"A nation of such barbarous temper & mountainish inhumanity"

This week in Gosport in Hampshire - a town with long and proud associations with England's maritime history - crowds including men their faces hidden by black balaclavas as well as children, some still in their school uniform, gathered to demonstrate against the arrival of a group of asylum seekers having been picked up in the English Channel. Chillingly, the chants of “let them drown” were led by a child on a megaphone. This is England in 2026; a place where right wing politicians, rabble rousers, social media extremists and now children can, and do, propose policies and actions that only a few years ago would have been howled down by the general public whatever their political viewpoint or standing. Hatred, resentment, and discontent underpinned by the hint or even threat of violent action are now the default setting of many; one only needs to read posts on social media to witness the truth of that. And all too often this is wrapped up in the cloak of flag waving "patriotism"; a phrase and word that has within it the idea that to be a "patriot" you have to subscribe to that hatred and resentment. Flag waving and "patriotism" rallies "us" around the flag, its intention to bring people of a like mind or background together - be they soldiers in battle or the crowd at a football match or the mob on the street. But in doing so they also separate "us" from "them" - the "others" not of our mind, background, creed or colour be they the enemy on the battle field with their own flag or the supporters of the opposition's team or those on the streets who are not one of "us". In short, it makes manifest the notion that you are either "with us or against us"; there are no grey areas with room for discussion or compromise; it is the deliberate removal of nuance. And in a world where grey areas of compromise and disagreement, nuance, difference of opinion, and other values are absent or removed there lie the seeds of tyranny. The world, and England in particular, are in my view, at a tipping point; increasingly it seems to me battle lines are being drawn, positions taken, threats becoming a reality.

In England in recent weeks we have seen black suited, balacavad men proclaiming their "patriotism" by blocking ports. We have seen increasing skirmishes with the police by those "patriots" claiming to "represent" the views of "ordinary man" or to "protect our women" from "others" - usually the asylum seekers arriving on our shores. We have seen members of the RNLI (Royal National Lifeboat Institution) harrassed and threatened for their "crime" in rescuing refugees and asylum seekers from the English Channel. Each day brings another low in the moral compass of much of the nation. In recent days I have read daily on social media or in the press the latest mad, bad and dangerous utterances of Rupert Lowe, the self proclaimed leader of the Restore Party, and each one plumbs a new depth - things that only a few years ago even the most extreme politician would have viewed as unspeakable let alone propose as "policies". This week he has told his 1.5 million Facebook followers that if elected to government his Restore Party will bring in a policy of mass deportation of immigrants, stop all asylum seekers, dispose of human rights legislation, remove our independent judiciary by putting it under control of Parliament, ensure that only "British history" is taught in schools and that our universities represent British values, bring back the death penalty ..............the list goes on and on - and his followers shout back "Bring it on". And as I noted above, his supporters are quick to threaten and abuse if one expresses concern or disagreement; "if you are not with us you are against us" their motto.

And now, in recent days we have had an event that could only be described as peculiarly English; a tiny village, Piddington, deep in the rich (economically and agriculturally) Oxfordshire countryside has declared itself "independent" from the UK in order to highlight and prevent the planned use of a local Ministry of Defence site to house over a thousand male asylum seekers who are awaiting the processing of their claims for asylum in this country. The site was previously part of the Bicester garrison housing, amongst other things, military personnel. The BBC told us: "Residents of an Oxfordshire village have voted to become independent from the UK in a symbolic referendum held in protest at plans to house more than 1,000 migrants at a former military base. Villagers in Piddington, near Bicester, voted on Tuesday over Home Office proposals to house up to 1,256 male asylum seekers at nearby MoD Bicester. The referendum was organised by the parish council and out of 312 votes cast, 285 voted to leave, 26 voted no, and one ballot paper was spoiled. Delivering the result, parish council vice chair Susannah Parden said: "We are Piddington the village that roars." Parish council chair Tim McNally added: "This is an example of democracy in operation. We went into this village hall as the underdogs - we had a plucky idea. We have given a message to the world."

