "The sights and the sounds and the smell of the boxing gym excited me so much that I almost forgot about the bike. There were about ten boxers, some hitting the speed bag, some in the ring sparring, some jumping rope. I stood there, smelling the sweat and the rubbing alcohol, and a feeling of awe came over me." Martin promised to help look for the bike but stopped the tears with an ice cream and the young Clay left with an application form to join the boxing club. The dressing- down he received from his father over the lost bike made him want to forget about the day’s events but when he watched television the following weekend and saw Joe Martin again, working with his amateurs in a boxing programme Cassius Clay suddenly decided that boxing would be his sport.

Joe Martin's role – unplanned and unknowing at the time - in sporting history can be crystallised by that moment when he calmed that angry, weeping 12-year-old  in that run down basement boxing gym. To Martin, who had run his gym since 1938, young Cassius was just another kid off the street. Martin was more social worker than boxing technician. He loved taking kids, black and white, off the streets and giving them a purpose to each day. He was also ahead of his time in the deeply segregated American south – Martin combined the previously segregated black and white gyms into one; "A boxer has to fight everybody to prove he is a champion,"  he would say – “there’s no black and white when these guys enter the ring”. Joe Martin’s ability and experience  as a coach was limited but he was a coach for the 1960 USA Olympic boxing team in Rome; and when Cassius won the heavyweight gold medal Martin, understandably, wept. As Clay moved up the professional boxing ladder he needed coaching from those with the experience at the top level but he never forgot Martin and what he had done for him on the day he lost his bicycle.

Olympic gold in 1960

And Joe Martin? In the end he was an ordinary guy doing his job but unknowingly and unintentionally he made a difference.  He didn’t aspire to producing a world champion but he was the lynch pin in doing just that. He provided the initial momentum. Martin often told of the day when the young Clay ran into his gym: “He said that he just wanted to ‘whoop’ whoever took his bicycle” and I said to him: ‘Well, kid, you’d better learn to box first’. For the young Clay Joe Martin made a difference not only on that long gone day but for the rest of Clay’s life and indeed for the rest of the world – for, whatever one’s views on boxing or on Muhammad  Ali it cannot be denied that the world is a different place because of him. I would also suggest, too, that his passing makes the world a poorer place. Today, United Nations’ Secretary General  Ban Ki-moon said: “Ali was far more than a legendary boxer; he was a world champion for equality and peace. With an incomparable combination of principle, charm, wit and grace, he fought for a better world and used his platform to help lift up humanity.” He is not wrong. Ali often claimed that he was “The Greatest”; well, as another great , the American, poet and author Carl Sandberg,  famously said of Abraham Lincoln “A tree is best measured when it is down – and so it is with people”........ And so it is, too, with Ali;with his death we can get a measure of the man and I believe that he really was one of the “greats” - not one of the false gods that we often today call great but who in reality are soon forgotten when the latest fashion changes. Perhaps the best testament to the man is something that he himself said: "Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they’ve been given than to explore the power they have to change it......Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.”  Ali did indeed change the world for all time; as President Obama said of him today “Muhammad Ali shook up the world. And the world is better for it. We are all better for it”. And all because of a lost bicycle and an ordinary American cop who took notice of a crying kid.

Making a Difference

I am an infrequent and largely unwilling user of social media – namely Facebook. But, as those who use it will know, once you are signed up then you cannot generally ignore it. With regularity one will receive some kind of communication from the site – a “friend” request, a comment about what someone is doing or how they are feeling, a link to another web site, or some long lost friend, neighbour, work colleague or acquaintance who has “found” you on the system and wants to rekindle the past. For me it is not unusual to have a contact from a past pupil that I have taught – now a parent themselves, or in some cases, a grandparent! When a contact like this occurs I often have to rack my brain trying to remember this name from the past. Fortunately, I have a pretty good memory for my past pupils so I can usually put the bits of the jigsaw back together and respond to the contact in some meaningful way. Equally, I’m pleased to say,  those who do contact me seem to have done so with mostly fond memories of their time in my class or school – so it is rewarding for me to receive their, usually, good wishes,  recall school memories and especially gratifying to learn of what they are doing as adults.

