Streets Paved With Gold.

 This poignant and telling little film says all that needs to be said about our world today. Our media and our politicians scratch their heads while our mindless mobs scream hate and bile. In 2025 England the Daily Mail, still today, fulfils the promise of its founder, Lord Northcliffe who, almost a century ago, said when asked why his newspaper was so popular replied 'Because I give my readers a daily hate.' Nothing has changed; the world, and especially we English, do hate very well, it's a national pastime - whether it's the cowardly, French, the nasty Germans, the lazy Italians, the Indians, the "blacks", the "coloureds", or anyone else who is different and thus appears threatening or, worse still, better off than us. But the reality is that whether it is small boats in the English Channel, illegal asylum seekers, Israeli death squads in Gaza, genocide, hotels hosting immigrants, Palestine Action demonstrations, wars on terror, Afghanistan, Syria, sub-tropical Africa, flag waving "patriots", hate filled social media posts.........and all the other afflictions and hates that make up our daily diet, the reality is that no-one, no party, no nation, no person, no religion has the easy answer - nor will they have.

Rabble rousing "patriots" with their flags of St George will cry, "It was never like this in my day - the world is going to hell, send these people back where they belong". But they are wrong. When a land is wracked with war, strife, famine or worse there have always been great movements of people seeking safety, a better life, a roof over their head. Read your history books for the truth of that. The only thing that contained it in the past was the sheer difficulty of travelling great distances; the problem was largely kept away from us in comfortable England - we are on the extreme edge of Europe and surrounded by sea; in short, a long way from anywhere!

But today, we are a different world. Travel is easier - for everyone, not just for refugees and asylum seekers; I can buy my plane ticket to Syria and the Syrian refugee can buy his passage using a criminal gang to get him across Europe and over the Channel - but the result is the same; we can both go to places that were unthinkable in my childhood. What was once an unknowable place to visit for a holiday or a new life is now within the reach of billions. And, to add to that, our new world is now so global and interconnected that "problems" - be they national or international - cannot be simply hidden away or neatly solved by a single government policy or a more draconian law until they go away. When I was a child even France, twenty miles across the Channel, seemed another world, unknown to me - far, distant, alien, unknowable and unreachable. Now, small, starving children in the devastation of Gaza can see on a mobile phone screen the riches of nations like ours - our wealthy western secret is out in the public domain for all the world to see and then to access. The world is open to all - and the poor, the frightened, the starving, the oppressed, the displaced, and all, will want what they see - the riches and safety and the opportunities of Europe or America or other wealthy nations, "Why" they will increasingly ask and then demand "Why, can I not have a share in this". In mediaeval times Dick Whittington journeyed to London to seek his fortune believing its streets were paved with gold - and now young Afghan men, Syrian families and Somalian teenagers are the new Dick Whittingtons, all seeking streets paved with gold and lands of milk and honey. English "patriots" might not like it but that is reality. And the question becomes not "How can we stop them" because we can't; but rather "How must we respond, how must we manage this situation so that everyone benefits and finds his street paved with gold, his land of milk and honey."

Any politician or Reform Party rabble rouser, any tabloid newspaper editor or social media warrior, any jingoistic flag waving numpty who tells you that the problem is easy to solve; that they will introduce this policy or that law, they will send the immigrants back, they will sink their boats in mid-Channel and the problem will go away is lying. French writer Victor Hugo famously said over a century ago "An invasion of armies can be resisted, but not an idea whose time has come". He was not wrong; great movements of people are not invading armies - although many would like to tell you they are - they are people following a dream, an idea, an aspiration to improve their lot and that of their families. That flame has been lit in the hearts and minds of millions of men and women, the idea has been born that in our unequal world of haves and have nots there are good, safe, rich places to live, lands of milk and honey. And with that idea in mind those in pain, distress, fear, hunger or poverty will come, follow their dream, their idea - and as Hugo suggests, they cannot and will not be resisted. The only way that the boats will stop arriving on our beaches is when the starving are fed, the oppressed relieved, and the world made fairer. In other words when we, in the wealthy parts of the world, actually do something to address the morally repugnant inequalities of this world that we in the west have allowed to be created. No walls, fences, laws or policies will stop the basic human instinct to survive, to seek a better life - and when the children depicted in this video amid the destruction of Gaza, or in the heat and barren landscape of sub-tropical Africa grow they will say, we want a life like we see in London, in New York, in Milan, in Paris, in Berlin. And they will come, until we ensure that their homelands and their lives are such that they no longer look with envy at our streets paved with gold and our lands of milk and honey. That is the reality and until we and our politicians accept, understand and respond to this they will continue to come, and in ever increasing numbers.

Shouting In Whispers

At the top of the street in Preston where I lived as a child in the late 1940s to the mid 1960s is a large Roman Catholic Church – St Joseph’s. When last I visited my hometown some years ago I had stood outside the old house where I spent my childhood and teenage years and looked up the street at the distant church and remembered. I had made the journey from my home of 60 years in Nottingham as what I thought would probably be my last visit to my home town. Even after 60 years Preston is, to me, still where I feel most at home! After a few moments gazing at number 18, the little terraced house which had been my childhood home, I drove up Caroline Street and parked near to the church, and the memories came flooding back.

My mother, for reasons I could never fathom, was always strongly anti-Catholic and as a child I can vividly remember being constantly confused and no little upset by her never explained views. Many - indeed most - of the families living near us were Catholic and my two best friends were also of that faith and went to St Joseph’s school. I went to the local Church of England School, St Matthews – although it would have to be said that neither my mother or dad were in any way obviously religious. My mother, however had a strong, and in my view today, totally irrational and unpleasant anti-Catholic streak. Such was her vitriol and vehemence that as a child I always viewed the church at the top of the street with misgivings and no little fear. What went on there I often asked myself, what terrible things did these Catholics do to make my mother so resentful and full of hate I so often wondered? My Catholic friends seemed just like me – the only difference was that many of them went to church regularly – but I always wondered, in view of what my mother so often disparagingly said of Catholics, if there was, unknown to me, something that I should be wary and suspicious of? For reasons known only to my mother, she had no problem with me playing with the Catholic boys who lived in the street - indeed (and even then I thought it bizarre), she almost fussed over them, felt sorry for them and would often comment that it wasn't their fault that they had been born into that faith; as if they were carrying some terrible life burden upon their shoulders.