Mmmm! Whilst I can admire the creative thinking of the village residents and the plan they have put in place and I can well understand their concern that the military base is being used in this way I'm also of the view that this is just another, more genteel variation, of "othering", base patriotism and prejudice cloaked in middle class "niceness". Maybe I'm wrong, and I must confess, if my own village was in some manner "threatened" in the same way I would have huge concerns about the impact on the village and the local community. But in saying that I hope I would also acknowledge the insidious, pernicious and irrational nature of the prejudice I was displaying in my anxious thinking. In short, prejudice and extremism - and by extension "othering" and ultimately racism - feed upon fear, irrationality, a lack of understanding and a consequent shortfall in empathy. And when that happens extreme "patriotism" steps in to fill the void. It is where we are at now in 2026 England and we should be very worried; prejudice, aggressive thought and deeds, and potential tyranny are becoming normalised in the national conversation and civic discourse.

These events do our country no service, they advertise our prejudice and insular nature (as the Brexit vote did) rather than our openness and willingness to understand, to build bridges with others; they are a stain on England as a nation and upon all of us as citizens. But, sadly, they are not new - to coin a phrase, we English "have form" with this sort of thing.

And as I read of these recent events and in the last day or two, witnessed, horrified, the hatred and venom pouring from Rupert Lowe and his "patriots", and thought of the upstanding residents of little Piddington and their quirky declaration of independence three words came into my mind. Three words, long forgotten, unthought of for almost a lifetime, three words: "The strangers' case". And as soon as they rooted in my subconscious more came tumbling back - at first jumbled, uncertain, nonsensical. But then their message made itself known and was immediately clear and sure in my mind, and above all a powerful sentence from my past crystallised in my consciousness: "This is the strangers’ case; And this your mountainish inhumanity."

Those words took me back to my late teenage years, to a Wednesday afternoon in Blackpool when I was studying at Blackpool Technical College for my A levels to gain entry to teacher training college. Each Wednesday afternoon we teenagers had a break from our formal A level studies (mine being History, Economics and Geography) to follow what was called General Studies. It still had an exam at the end of the two years but its real function was to give us callow youngsters some broadening of our understanding of the wider world we were growing up into. There were half term units on politics, media studies, art and music history, philosophy, scientific development and a myriad of other dips into mankind's development; each unit was, to me, magical, opening up interests and avenues that have stayed with me throughout my life. Each unit was led by different members of staff and all of these wonderful teachers had the capacity to light fires in our young minds; one however, I remember in particular with great respect and fondness. Dr Proudfoot was an elderly, tall, thin man with short cropped grey hair and of slightly unkempt appearance, often looking as if he had just come in from a little gardening; heavy cord trousers, crumpled shirt with aged tie, tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, and thin wire framed glasses perched on the end of his beak like nose - and what we all most remembered and commented upon were the open toed sandals that he wore whatever the weather. To us youngsters he was a light hearted figure of fun but when he opened his mouth we listened. Quietly spoken, his warm gentle voice had the capacity to encourage everyone to contribute as he opened up unknown worlds to us and to me. And one of the worlds he opened was the world envisioned in "The Strangers' Case" - we studied its words, its background and history and above all its relevance to the world into which we were growing up. He had started the lesson by writing on the blackboard six words: "No Irish, no blacks, no dogs" and asked us what we understood by them. We all recognised them for in the early 1960s it was not unusual to see adverts or signs in house/hotel windows for accommodation that said "No Irish, no blacks, no dogs"- looking back it was the brutal face of racism and prejudice made real. I can still picture that Wednesday afternoon now. A dozen or so of us sitting in the little upstairs room that the college rented in the Jewish Synagogue in Leamington Road and which we General Studies A level students used; all of us intently listening to the thin, gentle, grey haired man who seemed to my teenage eyes (and still today) so knowledgeable and right. A few years later in 1968 as I reached the final months of my teacher training course here in Nottingham I can remember thinking of Dr Proudfoot and that Wednesday afternoon. And the reason for my recalling it in April 1968? - it was when the right wing Conservative politician Enoch Powell gave his hateful and infamous "Rivers of Blood" speech which caused huge uproar then and is still a lightening rod for the hateful racist rhetoric which, as an 81 year old, I am now hearing again from people like Rupert Lowe, his followers and, by association, the polite and genteel people of Piddington who, I believe, would each be horrified to be called an extremist or racist or even just prejudiced.

So, what was "The Strangers' Case", what treasure trove did Dr Proudfoot open for us that Wednesday above the Jewish Synagogue in Blackpool? And why do I bring it up now as relevant and important today in our hate filled 2026?

