PLEASE see below a list of the some of my previously published articles, short stories and essays included in this Portfolio. Several of the photos were taken by me so they're copyrighted too. Unless otherwise stated, all other images are courtesy of www.pixabay.com.
Please scroll down to view and read the article(s) of your choice......
"My Highlight of 2017" (a memorable personal experience)
"Beyond Coincidence" (Diana's death foreseen? A metaphysical feature article 2000)
"Kamikaze PM?" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column June-July 2017)
"R.I.P. Democracy?" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column May-June 2017)
"A Prescription for Life?" (February, 2017 essay in response to Daily Mail health feature)
"Home Is Where the Need Is" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column Nov-Dec 2016)
"Come Again?" (a 1993 metaphysical essay that got me into some bother with the BBC in 1995)
"A Plague on the Planet?" (a continually updated 2015 essay with a connection to "Come Again?")
"Jenny's Driving Ambition" (a short metaphysical true story published in 2000)
"Healing On the Air - Part One" (a 2000 metaphysical true short story about my radio work)
"Healing On the Air - Part Two" (another 2000 metaphysical true short story re: my radio work)
"The Shadow of Her Smile" (a short metaphysical true story from 2003)
"A Little Bird Told Me" (a true metaphysical short story about triumph over addiction 2000)
"Here We Go Again!" (lead article: Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column Oct-Nov 2016)
"1066 and All That" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column Oct-Nov 2016)
"No Mention for Us ... Again!" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column Aug-Sept 2016)
"Looking Back 65 Years ~ Festival of Britain 1951" (Torbay Times Column June 2016)
"Is Country Life in England for You?" (tongue-in-cheek magazine article 2003)
"Town Living in England" (tongue-in-cheek magazine article 2003)
"Remembering Spring 1956" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column May 2016)
"Fifty Years On" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column 2016 April)
"Pensioners in Poverty" (Torbay Times Pensioner Platform column 2016)
"It's Your Right - Use It!" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform Column 2015)
"In the Footsteps of the Cathars" (travel magazine article - France 1993)
"Is Barnett Fair?" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column 2014)
"A Christmas Miracle" (a true metaphysical short story 2001)
"Dramatic Arrival" (true metaphysical short story 2001)
"A Sign of the Times?" (feature article 2011)
"Honeymoon in Hollywood" (travel magazine article 2007)
"If You Can't Beat 'Em..." (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column 2013)
"On the Elgar Trail" (travel magazine article 1998)
"Hampshire ~ England's Jane Austen County" (travel magazine article 2003)
"Thomas Hardy ~ the Wessex Wordsmith" (travel magazine article 2002)
"Lies, Damn Lies..." (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column 2015)
"Dystonia? No, It's not a Baltic State!" (health feature article 2015)
"Die Casts to Die For" (magazine article 1999)
"Music to Our Ears?" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column 2015)
"A Mother's Feline Friends" (a true metaphysical short story 1997*)
"Going Home" (a sequel to the above* true metaphysical short story 1997)
"The Name's Haymes" (CD review 2015)
"A Sane Scientist Speaks" (feature article 2013)
Please scroll down to view and read the article(s) of your choice....
Please scroll down to view and read the article(s) of your choice......
"My Highlight of 2017" (a memorable personal experience)
"Beyond Coincidence" (Diana's death foreseen? A metaphysical feature article 2000)
"Kamikaze PM?" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column June-July 2017)
"R.I.P. Democracy?" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column May-June 2017)
"A Prescription for Life?" (February, 2017 essay in response to Daily Mail health feature)
"Home Is Where the Need Is" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column Nov-Dec 2016)
"Come Again?" (a 1993 metaphysical essay that got me into some bother with the BBC in 1995)
"A Plague on the Planet?" (a continually updated 2015 essay with a connection to "Come Again?")
"Jenny's Driving Ambition" (a short metaphysical true story published in 2000)
"Healing On the Air - Part One" (a 2000 metaphysical true short story about my radio work)
"Healing On the Air - Part Two" (another 2000 metaphysical true short story re: my radio work)
"The Shadow of Her Smile" (a short metaphysical true story from 2003)
"A Little Bird Told Me" (a true metaphysical short story about triumph over addiction 2000)
"Here We Go Again!" (lead article: Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column Oct-Nov 2016)
"1066 and All That" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column Oct-Nov 2016)
"No Mention for Us ... Again!" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column Aug-Sept 2016)
"Looking Back 65 Years ~ Festival of Britain 1951" (Torbay Times Column June 2016)
"Is Country Life in England for You?" (tongue-in-cheek magazine article 2003)
"Town Living in England" (tongue-in-cheek magazine article 2003)
"Remembering Spring 1956" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column May 2016)
"Fifty Years On" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column 2016 April)
"Pensioners in Poverty" (Torbay Times Pensioner Platform column 2016)
"It's Your Right - Use It!" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform Column 2015)
"In the Footsteps of the Cathars" (travel magazine article - France 1993)
"Is Barnett Fair?" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column 2014)
"A Christmas Miracle" (a true metaphysical short story 2001)
"Dramatic Arrival" (true metaphysical short story 2001)
"A Sign of the Times?" (feature article 2011)
"Honeymoon in Hollywood" (travel magazine article 2007)
"If You Can't Beat 'Em..." (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column 2013)
"On the Elgar Trail" (travel magazine article 1998)
"Hampshire ~ England's Jane Austen County" (travel magazine article 2003)
"Thomas Hardy ~ the Wessex Wordsmith" (travel magazine article 2002)
"Lies, Damn Lies..." (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column 2015)
"Dystonia? No, It's not a Baltic State!" (health feature article 2015)
"Die Casts to Die For" (magazine article 1999)
"Music to Our Ears?" (Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column 2015)
"A Mother's Feline Friends" (a true metaphysical short story 1997*)
"Going Home" (a sequel to the above* true metaphysical short story 1997)
"The Name's Haymes" (CD review 2015)
"A Sane Scientist Speaks" (feature article 2013)
Please scroll down to view and read the article(s) of your choice....
MY HIGHLIGHT OF 2017
FUNNY how a casual remark on social media can lead to a memorable occasion.
Late in the summer of 2017, I was Followed on Twitter by a Dr Marie-Helene who turned out to be a specialist in the field of neurotoxin treatment for Parkinson’s Disease, MS and other progressive neurological conditions. I’m partially disabled by a severe Parkinson’s-like Dystonic Tremor affecting my hands, arms, head and upper body, so I returned Dr Marie-Helene’s Follow and sent her a private Twitter message telling her about my neurotoxin treatment from 2010. Unfortunately, the quarterly injections I’d had in my neck muscles from 2010 onwards failed to reduce my head tremor, in fact over time all my tremor symptoms have deteriorated markedly. However, I have remained accepting of that fact and I told Dr Marie-Helene so. I also included in my message to her a link to my first Dystonia David YouTube video titled “Dystonia? It’s Not a Baltic State”.
A few days later, Dr Marie-Helene replied to my private message to say she had watched all three of my Dystonia David YouTube clips which she’d found informative and entertaining. She then went-on to tell me she’s the Chair of the British Neurotoxin Network, and she thought I would make an ideal after dinner guest speaker at the Network’s up-coming annual conference in Oxford on September 21, 2017. Dr Marie-Helene then apologised for not being able to offer me a fee, but confirmed that my travelling expenses would be refunded and overnight accommodation for my wife Jenny and I would be provided. How could I refuse? I accepted Dr Marie-Helen’s kind invitation straight away.
Soon after that, I received in the post, the details of the event and, much to my surprise, I discovered the dinner and my after-dinner talk was to be held in the grand dining hall of Oxford University’s world famous Magdalene College.
Jenny and I motored up from Torbay to Oxford on Thursday September 21, where we were shown to our comfortable apartment in the Magdalene College grounds. By then, I had already settled on the subject of my after-dinner talk, which I’d titled “Has David Got a Proper Job Yet?” This echoed a remark my older brother had made to our mother in the early 1980s, just before I broke into radio at the BBC. At that time, I was working as a full-time disc jockey running my own moderately successful roadshow, but I hadn’t embarked on my print media career. That was to follow a few years later.
The plan was to make my talk a mainly a light-hearted look back at how I’d made the rather convoluted transition from lowly civil servant and semi-pro musician, to disc jockey, to freelance radio producer-presenter; to freelance music and showbiz columnist, feature writer, photo journalist and, eventually, independent author. At the same time, I’d decided not to dwell too much on my Dystonic Tremor but, instead, I would mention it from time-to-time as the need arose.
The first thing I noticed as we gathered in the Magdalene College dining hall was the predominantly candle-lit environment. It looked and felt magical, and just the right atmosphere for an enjoyable experience. Indeed, the four course meal accompanied by white and red wines was delicious. I had one small glass of each, plus lots of mineral water and, by the time I was introduced to centre stage, I was relaxed and ready to tell my story.
Late in the summer of 2017, I was Followed on Twitter by a Dr Marie-Helene who turned out to be a specialist in the field of neurotoxin treatment for Parkinson’s Disease, MS and other progressive neurological conditions. I’m partially disabled by a severe Parkinson’s-like Dystonic Tremor affecting my hands, arms, head and upper body, so I returned Dr Marie-Helene’s Follow and sent her a private Twitter message telling her about my neurotoxin treatment from 2010. Unfortunately, the quarterly injections I’d had in my neck muscles from 2010 onwards failed to reduce my head tremor, in fact over time all my tremor symptoms have deteriorated markedly. However, I have remained accepting of that fact and I told Dr Marie-Helene so. I also included in my message to her a link to my first Dystonia David YouTube video titled “Dystonia? It’s Not a Baltic State”.
A few days later, Dr Marie-Helene replied to my private message to say she had watched all three of my Dystonia David YouTube clips which she’d found informative and entertaining. She then went-on to tell me she’s the Chair of the British Neurotoxin Network, and she thought I would make an ideal after dinner guest speaker at the Network’s up-coming annual conference in Oxford on September 21, 2017. Dr Marie-Helene then apologised for not being able to offer me a fee, but confirmed that my travelling expenses would be refunded and overnight accommodation for my wife Jenny and I would be provided. How could I refuse? I accepted Dr Marie-Helen’s kind invitation straight away.
Soon after that, I received in the post, the details of the event and, much to my surprise, I discovered the dinner and my after-dinner talk was to be held in the grand dining hall of Oxford University’s world famous Magdalene College.
Jenny and I motored up from Torbay to Oxford on Thursday September 21, where we were shown to our comfortable apartment in the Magdalene College grounds. By then, I had already settled on the subject of my after-dinner talk, which I’d titled “Has David Got a Proper Job Yet?” This echoed a remark my older brother had made to our mother in the early 1980s, just before I broke into radio at the BBC. At that time, I was working as a full-time disc jockey running my own moderately successful roadshow, but I hadn’t embarked on my print media career. That was to follow a few years later.
The plan was to make my talk a mainly a light-hearted look back at how I’d made the rather convoluted transition from lowly civil servant and semi-pro musician, to disc jockey, to freelance radio producer-presenter; to freelance music and showbiz columnist, feature writer, photo journalist and, eventually, independent author. At the same time, I’d decided not to dwell too much on my Dystonic Tremor but, instead, I would mention it from time-to-time as the need arose.
The first thing I noticed as we gathered in the Magdalene College dining hall was the predominantly candle-lit environment. It looked and felt magical, and just the right atmosphere for an enjoyable experience. Indeed, the four course meal accompanied by white and red wines was delicious. I had one small glass of each, plus lots of mineral water and, by the time I was introduced to centre stage, I was relaxed and ready to tell my story.
My audience comprised approximately one hundred medical professionals, all of whom were specialists in the field of neurotoxin treatment. Consequently, I felt it would be best for me to open with a jokey, ice breaker remark, rather than launch straight into my “Has David Got a Proper Job Yet?” talk. So, I thanked everyone for their welcome and then I took a few silent moments to look around the magnificent setting.
I could almost touch the hushed anticipation in front of me, so it was then I added, “Actually, I feel a bit of a fraud standing here in such hallowed surroundings. Here I am, about to give an after dinner talk in the world famous Magdalene College dining hall to an esteemed gathering of medical professionals, but I’m beginning to wonder if I’m academically entitled to do so. You see, I failed my eleven plus exam in 1957, and then went-on to fail all five of the GCE ‘O’ Levels I took in 1963. So, you could say my academic achievements amount to a nice round figure … zero!” This opening gambit was greeted by an encouraging chuckle around the room and I sensed that all those present had immediately warmed to my words.
From there, I explained the origins of “Has David Got a Proper Job Yet?” which drew even more approving laughter, so the tone for my talk had been well and truly set. As intended, over the next half an hour, I spoke about my track record from civil servant to independent author and all the milestones in between. Along the way, I dropped-in the occasional tongue-in-cheek music or radio business anecdote, plus – every now and then – a mention for my Dystonic Tremor experience.
In conclusion I began by saying, “Okay, I may not be able to play my guitars any more but, hey, I can still shake a mean tambourine without even trying!” More laughter ensued, and it then seemed appropriate to finish-off with, “So, I think it’s safe to say that, while Dystonia has a habit of attacking numerous parts of the body, it doesn’t – thank goodness – attack the sense of humour.”
In all sincerity, the sustained and noisy round of applause I received at the end of my talk was both unexpected and overwhelming. Indeed, over breakfast the following morning, I lost count of the number of specialists who came over to congratulate me again on my entertaining after dinner performance.
Without doubt, my trip to Magdalene College with Jenny on September 21 and 22 proved to be the highlight of my 2017.
I could almost touch the hushed anticipation in front of me, so it was then I added, “Actually, I feel a bit of a fraud standing here in such hallowed surroundings. Here I am, about to give an after dinner talk in the world famous Magdalene College dining hall to an esteemed gathering of medical professionals, but I’m beginning to wonder if I’m academically entitled to do so. You see, I failed my eleven plus exam in 1957, and then went-on to fail all five of the GCE ‘O’ Levels I took in 1963. So, you could say my academic achievements amount to a nice round figure … zero!” This opening gambit was greeted by an encouraging chuckle around the room and I sensed that all those present had immediately warmed to my words.
From there, I explained the origins of “Has David Got a Proper Job Yet?” which drew even more approving laughter, so the tone for my talk had been well and truly set. As intended, over the next half an hour, I spoke about my track record from civil servant to independent author and all the milestones in between. Along the way, I dropped-in the occasional tongue-in-cheek music or radio business anecdote, plus – every now and then – a mention for my Dystonic Tremor experience.
In conclusion I began by saying, “Okay, I may not be able to play my guitars any more but, hey, I can still shake a mean tambourine without even trying!” More laughter ensued, and it then seemed appropriate to finish-off with, “So, I think it’s safe to say that, while Dystonia has a habit of attacking numerous parts of the body, it doesn’t – thank goodness – attack the sense of humour.”
In all sincerity, the sustained and noisy round of applause I received at the end of my talk was both unexpected and overwhelming. Indeed, over breakfast the following morning, I lost count of the number of specialists who came over to congratulate me again on my entertaining after dinner performance.
Without doubt, my trip to Magdalene College with Jenny on September 21 and 22 proved to be the highlight of my 2017.
BEYOND COINCIDENCE (Diana's death foreseen?)
WHY ME? I wish I knew. All I do know is I have experienced a significant number of very unusual events in my life and, as a writer, I have felt compelled to go pubic with several of them. This article from 2000 went-on to be published in paranormal journals in Britain and overseas. I am posting it on this website on the eve of the twentienth anniversary of the death of Diana Princess of Wales. I hope you find it interesting:-
ALMOST inevitably some of my fellow writers and broadcasters will scoff at what they are about to read in the following paragraphs, and most of them will dismiss the event as mere coincidence. No doubt, there will also be a few who will question my sanity, and call for my incarceration in the nearest mental institution. Such is life in the early twenty-first century.
But then, the truth is often brutal and difficult to digest, and sometimes the truth flies in the face of popular ... or should that be populist? ... opinion. However, it is my contention that the truth should never be compromised or withheld, and so I offer-up the contents of this simple essay as a sane, honest and factual account of an extraordinary human experience.
In the years following the death of Diana, Princess of Wales, we have been bombarded with billions of words, and endless visual images covering the aftermath of the incident itself. Furthermore, as if to mimic a long, drawn-out soap opera story-line, we have been entreated to all manner of books, magazines, documentaries and news items apportioning blame for the collision in that Paris under-pass. Indeed, some articles have even contained conspiracy theories ranging from the vaguely plausible to the downright ridiculous. And still they keep coming!
To the best of my knowledge, though, none of the articles or theories have touched upon what I am about to share with you here. But please remember: what you are about to read is nothing more sinister than the truth, as perceived by one very ordinary guy, who just happens to be a freelance broadcaster, writer and independent author.
On the night of August 28-29, 1997 I had a dream. The images in that dream left me with a great burden that I was unable to resolve, until some forty-eight hours later. It was then I realised I had experienced something that has happened to me on a number of occasions over the past forty years or so. I had witnessed - whilst asleep - the impression of a significant historical event before it occurred. Such experiences are, I am led to believe, commonly known as precognitive dreams.
It all began with me sitting in a stationery vehicle in the middle of an unidentified road at night. From behind me, I could hear the sound of motor car engines approaching at great speed and, instinctively, I knew an almighty collision was about to take place. As I gripped the steering wheel of my vehicle, and hunched my shoulders in anticipation of a severe impact, a large dark-coloured saloon hurtled past my left hand side: its engine screaming with acceleration.
Simultaneously, a smaller light-coloured motor car raced past my right hand side, travelling in the same direction. Almost immediately afterwards there was a terrible crash ahead of me, and I ducked instinctively. As I looked-up, I could see a heap of twisted metal some twenty yards forward of my position, and I remember being overwhelmed by a sense of relief at having escaped an otherwise life-threatening situation.
Within a few seconds, however, my relief turned to fear again, as I became aware that the whole sequence was about to re-run. Moreover, I was convinced I was going to find myself, second time around, caught-up in the wreckage. So, once more, I held on tight and hunched my shoulders, as the motor car engines screamed from behind me. To my astonishment, though, I witnessed an identical replay of the earlier sequence. Separated by milliseconds, the two motor cars sped past my left and right hand sides respectively, only to be followed by the sickening sound of metal, glass, rubber and plastic being mangled to a pulp in a hideous collision.
As I focused on the heap of debris ahead of me, a number of motor cyclists arrived on the scene. Curiously, several of them appeared to be wearing brilliant white helmets, and close-fitting white leathers from neck to foot. They all dismounted, and quickly descended on the remains of the dark coloured motor car, where they began to assist in the recovery of the vehicle’s occupants. In that moment, the dream ended, and I awoke with a deep sense of foreboding, but no clues as to the dream’s location or timing.
For a few minutes I wrestled with the enormity of what I had witnessed, but the heaviness gradually lifted and it was replaced by a vaguely familiar sensation of peace and calm. Several more minutes elapsed and, at last, I realised the tranquility I was experiencing had its roots in the dream itself. Indeed, that very same feeling of peace and calm had washed over me at the very same moment the white-clad motor cyclists made their entrance in the dream sequence.
There is no doubt in my mind that the events I observed in the dream foreshadowed – by approximately forty-eight hours – the fatal collision in that Paris under-pass that claimed the lives of Princess Diana, Dodi Fayed and their chauffeur. But what are we to make of the white-clad motor cyclists? I have given much thought to that particular element of the dream, and I cannot escape the powerful impression that those figures dressed in white were from another dimension: charged with the responsibility of assisting in the release of the three who died.
I’ll resist the temptation of speculating further on the presence of those mysterious motor-cyclists. Instead, I will leave it to you to make-up your own mind as to their origins and purpose. Who knows, you may arrive at the same conclusions as myself?
Meanwhile, given the nature of my chosen profession, some of you will understand my reluctance, until now, to make public such a deeply personal and extraordinary experience. After all, the media is awash with bigots and skeptics, who, it seems to me, take great pleasure in mocking anything that doesn’t conform to their rigid, myopic, material-physical perception of the world.
Goodness knows what those same people would make of the precognitive dream I had the night before the Hillsborough disaster; not to mention other dreams clearly related to the tragic events in Tiananmen Square and those in New York on September 11, 2001.
But they are altogether different stories, perhaps meant for another day. In the meantime, I have no reservations in claiming that such truths ... such genuine human experiences ... cry out to be shared and explored, so that we might begin to understand more fully the intricacies of this strange, waking dream we call life.
=================
Afterword: On the day of Princess Diana's funeral (Saturday September 6, 1997), I produced and presented a 'live' two hour, music-based retrospective for Mike Hapgood, the Managing Editor at BBC Radios Bristol and Somerset Sound. Mike told me afterwards that he'd "tuned-in with the intention of listening to the first few minutes of the programme, but ended-up listening to the whole two hours." Musically speaking, I opened the programme with Tony Bennett's recording of "The Shadow of Your Smile" which, somehow, seemed fitting.
ALMOST inevitably some of my fellow writers and broadcasters will scoff at what they are about to read in the following paragraphs, and most of them will dismiss the event as mere coincidence. No doubt, there will also be a few who will question my sanity, and call for my incarceration in the nearest mental institution. Such is life in the early twenty-first century.
But then, the truth is often brutal and difficult to digest, and sometimes the truth flies in the face of popular ... or should that be populist? ... opinion. However, it is my contention that the truth should never be compromised or withheld, and so I offer-up the contents of this simple essay as a sane, honest and factual account of an extraordinary human experience.
In the years following the death of Diana, Princess of Wales, we have been bombarded with billions of words, and endless visual images covering the aftermath of the incident itself. Furthermore, as if to mimic a long, drawn-out soap opera story-line, we have been entreated to all manner of books, magazines, documentaries and news items apportioning blame for the collision in that Paris under-pass. Indeed, some articles have even contained conspiracy theories ranging from the vaguely plausible to the downright ridiculous. And still they keep coming!
