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.