On May 1, 1517 — since referred to as Evil May Day — xenophobic riots broke out in London in response to an influx of immigrant workers (called "strangers" by the mob) especially Flemish workers and the wealthy foreign merchants and bankers of Lombard Street accusing them of stealing jobs, bringing disease and suffering and "foreign knavery" to England. The mob threw stones, poured boiling water from windows, ran amok through the streets frightening citizens. This sparked panic and the mob looted foreigners' houses in the city. The Duke of Norfolk entered the city with his private army of 1,300 retainers to suppress the riots. By 3 a.m. the riot had died down, and 300 people under arrest were finally released. However, 13 of the rioters were convicted of treason and executed on 4 May 1517. During the riot Thomas More, who was a Sheriff of London at the time, spoke to the rioters to try to calm things down, asking the rioters to imagine themselves in the shoes of the immigrants they were attacking.

Eighty years after the events of 1517, a play called "Sir Thomas More" was written probably by Anthony Munday and Henry Chettle. It wasn't published or performed at the time, because it was censored, the authorities afraid that it might cause more strife. But within the play there is a speech called "The Strangers' Case" made by Thomas More to the rioters. It's almost certain that William Shakespeare wrote it. It makes powerful, thought provoking reading and in my view says much about our English values both then and now. It made absolute sense to me in that room over the Blackpool Synagogue in 1963 when Dr Proudfoot presented it and explained it. It made even more sense in 1968 when I read Enoch Powell's hateful "Rivers of blood" speech and today, in 2026, as I read of Rupert Lowe's hateful rhetoric and and witness the actions of "patriots" blocking ports, threatening lifeboat men and women, posting dreadful hate and racist resentment on social media and hear the residents of Piddington declaring their independence it not only makes sense but tells me much about our English society and our "patriotism". It tells me that the words and actions being used today by "patriots" and rabble rousers like Rupert Lowe are just the same and just as hateful as in 1517; we haven't learned or moved on. And further, all our claims that to be English is to respect people and be fair in thought and deed are dubious at best. But of course in 2026 we are not alone. In Trump's America, the "land of the free" now with its Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents seemingly happy to restrict freedom on a whim, walls between America and Mexico, and deportations and imprisonment a common place the Statue of Liberty's famous wording "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" has a dreadfully hollow ring. The reality is that as nations both we and America have a long history of hate and hateful rhetoric which dog whistle politicians like Lowe and Trump tap into - to further their own ends. We should be ashamed that we have not yet learned the lessons of history nor have we understood the implications and consequences of the path we are allowing to develop; a path that will surely and irrevocably spiral out of control - as it did in 1930s Germany - and where all will suffer. Sir Thomas More understood that in 1517 but we have forgotten and we will bear the consquences when fear and cruelty stalk the land and "mountainish inhumanity" has replaced empathy and kindness and decency and just action and love of our neighbour - whoever he or she might be.

Below are the words of "The Strangers' Case"; Sir Thomas More's words echo across the centuries as he confronts the angry mob not just with the threat of the law, but by asking them to reverse roles. He asks the rioters to show empathy - where they could go he asks them if they were banished from England, forcing them to imagine themselves as helpless refugees in foreign lands facing brutal hostility. And most powerfully the famous lines he ends with and which I remembered after 60 years are a striking condemnation of unthinking cruelty: "What would you think, To be thus used" he asks the rioters "This is the strangers' case, And this your mountainish inhumanity":

Click on the link

to watch the great Shakespearean actor Sir Ian McKellen recite these lines; if you have any sense of decency and justice, and empathetic genes in your body, you will find your heart racing and perhaps the hairs on your neck standing upright.

"The Strangers' Case"

Sir Thomas More

Grant them removed, and grant that this your noise

Hath chid down all the majesty of England;

Imagine that you see the wretched strangers,

Their babies at their backs and their poor luggage,

Plodding to the ports and coasts for transportation,

And that you sit as kings in your desires,

Authority quite silent by your brawl,

And you in ruff of your opinions clothed;

What had you got? I’ll tell you: you had taught

How insolence and strong hand should prevail,

How order should be quelled; and by this pattern

Not one of you should live an aged man,

For other ruffians, as their fancies wrought,

With self same hand, self reasons, and self right,

Would shark on you, and men like ravenous fishes

Would feed on one another.

You’ll put down strangers,

Kill them, cut their throats, possess their houses,

O, desperate as you are,

Wash your foul minds with tears, and those same hands,

That you like rebels lift against the peace,

Lift up for peace, and your unreverent knees, Make them your feet to kneel to be forgiven!