My mother’s viewpoint always seemed strange and illogical and in the years since, I’ve never reconciled it. As I became older I can remember walking past the main entrance to St Joseph's Church - especially on my way to the football match at Preston North End each Saturday - when perhaps a wedding was about to take place in the Church. I would stop to look through the open doors into the Church to see what it was like, but always from a distance; never daring to actually poke my head through the open door, such was the anxiety and guilt that my mother's words and ire had built up in me. It all looked very grand and elaborate as I peered in from the pavement, but despite my mother’s dire warnings about Catholicism, I never saw any terrible events occurring; it was all very confusing, and no little worrying.

But, in my own, small quiet way all those years ago, I rebelled.

 You see, during the long summer holidays my two friends, Tony & Gary Clarkson and their friends, all Catholics, would often go to play football in the garden at St Joseph’s Church – and I didn’t want to miss out! Through the gate at the side of the Church and behind a high wall there was a huge and rather beautiful garden with a lawn large enough for a small football match. The lawn was surrounded with rose bushes, trellis work and bedding plants and one or two bench seats – all beautifully maintained. Looking back it must have made a pleasant place for the priests to enjoy a bit of peace and tranquillity - I'm sure, too, that it made a pleasant place for photographs after a wedding had taken place in the Church, but in those long summer days it was not unusual for a gang of us to turn up at the entrance gate to the garden with our football or cricket bat and seek permission to play a game on the lawn. The surrounding streets were barren concrete affairs – no grass or gardens - and the local park was quite a distance so this hidden garden was a wonderful Wembley Stadium or Lord’s Cricket Ground for us! And as my friends asked if we could play there I would hang back, silent, unspeaking on the edge of the group – my friends were Catholics, they knew the priests, but I was an interloper and fearful of where I was and what I was doing. My mother and her unexplained and unfathomable hatred for Catholics sat on my shoulder; but I was desperate to be part of this gang and part of the game. At the same time, however, I knew that should I be found out I was risking a heavenly thunderbolt from on high. That, I was prepared to accept as a risk worth taking but had a greater fear of the eternal damnation that would emanate from my mother if she ever found out!

We had to be careful, however. It wasn't just a case of going straight in and playing – we had to get permission. There lived at the Presbytery a housekeeper. She was a veritable dragon and we knew if we asked her then permission would be instantly refused, and we would be sent packing! But there were always a number of Priests in and out of the Presbytery, and often amongst them were young men who were, perhaps, still in training. We always waited until one of them appeared – and permission was always granted!  One or other of these young men would arrange the game for us, helping us to pick teams, deciding who should be in goal, or who would be wicket keeper or who should be captain.  Coats would be put down for goals or the priest would nip inside and re-emerge an old upright chair to serve as a wicket (while the housekeeper scowled disapprovingly from the Presbytery window!) and then we would all soon be chasing about kicking and heading and scoring goals on the lush grass of the immaculate lawn! Sometimes the priests would be in their cassocks but always there to enjoy the fun, to settle disputes and to show off their sporting skills to us kids. But, there was something else – and it stays with me to this day.  Even in the most exciting game, such was the tranquillity and atmosphere, the gentleness and wonder of the garden and the adjoining church, that I remember that we always talked in whispers and even shouted “goal” in a loud whisper! And as the game progressed, I was increasingly just part of the group, I was accepted and not noticed – there was never any comment or thought about whether I should be there – I was simply welcomed with no questions asked about why I was never seen at church or who I was; I was welcome, no strings attached.

 And I wondered what it was that my mother so hated about these people? But my mother was at work so she had no idea that I was committing what to her must have been one of the deadly sins by stepping foot inside this den of iniquity! Of course, I was terrified lest she found out but I never told her – the repercussions would, I knew, have been too painful.

 At the end of the garden were some old outbuildings that led to a door in the outside wall of the garden. These rooms were places for garden tools, old disused church impedimenta and the like – I can remember the Priests referring to the rooms as “the glory hole” and in my naivety I wondered if this was some deeply religious reference and whether it was “glory hole” or “glory hall”. The reality, of course, was that the Priests were simply being disparaging about these junk rooms! If the weather was bad we would often play in them – hide and seek, hunt for treasure in the old dusty cupboards (we usually only found old torn hymn and prayer books!), talk football, swop comics, play marbles or flick cigarette packets (I wonder if I can still do that?). I remember that one day we found an old wind up gramophone and one scratched old record! We played that record over and over again! Looking back the song was dreadful – but it became ingrained on my mind and the whole experience part of my growing up. Even today it reminds me of my mother’s intolerance, of the fear of my getting caught by her and equally of the exciting and secret things we did on those wet summer afternoons in that magical place. And the record?  - I can still remember every single word of “The Hand That Wore the Velvet Glove”

“Last night as I was strolling by,

There on the ground I found a velvet glove,

Whose can it be, and where is she,

Oh where is she,

The hand that wore the velvet glove........”

 At this point my memory has perhaps played tricks. I have always firmly believed that it was sung by Jimmy Durante but on researching this blog I can find no record of a recording by “Schnozzle”. It was certainly recorded by many singers of that 50s generation but which one I may never know. But as I write this I can still hear it, I can still picture the and smell that "glory hole" on those wet afternoons and feel the feelings of those far off days!

So, I parked my car near the church gate where all those years ago I used to stand, on the edge of the group as we kids asked if we could play on the church lawn. I walked through the gateway and stood in the entrance. I still felt an intruder and uneasy about breaking the calm of the place just as I had done all those years ago. In front of me stood the Church buildings, the Presbytery with two or three cars parked there – just as I remember it from all those years ago.  I felt instantly at home, the feelings flooded back. But then I realised it was not the same. Where once was a lovely rose bed with trellis work there now stood some rather depressing and poorly maintained garage like structures. And the beautifully manicured lawn which had served as our Wembley stadium or Lord’s cricket ground – had gone. No benches for priests to sit and think great religious thoughts, read profound devotional texts or click their rosaries, no peaceful tranquillity, no place of beauty in the middle of these rows of mean terraced houses. Instead, the area had been turned into a children’s nursery – with a substantial looking wire fence and metal climbing frames all painted with garish bright colours - what had once been a lovely garden now resembled a prison's secure exercise area; indeed for the safety of the young children that was exactly what it was. All very functional and “today” but all beauty and magical atmosphere gone. I couldn't imagine that the children who come to play in the nursery today would shout in whispers as we had done for there was no sense of tranquillity or of awe; its magical beauty had gone. It was - although beautifully maintained - just garish, cheap and rather nasty tat which I felt would simply encourage loud and unthinking behaviour.  For us, all those years ago, we knew that we were privileged "guests", we had no entitlement to be there, and this fact combined with the beautiful specialness of the place ensured that we looked and acted in awe and wonder. I looked into the distance through the security fencing and there, indeed, were the rooms, the “glory hole” that we used to play in but now, I suspected, playrooms to lots of squealing young children as they are brought there each day by their parents. All as it should be in our modern world. And as I stood there I wondered if, just sometimes today, we increasingly fail to provide or insist upon places of reverence and respect, as we constantly encourage and legislate for open access and entitlement. And I felt a twinge of sadness for what has perhaps been lost and which children of the future may never experience.