To the best of my knowledge, though, none of the articles or theories have touched upon what I am about to share with you here. But please remember: what you are about to read is nothing more sinister than the truth, as perceived by one very ordinary guy, who just happens to be a freelance broadcaster, writer and independent author.
On the night of August 28-29, 1997 I had a dream. The images in that dream left me with a great burden that I was unable to resolve, until some forty-eight hours later. It was then I realised I had experienced something that has happened to me on a number of occasions over the past forty years or so. I had witnessed - whilst asleep - the impression of a significant historical event before it occurred. Such experiences are, I am led to believe, commonly known as precognitive dreams.
It all began with me sitting in a stationery vehicle in the middle of an unidentified road at night. From behind me, I could hear the sound of motor car engines approaching at great speed and, instinctively, I knew an almighty collision was about to take place. As I gripped the steering wheel of my vehicle, and hunched my shoulders in anticipation of a severe impact, a large dark-coloured saloon hurtled past my left hand side: its engine screaming with acceleration.
Simultaneously, a smaller light-coloured motor car raced past my right hand side, travelling in the same direction. Almost immediately afterwards there was a terrible crash ahead of me, and I ducked instinctively. As I looked-up, I could see a heap of twisted metal some twenty yards forward of my position, and I remember being overwhelmed by a sense of relief at having escaped an otherwise life-threatening situation.
Within a few seconds, however, my relief turned to fear again, as I became aware that the whole sequence was about to re-run. Moreover, I was convinced I was going to find myself, second time around, caught-up in the wreckage. So, once more, I held on tight and hunched my shoulders, as the motor car engines screamed from behind me. To my astonishment, though, I witnessed an identical replay of the earlier sequence. Separated by milliseconds, the two motor cars sped past my left and right hand sides respectively, only to be followed by the sickening sound of metal, glass, rubber and plastic being mangled to a pulp in a hideous collision.
As I focused on the heap of debris ahead of me, a number of motor cyclists arrived on the scene. Curiously, several of them appeared to be wearing brilliant white helmets, and close-fitting white leathers from neck to foot. They all dismounted, and quickly descended on the remains of the dark coloured motor car, where they began to assist in the recovery of the vehicle’s occupants. In that moment, the dream ended, and I awoke with a deep sense of foreboding, but no clues as to the dream’s location or timing.
For a few minutes I wrestled with the enormity of what I had witnessed, but the heaviness gradually lifted and it was replaced by a vaguely familiar sensation of peace and calm. Several more minutes elapsed and, at last, I realised the tranquility I was experiencing had its roots in the dream itself. Indeed, that very same feeling of peace and calm had washed over me at the very same moment the white-clad motor cyclists made their entrance in the dream sequence.
There is no doubt in my mind that the events I observed in the dream foreshadowed – by approximately forty-eight hours – the fatal collision in that Paris under-pass that claimed the lives of Princess Diana, Dodi Fayed and their chauffeur. But what are we to make of the white-clad motor cyclists? I have given much thought to that particular element of the dream, and I cannot escape the powerful impression that those figures dressed in white were from another dimension: charged with the responsibility of assisting in the release of the three who died.
I’ll resist the temptation of speculating further on the presence of those mysterious motor-cyclists. Instead, I will leave it to you to make-up your own mind as to their origins and purpose. Who knows, you may arrive at the same conclusions as myself?
Meanwhile, given the nature of my chosen profession, some of you will understand my reluctance, until now, to make public such a deeply personal and extraordinary experience. After all, the media is awash with bigots and skeptics, who, it seems to me, take great pleasure in mocking anything that doesn’t conform to their rigid, myopic, material-physical perception of the world.
Goodness knows what those same people would make of the precognitive dream I had the night before the Hillsborough disaster; not to mention other dreams clearly related to the tragic events in Tiananmen Square and those in New York on September 11, 2001.
But they are altogether different stories, perhaps meant for another day. In the meantime, I have no reservations in claiming that such truths ... such genuine human experiences ... cry out to be shared and explored, so that we might begin to understand more fully the intricacies of this strange, waking dream we call life.
=================
Afterword: On the day of Princess Diana's funeral (Saturday September 6, 1997), I produced and presented a 'live' two hour, music-based retrospective for Mike Hapgood, the Managing Editor at BBC Radios Bristol and Somerset Sound. Mike told me afterwards that he'd "tuned-in with the intention of listening to the first few minutes of the programme, but ended-up listening to the whole two hours." Musically speaking, I opened the programme with Tony Bennett's recording of "The Shadow of Your Smile" which, somehow, seemed fitting.
KAMIKAZE PM?
TO OPEN this month’s Pensioners Platform column I’m going to borrow one of several catch phrases associated with the late entertainer Max Bygraves … “I wanna tell you a story.”
For starters, way back in 1985 a remarkably gifted lady said to me, “David you must always trust your intuition because it will rarely, if ever, let you down.” That lady was the then President of Paignton Spiritualist Church. Her name was Lilian Hurst and she helped me to understand, and come to terms with, a number of very unusual events I’d experienced in my life up to that point. Indeed, from 1985, Lilian took me under her wing and, by the time of her passing in 1993, she had become a much loved and trusted mentor.
Now, before you run away with the notion that I am, or was, a Spiritualist let me explain that I am, in fact, a former Church of England Sunday School teacher and I was once a very active member of the Anglican Church. Indeed, in 1977, I was invited to become a lay preacher, but attending the first lay preacher tutorial marked the beginning of the end of my involvement with the Church of England. It’s a rather long story, so, I’ll leave it there and, instead, sum-up by admitting that, since 1979, I’ve been on a long and sometimes solitary spiritual journey. Suffice it to say, in common with some of life’s other journeys there’s always something new to discover. The learning never stops.
But I digress, so let’s get back to trusting my intuition. When Theresa May announced a snap general election for June 8, my first words to my wife Jenny were, “I believe she’s been very badly advised by fellow closet ‘Remainers’ in Westminster, and I think it’s going to end in the loss of her government’s majority.” I then predicted the likelihood of the worst of all scenarios: a hung Parliament.
Clearly, my first impressions were proved correct, but I could so easily have been wrong. Let me explain: with the benefit of hindsight, if Theresa May hadn’t targeted UK pensioners so brutally in her manifesto, I believe she would have been returned to No.10 with a healthy majority.
Instead, she threatened us seniors with a punitive social care overhaul, plus a scrapping of the Triple Lock state pension safety net and, worse still, a means tested Winter Fuel Allowance. Those three pledges alone must have cost her a huge number of pensioner votes around the country (but mercifully not Torbay, Totnes or Newton Abbot), and who can blame us? In this so-called age of equality, Mrs May’s manifesto attack on UK pensioners must rank as one of the most appalling examples of ageism of recent times. Did she commit political suicide? Yes, I believe she did, but her demise may be relatively slow. Two things Theresa May can be assured of, though, is we UK seniors are more than ten million strong and we won’t forget what she has planned to do to us.
On that point, let’s look at the Winter Fuel means test issue. Wikipedia describes means testing as follows … “Today, means tested benefits – meaning that entitlement is affected by the amount of income and savings – is a central feature of the benefits system.” Note, it only mentions income and savings. There is no mention whatsoever of any other factors, and that’s where, I believe, the WFA means test plan self-destructs. What follows below is a story that explains why.
My wife Jenny and I are fortunate enough to each have small – and I mean small – private pensions from previous employers. Like so many of our fellow seniors, those small pensions help to supplement our state pensions and keep us from falling into the poverty trap. Needless to say our Winter Fuel Allowances are a very welcome annual top-up because, in our case, those allowances are fed straight into the funding of our winter heating bills. Here’s why: Jenny suffers from both Raynaud’s and Sjogren’s Syndromes which combine to badly affect her circulation. That, in turn, means she feels terribly cold, even when the weather is reasonably mild. Believe it or not, three times between June 5 and 9 Jenny had to have our central heating on during the day because her winter clothes and her cosy Footsie Blanket simply weren’t keeping her warm enough. So much for flaming June in Britain in 2017!
Bearing in mind, therefore, the way means testing is conducted, I assume only our joint income and savings would be looked at in relation to the Winter Fuel Allowance. In other words, no consideration at all would be given to health issues. That, in turn, leads me to make one simple observation. Jenny can’t possibly be an isolated case. There must surely be many other UK pensioners who suffer serious health problems that affect their ability to stay warm. And that, I contend, is where the means testing of Winter Fuel Allowance hits the buffers. Administering it would become so labour intensive that the cost of conducting the means testing itself would far outweigh the savings to the Exchequer. Where’s the sense in that?
As I’ve written in this column before, such problematic issues as those mentioned above, plus the costing of the NHS and free bus passes, among other things, could be overcome overnight by the suspension – or preferably the scrapping – of the UK’s profligate overseas aid programme. And as a justification for that assertion I return to my Church of England roots by inviting our politicians (in particular Mrs May) to read Matthew chapter 7 verses 3 to 5 inclusive in The Bible and commit it to memory.
For starters, way back in 1985 a remarkably gifted lady said to me, “David you must always trust your intuition because it will rarely, if ever, let you down.” That lady was the then President of Paignton Spiritualist Church. Her name was Lilian Hurst and she helped me to understand, and come to terms with, a number of very unusual events I’d experienced in my life up to that point. Indeed, from 1985, Lilian took me under her wing and, by the time of her passing in 1993, she had become a much loved and trusted mentor.
Now, before you run away with the notion that I am, or was, a Spiritualist let me explain that I am, in fact, a former Church of England Sunday School teacher and I was once a very active member of the Anglican Church. Indeed, in 1977, I was invited to become a lay preacher, but attending the first lay preacher tutorial marked the beginning of the end of my involvement with the Church of England. It’s a rather long story, so, I’ll leave it there and, instead, sum-up by admitting that, since 1979, I’ve been on a long and sometimes solitary spiritual journey. Suffice it to say, in common with some of life’s other journeys there’s always something new to discover. The learning never stops.
But I digress, so let’s get back to trusting my intuition. When Theresa May announced a snap general election for June 8, my first words to my wife Jenny were, “I believe she’s been very badly advised by fellow closet ‘Remainers’ in Westminster, and I think it’s going to end in the loss of her government’s majority.” I then predicted the likelihood of the worst of all scenarios: a hung Parliament.
Clearly, my first impressions were proved correct, but I could so easily have been wrong. Let me explain: with the benefit of hindsight, if Theresa May hadn’t targeted UK pensioners so brutally in her manifesto, I believe she would have been returned to No.10 with a healthy majority.
Instead, she threatened us seniors with a punitive social care overhaul, plus a scrapping of the Triple Lock state pension safety net and, worse still, a means tested Winter Fuel Allowance. Those three pledges alone must have cost her a huge number of pensioner votes around the country (but mercifully not Torbay, Totnes or Newton Abbot), and who can blame us? In this so-called age of equality, Mrs May’s manifesto attack on UK pensioners must rank as one of the most appalling examples of ageism of recent times. Did she commit political suicide? Yes, I believe she did, but her demise may be relatively slow. Two things Theresa May can be assured of, though, is we UK seniors are more than ten million strong and we won’t forget what she has planned to do to us.
On that point, let’s look at the Winter Fuel means test issue. Wikipedia describes means testing as follows … “Today, means tested benefits – meaning that entitlement is affected by the amount of income and savings – is a central feature of the benefits system.” Note, it only mentions income and savings. There is no mention whatsoever of any other factors, and that’s where, I believe, the WFA means test plan self-destructs. What follows below is a story that explains why.
My wife Jenny and I are fortunate enough to each have small – and I mean small – private pensions from previous employers. Like so many of our fellow seniors, those small pensions help to supplement our state pensions and keep us from falling into the poverty trap. Needless to say our Winter Fuel Allowances are a very welcome annual top-up because, in our case, those allowances are fed straight into the funding of our winter heating bills. Here’s why: Jenny suffers from both Raynaud’s and Sjogren’s Syndromes which combine to badly affect her circulation. That, in turn, means she feels terribly cold, even when the weather is reasonably mild. Believe it or not, three times between June 5 and 9 Jenny had to have our central heating on during the day because her winter clothes and her cosy Footsie Blanket simply weren’t keeping her warm enough. So much for flaming June in Britain in 2017!
Bearing in mind, therefore, the way means testing is conducted, I assume only our joint income and savings would be looked at in relation to the Winter Fuel Allowance. In other words, no consideration at all would be given to health issues. That, in turn, leads me to make one simple observation. Jenny can’t possibly be an isolated case. There must surely be many other UK pensioners who suffer serious health problems that affect their ability to stay warm. And that, I contend, is where the means testing of Winter Fuel Allowance hits the buffers. Administering it would become so labour intensive that the cost of conducting the means testing itself would far outweigh the savings to the Exchequer. Where’s the sense in that?
As I’ve written in this column before, such problematic issues as those mentioned above, plus the costing of the NHS and free bus passes, among other things, could be overcome overnight by the suspension – or preferably the scrapping – of the UK’s profligate overseas aid programme. And as a justification for that assertion I return to my Church of England roots by inviting our politicians (in particular Mrs May) to read Matthew chapter 7 verses 3 to 5 inclusive in The Bible and commit it to memory.
R.I.P. DEMOCRACY? (Torbay Times column 2017)
CALLING ME a racist because I voted for Brexit is not only ridiculous, it’s also laughable. After all, if I were a racist would I have been regularly featuring such recording stars as Nat “King” Cole; Ella Fitzgerald; Louis Armstrong; Billy Eckstine; Sarah Vaughan and our own Shirley Bassey (among others) in my radio programmes over the past 35 years or so? Of course I wouldn’t. No, I’m not a racist, I’m a realist and I resent being governed by a bunch of unelected, faceless bureaucrats domiciled on the far side of the English Channel and North Sea. That’s why I voted to leave the EU, as did a clear majority of my fellow voters.
Regrettably, though, it seems the word majority no longer applies in today’s democratic process in Britain because we’re now faced with yet another general election: And all because a vociferous minority wouldn’t accept the result of a democratic, first-past-the-post vote. Indeed, I now find myself wondering if the events here in Britain since last June’s referendum have placed the fundamental principles of democracy in jeopardy. I’m, therefore, compelled to ask, is democracy dying in Britain?
Bearing in mind their sacrifices, is the death of democracy in Britain what our forefathers and mothers fought and - in many cases - died for? What in heaven’s name must they be thinking of us?
Regrettably, though, it seems the word majority no longer applies in today’s democratic process in Britain because we’re now faced with yet another general election: And all because a vociferous minority wouldn’t accept the result of a democratic, first-past-the-post vote. Indeed, I now find myself wondering if the events here in Britain since last June’s referendum have placed the fundamental principles of democracy in jeopardy. I’m, therefore, compelled to ask, is democracy dying in Britain?
Bearing in mind their sacrifices, is the death of democracy in Britain what our forefathers and mothers fought and - in many cases - died for? What in heaven’s name must they be thinking of us?
AND NOW…
… for something completely different (to quote Monty Python). I’ve been looking back to 1954 to see what was happening in the world in those immediate post WWII days, and the first event to catch my eye came on July 4 of that year. For the first time since 1940 meat came off ration here in Britain, and so the wartime limitations of food rationing were finally, and officially, over after 14 years.
A few months earlier, on April 2, 1954, BBC Television broadcast the inaugural episode of The Grove Family … Britain’s very first TV soap opera. The day after that, Oxford won the 100th University Boat Race, and on May 1, West Bromwich Albion beat Preston North End 3-2 to lift football’s FA Cup for the fourth time in their history.
Staying with sport; on May 6, 1954 medical student Roger Bannister became the first person to break the four minute mile with his historic, and much publicised, run at Oxford University’s Iffley Road track. Then, just over three weeks later, on May 29, Diane Leather became the first woman to break the five minute mile at the Alexander Sports Ground in Birmingham. In fact the British sporting achievements of 1954 didn’t end there because, on October 13, the runner Christopher Chataway shattered the 5000 metres world record by five seconds. And one month later, on November 13, Great Britain’s national rugby league team beat France at the Parc de Princes in Paris to win the first ever Rugby League World Cup.
On the radio comedy front, Hancock’s Half Hour was first aired by the BBC on November 2, 1954 and, in contrast, eleven days later, a TV police drama took pride of place when BBC Television broadcast the first episode of Fabian of the Yard. Unlike Hancock’s Half Hour – which transferred to TV and ran until 1961 – Fabian of the Yard, with Bruce Seton in the title role, only lasted for 36 strangely staggered episodes, the last of which was transmitted in February 1956. However, the series then went-on to enjoy some success on US television under the title of Fabian of Scotland Yard.
Now we’ve crossed the Atlantic, here are some of the noteworthy overseas events of 1954. On January 14, 1954 the New York Yankee baseball star Joe DiMaggio married actress Marilyn Monroe in San Francisco’s City Hall. They divorced on October 7 of that same year. Staying with showbiz, on April 12, 1954 Bill Haley and the Comets recorded Rock Around the Clock at New York City’s Pythian Temple. It was originally released as the “B” side to a track titled Thirteen Women. On that same day the blues singer and composer “Big Joe” Turner recorded Shake, Rattle and Roll which was later cleaned-up and covered by Bill Hayley and the Comets, turning it into a rock ‘n’ roll classic in the process. Shake, Rattle and Roll became Haley’s first UK chart success, entering the Top 20 at No.13 on December 18, 1954 and peaking at No.4 on January 22, 1955.
Meanwhile, on July 5, 1954 Elvis Presley’s very first commercial recording session at Sun Records studios in Memphis, Tennessee produced the ground breaking track That’s Alright Mama. Two days later, Presley performed the same song when he made his radio debut at WHBQ in Memphis.
Now for something rather usual: On November 30, 1954 a meteorite weighing 8lbs struck Mrs. Elizabeth Hodges of Alabama as she was sleeping. Happily, Mrs. Hodges was not too badly injured. She suffered bruising to her hip and leg. This was the first modern report of a meteorite striking a human.
And finally, on that very same day, November 30, 1954 Winston Churchill became the first and, so far, the only British Prime Minister to celebrate his 80th birthday while still in office. Goodness knows we could do with somebody of his calibre, foresight and wit in British politics right now!
… for something completely different (to quote Monty Python). I’ve been looking back to 1954 to see what was happening in the world in those immediate post WWII days, and the first event to catch my eye came on July 4 of that year. For the first time since 1940 meat came off ration here in Britain, and so the wartime limitations of food rationing were finally, and officially, over after 14 years.
A few months earlier, on April 2, 1954, BBC Television broadcast the inaugural episode of The Grove Family … Britain’s very first TV soap opera. The day after that, Oxford won the 100th University Boat Race, and on May 1, West Bromwich Albion beat Preston North End 3-2 to lift football’s FA Cup for the fourth time in their history.
Staying with sport; on May 6, 1954 medical student Roger Bannister became the first person to break the four minute mile with his historic, and much publicised, run at Oxford University’s Iffley Road track. Then, just over three weeks later, on May 29, Diane Leather became the first woman to break the five minute mile at the Alexander Sports Ground in Birmingham. In fact the British sporting achievements of 1954 didn’t end there because, on October 13, the runner Christopher Chataway shattered the 5000 metres world record by five seconds. And one month later, on November 13, Great Britain’s national rugby league team beat France at the Parc de Princes in Paris to win the first ever Rugby League World Cup.
On the radio comedy front, Hancock’s Half Hour was first aired by the BBC on November 2, 1954 and, in contrast, eleven days later, a TV police drama took pride of place when BBC Television broadcast the first episode of Fabian of the Yard. Unlike Hancock’s Half Hour – which transferred to TV and ran until 1961 – Fabian of the Yard, with Bruce Seton in the title role, only lasted for 36 strangely staggered episodes, the last of which was transmitted in February 1956. However, the series then went-on to enjoy some success on US television under the title of Fabian of Scotland Yard.
Now we’ve crossed the Atlantic, here are some of the noteworthy overseas events of 1954. On January 14, 1954 the New York Yankee baseball star Joe DiMaggio married actress Marilyn Monroe in San Francisco’s City Hall. They divorced on October 7 of that same year. Staying with showbiz, on April 12, 1954 Bill Haley and the Comets recorded Rock Around the Clock at New York City’s Pythian Temple. It was originally released as the “B” side to a track titled Thirteen Women. On that same day the blues singer and composer “Big Joe” Turner recorded Shake, Rattle and Roll which was later cleaned-up and covered by Bill Hayley and the Comets, turning it into a rock ‘n’ roll classic in the process. Shake, Rattle and Roll became Haley’s first UK chart success, entering the Top 20 at No.13 on December 18, 1954 and peaking at No.4 on January 22, 1955.
Meanwhile, on July 5, 1954 Elvis Presley’s very first commercial recording session at Sun Records studios in Memphis, Tennessee produced the ground breaking track That’s Alright Mama. Two days later, Presley performed the same song when he made his radio debut at WHBQ in Memphis.
Now for something rather usual: On November 30, 1954 a meteorite weighing 8lbs struck Mrs. Elizabeth Hodges of Alabama as she was sleeping. Happily, Mrs. Hodges was not too badly injured. She suffered bruising to her hip and leg. This was the first modern report of a meteorite striking a human.
And finally, on that very same day, November 30, 1954 Winston Churchill became the first and, so far, the only British Prime Minister to celebrate his 80th birthday while still in office. Goodness knows we could do with somebody of his calibre, foresight and wit in British politics right now!
A PRESCRIPTION FOR LIFE?
I READ with great interest, Luke Montagu (Viscount Hinchingbrooke’s) "Good Health" feature article (Daily Mail Tuesday January 31, 2017 ... see the link at the foot of this essay). Luke has clearly been through a prescribed drug living nightmare; a nightmare I have also experienced.
Let me explain: on a very cold October morning in 1968, I was motor-cycling to my work in the City of London when I suffered a sudden attack of severe breathlessness. I stopped my machine and took a few minutes to recover. There had been no panic, pain or dizziness accompanying the breathlessness, and that made me wonder if I’d experienced an asthma attack: a condition I had never experienced before. Rather than carry-on to my office, though, I decided to return home and call-in my GP.