And say now the King,

As he is clement if th’offender mourn,

Should so much come too short of your great trespass

As but to banish you, whither would you go?

What country, by the nature of your error,

Should give you harbour? go you to France or Flanders,

To any German province, to Spain or Portugal,

Nay, any where that not adheres to England,

Why, you must needs be strangers: would you be pleased

To find a nation of such barbarous temper,

That, breaking out in hideous violence,

Would not afford you an abode on earth,

Whet their detested knives against your throats,

Spurn you like dogs, and like as if that God

Owed not nor made not you, nor that the elements

Were not all appropriate to your comforts,

But chartered unto them, what would you think

To be thus used? this is the strangers case;

And this your mountainish inhumanity.

Words to sustain me through tough times......

 In our 2026 world, a world beset with problems and issues that seem overwhelming and perhaps unsolvable it is easy to become disheartened and fearful - I know, because I am increasingly so. Whatever newspaper you read or whatever your core beliefs or principles, whether you are "left" or "right" in your politics, whether you are man or woman, old or young, gay or straight, or whatever your colour or creed the world's problems might appear intractable - and getting worse; in short, the four horsemen of the apocalypse seem to be riding roughshod over us. An escalating climate crisis threatens to end all life on earth; the unstoppable development of AI has the potential to harm civilisation in ways we are yet to understand; war, promoted and sustained by powerful amoral demagogues in Washington, Moscow and Jerusalem all driven by animus and the desire for power and riches has now become almost the new normal; hate rhetoric, prejudice, discrimination and inequality are now endemic in society, in the national press, on social media and fall from the lips of politicians of once great nations who should know better. Looking for good news, it now seems to me is an increasingly fruitless activity.

And on top of these great global issues we all strive to live out our little lives and somehow survive, make the best of the hand of cards we have been dealt, and hope for a better future for our children and grandchildren. It is daunting - sometimes overwhelmingly so.

Faced with all this, I have struggled at a personal level in the last few weeks. A reoccurrence of my debilitating back problems and painful sciatica has meant that I have been severely limited in what I can do physically around the house and this while my lovely wife of 57 years, Patricia, has been slowly recovering from surgery. It has been a tough few weeks for us both and although we are now, hopefully, on the upturn we have both, I think, come to realise how very vulnerable one can easily become. Of course, we are lucky, we have a roof over our heads and sufficient money to potter along nicely - but were that not so, I tremble to think how easily we might have slipped through the cracks and become dependent upon "the state" or other agencies; it has all made me think about those less fortunate than Pat and me. How difficult must be the path that so many tread whether they are in the ruins of war torn Gaza, or trying to survive famine in sub Sahara Africa, or waiting for the next drone attack in Ukraine, or clinging to life amidst the flooded ruins of climate disaster hit Nepal, or, indeed, in the mean streets of our own, often crumbling, cities where access to public services, diminishing social safety nets, and lack of decent affordable housing ensure that hundreds of thousand - perhaps millions - wonder where the next meal or warm bed is coming from. Both globally and individually we all hang onto the web of life, clinging to the thinnest of gossamer threads; for many that thread breaks far too easily and through no fault of their own. Despite the great wealth and wonderful "cleverness" of our modern world our personal world and lives as individuals and as members of societies, nations and all humanity can so very easily come crashing down. In these turbulent times nothing is a given; tomorrow is not guaranteed.

Against this bleak backdrop I have pondered much in recent weeks on a few words that sit on my lap top's screen - easy to see and to remind me of my good fortune during difficult times. The words are words of wisdom - and great humanity - from two people who lived unusual (some might say bizarre) but wonderful lives as man and wife for 49 years.

Vita Sackville-West was an aristocrat, a poet, a novelist, a journalist and a gardener born in 1892 into great wealth and London's high society. She died in 1962, at Sissinghurst in Kent where she and her husband Harold Nicolson had, over many years, laboured long and hard to create one of the world's great gardens. She was friends with the great and good of English society and a member of the famous intellectual group of the late 19th and early 20th centuries known as the Bloomsbury Set: amongst that group were the author Virginia Woolf, the great economist John Maynard Keynes, the world renowned philosopher AJ Ayer, the famous author E.M. Forster, the biographer Lytton Strachey and artists such as Vanessa Bell, Duncan Grant and Roger Fry; members of the Bloomsbury Set were, without doubt, the greatest minds of the age and the intellectual heartbeat of the nation.