Of course, in this day and age that is what we do – we take a pragmatic approach, utilitarianism is the watchword, value for money. The Church has to be seen to be doing something, playing an active role in the local community – there is less and less a place in our modern world for a Church to be simply a place of devotion, beauty and spiritual renewal. It has to be useful. And what better way than allowing or promoting a nursery for the local youngsters. It happens everywhere and with every faith – and who am I to complain – after all it is what society wants and demands. But is it what society needs I wondered as I stood there? Perhaps for the Catholic church – so often in recent years on the back foot in the face of allegations of abuse or lack of understanding of the modern world – it is a good PR exercise and something that they have no option but to be involved with. And in this context a beautiful lawn and trellised garden cannot be justified – “turn it into something useful” would be the Church's “mission statement” and “business plan”! I'm not against children’s playgrounds and the like – they are, rightly, part of the very fabric of our modern society. But I do sometimes wonder if, in our rush to satisfy society’s every whim and demand we are in danger of losing much else. That we must have HS2, or another London airport; that we must do away with “red tape” so that houses can be more easily built at the expense of lovely countryside; that we must ensure that an area like my local and very beautiful country park here in Ruddington has an even bigger (it’s already huge!) children’s play area – all these and a million other wants, needs and demands are all very understandable and laudable.  But whilst they might satisfy our physical, economic and leisure needs will they sustain our deeper emotional instincts or any spiritual needs? Will we be the better and happier for them, will they provide food for the soul and make us glad to be alive? – I’m not too sure about that.   

Somewhere, deep down, I wondered if we are in danger of throwing the baby out with the bath water and losing something that will only become apparent when we no longer have it. When society has done away with all its beautiful and quietly inspiring things, when all that is left is concrete, security fencing, garish climbing frames or bouncy castles and there is no family silver left in the "awe, wonder & reverence cupboard" – what then, I wonder? The answer to that question is short but true: we will have lost a little of the very things that make us human - things like beauty, love, hope, aspiration, reverence, stillness, kindness, empathy with other humans and with the world that we inhabit; these are the things that we turn to when our brash "whizz bang crash world" collapses; when we are in pain, when we are frightened, when someone we love is in danger or is no more, when we are in need, when we want reassurance.  They are important. They are the small, quiet pleasures of which poet and author Vita Sackville West wrote: "Small pleasures must correct great tragedies". They are our humanity.  And as I stood there the words of Joni Mitchell’s famous 1970’s song “Big Yellow Taxi” ran through my mind:

“They paved paradise and put up a parking lot

With a pink hotel, a boutique, and a swingin' hot spot

Don't it always seem to go

That you don't know what you got 'til it's gone

They paved paradise and put up a parking lot

They took all the trees, and put ‘em in a tree museum

And they charged the people a dollar and a half to see them

No, no, no

Don't it always seem to go

That you don't know what you got 'til it's gone

They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot.....”

I was pleased for the local kids that they had a nursery to go to, just as I had gone  all those years ago to play football and cricket on the manicured greensward. But I also thought that they might also be missing things that the shady church garden offered to me and my friends – peace, tranquillity, a green haven in the middle of the narrow cobbled streets and the tightly packed brick houses and the towering, long gone, cotton mills where my mother and aunties and uncles worked. It was a time and place for us to experience a different world, to learn about respect, calmness, simple beauty, gentleness, stillness, and perhaps see birds in the trees or maybe the odd squirrel..................and, yes, a sense of reverence - something which, as I get older, I fear the world is fast losing;  in short, to experience the awe and wonder of the place. And I wondered if today's youngsters will ever experience or feel the need to "shout in whispers" as we had done on sunny school holiday afternoons when we scored a goal or hit a six in that hallowed place. But, of course, shouting in whispers or seeing a squirrel doesn’t have an economic worth,  they don’t win votes or impress banks or gain government grants, they don’t impress 21^st century man and his mission statements and business plans – all things that are so important in our modern busy, black and white, utilitarian, pragmatic, unforgiving world.

So I stood in that gateway and remembered. As I stood there I hoped that perhaps a priest might emerge and ask if he could be of assistance. I would ask if I could see inside the Church and in so doing satisfy my curiosity as to what it is actually like in there after all these years. I have stood and marvelled in hundreds, perhaps thousands, of great churches, mosques, mausoleums and temples throughout the world - the Taj Mahal, the Church of the Blood of the Saviour in St. Petersburg, Canterbury Cathedral, the Thomaskirche in Leipzig, York Minster, St Mark's in Venice, Hagia Sophia  and the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, the Mesquita in Cordoba, the Duomo in Florence, the achingly beautiful cathedral in Burgos ...... an almost endless list. I have stood humbled, inspired and awed in St Peter’s in Rome and in the Sistine Chapel, I have looked in wonder and jaw dropping amazement at the frescoes in the Basilica of St Francis in  Assisi, and I have quietly wept inside at the glorious magnificence, the awe inspiring spiritual reverence, the humility and the humanity shown by Sikh pilgrims at the Sikh Golden Temple in Amritsar. So, I knew the sort of thing that I might see in St Joseph's – the confessional box, the high altar, artwork depicting the stations of the cross perhaps, statues of the Virgin and so on. And I also knew that all these places are, in the end, only an arrangement bricks and mortar which could, if some builder wished, be re-arranged in a different form to make a hotel or a prison or a large mansion.  But I also believe, profoundly and certainly, that as places of worship, reverence, awe and wonder and spiritual renewal they are vital to us for they give us just a little glimpse of what it is to be human and that is why they are worth preserving.

But no priest came out and as I waited, expectant, hopeful, I thought of my long forgotten friends – especially my best friend, Tony Clarkson now long dead. And I wondered what had happened to the young priests who ran around the grass, their cassocks swirling, passing the ball and scoring a goal and celebrating, almost silently, with us – and at the same time, kindly, keeping us rough kids in order. Maybe they are all now aged bishops and cardinals in Rome with their purple and scarlet zucchetti caps and ferraiolo capes; and maybe, too, they might remember those long gone days in St Joe’s garden in Preston and the games of football and cricket with a crowd of scruffy local kids – I hope so.

By now it was late afternoon, my pilgrimage into my past was almost done. Home called. I climbed back into my car and set off up New Hall Lane to the motorway and south to my home of sixty years in Nottingham.  And as I accelerated into the M6 motorway's fast lane, the late afternoon Lancashire sun setting low in the sky, I thought that perhaps I would return to revisit my roots once more before I can no longer make the trip and I knew what I would do if I did return to my home town. I'd stand in that church gateway once again, but this time, I promised myself, I would wait until a priest appeared. I wouldn’t knock on the Presbytery door – that old dragon like housekeeper just might still be there and even after seventy years she would surely say "What, not you again, no you can't play football - clear off" and she would send me packing! So, I’d just wait and when a kindly looking Priest emerges I’d step forward and say “Please, Mister, can I see inside your church?” And just maybe he’d allow it – and in doing so I’d be able put behind me my mother’s irrational and unpleasant  rants and  I'd remember only the good things like the tranquillity of the garden, the games of football and cricket, the kindness of the young priests, the old scratched  record and, yes, the “shouting in whispers”.

England 2025: Welcome to the world of Yvette Cooper, where decency, moderation and intelligence no longer count as vote winners.

In an interview with Times Radio yesterday morning Yvette Cooper, the Home Secretary, said that she was in favour of flags going up “everywhere”. Yesterday, Keir Starmer, too, strongly endorsed flying the flag. But Ms Cooper went further. She told Times Radio:

“I’m going to confess I have not just the St George’s flag, I have St George’s bunting. I have also union jack bunting which is currently still hanging up in my garden shed. I have union jack flags. We have Yorkshire rose flags and bunting as well. I actually even have some Yorkshire Tea bunting but that’s probably going a bit far for your question as well."

She went on "I do I think flags are really important. It’s what brings us together. I do think that people should be coming together around our flags and using the flags to come together and not being used for division."

Asked if people should be putting up flags on motorway gantries, Cooper replied: “Oh, put them up anywhere. I would put them up anywhere.”

Oh, dear, this from a British Home Secretary and a Labour one at that. The nonsense, stupidity, lack of forethought and sheer inappropriateness in Cooper’s comments is worrying and telling in equal measures. It’s difficult to know where to start but to keep it simple I would say to Cooper that you are being worryingly naïve – a quality that should not, must not be present in any politician, let alone the holder of one of the great Offices of State.

Yes, Ms Cooper, the idea of a flag is to clearly and overtly, by its display, bring people together, to “rally around the flag” in battle or in times of national distress or in celebrations, say of Coronation. But, contrary to your claim that they must not be used for “division” that is exactly the hidden function of flags; its covert message is to set apart, to separate one nation or belief from another. A flag is, and is meant to be, a statement of a nation’s exceptionalism; the Welsh flag with its red dragon is a clear statement - we are Welsh and although we are part of the UK we are different from England and the English. “We are us and our tribe is different from yours. We are proud of our tribe or our country and our values and, if necessary, we will bravely defend them against all others – especially those who threaten us." That is the message that flags make real. Flags of opposing teams in football matches are colourful representations of the two tribes of followers from each club; "We are us and we will seek victory over you". It’s what flags are for; to separate our nation against those different from us, the enemy, or the perceived enemy. The Union Jacks waved, for example, at the last night of the Proms are the physical manifestation of the audience lustily singing the patriotic song Rule Britannia: “Rule Britannia, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never, never, shall be slaves….” Can there ever be a more divisive song than this; we are born to rule and never be in thrall to other nations - and the Union Jack or the flag of St George reinforced this over time; it is exceptionalism in the most colourful and clearest way possible.

The trivial, trite, facile, plain stupid and potentially divisive comments made by Cooper in this interview are quite breath-taking. I wonder will she turn up in the House of Commons draped in a flag of St George tomorrow? Where does she draw the line on flags? Is it alright for me to paint a flag on a roundabout or on road signs as is the current fashion? Can I paint it on the door of any hotel hosting immigrants. The lady said “put them up anywhere”, so why not? Or maybe, since the lady said “put them up anywhere” I can paint flags of St George on the property and homes of any non-white, non-indigenous English people in my village just as the Nazis did in the 1930s when they painted on the front doors of Jewish homes Stars of David as a precursor to the Holocaust. And if not, why not? The Home Secretary is embarking on a very dangerous journey with her ill- considered comments. And, if I am driving down the motorway at 70 mph and one of the flags of St George that now drape motorway bridges across the country should become unhitched and fall on my car windscreen, thus causing a pile up, will I have redress against our nutty and dangerous Home Secretary or Prime Minister – will she be charged for causing the pile up or sectioned for her manifestly mad advice to the electorate to “put them up anywhere”? And if not, why not?

A measure of Cooper’s ill-chosen words and dangerous muddled thinking is the disgraceful reference to “Yorkshire Tea bunting”. Whatever the rights and wrongs of England’s current problems in relation immigrants, asylum seekers, demonstrations, protest and threatening behaviour it is crass and flippant. It might raise a few cheap cheers and grab a few mindless votes in Ms Cooper’s own Yorkshire constituency but it demeans a serious national issue. And, I can assure her, that for many, like me, it is offensive.

And, in a way, that is what I find most concerning about current government policy and Cooper and Starmer’s recent comments. It is lowest common denominator, dog whistle, politics to appeal to the mindless and the easily led. Joseph Goebbels, Hitler's master of propaganda would have recognised it instantly. He famously said "There's no point in seeking to convert the intellectuals. For intellectuals will question and would never be converted and would anyway always yield to the stronger, and this will always be 'the man in the street'. Arguments must therefore be crude, clear and forcible, and appeal to emotions and instincts, not the intellect ..... the rank and file are much more primitive than we imagine. Propaganda must therefore always be simple and repetitious."

And this is what Government comment, and increasingly what seems to be government policy (if, indeed, there is a coherent policy) is doing - simple, repetitious, appealing to baser instincts, seeming only to want ape Nigel Farage and his Reform Party and the antics of the declining Tory Party. It’s like children on a playground trying to outdo each other, “My Dad’s bigger than your Dad……..”. I can be more “patriotic”, I can be nastier than you! Reading Cooper’s comments and listening to Starmer, Badenoch, Farage and the rest I wonder – no, I am sure – these people have given up on the idea that there are still decent, moderate, intelligent people in England. There are so few of us, so they believe, that we are of no consequence so let’s frame our rhetoric for the lowest common denominator is the advice from Labour and Tory spin doctors. Are we all now considered by Cooper et al just an unthinking rabble, to be roused and manipulated by incendiary rhetoric – because for Cooper, Starmer, Badenoch, Farage and the rest that is now where the votes are. We’ve seen exactly that in America in the past months and years so why not here in England?

