A Musical Journey Back in Time

 One of the unintended, but wonderful, consequences of music of any kind – be it classical, heavy metal, pop, jazz or any other genre – is that it takes one back in time, to another place, another time. And so it was last night when Pat and I went along to the ancient and lovely St Mary’s Church in Clifton Village, on the outskirts of Nottingham to enjoy a lovely concert by the Nottingham Chamber Orchestra.

In fact the memories started before the concert even began! St Mary’s lies behind what was once the teacher training college (now part of Nottingham Trent University) and overlooks the Trent from the steep sided Clifton Grove. When Pat and I were courting – both trainee teachers at the College – it was where 60 years ago we used to go for walks, hand in hand, through the woodland looking down on the Trent far below us. Last night we both laughed, remembering vividly, one evening when walking through the Grove it had seemed a good idea to scramble down the steep slope to the river - it was the sort of daft thing one does as a twenty year old. We got down alright but getting back up was another matter; I just managed it but poor Pat was struggling. I had visions of calling out the fire brigade but as the last light of the day faded and the city of Nottingham lit up in the distance we somehow managed to extract Pat. We didn’t try it again, but the memory lived on - a mixture of mirth and embarrassment! A few minutes later we entered the ancient and exquisite little Church of St Mary the Virgin. The last time I had been there was, I think, in 1965 when as a history student at Clifton our group had gone to the Church as part of our “History Method” course – teaching us how and when to use historical places and artifacts in the classroom to teach children history. As I sat in St Mary’s last night I reflected that 60 years ago - a life time – neither Pat or I could have ever imagined that we would be here again as 80 year olds with our own grown up children and grandchildren. As Pat said, a lot of water – the Trent – has passed by since then!

And so to the concert. The four works brought, each in their different ways, wonderful memories. The first work, Joseph Haydn’s Symphony 99 was a rousing start to the evening. Papa Haydn knew a good tune when he composed it and all his works are filled with splendid tunes; if you feel a bit low at the start of a Haydn work (even a solemn Mass) you will be feeling much better by the time the last notes fade away! As I sat entranced, the Orchestra giving a lively and lyrical rendering of Papa Haydn’s composition I was taken back a few years to one of the most magical and memorable days of my life. Pat and I were in Austria on holiday and we visited the small town of Eisenstadt where Haydn spent most of his working life composing, conducting and making music at the Esterházy Palace, home of the Princes of Esterházy one of the great and powerful families of Europe. I had stood, moved, in the Great Hall where Haydn would have stood to conduct his orchestras and later visited his rooms in the Palace to see the things that he would have known. It was a glorious, Austrian summers day and we sat eating a very deliciously decadent Sachertorte and drinking a deliciously strong Austrian coffee in the sun.

After the Haydn we went to France to enjoy Gabriel Fauré’s suite Masques et bergamasques. This was a work that I didn’t know but enjoyed enormously. Written as a theatrical entertainment commissioned for Albert I, Prince of Monaco in 1919 it is one of Fauré’s most popular work and for me captured exactly the feeling of France: bright, sunny, light hearted – all the ingredients of the many French holidays that Pat and I have enjoyed in that wonderful country over the years. It was just the sort of jolly and bright music that we all needed having just experienced Storm Claudia in Nottingham, two days of continuous heavy rain and strong winds, and the Orchestra carried it off to perfection.

A pleasant short interval (including for Pat a piece of excellent walnut and coffee cake!) was followed by one of my all time favourites Vivaldi’s Concerto for Two Violins. This is one of the twelve concerti for string instruments that comprise L'estro armonico (The Harmonic Inspiration). Described by musicologists as "perhaps the most influential collection of instrumental music to appear during the whole of the eighteenth century” and is an absolute joy. I often listen to this on a hot summer’s afternoon as I stand over the BBQ – it takes me back to perhaps my favourite place on the planet – Venice. Last night as the rain fell on Nottingham I was transported to far away, to La Serenissima; when I closed my eyes I could hear the water lapping on the Grand Canal, see the soft pastel colours and stone, and feel the warm Venetian sun on my back as the two violins beautifully harmonised and wove their charms with the rest of the strings.