When I explained my experience to him, he told me I was suffering from nervous hysteria. My initial intention was to reply with a surprised “Excuse me?” But instead I bit my lip and said nothing. Let’s face it, who was I to argue with a fully qualified medical professional?
With that, my GP prescribed a sedative called Librium, and I began taking the capsules that very same morning. To cut a long story short, I never returned to my office in The City because, within a few days of starting the Librium, I was experiencing frequent panic attacks, agoraphobia, profuse sweating and periodic episodes of frightening dream-like states which (many years later) I discovered are known to medicine as … depersonalisation and derealisation. In truth, I thought I was losing my mind and I was also convinced those symptoms were all part of the nervous hysteria diagnosed by my GP. How wrong I was!
In March 1969, I returned to work, but not in The City, because I had developed a morbid fear of the place. Luckily, my employer granted me a transfer to the outer London suburbs, but I still wasn’t well. The daily intake of Librium capsules remained part of my experience, as did the panic attacks, the agoraphobia and the occasional episodes of depersonalisation and derealisation. Nevertheless, as incapacitating as they were, I managed to struggle through the on-going symptoms and my working life gradually returned to a normality of sorts.
By 1973, I had moved to the West Country but I was still taking Librium and I was still experiencing all of the aforementioned symptoms, when on a visit to my then GP, I was told in no uncertain terms, “These Librium aren’t sweets you know!” How was I to know? After all, that was the first medical advice I’d received on the matter since 1969.
So, on that GP’s advice, I weaned myself off the Librium and, as I did so, I began having terrifying nightmares. However, I persevered and the nightmares gradually reduced in number, but they were replaced by a different problem. Out of the blue, my balance went haywire, and then I began to go deaf. And, as if to add insult to injury, I was still being plagued by panic attacks and agoraphobia. Indeed, by then, I was not only deeply troubled about my general state of well being, but I had also lost all trust in the NHS. I was between a rock and a hard place without anyone to turn to, but I continued to battle my way through daily life as best I could.
It took me several more years to get my health back on an even keel but, by then, in an effort to save my failing marriage, I’d moved back to the south east. That’s when I made another big mistake. Early in 1980, I visited my then GP and told him about the stresses my marital problems were placing on me, and I was about to ask him if there was anything he could recommend.
Before I got to that point, however, I noticed the doctor was scribbling on his prescription pad. I asked him what he was doing and he replied, “I’m prescribing something to settle things down a bit for you.” My immediate response was to mention my experiences with Librium.” I really don’t want to go there again,” I said.
That GP’s reply is etched on my memory to this day. “Don’t worry Mr Lowe: there have been great strides in this kind of medication over the past ten years. These pills I’m prescribing you have no side effects or withdrawal symptoms, and they’re not habit forming.” Who was I to argue? After all, I was in consultation with another medical professional. I asked him what the pills were called. “Ativan,” he replied.
To cut another long story short, within a few weeks of starting the Ativan I was again suffering panic attacks, agoraphobia and an increasing detachment from reality. But, as I’d done with Librium before, I put those symptoms down to my anxieties over my failing marriage when, in reality, they were side effects of the prescribed drug. Despite that, I continued taking the Ativan, and the symptoms got progressively worse.
For the next five years I lived through a second prescribed drug waking nightmare but, somehow, I managed to battle through the panic attacks and other symptoms while maintaining a self-employed workplace routine. Then, in 1985, of my own volition, I abruptly stopped taking the Ativan and began a very slow withdrawal and recovery curve.
That spur-of-moment decision seemed to be wholly justified when, in the late 1980s, at my first consultation with a new GP in another part of the country, he took a few minutes to scan my medical records. I sat in silence as he did so, but then I saw him do a double take between me and the notes. “Bloody hell David,” he exclaimed. “You did well to get off them!” I knew exactly what he was referring to.
Today, I’m completely free of all the above mentioned side effect symptoms, and I steer clear of all prescribed drugs that have a perceived potential to mess with my brain. However, I now suffer from a severe Dystonic Tremor in my hands, arms and head that does not respond to prescribed drugs therapy. Sadly, the hand tremor had wiped-out my guitar playing days by 1990 but, hey, I can still shake a mean tambourine without even trying!
Interestingly, just a few weeks ago a medical professional revealed to me during a casual conversation between us that the prescribed drugs I battled with all those years ago have been known to cause Dystonias of one kind or another.
Clearly, I’m owed at least ten years of my life, but let me stress here, I don’t blame the NHS or my former GPs for the nightmares I endured then, or the Dystonia I suffer from today. On the contrary, I believe the global pharmaceutical companies should bear the responsibility for my experiences and those of countless thousands, if not millions, of others.
Just because a drug appears to work well during control group trials, doesn’t mean to say it is going to work well for everybody. In the final analysis, we are all unique!
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-4173468/My-GP-gave-antidepressants-didn-t-need-20-years.html
Let me explain: on a very cold October morning in 1968, I was motor-cycling to my work in the City of London when I suffered a sudden attack of severe breathlessness. I stopped my machine and took a few minutes to recover. There had been no panic, pain or dizziness accompanying the breathlessness, and that made me wonder if I’d experienced an asthma attack: a condition I had never experienced before. Rather than carry-on to my office, though, I decided to return home and call-in my GP.
When I explained my experience to him, he told me I was suffering from nervous hysteria. My initial intention was to reply with a surprised “Excuse me?” But instead I bit my lip and said nothing. Let’s face it, who was I to argue with a fully qualified medical professional?
With that, my GP prescribed a sedative called Librium, and I began taking the capsules that very same morning. To cut a long story short, I never returned to my office in The City because, within a few days of starting the Librium, I was experiencing frequent panic attacks, agoraphobia, profuse sweating and periodic episodes of frightening dream-like states which (many years later) I discovered are known to medicine as … depersonalisation and derealisation. In truth, I thought I was losing my mind and I was also convinced those symptoms were all part of the nervous hysteria diagnosed by my GP. How wrong I was!
In March 1969, I returned to work, but not in The City, because I had developed a morbid fear of the place. Luckily, my employer granted me a transfer to the outer London suburbs, but I still wasn’t well. The daily intake of Librium capsules remained part of my experience, as did the panic attacks, the agoraphobia and the occasional episodes of depersonalisation and derealisation. Nevertheless, as incapacitating as they were, I managed to struggle through the on-going symptoms and my working life gradually returned to a normality of sorts.
By 1973, I had moved to the West Country but I was still taking Librium and I was still experiencing all of the aforementioned symptoms, when on a visit to my then GP, I was told in no uncertain terms, “These Librium aren’t sweets you know!” How was I to know? After all, that was the first medical advice I’d received on the matter since 1969.
So, on that GP’s advice, I weaned myself off the Librium and, as I did so, I began having terrifying nightmares. However, I persevered and the nightmares gradually reduced in number, but they were replaced by a different problem. Out of the blue, my balance went haywire, and then I began to go deaf. And, as if to add insult to injury, I was still being plagued by panic attacks and agoraphobia. Indeed, by then, I was not only deeply troubled about my general state of well being, but I had also lost all trust in the NHS. I was between a rock and a hard place without anyone to turn to, but I continued to battle my way through daily life as best I could.
It took me several more years to get my health back on an even keel but, by then, in an effort to save my failing marriage, I’d moved back to the south east. That’s when I made another big mistake. Early in 1980, I visited my then GP and told him about the stresses my marital problems were placing on me, and I was about to ask him if there was anything he could recommend.
Before I got to that point, however, I noticed the doctor was scribbling on his prescription pad. I asked him what he was doing and he replied, “I’m prescribing something to settle things down a bit for you.” My immediate response was to mention my experiences with Librium.” I really don’t want to go there again,” I said.
That GP’s reply is etched on my memory to this day. “Don’t worry Mr Lowe: there have been great strides in this kind of medication over the past ten years. These pills I’m prescribing you have no side effects or withdrawal symptoms, and they’re not habit forming.” Who was I to argue? After all, I was in consultation with another medical professional. I asked him what the pills were called. “Ativan,” he replied.
To cut another long story short, within a few weeks of starting the Ativan I was again suffering panic attacks, agoraphobia and an increasing detachment from reality. But, as I’d done with Librium before, I put those symptoms down to my anxieties over my failing marriage when, in reality, they were side effects of the prescribed drug. Despite that, I continued taking the Ativan, and the symptoms got progressively worse.
For the next five years I lived through a second prescribed drug waking nightmare but, somehow, I managed to battle through the panic attacks and other symptoms while maintaining a self-employed workplace routine. Then, in 1985, of my own volition, I abruptly stopped taking the Ativan and began a very slow withdrawal and recovery curve.
That spur-of-moment decision seemed to be wholly justified when, in the late 1980s, at my first consultation with a new GP in another part of the country, he took a few minutes to scan my medical records. I sat in silence as he did so, but then I saw him do a double take between me and the notes. “Bloody hell David,” he exclaimed. “You did well to get off them!” I knew exactly what he was referring to.
Today, I’m completely free of all the above mentioned side effect symptoms, and I steer clear of all prescribed drugs that have a perceived potential to mess with my brain. However, I now suffer from a severe Dystonic Tremor in my hands, arms and head that does not respond to prescribed drugs therapy. Sadly, the hand tremor had wiped-out my guitar playing days by 1990 but, hey, I can still shake a mean tambourine without even trying!
Interestingly, just a few weeks ago a medical professional revealed to me during a casual conversation between us that the prescribed drugs I battled with all those years ago have been known to cause Dystonias of one kind or another.
Clearly, I’m owed at least ten years of my life, but let me stress here, I don’t blame the NHS or my former GPs for the nightmares I endured then, or the Dystonia I suffer from today. On the contrary, I believe the global pharmaceutical companies should bear the responsibility for my experiences and those of countless thousands, if not millions, of others.
Just because a drug appears to work well during control group trials, doesn’t mean to say it is going to work well for everybody. In the final analysis, we are all unique!
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-4173468/My-GP-gave-antidepressants-didn-t-need-20-years.html
HOME IS WHERE THE NEED IS
AS AUTUMN gives way to winter 2016-17, a disturbing series of stories in the news have highlighted a likely impact on the lives and well-being of many UK Pensioners.
For starters, a recent announcement by the Secretary of State for Works and Pensions that he was embarking on a review of a successful State Pension safety net (as covered in last month’s Pensioners Platform column), has since taken a new and troubling twist.
On November 6, a committee of MPs recommended the scrapping of the Triple Lock System which safeguards the value of our State Pension. It works by guaranteeing our pensions rise annually in line with average earnings, or the Consumer Price Index or by 2.5%, whichever is the highest. According to the Work and Pensions Committee of MPs, the Triple Lock System is “unsustainable” and “unfair” on younger families and should be scrapped. Instead, they recommend the State Pension should be linked to average earnings only, with a provision for extra safeguards when average earning lag behind inflation.
In an age when employers, employees and politicians alike seem unable to agree what a basic wage – let alone an average wage – actually is, this proposal is already beginning to look like a can of worms. Thankfully, though, the government has responded with an assurance that the Triple Lock System will remain in place until 2020 at least. That, in turn, gives us seniors a little bit of breathing space in which to keep a close watch on developments.
By contrast, there’s little or no time to catch one’s breath when witnessing the difficulties currently facing the National Health Service. For example, hospital bed blocking has become a major problem area. This happens when elderly patients, in particular, can’t be released after hospital treatment because there are no care services available to them.
As if to complicate this worrying issue still further: on October 30, the Daily Telegraph carried a prominent news item headlined “Almost Half of NHS Authorities to Cut Hospital Beds and Third to Close A&E”. Among other related health matters, the article reported on Totnes MP Dr Sarah Wollaston’s unprecedented plea to the Treasury to “inject more cash to prevent the collapse of the NHS … and tackle a severe crisis in social care.”
And, as if that wasn’t enough to be getting-on with, in spite of one whole year of protests and more than two million people signing a petition against proposed funding cuts of 12% to community pharmacies, the government has decided to press ahead with the plan. That means a significant number of UK chemists will be forced to close from December onwards. At the time of writing this column, I hadn’t been able to ascertain how Torbay pharmacies are likely to be affected but, even if one closes, it is sure to have an impact on the quality of local health care available, especially for the elderly.
And it doesn’t end there! Four years ago, the government promised to crack down on so-called health tourism, whereby any Tom, Dick or Harriet could come to Britain from abroad and use our National Health Services, then return home fit and well, having not paid a penny. Indeed, many visitors to our shores have done just that and, last month, it was revealed that the promised crack down on health tourism had largely failed to deliver.
In fact, in that same report, the National Audit Office predicted that the NHS would fall some £200 million short of its “health tourism” recoup target of £500 million by 2018. Is it any wonder, then, that our National Health Service is creaking at the seams, when its services are being abused by people who’ve never contributed a penny to its costs, and don’t intend to? Moreover, is it fair and just that UK pensioners – most of whom have paid their dues during their working lives – should face cut-backs, bed shortages, restrictions, delays and cancellations in their NHS treatment, while free loaders from abroad get their treatment and scurry-off back to their overseas homes?
In fact, this very issue was brought into even sharper focus in recent weeks when I watched several TV interviews with so-called refugees (all fit-looking adult males) in the Calais “Jungle” who made it abundantly clear they were determined to get across the Channel to Britain. Why? Well, to paraphrase their responses, they were all mindful of our wonderful health care system. In other words, they knew they’d be able to get free health care without contributing a penny towards it.
Surely there has to be a limit to our much trumpeted, good old-fashioned British tolerance and benevolence? Or are we, as a nation, so dumb that we can’t see we’re being taken for mugs by some of the world’s strays and chancers?
Not for the first time in this Pensioners Platform column I find myself claiming there’s a straight forward solution to the issues highlighted above. But, first, we must all acknowledge the fact that our precious National Health Service and our social care structures are not only in big trouble, but they’re also in desperate need of financial support. Oh no! Not more taxation I hear you cry? On the contrary, that wouldn’t be necessary if what I’m about to suggest becomes reality.
So, how could these essential UK services enjoy proper funding without further taxation? The answer is simplicity itself. Suspend, or better still, scrap the often discredited Overseas Aid programme which, after all, gets most of its funding from the pockets and wallets of us taxpayers. Instead, use the £12 billion and more per year frittered away on overseas aid to re-build the NHS and our social care systems and, if there’s any left over, spend it on education, law and order and infrastructure here at home.
For starters, a recent announcement by the Secretary of State for Works and Pensions that he was embarking on a review of a successful State Pension safety net (as covered in last month’s Pensioners Platform column), has since taken a new and troubling twist.
On November 6, a committee of MPs recommended the scrapping of the Triple Lock System which safeguards the value of our State Pension. It works by guaranteeing our pensions rise annually in line with average earnings, or the Consumer Price Index or by 2.5%, whichever is the highest. According to the Work and Pensions Committee of MPs, the Triple Lock System is “unsustainable” and “unfair” on younger families and should be scrapped. Instead, they recommend the State Pension should be linked to average earnings only, with a provision for extra safeguards when average earning lag behind inflation.
In an age when employers, employees and politicians alike seem unable to agree what a basic wage – let alone an average wage – actually is, this proposal is already beginning to look like a can of worms. Thankfully, though, the government has responded with an assurance that the Triple Lock System will remain in place until 2020 at least. That, in turn, gives us seniors a little bit of breathing space in which to keep a close watch on developments.
By contrast, there’s little or no time to catch one’s breath when witnessing the difficulties currently facing the National Health Service. For example, hospital bed blocking has become a major problem area. This happens when elderly patients, in particular, can’t be released after hospital treatment because there are no care services available to them.
As if to complicate this worrying issue still further: on October 30, the Daily Telegraph carried a prominent news item headlined “Almost Half of NHS Authorities to Cut Hospital Beds and Third to Close A&E”. Among other related health matters, the article reported on Totnes MP Dr Sarah Wollaston’s unprecedented plea to the Treasury to “inject more cash to prevent the collapse of the NHS … and tackle a severe crisis in social care.”
And, as if that wasn’t enough to be getting-on with, in spite of one whole year of protests and more than two million people signing a petition against proposed funding cuts of 12% to community pharmacies, the government has decided to press ahead with the plan. That means a significant number of UK chemists will be forced to close from December onwards. At the time of writing this column, I hadn’t been able to ascertain how Torbay pharmacies are likely to be affected but, even if one closes, it is sure to have an impact on the quality of local health care available, especially for the elderly.
And it doesn’t end there! Four years ago, the government promised to crack down on so-called health tourism, whereby any Tom, Dick or Harriet could come to Britain from abroad and use our National Health Services, then return home fit and well, having not paid a penny. Indeed, many visitors to our shores have done just that and, last month, it was revealed that the promised crack down on health tourism had largely failed to deliver.
In fact, in that same report, the National Audit Office predicted that the NHS would fall some £200 million short of its “health tourism” recoup target of £500 million by 2018. Is it any wonder, then, that our National Health Service is creaking at the seams, when its services are being abused by people who’ve never contributed a penny to its costs, and don’t intend to? Moreover, is it fair and just that UK pensioners – most of whom have paid their dues during their working lives – should face cut-backs, bed shortages, restrictions, delays and cancellations in their NHS treatment, while free loaders from abroad get their treatment and scurry-off back to their overseas homes?
In fact, this very issue was brought into even sharper focus in recent weeks when I watched several TV interviews with so-called refugees (all fit-looking adult males) in the Calais “Jungle” who made it abundantly clear they were determined to get across the Channel to Britain. Why? Well, to paraphrase their responses, they were all mindful of our wonderful health care system. In other words, they knew they’d be able to get free health care without contributing a penny towards it.
Surely there has to be a limit to our much trumpeted, good old-fashioned British tolerance and benevolence? Or are we, as a nation, so dumb that we can’t see we’re being taken for mugs by some of the world’s strays and chancers?
Not for the first time in this Pensioners Platform column I find myself claiming there’s a straight forward solution to the issues highlighted above. But, first, we must all acknowledge the fact that our precious National Health Service and our social care structures are not only in big trouble, but they’re also in desperate need of financial support. Oh no! Not more taxation I hear you cry? On the contrary, that wouldn’t be necessary if what I’m about to suggest becomes reality.
So, how could these essential UK services enjoy proper funding without further taxation? The answer is simplicity itself. Suspend, or better still, scrap the often discredited Overseas Aid programme which, after all, gets most of its funding from the pockets and wallets of us taxpayers. Instead, use the £12 billion and more per year frittered away on overseas aid to re-build the NHS and our social care systems and, if there’s any left over, spend it on education, law and order and infrastructure here at home.
COME AGAIN?
IN THE early months of 1995, along with all my fellow independent (freelance) BBC radio producers, I received a formal BBC document from the then Controller of Radio. The document was a production guide titled “People & Programmes” and, within its content, a challenge was issued. Let’s get a bit more experimental on radio, it said, and let’s take a few more risks on-air.
I’m always up for a challenge, so I began to introduce some new – mainly spiritual-mystical – elements into my weekly regional BBC radio shows. Included among them were features on the natural healing potential of music, especially when combined with the sound of the human voice, and there were also some news-related items. Suffice it to say, the overwhelming majority of my listeners enjoyed how I was developing my programmes, and they wrote in and telephoned my studio assistant to say so.
Over those few weeks, I also recited on-air the following essay but, very soon afterwards, I was ‘relieved’ of that programme by the then BBC Devon managers. “All this ‘healing thoughts to you’ business has got to stop,” I was told. I tried pointing-out that using that particular expression was the same as saying ‘loving thoughts to you’ but my claim was brushed aside. "It has got to stop!" repeated the manager. I was then told to apologise on-air. I refused, citing the above mentioned “People & Programmes” directive. That was brushed aside too, and I was shown the door.
Nevertheless, my BBC radio career continued at other stations covering Bristol, Somerset, Gloucestershire and Wiltshire and, three years later, a new manager took-over at BBC Devon. Not long after that, I rejoined the BBC Radio Devon freelance team, and that was where I stayed until May 2014.
So, better late than never, here’s a very slightly updated version of the essay that helped to cause so much fuss in summer 1995.
By the way, I still stand by every word…
WHAT on Earth is going on? How many times have you said that to yourself in recent years? Clearly, something is “going on” on planet Earth, and we humans are, in large part, responsible for it. So, the next time you overhear someone say ... “I’m trying to do my bit for the planet and the global community, because I want to help make a better world for the generations to come” ... allow yourself a few moments to contemplate the following.
Might it be possible that you and I are, in fact, an integral part of those generations to come? Is it possible that we are all destined to return earthwards at some later date to experience, first-hand, the consequences of our consumer-driven, twenty-first century life-styles?
Is it, therefore, possible that the much maligned concept of reincarnation is, in reality, a fact of lives? Given the present state of global affairs ... famines; disease; pollution; wars; terrorism; population explosions; urban violence; corruption in high places; personal greed, etc ... the prospect of a return to this place through the processes of reincarnation, is not a particularly pleasant one for any of us. So, how can we possibly remedy the situation?
As a first step, we in the largely Christian, Western world might seriously consider the possibility of re-introducing the concept of reincarnation into the Christian ethic. To do so would, after all, reunite us with our spiritual roots. Indeed, reincarnation was a freely held belief among many Christians for more than 500 years following Christ’s crucifixion. In fact, had the Roman Emperor Justinian not anathematised what was then referred to as the transmigration of souls – at the dubiously convened Fifth Ecumenical Council in Constantinople in AD 553 – there is every reason to suppose that what we now call reincarnation would still form part of today’s Christian creed.
However, things have changed dramatically since the middle of the Sixth Century. Today, personal and corporate greed threaten to destroy the very environment in which we dwell, despite the gallant efforts of some environmental pressure groups to awaken us all to the folly of our ways. Perhaps, then, tackling this serious global issue needs to be approached from a slightly different angle? Maybe we should be singling-out and approaching those moguls and business tycoons who create and perpetuate the mechanics of personal and corporate greed? Then we could ask them, up close and personally, whether they would be happy to return, at a later date, to experience the repercussions of their – and our – actions throughout the twentieth century, and into the twenty-first?