Vita's husband, Sir Harold Nicolson, was a high flying diplomat, politician an author, a publisher, and a gardener - a quiet man, reserved perhaps, but a husband who allowed and encouraged his talented and mercurial wife to fulfil her dreams and destiny; to coin a modern phrase he was without fuss or fame "the wind beneath her wings". They married in 1913 in one of the society weddings of the year and he was with her when she died quietly at her beloved Sissinghurst Castle in 1962.

In short, they were (and are) one of the great families of England, inextricably linked with the nation's history. Two of my treasured and well thumbed books that sit here in my office are written by their grandson Adam Nicolson who was born and raised at Sissinghurst: "When God Spoke English" tells the tale of the writing of the King James Bible and "The Mighty Dead" is a magical journey of discovery about the ancient world of Homer. They are both books that should be read if one is to understand both English history and have a context for the ancient world.

But there is another side to the Nicolson/Sackville-West marriage, which makes it unusual and very special. Vita, throughout her life, had a succession of lesbian lovers - including some of the great names of English history and society and Harold, too, had a number of affairs with other men. Although they were guarded about their relationships in the public sphere (for this was a time when when homosexual/lesbian relationships and acts were both frowned upon and illegal) their lifestyle and relationships were very much an open secret. It was, too, an open secret between the two of them; they each tolerated, forgave and understood each other's lifestyle, needs, and predilections. Like all marriages and, indeed, all lives they knew that there had to be give and take, tolerance of the other's point of view, an understanding of the greater good, an awareness of another human's beliefs and frailties if things are going to succeed and benefit all; I think it's called empathy!

And as I write that last sentence I can only conclude that in these bleak times when the world and all humanity is feeling vulnerable, when great ills have the potential to bring our world to a shuddering halt it is is absolutely vital that all of us - each in our own little world - and as nations, creeds, colours, or beliefs show the same understanding and tolerance, the same wisdom and empathy. It is incumbent on those who lead nations - in any capacity - and certainly in the great power houses of the world: Washington, Moscow, London, Paris, Beijing, Berlin - and yes, Jerusalam - take a hard look at themselves and what their actions mean. For if they do not then the world and our little lives will become a whole lot bleaker and from which none of us might survive; for as individuals or a humans as a whole tomorrow is not guaranteed.

So, what do the words of wisdom on my lap top screen say, these things that have, in a small way, sustained me in recent difficult weeks? What do I see first each morning when I boot up my lap top and wince at my back pain and as my lovely wife, Patricia, slowly, and sometimes distressingly recovers from her surgery? They are two small quotes, simple truths, not great intellectual pearls of wisdom but born simply out of the understanding and empathy that Vita and Harold grasped if they were to live their lives together - for the greater good; they are, in my view undeniable, understandable, and above all true and filled with huge empathy.

Vita, although born to wealth and privilege, had a life filled with many personal sorrows and regrets: even those born with a "silver spoon in their mouth" are not free from the basic fears, failings and facts of life that we of lesser stature are; we are all human and to be human is to live with failings, loss, missed opportunities and regret. "Life is just a bowl of cherries" sang Julie Garland seventy years ago - she was wrong; it has its ups and downs, its joys and its sadnesses and Vita Sackville-West, like the rest of us knew that through her own experiences of life. So what did Vita's life experiences tell her and us and why is it on my lap top each morning when I log on. Vita said: "Small pleasures must correct great tragedies". She was not wrong; amid the distress, the sorrows, the fears, the disappointments and the chaos of what is often everyday life it is to the small pleasures, the small acts of kindness, the small attainable goals, the small glimpses that things will get better, the unconditional love and the heart warming smile that keep us grounded, stable, upright, hopeful, afloat, in the face of the storms that life throws at us. And what did her loving husband Harold say? Harold, ever the realist in the face of Vita's often extravagant and sometimes wayward life style, was perhaps more prosaic, based in the world as it is not as he might want it to be. He sagely tells me each morning as my lap top lights up: "The great secret of a successful life and marriage is to treat all disasters as incidents and none of the incidents as disasters". Good advice, I think, for all of us, be we humble or high.