And so to the final work, Mendelssohn’s Symphony No 4 (the Italian). A truly well known work that I guess many could hum along to without knowing what it was called. Mendelssohn, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert’s favourite composer, like Haydn fifty plus years before knew a good tune when he composed it and this work is no exception. Written during, and after, he travelled to Italy in 1831 Mendelssohn wrote to his father: “ This is Italy! And now has begun what I have always thought ... to be the supreme joy in life. And I am loving it…... The Italian symphony is making great progress. It will be the jolliest piece I have ever done, especially the last movement. I have not found anything for the slow movement yet, and I think that I will save that for Naples.” Mendelssohn was not wrong; Pat and I love Italy and the Italians, from the first time we visited many, many years ago we both felt completely at home. To just sit and listen to Italians talking (and without my understanding a word) I am entranced by the beauty of the language and the obvious love of life that it portrays.

It was indeed a jolly piece to round of a splendid evening – it brought back so many happy memories of times past and places visited. It was just right for a stormy East Midlands night and for me, as 80 year old with very painful sciatica it was a real tonic! Under the excellent, energetic, enthusiastic and baton of Andrew Foxley the Chamber Orchestra gave us a night to remember. Lively, bright, jolly and above all musical I don’t think anyone could have left St Mary’s not feeling better and with a spring in their step – even my sciatic pain seemed a little less severe! There is nothing quite like live music and especially so when performed by an enthusiastic and talented group of musically adept and mature musicians in the intimate atmosphere of a place like St Mary’s, it has an added vibrancy and warmth that CDs, streaming and the great concert halls can never replicate. It was both gratifying and heart warming, too, to see so many young people as members of the Orchestra – and in the audience; clearly, despite the efforts of our political masters and “educational” (I use the term loosely) institutions like Nottingham University to limit or discontinue music and arts courses and concentrate upon STEM curriculum subjects not every youngster is getting their Philistine message.

St Mary's in Clifton Village has been a place of worship and community focus since the early 13th century. It has seen mankind in all his and her manifestations and iterations over the centuries; it is part of local Nottingham history and the grand sweep of English history but, I suggest, last night's couple of hours will have been up there with some of the most joyous and rewarding of the thousands of events witnessed by those ancient walls. Thank you Nottingham Chamber Orchestra for an excellent evening; for the music, the good company and for me the memories.

“ A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life........." (Goethe)

In the new film “The Choral”, Ralph Fiennes, who plays the lead part of the choirmaster in Alan Bennett's Great War tale, tells the little provincial Yorkshire choir he leads that “ A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul". These words by the great 18th century German writer and polymath Johann Wolfgang von Goethe were fitting for this beautifully observed, wonderfully acted and sympathetically told story. Full of gentle Yorkshire humour, irony and at times touching sorrow it is every bit a work of art as the things that Goethe was describing.

As I sat in the darkness of the Broadway cinema in Nottingham, entranced by the story, the images and the acting it crossed my mind that Herr Goethe would have got short shrift in England in 2025 where places like Nottingham University (shame on you Nottingham) are closing down their music studies courses, and successive governments of all persuasions appear to take great pleasure in squeezing music and other arts subjects out of the school curriculum in favour “hard” subjects: science, maths and business courses with only one aim – namely making money, for the individual, big business, or the country - or preferably all three. We live in an increasingly Philistine world. Unlike many European nations we in England are bent upon Philistinism even refusing to take the advice of two of the greatest of English minds and towering world economists: John Stuart Mill and John Maynard Keynes. Mill famously told us us that 'The idea is essentially repulsive of a society held together only by the relations and feelings arising out of pecuniary interest’ and Keynes was just as clear: 'Once we allow ourselves to be disobedient to the test of an accountant’s profit, we have begun to change our civilisation and all mankind for the better". Clearly these wise and important words have not been heard in the Nottingham University Senior Common Room or office of the Vice Chancellor, nor have they pricked the conscience or entered the mindset of our political masters.

But, “The Choral” is a clarion call, a timely reminder of the importance of the “arts” in everyday life - whether it be classical music, heavy metal, a Rembrandt portrait, a Henry Moore sculpture, ballet, line dancing or any other art form; they, and other "arts", are what make life worth living and worth fighting for and without them life would be barren indeed. Every few months I get, as an ex-student, a “begging letter” from Nottingham University asking for my financial support – make a donation or set up a Direct Debit to support students at the University. I did this for many years; I felt it was right and proper – but no more. I read the glossy brochure explaining why I should dig deep the day after the news broke that the University would be cutting its music courses and was reminded of Winston Churchill’s words in 1950. Churchill was in favour of a huge expansion of university education, he knew that the country needed a highly skilled and talented workforce. But he had an important caveat, saying: “The first duty of the university is to teach wisdom, not a trade; character, not technicalities. We want a lot of engineers in the modern world, but we do not want a world of engineers.” Quite: when a university (or a school or any other educational establishment or government) decide that “the arts” are not important enough to fund and develop then I know with absolute certainty that there is something terribly wrong with both our institutions and our society. In short, Beethoven's mighty Choral Symphony, Bach's B Minor Mass, a Caravaggio or Vermeer painting, a performance of King Lear, the ballet The Nutcracker, a Shakespeare's Sonnet, Betjeman's verse or John Donne's love poems and a thousand other works of art are things I would die to protect and preserve, go into battle for. But the attraction of the accountant's ledger, the financial "glories" of the City of London, Silicon Valley or the fate of the Jaguar Rover car plant to name but four leave me cold. They are necessary evils but not things to love or fight for; they might sustain us physically, even put food in our bellies, but they do not nourish us spiritually, emotionally, or mentally; they are not food for our souls.

