Donald Trump: a latter day Don Corleone or Al Capone. A President who bombs and kidnaps others rather than clearing up the mess in his own back yard.

 

So, the President of the USA tells us that on his orders American planes have bombed the capital city of another nation, Venezuela. He further tells us that the elected President (and his wife) of Venezuela has been "captured" (a euphemism for "kidnapped") and taken to an unspecified destination. And, in a breathtaking piece of arrogance he says that America is going to "run Venezuela" until a new government (presumably favourable to Donald Trump) is installed. If previous similar US actions during my lifetime (Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan et al) are anything to go by this will not end well - for anyone. It is prime example of what Einstein suggested was idiocy - namely doing the same thing over and over again and hoping for a different result. Clearly, the numbskulls of the current Washington White House have not learned the lessons of their own history. But then again, this is Donald Trump and his sycophantic wannabes, individuals known for their rank stupidity, lack of reason and, all too often, criminal intent. We should not be surprised.

The justification for these actions is that "Venezuelan drug cartels" are responsible for importing vast amounts of drugs into the USA and the Venezuelan President is himself corrupt, hated by the Venezuelan population, and won't or can't do anything about this. Or so Donald Trump informs us.

Mmmm! Maybe all this is true and maybe a majority of Venezuelans want rid of their thoroughly disreputable President - but that can never, ever justify what America and Trump have done, attacked another nation. It is reminiscent of the "gun law" of the old West where might equals right. We do not want or need a world where "might" justifies action; it only ends in one way - badly. And, I might add, I am not comfortable with the most powerful man in the world, a man who has consistently displayed his erratic and irrational personality, operating as if he thinks he is Marshal Wyatt Earp or a latter day John Wayne or Clint Eastwood using his guns and his might to keep the world in whatever order he desires and willing to bow their knees to do his bidding.

But there is another more fundamental issue which Trump's actions do not address. The illegal supply of drugs depends entirely upon the demand for them. Drug dealers, dreadful though they are, are merely satisfying a demand; they would not run the vast risks they do if they were not certain of being able to sell their produce. It is the most basic law of economics that supply grows to meet demand; if there is no demand (i.e. people not wanting to buy a product) then businesses, shops and, yes, even drug dealers go out of business or go elsewhere to sell their goods.

So, it seems to me that Trump (and any other national leader) would be far better ensuring that the population of his own country were not minded to desire/purchase the drugs - thus creating a demand - in the first place; no buyers, no suppliers, it's as simple as that.

America is the biggest consumer of illegal narcotics, prescription drugs and opioids in the world by a considerable margin (16.9% - almost 47 million - of Americans aged over 12 years in 2024 and rising at a rate of 1.9% per year compared with 8.8% of the population in the UK, 11% of the French population, 6% in Norway and a European average of 6.8%) which illustrates clearly America’s problem, its increasing akrasia, its entropic decline and the drift into nihilism in its politics, its society and its culture. This, culminating in the election of Trump, indicates with great clarity a society in terminal decline, increasingly unable or unwilling to save itself from its own excesses, unaware or uncaring of its inherent and rising shallowness, its immaturity and its rising tide of violence on its streets, in its schools and shopping malls, and now towards other nations. So, maybe, Trump should concentrate on putting his own house in order before bombing and kidnapping the citizens of another country. And, further, perhaps the American electorate should be ensuring that their President is (like the President of Venezuela) held and charged for being unable or unwilling to do anything about his own citizens actively participating in the illegal use of drugs, for it is them, the millions of American drug users who are creating the demand and thus the eventual supply of illegal narcotics into the USA. But, as always - and certainly with Trump - it's easier to blame someone else (Venezuela) and bomb them rather than clean up the mess in his own back yard.

And one thing we all know is that America and its back yard are the mother and father of all messes; a mixed up society unable to moderate its own behaviour. If it were not so they would not have mass shootings, and out of control drug problems or ingrained racist division, nor would they have defied all logic, common sense and political wisdom by electing a convicted felon and common racketeer as their President. Over a century ago Oscar Wilde famously said that "America is the only country that has gone from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between". He was not wrong then and his words hold even more true today. Trump himself in his manner, his views, his life style and his moral bankruptcy personifies that decadence. His actions this weekend are all about blaming America's contemporary self imposed decadence and chaotic social climate on others - in this case Venezuela. America has elected, and shamelessly continues to tolerate, this modern day Don Corleone or Al Capone figure. America prides itself, they often tell us that they are the great democracy - indeed they have a track record of trying to impose this on other nations - and yet, and despite their famed "democracy" and the crocodile tears from millions of Americans they complain, beat their breasts, write critical tweets but do nothing; they fail the test of democracy to remove a leader who brings shame, discredit and disaster upon the nation - and Trump is allowed to continue unopposed; ultimately, they do not care and in being so they have shown, and continue to show, America's contemporary lack of moral fibre and compass.

Roosevelt, Kennedy, Obama must weep, and so should we - and we should worry. Venezuela is being bombed today, but which country, I wonder, will it be tomorrow? Which of us will suffer the madness and criminal intentions of America and its President. And, I wonder, will Trump simply use the language and rhetoric of his friend and mentor Vladimir Putin and say that this was not an act of war but simply a "Special Military Operation".

Memories of a childhood

Throughout my childhood – and even today – my Dad was my rock. As a long distance lorry driver he was often away from home for two or three days each week so my time with him was often short but he was so important to me. My mother, unfortunately, was prone to fits of anger that flared up almost daily – and were nearly always directed at my Dad. Although we were not beggars we were poor, there was little spare cash, and despite my Dad never being out of work and always each week bringing his pay packet home unopened and handing it to my mother as soon as he walked through the door, money was a constant source of anger in my mother’s mind. But the anger and rage flared up for any reason and no reason and always started with my mother. Dad would just sit quietly while she raged at him. As a child I sat nightly on the top stair of our little house sobbing, listening, as downstairs mother raged at Dad about whatever had upset her; at times like those I wished dearly that I had a brother or sister to relate to, to confide in - I felt very alone in the world. At the meal table I was always frightened that something would ignite my mother’s ire – as it often did. It might be (and this is true) the way Dad had peeled the potatoes (Dad always cooked Sunday lunch while mother stayed in bed reading the paper till almost noon) or perhaps he had not cooked the meat for long enough. But whatever, it was common that meal times would more often than not descend into my mother raging at Dad as I sat sobbing, worrying, afraid that my Dad would simply walk out and leave and I would never see him again. As I got older I became angry because although I knew that my mother loved me dearly, fiercely even, in the end I also knew that Dad was between a rock and a hard place – he could do nothing right in my mother’s eyes; and I also increasingly knew that Dad did his best and was, I believed and still believe, rarely if ever in the wrong. As I sat at the dinner table as a child and a teenager I would make up inane conversations, jokes, anything to keep the focus on me rather than allow my mother’s ire to irrationally flare up in the silent vacuum of the meal. By the end of meal times I was sweating, fearful, anxious for the meal to be over when the likelihood of a row lessened - mother going into the front room to read her paper or knit and Dad would stand at the sink washing up. Still, today, when I sit down for a meal, I often feel my heart quicken and I begin to sweat, in the back of my mind fearful that something will occur to cause an argument between those at the table, whoever they are, and that I will have to sit and witness, relive a much dreaded part of my young life.

Dad just took it all; never fought back. Mother would stand and beat him with her fists, screaming in anger into his face but he just let it happen. When her rage dissipated he would quietly and calmly get on with whatever had to be done, washing up, tidying the house, chopping wood for the fire, hoovering. And I, even as small child, made a promise to myself that I would never, ever allow my children to witness the sorts of things that I had - I would never lose my temper, never row with my wife if I ever had one. In other words, I’d be like my Dad. And whatever happened Dad was always there for me. We went to the pictures together – a time I remember with great fondness - occasionally went to watch Preston North End, he sometimes took me out on his lorry during the school holidays, or went fishing together. These, and others were precious times – I suppose nowadays we would call it bonding – but to me it was a place of safety, when I was with Dad I knew I was safe from mother’s ire.

I never knew what was at the root of my mother’s rage. I do know that she also frequently “fell out” with her sisters, brothers and other members of the wider family – I grew up unaware of aunties, uncles and cousins and only made contact with some of them via social media in the years after my mother’s death; to have done so before would have been a source of rage and venom from my mother. I tried as a child to rationalise, to explain her flare ups but never succeeded. I often thought lack of money was the issue and it clearly produced pressures in the family, but then, in those days everyone was the same, we were not unusual, and in many ways we were better off than many. In more recent years I have pondered that it might have been the stage in life that mother was going through – but that doesn’t really hold true since the rage and anger were always there from my earliest days to the time she died. I do, however, believe that she was frustrated. She was a bright woman and had had a hard life. Her own mother, my grandmother, died when mother was ten years old leaving her as the oldest girl to look after the four other siblings. The impact of this was that she was unable to study, take up a career that might have fulfilled her and I think this was a matter of great regret throughout her life. To add to that I think my Dad “disappointed” her; he was not ambitious and was happy doing his driving and living a quiet life. At one point, when I was a teenager, the Transport Manager at his company retired and Dad was prompted by the company to apply for the job – but, whether it was lack of confidence, or an unwillingness to give up his driving, or maybe even he didn’t relish the thought of being at home seven nights a week rather than being on the road I don’t know but he wouldn’t apply. The job would have meant an increase in pay and probably a gentle wind down towards his own retirement but it wasn’t for him and I know it upset my mother.

My mother, although she loved me ferociously, never showed any fondness – never a cuddle or a kiss – with me or anyone else. When I first met my wife Pat’s family I was bemused and embarrassed that they always hugged and kissed each other when greeting family and friends; it was a thing unknown to me and I felt very uncomfortable with it. I still do; even today I am unsure, uncertain, embarrassed when I am greeted with a hug. Mother never ever showed any outward affection towards my Dad – or her sisters. Dad would always address mother as “love” or “dear” but mother never reciprocated, there was no outward never a hug, never a kiss, never a spontaneous kind word. I have often thought my mother saw affection as a sign of weakness; as she often told me “It’s a hard life” and you had to be strong all the time and never show weakness. Against this background Dad, who would hold my hand when I was a small child, or talk kindly to me when he came home from work, or playfully rub his whiskery chin against my face when I was very young, became, although he never knew it, my safe place, my role model, my rock – there is absolutely no doubt he got me through my childhood. When my mother died I did not weep; I was sorry but never upset. When my Dad died, however, I knew I had lost not only my anchor but the quiet steadfast rock that had kept the family together through all the years; he had quietly got on with life when I’m sure it would have been easier for him to walk away – but he didn’t – and for that I was and am grateful, he made me what I am.

My Dad: Memories of a hard working man who just did his best for his family, his bosses and himself.......and was, and still is, my rock

 

Twenty years ago this year (Nov 6th 2005) my Dad died. He had been unwell for a number of years with breathing and mobility problems and, I think, he was simply “worn out”. As each year passes I know (and my lovely wife, Pat, often reminds me of this!) I grow more like him both in appearance and outlook – the latter a thing I am pleased about; if I can be remembered as half the man my Dad was I’ll settle for that.