A slimmer me with one of my past classes - quite a few of these

past pupils keep in contact and are parents of teenagers themselves

Whenever I receive a communication from an ex-pupil I often reflect upon how our whole lives are made up of millions (billions?) of events and experiences that consciously or sub consciously make us what we are. And this is a reciprocal arrangement – we are not only the receivers of these experiences that make us what we are but also the givers – what we do and how we respond to others in a small way makes them what they are. It is an unavoidable consequence of social interaction. It is also true, I believe that it is often the unplanned and unexpected that have the greatest effect. As a teacher when I faced a class or taught a lesson I hoped that every child would benefit and be the better for my carefully planned lesson or programme of study but all too often in the communications that I receive from ex-pupils it is the unplanned and unexpected that is remembered most and which has perhaps had the longer lasting effect; the actual facts of the lesson(s) long forgotten but the overall impact still there, imprinted upon the subconscious. I’m sure that this is right – that in our daily dealings with we often retain little of the detail but much more of the overall and often unplanned effect.

As an example of this I received a communication some months ago from a young man who I had taught as a 10 year old. He was a bright lad but sadly there were problems at home and he found school discipline and expectations a trial – he was frequently in trouble, stubborn and not making the best of the opportunities. I spent  much of my time each day trying to keep him on the straight and narrow – and usually feeling that I had failed. I feared that he would increasingly find himself in trouble as he grew up so it was gratifying when I received a Facebook contact from him after more than twenty years to find that he was now successful in both his work and his personal life. He acknowledged his school days problems in a follow up email to me after making the initial Facebook contact:

“I'm so pleased that you still remember me after all this time Mr Beale! You are correct in remembering  that I was with you during the early 90's, probably the best years of my school life! I always remembered you because I used to love your assemblies, I have in my mind you used to tell the school stories about Preston North End.......as you probably remember my upbringing wasn't always ideal and unfortunately probably reflected in my behaviour at times. However I do feel that I have come out well.....I have been lucky enough to travel to some amazing countries and cities through the company and I am currently working in the South of France...... I'm so pleased that you 5 healthy grandchildren and you see them often..... they are lucky to have you as a grandparent! You were an amazing teacher and a great person to all of us at school so I know they are very lucky children!......”

He was right – I often used to joke with the boys about the best football teams – they always supported the big name teams like Liverpool or Manchester United so it came as a bit of a shock when they realised that Mr Beale supported an unknown team like Preston North End. He was right, too, about the assemblies – as soon as he mentioned it I remembered well how he would often walk around the playground with me asking about the story that I had told in assembly that day. My assemblies had obviously had an impact, although I never imagined or realised that almost 30 years later he would still be able to recall the pleasure and happy memories that they had given him. It was both humbling and very gratifying to hear from this young man who had had a rough time when he was a child – and now was settled and doing well in another part of the country – and that deep down he had good memories of times past.

It was not as dissimilar story with a girl that I taught as an 11 year old who wrote to me:

“......I often think to myself I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t had you as my teacher all those years ago. Before your class I was a school avoider, and used to protest when my mum would try to drag me in each morning. But something changed that year in your classroom, I began to not only enjoy school, but I began to believe in myself and my capabilities. I wasn't the prettiest child, or the most agile, but through your investment in me as an individual, like all the individual pupils you have ever taught, I found my niche as more of an academic than athlete!

From that point I always wanted to be a teacher, as I loved being in a classroom. And that's what I did. I went to the University to study Sociology and have been teaching in secondary schools in and around Nottingham before settling into my current role as a Department Head of Sociology at a local college.

So I must thank you, so very much. I don't know what would have happened if I had not had you as my teacher all those years ago. I can only hope that I might have even half the impact you have had on my own students......”

It was, of course, very touching to read this – like the first mail it really did bring a tear to my eye – and as I read it I realised how little we really know of other people. I remember this young lady well; as an 11 year old she was hard working, quiet and unassuming but I never once realised what was going on in the background to her school life, never suspected the disenchantment that she had with school and never knew what an impact I had unwittingly had upon her. It was, as a say, humbling and at the same time more than a little daunting to realise that such is the impact that we can, for good or ill, have upon the lives of others – even when we do not suspect it. Of course, as a teacher it is maybe easier to cite these examples. I’m sure that every teacher can quote similar cases – dealing with people is the stock in trade of a teacher so it is not unreasonable to assume that we will have  a personal effect on those we deal with. For others it may not be so easy, but, I believe it is still true – that everyone, no matter what their job, position or role in society will be impacted by and impact upon others in ways they might never imagine. I have been reminded of this in the past day or so.