But back to the film. Pat and I were at the cinema for 11.30 – the film beginning at 1.15pm so just time to eat a delicious lunch in the Broadway Cafe (plus a free cup of tea and 10% off thrown in because today was the weekly “silver screen” showing). “Silver Screen” is a once a week afternoon at Broadway when one can get a cheap seat (£7.00!) plus all the little “extras” – the name says it all, the theatre was filled with oldies silver haired like us!

“The Choral” tells the tale of a provincial Yorkshire choral society in 1916. The town, like all others at the time had lost many of its menfolk, who had gone off to France to fight in the Great War so the choir numbers were dwindling. Even the choirmaster had joined up and they had to find someone else to take on the role. It is a bitter sweet tale as the choir rehearse and eventually perform Elgar's "Dream of Gerontius" whilst individually and collectively they face up to the realities of 1916 war time England: telegrams informing wives and mothers of the death of their loved ones, anti-German feeling, propaganda, local rivalries (social, emotional and political), deeply held convictions which to our modern eyes might seem old fashioned but in those days were only too real and important. As always with Alan Bennett it is filled with beautifully observed human moments, droll Yorkshire humour and acutely observed political and social commentary. It is Bennett at his best. The last words spoken in the film are arrow like and classic Alan Bennett. In those last few moments we see a train leaving the station filled with newly enlisted young men going off to France and being waved off by their loved ones. Someone shouts “Don’t worry lads, you’ll be home by Christmas’ (if ever there can be a more fatuous, sad and wrong forecast surely it is that?). And as the train pulls out one of the tale’s main characters, Mr Duxbury who owns the mill where all the town folk work and whose money keeps the choir going shakes his head sadly. His own son had gone off to war in 1914 and didn’t return and Mr Duxbury reflects, wryly and angrily, that when his son Arnold went off to France, and the war was “new” there were brass bands, a bishop, and the Lord Mayor on the platform to send the young men off. But today, three years into the war, there were no brass bands, no Lord Mayor and ”even the bloody curate didn’t turn up.” And the train disappears into the distance, three young choir members leaning out of the window waving to their loved ones, leaving us to ponder if they will return. The greatest of the Great War poets, Wilfred Owen, would have understood Mr Duxbury's words and all that they conveyed both spoken and unspoken; it was what Owen termed so sorrowfully and eloquently "the pity of war". And that was why the film is more than just a nice story, it deals with the important things of life: death, life, love, regret, hate, fear, joy, sorrow, honour, truth, lies, hopes, dreams, goodness, and all the other things that separate mankind from the animal kingdom and make us human.

But for me there were other little touches that made it all so real and poignant: Bennett’s beautiful use of language, all with a Yorkshire accent – this was 1916 Yorkshire Shakespeare - it was a joy as was the acting. This was the cream of the English theatre at the top of their game, doing something that brash, shallow, Hollywood could never equal; it could never reach the emotional depths in the manner that Bennet and this wonderful cast does. And one point out of many that chimed and brought a small tear to my eye was when the choirmaster visited the local convalescent home where wounded soldiers were patients. He was trying to enlist men with good voices for the choir and as he walked into the ward the men where all wearing their “blues” – the blue uniforms that wounded men had to wear when they were recovering to show that they were not deserters. I have photographs of my grandad and great uncle wearing their blues in 1916 when they were injured on the Somme. It was a poignant moment and very touching detail.

If you get the chance to see “The Choral” take the opportunity. As always with Alan Bennett it’s a jolly good story to simply sit back and enjoy, but its more, much more. It’s about people and what is important to make us what we are as human beings. It should be made compulsory viewing in the ivory towers of Nottingham University, in every other Philistine university senior common room, and in the corridors of power in London. And, I would add, Goethe's great words and Wilfred Owen's biting critique of war and those who would make war in his poem "Dulce et Decorum est" should be inscribed on the wall of every classroom, university and public building in the country.