Vita Sackville-West was a woman of great intellect and creative drive which underpinned and made possible her exquisite poetry and prose; it was also inextricably part of the relationships she made and the life that she led; in modern day parlance, she liked to live life on the edge, often challenging or breaking society's mores, values and expectations. Her husband, Harold, was a pragmatist, a man steeped in the inherent caution required to be a successful diplomat, he was the rock upon which their strange "open marriage" was built and remained steadfast for half a century. Together these qualities enabled the pair to not to only create and sustain a successful, if unusual, marriage but to create Sissinghurst, one of the world's very great gardens which is still today enjoyed by thousands of visitors each year; a testament to their enduring love and vision for the future. And in doing so perhaps making real their mutual belief in "small pleasures" and in not treating "incidents" as "disasters" but relegating "disasters" to mere "incidents".

Wise words indeed - and words that we all, whatever our creed or colour, our hopes or our fears, our needs or our beliefs need to think about. And that is why their words look back at me each morning and as I write this piece. Thank you Vita and Harold for keeping me going through some tough weeks.

Butterflies, Balaclavas & Being Human

This afternoon, as the late summer sun blazed down, I dragged out the lawn mower. The long hot and dry summer we have had in the UK has meant that there have been few lawn cuts this year – but recent downpours have forced Mother Nature into action and our garden now resembled a wild meadow. I hadn’t been looking forward to this bit of necessary work because both my lovely wife, Patricia, and I have been struggling of late; Patricia recovering well from surgery and me having had a recurrence of my sciatica which means a very painful few weeks of staggering from one chair or settee to another to gain some respite from the debilitating pain. In short, we two “old codgers” have been both metaphorically and literally clinging on to each other! 

But as the lawn mower leapt into action I suddenly stopped, having almost “run over” two little white butterflies who were resting together on the lawn in front of me. As I looked down on them they suddenly took flight and fluttered, this way and that in perfect unison, around me and about me; whether this was some mating ritual or just the exuberant joy of life in the late summer sun I know not but whatever it was an absolute joy to stand and watch them – momentarily my sciatica  forgotten. I stood for several seconds watching them flit this way and that about me, until at last they disappeared together, still in joyous unison, over my neighbour’s hedge.

It lifted my spirits and as I pressed the start button on the mower brought to mind a few things that seemed to be important about life and about the world. Those two butterflies, their exuberant flight, their joy (presumably) in being together, their wonderful symmetrical flight paths seemed to me, in my low mood, to represent everything good - and perhaps a lesson for mankind in these testing times.

In a world where the most powerful man in the world brings shame upon himself and upon the American people by his actions, words and policies and in a world where so many seem angry and filled with hate for their fellow man and woman maybe we need to be like those butterflies and fly together in joyous unison. In the UK this weekend we have seen hundreds of balaclava wearing men all dressed in black blocking two of England’s main ports - Dover and Portsmouth - in protest against the arrival in the UK of small boats bearing refugees and asylum seekers. In the last week or two we have seen one of England’s major urban areas, Middlesbrough, ripped apart with unrest following the deaths of five young men travelling the wrong way down a road and crashing head on with a police car, killing both officers – again, hatred and law breaking at the root of the event. Like many other countries politics has become more and more divisive and extreme; in the UK (as in other western democracies) right wing political parties promise to curtail many of our laws about equality, race or gender – and millions, in our race to the bottom world, shout “bring it on”. This is the dark and cruel underbelly of 21st century England. Our world, in my view, is in a worrying, no terrifying, place and I worry for my grandchildren - how can they sort this mess? What has gone wrong with human kind?

Hatred and violence are not new. But mankind slowly evolved laws and beliefs that most people subscribed to and which kept things in some kind of check – maybe it was a belief in the common good. But as I look around me now in my 81^st year I am uncertain if many would subscribe to that notion – or be prepared to do whatever is necessary to make it a reality; we have become a selfish, me, me, me society where flying together in exuberant unison like the butterflies has been replaced with individual selfish "I want" lifestyle choices and "beggar my neighbour politics". Few, in 2026 UK would, I believe, readily subscribe the notion of neighbour as described in Jesus’ “Parable of the Good Samaritan” – certainly not those in their black balaclavas at Dover or Portsmouth this weekend or in the right wing political parties of England or the followers of misogynistic and homophobic “influencers” like Andrew Tate, or on the streets and urban wastelands of Middlesbrough and other urban areas of the nation.