I am 80 years old. Much of the time I look back with rose coloured glasses to a world that probably never really existed except in my own mind. But I find what is happening in England today – allegedly and by repute, one of the cradles of democracy, the land of Magna Charta, the land of, what many envious people across the world call “the mother of Parliaments” – frightening. As a nation we are dabbling with dangerous and explosive people and ideas and those in the public eye, in power or with a voice - like Yvette Cooper - should be more thoughtful and responsible in their outbursts and interviews – not pouring petrol on the flames as this disgraceful interview does.

But, as I say, I’m 80 years old. I’ve seen “patriotism”, flag waving, drums, arrogance, jingoism, and pure prejudice before in a different guise, at a different time and in a different place. I saw it seventy years ago throughout my childhood in Preston. I didn’t like it then as a child; I found it frightening, irrational and even to my young eyes wrong, and I have seen nothing since to alter my views.

Let me explain. When I was growing up in Preston in the 1940s and 50s each Whit Monday the various churches in Preston ‘walked’ through the streets parading their banners and flags. This would start at early morning and go on for much of the day. There was a history of scuffles, fights and worse breaking out between the various denominational groups that "walked" so the groups were "staggered" throughout the day to keep them apart; it was very much an “us and them” situation. And when the parades came up New Hall Lane at the end of Caroline Street, where I lived, I was taken to see them. I say I was taken to see the parades, which is true, but such was my mother's hatred and disdain for the Catholic faith that watching the Catholic church parades was never an option - I was kept indoors when "them bloody Papists are marching". But, as the other faiths marched we watched and clapped and cheered. And the groups that my mother applauded most of all where those she called “the free churches”. To my young mind this was all very confusing - why were they "free", and what was so special that they gained my mother's special approval? Why were their banners, flags, costumes, music said by my mother to be better than the others? I knew, even then as a child, that the flags, banners, the pipes, the drums, the brass bands and the rest that were part of each walking group were meant to show the exceptionalism of each church, to intimidate, to signify "our tribe" as opposed to "your tribe".

But there was one group that was even more special for my mother. Amongst the “walkers” on those Whit Mondays were the Orangemen (why were they called that I wondered as a child?) and at the appointed hour I would be taken to see them walk along New Hall Lane with their banners, drums, flutes, whistles, bowler hats, medals and sashes. "Look at ‘em, Tony" my mother would say as we watched, "they're the best of the lot" These were good people my mother annually reminded me – because, she told me each year, "They keep the Catholics and the Irish tinkers in their place". As we watched the Orangemen walk up New Hall Lane swinging their banners and beating their drums, I can still hear her voice across the years: “If it wasn’t for the Orangemen we’d all be overrun by Catholics and Irish tinkers!”. Now, in 2025 the echoes of my mother’s words have screamed at me as I have watched the demonstrations in Epping and across the land as immigrants and asylum seekers have been “othered” – the message on the streets of Epping and elsewhere in 2025 is exactly the same as the message my mother gave me; a message to hate and despise fellow human beings because they are different.

Now in 2025, it’s not the Irish and Catholics who are going to “overrun” us but the immigrants, the asylum seekers from across the world – they are our new bogeymen. Just as in the first years of the 19th century English mothers threatened their children that if they didn’t behave then the French Emperor Napoleon would come and get them and carry them off, now it is the Syrian or Afghan or Iraqi migrant who is waiting on every street corner to groom or carry away our children, steal our jobs, fill our schools, defile our women, take away our hard earned wealth. Prejudice and hate knows no boundaries in time or space; it just metamorphosises to suit the situation – and flags, jingoism and faux patriotism are just its overt manifestation - a fact that Yvette Cooper has clearly not understood.

And all those years ago, I was very confused. I spent a long time as a child trying very hard to work out the significance of banners showing a long dead king called ‘Billy’ on a horse in a river and waving his sword (I learned later that King Billy was William of Orange and the river was the Boyne in Ireland). It didn’t seem very relevant to my life and I wondered just why these nasty Catholics and Irish had to be kept "in their place" by these Orangemen and what it would be like to be “overrun” by Catholics and Irishmen!

But as I watched the Orangemen parading - middle aged and elderly men all dressed in black with grim faces and black bowler hats - something else began to gnaw at my sub-conscious; I increasingly found them frightening, intimidating and disconcerting - and totally out of place on what was usually a bright spring day. This was a day that was supposed to be a festival, a happy time - brass bands, girls dressed in pretty dresses, smiling faces and cheering crowds - and as a child and in those far off days I found these Orangemen with their drums and flutes and their stern, arrogant faces threatening and thuggish - men to be feared. Still today, when I see on Orangemen on TV in Northern Ireland I feel those old emotions that were set in train in my childhood; Now, in my ninth decade, I recognise in their grim faces, their body language and their strutting demeanour what was behind this facade - it was nothing more that unadulterated, bigoted extremism masked in a cloak of black suited, bowler hatted, genteel, but false, "respectability".

And now seventy years later it's the same strutting, arrogant, aggressive demeanour I see on my TV screen with the reports from Epping and other flashpoints. Even all those years ago my young eyes could recognise in their faces and demeanour the same vitriol, unexplained hatred and bigotry that I heard in my mother's voice. I have never lost that feeling and neither have I ever understood my mother’s animosity as she spoke of the Catholic faith. Such, I suppose, is the nature of simple prejudice and hate – totally illogical, unfathomable, unpleasant, frightening and, ultimately, insidious as it weaves itself into the fabric of our being and our world. It demeans us and makes us all the poorer; it lessens our basic humanity. And that is what is happening in 21st century England, cheered on by our Home Secretary and Prime Minister.

In Epping and across the land jingoism; prejudice, arrogance and aggression is still alive and well, all hiding under the cloak the “respectable” flag waving that Ms Cooper seems so fond of. I read Ms Cooper’s banal but dangerous comments with more than dismay - with horror and anger. She should be ashamed as I am ashamed of what England has become. I am ashamed that I voted for Labour, something I have done all my voting life. The current wave of aggressive patriotism in England and across the world (think MAGA in Trump’s America) represents a belief and value system that is anything but decent or just, or English, or even Christian. It represents the very worst thuggish and prejudiced elements of society, and their extremist doctrines cloaked in "faux respectability" and the “patriotic”, jingoistic waving of the flag as a façade of “respectability” . It is a stain, a festering wound and an affront to common decency and humanity - it is one of the less appealing "English values" that politicians are fond of quoting.