Decency, Ethical Action & the Common Good in Donald Trump's Morally Bankrupt Anomic Wasteland

In these years of populist politics and of power mad men and their mindless rabble rousing followers stamping their jack boots on the face of humanity we are witnessing a breakdown in the once accepted accepted standards of decency, democracy and integrity. Whether it be Trump, Netanyahu, Putin on the world stage, or Farage, Tommy Robinson, the Reform Party and great swathes of the old Tory Party in the UK (and, sadly, many who should know better in the English Labour Party) the big political questions being asked are no longer whether this policy or that initiative is good, decent, worthy, morally right or even just – the only question asked and criterion for action is “Will it get us what we want?”; the world is turning its back upon integrity and ethical action in favour of zero sum politics where the end justifies the means. That is what underpins all Trump’s “deals” - whether they be in Gaza, Ukraine or in the USA with his attacks on various groups, his side lining of the American Constitution and the US justice system and his abandonment of not only the accepted norms of political and social behaviour but also the common good. And we in the UK are well along the same path; "Does it get me what I want", not "Is it right or is it wrong" has become the solipsistic question to ask in contemporary society, commerce and politics. It is the route to a society rapidly losing its moral compass and dissolving into an anomic wasteland.

For many, like me there is a deep sense that all is not well with our world and I have found myself increasingly turning to the writing of the late Tony Judt – historian, political scientist, political philosopher - for both solace and understanding; his books not only trace how easily we can get to this point but give us signposts as to the sort of world that we should be aiming for.

Judt died in 2010. In 2008, he began to suffer from aggressive amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. He soon became paralysed from the neck down and died in August 2010 aged 62. Born in London to a Jewish family he was regarded as one of the brightest of his generation and became internationally known as an expert in 20th century European history and from the 1990s served as the Director of the Erich Maria Remarque Institute Professor and European Studies at New York University. The Remarque Institute focuses its research on Europe and the contemporary world. It was founded in 1995 and named after the German writer Erich Maria Remarque. His widow made a $20 million donation to NYU. Its aims being "to support and promote the study and debate on Europe, and to encourage and facilitate communication between Americans and Europeans". Erich Maria Remarque was the author of the great German1st World War novel "All Quiet on the Western Front", published in 1928 which was strongly anti-war. Remarque was hounded by Hitler as anti-German and forced to flee Germany. He became a naturalised American citizen.

I have most of Judt’s wonderful books on my shelves; they are not just informative history books but inspiring and thought provoking analyses of political events, movements and, above all, ideas and one of them, Judt's "Ill fares the land", is one I return to again and again. It's a thin volume that can be read in a couple of nights but for me and many of my generation and viewpoint it "speaks" - its sub heading is "A treatise on our present discontents" - which says it all. The title of the book is a quote from Oliver Goldsmith’s 18th century poem “The deserted village”, a biting commentary on the great inequalities of his day: ".....Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay......."

In October 2010 Tony Judt gave his last public lecture. In that lecture (click on the video link below) he covers many of the points and issues that one can read about in “Ill fares the land”. Judt’s last lecture was his greatest gift to us. For almost 2 hours he sketches, details and gives voice what many like me feel. He was only a few months from his own death, paralysed from the neck down and having to breath with the help of a machine. Incredibly, he spoke without notes. His words are and must be a clarion call to all right thinking people across the western world.

Judt died before the advent of Trump and the other right wing/populist/fascist rabble rousers that are now in ascendancy in our capitals and on the streets of the western world and other places across the planet; he would be horrified at what we have allowed to happen. Sadly he is not here to guide us, but his words and this lecture remain; we should heed what he says. This video should be broadcast across every public building and his little book “Ill fares the land” on the shelves of every library, every school, every university and every government facility – because it speaks of decency, ethical action, society's moral compass and the common good.

Poor Law to NHS: "Dreaming of things that never were".

Occasionality – and sometimes unexpectedly - one comes across something which really grabs your attention, that perhaps thrills you or, to coin a phrase “makes your day”. I’ve had such an occurrence in the past 24 hours.

In the years leading up to and since my retirement two decades ago I have slowly built up an extensive library – my office shelves strain under the weight of hundreds of books; philosophy, politics, history, society……. many of the great works of the world’s learning and fiction. And over the years I have read almost every one (many of them several times) – the only outstanding ones being my most recent purchases, all waiting for me to open their covers. And yesterday I began reading one of my latest acquisitions, a book given to me by my daughter Kate on my 80th birthday a few months ago because, as she said at the time, "I think it might appeal to you”. How right she was.

From the minute I read the first couple of pages I was hooked.

Kate had come across the book almost by accident - it was written by the father of one of her friends in Manchester where Kate lives. It is called “Park Hospital Davyhulme: Birthplace of the NHS” by Edmund Hoare & Michael Billington and it tells the story of that Manchester hospital from before its setting up and up to the present day.

The hospital in question is not famous as one of the great hospitals of the land: Barts, King’s College, Papworth, the John Radcliffe, or Great Ormond Street to name but a few. Indeed it is, many might say, just an ordinary, everyday provincial hospital like so many others throughout the country. But that would be doing it a great disservice for it is anything but ordinary and everyday – it has a unique history and that history is part of the very fabric of the nation’s social, political, and medical landscape; in short it is about us as a people, it is part of our cultural heritage.

Park Hospital began its life in the late 1920s when it was the last hospital to be built in this country as a result of the ancient (dating back to Tudor times) Poor Laws - indeed its concept and establishment was under the supervision of the local Poor Law Guardians. During the war it became a military hospital for troops from the UK, France and America and then shortly after the War it became an NHS hospital. Some might say this was its finest hour when on July 5th 1948 the Park Hospital was chosen to be the place where the new NHS was launched. On that day the great founder of the NHS, Nye Bevan, came with other dignitaries to the Park to officially launch the NHS – and in doing so changed this country for ever and for the better. Today, as Trafford General Hospital, it would be quite unrecognisable to that which opened in 1929 as Park Hospital, born out of the ancient Poor Law but that is a testament to the endeavour, commitment, ideals, far sightedness and altruism of so many for almost a century and up to the present day.

The book is the story of this hospital and its unique and great history and its contribution to the locality and the wider nation. It is full of anecdotes, interesting details, memories, documents and all manner of resources written by people who experienced both the everyday, humdrum moments in the life of the hospital but also its finest moments when it became a beacon in the life of the nation. Filled with pictures, facts and lively commentary it is not a dry and dusty history book but a volume that oozes life and passion. And for me, it makes me proud of what this country can and did do in our long history - even in the most trying of times. It’s not about battles won or kings being crowned or flags being mindlessly waved in faux patriotic pride but about ordinary people who, in the times that they lived – whether it was in the dark days of the Poor Law, or in the age of the much dreaded workhouse, or in the inspirational days of the infant NHS – did what they could and more to make the world a better place both for themselves and their families and for future generations. It makes real the social contract that binds together successive generations; I pay my taxes to make my own world a better place, but in doing so I am also making things better for those yet to be born for they will be born into a world with the hospitals, schools, roads, parks, public services and the rest that makes their world and their lives better. And I, and others like me, have in a small way helped to provide all that; it is our legacy to those yet to be born - people that we will never know, given freely and with love; a maxim which perhaps sums up the tale told in this wonderful book. I was born in 1945, a child of Attlee and Bevan’s “New Jerusalem”, a child of the NHS and I (and my family) am a direct beneficiary of what my parents’ and grandparents’ generations did in their times. And that is why the book is more than just a nice informative read – it’s about our responsibilities as citizens of today and and our responsibilities to each other both now and to the citizens of the future.

Beautifully written and illustrated it’s a treasure trove of information and comment. It’s a social history and a testament to the ingenuity and ambition of both ordinary people and the great men and women of our nation. On the one hand we live, today, in age of increasing homelessness and deteriorating housing stock, of a constantly under pressure health service, of potholes blighting our roads, of under resourced schools, of growing inequality and all the other ills that contemporary society bears witness; and on the other hand our contemporary politicians of every hue appear timid, lacking both vision and the courage of their convictions to take the necessary ambitious steps to improve things. This book is a timely and important reminder of what can be done if the will is there. It’s not just about Nye Bevan and the birth of the NHS but a testament to people through the ages who, to use President John F Kennedy’s words, knew that “The problems of the world cannot possibly be solved by sceptics or cynics whose horizons are limited by the obvious realities. We need men who can dream of things that never were.” Bevan, Attlee and those involved in the founding of this hospital were such people, but they weren't just dreamers, they dreamt of things that many in their times thought were quite unimaginable and unattainable, and they acted. They were people who made dreams come true - and this lovely book is their testament.

If you get the chance, have a read of this splendid and inspiring book and, like those people of past generations, dream of things that never were.

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.