And as I pushed my lawn mower I thought back to hot June day almost 30 years ago. Pat and I were in New York and our visit happened to coincide with the annual New York Gay Pride Parade. This was new to us; unknown. So we joined the crowds that Sunday lunchtime on Seventh Avenue and watched, mouths agape, mesmerised, confused, amazed – and loved every minute of the brilliant, bizarre, exuberant spectacle that unfolded before us. It was lovely; outrageous, naughty, fun, and above all full of love. We cheered and we cheered. We watched amazed and in awe at how the NYPD skillfully and quietly “managed” the spectacle as it passed before us; we wouldn’t have missed it for the world and then (as still today) felt the better, more human, for being there, part of something so joyous and bigger than us; two lonely Brits in the turmoil that is New York we felt welcome and at home; two middle aged school teachers amongst this pageant of colour, innuendo, brash eroticism and above all friendship and love. 

But I remembered, too, a darker side to that wonderful occasion. As we stood cheering and laughing a middle aged lady standing beside us turned and in a southern drawl asked if we were from England – she had obviously heard us speaking. We said that we were and she then asked “Do you have this sort of thing in England”. We said yes, but we had never seen a parade like this before to which she sternly replied “It wouldn’t happen in my home in Texas and not on the Lord’s Day. The sheriff and his marshals would use their shot guns on the lot of them”. We didn’t know what to say. We edged away; It seemed then, but even more so now as I look at the world, that her hate is an easy path to follow when “difference” is involved. I get it that this lady found the notion of a gay pride parade alien to her – it was so for us – but how easily this turned to hate and ideas of shotguns worried me. And, further, it worried me that this lady felt she had “Christian values”, she talked of “the Lord’s day” – Mmmm! I wonder what happens when her Christian values collide with the Parable of the Good Samaritan and the shotguns of the Texas sheriff and his marshals? Presumably in this lady’s world had the traveller set upon by bandits and left for dead been gay then the Texan “Good Samaritan” would have had no truck with him and would have “passed by” on the road leaving the injured man to die.

It’s a worrying nonsense and a terrifying future to think about; I’ll stick with the butterflies  and their joyous flight together not the divisive hatred of black suited men wearing hoodies and balaclavas in Dover or Middlesbrough and I’ll say “Not in my name” to Andrew Tate or the Restore Party – or anyone else who comes knocking at my door. That’s not because I’m “brave” or think I’m right but because the path of division and hate that they are offering is, I know, with certainty the path the humankind’s destruction – and not what I want for my grandchildren.

And, as I cleaned my lawn mower and collected the grass cuttings I thought back to another event of the past few days – my mind following its usual tortuous and madcap wanderings from that long gone day at the New York Gay Pride Parade. A couple of nights ago Pat and I watched an exquisite TV programme - one of a series – where the great English classical actress Dame Judi Dench has “afternoon tea” with another great actor or actress. This episode saw the wonderful Judi Dench reminiscing and swapping anecdotes with the equally wonderful Sir Ian McKellen. In the programme Sir Ian talked a little of his life as a gay man and perhaps as a gay (my word) “icon” and campaigner. His is the sort of voice that one can listen to all day and as he spoke his warmth, love, passion and sincerity shone through -a far cry I thought from the abusive, wilfully ignorant and often expletive filled rants that we hear so much of today – on the streets of our cities and even from the mouth of the President of the United States of America.

And Sir Ian read an extract from a book that he treasured; it clearly spoke to him and as I listened it spoke to me. Obviously moved as he read, he had to stop to gather his thoughts, overcome I think by the words and what underpinned them; it was personal to him as a gay man and even to me, a “straight”, grey haired, ex-teacher, and fully paid up member of the “grumpy old mens’ society” its message seemed both right and timeless; it was about our very humanity. The extract  was from a book called “More Tales of the City” by American author Armistead Maupin and is a letter written by “Michael” to his mother telling her that he is gay; its words say all there is to say:

Dear Mama,

I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write. Every time I try to write to you and Papa I realize I'm not saying the things that are in my heart. That would be O.K., if I loved you any less than I do, but you are still my parents and I am still your child. I have friends who think I'm foolish to write this letter. I hope they're wrong. I hope their doubts are based on parents who loved and trusted them less than mine do. I hope especially that you'll see this as an act of love on my part, a sign of my continuing need to share my life with you.