Materialism being what it is there is every reason to suppose that most – if not all – of those confronted with such a prospect would begin to re-think their values. Indeed, with that change of heart, might at last come the realisation that we are ... every single one of us ... stewards of this planet Earth, and inasmuch, we are all destined to return again and again to experience first-hand, the results of that stewardship: good or bad! The choice is ours.
I’m always up for a challenge, so I began to introduce some new – mainly spiritual-mystical – elements into my weekly regional BBC radio shows. Included among them were features on the natural healing potential of music, especially when combined with the sound of the human voice, and there were also some news-related items. Suffice it to say, the overwhelming majority of my listeners enjoyed how I was developing my programmes, and they wrote in and telephoned my studio assistant to say so.
Over those few weeks, I also recited on-air the following essay but, very soon afterwards, I was ‘relieved’ of that programme by the then BBC Devon managers. “All this ‘healing thoughts to you’ business has got to stop,” I was told. I tried pointing-out that using that particular expression was the same as saying ‘loving thoughts to you’ but my claim was brushed aside. "It has got to stop!" repeated the manager. I was then told to apologise on-air. I refused, citing the above mentioned “People & Programmes” directive. That was brushed aside too, and I was shown the door.
Nevertheless, my BBC radio career continued at other stations covering Bristol, Somerset, Gloucestershire and Wiltshire and, three years later, a new manager took-over at BBC Devon. Not long after that, I rejoined the BBC Radio Devon freelance team, and that was where I stayed until May 2014.
So, better late than never, here’s a very slightly updated version of the essay that helped to cause so much fuss in summer 1995.
By the way, I still stand by every word…
WHAT on Earth is going on? How many times have you said that to yourself in recent years? Clearly, something is “going on” on planet Earth, and we humans are, in large part, responsible for it. So, the next time you overhear someone say ... “I’m trying to do my bit for the planet and the global community, because I want to help make a better world for the generations to come” ... allow yourself a few moments to contemplate the following.
Might it be possible that you and I are, in fact, an integral part of those generations to come? Is it possible that we are all destined to return earthwards at some later date to experience, first-hand, the consequences of our consumer-driven, twenty-first century life-styles?
Is it, therefore, possible that the much maligned concept of reincarnation is, in reality, a fact of lives? Given the present state of global affairs ... famines; disease; pollution; wars; terrorism; population explosions; urban violence; corruption in high places; personal greed, etc ... the prospect of a return to this place through the processes of reincarnation, is not a particularly pleasant one for any of us. So, how can we possibly remedy the situation?
As a first step, we in the largely Christian, Western world might seriously consider the possibility of re-introducing the concept of reincarnation into the Christian ethic. To do so would, after all, reunite us with our spiritual roots. Indeed, reincarnation was a freely held belief among many Christians for more than 500 years following Christ’s crucifixion. In fact, had the Roman Emperor Justinian not anathematised what was then referred to as the transmigration of souls – at the dubiously convened Fifth Ecumenical Council in Constantinople in AD 553 – there is every reason to suppose that what we now call reincarnation would still form part of today’s Christian creed.
However, things have changed dramatically since the middle of the Sixth Century. Today, personal and corporate greed threaten to destroy the very environment in which we dwell, despite the gallant efforts of some environmental pressure groups to awaken us all to the folly of our ways. Perhaps, then, tackling this serious global issue needs to be approached from a slightly different angle? Maybe we should be singling-out and approaching those moguls and business tycoons who create and perpetuate the mechanics of personal and corporate greed? Then we could ask them, up close and personally, whether they would be happy to return, at a later date, to experience the repercussions of their – and our – actions throughout the twentieth century, and into the twenty-first?
Materialism being what it is there is every reason to suppose that most – if not all – of those confronted with such a prospect would begin to re-think their values. Indeed, with that change of heart, might at last come the realisation that we are ... every single one of us ... stewards of this planet Earth, and inasmuch, we are all destined to return again and again to experience first-hand, the results of that stewardship: good or bad! The choice is ours.
A PLAGUE ON THE PLANET?
TO SAVE OURSELVES and planet Earth from an environmental catastrophe, maybe we should be tackling the cause of the problems and not the effects?
Over the past forty years or so, the subjects of Global Warming and, more recently, Climate Change, have been the focus for numerous debates, accords and heated exchanges between politicians, scientists and everyday people alike. However, to the best of my knowledge, all of those deliberations and discussions have tended to focus on the effects of Global Warming and Climate Change, at the exclusion of the root cause of the problem. Indeed, on even closer inspection, the arguments on both sides of the support and denial fence appear to be riddled with effects at the expense of the all-important cause.
None of today’s high-profile talking heads, from both sides of the pro and anti-Global Warming and Climate Change camps, seem willing to come clean on their oft-used phrase “human activity”. If they did, they would have to admit the root cause of all the problems facing us is unprecedented human proliferation. That is the “human activity” they should be elaborating upon ... procreation ... not human consumption.
After all, we humans are already a plague on the planet Earth and, to compound the problem, we’re consuming ourselves out of house and home. It’s simply not good enough to say “human activity” is causing the problem, because the overwhelming majority of the reading, listening or viewing audience will automatically think of deforestation, coral depletion, ice cap and glacier melt, cattle methane, industrial pollution, consumerism, extreme weather patterns and all the other “effects” enumerated in countless articles, broadcasts and formal documents.
I believe it goes much deeper than that: to the act of procreation itself. And if we don’t get a grip soon, by accepting, once and for all, that unchecked human proliferation is at the very root (cause) of the problem, we’re surely on a road to nowhere. In other words, it’s the cause and not the effects we must be addressing and controlling – and soon – or we run the risk of going the same way as the dinosaurs.
By the way, I’m not advocating abortion here. Instead, I’m putting forward the suggestion that the population problem needs to be tackled much earlier than that. It all comes down, I believe, to us menfolk taking responsibility for our actions on a global scale, and agreeing to ‘the snip’ after fathering two children. Instead of running around willy-nilly (no pun intended), producing offspring and then, as so often happens, absconding from, or being deliberately deprived of, the paternal parental role, we should be held to account for our actions.
Clearly, it would be a mammoth task to undertake and administer, but surely the funds to achieve that objective could be diverted from other, less essential and less wasteful, sources? And, let’s face it there are plenty of those from which to choose! It’s not rocket science. On the contrary, I believe it’s the straight-forward choice we need to make between our survival as a species or our extinction.
In response to the above viewpoint – first mooted by me in an essay at the beginning of 2015 – the author of an even more recent Global Warming/Climate Change article replied thus.
“I got ‘snipped’ after our second boy was born and, yes, a program to perform vasectomies after two kids would go a long way to solving our problem. But if corporations were still allowed to, for example, rape an area of land the size of Florida to extract tar sands oil from it, as is being done in Alberta, or to continue clear-cutting the rainforests, we would still be doomed to the destruction of civilization.”
I replied to his comment as follows. “I also called it a day after two kids. In fact, I hear, and agree with, what you say about corporations raping the environment. However, if we look closer at their actions it becomes clear they are effects driven by other effects, at the expense of the root cause of the problem.
“Tackling human proliferation properly and decisively would, by its very nature, reduce humankind’s material, water and food needs very quickly. That, in turn, would mean consumption falling dramatically, thereby reducing supply and demand pressures in equal measure. Consequently, when a much reduced demand kicks-in, the market economy is bound to reflect that by faltering and possibly flat-lining. Given such conditions, corporations would not be able to function in their consumption-driven, customary ways, so they would be forced to scale back big time, or cease operating altogether.
“It’s a knock-on, dominoes-type model: bog standard cause and effect. And, I believe, the sooner it is adopted at the highest levels, the more chance humanity has of avoiding an unprecedented catastrophe.”
Since the above exchange of views, other global trends have compelled me to return to this ‘plague on the planet’ argument to make further observations. Firstly, a prediction: I predict that, by 2050, unless it has been significantly reduced in the meantime, human population growth will have become such a serious global issue that water and food riots will be commonplace. Furthermore, governments the world over will be powerless to prevent the resulting internal strife and cross-border raids on harvestable, edible resources. On this point, some might argue cynically that such civil unrest, and the deaths that inevitably follow it, will help to keep the global population in check, but is that a realistic assumption? Come to that, is fighting on the streets over water and food any way for a so-called intelligent species to self-regulate?
Then there’s always the possibility that Mother Nature may step-in and take control by unleashing an unforeseen and unprecedented pandemic on humanity. I’m remembering the panic over Ebola and Zika here. Or maybe Mother Nature would tackle the human proliferation problem in a more subtle way? In fact, her early warning signs might already be among us. For example, here in Britain, we are witnessing an alarming decline in honey bees and other essential pollenating insects. Surely, we ignore such developments at our peril?
There is, of course, another possibility, and despite its apocalyptical, disaster movie connotations, it simply cannot be dismissed. We know it has happened before, and we are aware of the implications of an asteroid or cometary collision with Earth. God forbid that it should come to that, but if such an event did occur, there’s every possibility that what little is left of humanity afterwards will be propelled back to the Stone Age in the blinking of an eye.
But should we allow that remote possibility provide us with a convenient excuse to ignore the damage we have been doing to our environment and ourselves? Should we not, instead, be acknowledging two simple facts? One: like it or like it not, we are already a plague on the planet. And two: the root cause of that plague lies in the un-checked proliferation of our own species.
In the final analysis, we humans would do well to remember we don't own planet Earth. In reality, we are merely its tenants; sharing the planet with many other animal species and a multitude of plant life. However, we are only too ready to credit ourselves with a monopoly when it comes to intelligence. But if that intelligence really does exists, surely we should be acting like the custodians of nature in all its diversity, not the consumers of it.
Updates and Afterwords
Wednesday July 27, 2016: Today's Plague on the Planet news relates to a report headlined "Increasing Ocean Acidity Could Affect Fish Spawning". Reserchers have discovered that higher levels of Carbon Dioxide (CO2) that make the oceans more acidic result in "significantly lower levels of spawning." The scientists added, "the changes are subtle but ecologically important." Is this, as in the case of bee population decline, another warning from Mother Nature to address the cause, not the effects? Could be. Here's a link to the article on the BBC News website:-
www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-36895071
Tuesday August 9, 2016: Today's Plague on the Planet update relates to a report about the decline in fish stocks in Africa's biggest lake (Lake Tanganyika). Some 'experts' are blaiming Global Warming, while others are blaming overfishing by an increasing number of commercial fishing fleets. Either way, unchecked human proliferation is the cause of the problem. We ignore Mother Nature's warnings at our peril! Here's a link to the article on the BBC News website:-
www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-37009305
Wednesday August 17, 2016: Today's Plague on the Planet update concerns the news story that an 18 year scientific study has attributed half of England's alarming bee decline to the use of 'Neonic' pesticides. The article states: "The manufacturers of the chemicals agree that it is an interesting statistical study, but they argue that intensive farming and not just a single insecticide might be the real cause of the decline." No, the cause is runaway human profileration resulting in the effect of ever-increasing demand, resulting, in turn, in yet more measures that attempt to tackle crop pests with man-made chemicaals. Bog standard cause and effect again! We ignore Mother Nature's warnings at our peril! Here's a link to the BBC News article:-
www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-37089385
Saturday September 24, 2016: today's "Plague on the Planet?" update concerns this week's shock report by the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) that half of the planet's wild life has vanished since 1970. The report cites "human activity" including deforestation; over-fishing; hunting and climate change. However, yet again, there appears to be no direct reference to the root cause lying at the very heart of the problem ... unchecked human profileration! See below a link to today's Daily Telegraph's news story. We ignore Mother Nature's warnings at our peril!
www.telegraph.co.uk/news/earth/wildlife/11129163/Half-of-worlds-animals-have-disappeared-since-1970.html
Tuesday September 27, 2016: today's "Plague on the Planet?" update focuses on the news story that research into global grasslands accounting for more than half of human calorie consumption ... including wheat, rice, corn and sorghum ... shows that grasslands are unlikely to keep pace with climate change. And we all know what that means don't we. Yes, more food shortages, more famine and not only confined to the so-called developing world. Yet again, the root cause of the problem can be seen to be un-checked human proliferation. See the link below to today's complete Royal Society article. We ignore Mother Nature's warnings at our peril!
http://rsbl.royalsocietypublishing.org/content/12/9/20160368
To conclude this essay on a somewhat lighter note, here’s one of my microdes (a mini-poem)
“Let there be no ifs, buts or maybes
There’s so much more to this
Than humans making babies”
JENNY'S DRIVING AMBITION
WHEN my wife Jenny and I originally set-up home together in early September 1980, I was aware of the fact that, since childhood, she had suffered terribly from the effects of epilepsy. I admired her strength in the face of such adversity, but it was a source of some sadness to me that her one ambition in life ... to obtain a provisional driving licence, pass her driving test and buy her own car ... seemed a dream that would never be realised.
By the middle of October 1980, it felt as if Jenny and I had been together for years. After the agonies of our respective failed marriages, we had both found security and happiness in each other’s company. In fact, we were inseparable. Even during my work as a disc jockey, Jenny would take-on the role of road crew member, carrying equipment in and out of venues on many of my mobile discotheque engagements around London and the south of England.
Returning home with her after a particularly tiring evening entertaining a singles club above the Green Man public house in Downham, South London, Jenny made some coffee, and we both sank exhausted onto the settee. Winding down after the events of the previous few hours, we sat in complete silence, Jenny resting her hand ... in which she held her mug of coffee ... on my left knee.
The first indication that something was wrong came when I felt Jenny’s hand twitch. As I looked towards the mug of coffee perched on the top of my leg, her hand twitched again, but this time more violently. In stunned silence, I looked on as the contents of the mug sprayed in an arc of piping hot liquid, soaking the lower half of my trousers and the carpet below. At the same time, Jenny stood up and took two steps towards the light on the wall opposite. I sprang to my feet and reached out for her but, before I could come to her aid she let-out a heart-rending cry and dropped to the floor convulsing from the effects of a severe grand mal epileptic seizure.
For what seemed to me like ages, but could only have been a few moments, I stood there feeling utterly helpless. The suddenness of what I was witnessing had placed me in a dream-like state; unable to take-in the reality of what was happening in front of my eyes. All I can remember with any clarity was clasping the sides of my face with my hands and shaking my head vigorously in an attempt to clear my mind. “My God, what do I do now?” I asked myself.
It was then I recalled an incident some ten years earlier, when my daughter Jacqueline suffered a fit brought-on by the combination of a winter chill and teething. Jackie had stopped breathing, and her lips were turning blue, so I forced open her mouth and created an airway by holding her tongue in place with my index finger. The pain was excruciating. Later, when the doctor called to examine Jacqueline, he also inspected the damage to my finger. The doctor laughed when he told me, “An eighth of an inch the other way, Mr Lowe, and you’d have lost the top of it.” He then demonstrated to me how to respond if Jacqueline should fit again.
Little did I suspect that more than ten years would elapse before I’d be called upon to act on the doctor’s instructions. One moment Jenny was convulsing horrifically at my feet, while I stood helplessly looking-on. Then, a few seconds later, I was kneeling at her side, and gently laying her in a recovery position. Gradually the convulsions ebbed away, and her wide-eyed expression gave way to a comparatively peaceful sleep-like countenance.
I remained kneeling beside her, stroking her forehead with the fingers of my left hand, while holding her free hand in my right. “Please God, don’t ever let this happen again” I whispered. “Please God, don’t ever let this happen again.” I guess I must have repeated those words a dozen times or more over the next few minutes and, by then, Jenny was gradually regaining consciousness.
Gathering her up in my arms, I carried Jenny upstairs and tucked her into bed. Then, I undressed and climbed into bed beside her and, for what seemed like hours, I lay listening to Jenny’s breathing, and watching for signs of another seizure ... which never came.
Five years later, Jenny and I had moved from Bexley in Kent, to Torquay in South Devon, where I had become part of the freelance presentation team on DevonAir Radio. Away from the studios, however, I was in an almost constant state of confusion. I felt I was being driven like a clockwork toy. Someone – or something – had placed an imaginary key in my back, wound it, and then set my feet on the ground for me to begin a truly bewildering search.
I was convinced I was looking for something. But what exactly? I had no idea. All I knew for certain was it had a spiritual-mystical dimension, because I was constantly being drawn to metaphysical books in the local library, and esoteric shelves in book shops. Every spare minute was spent wracking my brain for a clue to the meaning of this strange hyper-activity. Then, out of the blue, came part of the answer.
Arriving home after another fruitless Saturday afternoon searching for that elusive something, I retrieved the daily newspaper from the letter box, and threw it dejectedly onto the kitchen table. Thumbing through its pages, my eyes fell on a large panel containing church advertisements. There, in the middle of the panel was a box advert for Paignton Spiritualist Church showing a list of activities, including that night’s Saturday evening Clairvoyance.
Instantly, I knew Paignton Spiritualist Church was where I had to be that evening. But all my instincts rejected the idea. What on earth would my old Anglican Church acquaintances think? And what would my former Sunday school teaching colleagues say? The more my head buzzed with those doubts, the more convinced I became that I was being powerfully led to Paignton Spiritualist Church for a purpose.
Jenny shared my misgivings but, contrary to our expectations, the church hall was full of perfectly normal, friendly people, many of whom extended a warm welcome to both of us. As the evening got under way, a formidable-looking lady was introduced as the medium for that weekend ... namely, the then President of Paignton Spiritualist Church, Lilian Hurst.
Lilian took to the rostrum and, after a short prayer followed by a sung chorus she began to bring messages of hope to some of those present. This was a completely new and fascinating experience for me: far removed from the rumours and dark innuendo I had heard about Spiritualism and its followers, during my Anglican Church days.
Here was genuine love, comfort and reassurance demonstrated in abundance by a lady who clearly possessed a remarkable gift. At first, I was thoroughly absorbed in her messages to others, but after a while I began to feel uneasy. “Oh dear, I hope she doesn’t come to me” I whispered to myself. I then attempted to make myself smaller, by sinking lower in my chair ... a tricky problem for someone standing six foot six inches tall and weighing-in at two hundred and fifty pounds!
A few moments later, however, Lilian Hurst pointed in my direction. “The young man in the yellow jumper...” she called.
“M-me?” I stuttered.
“Yes, you” she insisted. “You’re involved in healing aren’t you.”
“Healing? Me? No, I don’t think so” I replied.
Lilian’s response was emphatic. “Oh, but you are my son. I can see praying hands over your head, and there’s a beautiful light around your shoulders.”
By the middle of October 1980, it felt as if Jenny and I had been together for years. After the agonies of our respective failed marriages, we had both found security and happiness in each other’s company. In fact, we were inseparable. Even during my work as a disc jockey, Jenny would take-on the role of road crew member, carrying equipment in and out of venues on many of my mobile discotheque engagements around London and the south of England.
Returning home with her after a particularly tiring evening entertaining a singles club above the Green Man public house in Downham, South London, Jenny made some coffee, and we both sank exhausted onto the settee. Winding down after the events of the previous few hours, we sat in complete silence, Jenny resting her hand ... in which she held her mug of coffee ... on my left knee.
The first indication that something was wrong came when I felt Jenny’s hand twitch. As I looked towards the mug of coffee perched on the top of my leg, her hand twitched again, but this time more violently. In stunned silence, I looked on as the contents of the mug sprayed in an arc of piping hot liquid, soaking the lower half of my trousers and the carpet below. At the same time, Jenny stood up and took two steps towards the light on the wall opposite. I sprang to my feet and reached out for her but, before I could come to her aid she let-out a heart-rending cry and dropped to the floor convulsing from the effects of a severe grand mal epileptic seizure.
For what seemed to me like ages, but could only have been a few moments, I stood there feeling utterly helpless. The suddenness of what I was witnessing had placed me in a dream-like state; unable to take-in the reality of what was happening in front of my eyes. All I can remember with any clarity was clasping the sides of my face with my hands and shaking my head vigorously in an attempt to clear my mind. “My God, what do I do now?” I asked myself.
It was then I recalled an incident some ten years earlier, when my daughter Jacqueline suffered a fit brought-on by the combination of a winter chill and teething. Jackie had stopped breathing, and her lips were turning blue, so I forced open her mouth and created an airway by holding her tongue in place with my index finger. The pain was excruciating. Later, when the doctor called to examine Jacqueline, he also inspected the damage to my finger. The doctor laughed when he told me, “An eighth of an inch the other way, Mr Lowe, and you’d have lost the top of it.” He then demonstrated to me how to respond if Jacqueline should fit again.
Little did I suspect that more than ten years would elapse before I’d be called upon to act on the doctor’s instructions. One moment Jenny was convulsing horrifically at my feet, while I stood helplessly looking-on. Then, a few seconds later, I was kneeling at her side, and gently laying her in a recovery position. Gradually the convulsions ebbed away, and her wide-eyed expression gave way to a comparatively peaceful sleep-like countenance.
I remained kneeling beside her, stroking her forehead with the fingers of my left hand, while holding her free hand in my right. “Please God, don’t ever let this happen again” I whispered. “Please God, don’t ever let this happen again.” I guess I must have repeated those words a dozen times or more over the next few minutes and, by then, Jenny was gradually regaining consciousness.
Gathering her up in my arms, I carried Jenny upstairs and tucked her into bed. Then, I undressed and climbed into bed beside her and, for what seemed like hours, I lay listening to Jenny’s breathing, and watching for signs of another seizure ... which never came.
Five years later, Jenny and I had moved from Bexley in Kent, to Torquay in South Devon, where I had become part of the freelance presentation team on DevonAir Radio. Away from the studios, however, I was in an almost constant state of confusion. I felt I was being driven like a clockwork toy. Someone – or something – had placed an imaginary key in my back, wound it, and then set my feet on the ground for me to begin a truly bewildering search.
I was convinced I was looking for something. But what exactly? I had no idea. All I knew for certain was it had a spiritual-mystical dimension, because I was constantly being drawn to metaphysical books in the local library, and esoteric shelves in book shops. Every spare minute was spent wracking my brain for a clue to the meaning of this strange hyper-activity. Then, out of the blue, came part of the answer.
Arriving home after another fruitless Saturday afternoon searching for that elusive something, I retrieved the daily newspaper from the letter box, and threw it dejectedly onto the kitchen table. Thumbing through its pages, my eyes fell on a large panel containing church advertisements. There, in the middle of the panel was a box advert for Paignton Spiritualist Church showing a list of activities, including that night’s Saturday evening Clairvoyance.
Instantly, I knew Paignton Spiritualist Church was where I had to be that evening. But all my instincts rejected the idea. What on earth would my old Anglican Church acquaintances think? And what would my former Sunday school teaching colleagues say? The more my head buzzed with those doubts, the more convinced I became that I was being powerfully led to Paignton Spiritualist Church for a purpose.
Jenny shared my misgivings but, contrary to our expectations, the church hall was full of perfectly normal, friendly people, many of whom extended a warm welcome to both of us. As the evening got under way, a formidable-looking lady was introduced as the medium for that weekend ... namely, the then President of Paignton Spiritualist Church, Lilian Hurst.
Lilian took to the rostrum and, after a short prayer followed by a sung chorus she began to bring messages of hope to some of those present. This was a completely new and fascinating experience for me: far removed from the rumours and dark innuendo I had heard about Spiritualism and its followers, during my Anglican Church days.
Here was genuine love, comfort and reassurance demonstrated in abundance by a lady who clearly possessed a remarkable gift. At first, I was thoroughly absorbed in her messages to others, but after a while I began to feel uneasy. “Oh dear, I hope she doesn’t come to me” I whispered to myself. I then attempted to make myself smaller, by sinking lower in my chair ... a tricky problem for someone standing six foot six inches tall and weighing-in at two hundred and fifty pounds!
A few moments later, however, Lilian Hurst pointed in my direction. “The young man in the yellow jumper...” she called.
“M-me?” I stuttered.
“Yes, you” she insisted. “You’re involved in healing aren’t you.”
“Healing? Me? No, I don’t think so” I replied.
Lilian’s response was emphatic. “Oh, but you are my son. I can see praying hands over your head, and there’s a beautiful light around your shoulders.”
She then went-on to talk about the rather delicate nature of my own health at that time, but assured me that, when I succeeded in “getting everything on an even keel”, if I wished to, I would be able to learn more about my healing gift and develop it with guidance from her. With that, Lilian moved-on to bring a message to another member of the audience.
I was utterly speechless, but even then the penny didn’t drop. In fact, it took me several more minutes to make the connection, and when I did, it hit me like a bolt from the blue. Sitting next to me was Jenny, who had not shown the slightest signs of epilepsy since that dramatic evening in October 1980. Now, nearly five years later, I was being told by a complete stranger that I possessed the very special gift of healing. All I could think was might it be possible that I had somehow helped in the removal of Jenny’s symptoms? How could that possibly be? My head flooded with momentous questions, none of which I could answer. I therefore resolved to speak to Lilian at the end of the evening.
Later, I stood with Jenny at the back of the hall and related our story to Lilian Hurst, who nodded knowingly. “You see?” she exclaimed triumphantly. “I told you, you have a wonderful healing gift.” From that day onwards, Lilian took me under her wing ... but that’s another story (see my articles “Healing on the Air” parts one and two below).
Suffice it to say, more than 30 years later, Jenny is still completely free of epilepsy, and she realised her driving ambition quite a long time ago. After several seizure-free years, she was granted a provisional driving licence in 1985 and passed her test on May 13 of the following year. Her first car was a little yellow Ford Fiesta and, over the years, that was followed by two Vauxhall Nova’s and another Ford Fiesta. Then In 2006 she traded-in that silver grey Fiesta, for a 2005 metallic blue Ford Fiesta which she continues to drive to this day.
Note: The original version of the above story was published in Psychic News on April 22, 2000. It was subsequently published in the UK's Psychic World newspaper, and also the White Light magazine in Australia.
I was utterly speechless, but even then the penny didn’t drop. In fact, it took me several more minutes to make the connection, and when I did, it hit me like a bolt from the blue. Sitting next to me was Jenny, who had not shown the slightest signs of epilepsy since that dramatic evening in October 1980. Now, nearly five years later, I was being told by a complete stranger that I possessed the very special gift of healing. All I could think was might it be possible that I had somehow helped in the removal of Jenny’s symptoms? How could that possibly be? My head flooded with momentous questions, none of which I could answer. I therefore resolved to speak to Lilian at the end of the evening.
Later, I stood with Jenny at the back of the hall and related our story to Lilian Hurst, who nodded knowingly. “You see?” she exclaimed triumphantly. “I told you, you have a wonderful healing gift.” From that day onwards, Lilian took me under her wing ... but that’s another story (see my articles “Healing on the Air” parts one and two below).
Suffice it to say, more than 30 years later, Jenny is still completely free of epilepsy, and she realised her driving ambition quite a long time ago. After several seizure-free years, she was granted a provisional driving licence in 1985 and passed her test on May 13 of the following year. Her first car was a little yellow Ford Fiesta and, over the years, that was followed by two Vauxhall Nova’s and another Ford Fiesta. Then In 2006 she traded-in that silver grey Fiesta, for a 2005 metallic blue Ford Fiesta which she continues to drive to this day.
Note: The original version of the above story was published in Psychic News on April 22, 2000. It was subsequently published in the UK's Psychic World newspaper, and also the White Light magazine in Australia.
HEALING ON THE AIR - PART ONE
FOREWORD: The following true short story may leave some unanswered questions in your mind. So, even before you begin reading, let me dispel any queries you’re likely to pick-up along the way. Firstly, I am a former Church of England Sunday school teacher and an active Anglican Church member, but that was nearly 40 years ago. Secondly, since 1979, I have been on a very long, and seemingly solitary, spiritual journey. Thirdly, during that journey, I have experienced some truly remarkable moments and revelations. This is the story of just one of those experiences: one that led to many others. And before you ask, no, I'm not a Spiritualist. Organised religion is not for me. I just thank God - The Universe - for the chance to share this story with you.
THERE will always be a special place in my affections for Lilian Hurst who, until her passing in 1993, was the President of Paignton Spiritualist Church in Devonshire, England. It was Lilian who, some eight years earlier, had singled me out in a crowded hall and loudly proclaimed she could see praying hands above my head, and also a golden white light around my shoulders (see also my true life short story “Jenny’s Driving Ambition” coming soon to this website). From that moment on, Lilian took me under her wing. Mixing encouragement with the occasional reprimand, she became, in every respect, a trusted, much loved mentor.
Early on, I was eager to move beyond Lilian’s weekly open circle meetings and sit in a development circle, but she put the brakes on. “All in good time David,” she would say. “You must try to understand that, for now, your spiritual work and your broadcasting work with DevonAir Radio go hand-in-hand.” Quite what she meant by that, remained something of a mystery to me for well over two years.
Eventually, though, I began to notice several common phrases appearing in letters from a growing number of my DevonAir Radio listeners. Most of those phrases tended to contain the same key words ... soothing, relaxing, comforting, reassuring ... and they often spoke of listening to my programmes and drifting into a peaceful night’s sleep. At that time, I simply put it down to late night listening but, in doing so, I missed the point completely.
Then, as if to spell it out for me once and for all, in early March 1989, I received a letter from a listener in Torquay who wrote in a beautiful bold black script (see the image below), “You may not be a doctor, but every week on your programme ‘The Way We Were’ you give me a prescription for peace and pleasure, as it has been proved that lots of nostalgia is very therapeutic, and far better than any doctor’s remedies.”
THERE will always be a special place in my affections for Lilian Hurst who, until her passing in 1993, was the President of Paignton Spiritualist Church in Devonshire, England. It was Lilian who, some eight years earlier, had singled me out in a crowded hall and loudly proclaimed she could see praying hands above my head, and also a golden white light around my shoulders (see also my true life short story “Jenny’s Driving Ambition” coming soon to this website). From that moment on, Lilian took me under her wing. Mixing encouragement with the occasional reprimand, she became, in every respect, a trusted, much loved mentor.
Early on, I was eager to move beyond Lilian’s weekly open circle meetings and sit in a development circle, but she put the brakes on. “All in good time David,” she would say. “You must try to understand that, for now, your spiritual work and your broadcasting work with DevonAir Radio go hand-in-hand.” Quite what she meant by that, remained something of a mystery to me for well over two years.
Eventually, though, I began to notice several common phrases appearing in letters from a growing number of my DevonAir Radio listeners. Most of those phrases tended to contain the same key words ... soothing, relaxing, comforting, reassuring ... and they often spoke of listening to my programmes and drifting into a peaceful night’s sleep. At that time, I simply put it down to late night listening but, in doing so, I missed the point completely.
Then, as if to spell it out for me once and for all, in early March 1989, I received a letter from a listener in Torquay who wrote in a beautiful bold black script (see the image below), “You may not be a doctor, but every week on your programme ‘The Way We Were’ you give me a prescription for peace and pleasure, as it has been proved that lots of nostalgia is very therapeutic, and far better than any doctor’s remedies.”
After many months, and many listeners’ letters, at last, I understood what Lilian had meant on those occasions when she had referred to my working life and my spiritual activities going hand-in-hand. Clearly, there was something very unusual happening through my radio programmes, and this fact was now self-evident from many letters I had received. Nevertheless, it had taken me almost three years to make the connection.
Hurriedly referring back to the contents of a large number of letters and cards held on my files, I quickly deduced that the combined effects of the musical content of the programmes, and the timbre of my “distinctive, soothing, dark brown voice” (to quote numerous communications), was having a powerful calming effect on some of my listeners. I therefore chose to watch ever more closely for communications containing those tell-tale words and phrases which, in turn, pointed to the therapeutic effects being experienced by the correspondents.
At about the same time, I found myself using a phrase I had often overheard at Lilian Hurst’s open circle evenings. When it seemed fitting to do so, I would offer “healing thoughts to you...” and other words of encouragement to any listener who had written to tell me about a health or emotional problem. In the months that followed, the written response to my words on those occasions proved, beyond doubt, that a surprisingly large number of listeners were deriving a demonstrable benefit from the content of my radio programmes.
In August 1990, after nearly seven years with DevonAir Radio, I returned, as a freelance producer and presenter, to my broadcasting roots with BBC Local Radio. Five months later, on the strength of the success of my Sunday evening production, the BBC regional managers invited me to develop a thirteen week pilot series entitled As Time Goes By. This was a weekly music-based nostalgia programme that went-on to enjoy an unbroken run of nineteen years on nine of the BBC’s network of local radio stations.
By the end of 1991, As Time Goes By had established itself as a permanent fixture on the airwaves across the south and west of the British Isles, and those same key words and phrases ... soothing, relaxing, comforting, reassuring ... continued to form part of numerous listeners’ letters.
Just before Christmas 1991, I received a letter from two listeners in North Devon who wrote to tell me they were recording As Time Goes By each week and sending a cassette copy to a relative in Essex. They explained that the relative concerned – named Geoff – suffered from arthritis and, “spends many of the night hours listening to music, when he cannot sleep. Could you please send him our best wishes, and play him a Frank Sinatra record to cheer him up.”
As I read the letter in my studio at home, I could “see” in my mind’s eye a gentleman sitting in an armchair with headphones over his ears. I closed my eyes and asked which Frank Sinatra recording I should play for him. Instantly, I received a reply. In my mind’s ear I distinctly “heard” the words “Someone to Watch Over Me”. I went straight to my Sinatra archive, located the track in question and placed it on the turntable. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as the music filled my studio. To me, this was a sure and familiar sign I was on the right track (no pun intended).
That request and recording was included in the edition of As Time Goes By dated December 30, 1991. Little more than one week later, I received a letter from Geoff in Essex, who wrote, “Imagine the shock I had when listening to your wonderful programme. Believe me, tears said it all. How did you know that, that song Someone To Watch Over Me was my favourite? So, you see I had to write to you to thank you, hoping that you will continue to give such pleasure and surprises to people like me.”
A few days after receiving Geoff’s first letter, he wrote again to explain the circumstances in more detail. “On Friday January 5, I had to call-in the doctor because I could not move with this dreaded arthritis. However, I rested for a day or two, and listened to your programme on the tapes my brother-in-law sends me each week.”
“Today, Thursday I’m walking around. In fact I’ve been down town to have a drink in my club and, altogether, I’m feeling much better. I wasn’t too good on the night I heard my request for Frank Sinatra’s Someone To Watch Over Me. Whether it was shock, I don’t know, but I can assure you, after my eyes had dried, I felt better. It wasn’t only the record that made me feel better, it was the wonderful way you have of putting it over. Your voice somehow gets into one’s system.”
Before the end of January 1992, I received two more letters from Geoff, both of which were written in long-hand (his earlier letters had been laboriously printed in capitals). “I feel I must write to you to tell you I feel very much better. I am sleeping in my bed again for the first time in months. The pains in my knees have almost gone. And my fingers? Well, as you can see, I’m writing again. Last Monday, my doctor told me it’s a transformation and a little miracle. I think I’ll call you Doctor David, because it’s remarkable that I have felt better since Christmas, after hearing your programme.”
Geoff’s next letter confirmed that he was still making steady progress, and he added, “I saw a specialist at Addenbrooke’s Hospital in Cambridge on January 24. Up to now, I’ve been seeing him every month, but now I don’t have to see him again for another ten weeks. He too is very pleased with the way things are going, and I’m sure, David, it’s partly thanks to you.”
Geoff’s story is just one of a number of remarkable “on-air” healing events I was witness to during my thirty-two years in radio. However, the profound mixture of privilege and humility I felt then – and still feel today – serves as a permanent reminder of the God given gifts that appear to have been bestowed upon me. That such a very ordinary, fallible man like me should have been blessed with half a lifetime of such extraordinary experiences, is a constant source of amazement.
I am forever saying thank you to God and The Universe in general for those remarkable experiences. And, of course, I haven’t forgotten Lilian Hurst who was so instrumental in awakening me to my God-given gifts. Yes, I often think of, and thank her too. Mind you, there were, eventually, some very strong challenges to the natural healing dimensions of my broadcasting work. But then, that’s another true story for another time.
Afterword: The above story was published in the Psychic News on May 13, 2000 and it has since been published in Psychic World and the White Light Magazine in Australia
Hurriedly referring back to the contents of a large number of letters and cards held on my files, I quickly deduced that the combined effects of the musical content of the programmes, and the timbre of my “distinctive, soothing, dark brown voice” (to quote numerous communications), was having a powerful calming effect on some of my listeners. I therefore chose to watch ever more closely for communications containing those tell-tale words and phrases which, in turn, pointed to the therapeutic effects being experienced by the correspondents.
At about the same time, I found myself using a phrase I had often overheard at Lilian Hurst’s open circle evenings. When it seemed fitting to do so, I would offer “healing thoughts to you...” and other words of encouragement to any listener who had written to tell me about a health or emotional problem. In the months that followed, the written response to my words on those occasions proved, beyond doubt, that a surprisingly large number of listeners were deriving a demonstrable benefit from the content of my radio programmes.
In August 1990, after nearly seven years with DevonAir Radio, I returned, as a freelance producer and presenter, to my broadcasting roots with BBC Local Radio. Five months later, on the strength of the success of my Sunday evening production, the BBC regional managers invited me to develop a thirteen week pilot series entitled As Time Goes By. This was a weekly music-based nostalgia programme that went-on to enjoy an unbroken run of nineteen years on nine of the BBC’s network of local radio stations.
By the end of 1991, As Time Goes By had established itself as a permanent fixture on the airwaves across the south and west of the British Isles, and those same key words and phrases ... soothing, relaxing, comforting, reassuring ... continued to form part of numerous listeners’ letters.
Just before Christmas 1991, I received a letter from two listeners in North Devon who wrote to tell me they were recording As Time Goes By each week and sending a cassette copy to a relative in Essex. They explained that the relative concerned – named Geoff – suffered from arthritis and, “spends many of the night hours listening to music, when he cannot sleep. Could you please send him our best wishes, and play him a Frank Sinatra record to cheer him up.”
As I read the letter in my studio at home, I could “see” in my mind’s eye a gentleman sitting in an armchair with headphones over his ears. I closed my eyes and asked which Frank Sinatra recording I should play for him. Instantly, I received a reply. In my mind’s ear I distinctly “heard” the words “Someone to Watch Over Me”. I went straight to my Sinatra archive, located the track in question and placed it on the turntable. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as the music filled my studio. To me, this was a sure and familiar sign I was on the right track (no pun intended).
That request and recording was included in the edition of As Time Goes By dated December 30, 1991. Little more than one week later, I received a letter from Geoff in Essex, who wrote, “Imagine the shock I had when listening to your wonderful programme. Believe me, tears said it all. How did you know that, that song Someone To Watch Over Me was my favourite? So, you see I had to write to you to thank you, hoping that you will continue to give such pleasure and surprises to people like me.”
A few days after receiving Geoff’s first letter, he wrote again to explain the circumstances in more detail. “On Friday January 5, I had to call-in the doctor because I could not move with this dreaded arthritis. However, I rested for a day or two, and listened to your programme on the tapes my brother-in-law sends me each week.”
“Today, Thursday I’m walking around. In fact I’ve been down town to have a drink in my club and, altogether, I’m feeling much better. I wasn’t too good on the night I heard my request for Frank Sinatra’s Someone To Watch Over Me. Whether it was shock, I don’t know, but I can assure you, after my eyes had dried, I felt better. It wasn’t only the record that made me feel better, it was the wonderful way you have of putting it over. Your voice somehow gets into one’s system.”
Before the end of January 1992, I received two more letters from Geoff, both of which were written in long-hand (his earlier letters had been laboriously printed in capitals). “I feel I must write to you to tell you I feel very much better. I am sleeping in my bed again for the first time in months. The pains in my knees have almost gone. And my fingers? Well, as you can see, I’m writing again. Last Monday, my doctor told me it’s a transformation and a little miracle. I think I’ll call you Doctor David, because it’s remarkable that I have felt better since Christmas, after hearing your programme.”
Geoff’s next letter confirmed that he was still making steady progress, and he added, “I saw a specialist at Addenbrooke’s Hospital in Cambridge on January 24. Up to now, I’ve been seeing him every month, but now I don’t have to see him again for another ten weeks. He too is very pleased with the way things are going, and I’m sure, David, it’s partly thanks to you.”
Geoff’s story is just one of a number of remarkable “on-air” healing events I was witness to during my thirty-two years in radio. However, the profound mixture of privilege and humility I felt then – and still feel today – serves as a permanent reminder of the God given gifts that appear to have been bestowed upon me. That such a very ordinary, fallible man like me should have been blessed with half a lifetime of such extraordinary experiences, is a constant source of amazement.
I am forever saying thank you to God and The Universe in general for those remarkable experiences. And, of course, I haven’t forgotten Lilian Hurst who was so instrumental in awakening me to my God-given gifts. Yes, I often think of, and thank her too. Mind you, there were, eventually, some very strong challenges to the natural healing dimensions of my broadcasting work. But then, that’s another true story for another time.
Afterword: The above story was published in the Psychic News on May 13, 2000 and it has since been published in Psychic World and the White Light Magazine in Australia
A few more listeners' letters from 1992 to early 1995
HEALING ON THE AIR - PART TWO
FOREWORD: As I mentioned at the end of my story “Healing on the Air – Part One”, the overwhelming majority of listeners to my radio shows were responding very positively indeed to the soothing, comforting flavour of the BBC radio programmes I was producing and presenting. But trouble was brewing…
BY the beginning of 1995, The Sunday Late Show was enjoying enormous popularity. The light-hearted, easy listening, two-hour music and chat radio programme I had inherited some four and a half years earlier, was now a fully-fledged three-hour regional production transmitted simultaneously by nine BBC local radio stations. Indeed, the success of The Sunday Late Show during my time as its producer and presenter was a high point in my broadcasting career.
The Sunday Late Show was essentially a nostalgia programme covering the popular music of the 1930s to the 1960s. Occasionally, it also contained short documentary features which, more often than not, took the form of evocative radio recordings and interviews from that same period of the mid-twentieth century. But there was another dimension to the programme which I had deliberately kept under wraps for fear of it being misunderstood or ridiculed ... or worse.
That dimension seemed to find its outlet through the combined effects of the melodic music featured in the show, together with the timbre of my voice. Most weeks I would receive letters from listeners who were experiencing comfort and reassurance from the contents of The Sunday Late Show and, judging from the words they used, some were also experiencing relief from health conditions and emotional issues.
For example, a lady called Annie wrote from Camborne in Cornwall, “Sometimes, we need a kind word, and your voice makes me feel safe and secure.” Walter in Trowbridge, Wiltshire wrote, “My wife Audrey found your programme after a long illness, and you have been important in her recovery.” And Joan, another listener from Wiltshire, wrote “I’ve had lots of relief from your wonderful voice, which is so calming.”
BY the beginning of 1995, The Sunday Late Show was enjoying enormous popularity. The light-hearted, easy listening, two-hour music and chat radio programme I had inherited some four and a half years earlier, was now a fully-fledged three-hour regional production transmitted simultaneously by nine BBC local radio stations. Indeed, the success of The Sunday Late Show during my time as its producer and presenter was a high point in my broadcasting career.
The Sunday Late Show was essentially a nostalgia programme covering the popular music of the 1930s to the 1960s. Occasionally, it also contained short documentary features which, more often than not, took the form of evocative radio recordings and interviews from that same period of the mid-twentieth century. But there was another dimension to the programme which I had deliberately kept under wraps for fear of it being misunderstood or ridiculed ... or worse.
That dimension seemed to find its outlet through the combined effects of the melodic music featured in the show, together with the timbre of my voice. Most weeks I would receive letters from listeners who were experiencing comfort and reassurance from the contents of The Sunday Late Show and, judging from the words they used, some were also experiencing relief from health conditions and emotional issues.
For example, a lady called Annie wrote from Camborne in Cornwall, “Sometimes, we need a kind word, and your voice makes me feel safe and secure.” Walter in Trowbridge, Wiltshire wrote, “My wife Audrey found your programme after a long illness, and you have been important in her recovery.” And Joan, another listener from Wiltshire, wrote “I’ve had lots of relief from your wonderful voice, which is so calming.”
Several years prior to taking over the helm of The Sunday Late Show, I had been introduced to the world of natural healing by the then President of Paignton Spiritualist Church, Lilian Hurst, who took me under her wing and quickly became a much respected mentor. With a little coaxing from her, not to mention a growing number of corroborative listeners’ letters, I later discovered that, through the combined effects of, not only the music I was featuring, but also the texture of my voice, and some of the phrases I was using, healing was actually occurring from time-to-time.
Nevertheless, as the years rolled by, it seemed prudent not to draw too much attention to these well documented therapeutic effects. Indeed, throughout this period, my intuition kept telling me that, to go public on the matter, would unleash an unpleasant response from those who didn’t – or wouldn’t – understand. Consequently, I kept the healing dimension out of the spotlight, and revealed only the occasional glimpse by way of the expression “healing thoughts to you...” and other carefully chosen words of comfort.
But then, early in 1995, two events occurred which prompted me to see my on-air activities in a slightly different light. Firstly, the BBC management issued a challenge to all its documentary programme-makers to encourage more experimentation and risk-taking, especially on radio (see also my short story “Come Again?”). Then, a few weeks later, the medium Gladys Fieldhouse, on a visit to Paignton Spiritualist Church, took me to one side, and said, “I am being told you are hiding some of your spiritual work behind a fine gauze curtain, but it’s now time to draw that curtain aside, and reveal your wonderful gift.”
I immediately understood what Gladys was saying. And so, on the strength of, not only her words, but also the earlier BBC challenge, I introduced the Sunday Late Show audience to my involvement in the field of natural healing. To put it mildly, the listeners responded very positively indeed to what I told them. From the moment I first mentioned the programme’s natural healing dimension, the studio’s telephone lines were swamped with calls, every one of which was supportive. There was not one disapproving call, nor one dissenting voice.
In the weeks that followed, audience interest in this unusual radio innovation increased dramatically. Moreover, the listeners showed an eagerness to hear and learn more about natural healing in general. This, in turn, led to a greater number of letters asking for healing thoughts and, eventually, reports of relieved symptoms and improved health conditions became a regular occurrence.
Perhaps the most unusual case of healing during this period came when I received a letter from a listener in Salisbury who asked if I could help her frozen shoulder. I advised her to listen to the sound of my voice plus the recording I was about to play and, at the same time, rub her shoulder gently with her free hand.
A fortnight later, I received a letter from another listener called Hilda, who wrote, “A couple of weeks ago, you advised a lady to rub her frozen shoulder for a short while. I suffer from Parkinson’s disease and get the bad days when I cannot hold a pen, let alone write. That evening I had the shakes very bad in my left arm. As you told the other listener to rub her hand on her shoulder, I did the same. Uncanny, but the shaking stopped, and though not good, I am now able to write, whereas I could not before.”
One week later, I received another letter from Hilda which read, “Dear David. I really do not know how to thank you for all that you have done for me. Since the first time you mentioned distant healing, I feel a different person. Truly! Half asleep last Sunday, I heard you mention my name and gave me advice which, please believe me, is truly amazing. I feel a new person. I’ve been full of the joys of spring ... cleaning ... full of beans. Don’t laugh, I’ve even washed-out the dustbin today. I expect the other tenants think I’m a halfpenny short of a shilling.” Hilda then finished her letter with, “Notice the writing? My breath has really been taken away. Once again thank you and bless you. You’ve made this old lady at least feel half my age, if not in body, then in spirit.”
Not long after Hilda’s second communication arrived, I received the first – and only – letter of disapproval. It came from a lady listener who was becoming increasingly concerned with my “involvement in the healing arts.” That same listener went-on to suggest I return to my “natural caring attitude, but minus all the odd-ball comments about healing thoughts, etc.”
She also expressed her concern over a recent on-air reference I had made on the subject of reincarnation (see also my short story “Come Again?”). This comment was entirely unrelated to the healing dimension of the programme, but it formed part of my wider attempt to introduce a more experimental flavour into The Sunday Late Show, in accordance with the BBC’s aforementioned guidelines.
Under any other circumstances, I would probably have thanked the lady for her letter, and left it at that. After all, the occasional dissenting voice is a healthy sign. However, this particular lady finished her letter with, “You will find no mention of reincarnation in The Bible, and this is the only book to live by, I’m sure you will agree.” See the letter below. I resisted the temptation to challenge her assertion and, instead, tried to explain to her the historically documented facts behind the erasing of the concept of reincarnation from the Christian ethic by way of the Anathema Decree, in 553AD. I then added, "God Bless you to, my dear," at which point I faded-in the next recording on my play list.
Not long after that, Tony my studio assistant popped-in to tell me he'd just received a call from a listener who'd said, "Tell David we want to hear more music and less chat." So, at the end of the track that was playing out at the time, I responded - as politely as I could - to the listener's demands by revealing that there had, in fact, been more music than ever in the previous weekend's show. And, more importantly, that night's programme was destined to contain even more music again. I finished-off by saying, "Of course, if you're not enjoying the show, sir, I'm sure you know what you can do about it. Of course you do."
Two days later, I received a telephone call from a BBC manager who claimed to have received “many complaints” about my recent programmes.
“All this healing thoughts business has got to stop,” he demanded.
I attempted to reason with him. “What if I was to say loving thoughts, instead?”
“But that’s different,” he replied.
“On the contrary,” I said, “it’s exactly the same.”
But the manager had the last word. “I don’t care, it’s got to stop!”
By then, I realised I was in serious trouble. And this was compounded three days later when I discovered all my incoming mail – including letters addressed to my other BBC production As Time Goes By – had been opened and the envelopes discarded without my knowledge or consent. By the middle of the following week, my days as the producer and presenter of The Sunday Late Show were at an end.
However, that wasn’t the end of my radio career. I continued to produce and present programmes for the BBC from July 1995 until May 2014 and, throughout that time, I continued to use the expression “healing thoughts to you...” whenever it seemed appropriate to do so. Moreover, I continued to receive letters from listeners who were clearly finding peace, comfort, reassurance and even relief from physical or emotional conditions, through the music and voice content of my radio programmes.
But, in closing, let me try putting all this into perspective. I was merely acting as an instrument ... a channel, if you like ... and what’s more, I was definitely not doing anything new or unique. Far from it! Indeed, history records that Pythagoras (the ancient Greek philosopher and mathematician) was working with his students on the healing potential of music and the sound of the human voice more than 2,500 years ago.
I rest my case m'lud.
The above story was published in the Psychic News on May 20, 2000 and it has since been published in Psychic World and the White Light Magazine in Australia
Nevertheless, as the years rolled by, it seemed prudent not to draw too much attention to these well documented therapeutic effects. Indeed, throughout this period, my intuition kept telling me that, to go public on the matter, would unleash an unpleasant response from those who didn’t – or wouldn’t – understand. Consequently, I kept the healing dimension out of the spotlight, and revealed only the occasional glimpse by way of the expression “healing thoughts to you...” and other carefully chosen words of comfort.
But then, early in 1995, two events occurred which prompted me to see my on-air activities in a slightly different light. Firstly, the BBC management issued a challenge to all its documentary programme-makers to encourage more experimentation and risk-taking, especially on radio (see also my short story “Come Again?”). Then, a few weeks later, the medium Gladys Fieldhouse, on a visit to Paignton Spiritualist Church, took me to one side, and said, “I am being told you are hiding some of your spiritual work behind a fine gauze curtain, but it’s now time to draw that curtain aside, and reveal your wonderful gift.”
I immediately understood what Gladys was saying. And so, on the strength of, not only her words, but also the earlier BBC challenge, I introduced the Sunday Late Show audience to my involvement in the field of natural healing. To put it mildly, the listeners responded very positively indeed to what I told them. From the moment I first mentioned the programme’s natural healing dimension, the studio’s telephone lines were swamped with calls, every one of which was supportive. There was not one disapproving call, nor one dissenting voice.
In the weeks that followed, audience interest in this unusual radio innovation increased dramatically. Moreover, the listeners showed an eagerness to hear and learn more about natural healing in general. This, in turn, led to a greater number of letters asking for healing thoughts and, eventually, reports of relieved symptoms and improved health conditions became a regular occurrence.
Perhaps the most unusual case of healing during this period came when I received a letter from a listener in Salisbury who asked if I could help her frozen shoulder. I advised her to listen to the sound of my voice plus the recording I was about to play and, at the same time, rub her shoulder gently with her free hand.
A fortnight later, I received a letter from another listener called Hilda, who wrote, “A couple of weeks ago, you advised a lady to rub her frozen shoulder for a short while. I suffer from Parkinson’s disease and get the bad days when I cannot hold a pen, let alone write. That evening I had the shakes very bad in my left arm. As you told the other listener to rub her hand on her shoulder, I did the same. Uncanny, but the shaking stopped, and though not good, I am now able to write, whereas I could not before.”
One week later, I received another letter from Hilda which read, “Dear David. I really do not know how to thank you for all that you have done for me. Since the first time you mentioned distant healing, I feel a different person. Truly! Half asleep last Sunday, I heard you mention my name and gave me advice which, please believe me, is truly amazing. I feel a new person. I’ve been full of the joys of spring ... cleaning ... full of beans. Don’t laugh, I’ve even washed-out the dustbin today. I expect the other tenants think I’m a halfpenny short of a shilling.” Hilda then finished her letter with, “Notice the writing? My breath has really been taken away. Once again thank you and bless you. You’ve made this old lady at least feel half my age, if not in body, then in spirit.”
Not long after Hilda’s second communication arrived, I received the first – and only – letter of disapproval. It came from a lady listener who was becoming increasingly concerned with my “involvement in the healing arts.” That same listener went-on to suggest I return to my “natural caring attitude, but minus all the odd-ball comments about healing thoughts, etc.”
She also expressed her concern over a recent on-air reference I had made on the subject of reincarnation (see also my short story “Come Again?”). This comment was entirely unrelated to the healing dimension of the programme, but it formed part of my wider attempt to introduce a more experimental flavour into The Sunday Late Show, in accordance with the BBC’s aforementioned guidelines.
Under any other circumstances, I would probably have thanked the lady for her letter, and left it at that. After all, the occasional dissenting voice is a healthy sign. However, this particular lady finished her letter with, “You will find no mention of reincarnation in The Bible, and this is the only book to live by, I’m sure you will agree.” See the letter below. I resisted the temptation to challenge her assertion and, instead, tried to explain to her the historically documented facts behind the erasing of the concept of reincarnation from the Christian ethic by way of the Anathema Decree, in 553AD. I then added, "God Bless you to, my dear," at which point I faded-in the next recording on my play list.
Not long after that, Tony my studio assistant popped-in to tell me he'd just received a call from a listener who'd said, "Tell David we want to hear more music and less chat." So, at the end of the track that was playing out at the time, I responded - as politely as I could - to the listener's demands by revealing that there had, in fact, been more music than ever in the previous weekend's show. And, more importantly, that night's programme was destined to contain even more music again. I finished-off by saying, "Of course, if you're not enjoying the show, sir, I'm sure you know what you can do about it. Of course you do."
Two days later, I received a telephone call from a BBC manager who claimed to have received “many complaints” about my recent programmes.
“All this healing thoughts business has got to stop,” he demanded.
I attempted to reason with him. “What if I was to say loving thoughts, instead?”
“But that’s different,” he replied.
“On the contrary,” I said, “it’s exactly the same.”
But the manager had the last word. “I don’t care, it’s got to stop!”
By then, I realised I was in serious trouble. And this was compounded three days later when I discovered all my incoming mail – including letters addressed to my other BBC production As Time Goes By – had been opened and the envelopes discarded without my knowledge or consent. By the middle of the following week, my days as the producer and presenter of The Sunday Late Show were at an end.
However, that wasn’t the end of my radio career. I continued to produce and present programmes for the BBC from July 1995 until May 2014 and, throughout that time, I continued to use the expression “healing thoughts to you...” whenever it seemed appropriate to do so. Moreover, I continued to receive letters from listeners who were clearly finding peace, comfort, reassurance and even relief from physical or emotional conditions, through the music and voice content of my radio programmes.
But, in closing, let me try putting all this into perspective. I was merely acting as an instrument ... a channel, if you like ... and what’s more, I was definitely not doing anything new or unique. Far from it! Indeed, history records that Pythagoras (the ancient Greek philosopher and mathematician) was working with his students on the healing potential of music and the sound of the human voice more than 2,500 years ago.
I rest my case m'lud.
The above story was published in the Psychic News on May 20, 2000 and it has since been published in Psychic World and the White Light Magazine in Australia
The letter that marked the beginning of the end....
A few more relevant listeners' letters from 1995-1996
THE SHADOW OF HER SMILE
We may not be able to see or touch them, but you can rest assured we all have companions in spirit who draw close to inspire and assist us when the time is right.
Introduction:
THOSE of you who have read my articles “Healing on the Air ~ Part One” and “Healing on the Air ~ Part Two” will be aware that my radio programmes, especially from 1988 to 2014, contained a proven natural healing dimension. If, however, you haven’t read the above mentioned stories: or if you came across them some time ago and you’d like to refresh your memory, both of them can be found elsewhere here on this Portfolio of works. Either way, I hope you enjoy reading them ... as well as this story.
In the meantime, let me share with you a remarkable episode that occurred during the production process of my BBC regional programme “As Time Goes By” which was scheduled for transmission on May 31, 2003.
Setting the Scene:
Very early on in my thirty-two year radio career, I learned that musical continuity is of the utmost importance. It brings a kind of balance to the programmes that the listeners find easy on the ear and the emotions. Indeed, unannounced, abrupt variations in musical genre can, I believe, unsettle an otherwise relaxed listener. With that in mind, I developed a production routine which prevented that from happening.
The Production Process:
With this routine uppermost in my mind, I had a couple of hours to spare on the evening of May 21, 2003, so I decided to make an early start on the running order for following week’s edition of “As Time Goes By”. As always, I began the production process by separating out those listeners’ letters and e-mails containing birthday and wedding anniversary greetings specific to the programme in question: in this case, the edition dated May 31, 2003.
Nearly two hours later, the various date-specific requests and dedications destined for the May 31 edition of “As Time Goes By” had combined to give me a loose framework for the programme’s eventual play list. By then, it was obvious to me that there would be only a handful of remaining slots to fill, and this would be achieved by introducing several general requests into the programme from the bulky miscellaneous letters file.
It was fast approaching midnight, and I was beginning to feel tired. However, before I could retire to bed, I needed to resolve one tricky problem related to the opening phase of the May 31 programme. A date-specific request for the Andy Williams recording of “May Each Day” seemed a natural opener, but there was nothing to balance that recording against the requests and recordings that were likely to follow. There was only one thing for it. Somehow, I had to find a suitable recording to blend with the Andy Williams track, otherwise the opening few minutes of that particular programme would lack musical continuity.
Introduction:
THOSE of you who have read my articles “Healing on the Air ~ Part One” and “Healing on the Air ~ Part Two” will be aware that my radio programmes, especially from 1988 to 2014, contained a proven natural healing dimension. If, however, you haven’t read the above mentioned stories: or if you came across them some time ago and you’d like to refresh your memory, both of them can be found elsewhere here on this Portfolio of works. Either way, I hope you enjoy reading them ... as well as this story.
In the meantime, let me share with you a remarkable episode that occurred during the production process of my BBC regional programme “As Time Goes By” which was scheduled for transmission on May 31, 2003.
Setting the Scene:
Very early on in my thirty-two year radio career, I learned that musical continuity is of the utmost importance. It brings a kind of balance to the programmes that the listeners find easy on the ear and the emotions. Indeed, unannounced, abrupt variations in musical genre can, I believe, unsettle an otherwise relaxed listener. With that in mind, I developed a production routine which prevented that from happening.
The Production Process:
With this routine uppermost in my mind, I had a couple of hours to spare on the evening of May 21, 2003, so I decided to make an early start on the running order for following week’s edition of “As Time Goes By”. As always, I began the production process by separating out those listeners’ letters and e-mails containing birthday and wedding anniversary greetings specific to the programme in question: in this case, the edition dated May 31, 2003.
Nearly two hours later, the various date-specific requests and dedications destined for the May 31 edition of “As Time Goes By” had combined to give me a loose framework for the programme’s eventual play list. By then, it was obvious to me that there would be only a handful of remaining slots to fill, and this would be achieved by introducing several general requests into the programme from the bulky miscellaneous letters file.
It was fast approaching midnight, and I was beginning to feel tired. However, before I could retire to bed, I needed to resolve one tricky problem related to the opening phase of the May 31 programme. A date-specific request for the Andy Williams recording of “May Each Day” seemed a natural opener, but there was nothing to balance that recording against the requests and recordings that were likely to follow. There was only one thing for it. Somehow, I had to find a suitable recording to blend with the Andy Williams track, otherwise the opening few minutes of that particular programme would lack musical continuity.
I reached for the box file containing the miscellaneous requests and, as I did so, I remembered the file contained a listener’s letter asking for ‘any vocal version of The Shadow of Your Smile’. “That would be perfect,” I whispered to myself as I sifted through the hundreds of letters and cards crammed into the file. A few minutes later, I came across the vaguely remembered request, and triumphantly placed it on my desk, next to the request for “May Each Day” by Andy Williams. Sorted! I’d a made a decision in principle to open with a version of “The Shadow of Your Smile”, and follow-up with “May Each Day”. Yes, that felt just right. At last, it was time for bed.
A New Day:
The following morning, I was having breakfast in the kitchen when, fleetingly, I felt a familiar sensation. I can only describe that sensation as an all too brief spiritual upliftment, a momentary expansion of consciousness which, over the years, I have come to recognise as a precursor to my involvement in some kind of mystical event. These days I try to avoid second guessing the nature of such events. Instead, I just let them happen.
Five minutes later, I walked into my study, and began the May 31 production process in earnest. Listening first to Tony Bennett’s version of “The Shadow of Your Smile”, I was reminded that this was the very same recording I had chosen to open my special BBC Radio Bristol tribute production on the day of Princess Diana’s funeral in 1997; nearly six years earlier.
As the memories of that programme ran around my head, I began to sense an air of peace descending on my study. I rapidly deduced that this gentle air of tranquility was related to the fleeting sensation I’d experienced over breakfast. So, while Tony Bennett’s recording of “The Shadow of Your Smile” played quietly in the background, I simply relaxed into it, and carried-on working. To me, it felt absolutely right to open the programme with Tony Bennett, and when a few minutes later, I listened to “May Each Day” by Andy Williams, I realised both recordings complimented each other perfectly.
Throughout that morning, I was conscious of the fact that the air of tranquility continued to gently wash over me as I worked. In fact, on several occasions, it felt as though my little study was not only full of peace and unconditional love, but also full of unseen visitors too. Suffice it to say, after settling on “The Shadow of Your Smile” followed by “May Each Day”, the rest of the running order for the May 31 edition of “As Time Goes By” came together as if by magic.
A New Day:
The following morning, I was having breakfast in the kitchen when, fleetingly, I felt a familiar sensation. I can only describe that sensation as an all too brief spiritual upliftment, a momentary expansion of consciousness which, over the years, I have come to recognise as a precursor to my involvement in some kind of mystical event. These days I try to avoid second guessing the nature of such events. Instead, I just let them happen.
Five minutes later, I walked into my study, and began the May 31 production process in earnest. Listening first to Tony Bennett’s version of “The Shadow of Your Smile”, I was reminded that this was the very same recording I had chosen to open my special BBC Radio Bristol tribute production on the day of Princess Diana’s funeral in 1997; nearly six years earlier.
As the memories of that programme ran around my head, I began to sense an air of peace descending on my study. I rapidly deduced that this gentle air of tranquility was related to the fleeting sensation I’d experienced over breakfast. So, while Tony Bennett’s recording of “The Shadow of Your Smile” played quietly in the background, I simply relaxed into it, and carried-on working. To me, it felt absolutely right to open the programme with Tony Bennett, and when a few minutes later, I listened to “May Each Day” by Andy Williams, I realised both recordings complimented each other perfectly.
Throughout that morning, I was conscious of the fact that the air of tranquility continued to gently wash over me as I worked. In fact, on several occasions, it felt as though my little study was not only full of peace and unconditional love, but also full of unseen visitors too. Suffice it to say, after settling on “The Shadow of Your Smile” followed by “May Each Day”, the rest of the running order for the May 31 edition of “As Time Goes By” came together as if by magic.
The Very Next Day:
The following morning, I was in my study again but, on that occasion, I was drafting my weekly “LoweDown” showbiz column for the South Devon Herald Express newspaper. In fact, I was so engrossed, I nearly jumped out of my skin when, suddenly, the telephone rang. It was a call from a near neighbour of mine – Barry Heath – who I hadn’t had a chance to speak to for a couple of years or more, apart that is, from the occasional long range waved “hello” across our respective garden walls and another neighbour’s garden between us (see the 'Across the Gardens' photo at the top of this story).
Barry was ‘phoning to ask if I could play a request for his wedding anniversary on June 6. My initial reaction to Barry’s enquiry was a sharp drawing-in of breath, because I realised June 6 was appropriate to the programme I had produced the day before. Playing for thinking time, I asked Barry how his wife Christa was keeping, but his answer stunned and saddened me. “Oh my goodness, David, didn’t you know? I’m sorry to say Christa passed-away a year ago last January,” he said. Barry then went-on to explain that the piece of music he wanted to hear for their anniversary date on June 6 always reminded him of Christa. “I’m not sure whether you know it, or even if you have a copy of it,” he continued. “It’s called The Shadow of Your Smile”.
A Profound Realization:
All of a sudden I felt a rush of goose bumps up my arms. At the same time, my finger-tips, neck and scalp tingled as if to clarify a powerful spiritual moment had just taken place. There, in Barry’s words, was proof that the all-embracing air of tranquility and love I’d experienced in my study just twenty-four hours earlier was much, much more than an aid to my production process. Clearly Christa, accompanied by quite a few others, had teamed-up to lend a loving hand in that programme’s running order and, in particular, the placing of the opening recording.
In Conclusion:
When I shared with Barry the events of the previous morning, he agreed unreservedly. “Oh yes, that was Christa alright,” he laughed. “She just wanted to make sure her request was in place a good twenty four hours before my telephone call!”
Note: the above short story was submitted to Two Worlds magazine in August 2003 but, unfortunately, I have no record of its eventual publication date.
The following morning, I was in my study again but, on that occasion, I was drafting my weekly “LoweDown” showbiz column for the South Devon Herald Express newspaper. In fact, I was so engrossed, I nearly jumped out of my skin when, suddenly, the telephone rang. It was a call from a near neighbour of mine – Barry Heath – who I hadn’t had a chance to speak to for a couple of years or more, apart that is, from the occasional long range waved “hello” across our respective garden walls and another neighbour’s garden between us (see the 'Across the Gardens' photo at the top of this story).
Barry was ‘phoning to ask if I could play a request for his wedding anniversary on June 6. My initial reaction to Barry’s enquiry was a sharp drawing-in of breath, because I realised June 6 was appropriate to the programme I had produced the day before. Playing for thinking time, I asked Barry how his wife Christa was keeping, but his answer stunned and saddened me. “Oh my goodness, David, didn’t you know? I’m sorry to say Christa passed-away a year ago last January,” he said. Barry then went-on to explain that the piece of music he wanted to hear for their anniversary date on June 6 always reminded him of Christa. “I’m not sure whether you know it, or even if you have a copy of it,” he continued. “It’s called The Shadow of Your Smile”.
A Profound Realization:
All of a sudden I felt a rush of goose bumps up my arms. At the same time, my finger-tips, neck and scalp tingled as if to clarify a powerful spiritual moment had just taken place. There, in Barry’s words, was proof that the all-embracing air of tranquility and love I’d experienced in my study just twenty-four hours earlier was much, much more than an aid to my production process. Clearly Christa, accompanied by quite a few others, had teamed-up to lend a loving hand in that programme’s running order and, in particular, the placing of the opening recording.
In Conclusion:
When I shared with Barry the events of the previous morning, he agreed unreservedly. “Oh yes, that was Christa alright,” he laughed. “She just wanted to make sure her request was in place a good twenty four hours before my telephone call!”
Note: the above short story was submitted to Two Worlds magazine in August 2003 but, unfortunately, I have no record of its eventual publication date.
A LITTLE BIRD TOLD ME (a true story)
Picture courtesy of Pixabay.com
DIVORCE can be an extremely unpleasant experience. Indeed, after more than thirteen years of marriage, I lost a home and virtually everything in it, plus a business; a motor car, and ... effectively ... two children. Nevertheless, when the decree absolute popped through my letter box in April 1982, I heaved a great metaphorical sigh of relief. At last, the way was clear for me to build a fresh life with my new partner Jenny.
Within a few months, however, I was dealt a cruel blow. On July 10, 1982, I awoke to discover that the Bedford van containing my state-of-the-art mobile discotheque, and the accompanying record collection, had been stolen. The following day, the van was found on a housing estate two miles away. It was empty. Well in excess of £10,000 worth of equipment and records were gone forever. I was devastated. My spirit was broken. Deep down, I suspected that this traumatic event … on top of the long, drawn-out divorce-related stress … would take its toll.
My suspicions proved correct. By the autumn of 1983, I was not only profoundly depressed, but I was also suffering frequent panic attacks, and an equally distressing mix of agoraphobia and claustrophobia. However, unbeknown to me at that time, those nightmarish symptoms were not a reflection of my general state of health. In fact, some years later I discovered the symptoms were, in reality, entirely due to the side-effects of a sedative prescribed by my former GP.
Nevertheless, as Christmas 1983 approached, I was beginning to lose the will to live. What’s more I felt powerless to prevent the decline in what little remained of my sense of well being. Then, out of the blue, Jenny was offered voluntary redundancy from her place of work. She sold the house we were living in and, early in 1984, we moved from Bexley in Kent to Torbay in South Devon. My abiding memory of that year is one of a waking nightmare of panic attacks, depression, disorientation and detachment, together with a longing for an end to all the suffering.
Then, on a late autumn afternoon, I left Jenny pottering in the garden and retired to our spare bedroom in an effort to find solace in the blessed escape of sleep. Quite what happened during that short sleep, I’m not sure. When I awoke, the early evening sun was streaming through the window, and for the first time in a couple of years, I opened my eyes and felt slightly lifted in spirit. It was as if I had been given a choice. Either I could stay or I could go. And if I chose to stay, the first thing I should do was wean myself off the prescribed sedative mentioned above. (I dare not name it here for fear of litigation).
Happily, by the spring of 1985, I had succeeded in breaking what had – in every respect – become an addiction to a prescribed drug. Consequently, I was in a more positive frame of mind. So much so that, at breakfast one morning, as I stood looking out of the kitchen window sipping my first mug of tea of the day, I was inspired to paint the decorative wall in our back garden. First, though, I had to transplant a honeysuckle bush that grew over a portion of the wall in question.
That objective achieved, I set-about the painting process itself. With paint brush in my right hand, and … almost continuously … a cigarette in my left, I worked steadily from the corner of the wall under the old apple tree, and out towards the open garden. As I emerged from under the bare branches of the apple tree, my progress became more rapid. Several minutes later, I had reached the section of the wall which stood directly over the disturbed earth where the honeysuckle bush had grown.
It was then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Looking-up, I spotted a robin perched in the branches of the apple tree above, and slightly to the right, from where I sat on my haunches. Resting my weight on my left hand, I offered an affectionate “good morning” to the little bird, and immediately afterwards lit-up another cigarette. I then resumed painting. A few moments later, I was still sitting on my haunches working the paint brush furiously against the wall when I heard the sound of fluttering wings close to my right ear, followed by a brown blur that flashed in front of my eyes.
Somewhat startled by this unexpected disturbance, I looked down between my knees, and was astonished to see the robin looking back up at me. As if to acknowledge my close proximity, it gave a little robinesque bow; studied the bare earth at its feet for a second or two; dipped to pick-up a tiny earth worm, and then flew back to its vantage point in the apple tree. I was amazed at the little bird’s trust. It seemed to instinctively know I would do it no harm. Then, just as suddenly as before, it swooped down between my knees once again; bowed; extracted another morsel from the tilled earth, and returned to its adopted perch in the apple tree. A few moments later, he – or maybe it was she? – flew down to my feet for a third time, and then a fourth.
By then, I was beginning to sense that there was a deeper meaning to this very special experience. I looked-up at the robin and spoke out loud, “What are you trying to tell me, my little friend?” Twice more the bird flew down to the bare earth at my feet, and on its seventh or eighth visit, I sensed a simple phrase being repeated in my mind’s ear. I didn’t hear the words spoken audibly, because they formed in my head as if delivered by a gentle male voice. “Throw it away ... throw it away,” it said. “Throw it away, and put the savings towards your work ... throw it away.”
It took me several more minutes to fathom, but as I took another puff on my half finished cigarette, I realised it was the cigarette itself I was being urged to throw away. For a while, I studied the remnants of the cigarette resting between my fingers, and again ‘heard’ that gentle voice in my mind’s ear say, “Throw it away”. So, with a flick of my wrist, I tossed the cigarette butt over the wall.
Within a few months, however, I was dealt a cruel blow. On July 10, 1982, I awoke to discover that the Bedford van containing my state-of-the-art mobile discotheque, and the accompanying record collection, had been stolen. The following day, the van was found on a housing estate two miles away. It was empty. Well in excess of £10,000 worth of equipment and records were gone forever. I was devastated. My spirit was broken. Deep down, I suspected that this traumatic event … on top of the long, drawn-out divorce-related stress … would take its toll.
My suspicions proved correct. By the autumn of 1983, I was not only profoundly depressed, but I was also suffering frequent panic attacks, and an equally distressing mix of agoraphobia and claustrophobia. However, unbeknown to me at that time, those nightmarish symptoms were not a reflection of my general state of health. In fact, some years later I discovered the symptoms were, in reality, entirely due to the side-effects of a sedative prescribed by my former GP.
Nevertheless, as Christmas 1983 approached, I was beginning to lose the will to live. What’s more I felt powerless to prevent the decline in what little remained of my sense of well being. Then, out of the blue, Jenny was offered voluntary redundancy from her place of work. She sold the house we were living in and, early in 1984, we moved from Bexley in Kent to Torbay in South Devon. My abiding memory of that year is one of a waking nightmare of panic attacks, depression, disorientation and detachment, together with a longing for an end to all the suffering.
Then, on a late autumn afternoon, I left Jenny pottering in the garden and retired to our spare bedroom in an effort to find solace in the blessed escape of sleep. Quite what happened during that short sleep, I’m not sure. When I awoke, the early evening sun was streaming through the window, and for the first time in a couple of years, I opened my eyes and felt slightly lifted in spirit. It was as if I had been given a choice. Either I could stay or I could go. And if I chose to stay, the first thing I should do was wean myself off the prescribed sedative mentioned above. (I dare not name it here for fear of litigation).
Happily, by the spring of 1985, I had succeeded in breaking what had – in every respect – become an addiction to a prescribed drug. Consequently, I was in a more positive frame of mind. So much so that, at breakfast one morning, as I stood looking out of the kitchen window sipping my first mug of tea of the day, I was inspired to paint the decorative wall in our back garden. First, though, I had to transplant a honeysuckle bush that grew over a portion of the wall in question.
That objective achieved, I set-about the painting process itself. With paint brush in my right hand, and … almost continuously … a cigarette in my left, I worked steadily from the corner of the wall under the old apple tree, and out towards the open garden. As I emerged from under the bare branches of the apple tree, my progress became more rapid. Several minutes later, I had reached the section of the wall which stood directly over the disturbed earth where the honeysuckle bush had grown.
It was then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Looking-up, I spotted a robin perched in the branches of the apple tree above, and slightly to the right, from where I sat on my haunches. Resting my weight on my left hand, I offered an affectionate “good morning” to the little bird, and immediately afterwards lit-up another cigarette. I then resumed painting. A few moments later, I was still sitting on my haunches working the paint brush furiously against the wall when I heard the sound of fluttering wings close to my right ear, followed by a brown blur that flashed in front of my eyes.
Somewhat startled by this unexpected disturbance, I looked down between my knees, and was astonished to see the robin looking back up at me. As if to acknowledge my close proximity, it gave a little robinesque bow; studied the bare earth at its feet for a second or two; dipped to pick-up a tiny earth worm, and then flew back to its vantage point in the apple tree. I was amazed at the little bird’s trust. It seemed to instinctively know I would do it no harm. Then, just as suddenly as before, it swooped down between my knees once again; bowed; extracted another morsel from the tilled earth, and returned to its adopted perch in the apple tree. A few moments later, he – or maybe it was she? – flew down to my feet for a third time, and then a fourth.
By then, I was beginning to sense that there was a deeper meaning to this very special experience. I looked-up at the robin and spoke out loud, “What are you trying to tell me, my little friend?” Twice more the bird flew down to the bare earth at my feet, and on its seventh or eighth visit, I sensed a simple phrase being repeated in my mind’s ear. I didn’t hear the words spoken audibly, because they formed in my head as if delivered by a gentle male voice. “Throw it away ... throw it away,” it said. “Throw it away, and put the savings towards your work ... throw it away.”
It took me several more minutes to fathom, but as I took another puff on my half finished cigarette, I realised it was the cigarette itself I was being urged to throw away. For a while, I studied the remnants of the cigarette resting between my fingers, and again ‘heard’ that gentle voice in my mind’s ear say, “Throw it away”. So, with a flick of my wrist, I tossed the cigarette butt over the wall.
That was the very last cigarette I smoked. After a number of futile attempts to give-up smoking in earlier years – by 1985 I was getting through at least forty a day – against all expectations, I had achieved the objective out of the blue. In one fell swoop … or should I say several swoops of a robin … I was free of the curse of smoking. Furthermore, for the second time in less than a year, I had triumphed over an addiction.
To this day, I still wonder whether that little robin was the bearer of that simple message. Or was he accompanied by an unseen messenger? A messenger with the gentlest of gentle voices!
Afterword: the above account is just part of the addiction story. One frosty morning back in late October 1968 I was on my motor bike commuting to work in the City of London, when the extremely cold air caught my breath and, for a few moments, I couldn't breathe. I stopped by the side of the road and wondered if I'd experienced an asthma attack (something I'd never suffered before). I soon recovered, but thought it best to go back home and visit my GP. I told him what had happened and he diagnosed "nervous hysteria". Excuse me? I thought. But who was I to argue? He, after all, was the medical expert. He prescribed a sedative which I started taking that same day. To cut a long and deeply distressing story short, by Christmas 1968, I'd hit rock bottom. On a daily basis I was suffering horrendous panic attacks, agoraphobia, claustrophia, profuse sweating, depression and disorientation. I was off-work on sick leave and I thought I was either going mad or dying ... or both. What I didn't know was all those symptoms were side effects of the sedative and not expressions of my underlying state of health. It took me until the mid-1970s to shake-off the effects of that sedative, only to fall into the very same trap for a second time in 1980, as revealed above.
In common with the above robin story, I shall resist the temptation to name the sedative for fear of litigation. All I will say, however, is this: just because a drug under pre-production tests appears to work universally among a control group, it doesn't mean to say that drug will work safely for everyone. After all, we're all unqiue!
Note: the above story (minus the Afterword) was published in the Psychic News on April 8, 2000 and it was subsequently published in the Psychic World newspaper.
To this day, I still wonder whether that little robin was the bearer of that simple message. Or was he accompanied by an unseen messenger? A messenger with the gentlest of gentle voices!
Afterword: the above account is just part of the addiction story. One frosty morning back in late October 1968 I was on my motor bike commuting to work in the City of London, when the extremely cold air caught my breath and, for a few moments, I couldn't breathe. I stopped by the side of the road and wondered if I'd experienced an asthma attack (something I'd never suffered before). I soon recovered, but thought it best to go back home and visit my GP. I told him what had happened and he diagnosed "nervous hysteria". Excuse me? I thought. But who was I to argue? He, after all, was the medical expert. He prescribed a sedative which I started taking that same day. To cut a long and deeply distressing story short, by Christmas 1968, I'd hit rock bottom. On a daily basis I was suffering horrendous panic attacks, agoraphobia, claustrophia, profuse sweating, depression and disorientation. I was off-work on sick leave and I thought I was either going mad or dying ... or both. What I didn't know was all those symptoms were side effects of the sedative and not expressions of my underlying state of health. It took me until the mid-1970s to shake-off the effects of that sedative, only to fall into the very same trap for a second time in 1980, as revealed above.
In common with the above robin story, I shall resist the temptation to name the sedative for fear of litigation. All I will say, however, is this: just because a drug under pre-production tests appears to work universally among a control group, it doesn't mean to say that drug will work safely for everyone. After all, we're all unqiue!
Note: the above story (minus the Afterword) was published in the Psychic News on April 8, 2000 and it was subsequently published in the Psychic World newspaper.
HERE WE GO AGAIN!
IT LOOKS as though we UK pensioners are being forced into another damage limitation exercise thanks to an announcement by the recently appointed Work and Pensions Secretary Damian Green. Appearing on BBC television’s Andrew Marr show last month, Mr Green used his first major media interview to reveal his plans to review the State Pension and pensioner benefits in an effort to ensure cross-generation fairness.
During the interview Mr Green said, “I absolutely accept we need to look over time at the area of inter-generational fairness.” Apparently, he based his comments on the results of recent studies which show that, while poverty is falling among pensioners, working families and the young are poorer than they used to be.
I wonder, can you guess what he’s likely to be targeting? Yes, you probably got it in one; the rights of “wealthier pensioners” to Winter Fuel Allowance, free bus passes and free TV licences for the over-75s. And it doesn’t end there, because it’s rumoured the Minister will also be looking at the State Pension triple lock system introduce in April 2012 which ensures our pension keeps pace with our household budgeting by increasing every year in-line with inflation, wages or 2.5% whichever is the highest.
In reality, the triple lock debate is a follow-on from a suggestion put forward by Mr Green’s predecessor Baroness Altmann who, while in office, is on-record as saying, “I believe the triple lock has fulfilled its purpose.” In fact, when she made that announcement, she was parroting the views of her predecessor Ian Duncan-Smith who, when he resigned as Work and Pensions Secretary earlier this year stated, “We have a triple lock on pensions which I was proud to introduce six years ago. But with inflation running at zero [oh really IDS?], we need to look at things like this and ask, do we just keep saying it’s those of working age who bear the brunt?” Actually, during her tenure, Baroness Altmann went one step further than IDS by advocating the triple lock be replaced by a double lock system; claiming that doing so would increase pensions by 2.5% after 2020.
So let’s now return to Damian Green’s recent announcement on the Andrew Marr programme. Firstly, I suppose we must give the Minister credit for trying to soften his threat of a pensions and benefits review by saying he wasn’t going to hang pensioners out to dry. He then added, “I do think we should step back from this view that we’re being too generous to pensioners, because all these things are very long term and, if we look over the long term, pensioner poverty was 40% of pensioners in the 1980s. It’s now down to 14%. That’s an enormous beneficial social revolution.”
Regrettably, by the time Mr Green made his promise not to hang us out to dry, the damage had already been done. To talk, as he did, of inter-generational fairness is, by its very nature, creating a them-and-us scenario that’s sure to cause more unnecessary friction between the young and us seniors. Furthermore, it provides ammunition to those in the media and elsewhere who perceive all UK pensioners as money-grabbing scroungers.
For Mr Green to then claim that fourteen in one hundred pensioners in poverty is something to be proud of is shameful. Even one pensioner in poverty in 2016 is unacceptable in a so-called civilised society.
As for axing the Winter Fuel Allowance; free bus passes and free TV licences for “wealthier” or “better-off” UK pensioners, I have a number of questions. 1) Who determines the point at which a pensioner becomes wealthier or better off? 2) Surely, drawing such a hard and fast dividing line between the “better off” and the rest of us can only be achieved by way of a means test of all ten million and more UK pensioners, at home and overseas? And 3) how many additional tax-payer funded civil servants would such an exercise require for its objective to be achieved?
Finally, you’ll have to excuse my sarcasm here, but I couldn’t help chuckling over the slogan adopted for the recent Conservative Party Conference in Birmingham. “A Country That Works for Everyone” it trumpeted. I was tempted to add … “Except its Pensioners”.
PS: since drafting the above paragraph, I have received an email from the Prime Minister in which she sets out her post-conference vision under that same slogan. Regrettably, there’s no mention whatsoever in her email of any plans for the welfare of UK pensioners.
During the interview Mr Green said, “I absolutely accept we need to look over time at the area of inter-generational fairness.” Apparently, he based his comments on the results of recent studies which show that, while poverty is falling among pensioners, working families and the young are poorer than they used to be.
I wonder, can you guess what he’s likely to be targeting? Yes, you probably got it in one; the rights of “wealthier pensioners” to Winter Fuel Allowance, free bus passes and free TV licences for the over-75s. And it doesn’t end there, because it’s rumoured the Minister will also be looking at the State Pension triple lock system introduce in April 2012 which ensures our pension keeps pace with our household budgeting by increasing every year in-line with inflation, wages or 2.5% whichever is the highest.
In reality, the triple lock debate is a follow-on from a suggestion put forward by Mr Green’s predecessor Baroness Altmann who, while in office, is on-record as saying, “I believe the triple lock has fulfilled its purpose.” In fact, when she made that announcement, she was parroting the views of her predecessor Ian Duncan-Smith who, when he resigned as Work and Pensions Secretary earlier this year stated, “We have a triple lock on pensions which I was proud to introduce six years ago. But with inflation running at zero [oh really IDS?], we need to look at things like this and ask, do we just keep saying it’s those of working age who bear the brunt?” Actually, during her tenure, Baroness Altmann went one step further than IDS by advocating the triple lock be replaced by a double lock system; claiming that doing so would increase pensions by 2.5% after 2020.
So let’s now return to Damian Green’s recent announcement on the Andrew Marr programme. Firstly, I suppose we must give the Minister credit for trying to soften his threat of a pensions and benefits review by saying he wasn’t going to hang pensioners out to dry. He then added, “I do think we should step back from this view that we’re being too generous to pensioners, because all these things are very long term and, if we look over the long term, pensioner poverty was 40% of pensioners in the 1980s. It’s now down to 14%. That’s an enormous beneficial social revolution.”
Regrettably, by the time Mr Green made his promise not to hang us out to dry, the damage had already been done. To talk, as he did, of inter-generational fairness is, by its very nature, creating a them-and-us scenario that’s sure to cause more unnecessary friction between the young and us seniors. Furthermore, it provides ammunition to those in the media and elsewhere who perceive all UK pensioners as money-grabbing scroungers.
For Mr Green to then claim that fourteen in one hundred pensioners in poverty is something to be proud of is shameful. Even one pensioner in poverty in 2016 is unacceptable in a so-called civilised society.
As for axing the Winter Fuel Allowance; free bus passes and free TV licences for “wealthier” or “better-off” UK pensioners, I have a number of questions. 1) Who determines the point at which a pensioner becomes wealthier or better off? 2) Surely, drawing such a hard and fast dividing line between the “better off” and the rest of us can only be achieved by way of a means test of all ten million and more UK pensioners, at home and overseas? And 3) how many additional tax-payer funded civil servants would such an exercise require for its objective to be achieved?
Finally, you’ll have to excuse my sarcasm here, but I couldn’t help chuckling over the slogan adopted for the recent Conservative Party Conference in Birmingham. “A Country That Works for Everyone” it trumpeted. I was tempted to add … “Except its Pensioners”.