He had worked hard all his life. Never had a day out of work and always as a lorry driver. He was born in Tottenham, London but his family moved when he was a child to Cheshunt in Hertfordshire and from the day he left school at 14 he worked with his father and 3 brothers driving lorries from the market gardens and farms of Hertfordshire carrying fresh produce -vegetables, fruit, flowers etc. to Covent Garden Market in central London. This meant an early start – 3 am, six days a week – so that the fresh produce was in London by early morning. When war came he joined the RAF and drove heavy vehicles across Europe and then India. It was while he was in the RAF that he met my Mother who was working in war time London as a nurse (Dad was brought to the hospital where she worked suffering from a broken wrist). They married in Uxbridge just before D Day in May 1944 (see picture below) just before Dad went as part of the invading force into France. In the late summer of 1944 he was put on a troop ship bound for India as part of the war in the Far East which was still going on. He spent over a year in India - a time which he loved and often spoke fondly of (see picture below of him in India with the lorry he was driving). Then, after being demobbed early in 1946 having returned from India at the end of the war in the Far East in September 1945 he moved to Preston, my mother's home town. She had moved back to Preston when she was pregnant with me and in April 1945, just as the war was ending I had come along - Dad was still in India at that point. When they set up home in Preston Dad worked as a lorry driver for a number of haulage companies in the area but settled in 1950 at English Electric – a big employer in the town - where he stayed for the rest of his working life. After he retired and Mum and Dad had moved out of Preston to the village of Garstang, about 10 miles north of Preston he worked part time driving a van for a local timber business and then for several years behind the counter at the local petrol station - he loved that job, chatting to all the locals and the old villagers who came in for their petrol etc.

In all those years I only remember him having time off work on two occasions; in the late 1950s when he fell from his lorry and sustained hip damage and mid1960s when he contracted shingles. Like many at the time he worked a five and half day week from 7 in the morning until 5 at night – and sometimes longer when the need arose. Each Thursday (if he was not on a long distance journey to Southampton or London and so away from home) he would bring home his unopened wage packet and give it to my mother. Every night before he went to bed he would wash and shave. We had no bathroom and no hot water so this was a practical step to save problems in the morning when everyone else was wanting to use the one sink and one tap in the house. And when he left the house at half past six each morning his green overalls would be clean and smart, his tie neatly knotted and his work boots shining. Each morning when he got to work the first job (if he was not away from home) was to hose down his lorry so that, too, started the day clean and bright. He took a pride in his job and his appearance.

The picture on the left shows my Dad standing with his work colleagues at the side of a lorry with part of a Canberra bomber fuselage on it, this is how I remember him going to work each day when I was a child. He stands next to the small man (Little George he was called!) at the left hand end of the front row. The lorry was his and he would drive it that day as part of the 1952 Preston Guild procession where the town's industry was celebrated (Preston Guild happens every 20 years and has taken place since the 13th Century - it's a world famous event and lasts for two weeks with all sorts of parades and events in the town).

Each Sunday evening, throughout his years working at English Electric he would stand in our little kitchen at the wooden ironing board that he had made in his shed and iron several pairs of clean green English Electric overalls – ready for the coming week. When I got to the age of about 10 it was my job each Saturday morning to take the family washing and my Dad's dirty overalls to the newly opened laundrette on Ribbleton Lane. We didn't have a washing machine or hot water so the coming of the laundrette was a godsend for families like ours. I hated having to do this - I dreaded my pals seeing me with the bags of washing - but looking back it was right and proper - and in the long run was one of the things that gave me a valuable perspective on the important things of life. Having ironed his overalls Dad would sit in his armchair, the little black and white TV on in the corner and as my Mother and I watched Sunday Night at the London Palladium, he would fill in his “log sheets” the daily record of his lorry trips - destinations, mileages, times etc - from the previous week ready to hand in to his boss on Monday morning. Even as a young child I would look at his lovely cursive handwriting and wonder if I would ever be able to write so neatly; now I look at the handwriting and use of English of so many today and shake my head - partly in sadness and partly in anger at the carelessness and lack of shame of so many today.

As an ex- teacher I wonder what has gone wrong? My dad left school at 14, had no academic qualifications, didn't know much about Shakespeare or algebra but he wrote beautifully and used both written and spoken English correctly. I wonder what is wrong with people today who write gibberish on FB posts, completely lacking in correct use of English, full of poor spelling, lacking any rational argument and too often interspersed with foul expletives. In 4O years teaching I've never worked in a school where basic skills (including multiplication tables!) were not taught daily yet still today millions seem unable to grasp these basics. Don't tell me it's dyslexia or autism or ADHD or poor teaching or the fault of the school. In one or two cases that might be so, but for the overwhelming majority of cases these are merely excuses because so many today can't be bothered to take care, take a pride in themselves, in their use of English and in how they present themselves to the world; they are not shamed by what should shame them.

Dad would never have claimed to be well learned or a gentleman but he was full of a quiet wisdom and a gentle man; I don’t think I ever heard him raise his voice or be aggressive in any manner. The pride he took in his appearance, in the way he did his job and the quiet way he presented himself to the world was something he retained to the end of his life. It gave him, an ordinary, unknown, uncelebrated lorry driver, a simple but precious personal, professional and honourable dignity. It was the measure of the man unlike today when "success" or "standing in the world" is equated by how much one can earn. We live in a world today that increasingly does not place value upon what sort of a person you are, it values only what one earns. That is not my personal prejudice it is born out by facts: all research indicates that unlike when I was growing up when young people were keen to enter trades and professions that interested them or were of some use to society, now young people want to be high earning "celebrities", or are only interested in careers like the law or economics that promise high financial rewards; cash and crass has triumphed over service and the common good. In today's world millionaires like Elon Musk, Donald Trump, and Jeremy Clarkson are referred to as "alpha males" - and we are supposed to be impressed by that. Mmmmm! Sorry, in that context "alpha male" simply means boorish, crass, selfish, solipsistic and a host of other negative adjectives and adverbs; if we are talking "alpha males" we'll start with my Dad and thousands of others like him: hard working, honest, dignified, caring, responsible for their own actions and the common good of others.

Even in the final months and years of his life when he was very much confined to home and I would drive up to Lancashire each weekend to mow his lawns, do any little jobs, go shopping for him etc. he would always be prepared and ready – shaved, tie on, shoes shining. Partly, I think, this was because he had always done it but also, I believe, because he did it for me – it had a hidden message saying “I’m alright, Tony, you need not worry about me, look I can still take care of myself”. And it worked; I knew that the time to really worry about Dad was when he was not up and smartly turned out. Even on the morning that he died 20 years ago it was so. He had not been well over the weekend and we drove to Lancashire early on Monday morning to see him and do a little shopping for him. Sadly, half way there, we received a phone call from his neighbour to say that he had found Dad dead sitting on his bed. When we arrived an hour later it was as Dad’s neighbour had told us: Dad was dressed, shaved and with his shoes on lying on his bed. He had obviously got up that morning to welcome us but having got washed, shaved and dressed had sat on his bed and simply passed away. When I looked down at him that morning I knew it was how how would have liked to go – smart, clean shaven, well prepared, ready for the day. Now, at 80 years of age I can understand that completely.

My Dad would, I know, be saddened, maybe angry, at today’s world where so many seem to take little pride in how they look, in how they do their job and in their everyday life. He would be distressed when he read in his paper about the behaviour of many and our modern society where so many consider themselves victims, the world against them, their mental health problems, life’s unfairness and the like. He would be angry at the casual use of foul language in social media and the wider media, on the streets, in homes and in school and as I increasingly do, have no truck with younger people who say they haven't got time or the money to do this or that when what they really mean is they prefer to make other (more selfish?) choices in how they live their life or spend their money. Dad wasn’t anything special – just a hard working man who did his best for his family, his bosses and perhaps for himself. But he was, above all, a role model, someone to look up to and, as I get a little closer to the age that my Dad was when he died, I increasingly find myself wanting to be remembered as someone like him; I didn't have the happiest of childhoods (see blog: https://arbeale.blogspot.com/2025/12/throughout-my-childhood-and-even-today.html) - although I never wanted for anything - but in his own quiet way he had been a rock, not only for me but for our little family and for that I will be forever grateful. His lorry driving career meant that as I grew up he would often be away from home for two or maybe three nights each week so I often saw little of him. But the magical times when we went to the cinema together (see blog: https://arbeale.blogspot.com/2011/07/wooden-ships-and-iron-men.html ), or to watch Preston North End or to sit by the River Ribble or the Lancaster Canal with our fishing rods (he wasn't a fisherman but took it up to come with me) are my fondest memories - it was where I learned about how to be a Dad.

"The Gift of the Magi"

 Christmas is a time of stories and story telling. It would not, I think, be Christmas without being reminded of some of the great Christmas tales and verse: Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” telling the tale of the miserly old Scrooge, the wonderful poem “Twas the night before Christmas” describing Saint Nicholas’ and his reindeers visiting to deliver presents to sleeping households, or the film “It’s a wonderful life” starring James Stewart relating how George Bailey facing life’s challenges is saved by Clarence, his guardian angel. The common thread for all these, and more, is the spirit of Christmas, of giving, of redemption; like the words to the great Christmas carols we know the words, we probably know the story well but each year we sing it, read it, watch it, or recite it and still it speaks to us, and we feel better for it.

One of my favourite Christmas tales, and one I often told at school at Christmas time, was written over a century ago by the American short story writer O. Henry. Most of the tales written by William Sydney Porter under the pen-name O. Henry are light hearted, but with a twist in the tail. They reflect the America of the late 19th century and early 20th century so are also interesting historical and social documents. Many of them have a strong “message” or moral. Today, like so much in our brash, “in yer face”, often violent and always cynical world they might well be considered a bit dated, old hat, twee, cheesy or naff - and that is a shame because like all good fiction they teach us about the worlds that others, different from ourselves, inhabit. In reading them, for a few minutes, we become someone else, we see the world from a different perspective; as Atticus Finch in the great novel “To Kill a Mocking Bird” by Harper Lee says “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” Fiction allows us to do that, and O. Henry’s wonderful Christmas tale “The Gift of the Magi” does it superbly:

“The Gift of the Magi” by O.Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all she had. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing left to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and cry. So Della did it.

Della lay in the cheap, $8 a week furnished flat. In the vestibule two floors below was a letter-box, filled with bills they couldn't pay and into which no more letters could go, and an electric door bell that didn’t work, and above it a piece of folded card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young." However, when Mr. James Dillingham Young came home from his work as an office clerk at the end of every day and climbed the stairs to his flat he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Della, Mrs. James Dillingham Young. The young couple were poor but happy in their love and company and hope for their future.

Della gradually ceased sobbing and put on a little make up. She stood by the window and looked out at the dark wet day. To-morrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week didn't go far in New York. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated and now she had only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him, something near to being worthy of the honour of being owned by her wonderful husband, Jim.

Della turned from the window and stood looking at her reflection in the wall mirror and in that moment she had an idea. Rapidly she pulled out her hair pins and her hair fell to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's before him. The other was Della's hair and now her beautiful long hair fell about her, a rippling and shining brown cascade. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. She ran her hair brush through it and then, with well practised fingers, she did it up again nervously and quickly.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat and with a whirl of skirts and a sparkle in her eyes, she slipped out of the door and down the stairs into the rain drenched Christmas Eve street.

After a short walk she stopped outside a small establishment. The sign on the door read: "Mme Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." Della stepped inside the shop. Mme Sofronie stood behind a glass counter containing hair combs, ribbons and wigs.

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I do buy hair," said Madame. "Take your hat off and let's have a sight of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"I’ll take it” said Della, “Give it to me quick" said Della.

And a few moments later, Della left the shop. The next two hours went by on a whirl. She raced from department store to department seeking Jim's present, and at last she found it. Surely, it had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a gold fob chain simple and chaste in design, its simplicity vouching for its value. Della knew immediately that she saw it that it was worthy of Jim’s precious and much loved watch. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the remaining eighty seven cents.

When Della reached home she set to work repairing the ravages of her visit to Mme Sofronie and within half an hour and skilful use of her curling tongs her head was covered with tiny curls. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, wondering what Jim would say.

*********

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops they would enjoy for their Christmas Eve meal.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat at the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stairway on the first flight, and for just a moment her heart raced. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please, God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin, worn out and cold. His eyes immediately fixed upon Della sitting by the table, already set for dinner, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face, his over coat still on.

Della wriggled from the table and went over to him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. Please say you don’t mind. I did it for you. My hair grows awfully fast. Let’s say 'Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice - what a beautiful - gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously and quietly, disbelieving, as if he had not arrived at that fact yet, even after the hardest mental labour and despite the evidence of his eyes.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm still me without my hair aren’t?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, bemused, unable to think straight.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you - sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, my love. It’s gone for you, to show my love for you."

Out of his trance Jim seemed to wake. He put his arms around his Della and hugged her tightly to his chest, a tear running down his cheek and then releasing her he drew out a package from his overcoat pocket and put it on the table.

"Make no mistake, Della," he said, "I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me love you less. But if you'll unwrap that package you might see why you had me going a while at first."

Della’s fingers tore at the string and paper. Then as the contents of the package were revealed there was an ecstatic scream of joy; followed, alas by a change to hysterical tears. And Jim took his beloved wife into his arms while she sobbed on his shoulder.

And on the table amongst the torn wrapping paper there lay a set of hair combs. The very ones that Della had worshipped for long in a Broadway department store window and that she had, on many occasions, told Jim about. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise-shell, with jewelled rims - just the shade to wear in her beautiful, but now vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have been adorned by the coveted combs were gone.

Della turned from Jim and picked up the combs. She hugged them to her bosom, and at length she looked up with dim, tear filled eyes and a smile and said: "My hair grows so fast, Jim, I’ll soon be able to put them in my hair!"

And then Della leaped away from him and cried, "Oh, Jim, you haven’t seen your present!" She held it out to him upon her open palm. The precious metal flashing brightly in the glow of the electric light.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

But, instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

And taking her hands in his is quietly spoke. "Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. Let’s just be happy in our own company….how about you put the chops on and we enjoy a Christmas Eve dinner together."

O Henry’s tale ends by reminding us that the magi - the wise men - brought gifts to the Baby in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, O Henry tells us, the Magi’s gifts were no doubt wise ones. But in his little story, Della and Jimmy were, on the surface perhaps, unwise, sacrificing for each other the greatest possessions that they each owned: Della’s wonderful hair and Jimmy’s precious watch. In the last words of the tale, O Henry cuts to the moral of the story and tells us “Let it be said that of all who give gifts these two, Jimmy and Della were the wisest for they discovered a great truth". The Magi in choosing their gifts - gold, frankincense and myrrh - had given it much thought, just as Della and Jimmy did. And although the end result for Della and Jimmy was not what perhaps they hoped, they learned from it a greater truth - that the only thing really worth caring about was their love for each other which is far more important than mere possessions. And, as we all should know, when it comes to Christmas and the buying or receiving of gifts for or from our loved ones it really is the thought that counts.

"And on earth peace, good will toward men”

"And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger”. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, good will toward men”.

So say the mighty words of the Bible (Luke 2:8-14) telling of the birth of Christ two millennia ago and whether one is a Christian, a Muslim, a Jew, a Hindu…….or of no faith at all, it would be pretty difficult to disagree with the sentiment – that there be peace on Earth and all men living with good will and harmony. Sadly, our 2025 world is far from peaceful or filled with good will or harmony: war in Ukraine, Gaza lying in ruins, starvation running wild in many places, once great nations like America and even our own UK riven with discord, division, inequality, racism, hatred and violence; and running through our society, our cultures and our politics the so called “culture wars” setting one man against another…………. We live in not only perilous times where “good tidings” – good news – is in short measure and where, in these last days of 2025, many are unable to “fear not” as the angels commanded the shepherds at the first Christmas.

Nineteen years ago, almost to the day, Pat and I stood in the sun looking out over a peaceful and happy Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia (see pics). We watched people enjoying the sun, the sand, and the sea - swimming, surfing, eating picnics and playing games. We laughed when we noticed several young men and women in their shorts and bikinis playing beach cricket all dressed in Santa costumes, complete with long white beards. We were at the beginning of a lovely, once in a life time holiday after my retirement and had already spent time en-route in Singapore before arriving in Oz to take in Sydney, Adelaide, Alice Springs, Ularu, Queensland, and Cairns, to swim at the Great Barrier Reef, and then on to the magic of Tokyo and Japan.

It was a holiday of so many precious memories: we met wonderful people, saw marvellous things, visited welcoming countries and were overwhelmed by the kindness and cultures that we experienced; and we both thought of this yesterday as we watched the dreadful pictures and followed the news broadcasts of the atrocities on that beautiful beach where so many lost their lives or where injured by two gunmen who clearly had no “goodwill towards men”. And I asked myself, as I seem to do so often nowadays, “What is happening to people, what’s going on in the hearts and minds of so many, why is it that so many seem willing, able, or want to say or do things that once upon a time they would have been ashamed to think or say let alone do?"

Of course, we might say that the events yesterday in Sydney were a “one off”, so extreme that they do not fit a pattern and will not be repeated, but the reality is that as we know to our cost extreme violence born of a perverted mindset is becoming more and more common and worryingly normalised; the reasons or “excuses” to justify or seek to “explain” the event might vary but the end result is the same: Bondi Beach, Southport, the Manchester Synagogue attack, mass shootings in America, extreme, perverted and violent events in France, Germany, and a host of other places………………...are becoming more everyday and as they do so we cease to be horrified or offended; we say “It is what it is”, and we “move on”, “get over it” – until the next one occurs.

Sadly these once, “one-off,” extreme, events, now almost weekly news are no longer perpetrated by people so extreme or inhuman as to make them “one-offs”. Events such as those at Bondi Beach or the ruination of Gaza and its people or the Southport murders of three innocent little girls do not occur in a vacuum; they are part of the whole, both part, and a reflection of, the world that we have created and in which we live. What was once unthinkable for ordinary people is now accepted as “modern life”. Look at any bit of social media and you will be horrified at what people will now proudly put down in print – and be unashamed to add their name to it, taking a pride in broadcasting their obscenities, their perverted rhetoric and warped minds to everyone on the planet. And a trend I have noticed in recent months and years compounds the distress; click on one of these posts and you will often discover it is posted by some ordinary, "nice" person with a nice family, a nice house, a pillar of the community who might live next door to you - not some ill mannered, ill educated "thug" who might be excused his or her lack of shame or the obscene language and content of their post. I'm often minded to reply to one of these posts by saying "Does your mother know that you have written this" - but I never have, I am afraid that I might be further disheartened by an equally obscene/violent/shameful reply from the poster's mother. There is no embarrassment, shame or fear felt by these people as they post their crude, ill thought and often violent messages, and in being so this creates a digital and wider world where violent words, obscene comment and extremist views are not only tolerated but become accepted, normal, alright, legitimate. And anyone is fair game: the girl next door, the Prime Minister, the family seeking asylum, the single mother, the gay couple living down the street, the local school and it's teachers, the out of form footballer who is perceived to be letting the side down, the Muslim or Jewish worshippers going to pray at the local mosque or synagogue, the local town councillor who has not resolved some problem, the shopkeeper who put up his prices......anyone and everyone who has "offended" the senses or the beliefs of the herd can be, or is, "othered" in the angry world that is 2025. Against this background those of an extreme and perverted mindset see those who are vilified and "othered" by the media or by people of influence and power as legitimate targets for their venom and violence, making in their warped minds their hateful plans credible and their horrifying actions justified; and, so, innocent people become fair game, potential victims fully deserving of their fate. Ninety years ago the owner of the Daily Mail, Lord Northcliffe, when asked in Parliament to explain the popularity of his newspaper replied: "I give my readers a daily hate". The Daily Mail has not changed, it still spouts its daily hatred of all things and all men but in 2025 it is insignificant when one compares it to the vast opportunities for the spread - and with it the popularity - of hate, of othering, of vitriol, of obscenity, and of violent thought and action available on social media and the wider internet.

Words have consequences and social media and the 24 hour global news cycle under which we now all live multiplies this many times to generate profound and terrible consequences. When Donald Trump last week referred to Somali immigrants as “garbage” and suggested that they were unfit for America…. that “they come from hell and they complain and do nothing but bitch, we don’t want them in their country. Let them go back to where they come from and fix it,” his bigoted tirade was not said in private but in front of the world’s press. His comments were not a “one off” or something he later regretted but built upon his previous statement: ”Why is it we only take people from shithole countries, right?' Why can’t we have some people from Norway, Sweden, just a few? Let us have a few from Denmark. Do you mind sending us a few people? Do you mind?'" How can comments like that not impact upon the hearts and minds of others – either for good or ill; they give licence to those disposed to act against Somalians and create an atmosphere fear and antagonism amongst the people at whom Trump’s comments were aimed. Last week, our own King Charles made an announcement about the progress of his cancer treatment. Whilst the majority of responses on social media were supportive and wished the King well a significant number of others were filled with venom and obscene comment. I’m no great supporter of the monarchy but, I ask, what has happened to the Christmas imperative of “good will toward men”? In recent weeks here in the UK Reform Party leader Nigel Farage has faced a barrage of criticism from across the political spectrum because of extreme racist comments he made in his teenage years. He has not denied these or apologised – and the reason? He knows that he doesn’t need to because he also knows full well that in the hearts and minds of millions there is a large measure of agreement with his crude and hate filled views; in the couple of weeks since the allegations were made his ratings have soared across the UK. Hatred is very much alive and well in contemporary England; we should not be surprised, therefore, when events like the Manchester Synagogue tragedy or the Southport killings occur - we are reaping what is being sown. This is not about being "woke" - it is about common decency and humanity, and both those attributes are, in my view, in retreat; those that Hilary Clinton once called "a basket of deplorables" are in the ascendency across the world, in our towns and in our streets, in positions of power and in their social media posts.

Experience has taught me to take care when posting on social media. Comment upon anything that does not “follow the herd” and it’s a sure recipe for receiving hate filled, obscene, or even threatening replies to one’s post – and the consequence of that is that the thread inevitably becomes more extreme; it becomes self fulfilling. Donald Trump, Nigel Farage, Benjamin Netanyahu, and a billion other “influencers” in the media and on social media know this well and it is against this backdrop that those who eventually act out that hatred generated through the media gain their credibility and justification for their actions. The innocent victims on Bondi Beach or in the rubble of Gaza or in a dancing studio in Southport or outside a Jewish Synagogue in Manchester are, in my view as much victims of the world’s increasing use of hate filled rhetoric on social media and much of mankind's declining desire to ensure “peace on Earth and good will towards men" as they are victims of the deluded and evil mind of the perpetrator himself.

When I led school assemblies I very occasionally read a particular poem to the assembled children, and asked for their thoughts on what it meant. I haven’t thought of the verse for many years, although I can still repeat its words by heart. It was written in 1834 by Leigh Hunt, an English writer, poet and academic and I first learned it from my mother, who often quoted its words. When I remembered it today I thought how, in 2025, it sounds so old fashioned and twee - and that very fact tells me how far we have declined as a society in the past twenty or so years. But, I then followed this up with the sadder thought that perhaps today’s brash media using society and its children would find it a little incomprehensible, out of their understanding, because it is filled with ideas, mental pictures and feelings that have become alien to many in our contemporary world. And then, more worryingly, I reflected further, that if I was standing in front of the assembled school today and read the poem to the children would I tomorrow receive harsh criticism, obscene comment, Facebook posts and hate mail from Reform Party supporters, Tommy Robinson adherents, or the other "basket of deplorables" who fill social media with their hate and expletive filled rhetoric accusing me, perhaps threatening me of promoting Islam, enforcing “un-British values” or “indoctrinating” young minds. I hope not, but I fear it might be so. And that is what is so worrying about the world we now live in; common decency, good intention, simple kindnesses, and humanitarian action is being side lined by brutal and brutish hate mongers across the world; the good people of Sydney and wider Australia know this all too well. We would all be well advised to ponder Leigh Hunt's little verse:

 

Abou Ben Adhem

"Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold:—

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest".

A happy Christmas and “Peace on Earth and good will toward men.”

A School Christmas Nativity by Torchlight!

 

Our local junior school, St Peter’s, here in Ruddington is in the middle of a minor catastrophe. Earlier this week the Headteacher sent out an urgent message to all parents to say that the school was having to close with immediate effect because a building’s inspection had discovered that there were serious structural issues at the school which potentially made the building unsafe. He went on to say that this would mean the school being closed for a significant period until the repairs can be attended to. In the meantime the 350 or so pupils are to be taught in other local schools until Christmas and then after Christmas will be housed in temporary accommodation - I presume Portakabins.

It brought back memories of my own teaching career. About 10 years before I retired my own school suffered a fire which destroyed half of the building. Fortunately, the blaze occurred over a weekend so there was no-one on site but, it meant that within days we were all accommodated in Portakabins on what had once been the playground. We lived in this temporary accommodation for almost two years until the new school was built – so when I read of the problems at St Peter’s it brought back a lot of memories and perhaps a small understanding of what the children and staff at St Peter’s are facing at the moment. I don’t envy them and wish them well.

But there is another reason that this local news chimed. Pat and I both began our teaching careers at St Peter’s in the long gone 1960’s – and a few years later, when we had our own family, our own two children, Kate & John were both pupils at the School. St Peter’s has been very much part of our lives and our family and when I heard of the School’s problems this week, it brought back many memories. The Headteacher’s announcement, of course, had a special resonance given that we are fast approaching Christmas when St Peter’s like just about every school in the country would have been “winding up” for Christmas with thoughts of parties, end of term sing-songs, decorating classrooms and perhaps the school Christmas tree. I don’t know what the School’s plans were this year but perhaps they had a nativity, a concert or a pantomime planned to entertain parents – and it was this thought that leapt to the forefront of my mind when I heard the news.

My mind went back to Christmas 1969 (see the Christmas party pictures of my Year 5 class at the time!). St Peter’s School was in the midst of Christmas preparations, decorating classrooms and rehearsing for the Christmas Nativity, and in the middle of it all the Headteacher, Jack Gregory, announced that we would be receiving a visit from the local School Inspector – Mr Tucker. This was in the days before OFSTED – and to me, a fairly newly qualified teacher, it was a daunting thought; what would he, an HMI (Her Majesty’s Inspector) think of my classroom and my teaching? Should I be doing something very clever and profound with the children to impress him when he came to “inspect” my class and my teaching? In the end I need not have worried – he turned up just as we were busy making Christmas decorations – Christmas mobiles using wire coat-hangers to hang in the classroom. He introduced himself, and warmly asked what we were doing, and then wandered around the room sitting with the children and chatting to them, asking what they were doing and how they were coping with it. I nervously watched, hoping that no disaster or crisis would occur in his time with us. After about twenty minutes he took me to one side and thanked me for my time, generously congratulated me on how busy and engaged the children were and asked if I had thought of making asymmetrical mobiles with the class rather than the simple symmetrical ones that we were making. I had to confess that I hadn’t and he then launched into an explanation of how that might be springboard some interesting maths – and with that he was gone.

My first experience of an HMI – and I never forgot it, but from that point in my classroom career, whenever we made Christmas mobiles I always ensured that asymmetrical mobiles were part of our decorations! Over the years I met Mr Tucker several times until he retired - and he was right; asymmetrical mobiles were indeed a good way of introducing some interesting and testing maths investigations and introducing simple algebra to 10 and 11 year olds. Mr Tucker was from the "old school" of HMI who sought to improve, schools, teaching and teachers by educating, advising, and example. They were the teacher's teachers - a far cry from the modern inspection format created by successive governments and their much criticised and educationally bankrupt offspring, OFSTED - an organisation whose remit is to improve schools by harassment, endless assessment against ill thought criteria and ultimately by naming and shaming schools and teachers who fail meet their often random and subjective but always irrelevant "standards". Where Mr Tucker and the old HMI were concerned with schools as being about people - children and teachers - OFSTED with its often arrogant and always bureaucratic inspectors and reporting system is about tick boxes and the corporate image it has created for itself.

But that 1969 Christmas held another memory. The School were to perform their Nativity play in St Peter’s Church in the village. We had been rehearsing for weeks, visiting the Church often as the day of the performance loomed. The teacher who was producing the performance, Barbara Fisher, was a keen local drama specialist and filled with wonderful ideas, whereas I, as a young teacher, just did as I was told! The evening of the performance approached and the weather in the area deteriorated – bitterly cold and often very foggy – and to make things very much worse the country was increasingly experiencing power cuts as a result of coal miners across the country staging strikes - a precursor to the widespread strikes of the early 1970s. And, with an awful inevitability in the afternoon before the performance we learned on the local news that there might well be power cuts in our south Nottinghamshire area. What to do? Should we call the whole thing off? Barbara Fisher, however, was adamant, in true old trouper, thespian style she announced that the show must and would go on, so all the children and parents were told that when they came to the performance that night they should bring torches and anything that might provide light if we did experience a power cut.

When, at about half past six, we arrived at the Church, a dense fog swirling Ruddington’s streets, the lights had already gone out and we all assembled - parents in the pews, the children gathered with their teachers ready to perform, all of us clutching torches, some having brought oil filled storm lanterns. The Church itself was lit by candles on the window ledges; it took on the aura of a mediaeval nativity scene – magical. I spent the evening standing at the back with all the performers waiting to make their entrances – Mary & Joseph, the Shepherds, the Kings etc. - a script in one hand my torch in the other, giving each group of children the silent signal to make their way down the aisle to perform in front of the parents. Flickering candles and torches lit the vast Church but this didn’t detract – it brought a very special atmosphere and a mysterious wonder to the occasion. And, then, as the Nativity scene reached its climax, Mary & Joseph sitting by the crib, the Shepherds and the Kings kneeling in homage and all the other performers gathered around, Bryan George, the Deputy Head and pianist, struck up the opening bars of “O Come All Ye faithful”……...and then, as if by order from some heavenly presence above and to an intake of breath and exclamation of delight from the audience, the lights suddenly came on, the Nativity scene bathed in light; it was perfect, a never to be forgotten moment. I don’t think I have ever heard “O Come All Ye Faithful” sung so joyfully and lustily – a real celebration; I was not, I believe the only one that night to think that someone somewhere was watching over us!

Little did I know that night that in my future career I would write and produce many Christmas performances in the schools that I worked – every time remembering that first performance and Barbara Fisher’s insistence that the show must go on. And one thing in particular stood out in my memory. Bryan George, the Deputy Head, someone I became good friends with, looked up to and learned from, taught the oldest children in the school and during the performance a group from his class stood and recited Sir John Betjeman’s great poem “Christmas”. I didn’t then know the poem, and as I stood in the dark Church in the flickering candle and torch light, its words carried to me at the back, the performers waiting to make their entrances surrounding me - and Betjeman's words spoke to me. I was carried away with its beauty, its simple truths, its meaning and its exquisite use of language; it seemed to me then, as now, almost sixty years later, to sum up what Christmas is all about. A few years later when our son John was a pupil at St Peter’s he had a verse from the poem to recite in the Christmas performance that year – I sat in the audience both entranced and proud. In the years afterwards, at every Christmas production I wrote or was responsible for in the schools where I worked, Betjeman’s poem was an ever present. All the children knew, that this was Mr Beale’s non-negotiable “special bit” – and the competition in the auditions keen to decide who would be given the opportunity to recite a verse in the final performance?

And today, twenty years after I retired, it is still my “special bit” – something that says it all about Christmas and should be part of everyone’s Christmas season and greetings. It contains the very essence of Christmas as what it is - a Christian festival. It is, on the one hand, a simple acknowledgement of the Christmas story and of our Christmas traditions – the giving of gifts, the decoration of our homes and the like - and yet, as Betjeman tells us it is the most profound insight into the Christian faith and into mankind’s relationship with his God. In an age where in the minds of many the grotesque, sometimes the obscene and, too often, the trivial, the crass and the commercial capture and portray Christmas, Betjeman’s mighty poem is a reminder to all of the true meaning of this greatest of all festivals:

CHRISTMAS

The bells of waiting Advent ring,

The Tortoise stove is lit again

And lamp-oil light across the night

Has caught the streaks of winter rain

In many a stained-glass window sheen

From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge

And round the Manor House the yew

Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,

The altar, font and arch and pew,

So that the villagers can say

'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze,

Corporation tramcars clang,

On lighted tenements I gaze,

Where paper decorations hang,

And bunting in the red Town Hall

Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.

And London shops on Christmas Eve

Are strung with silver bells and flowers

As hurrying clerks the City leave

To pigeon-haunted classic towers,

And marbled clouds go scudding by

The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,

And oafish louts remember Mum,

And sleepless children's hearts are glad.

And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!'

Even to shining ones who dwell

Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true? And is it true,

This most tremendous tale of all,

Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,

A Baby in an ox's stall ?

The Maker of the stars and sea

Become a Child on earth for me ?

And is it true ? For if it is,

No loving fingers tying strings

Around those tissued fripperies,

The sweet and silly Christmas things,

Bath salts and inexpensive scent

And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,

No carolling in frosty air,

Nor all the steeple-shaking bells

Can with this single Truth compare -

That God was man in Palestine

And lives today in Bread and Wine.

John Betjeman