 I wouldn't have written, I guess, if you hadn't told me about your involvement in the Save Our Children campaign. That, more than anything, made it clear that my responsibility was to tell you the truth, that your own child is homosexual, and that I never needed saving from anything except the cruel and ignorant piety of people like Anita Bryant.

I'm sorry, Mama. Not for what I am, but for how you must feel at this moment. I know what that feeling is, for I felt it for most of my life. Revulsion, shame, disbelief - rejection through fear of something I knew, even as a child, was as basic to my nature as the colour of my eyes. No, Mama, I wasn't "recruited." No seasoned homosexual ever served as my mentor. But you know what? I wish someone had. I wish someone older than me and wiser than the people in Orlando had taken me aside and said, "You're all right, kid. You can grow up to be a doctor or a teacher just like anyone else. You're not crazy or sick or evil. You can succeed and be happy and find peace with friends - all kinds of friends - who don't give a damn who you go to bed with. Most of all, though, you can love and be loved, without hating yourself for it." But no one ever said that to me, Mama. I had to find it out on my own, with the help of the city that has become my home.

I know this may be hard for you to believe, but San Francisco is full of men and women, both straight and gay, who don't consider sexuality in measuring the worth of another human being. These aren't radicals or weirdos, Mama. They are shop clerks and bankers and little old ladies and people who nod and smile to you when you meet them on the bus. Their attitude is neither patronizing nor pitying. And their message is so simple: Yes, you are a person. Yes, I like you. Yes, it's all right for you to like me, too. 

I know what you must be thinking now. You're asking yourself: What did we do wrong? How did we let this happen? Which one of us made him that way? I can't answer that, Mama. In the long run, I guess I really don't care. All I know is this: If you and Papa are responsible for the way I am, then I thank you with all my heart, for it's the light and the joy of my life. I know I can't tell you what it is to be gay. But I can tell you what it's not. It's not hiding behind words, Mama. Like family and decency and Christianity. It's not fearing your body, or the pleasures that God made for it. It's not judging your neighbour, except when he's crass or unkind. Being gay has taught me tolerance, compassion and humility. It has shown me the limitless possibilities of living. It has given me people whose passion and kindness and sensitivity have provided a constant source of strength. It has brought me into the family of man, Mama, and I like it here. I like it. 

There's not much else I can say, except that I'm the same Michael you've always known. You just know me better now. I have never consciously done anything to hurt you. I never will. Please don't feel you have to answer this right away. It's enough for me to know that I no longer have to lie to the people who taught me to value the truth.

Mary Ann sends her love. Everything is fine at 28 Barbary Lane.

Your loving son, Michael

Oh, that the black suited balaclava wearing “patriots” on England’s streets or the racist, misogynistic and homophobic influencers of the manosphere or the right wing media or the hateful trolls on social media could use or understand these words and what they convey. Those two little butterflies in their joyous union knew, I’m sure, about being together; they would have understood Michael when he wrote “Yes, you are a person. Yes, I like you. Yes, it's all right for you to like me, too.” – it’s called “being human”. It’s the same humanity that has been important to Pat and me in the last few weeks as we have clung to each other for mutual support and I cannot for the life of me understand  why so many in today’s world wish to abandon this basic human characteristic in favour of division and hate.

The late Archbishop Desmond Tutu knew a thing or two about division and hate having spent his life living and working in South Africa at the time of apartheid and he was clear about what it is to be human: "No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin, or his background, or his beliefs or his religion” he said. "Resentment is like drinking poison and then hoping it will kill your enemies." He went on "A person is a person through other persons,  my humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together." Amen to that; but I do still wonder what has gone so profoundly wrong with modern man that so many prefer hate over love. For me, as my lovely wife and I of 57 years cling together in love and mutual support, I’ll stick with the "togetherness" and joyous unison of the butterflies, the exuberance and love of the Gay Pride Parade and the wisdom and sincerity of Sir Ian McKellen; they seem better options for the future and salvation humankind than black masked hateful “patriots” blocking our ports, the wilfully ignorant sneeringly cruel thugs bringing violence and  death to our cities' streets, or the Texas sheriffs with their shotguns bringing their message of hate to the world and justifying their actions by reciting “Christian values”. No, I will quietly think of the mighty words of poet John Donne speaking across the centuries from his Meditation XVII written in 1624 reminding us that as humans we are all part of the same body: 

"No man is an island,

Entire of itself.

Each is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thine own

Or of thine friend's were.

Each man's death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee."