A Christmas Carol or "To Give and Not to Count the Cost........."

 

At the beginning of 1858 Charles Dickens became President of the Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital Appeal and on February 9th of that year he read his great book “A Christmas Carol” to an assembled audience of social reformers and potential donors. Before the reading he gave what is often regarded as one of his greatest and most powerful speeches about the social conditions of his time. The whole, very long, speech is recorded The Nursing Record of that time. In it he told of an experience he had had whilst on one of his many – almost nightly - walks around London’s poorest areas. Dickens frequently walked the streets of London at night – on his walks he got ideas for many of his plots, his characters (in books such as Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby and, of course, A Christmas Carol) and to fuel his vivid descriptions of the great city of Victorian London. Dickens described in that speech to his audience of a powerful and telling scene that he had witnessed on one of his walks:

“There  lay, in an  old egg-box, which the  mother had  begged  from a shop, a little feeble, wasted,  wan,  sick  child.  With  his  little  wasted face,  and  his  little  hot  worn  hands folded over  his breast,  and  his little  bright  attentive  eyes,  I  can see him  now looking  steadily  at  us.  There  he  lay in  his  little frail box,  which was not at all a bad  emblem of the little body,  from  which  he  was  slowly  parting, - there  he lay  quite  quiet,  quite  patient,  saying  never a word.  He  seldom cried,  the  mother  said;  he seldom  complained;  he  lay  there  seeming  to  wonder what it  was about.  “God  knows” I thought, as I stood  looking  at  him,  he  had  his  reasons  for wondering - how  it  could possibly come  to  be  that  he  lay there,  left  alone, feeble  and full of pain. There  he  lay  looking  at us, saying  in  his   silence,  more  pathetically  than  I have ever  heard  anything  said by  any  orator in alI my  life,  “Will  you please  to  tell  me  what  this means,  strange  man?  and  if  you  can  give me any good  reason  why  I should  be  so  soon  so   far advanced  upon  my  way  to  Him  who  said that children  were  to  come  into  His presence,  and were not to  be  forbidden,  but  who  scarcely  meant,  I think,  that  they should  come  by  this  hard  road by which I am  travelling..........”

Great Ormond Street Hospital  was established in 1852 after a long campaign by Dr Charles West, a personal friend of Dickens, with just 10 beds and on that night when Dickens spoke to the little group of potential donors he read to his audience “A Christmas Carol”. This was not an idle or little thought about choice – Dickens was no fool and on this matter he was both angry and determined to make people think so he chose his great Christmas tale to point a finger at the excesses of the City and at the gradgrind world of the  accountant and selfish  Scrooge-like  figures that haunted it. But, he also knew that people mattered when it came to care and compassion and so in telling the story of the baby in the egg box he was unapologetically pricking consciences and appealing to ordinary people to pay up, to be responsible for the health and welfare of their fellow men. Together, the two stories were intended to plant a moral question into the minds of his audience and to ask them to shoulder the responsibility – not hand it on to some management accountant or venture capitalist or private equity company. In short – and as Dickens posed the question first set out in the Book of Genesis - to his audience: “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

At the end of his reading of "A Christmas Carol" Dickens appealed directly to his audience and put the ball squarely in their court:   " Now, ladies  and  gentlemen,  such  things [the sick child in the egg box] need not be,  and will  not be,  if  this  company,  which  is  a  drop of the life-blood of the  great compassionate public  heart,  will  only accept the means of rescue and  prevention  which it is mine to offer and make a donation to this worthy cause and if every grateful mother who brings a child  to the hospital  will  drop a  penny  into a box placed on the wall of the hospital,  the  Hospital  funds  may  possibly  be increased  in  a year by so large a  sum  as  forty pounds. I will  not believe that  in  a Christian  community  of  fathers  and  mothers,  and brothers  and sisters, the hospital can fail to  be  well and  richly  endowed".   

As Dickens concluded the records tell us, that there were great cheers from the audience.  It worked - the appeal was very successful. Dickens acknowledged , it was a small drop on the ocean – he was originally looking for only thirty beds (an increase on the 10 beds that the hospital had started its life) but by 1865 there were 75 beds available.  It was very small stuff with which to tackle the giant health and social problems of the time; the hospital had to depend upon the goodwill of well wishers and patrons - but work it did. People put their hands in their pockets, not necessarily for themselves but for their fellow man and woman – Great Ormond Street Hospital was born. Today, of course, Great Ormond Street is one of the great hospitals of the world, one of the "jewels in the crown" of our nation, but it was born of a small acts of giving from well intentioned but ordinary people.

I wonder, today, as 2020 nears its end and when Dickens’ great Christmas tale is in many minds, what the author would say of a country that almost 200 years after he wrote his great works and despite being one of the richest nations the planet has ever seen still needs food banks, campaigns from high profile people like Marcus Rashford, and hand outs from international agencies such as UNICEF to feed its poorest. I wonder, too, what Dickens would write of the wealth and excess that typifies the City of London and many of those (like Jacob Reece-Mogg) who benefit from its wealth and excess or work in its gilded towers when contrasted with the lot of people who live in places like Southwark – within walking distance of that great financial centre – and other similar deprived areas throughout the land? Almost two centuries have passed since Dickens took his midnight walks through the gas lit streets of Victorian London where beggars, poverty stricken children and ill health amongst the poor was common place. Sadly, however, as the report by Sir Michael Marmot “Fair Society, Healthy Lives” published last week showed with frightening clarity, little has really changed for many in those two centuries. I think that our current discontents would have depressed and angered the great writer – as would the facile and offensive comments by Reece-Mogg, who is himself one of the great beneficiaries of the wealth, excess and accountancy world of the City of London. It would also have offended Dickens to hear that a well respected world institution like UNICEF in trying to help the most needy in society, was condemned by a receiver of great wealth, as just “playing politics.”

And there is another point which in many ways is the most telling – both of Dickens’ efforts to raise money for the fledgling  hospital and the reaction of Reece-Mogg to the UNICEF act of giving in 2020. It is this; The Nursing Record of February 1858 in recording the events of that night when Dickens appealed for donations ended its report with these words: “.....the ladies and gentlemen of the audience afforded Mr Dickens great and rousing cheers as donations and endowments were pledged....”. Clearly they were applauding the man and his great story and his appeal but were they not also applauding something else – namely the very act of giving? When these wealthy Victorians had pledged and donated did they not simply feel good about it and a little more human – so they cheered and applauded. That is true of most of us – when we give it makes us feel better about ourselves, we feel that we are making a contribution to someone’s happiness – be it a birthday or Christmas gift to a friend or relation or a donation to a favourite charity - the result is the same. The act of giving to someone else gives us some kind of personal dignity and a feeling that we have contributed to the community, to the greater good, to the common good. We might be cynical and say that if Bill Gates donates millions to some cause he is merely easing his tax burden  - and it might be argued that he is – but that does not alter the fact he can still feel good about his actions, he has made a difference to the life of someone else. From my perspective if that is, to use Mogg's words "playing politics" then I say bring it on"! It is a basic aspect of the human condition that most of us wish to feel good about ourselves, to have a high level of personal esteem, to feel that others look up to us – and when those feelings are not there it can impact upon our mental health – it is the consequence of being a social animal. So it is no surprise that those long gone Victorians cheered and applauded when they had done their good deed – had we been in that room we would have probably done the same – and given ourselves a pat on the back and thought how virtuous we were. It’s called being human.

Sadly, however, Jacob Reece-Mogg, the MP for North East Somerset and bizarrely the man appointed by our present PM as the Leader of the House of Commons has no such humanitarian feelings. Presumably had he been in that room that night in 1858 he would have left before the end muttering about Dickens being some kind of “leftie anarchist playing politics”. He would have kept his hand firmly on his wallet, unmoved by the pictures that Dickens painted of life for the poor in what, at that time, was the greatest and wealthiest city on the planet. It is a damning and moral indictment on Mogg who is a devout Roman Catholic,  that this Scrooge like millionaire is so scathing on those who seek to help the poor – UNICEF, Marcus Rashford and others – when one of the great prayers of the Church – and especially the Roman Catholic Church - is that of St Ignatius of Loyola; a prayer which reminds us all of our personal and Christian responsibilities, and the moral imperatives which ought to guide our actions as human beings – especially in the act of giving:

"Teach me good Lord to serve thee as thou deservest
To give and not to count the cost,
To fight and not to heed the wounds,
To toil and not to seek for rest,
To labour and not to ask for reward
Save that of knowing I do Thy Will"

A CHRISTMAS CAROL 2020

 Over the past decade while the Tories have been in power we have seen an exponential growth in poverty – however it is defined; that is not opinion, it is fact. We have seen a rise in what is known as the gig economy where workers are often paid no more than survival pay with a lack of any other benefits from their employment such as sick pay. We have seen increasing numbers of people sleeping rough, sofa surfing or in hostels. We have seen an exponential growth in the numbers resorting to food banks. Schools and other institutions report increasing numbers of people having to choose between putting a meal on the table for children or heating the home. We have seen an exponential growth in the number of people needing to apply for various kinds of benefit – and at the same time we have witnessed successive Tory administrations tightening the purse strings.

Only a few days ago Sir Michael Marmot published his long awaited report “Fair Society, Healthy Lives” which is scathing about the growing inequalities in this country and their impact upon the most vulnerable. Earlier this year a professional footballer, Marcus Rashford, himself born into poverty, named and shamed the government and had to drag them kicking and screaming to acknowledge the growing problem made worse by the economic effect of Covid 19 and pay for meals for school children. A week ago I watched an item on the BBC news about two Burnley vicars: Father Alec Frost and Pastor Mick Fleming who vividly and distressingly described the lives and problems – especially in relation to putting a meal on the table - facing many in that town. So, powerful was the message of the broadcast that over a quarter of a million pounds has been raised by donations to help these men in their endeavours in supporting those in the front line of poverty in England 2020. And finally, earlier this week it was UNICEF that recognised what our own government could not or were unwilling to recognise; namely, we do indeed have a problem of poverty in the UK. The organisation launched its first domestic emergency response in the UK by setting up various funding projects aimed at helping children and their families in need of help.

That was the final straw for Tory Jacob Rees-Mogg – a man so far removed from any kind of reality, so lacking in understanding, empathy and compassion it is difficult to comprehend or attach to him any of the usual descriptors of the human condition. (Remember, Reece-Mogg is the same gentleman who after the Grenfell Tower fire disaster said those who perished only died because they did not show his - Mogg's - common sense!).When questioned about the UNICEF project in the Commons he was scathing in his response saying that UNICEF should be “ashamed of itself” for “playing politics” by (for example) offering to provide breakfasts for some of the poorest in society in Southwark, London. Presumably Reece-Mogg also believes that the two Burnley vicars should cease “playing politics”, as should Marcus Rashford – and clearly, the Marmot Report will not be on the Reece–Mogg reading list this Christmas.

As I watched Reece-Mogg protesting about UNICEF’s actions I did not see the gaunt, almost Dickensian like second rate politician who has somehow managed to become one of the many unacceptable faces of not only the Tory party but of England 2020. Instead of Mogg I saw another Dickensian character, a man who Mogg can be very easily mistaken for both in looks and opinions. As I watched, it was Mogg's lips that moved but it was Ebenezer Scrooge's voice that I heard in one of the great extracts from Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”.

On Christmas Eve two gentlemen enter Scrooge’s counting house, their mission to raise donations to help the poor in the area at Christmas time. The conversation that follows tells us all we need to know about Ebenezer Scrooge in Dickens' great tale, but it also reflects with frightening accuracy Jacob Reece-Mogg and Tory Britain. If you substitute the name Scrooge and insert Reece-Mogg in its place Dickens’ main thrust still holds perfectly true!:

“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge (Reece Mogg),” said one of the gentlemen, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.”

“Are there no prisons?” asked Scrooge (Reece-Mogg).

“Plenty of prisons,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.

“And the Union workhouses?” demanded Scrooge (Reece-Mogg).

“Are they still in operation?”

“They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.”

“The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?” said Scrooge.

“Both very busy, sir.”

“Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Scrooge. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

“Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?”

“Nothing!” Scrooge replied.

“You wish to be anonymous?”

“I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned: they cost enough: and those who are badly off must go there.”

“Many can’t go there; and many would rather die.”

“If they would rather die,” said Scrooge (Reece-Mogg), “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. It's not my business, it's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!".

Welcome to Tory Britain 2020 - as foretold by Charles Dickens in 1843. It is perhaps worth noting that the Tories were in power in 1843 (Prime Minister Robert Peel) when Dickens published his great tale - little it seems has changed in Tory ideology or compassion in the intervening 177 years. St Paul preached that: “Now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity” - clearly none of those virtues applied in the world of Ebenezer Scrooge but today, nearly two centuries, later they are receiving short shrift still in the Tory party, in the world of Jacob Reece-Mogg and in the hearts and minds of the Tory faithful. Now, in my eighth decade on the planet, I often today wonder if society has moved on at all in the intervening years? Sadly, I fear that society and we haven't.

UNDER THE JOLLY TODGER: A YEAR CRUISING WITH CAPTAIN BORIS

I read today that our stumbling, bumbling Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, has been given a new nickname by many of his Tory MP “supporters.” With delightful timing, bearing in mind today’s date, he is increasingly referred to, I understand, as “Advent Calendar” because his days are, apparently, numbered! Ah! December 1st, Advent – from the Latin “Coming”. Children throughout the world will be opening the numbered doors and windows on their Advent Calendars and dreaming of the coming Christmas Day and all that it promises. In my street several houses are already decorated with bright fairy lights and Christmas trees. Yesterday we began to write our Christmas cards and wished our family and friends happiness during the coming Christmas and New Year.