With comments like the ones yesterday from a Labour government there is a great and profound danger of setting loose the dogs of hate and violence. Cooper’s comments are a nod to those who would use patriotism and flag waving to further their ends and usher in dangerous times. When one sets free the dogs of war then they become uncontrollable and destruction and pain are the consequence - think the Somme, think the blitz, think Dunkirk, think Vietnam, Ukraine, think Gaza. And so, too, when the dogs of hate and violence are let loose in society those values become uncontrollable and impossible to rein in and society and its members, both individually and collectively, suffer; it always spins our of control. If you have any doubt about this think of the invasion of the Washington Capital building a few years ago when Trump supporters waving their Stars and Stripes and Confederate flags stormed the American seat of government. For sure, Ms Cooper’s Yorkshire Tea bunting will be of little use when the flag draped mob are marching down my street and the Union Jacks and St George flags are fluttering above the arrogant, aggressive and hate filled faces of rioters in Parliament Square as they hammer on the doors of the House of Commons in London.

England in the Summer of 2025 & Visits to Preston Flea Pits that Still Influence my Life & Beliefs

England in the summer of 2025 is not a pleasant place. The sun might shine, but the atmosphere tells a different story, a story of hatred and lack of compassion, of intolerance fed by ignorance, of self-interest and large chunks of self-pity. In Epping and across the country “patriots” don flags of St George and Union flags and profess their love of “Engerland” fed by their own inadequacies, by social media, and by the gutter press. Tabloid newspapers and social media cheer on these patriots draped in their flags as they howl their mindless protests outside hotels housing refugees and asylum seekers. I wonder how many of these patriots who extol the virtues (as they see them) of St George who, legend has it, slew the dragon and displayed the “English values” they so highly and hypocritically prize, could recite the words to the school hymn that I sang throughout my own schooldays and my own teaching career? The words of the hymn “When a knight won his spurs” say nothing about waving flags, chanting hate filled messages or sending those in need away without succour. They do, however say much about the virtues associated with knighthood, about being gentle yet brave, of being Godly, of being joyful and not angry and greedy, and of being truthful – that last a commodity in short supply on the streets of “Engerland 2025” where falsehoods, misinformation and downright ignorance are preferred to honesty and truth by these marauding flag draped vigilantes:

When a knight won his spurs, in the stories of old,

He was gentle and brave, he was gallant and bold

With a shield on his arm and a lance in his hand,

For God and for valour he rode through the land.

No charger have I, and no sword by my side,

Yet still to adventure and battle I ride,

Though back into storyland giants have fled,

And the knights are no more and the dragons are dead.

Let faith be my shield and let joy be my steed

'Gainst the dragons of anger, the ogres of greed;

And let me set free with the sword of my youth,

From the castle of darkness, the power of the truth.

Last week the wife of a Tory party politician was released after a few months in jail for inciting hatred when she posted on social media that hotels housing migrants and asylum seekers should be burned down. The Daily Mail, other tabloids and much of social media treated her as a returning hero. Strangely, I don’t anywhere remember singing anything about burning or killing anyone (except dragons) in the hymn but I do remember a reference to a “castle of darkness”. The phrase “castle of darkness” didn’t have a lot of meaning to me as a ten year old when I sang it in school assemblies but it does now in 2025; it is surely what England in the summer of 2025 has become. Lord Northcliffe, owner of the Daily Mail, many years ago said that the success of his newspaper was because each day 'I give my readers a daily hate.'  Nothing has changed over the many years since he said that – either at the Daily Mail or on England’s streets; one of the “English values” so highly prized by the Mail, other

tabloids and the flag waving patriots on the streets is clearly hatred of our fellow men and women.

 

In talking of English values – if there is such a thing - they rant on about mosques and about Muslims and Hindus and other “unchristian” faiths threatening our way of life, they complain vehemently about “foreigners” taking our jobs. But when I visit my consultant in hospital it is likely that he will be from abroad. At my local GP practice out of the seven GPs listed five are of Indian extraction. Our health service and caring professions could not function without these people from “unchristian faiths”. And I often wonder why this should be so. Why do our medical schools each year pour out huge numbers – perhaps even a majority - of doctors/nurses etc from non-white English backgrounds. Why do the government have to seek doctors, nurses and other carers from countries far away to fill the gaps in our own provision? There will be many reasons, but one can safely assume that ultimately it boils down to the fact that we English, we born and bred patriots, don’t want to take on these caring responsibilities -  we only want exciting jobs or jobs that pay better or jobs that fit in with our preferred life style choices. Few, it seems, in 2025 white England, want to serve or care for others. Perhaps these patriots should consider this in their obsession with English values – that our values are such that we are unwilling to care for our own and must rely upon foreigners to do it for us; a sad and telling indictment of our national psyche and “values” indeed. But, to come back to the hymn, serving others was the whole essence of the knights of old; it was the essence of St George and his rescuing of the king’s daughter from the evil dragon, and it surely is a mainstay of not only the Christian faith but all other faiths. Sadly, I can only conclude that the parable about loving our neighbours in the New Testament, the tale of the Good Samaritan who protected, tended and cared for the injured man, a foreigner, on the roadside, would get short shrift from the raging, hate filled flag wavering “Christian Patriots” outside the hotels hosting refugees and asylum seekers of Epping and wider England in the summer of 2025.

 One might say that our present discontents are merely an aberration, a particular response to the very specific issues associated with the mass movement of people that we have experienced in recent years. There is clearly much in that view but history tells us that we English have a track record in hatred and “othering” people. In the 1930s Oswald Mosley’s Blackshirts bullied and clashed with police on the streets of London and other cities. Mosley, an early version of our present day Nigel Farage and right wing agitator Tommy Robinson, had high society and royal connections and wielded huge influence over both the press and the mob preaching hate and division to huge gatherings, especially against Jewish people. And a generation later black and Asian immigrants arriving at our English ports answering the post war call from our government to come and work to help England, the mother country, get back on its feet after the war were met not with a warm welcome but with signs on doors saying “No Blacks, No Irish, No Dogs”.