Perhaps my most enduring and still haunting memory of my childhood is of myself sitting, late at night, at the top of the stairs, tears streaming down my face, as I listened to increasingly acrimonious arguments taking place downstairs. This was not infrequent – it was part of the weekly ritual of my childhood. Although I loved my mother dearly, I knew (even as a child) that she was not the easiest of women and my father, a mild man seemed to take these verbal assaults by my mother as a fact of life. Whatever my father did it seemed (and still seems) to me he could not win; in her eyes he was always to blame for the family’s trials and tribulations. One of the frequent causes of arguments was about the family car. We were not well off and each car we owned was long past its best. Fortunately dad was knowledgeable about cars and engines and could always manage to keep the "old banger" on the road. If, however there were problems then it was always dad’s fault; if the car was off the road and so not available to take mother shopping or to work then it was his fault “for always messing about with it” or if he had to buy a new part to repair it he was “wasting money that we can’t afford on your toy” . He couldn’t win whatever he did.

These arguments, and the way in which the car was so often a touchstone for anger and bitterness, had an impact upon me which lasts to this day. I will always shy away from angry disputes - preferring to withdraw into myself and back off before things escalate into an argument. And since those childhood days, I have always had a huge anxiety about cars and their maintenance. When Pat and I married and got our first car – and every car since – having the car serviced or doing some repair work on it has always been a concern: how much will it cost, will the job be bigger than I anticipated, will the car be alright when the repair is done? If I took my car to the garage for a service then my heart would be in my mouth as I waited for the phone call to say that the work had been carried out and that all was well. Often, when we were younger I would do the work myself to save money, but then spend the next few days and weeks worrying that I had done it properly and that the car was working properly and would not let us down. And all the time, over all the years when I took my car to the garage for its service or repair, deep in the dark recesses of my mind I could still hear my mother’s angry voice hectoring my father for the time and money that he spent on the old cars that we owned in the 1950s and 60s. Even now when I have two new cars sitting on my drive those unpleasant childhood memories still gnaw away at the back of my mind – are the cars running well, will they need work done on them, how much will it cost, how long will they be off the road? All totally irrational and unnecessary but, never the less, an ever present anxiety.

But, about thirty five years ago my anxieties were lessened considerably. I needed a repair done on a car that we owned at the time and I was recommended by a neighbour to take it to the local village garage rather than use bigger garages in the area. I did so and a mechanic came onto the forecourt to look at the old mini while I began to explain what was wrong. Before I could complete my explanation the mechanic smiled and told me what the problem was. a common one that he had seen many times before. He switched on the engine and anticipating what I was going to say confirmed what needed to be done. Yes, he could fix it easily within an hour or so – it was no problem to him. Barrie was about my age, his overalls covered in oil and an oily flat cap perched upon his head. “Bring the car round tomorrow and I’ll do it for you” he smiled. “How much will it cost”? I asked nervously. He gave me a rough estimate and promised that it wouldn’t be more. The next day I took my car in – anxious about what would happen. It would be ready early in the afternoon I was informed and so for the rest of that morning I worried that it would cost more than anticipated or that the repair would fail. Early in the afternoon I returned and as I turned the corner where the garage stood there was my little mini waiting for me. Barrie took me out to the car explained that he done the work and then listed several other minor adjustments that he had made and which needed doing – and all for the price he had quoted. This might seem an everyday thing, but at the time it was important to me – for some reason I felt that I could trust this man and the work that he did.

For the next 30 plus years or so Barrie serviced my cars. This little oil stained man with his flat cap cared for all the vehicles that he serviced like a nurse might tend her patients – knowing every little detail and quirk of each. If he happened to be on the garage forecourt as I drove on he would greet me by telling me what was wrong and what needed to be done to the car before I had the time to get the words out; like Sherlock Holmes he could pick up the tiniest of clues to home in on the facts of the case! And it was always the same as that first visit – when one went collect the car there were always little extras done without asking and all with a very careful explanation of what and how work had been done – and what I should look for in the future. Barrie wasn’t just a skilled mechanic – he was a born communicator: always a ready smile, a man who loved his job, a craftsman and someone who was a perfectionist. Nothing left his care until it was working perfectly. Of course, what I had discovered was what many others already knew – Barrie’s work was legendary in the area. That was why the little back street garage was always busy and so highly thought of. Each time I drove my car off the forecourt I felt that I was sitting in a new car. No longer was getting the car serviced or repaired a thing to be feared.

Where I usually met Barrie - on the garage forecourt

And so the years passed and then about seven or eight years ago Barrie announced his retirement. A collection was made at the garage and I know that many, like me where delighted to contribute something for this man who had served us so well. Many, like me, asked Barrie if he would continue to service our cars privately now that he had left the garage’s employ but he steadfastly and rightly refused – he didn’t want to upset his former employer. But, it came as no surprise to anyone when, a couple of years later, the owner of the garage decided to retire himself and sell the business. Barrie’s retirement had hit the garage hard. It was sad because the garage was a good place; the other mechanics were excellent but Barrie had that little indefinable extra and had almost proved himself irreplaceable. When Barrie left so too did many customers. Gordon, the owner, couldn’t find anyone to quite replace the smiling, chatty, oil covered little man in the flat cap.

For the past few years Barrie and I have occasionally met on the village High Street or on the Village Green – he often walking his little dog. We would pass the time of day, talk about cars or complain about the weather, the wayward youth of the village or about our latest holiday – two grumpy old men setting the world to rights. But recently, as my back pain has increased, I get out less and when I do see him he seems no longer the smiling, chatty man that I once knew, who would talk so enthusiastically and knowledgably about cars and engines and gearboxes. The years, as they have for me, have caught up with him. How quickly the merry-go-round of life turns!

I saw him a day or two ago as I walked home from the doctor's surgery and as I walked up my road I reflected how Barrie would probably never realise how he had, unknowingly and without intention, impacted upon my life and made my life in a small way so different. No longer did I worry in quite the same way about keeping the cars maintained – deep down I knew that the real or perceived problems associated with my cars could and would be fixed by someone who I learned to trust implicitly; an activity that had once been a worry was now less so. Barrie, a gentle, unassuming man would, I know, be embarrassed by me paying him this compliment – for him it was just his job, and a job that he loved, but just his job. He would say that he was just a car mechanic, not clever or special; but he was special and it was how he did his job that made  him so and which made the difference - and in a way that he never anticipated or intended. He wasn’t just repairing my car but by his actions and manner repairing me too! It didn’t make my anxieties and gremlins disappear completely but boy, did it help for I knew now that even though I might still hear my mother’s hectoring words in the middle of the night, car repairs were no longer a thing to dread – Barrie, I knew, would quietly, professionally and enthusiastically solve everything and in doing so give what I can only describe as peace of mind. He had the car mechanic’s equivalent of a doctor’s “bedside manner” – no matter the problem he could allay fears and put it all into a positive perspective. To many that may seem trivial and silly – and I know that my stupid anxieties were, and are, just that, stupid and silly. But what seems to me to be not trivial or silly is the fact that all of us, in our dealings with others can and do have effects and impacts that we never planned or intended and which, whether we like it or not, do make a lasting impression for good or ill on those that we meet. Maybe there is an important life lesson in that for us all.

"Joyful exultation and praise for a Spring evening"

Saturday's Programme

The Programme cover had it exactly right when it said “a joyful exultation and praise for a Spring evening”. And the Programme's introduction to the concert said that the music to be performed had “the feel good factor” and that it would make us all feel (to use the words of poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning) that God’s in his heaven and all’s right with the world”. How right the programme was! Well........as I wrote the Programme’s introduction and contributed other parts to it, and to paraphrase Mandy Rice-Davies in the 60s Profumo trial,......."I would say that wouldn't I!"

Saturday night saw the final concert of the season for our local choir – the Ruddington and District Choral Society - but although it was the last concert of the year before the choir takes its summer break it was in every other sense a new beginning since the choir has had both a new musical director/conductor and a new accompanist/choral teacher to lead them. It was a “first” too because the choir were joined by a wonderful and skilful group of musicians – the  Ruddington Chamber Ensemble who brought an exciting and new dimension to the concert; hopefully, this is a relationship that will develop further in future months. And finally it was a first since we had the services of four excellent young, local soloists: Grace Bale (Soprano), Katharine Chonara (Mezzo Soprano), Geoggrey Hickling (Tenor) and Ossian Huskinson (Bass) - these four young people were outstanding; again a relationship that it is hoped might develop further. My wife, Pat, has sung with the choir for many years and although I am not a singing member I do help out, as required, with writing the programme, numbering tickets, manning the door on concert nights and other similar “dogsbody” tasks! For this concert, however, I had a new and extra role – to take photographs so that the choir’s website could be up to date with the new personnel.

Paul Hayward - the Choir's new director in rehearsal mode!

Because  it was something of a new start for the choir the programme had been specially chosen to allow everyone to shine – pieces that are very much choral greats, favourites of singers, players and audiences alike. So in that sense the concert couldn’t really fail, but in actual fact it surpassed everyone’s wildest expectations – a splendid, joyful event where everyone went home, as predicted in the programme, with that real “feel good” feeling. There was universal agreement that the new men in charge, Paul Hayward and Michael Overbury, had injected not only new life and enthusiasm into the singers but had brought huge skills and talents to improve the quality of the singing and musicianship plus a new musical dimension which gave the performance a real buzz; the whole audience sat entranced throughout as the music  poured forth from a choir, soloists and orchestra at the top of their respective games. As I sat watching and listening to the music unfolding before me one could almost feel the mutual engagement between the performers and the listeners so tangible was it - the performers at one with their audience, the listeners feeling almost a contributing  part of what was unfolding before their very eyes and ears.  And, as the final applause died away, it was so noticeable how many of the audience left the church asking when was the next concert, or approached Paul, Michael or choir members to congratulate them on their performance and to thank them for a wonderful evening; they, the audience hadn't just been to a good concert, they had been an important part of a wonderful musical event.

Enjoying the rehearsal!

Paul Hayward is, despite his seeming youth, a hugely skilled, enthusiastic and experienced musician and has held several senior musical posts within the music world. He has undertaken national and international tours, performed on CD and taken part in BBC broadcasts. His musical interests are wide-ranging from traditional church music, through the classical repertoire to theatre and jazz. I am, sure that this versatility, his wide-ranging experience and his background as a respected leader and conductor were in the minds of the Choral Society when they appointed him their new director – believing that he would bring not only his considerable conducting skills but also a new dimension and enthusiasm to the choir’s repertoire and musical development. The Choir have not been disappointed - Paul has brought all these qualities and more to his role and to the benefit of each and every member of the Society. He has become an instant success. Similarly, Michael Overbury is a hugely talented, experienced and nationally recognised musician.  Primarily known as an organ and harpsichordist Michael has performed at the highest level: assistant organist at Kings College Cambridge & New College Oxford, international organ competition prize winner, cathedral choir master, teacher, soloist at places like the Royal Festival Hall and the Handel House Museum in London, leader of early music groups, writer and a performer on CDs.  Michael’s background and experience are unquestionably of the highest order. His skills as a teacher and an accompanist have already borne fruit in the choir and when combined with Paul’s choral leadership, direction and conducting have not only produced a wonderful concert but brought the choir to life in a way that could only have been dreamed of  four short months when they took up their new roles.

Michael Overbury - Organ maestro!

But, of course, in the end, the music is the thing. Musicians and choirs may come and go but it is the music that provides their raison d’être and it is the music that concert goers go along to hear.

I don’t think that anyone who attended Saturday night’s concert would have had any reservations about the choice of programme; people knew what they were going to get – and they came to fill the church and to hear some of the greatest of works by the greatest of composers. As I mentioned above the programme was chosen to grab attention and to enable all to shine – and shine they did! Early on Saturday afternoon I had walked to St Peter’s Church here in Ruddington where the concert was to be held to take some photographs of the final rehearsal. As I quietly slipped in via the side door I was met with a wall of sound as the choir and orchestra gave life to mighty Credo from Haydn’s Nelson Mass – surely one of the world’s spine-tingling musical works; in short, the hairs on my neck stood bolt upright! And throughout the concert on Saturday evening I watched the whole audience sit almost on the edge of their seats, not only entertained but inspired and moved by the pieces: Antonio Vivaldi’s serene and mighty Gloria, George Frederick Handel’s beautiful and technically demanding Organ Concerto No 4 and, of course, the powerful and glorious Nelson Mass by Joseph Haydn. When a programme contains pieces and composers as well known as these it is perhaps not easy for a choir or orchestra to impress – after all, many of the audience will, like me, know these works well and have the works on CD performed by some of the world’s great musicians. Audiences will know what it should sound like when played at its best but as the audience left the Church on Saturday night their praise and happiness was obvious. I heard one member comment that the performance of the Vivaldi was better than the professional performance she had attended a week or two previously at a recognised concert venue. The lady was alone; congratulations were on everyone's lips - the rendering of these mighty works in St Peter’s on Saturday night bore comparison with any other that I have heard. It was not only a rewarding experience but a great achievement by those involved.

Singing aloud is allowed!

And as I sat there listening I thought of something that often goes through my mind when I attend any concert. Here we were, in  little village in the middle of England enjoying things that had first been heard in far off places and by ears of far off times. We were experiencing something pretty close to what listeners in Venice experienced three centuries ago when Vivaldi’s Gloria was first performed. Similarly, when Michael Overbury played that marvellous Organ Concerto by Handel we were hearing just what 18^th century London theatre goers heard. And when I crept into the church on Saturday afternoon, or sat in the concert on Saturday evening and was overawed by the power of Haydn’s Nelson Mass I was listening to what that great Admiral first heard in 1800 as he returned victorious from the Battle of the Nile having put a stop to Napoleon’s plans to dominate Europe. The music was linking me and the rest of the audience to our shared and mankind's past.

A light hearted break in the rehearsal.

These great works and thousands of others like them, are an historical bridge that links us to times past – to the feelings, ideals and events of those past ages. And it isn’t just great classical music that does this: I can sit and listen, as I sometimes do, to (say) the Beatles or the Rolling Stones, or Bob Dylan and be immediately transported back to my college days in the 60s. I can listen to Eddie Cochran, Buddy Holly or the Everley Brothers, as I did the other evening while Pat cooked tea, and be back reliving my misspent teenage years to the Rock and Roll of the late 50s. Or, I can listen to enjoy one of my CDs of Gilbert & Sullivan and in an instant be back to the age of Queen Victoria and Dickensian England; such is the power of music to transport us to another world and another time and hear what those of those far off days heard and loved and to perhaps understand more fully our history and mankind’s dreams, ideals and aspirations.

Everyone concentrating on this difficult bit!

Antonio Vivaldi

Vivaldi’s Gloria is one of the world’s great choral pieces. Antonio Vivaldi, or the “Red Priest” as he was known because of his bright ginger hair composed his Gloria in Venice, probably in 1715, for the choir of the Ospedale della Pietà, an orphanage for girls, of which he was the music master. The Ospedale prided itself on the quality of its musical education and the excellence of its choir and orchestra. Vivaldi, a priest, music teacher and virtuoso violinist, composed many sacred works for the Ospedale, where he spent most of his career, as well as hundreds of instrumental concertos to be played by the girls’ orchestra.

Looking serious? Everyone gets their instructions on how
to behave on the night!

On one of our visits to Venice Pat and I stood in the Church where Vivaldi’s work was performed by the girls from the orphanage all those years ago. In those far off days it was not seemly for young women to be seen performing by gentlemen so the girls played and sang behind iron grills on the church balcony while the gentlemen of La Serenissima Repubblica di Venezia, (the Most Serene Republic of Venice), sat below hearing but unable to see the performers. What a wonderful picture this conjures up: the church lit only by flickering smoking candles, the wealthy gentlemen of La Serenissima Repubblica  sitting craning their necks to catch a glimpse of some orphan beauty behind the grills, outside the gentle sound of the lapping water of the Grand Canal and, of course, Vivaldi’s glorious music permeating all. As I sat there in the rehearsal and during the concert I was there – in Venice, three centuries ago – such is the music’s power and such was the wonderful performance that we heard. The Gloria is Vivaldi’s most famous choral piece and is a joyful hymn of praise and worship based upon the Latin Mass and  based around St. Luke's account of Christ's birth, and the angels singing to the shepherds. Its movements range from the serenely beautiful to glorious and powerful; any one of the twelve movements might appear in a hit list of great choral works but my own favourites are the Gloria, the Et in terra pax, the Domine Fili unigenite and the Cum Sanctio Spiritus – hear them and, as the programme said, one knows that all’s right with the world ! Vivaldi was hugely popular in his day. Sadly, however, he squandered much of his wealth – but, he left us a treasure trove of great music, and, as I say a historical bridge to his world.

George Frederick Handel

When Michael Overbury sat and performed Handel’s Organ Concerto No 4 (Opus 4) in F Major  he was doing exactly what Handel himself did when it was first performed in 1735 – namely, entertaining the audience with a musical interlude between the main parts of the concert. The two main works on Saturday night were the Gloria and the Nelson Mass and when Handel performed his Organ Concerto it was as an interval piece at one of his great oratorios. Handel’s Organ Concertos do not have a religious spirit but were intended to captivate and entertain the general public who had come to hear his Oratorio. They were music for the ordinary man and woman – easy to grasp, melodic and exciting at the same time.  The six Opus 4 Concerti were all written between 1735 and 1736 and performed at the newly opened theatre of John Rich in Covent Garden. The Concerto No. 4 in F Major was completed by Handel on March 25th 1735 and performed by him during the performance of Athalia on April 1st 1735.  This was “interlude music” for the pleasure and enjoyment of the audience and one member of the audience, Mrs Pendarves, clearly enjoyed it. She wrote at the time: “....Mr Handel’s playing on the organ .....was the finest thing I ever heard in my life”.

Have we got the "X Factor"......Yes, we have!

Such was Handel’s celebrity status in eighteenth century London that his appearance at a performance of one of his Oratorios ensured a “full house” and Handel, always keen to boost his income, intended all of his Organ Concerti for himself to play, and so ensure a full theatre! To coin a modern phrase, Handel’s playing put “bums on seats” and money in Handel’s pocket – a thing very close to the great musician’s heart! The Concerto combines brilliant, fast and flowing music with slower movements which allowed Handel to take the spotlight and remind his audiences that he was not only a popular composer and celebrated performer, but also a peerless player and improviser. When Michael Overbury performed the piece on Saturday night he did just that: reminded us of his own peerless skills and of the great music that Handel left us. As I sat there listening to Michael’s wonderful playing and Handel’s great music, I could understand what Mrs Pendarves was feeling as she sat (or maybe stood) all those years ago in a smoky and crowded London theatre hearing exactly what I was hearing in our little parish church in the middle of England so many years later.

Inside the Esterhazy Palace where Nelson heard his Mass

And finally to the Nelson Mass – another of the true choral “greats”. Joseph Haydn wrote his Mass, as most of his other works, whilst employed by Prince Esterhazy at the magnificent Palace of Esterhazy in Hungary – part of the mighty Austro-Hungarian Holy Roman Empire. The Prince was one of Europe’s great men and his palace one of the great cultural centres of 18^th century Europe. Haydn was required to produce a new mass each year for the name-day of Princess Esterhazy and in 1798 he composed his Mass in D Minor – the Missa in Angustsiis (A Mass for Troubled Times).   
                     

Joseph Haydn - "Papa" Haydn. He gained this sobriquet 
because he is often seen as the father of the modern 
symphony and, in his time, was much loved by 

those who played for him - he was their "father figure"

Times were indeed troubled: Haydn’s world was in turmoil. Napoleon had won four major battles with Austria in less than a year and French  armies had crossed the Alps and threatened Vienna itself.  The summer of 1798 was, therefore, a terrifying time for Austria. What Haydn did not know when he wrote the Mass, however, was that on the 1st August, Napoleon had been dealt a stunning defeat in the Battle of the Nile by British forces led by Admiral Horatio Nelson. As the news reverberated around the world, Nelson was heralded as the 'saviour of Europe' and it is believed that reports of the victory reached Haydn on the day of the Mass’s first performance in September 1798.  Perhaps because of this coincidence, the Mass instantly acquired the sub-title The Nelson Mass. That title, however, became firmly fixed two years later.  

The great sea captain

And Lady Hamilton, his "friend"!

In the months following the victory Nelson became a legendary figure in Europe. Feted and courted by Europe’s elite and powerful he toured much of the continent enjoying his fame. In Italy he met Sir William and Lady Hamilton who lived in Naples and there he fell for the beautiful Lady Hamilton. She became his mistress and a ménage a trois was established. The Admiralty, learning of Nelson's behaviour, immediately recalled him to London but he did not rush home! - instead, he took nearly two years to make the return trip, and only after he had so arranged matters as to travel overland with the Hamiltons via Austria and Germany!

The route included Vienna, and from there Nelson and the Hamiltons visited Prince Esterhazy at Eisenstadt and so met Haydn in 1800. To mark the visit of the famous Admiral, Haydn’s D Minor Mass which had assumed the name Nelson Mass,  was performed for the illustrious guests and to celebrate the great victory  that had temporarily, at least, thwarted Napoleon’s plans.  From that moment the “nickname” stuck – the D Minor Mass would be forever the Nelson Mass. During the visit Nelson and Haydn apparently become close friends and accounts tell that Nelson gave Haydn a gold watch captured during the battle, whilst in return Haydn gave Nelson the pen that he had used to compose a cantata to Lady Hamilton.

Getting to the high notes!

The Nelson Mass is the longest mass that Haydn produced and is not only one of the world's great choral works but one of the most listenable to and most performed. Its exciting and dramatic music sweep the performers and listeners along – it certainly did that on Saturday night! Hear the Gloria, the Credo or the Agnus Dei and one can be in no doubt about the ability of great music to influence men and to speak of great power, great ideals and  great deeds; it is the sort of music to make one feel very small in the magnificence of the universe and indeed of God’s creation -  a theme that Haydn explored in another great work, his mighty oratorio The Creation. As I listened on Saturday night, I pictured in my mind’s eye the brilliant palace of Esterhazy, the gathered, glittering political, military and cultural elite of Europe, the great Admiral and his mistress, “Papa” Haydn, now an old man nearing the end of an illustrious career, conducting the assembled performers and all of them hearing exactly what I was hearing in St Peter’s Church two centuries later. A gateway and bridge to an understanding of our shared past to be sure.

Didn't we do well! Acknowledging the applause. 

As I thought of this, another thought crossed my mind. Haydn’s great work was written at a time when Europe was under threat, when times were dark. And here I was, two centuries later, listening at a time when the notion of a united  Europe is again under threat as the EU referendum approaches. The UK is torn between remaining in Europe or going it alone and Europe itself is having to deal with huge problems of mass immigration that threaten to overwhelm the continent whilst terrorism and the far right gains an increasing presence and foothold. Across the Atlantic the most powerful nation on the planet is sliding further into increasingly bizarre, extreme and worrying rhetoric as Presidential wanna-be Donald Trump preaches the gospel of isolation, individualism, aggression and inequality. This is a time for European nations to again stand together. It seems to me that, just as with Beethoven’s great Ode to Joy, the culmination of his great masterpiece the “Choral” Symphony No 9, Haydn’s Nelson Mass was written at a time when Europe and its people were in danger and when nations and men had to unite together to confront the great problems and dangers they faced. Today we must do the same - unite behind the flag of freedom, friendship and equality, not the beating drum of division, fear and extremism. Works like these are about humanity and brotherhood and the best that mankind can be. They are not about individualism and  breaking from the rest of our neighbours as those who advocate our withdrawal from Europe would have us do.  Saturday's concert was not just great music to enjoy  but music that has the power to celebrate great events and great men; to drive great ideas, great ideals and great things. It was music to inspire mankind to have faith and belief in the greater good and to aspire to something bigger than their own self interest. And as I listened I, like the rest of the audience, was swept along – wanting to stand up and cheer. Not to simply applaud such music and such a wonderful performance but to acknowledge and honour the great ideals and spirit that drives such music and makes it integral to the great force  and sweep of history and to the humanity, brotherhood, ambition, spirit and spirituality of mankind.“Rejoice”, the programme cover pleaded; quite! – an apposite command for such a splendid occasion, such memorable performances and such mighty works.