But what a long way we have come since we expressed those same sentiments during Advent 2019. Then, only 366 days ago, the good ship HMS United Kingdom was steaming ahead across an almost serene sea with its newly appointed captain Jolly Boris assisted by his first mate Dubious Dominic and his crafty cabinet crew of scurvy sea dogs. We passengers on HMS United Kingdom were all looking forward to the usual excesses of the Christmas season – office parties, City bonuses, our credit card debt mounting, city centre pubs and clubs awash ensuring that emergency services were kept busy and a thousand other fantasies, dreams and desires which were stoked up by Jolly Boris for, as he often announced over the loud hailer, our magnificent ship would soon reach the shores of the magical kingdom of Brexitland where our every need would be met and every dream fulfilled. There would be jobs, money and joy for all; the years of austerity, misery and pain would be over so spend, spend, spend. And in the casinos, the shops and the pubs and restaurants of HMS United Kingdom we spent what we liked and what we did not have - for we were, Captain Boris told us, on the greatest ship ever created, full of riches, luxurious and quite unsinkable and on course to a magical land of plenty.

 No one, however, thought too hard about the passengers in Economy Class decks deep down in the bowels of the ship. For them office parties, restaurants, maxed out credit cards, huge bonuses or even Christmas joy were a far off dream. They lived off the crumbs from the overflowing tables above and Captain Boris told us that this was good and called it "trickle down economics" so we should keep partying so that our crumbs would trickle down to the poorest passengers below decks. These Economy Class passengers passed the journey in the oil and the dark near the the engine rooms of HMS United Kingdom whilst above them the rest of us in Tourist Class, 2nd Class and 1st Class, cheered on by Captain Boris, enjoyed the sun light, the bright lights and the excesses of the Advent Sea and the Brexit Ocean beyond. But as we made merry no-one, especially captain Jolly Boris, took any notice of the lookout high above in the crow’s nest who daily shouted “Danger, Brexit iceberg ahead prepare for a crash”. The good captain laughed his jolly laugh and said “Full steam ahead my hearties, nothing can stand in our way, we are unsinkable, I'll get you to Brexitland easily”. And in the coming weeks Captain Boris and his crafty crew took no notice either when the lookouts called from their lofty perches “Covid Mists ahead prepare for a plague”. Captain Boris and his First Mate Dubious Dominic said “Don’t worry it’s a storm in a tea cup, you’ll hardly feel the ripples in our mighty ship – we’ll send the Covid Mist packing”. So, no preparations were made as the HMS United Kingdom steamed on through Advent and the New Year towards the Brexit Iceberg and the Covid Mists. And – just like on the unsinkable Titanic a century before – on the upper decks the band continued to play while the passengers, Captain Boris, and his scurvy crew, like the jolly Jack Tars of old, danced the hornpipe under Captain Boris’ own flag – the Jolly Todger – a personal standard emblazoned with the names of the many offspring that he had fathered each time he had dropped his anchor in fair old London town. But as Captain Boris danced and made merry, below decks in the darkness the Third Class passengers, the Economy Class passengers, the Gig Economy Class passengers and lowest of all, in the very bilges of the ship, the passengers with no cabin or bed to lie on - the Homeless passengers - struggled on, getting food where they might and sleeping on the cold iron floor when they must. And, uncaring, the good ship HMS United Kingdom with its wealthy passengers and crafty crew cruised on towards Brexitland when, Captain Boris told us passengers, our great journey would soon be done.

And the days and weeks passed. Another year, and here we are. Advent 2020. The good ship HMS United Kingdom is still afloat – just - limping along, lost and alone on a vast sea. Its sails are in tatters, its sick bays full. Its glossy shops are all closed and its restaurants and bars empty. Passengers who once enjoyed the sun and the excess of the upper decks now peer out from their cabins their faces haunted and fearful – thoughts of casinos, bars and revelry all gone. Great dents and gashes mark the hull of the ship following the many crashes with the Brexit Iceberg, and icy waters leak in to the great hull and making the ship list dangerously. Below decks the Economy Class passengers are fewer now – many have died as the Covid Mists drifted through the dark spaces in the bowels of the ship and along corridors and slipped under cabin doors. The Covid Mist overtook the ship, crept into every corner and in the bowels and bilges the Economy Class passengers, already suffering from poor health following years of harsh labour and poverty fell ill in great numbers; their poor diet and cramped conditions making life difficult to sustain. And once the virus mist crept amongst them it spread like wildfire. Captain Boris however stayed jolly – and many loved him for it – he could not bear to see the terrible truths that people were dying because the look out in the crow's nest had not been heeded and no preparations had been made. And, because of the quest for Brexitland the ship had lost its bearings zig-zagging and going in circles over the endless Brexit Ocean. But still Captain Boris did little; he didn’t like work or worry. Life was for living not worrying or planning and preparing, he and his crafty crew of sea dogs were too busy for boring stuff like planning a good course or paying attention to advice and detail instead they spent their time dancing and singing under the Jolly Todger. And some of the passengers began to mutter and complain but Captain Boris took no notice.

 Now, however, no one today, in this 2020 Advent, aboard the once unstoppable and unsinkable HMS United Kingdom dreams of Christmas excess, huge bonuses or office parties – most of us passengers would be happy with a quiet and safe Christmas spent in our cabins with our loved ones. Captain Boris no longer cheers people on with his loud hailer promising them riches beyond belief – he appears only rarely, his face haunted and haggard. His trusty First Mate Dubious Dominic walked the plank and many other of the scurvy crew are now food for the fishes. But Captain Jolly Boris, not now so jolly, lives on like some 21st century Captain Ahab emerging only from his cabin only when it is safe. Ahab scanned the oceans for his nemesis Moby Dick, the great white whale, and Captain Boris scans the ocean for his own twin nemeses Brexitland and Covidvaccineland. He still hopes that the magical Brexitland will bring him salvation and that Covidvaccineland will, by some scientific miracle be avoided if scientists come up with a cure. If not, Captain Boris knows that like the Advent Calendar his days are numbered. Like Captain Ahab, he will be swallowed up by his nemeses – it will be political oblivion.

But as he scans the ocean through his telescope looking for some salvation Captain Boris sees only a sea of floating bodies wrapped in their Union Flags – the dead victims of the Covid Mist that swallowed up our unprepared ship and are now buried at sea. And below Captain Boris’ feet in Economy Class the surviving poor scramble for what little food, water or warmth there is, fighting for daily handouts. And as they sleep, cold in the bowels of the hulk they dream that one day they might find themselves on dry land where they can feel the sun, till the soil or build a rough cabin to call a home of their own – anything, to survive and escape from the floating nightmare that is the HMS United Kingdom under the captaincy of Jolly Boris and his scurvy crew. As the sun sets HMS United Kingdom lists a little more and parts of it begin to break off and the passengers on the Scottish Deck talk of taking to the lifeboats and seeking safety elsewhere, perhaps on the good ship EU. But on HMS United Kingdom the old hull creaks and groans as Captain Boris, his eyes blinded by the constant searching for the sunny uplands of Brexitland, scans the horizon whilst behind him the band plays on; playing again, as it plays every day when another burial at sea takes place, the same hymn that it did on the Titanic when that mighty unsinkable ship sank a century before: “Nearer my God to thee”.

Ah, Advent. How times have changed in just one year, 366 days. We dreamed last Advent of the excitement, promise and joy of Christmas and New Year excess and wrote “a happy New Year” on our Christmas cards. Who could have guessed? Who could have forecast? In all truth, no one – but we ignored all the signs, we allowed Captain Jolly Boris and his scurvy crew to grab control and to continue powering full steam ahead when all sense and wisdom said slow down, take notice, make preparations, check the life boats. We thought we were invincible and believed Captain Boris when he laughingly told us that the HMS United Kingdom was great and unsinkable – but we were not invincible and HMS United Kingdom was not unsinkable. From Advent 2019 when we thought we sailed supreme in a glossy impregnable marvel on a serene sea of pleasure and plenty we have discovered in twelve short months that we are actually a rather miserable lot, not exceptional or great or invincible as Captain Boris so often told us. We are just a very ordinary set of passengers - foolish, pathetic even - and kept afloat, our heads just above water only by luck on an increasingly frightening sea in a rusting, leaking hulk where survival, and not Christmas excess and a happy New Year, has become the realty of the game of life.

Serendipity!

I love the word “serendipity”. I don’t think I’ve ever actually used it in my life but just love the sound of it and its meaning. According to the OED serendipity means “finding interesting or valuable things by chance” and this week I did, I think, experience “serendipity” and have thoroughly enjoyed the experience! Let me explain.

Mr Bolton as I remember him

When I was 11 I, like most of the boys in my junior school class, failed my 11+ exam and so was destined for Fishwick Secondary Modern in Preston Lancashire. It had a reputation of being a tough place but in those far off days – and especially for kids like me from a working class background - you just accepted your lot. In the end places like Fishwick had largely one purpose – producing “factory fodder” for the cotton mills and heavy industry of northern England. It was what they did and did very successfully.

I was there between 1956 and 1961 and it was undeniably a school of its time subject to the legal requirements and the social/historical context in which it had to operate. It is true that there were many short comings which we can recognise with the benefit of hindsight from 2020 but despite this my time there was a happy and productive 5 years . The hard working staff and excellent leadership of Dr McEwan provided us rough and ready kids with opportunities that in those days many secondary moderns did not offer. Dr McEwan (we called him Batman because he wore his doctoral gown as he moved around school!) was a quiet and gentle man who arrived shortly after I began my life at Fishwick and reversed many of the "discipline policies" that had ruled under the previous head, the tyrannical Dr Pickard, who ruled with, if not a rod of iron, certainly a fearsome cane. Under Dr McEwan the school began to change rapidly for the better. For me the most important change was that he introduced the opportunity for kids like me to sit O levels – something quite new in most secondary moderns. In the end I came out with my "O" levels and a positive view of education that gave me not only a good start in my career but a desire to "learn for life".

But there was another thing that Dr McEwan did. He appointed a new English teacher and deputy head – a man named Gavin Bolton (see photographs). I was lucky enough to be taught by Mr Bolton and for that I will be forever thankful; he lit a flame which has given me a life-long love of the spoken and written word which now, in my eighth decade, burns even brighter. He exposed us to great literature and wonderful writing opportunities; I can remember sitting enthralled as we read long extracts from Great Expectations by Dickens - the fearsome Magwich and the mysterious Miss Havisham and the rest of the great Dickensian characters of that novel leaping off the page at me. I was thrilled, inspired and the seeds of social awareness and justice were planted within me when Mr Bolton indulged us with Hardy's Jude the Obscure - still today, in my view, the greatest English language novel. Brilliant images and high excitement flashed through my young mind as we ploughed through Buchan's Prester John and John Meade Falkner's tale of smuggling and derring do Moonfleet; later when I had my own class I often relived those classroom hours with Gavin Bolton by using Falkner's great work in my own classroom. A year or two ago I reread, for the first time since leaving Fishwick, Herman Melville's Moby Dick – regarded by many as the greatest novel ever written – and as I turned its 600 pages I could still hear Mr Bolton’s voice from that long ago Fishwick classroom; my pulse again raced - as it had all those years ago - as I pictured the mighty struggles with the great white whale, the maniacal Captain Ahab, the drama of the chase across the high seas and the strange friendship between the story's narrator Ishmael and his friend the tattooed cannibal harpooner Queequeg. I already knew from my own career as a teacher that Mr Bolton's real love was the teaching of drama in schools and I also knew that he became internationally known for his work in drama education; he wrote the biography of probably the most famous drama teacher of all, the late Dorothy Heathcote a lady who I came across on a number of occasions in my own teaching career. And as a young teacher, Mr Bolton's and my own path crossed again in later years. As I climbed the career ladder I attended summer holiday residential courses run by Her Majesty's Inspectorate where eminent inspectors and educationalists lectured and on two of those a guest speaker was Gavin Bolton. The times that I spent during those courses sipping a cup of coffee or a pre-dinner glass of sherry chatting to this charismatic and brilliant man about our time at Fishwick are still treasured memories; he did not know it but not only did he influence my teaching through his lectures during these in-service courses but the visions that he planted, the doors and interests that he opened for me as scruffy 15 year old at a tough secondary school in a northern industrial town have stayed with me and made me what I am to this very day.

All this, of course was just “stuff” in the far reaches of my mind until earlier this week when a bit of serendipity leapt into my life. I was surfing the net carrying out some completely unrelated research when I suddenly came across Mr Bolton's name - and to my delight and surprise – or rather shock - saw the word "Fishwick" leap off my lap top screen! A few more clicks of the mouse and I was reading a Ph.D thesis completed in 1995 by a Canadian student named Laurie Jardine at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, Canada. By 1995, I discovered from the thesis, Mr Bolton was a senior lecturer and visiting Professor at that university - and a world renowned figure in the teaching of drama and Ms Jardine was undertaking research on Gavin Bolton, his life and his teaching. Fishwick Secondary Modern was never one of the great schools of the world so to see it mentioned in Ph.D thesis written on the other side of the world was to me quite wonderful. It brought back so many memories, events and names.

Fishwick Prefects 1961: Mr Bolton sits 4th from the left on the front row, Dr McEwan the HT sits at the side of him and next is Miss Bisbrowne the lady DHT. I'm on the third row, third from the right

This is what Ms Jardine wrote:

"An offer came and Gavin became Deputy Headmaster of Fishwick Secondary School, Preston, Lancashire. The move to the Northwest had its problems. The school itself was tough, with a student population quite accustomed to being in the hands of the police - not exactly a fertile ground for the kind of teaching with which Gavin had become comfortable. Pre-war notions of education which called for rigid discipline and non-interactive teaching styles would not ease for some time; for young Bolton, bursting in with respect for students and for learning, the progress seemed very slow. The customary discipline for misbehaviour was caning. The staff had adopted a stiff disciplinarian policy, viewing their role defensively. When Gavin arrived as Deputy Head, he was told, "the only way to deal with these kids is to clip them over the ear", which presented difficult administrative choices for Gavin. Many of the staff were sceptical and outwardly unsympathetic to the idea of introducing drama into the school. Of course, Gavin was convinced that the only way to attack the problems would be through drama and plenty of it. So, in addition to his administrative responsibilities, which included the school timetabling, Gavin made sure that every class in the school had drama, which he taught. Gradually, everyone was won over, and the school developed a positive bias toward drama. Teachers, administration and students began to value the place of drama in their community. The same unmanageable tough kids became drama festival winners, showing up at Drama Club even if they’d been truants for the rest of the day."

Mr Bolton in 1995 at the
University of British Columbia in
Canada - a long way from Preston!

I'm not sure if I agree totally with all Ms Jardine says (I know Fishwick was not Eton but I don't remember it being quite so "tough" as implied here, although we did have some tough kids and at least one stabbing incident that I remember well!) and I would add that Mr Bolton arrived at a time of change for the school in general following Dr McEwan’s appointment as head teacher a couple of years previously. But overall Ms Jardine is correct; it was a tough place and Gavin Bolton made a huge impact.

The seeds that he and Dr McEwan planted in my young mind stayed with me giving me not only a love of the spoken and written word but of learning in general prompting me to first gain my Master’s Degree (M.Ed) in my mid-thirties and then an M.Phil a year or two afterwards and to continue studying throughout my career and still now in my mid 70s. There is rarely a day goes by without me thinking fondly of the Fishwick teachers who taught and inspired me: Gavin Bolton, Harry Helm (maths), Mr Seed (Art), Mr Calderbank (Technical Drawing), Mr Davies (English), Mr Edmundson (Geography), Mr Bamber (PE), Mr Addison (Science), Mr Wolstenholme (Geography) and many many more. These wonderful teachers and my time at Fishwick and the arrival of Dr McEwan and Gavin Bolton not only opened up career doors that a few years before would have been unthinkable for a kid from the narrow terraced streets of Preston who had failed his 11+ but also opened up life doors and gave me a love of learning which I have absolutely no doubts fuelled my desire to become a teacher myself.

My little brush with serendipity has kept me busy all week trying to track down Ms Jardine (no luck so far) to perhaps see if she has any more bits of information about Mr Bolton but beyond that it has done so much more. It has brought many happy memories of another time and another life and the opportunity to reflect upon the people, places and events that have made me what I am. It has also confirmed my long held belief that it is only by looking back at where you have come from that one can understand who and what you are and what you believe in - and from that what your ultimate goal in life should be.

"A House Divided Cannot Stand"

As the virus spikes again I am reminded of two ancient verses that we would all do well to remember in these times. The first is believed to have emerged during the Great Plague in London of 1665 and is known to all children – "Ring a ring a roses":

“Ring-a-ring-a-roses

A pocket full of posies

Atishoo, Atishoo

We all fall down”

The second, written about 40 years before the Great Plague is by the, poet, cleric, politician, scholar and philosopher John Donne one of the greatest minds not only of his generation but of any generation in British history – we ignore the words of Donne at our peril. In 1623 in his “Meditation XV11” Donne famously wrote:

“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 any manner of thy friends or of thine

own were; any man's death diminishes me,

for I am involved in mankind.

And therefore send to know for whom

the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

As we – and the rest of the world - fumble in the dark against Covid 19 we would do well to remember these two verses, for they have message of particular relevance for we British.

Their message is simple and unarguably correct. It is a message that if we, as individuals or as a nation, are to survive the next few years we have no alternative but to take on board a simple truth: we are all interconnected, we are all part of the same thing; what happens to one, can befall another. In the children’s verse “We all fall down” an illness, such as bubonic plague or modern day Covid, is not only a symptom but by a sneeze we receive or pass on that illness to others. And this happens because we are all part of the whole, closely involved with one another; people in Stuart England didn’t understand the exact causes of the plague but they did know it was allied to people living closely together and that those who lived in the poorest conditions, where they were squashed close together and in the poorer areas - most notably in the east end of the capital - were most at risk. If our experience with Covid 19 has taught us anything surely it is that the virus is the same and it passes amongst us because we are so interconnected and interdependent. To deny our oneness – as, for example, many anti-maskers do - with the rest of humanity is to deny reality. If we are to survive as a species we need to recognise this – stand united as a society, understanding the need to protect ourselves in order that we can protect others; put simply, “Atishoo, Atishoo, We all fall down”. And, John Donne puts the same message across in a different way. We cannot distance ourselves or remove ourselves from the wholeness of humanity – we are all part of the same great spectrum of life – “every man a piece of the continent” and as such each of us has a responsibility to not only ourselves but to others because we are all “involved in mankind”; the Bible put it another way we are “our brother’s keeper” – responsible for all and to all. It is what is called “the common good”.

This “oneness” or “common good” is, I believe, important and it is an idea that has been increasingly lost in recent years. As we have increasingly struggled through the last few months as the virus has taken hold its impact has, in my view exposed our society's weakness; we have been found wanting.

In 1858 on the run up to the Presidential election Abraham Lincoln made one of his most famous speeches in his bid for the presidency. He was talking of his country’s great divisions on the matter of slavery and famously quoted Gospel of St Mark (3:25): "And if a kingdom be divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. And if a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand”. Lincoln and St Mark were not wrong and if we in the UK are to come through the existential threats of Covid and Brexit we must remember those words and the words of John Donne and “Ring a ring a roses” – we are all part of the whole and once we lose sight of the common good and become divided our “house” will surely fall.

We in the UK, however, do not in recent years have a good track record so far as working and standing together for the greater good. Our Prime Minister likes to extol the virtues of a time when perhaps we did stand together – the Dunkirk spirit, the Blitz generation and so on – but I wonder if that is still true today?

Sadly, it is my view that, as a nation we have in recent years consistently failed to understand the message of these verses. From the time of Thatcher we have increasingly opted – through the ballot box and as a society – for division and inequality. The Thatcher era and the years following promoted the “I society”, the individual and his wants rather than the “We society” and “the common good”. The get rich quick society based upon individual acquisition and status rather than industry and cooperation has increasingly been the defining feature of our national life. The result has been increasing economic, educational and social inequality so that today we have one of the most unequal societies in the world and also one of the most divided. We have a society in which although we are all at risk some, as in London’s Great Plague, are more at risk than others because of their relative poverty or place in society. This lunch time I read that one of the major charities providing for the homeless and especially rough sleepers has criticised the government for suggesting that night shelters should be reopened as winter approaches. At first glance this seems bizarre but the charity, “Crisis”, has a point – they know that the homeless and rough sleepers are very vulnerable to Covid and putting them together in a night shelter is a highly dangerous policy. The charity, not unreasonably, want vastly increased government spending to address the problems and ensure safe accommodation for these people. The government, of course, are reluctant to go down that costly avenue. For as long as I can remember, as we and our politicians have chosen cheapness and popular policies such as low taxation as vote winners we have seen hospitals in crisis over each winter, we have seen ambulance call out times lengthen, police and fire brigades being put under enormous pressure as resources have been cut back. And now as Covid sweeps the world, we are reaping what we have sown; we have been found out. To coin that well known aphorism or cliché (choose your descriptor) the virus has caught us unprepared, with our proverbial “trousers down”. As a society we should be ashamed to have our faults shortcomings exposed in such a way – showing to the world that for the past 40 plus years we have chosen the quick buck, the easy fix, the cash in our pockets, the “I want” rather than the “We need” society and all can now see the consequences. Our basic services were already running on empty through years of underfunding and crisis management; and the consequence now is that we do not have enough PPE, or ICU beds, or safe accommodation for the homeless, parts of our nation are more heavily subject to the ravages of Covid than others because of relative poverty, and our key workers are being subjected to trials and expectations that are quite out of order in the sixth richest country in the world.

There is, too, a paradox in all this. Since the time of Margaret Thatcher and as the individual wealth of the few has grown so the need for the very institutions that the many - our fathers, mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers - dreamed of and fought for: a decent welfare system, health care, close ties with other nations in order that peace as well as prosperity would reign have been increasingly marginalised. We have forgotten, and many (especially in the Tory party) often actively disparage, those policies and institutions – high quality local government, taxation to fund high quality health care and social welfare, well funded local and national provision for good infrastructure etc. – in favour of lower taxes, profit, everything on the cheap, and the nebulous and vacuous buzz word “choice” as if this was the most important virtue or ideal in the world. In the post Thatcher years as the square mile of the City of London became the richest place on earth, young Oxford students David Cameron and Boris Johnson, who would both become our Prime Ministers, burnt £50 notes in the front of Oxford street beggars as part of their student "fun", and "the family silver" - our great institutions and companies - were sold off to private investors and hedge fund managers while the money rolled in........ and unforgivably, rolled out. But our profligacy left a tainted legacy - we didn't put aside anything for a rainy day; we spent and borrowed but didn't invest, rebuild, restock and prepare; we wasted the years of the good harvests and when the virus struck the metaphorical granaries have been found empty. All was well for both us as individuals and for the whole nation while the money kept rolling in and palms were greased but then the financial crisis of 2008 came, austerity bit, a virus cut through society and in three months Brexit will be upon us - and we have and will be found out. The virus has shown Thatcher's economics and the post Thatcher financial world to be a failed policy and a failed idea; buzz words like “choice” or “outsourcing” are scant consolation when there is no place in an ICU for your Covid suffering grandparent or your own critical cancer treatment is put on hold because resources have to be devoted elsewhere or your children cannot be in school or you are unable to pay respects at the funeral of a loved one.

In short, what we are witnessing is exactly what Abraham Lincoln and St Mark suggested - the falling apart of the “divided house” and it is not a pretty sight. Since the time of Margaret Thatcher we have lost the notion of the common good and preferred instead the individualistic, get rich quick, vacuous and celebrity driven society and Covid 19 has found us out. In 3 months time Brexit will be upon us and that too, will, I have absolutely no doubts, find us out still further. We will discover in the harshest of ways two things of which John Donne reminded us. Firstly that we cannot cut ourselves off from the “continent”, the oneness of society, be it politically, socially, economically or metaphorically and secondly the dread awful implications of Donne's final sentence will, with absolute certainty, come to fruition: "send not to know for whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee" - because we are part of the whole, indivisible with the rest of mankind as individuals we cannot escape the consequences of our individual and communal actions. As the impact of Brexit and Covid 19 combine, quite frankly, those consequences do not bear thinking about. I have often mused over the past few months that some good might come out of our current woes - that as a society we might be brought to our individual and communal senses and that we can reimagine a better way of doing things where the common good is the sole justification for action. But in truth I am pessimistic; I am swayed more by the words of 18th century poet and social campaigner Oliver Goldsmith whose poem “The Deserted Village” was a devastating critique of the attitudes, excesses and inequalities of his day when he prophesied ”...ill fares the land the land To hastening ills a prey When wealth accumulates, But men decay.”

"Arrant Knavery"

 In Shakespeare's Henry V, at the height of the Battle of Agincourt, the King, on learning that the French had attacked and killed the boys and women attached to his army to carry baggage, cook and so on, loses his temper and famously says: "I was not angry since I came to France......" he then threatens to overwhelm and destroy the French army for their "arrant knavery" which was "expressly against the law of arms" (the Mediaeval rules of war). Well, that's how I feel this morning having read Boris Johnson's latest dreadful piece of theatre and "arrant knavery" in his speech to the Tory Party Conference yesterday.

I have learned to live with and expect no less from Johnson that he will hitch his wagon to any crackpot idea or to any individual who will, knowingly or unknowingly, assist him to rise up the ladder. I am well versed in Johnson's casual lying, his unreliability, his penchant for making promises that he has no intention whatsoever of keeping, and his total lack of any moral scruple; in short, he is a man with no moral compass, unfit for any office, let alone high office. It is a sign of what contemporary Britain has become that we have allowed this man to rise to the top of our political life. But yesterday, even by Johnson's low standards he excelled himself.

In suggesting that he and his rag bag, ethically challenged party and its supporters will bring about "a new Jerusalem" in the aftermath of Covid - a disaster much of which is attributable to his own inadequate handling of the situation - he has gone too far. Having tried hitching his wagon to the Churchill mantra and suggesting that, to use Churchill's words (as Johnson so often does), we Brits would easily overcome Covid by our "Dunkirk Spirit" where, to again quote Churchill, we will "fight [it] on the beaches, on the landing grounds, on the streets......" he has now moved onto Clement Attlee for some new inspiration. Fighting Covid on the beaches with our Churchillian Dunkirk Spirit appears to have been a signal failure so in true Johnson fashion he now moves the goalposts and find a new "hero" - Clement Attlee, who truly did build the "new Jerusalem" for this country - to emulate, quote and to fraudulently model himself and his party upon. Johnson will do anything, quote anyone and adopt and idea to further and ingratiate himself; he is a charlatan, a man who thieves ideas and policies, a man who will always sink one step lower than it can ever be thought possible. But in trying to take on the garb of Attlee Johnson has overstepped common decency by some considerable degree.

Attlee: Unassuming, humble,
unimpeachable integrity - and 
Britain's greatest Prime Minister

Clement Attlee was everything that Johnson is not: quiet, unassuming, a master of detail, from a privileged background but with true humility, of unimpeachable integrity and moral conviction, a man to respect and honour (there's an oft forgotten or ill used idea in contemporary GB), a man who did not seek fame, fortune or leadership but who became our nation's greatest leader - to use Kipling's words a man who could "walk with Kings, nor lose the common touch".

Attlee was, unarguably, this country's greatest Prime Minister and left a legacy from which we all benefit today and which Johnson and his party have, over recent years, made every effort to run down, defund and destroy as privatisation, austerity, a free market culture and cynical criticism from Tories like Johnson, Gove or Duncan Smith have eaten in to our NHS, education service, welfare arrangements, emergency services and the like - all the things that were part of Attlee's "new Jerusalem" and his great legacy to us. It is beyond contempt that Johnson should quote Attlee by using the phrase "new Jerusalem"- when his party have spent so much time and effort destroying the very real "new Jerusalem" that Attlee gave us. When Attlee used those words in the late 1940s and quoted from William Blake's great poem he did so from a spirit of making the world a better place; today when Johnson uses them he does so from a position of his own self aggrandisement; as I said above he is a charlatan.

Kipling's great poem "If", for me, sums up all that Attlee was and all that Johnson isn't; perhaps it is worth all of us reflecting, in these dark times, which may well get a lot darker yet, on the sort of leadership - and indeed the sort of GB, we want:

"If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Has Johnson not a shred of decency in his body? I believe not. For him to try to steal the cloak of Attlee is, for me, unforgivable; to paraphrase Henry V, it is "arrant knavery" and like King Henry "I was not angry until this day".

Sixty Six Minutes & Forty Eight Seconds.......

Sixty six minutes and forty eight seconds! My stop watch recorded the exact time, as around me standing audience members cheered and applauded. Sixty six minutes and forty eight seconds. In half a life time of attending concerts at Nottingham’s Royal Centre I can only ever recall one other concert when there was a full throated standing ovation for a performance – and that was for the same work many years ago. The usually reserved Nottingham concert going public are a pretty staid and sober lot; where in other venues a performance of Mahler’s 1^st, Brahms’ 1^st, Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No 2 or Tchaikovsky’s 4^th are always likely to bring the audience to its feet, here in Nottingham a more restrained atmosphere pervades our concerts.

From the back at Nottingham's Royal Centre

But not so last night when under the wonderful direction of Mark Elder, The Halle gave a glorious performance of unarguably one of the world’s greatest works (if not the greatest symphonic work), Beethoven’s 9^th Symphony, more usually referred to as the Ninth or the Choral. Beethoven’s final symphony is one of the defining works of all music and indeed, it can be argued with much justification that it is one of the defining works of history and society. From the date of its first performance almost 200 years ago it has been accepted as not only Beethoven’s greatest achievement but to rank equally with the other crowning musical achievements of our culture and history: Bach’s St Matthew Passion, Bach’s B Minor Mass, Mahler’s 5^th Symphony, or Beethoven’s Late String Quartets. The Ninth, however, has another dimension – it speaks of mankind and our very humanity. Where Bach’s great works are in essence spiritual in nature the Choral is about mankind and our capacity to love each other and unite as fellow travellers in time and space. And as such, in recent months it has assumed an even greater prominence and place in the hearts and minds of men and women. As the anthem of the European Community the words of the Ninth have, in the past half century as the EU  has grown, developed and been the agent for friendship and cooperation between the countries of Europe, epitomised the ideal to which all Europe has aspired. In the past three years since the UK, unwisely, ungraciously, ungratefully and unforgivably, decided to reject the friendship and cooperation of our European compatriots by leaving the EU, Beethoven’s 9^th has become the anthem of all those who reject Brexit and its crude, unthinking, nationalistic populism. As the reaction of last night’s audience showed the ideals and beliefs of the EU are still very much alive here in Nottingham.

Mark Elder as we saw him last night

From the first muted reflective notes of the opening movement and through the movement’s driving rhythms  the power of the work was tangible. Mark Elder dragged every bit of passion, power and joy from Beethoven’s score. The opening movement gave way to the much loved and lyrical second movement and thence to the achingly beautiful and almost spiritual third movement  - surely one of the world’s very great movements. And then......and then.....the fourth movement was upon us, heralding in the majestic and glorious choral sections of the Ninth . The four soloists declaimed the opening words of Schiller’s great poem and the choir, sitting high above the Halle answered them; powerful, ethereal, spiritual, joyous, overwhelming, Beethoven’s music and Schiller’s  mighty words united everyone sitting in  Nottingham’s Royal Centre. Was I the only one – I think not, judging by the expressions and body language of those sitting around us – to feel humbled and overcome but at the same time excited and exhilarated at what I was seeing and hearing? Was I the only one to wipe a tear from my eye as I heard once again the glorious words of Schiller’s poem and heard again the majestic music of Beethoven. I know this work as well as I know the lines on my own face and hands and yet it still has the power to overcome and to make even the greatest, most confident and most brash amongst us feel small and insignificant.

And that was why, after sixty six minutes and forty eight seconds the sell out audience erupted as they did. They knew that they had heard a wonderful performance of a work that spoke to them both as humans and as spiritual beings – it was, in short the very essence of their humanity.

And, sixty six minutes and forty eight seconds – why on earth did I set my stop watch as the first wistful notes echoed through the Royal Centre and stopped it as the final notes died away and the ringing cheers rang out around the Royal Centre!  To find out read the piece below. Almost exactly a year ago the Writers’ Group which I lead were tasked with writing a piece on the theme of “The Life of ..........” I chose to write about the life of Beethoven’s Ninth and the answer to my question is there! You can read what I wrote 12 months ago below:

“You millions I embrace you......”                     

                        
Like all children I was born out of love, but my genesis was not from physical love but mankind’s desire for brotherhood, love and peace. My father had many offspring and some who were still born or died before entering the world – their beauty and sound never witnessed by mankind. Those however, like me, who survived their creation came into the world strong and complete and were received well by the world, many becoming household names. But I, it is said by many, am the greatest of his offspring. I know not if this is true – who am I to judge? – but I cannot escape the fact that since the very day of my first appearance I have been lauded and praised. Even today – though two centuries have passed since my birth, people flock to me, often moved to tears in my presence. And now, though I am old and my father long dead, I, like my brothers and sisters, go on, perhaps for as long as there is mankind.

A page from Beethoven's original manuscript

Before I was conceived I was but isolated fragments, thoughts in my father’s mind; unconnected, swirling, as he laboured in his silent Viennese world. But these unformed ideas slowly took shape and, I can still well remember the day, when came my conception; my form set for all time, even though I was yet still no more than ideas. My father sat by candlelight reading the works of the great Schiller and reading those mighty words from Schiller’s pen transformed my father. He was inspired, overcome, ecstatic; and his ideas, my very essence, was that day in 1822 created; I was conceived into what I would become:

“O friends, no more of these sounds! Let us sing more cheerful songs, More songs full of joy! Joy! Joy!

........Whoever has created an abiding friendship, Or has won a true and loving wife,

.........All who can call at least one soul theirs, then join our song of praise........

You millions, I embrace you, this kiss is for all the world!.........

Brothers, above the starry canopy there must dwell a loving father.

Do you fall in worship, you millions? World, do you know your creator?

.......Seek Him in the heavens above the stars must he dwell.”

Friedrich Schiller

My father had wrestled with his ideas of Schiller’s poem for several years but in 1817 he received a commission from the Philharmonic Society of London to write a new symphony celebrating the great peace after the wars of Napoleon and Schiller’s words spoke to him.  The commission had requested a symphony to celebrate “the love, friendship and brotherhood of all Europe’s mankind and the desire for the peace of all nations”; it was with this, and Schiller’s words, that I was conceived. But my father – the greatest musical name in Europe no longer taught, performed or conducted; his deafness had robbed him of all contact with the world, so on accepting this commission he was forced to request an advance payment which was agreed. He received £50 and later £100 from the Philharmonic Society of London. A century later, that great Englishman George Bernard Shaw described the payments as “the only honourable and creditable acts in the whole of English history”.

The First Edition of the Score - held by the  Philharmonic Society of London

For seven more years I germinated in my father’s mind, his pen scratching out my form on manuscript paper – I, however, was still unheard, unseen, not yet of this world. As he wrote his mind was filled, too, with other of his children, my exquisite and small brothers and sisters, the Late String Quartets thought by many to be the defining works of all string music.  But slowly, as the months passed I emerged until, at last, excited whispers spread through Vienna’s Kaffeehauses and salons, Master Beethoven has a new work, one that will use voices as well as instruments; what manner of music is this, the people asked in wonder?

And the word spread. So thrilled and expectant was the whole city that the greatest players and singers of the age and from all of Europe flocked to be given a part in the first performance. And as excitement gripped Vienna, my father was reluctantly persuaded that he must be the musical director for the occasion, his first time at the podium for more than twelve years. So new and complex was I that my father re-wrote and amended me until hours before the performance; leaving no time for rehearsal or for the players and singers of the largest orchestra and choir ever to be assembled to come together – and all for a work that no-one had heard, not even my father who knew me only in his mind and not in his ears.

The Halle in their home concert hall - The Bridgwater in Manchester

The great night arrived. The Corinthian Theatre had not an seat empty and the aisles and even the corridors were crushed with excited guests who had travelled from all over Europe. All fell hushed and silent, as my father, now an ailing man, was helped onto the stage and the baton placed in his hand. And at last was I born, brought into the world, a fully formed child. The Wiener Zeitung newspaper was correct, for I witnessed it, that my father “threw himself back and forth like a madman. At one moment he stretched to his full height, at the next he crouched down to the floor, he flailed about with his hands and feet as though he himself wanted to play all the instruments and sing all the chorus parts”.

For seventy long minutes the audience sat transfixed, overwhelmed at what they heard; but my father conducting knew nought but silence, hearing me, his child only in his mind. As the final movement opened there were gasps and cries of surprise and wonder from the audience as the soloists and choir declaimed Schiller’s mighty words: The Ode to Joy. Such music had never before been heard; the words they knew, for they knew and loved Schiller, but never like this, speaking of a new world of love of life and mankind, of friendship, and of God’s great plan for all men and all nations. My birth had “brought a new world” proclaimed the news sheets and the table gossip of the Kaffeehauses and salons of Vienna and of all Europe.

Beethoven conducting the Ninth from a 

contemporary sketch

As my last triumphal notes rang out the audience burst into feverish applause; the reporter from The Times of London ran, wild eyed from his seat, pushed through the crowded aisles and out onto Vienna’s dark streets shouting “I have heard the voice of God, the world is renewed, never has such music been heard.”   The Theater-Zeitung newsheet, told the whole of Vienna that "The public broke out in jubilant applause acclaiming Master  Beethoven through five standing ovations and many ladies were overcome; there was crying out and handkerchiefs and scarves thrown into the air, hats raised, gentlemen cheered so that Master Beethoven, who could not hear the applause, could at least see the ovations.”  It was true, my father heard not the applause and the love of the crowd; as my final note died he rested his baton and stood, still facing the orchestra and choir. All was silent and unknown to him until the kindly young solo contralto Caroline Unger stepped forward and gently turned him around to witness Vienna and all Europe’s mighty cheers and approval.

It has always been thus and I am now two centuries old - I make mankind both weep and cheer in equal measure as I remind them of the love of their fellow men. Mankind turns to me when he is lost or is joyous, feels threatened or he wishes to celebrate peace; I was performed in joyous celebration following the fall of the Berlin Wall, and to bring hope following the dreadful attacks on New York’s twin towers. I was performed too, to remember the centenary of the end of the Great War. In Germany, Austria and Japan I am performed every year in the last hour of the old year as the clock ticks to midnight to remind those nations of mankind’s love of his brothers and the peace of nations in the coming New Year.

I am played often each year as the anthem of the United Nations and of the European Union – an honour that I know my father, Schiller and indeed the good members of the Philharmonic Society of London would have greatly approved since the love and friendship of mankind and the peace of Europe was why I was first commissioned. It is a sadness to me that many in England, the country that first commissioned me, now reject me as they reject the European Union, the organisation whose anthem I am and whose quest is the peaceful brotherhood of Europe. It is a sadness too, that as all men must, my father died only a few years after I was born. I was his last major work so he did not live to see my fame spread but he would have been proud to know that many call me one of mankind’s supreme achievements.

Von Karajan conducting the Ninth

I live on, immortal; and just as mankind grows from infant to adult I too, have grown and changed. Since that balmy May 1824 Vienna night I have become the most performed symphonic work in the world’s concert halls. For the world’s greatest musicians, conductors and singers to perform me is often the pinnacle of their careers. But I have spread beyond the concert platform and now exist in the homes of man. I travel the radio waves to the furthest corners of the world and was, in my past, grooves on plastic vinyl records, my father’s music and Schiller’s words being scraped out by a needle and pushed through gramophone horns. In 1982, when the Sony and Philips corporations developed the compact disc I was crucial. These mighty companies wished that the new CD would be exactly 60 minutes long but they also knew that the first discs to go on sale would be expensive – only the wealthy would be able to afford to buy them. The only artist who would be able, because of his popularity amongst wealthier purchasers of music, to sell enough of the new discs and the necessary equipment to play them and thus make the whole venture commercially worthwhile was the legendary conductor Herbert von Karajan; he would be vital to the success of the first disc. When he was approached however, the Maestro had one unalterable stipulation: that the first CD produced for sale, must be of me, my father’s Ninth Symphony, and I must be heard in my entirety without interruption. “Only the 9^th“ said Maestro von Karajan “has the range and dynamics to show off the new technology and the great qualities of the Berlin Philharmonic and the singers that I will use; and only the 9^th is the only work worthy of such a venture”. And so it was; Von Karajan and the Berlin Philharmonic performed me and the event was timed – it lasted 66.9 minutes. My longest ever performance had been that of the greatest of conductors Wilhelm Furtwängler who had stretched me to 74.6 minutes – thus, from that day it was agreed that all CDs produced must have a standard recording time available of at least 74 and 33 seconds so that I amongst all of mankind’s music, might always be heard without interruption.

The Ninth still today dictates

the industry standard for CD 

manufacture

Of course, since then I have changed and changed again, now I am streamed in digital code via computers and have even become ring tones on telephones – my father would be truly overcome. He wrote in one of his conversation books, kept so that he might converse with visitors to his silent world:“You can resist an invading army but you cannot resist an idea whose time has come”. I was that idea whose time had come and was first set out in the commission from the Philharmonic Society of London to “speak of the love, friendship and brotherhood of all Europe.”  Let it be so: “You millions, I embrace you, this kiss is for all the world!”

Sixty six minutes and forty eight seconds of the world's most sublime music which speaks of what it is to be human; sixty six minutes and forty eight seconds...…"You millions, I embrace you, this kiss is for all the world"!