 In writing the above paragraph I could not help my mind wandering back to my own childhood. I lived throughout those years in a small working class street in Preston Lancashire. My father was a quiet, unassuming, kind, gentle and humble man but someone with whom I did not develop a close relationship with until later in life.  He was, however, and I even more so now believe it today, someone to look up to. I once read that it is the destiny or maybe the responsibility of every son to exceed the dreams that his father had for him. I don't know if that is true but I do know that if I can be thought of as the sort of man my dad was then I will be more than satisfied. My mother, sadly, was a different “cup of tea”. When I was very small she stayed at home, a housewife, but once I went to school she returned to her job as a weaver – and it has always been a great sadness to me that although I knew that she loved me dearly she was also a woman not to cross or challenge in any way. In modern day terms she could have a row with herself if she was alone on a desert island and anyone who did not fit in with her view or beliefs about the world was the subject of her ire and venom. As a child I often cried myself to sleep having heard her screaming at my dad – my sobs partly fear and worry for myself but also sadness for my dad who bore the brunt of her rage which could flare at any moment. It was a regular occurrence in our house for my mother to vent her spleen on those she hated or despised – the blacks and Asians (of whom there were none in our area), the Irish (of whom there may have been some) and the Catholics (of whom there were several) -  this latter section of the local community were given special treatment by my mother because at the end of our street was a large Catholic Church, St Joseph’s, a place, which if you believed my mother was not far removed from Satan’s kingdom! Looking back from today, I can imagine my mother cheering on the flag waving patriots with their hateful chants outside asylum seeker hotels and applauding the bile of the Daily Mail and social media; today’s crowds would, I know, speak for her. Where I looked up to my dad, I feared my mother. I knew I was loved and never mistreated, indeed the opposite – but her angry outbursts and harsh view of people and the world worried and frightened me; it was a source of constant anxiety that lasts to this day. As I grew into my teenage years I promised myself that I would never, ever, lose my temper or rage at others. I knew the effect it had on me and how it might effect others. Now, at eighty, I take a small pleasure in knowing that I have largely kept my promise even though sometimes I know I have been thought naïve, a soft touch, or spineless or worse.

My dad died about 20 years ago, my mother having died three years earlier. I have always regretted that I did not have the close father/son relationship with him that some enjoy. He was a long distance lorry driver often away for much of the week and on top of that when he was at home there were frequent, and for me very painful, rows usually about money. We were not a well-off family; each week my dad worked long hours, gave my mother his unopened pay packet, rarely drank or had any obvious luxuries (apart from his weekly packet of fags), did most of the cleaning of the house at weekends and cooked Mum’s breakfast and then Sunday dinner as she rested in bed till noon reading the News of the World or doing her crossword much loved cryptic crosswords at which she was an expert – a skill that I have inherited.  I can never once, throughout my childhood and teenage years, remember mum saying “thanks” or giving any word of praise to my dad, nor were there any signs of affection. My mother didn’t do hugs to him, to me – or to anyone else, a thing that still today, is something I feel very anxious about. In our contemporary world where hugs of greeting or farewell amongst family and friends are accepted and normal I feel uncomfortable, highly embarrassed even, when in a situation where this is expected. The regular rows and my mother’s vitriol coloured my childhood and still haunt me even now a lifetime later and it made relationships difficult within the wider family, not just within our own little family unit. My mother had a fractured relationship with her sisters and brothers which meant that with one exception – my much loved auntie Edna, “Nenny” I called her till the day she died - I grew up knowing that I had a wider family but only rarely, and in some cases never, being part of it.

 As a result, although opportunities for dad and me to do things together were limited, when they did occur, they were, and still are today, precious to me. I loved my mother and feared her in equal measure, but as a young child, I was aware that she was a not an easy woman to please and that dad couldn't win - whatever he did. He was always to blame – for our lack of money, for anything that went wrong in the house, for not being there two or three nights a week when he was on the road; in my mother’s eyes all the ills that beset our little family where down to dad.  One of the few precious moments that I enjoyed with my dad, was, however, when we occasionally went to the cinema together – just him and me. I would have liked my mother to have come as well – I longed for a sense of us being a “happy family” - but that just wasn’t us; she wasn't one for the cinema, so it was usually just us two, dad and me. And as the years have passed those cinema trips have become more important to me. Now, if one of the old films we saw together is repeated on TV I'm a sucker for it.  It takes me back to the darkened cinema, to the heavily made-up usherette with her torch guiding us to our seats and at the interval standing with her tray of ice creams – what a treat that was! Then, on the way home, we often enjoyed fish and chips eaten from the newspaper making that shared couple of hours with my dad – without my mother’s hovering presence – a time when I didn’t have to worry myself that a sudden row would break out as so often it did when my mother felt aggrieved about something. As we walked the dark Preston streets on our way home, eating our fish and chips, I knew that mum would almost certainly be in bed when we got home so the chances of another row were lower. I would not, I knew as I ate my chips, be sitting on the top step of the stairs weeping and terrified, my mother screaming in the kitchen at my dad and beating him with her fists as he stood, silent, allowing her to do it. Those trips to the cinema were far more than just a nice evening out – they were, for me, a relief from the brooding, intensity of life with my mother, a thing that coloured my life and relationships with both her and my dad until the very day that she died – and still do today.

 This was in the mid-fifties and in those long gone days Preston, like other towns seemed full of cinemas; in the town centre there was the Ritz, the Palladium, the ABC, the Empire, the Gaumont and more. To occasionally go into town to visit one of these gilded palaces was a real treat – I can remember feeling almost like a movie star as we paid for our ticket and then made our way to our seats in the highly decorated venues. Going to the town centre cinemas, however, was rare we usually stayed closer to home. Like other towns, there were local cinemas in abundance only a few hundred yards from our Caroline Street doorstep. But in all honesty the term these places a ‘cinema’ is probably a bit over the top. They were what were called 'flea pits', small picture houses where a cheap night’s entertainment could be had before the age of mass television. I can still remember, and smell them today: 'The Guild', 'The Queens’, 'The Plaza', 'The Carlton' – all within a short walking distance of our little terraced house. Every Saturday afternoon I would call for my school pal Billy Masheter who lived on Outram Street and we would go to the Guild and watch black and white films of Hopalong Cassidy, Tom Mix or Roy Rogers fight the gun slinging cattle rustlers and the red Indian hordes or we would be amazed by the science fiction future of the heroic Flash Gordon doing battle against the evil Ming the Merciless. But that was all kid’s stuff to fill our Saturdays. My dad and I on our occasional nights out saw sterner stuff; films like 'Paleface', 'Genevieve', 'Robin Hood', 'Davy Crockett', 'The Robe', 'The Ten Commandments', '20,000 Leagues Under the Sea', 'Son of Paleface' , 'A Kid for  Two Farthings', 'The Cockleshell Heroes', 'King of the Khyber Rifles', 'The Dam Busters', 'Shane', 'High Noon', .......the list goes on.

 Today, all these years later, I'm still a sucker for these, what I call real films, not the violent rubbish that fills our screens today. Films with real heroes, likeable people, where the 'good guys' are good and the 'bad guys' get their due punishment! Many would say they are 'naff', twee, old fashioned. Well, that may well be the case – they certainly don’t contain the violence or seamy side of life so often portrayed in modern films.  They speak of a gentler life and honourable action – something to aspire to and make you feel good. For a youngster they were portraying worthwhile values – albeit a bit twee. I would argue this is much more savoury than the values so often portrayed to the young in modern films – violence, excess, foul language or soft porn. Who cannot empathise with the ultimate hero, Shane? - a man who portrays all that is best in human nature. A man of few words: quiet, unassuming, dignified. No violent foul mouthed Clint Eastwood figure this. I defy anyone not to empathise with the feelings of Shane as he stoically and unflinchingly takes the abuse from the Ryker gang and doesn't rise to their bait. And no-one could fail to breath a sigh of relief as he faces down the psychopathic gunslinger Jack Wilson – good triumphing over evil and doing it with calm dignity. Or, who cannot feel anxious and want to help Gary Cooper as Marshal Will Kane in "High Noon" as, on his wedding day, he desperately tries to enlist the help of the town folk to face the dreaded Miller gang? Nor can I believe that any normal person cannot be moved by the story of young Joe as he looks after the sickly little goat he has bought at the market believing that it is a unicorn in 'A Kid for Two Farthings'. As I write this I can still feel the anger and anxiety as I watched Sam, the honest, hard working young man, wrestle with the dreaded and evil Python Macklin (played by the huge wrestler Primo Carnera) in “A Kid for Two Farthings” whilst the crowd bay and Sam’s girlfriend Sonia (played by Diana Dors) averts her eyes from the punishment that Sam is receiving! I can still hear my dad that evening leaning over in the darkened Queen’s cinema in Tunbridge Street and whisper 'That's Primo Carnera, Tony - he's a nasty, big headed, 'bu**er'! 

I have often reflected that it is by such quietly whispered words or casual conversations over the tea table that children learn right and wrong, or learn of the things that their parents and adults in general believe, aspire to and expect. It is through such interaction that we learn what it is to be grown up. My dad's whispered words that night (and other nights) in those dark cinemas have remained with me and I can still hear him today seventy years later. I didn't think of it in these terms then, but looking back they spoke to me of things that I should value and that my dad believed in - fairness, honesty, thought for the underdog, of not being a bully and of not being big headed…... And, his words did it in a far more effective way than a lecture from my mother or telling off from her would ever have done. 

Maybe I'm reminiscing through rose coloured glasses but I can still remember the quiet kindly wisdom and wonderful voice of David Kossoff playing Mr Kandinsky, the Jewish tailor, as he talked to little Joe about life and death when Joe’s 'unicorn' finally died - as we all knew it would. I knew that Mr Kandinsky was everything that one should be, and it was so because the film told me and more importantly my dad did, too, by the way he reacted to the story. I might be naive, and I’m certainly a sucker for the old films but I often reflect that our world has become so rich in genius but so poor in wisdom and simple understanding of the important aspects of the human condition.

There seem so many things that perhaps we have lost – and many of these are the stuff of Mr Kandinsky, Shane or Marshal Kane and the films of that bygone age. In the final minutes of the film 'Shane' Joey, the young boy in the story, pleads with Shane to stay and look after him and his family. But Shane points out that he, Joey, can be a hero: “Look out for your Ma and Pa and you’ll be a hero.......Anyone”, says Shane, “can learn to shoot a gun, ride a horse and enjoy an exciting life but that doesn't make him a hero”.  Yes, yes, yes..... I know – it’s naff, Hollywood drivel, soft soap, cheesy - not what we say and do in our clever and fast moving 21st century world where we blast the bad guys with our X-Box and watch techno-digitally enhanced cyber adventures that provide no moral context or worthy aspiration and omit very core aspects of humanity: empathy, compassion, understanding or nuance.  Somehow a scowling Clint Eastwood uttering those immortal words “Make my day Punk” before gunning his enemy down don’t have the same humanity, compassion or moral coherence as the heroes of yesteryear.  But as I get older I know that Shane’s comments were just the sort of thing my dad understood. And, my worry is that if our modern world does not portray these basic “wisdoms” and human values through the media, if our 'heroes' – sports stars, celebrities, politicians.........and most of all parents -  do not reflect such values  and offer a way of life to give young people something worthwhile to believe and aspire to, then where else will tomorrow’s adults get them?

Now, as an eighty year old I can see the wisdom of 18^th century philosopher and politician Edmund Burke when he said "Manners are of more importance than laws. Manners are what vex or soothe, corrupt or purify, exalt or debase, barbarise or refine us, by a constant, steady, uniform, insensible operation, like that of the air we breathe”. And the thoughts of moral philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre are in my view certainly true: "Virtues are dispositions not only to act in particular ways, but also to feel in particular ways. To act virtuously is to act from inclination formed by the cultivation of the virtues….”. Like the old fashioned films words like “manners” and “virtue” are now, in our brash modern world, a bit twee, old fashioned, but they are implicitly and explicitly the human characteristics  that was the theme running through these old films and the character of their heroes – Shane, Mr Kandinsky, Marshal Kane, Roy Rogers, Tom Mix, and the rest. When they are not present then we are, as Burke suggests, debased and barbarised; empathy and kindness, goodness and honest action are sidelined. One need only look at today’s divided world: Gaza, the vilifying of  certain groups, the savage comments on social media, an American President who is an anti-hero in terms of being a role model, violent demonstrations by flag waving hate filled “patriots” intent upon making our government act in a hostile way towards refugees, films and TV filled with expletives, coarse dialogue, and gratuitously violent and explicit storylines…….all of these are what we now subliminally soak up from the media and in doing so we are on danger of accepting barbarism, debasement, coarseness and violence as the new normal, immune to kindness, honesty, decency and doing the right thing.  As I look back and think of my dad I know that although he never read philosophy and would have never claimed to be learned he had great wisdom. He might have said “I’m only a lorry driver” but the reality was that he knew about decency and honest honourable action; he knew about the sort of virtues envisaged in the hymn I mentioned. He understood all this completely and unlike the flag waving “patriots” on “Engerland’s” streets in the summer of 2025 he would know just why these virtues and old-fashioned heroes were important to life and to his son growing up.

Nowadays I'm just a grumpy old man, a sad old git, but my trips to the cinema – or, in our case, the back street “flea pit” - were for me more than nice nights out, cowboys and Indians, ice creams and fish and chips.  They were, at one level, one of those growing up things – a few longed for hours with my dad, a bit of what we might call today “male bonding”. But their long-term effect has been that they are still today very much part of my life’s compass, fundamental to who I am and what I believe in and to my very being! They are, at the root, the reason why I know with absolute certainty that those draped in their St George’s flags, screaming abuse and hate at "others ", less fortunate than them in “Engerland’s” summer of 2025 are so very dreadfully and terribly wrong.