PS: since drafting the above paragraph, I have received an email from the Prime Minister in which she sets out her post-conference vision under that same slogan. Regrettably, there’s no mention whatsoever in her email of any plans for the welfare of UK pensioners.
1066 AND ALL THAT
AS WE pass the 950th anniversary of the Battle of Hastings, which was fought on Saturday October 14, 1066, between the armies of Duke William II of Normandy and the Anglo Saxon King Harold Godwinson, I find myself pondering how – and if – England will celebrate the one thousand year mark of its existence just fifty years from now.
Inevitably, and in common with all my fellow UK pensioners of 2016, I’ll be long gone by then. However, given the changes we Englanders have witnessed during our lifetime following the end of World War II in 1945, I can’t help wondering if celebrating England’s millennial milestone will, by 2066, be considered politically incorrect. Or, indeed, if fifty years from now, England still exists in its present form?
With that in mind, perhaps now would be a good time to begin planning a major celebration of what will be a truly historic moment in time. Hopefully, in the years to come, the education system in England will be going the extra mile to make sure our grandchildren and their children are properly schooled in England’s near one thousand year history. Come to that, wouldn’t it be nice to know that fifty years from now we may have produced a generation who are proud of their rich cultural English heritage, rather than apologists for it? Just a thought.
NO MENTION FOR US ... AGAIN!
HERE'S my Torbay Times Pensioners Platform column for August-September 2016
HISTORY repeated itself on July 13, 2016 when the newly appointed Prime Minister, Theresa May, made her acceptance speech outside No.10 Downing Street. Just fourteen months earlier, on May 8, 2015, Prime Minister David Cameron stood in the very same spot to give his general election winning address.
In his speech, Mr Cameron said, “We can make Britain a place where a good life is in reach for everyone who is willing to work … our manifesto is a manifesto for working people. Three million apprenticeships; more help with childcare; helping 30 million people cope with the cost of living by cutting their taxes; building homes that people are able to buy and own; creating millions more jobs that give people the chance of a better future.
He then added, “We must ensure that we bring out country together. It means giving everyone in our country a chance, so no matter where you’re from you have the opportunity to make most of your life. It means giving the poorest people the chance of training, a job, and hope for the future. It means that the children who don’t get the best start in life, there must be the nursery education and schooling that will transform their life chances.”
In his address the then Prime Minister also dwelt, at some length, on the devolution issues for Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, and he promised the EU referendum. Mr Cameron finished by saying, “Together we can make Great Britain greater still.”
So, his speech focused heavily on working people, jobs and the young, but not once did he mention UK pensioners … or the disabled for that matter. I was rather dismayed by the Prime Minister’s omissions and I emailed our newly elected Conservative MP for Torbay, Kevin Foster, to register my disappointment.
Fast forward to July 13, 2016, and Theresa May’s first speech as Prime Minister, in which she stated, “In David Cameron I follow in the footsteps of a great modern Prime Minister. Under David’s leadership the Government stabilised the economy, reduced the budget deficit and helped more people into work than ever before.
“But David’s true legacy is not about the economy but about social justice. From the introduction of same sex marriage to taking people on low wages out of income tax altogether, David Cameron has led a One Nation government and it is in that spirit that I also plan to lead.”
Turning to other issues, Mrs May then spoke of social disadvantage by stating she would use her position as leader to fight burning injustice. She then qualified her remark by saying, “That means if you’re born poor you will die on average nine years earlier than others. If you’re black you are treated more harshly by the criminal justice system than if you’re white. If you’re a white working class boy you’re less likely than anybody else in Britain to go to university. If you’re at a state school you’re less likely to reach the top professions than if you’re educated privately. If you’re a woman you will earn less than a man. If you suffer from mental health problems, there’s not enough help to hand. If you’re young you will find it harder than ever before to own your own home. But the mission to make Britain a country that works for everyone means more than fighting these injustices.
“If you’re from an ordinary working class family, life is much harder than many people in Westminster realise. You have a job, but you don’t always have job security. You have your own home but you worry about paying the mortgage. You can just about manage, but you worry about the cost of living and getting your kids into a good school. If you are one of those families, if you’re just managing, I want to address you directly. I know you are working around the clock, I know you’re doing your best and I know that sometimes life can be a struggle.
“The Government I lead will be driven, not by the interests of the privileged few but by yours. We will do everything we can to give you more control over your lives. When we take the big calls we will think, not of the powerful, but you. When we pass new laws we will listen, not to the mighty, but to you.
“When it comes to taxes we will prioritise not the wealthy, but you. When it comes to opportunity we won’t entrench the advantages of the fortunate few, we will do everything we can to help anybody, whatever your background, to go as far as your talents will take you.
“We are living through an important moment in our country’s history. Following the referendum, we face a time of great national change. And I know because we’re Great Britain; we will rise to the challenge. As we leave the European Union we will forge a bold new positive role for ourselves in the world and we will make Britain a country that works not for a privileged few but for every one of us. That will be the mission of the Government I lead and together we will build a better Britain.”
Once again, we were treated to a speech focusing on families and opportunities in education and the workplace, for the young and the disadvantaged, but not one mention for the ten million or so UK Pensioners. Twice in little over one year, a British Prime Minister failed to make mention of his/her considerations for one of the biggest sectors in British society … its seniors. If ever we needed proof that the UK Pensioners’ voice STILL isn’t being heard in the corridors of power, this surely was it.
In his speech, Mr Cameron said, “We can make Britain a place where a good life is in reach for everyone who is willing to work … our manifesto is a manifesto for working people. Three million apprenticeships; more help with childcare; helping 30 million people cope with the cost of living by cutting their taxes; building homes that people are able to buy and own; creating millions more jobs that give people the chance of a better future.
He then added, “We must ensure that we bring out country together. It means giving everyone in our country a chance, so no matter where you’re from you have the opportunity to make most of your life. It means giving the poorest people the chance of training, a job, and hope for the future. It means that the children who don’t get the best start in life, there must be the nursery education and schooling that will transform their life chances.”
In his address the then Prime Minister also dwelt, at some length, on the devolution issues for Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, and he promised the EU referendum. Mr Cameron finished by saying, “Together we can make Great Britain greater still.”
So, his speech focused heavily on working people, jobs and the young, but not once did he mention UK pensioners … or the disabled for that matter. I was rather dismayed by the Prime Minister’s omissions and I emailed our newly elected Conservative MP for Torbay, Kevin Foster, to register my disappointment.
Fast forward to July 13, 2016, and Theresa May’s first speech as Prime Minister, in which she stated, “In David Cameron I follow in the footsteps of a great modern Prime Minister. Under David’s leadership the Government stabilised the economy, reduced the budget deficit and helped more people into work than ever before.
“But David’s true legacy is not about the economy but about social justice. From the introduction of same sex marriage to taking people on low wages out of income tax altogether, David Cameron has led a One Nation government and it is in that spirit that I also plan to lead.”
Turning to other issues, Mrs May then spoke of social disadvantage by stating she would use her position as leader to fight burning injustice. She then qualified her remark by saying, “That means if you’re born poor you will die on average nine years earlier than others. If you’re black you are treated more harshly by the criminal justice system than if you’re white. If you’re a white working class boy you’re less likely than anybody else in Britain to go to university. If you’re at a state school you’re less likely to reach the top professions than if you’re educated privately. If you’re a woman you will earn less than a man. If you suffer from mental health problems, there’s not enough help to hand. If you’re young you will find it harder than ever before to own your own home. But the mission to make Britain a country that works for everyone means more than fighting these injustices.
“If you’re from an ordinary working class family, life is much harder than many people in Westminster realise. You have a job, but you don’t always have job security. You have your own home but you worry about paying the mortgage. You can just about manage, but you worry about the cost of living and getting your kids into a good school. If you are one of those families, if you’re just managing, I want to address you directly. I know you are working around the clock, I know you’re doing your best and I know that sometimes life can be a struggle.
“The Government I lead will be driven, not by the interests of the privileged few but by yours. We will do everything we can to give you more control over your lives. When we take the big calls we will think, not of the powerful, but you. When we pass new laws we will listen, not to the mighty, but to you.
“When it comes to taxes we will prioritise not the wealthy, but you. When it comes to opportunity we won’t entrench the advantages of the fortunate few, we will do everything we can to help anybody, whatever your background, to go as far as your talents will take you.
“We are living through an important moment in our country’s history. Following the referendum, we face a time of great national change. And I know because we’re Great Britain; we will rise to the challenge. As we leave the European Union we will forge a bold new positive role for ourselves in the world and we will make Britain a country that works not for a privileged few but for every one of us. That will be the mission of the Government I lead and together we will build a better Britain.”
Once again, we were treated to a speech focusing on families and opportunities in education and the workplace, for the young and the disadvantaged, but not one mention for the ten million or so UK Pensioners. Twice in little over one year, a British Prime Minister failed to make mention of his/her considerations for one of the biggest sectors in British society … its seniors. If ever we needed proof that the UK Pensioners’ voice STILL isn’t being heard in the corridors of power, this surely was it.
65 YEARS AGO ~ THE FESTIVAL OF BRITAIN 1951
I'm posting this article on Friday June 24, 2016: one day after a democratic majority of the people of Britain voted to Leave the European Union. Sixty-five years ago, Britain was in a not dissimilar position to the situation in which it finds itself today. This, then, seems an appropriate moment to share my May-June 2016 Pensioners Platform column published in the Torbay Times newspaper....
EXACTLY sixty-five years ago, the Festival of Britain was in full swing across the whole of the British Isles. The huge London-centred spectacle was launched on May 3, 1951 by King George VI from the steps of the capital’s St Paul’s Cathedral, but the idea for such an event had first been contemplated nearly ten years earlier. In 1943, when victory for the Allied forces in World War II was by no means a foregone conclusion, the Royal Society of Arts proposed that an international exhibition should be held in 1951 to commemorate the centenary of the Great Exhibition of 1851.
Unsurprisingly, the RSA’s suggestion was shelved until after the end of hostilities in 1945 when the newly elected Clement Attlee Labour government resurrected the idea and appointed a committee under Lord Ramsden. That committee’s main brief was to consider how a major exhibition might help to promote exports, but when it reported back in 1946, the committee members advised against an international theme.
At that time, London and many other towns and cities across Britain were still badly blighted by wartime bomb damage, and the committee report argued that the costs of an international exhibition would use-up essential funding already ear-marked for nation-wide reconstruction. Attlee’s government agreed with the committee’s findings and decided, instead, to stage a series of displays focusing on the arts, architecture, science, technology and industrial design, under the title of Festival of Britain 1951.
It was then a Festival Council was set-up under the chairmanship of Lord Ismay to advise the government, while the responsibility for organising the Festival itself fell to Herbert Morrison, the Lord President of the Council. Morrison was then deputy leader of the Labour Party and he, in turn, appointed a Great Exhibition Centenary Committee, comprising high ranking civil servants from a variety of ministries. They were instructed to determine the shape the Festival should take, and then liaise between government departments and Herbert Morrison’s festival organisation.
Soon after that – in March 1948 – it was decided to create a new government department which took the title of The Festival of Britain Office while, at the same time, the Northern Ireland government undertook responsibility for Festival projects in Ulster. Other agencies worked closely with the civil servants and politicians, including the Arts Council of Great Britain; the Council of Industrial Design; the British Film Institute; the National Book League and the National Museum of Wales, all of which received government grants for their involvement. In addition, two new councils were created to offer advice on architecture and science and technology respectively, and a Committee of Christian Churches was also set-up to give guidance on religious matters.
With so many organisations and individuals involved, it’s a wonder the Festival of Britain 1951 ever got-off the launch pad. But it did, and very successful it was too. The London focal point for the Festival was constructed on a thirty acre bomb site on the south bank of the River Thames, where the centre-piece was the biggest dome the world had ever seen up to that point in time. The Dome of Discovery was 365 feet in diameter, 93 feet high and, as its title suggested, housed discovery-themed exhibits encompassing the sea, the sky, the Americas, the Polar Regions and outer space.
Right next to the Dome was the futuristic Skylon: a slender, space-ship shaped spire that appeared to float in mid-air (assuming you could ignore its securing cables). Nearby stood a 400 seat cinema called The Telekinema: a venue which went-on to become one of the Festival’s most popular attractions. Arguably the most famous Festival of Britain building still standing today is the 2900 seat Royal Festival Hall. However, this last remnant of the 1951 festival is a testament to post war petty politics, rather than a striking festival legacy. That’s because most of the rest of the festival’s South Bank site was levelled soon after the exhibition closed in September 1951.
The rather unseemly haste to demolish was brought about, in October 1951, by the election of a new Conservative government led by Winston Churchill. He and his Cabinet, allegedly, regarded the Festival as an exercise in left wing propaganda and the attempted visualisation of a Socialist Britain. So it had to go.
Nevertheless, by then, the Festival’s primary London site had been a huge success by attracting more than eight million visitors during its five month lifespan. And that translated into a healthy profit for the mammoth undertaking.
In addition to the other London Festival sites such as the Battersea Fun Fair and Pleasure Gardens, plus the exhibitions of Science in South Kensington and Architecture in Poplar, the regions were well represented too. Indeed, numerous towns and cities across Britain staged their own Festival of Britain events. Among them were Cardiff, Inverness, York, Bath, Oxford, Stratford-upon-Avon, Cheltenham, Norwich and Canterbury, while Glasgow played host to a Power Exhibition and Belfast was home to the Ulster Farm and Factory Exhibition. In addition to all that, there were Land Travelling Exhibitions plus the Festival ship Campania – a World War II aircraft carrier – that toured ports around the country between May 4 and October 6, 1951. Painted white and festooned with Festival of Britain attractions, the Campania didn’t unfortunately visit Torbay, but she did berth in Plymouth, Bristol and Southampton, where she stayed for between ten and fourteen days.
All in all, the Festival of Britain 1951 was a thoroughly memorable celebration of everything British. Exactly sixty-five years later, though, one can’t help but wonder if such a proud demonstration of our determination to survive and thrive in a post-war world would be looked-upon by today’s politically correct lobby as xenophobic … racist even?
How times have changed. And, arguably, not for the better!
EXACTLY sixty-five years ago, the Festival of Britain was in full swing across the whole of the British Isles. The huge London-centred spectacle was launched on May 3, 1951 by King George VI from the steps of the capital’s St Paul’s Cathedral, but the idea for such an event had first been contemplated nearly ten years earlier. In 1943, when victory for the Allied forces in World War II was by no means a foregone conclusion, the Royal Society of Arts proposed that an international exhibition should be held in 1951 to commemorate the centenary of the Great Exhibition of 1851.
Unsurprisingly, the RSA’s suggestion was shelved until after the end of hostilities in 1945 when the newly elected Clement Attlee Labour government resurrected the idea and appointed a committee under Lord Ramsden. That committee’s main brief was to consider how a major exhibition might help to promote exports, but when it reported back in 1946, the committee members advised against an international theme.
At that time, London and many other towns and cities across Britain were still badly blighted by wartime bomb damage, and the committee report argued that the costs of an international exhibition would use-up essential funding already ear-marked for nation-wide reconstruction. Attlee’s government agreed with the committee’s findings and decided, instead, to stage a series of displays focusing on the arts, architecture, science, technology and industrial design, under the title of Festival of Britain 1951.
It was then a Festival Council was set-up under the chairmanship of Lord Ismay to advise the government, while the responsibility for organising the Festival itself fell to Herbert Morrison, the Lord President of the Council. Morrison was then deputy leader of the Labour Party and he, in turn, appointed a Great Exhibition Centenary Committee, comprising high ranking civil servants from a variety of ministries. They were instructed to determine the shape the Festival should take, and then liaise between government departments and Herbert Morrison’s festival organisation.
Soon after that – in March 1948 – it was decided to create a new government department which took the title of The Festival of Britain Office while, at the same time, the Northern Ireland government undertook responsibility for Festival projects in Ulster. Other agencies worked closely with the civil servants and politicians, including the Arts Council of Great Britain; the Council of Industrial Design; the British Film Institute; the National Book League and the National Museum of Wales, all of which received government grants for their involvement. In addition, two new councils were created to offer advice on architecture and science and technology respectively, and a Committee of Christian Churches was also set-up to give guidance on religious matters.
With so many organisations and individuals involved, it’s a wonder the Festival of Britain 1951 ever got-off the launch pad. But it did, and very successful it was too. The London focal point for the Festival was constructed on a thirty acre bomb site on the south bank of the River Thames, where the centre-piece was the biggest dome the world had ever seen up to that point in time. The Dome of Discovery was 365 feet in diameter, 93 feet high and, as its title suggested, housed discovery-themed exhibits encompassing the sea, the sky, the Americas, the Polar Regions and outer space.
Right next to the Dome was the futuristic Skylon: a slender, space-ship shaped spire that appeared to float in mid-air (assuming you could ignore its securing cables). Nearby stood a 400 seat cinema called The Telekinema: a venue which went-on to become one of the Festival’s most popular attractions. Arguably the most famous Festival of Britain building still standing today is the 2900 seat Royal Festival Hall. However, this last remnant of the 1951 festival is a testament to post war petty politics, rather than a striking festival legacy. That’s because most of the rest of the festival’s South Bank site was levelled soon after the exhibition closed in September 1951.
The rather unseemly haste to demolish was brought about, in October 1951, by the election of a new Conservative government led by Winston Churchill. He and his Cabinet, allegedly, regarded the Festival as an exercise in left wing propaganda and the attempted visualisation of a Socialist Britain. So it had to go.
Nevertheless, by then, the Festival’s primary London site had been a huge success by attracting more than eight million visitors during its five month lifespan. And that translated into a healthy profit for the mammoth undertaking.
In addition to the other London Festival sites such as the Battersea Fun Fair and Pleasure Gardens, plus the exhibitions of Science in South Kensington and Architecture in Poplar, the regions were well represented too. Indeed, numerous towns and cities across Britain staged their own Festival of Britain events. Among them were Cardiff, Inverness, York, Bath, Oxford, Stratford-upon-Avon, Cheltenham, Norwich and Canterbury, while Glasgow played host to a Power Exhibition and Belfast was home to the Ulster Farm and Factory Exhibition. In addition to all that, there were Land Travelling Exhibitions plus the Festival ship Campania – a World War II aircraft carrier – that toured ports around the country between May 4 and October 6, 1951. Painted white and festooned with Festival of Britain attractions, the Campania didn’t unfortunately visit Torbay, but she did berth in Plymouth, Bristol and Southampton, where she stayed for between ten and fourteen days.
All in all, the Festival of Britain 1951 was a thoroughly memorable celebration of everything British. Exactly sixty-five years later, though, one can’t help but wonder if such a proud demonstration of our determination to survive and thrive in a post-war world would be looked-upon by today’s politically correct lobby as xenophobic … racist even?
How times have changed. And, arguably, not for the better!
IS A COUNTRY LIFE IN ENGLAND FOR YOU?
IS life in the English countryside all it's cracked-up to be?
To most city dwellers in England, the attractions of an idyllic life in the countryside will always remain the stuff of which dreams are made. For an increasingly lucky few, however, such dreams have become a reality, thus enabling them to purchase cottages or other property, for weekend breaks or even retirement, in rural surroundings. Meanwhile, the rest of us are left to daydream about the perceived advantages of the country life, if only to be prepared in the unlikely event of our lottery ticket coming-up trumps.
So, what are the advantages of living in the country, as opposed to the city? Well, for starters, the air is cleaner. At this point, I find my mind’s eye conjuring-up images of waking gently at dawn, leaping from my bed, and throwing open the window to take-in a lung full of fresh morning air. Suddenly, my mind’s ear takes over, and I realise I am being greeted by a dawn chorus of birdsong so uplifting, it brings a broad smile to my face.
As the dawn chorus fades, it is replaced by the occasional crowing of a cockerel, and the distant bleating of a sheep, not to mention that most redolent of all country sounds, the lowing of cows, as they plod their way to the milking shed. Suddenly, a nearby church bell chimes to remind me it’s time for that hearty English farmhouse breakfast. But hang on a moment. Do you notice what’s missing? Yes, that’s right … traffic noise.
With a little research and foresight, there are still rural locations in England where traffic noise, and all those other undesirable – and often unnecessary – city noise factors can become a dim and distant memory. In the country, you can actually hear yourself think, unless that is, you’re standing within shouting distance of a working combine harvester. But then, by taking a lazy stroll a few hundred yards further down the lane, all will be birdsong, sunshine and the rustle of leaves in the trees again.
Another advantage to life in the countryside becomes evident at night. Given even a partially clear sky, the stars shine and twinkle as bright as diamonds, and certainly as no city dweller will have seen, except perhaps in a planetarium. There’s no substitute for the real thing, however. Indeed, I have been known, while driving through the country late at night, to stop in a lay-by and gaze-upwards in awe at the sheer splendour of the starry dome above my head. Even after all these years, to see the Milky Way draped like a chiffon scarf across the night sky, still has me cooing with schoolboy wonderment at one of life’s truly great spectacles.
Perhaps, though, the most obvious advantage to life in the countryside is the pace of life itself. In the city many of us are dragged kicking and screaming into the slipstream of a daily routine conducted at breakneck speed. Try as we might, we can’t seem to escape the cycle and, sooner rather than later, all the rush and hurry around us turns us into the human equivalent of worker ants: hyper-active and anonymous.
A few hours in the country, however, can change all that. Like some half-forgotten discipline, the ability to relax creeps up on us until we discard our wrist watches, laptops, mobile phones, and maybe even the sleeping pills and tranquilisers. At last, we learn to take each hour as it comes, instead of hurtling into each minute as if it is our last. Such is the therapeutic potential of the countryside.
Unfortunately, there are always drawbacks to any wish list, and life in the country is no exception to that rule. For example, successive governments have ensured that country dwellers, by and large, have much farther to travel for the bulk of their shopping. Until recently, rural communities could rely on the village shop to provide most of their daily needs but, in recent years, traditional village stores have been vanishing at an alarming rate: often the victims of aggressive price cutting by the big supermarkets.
Similarly, the village Post Office is becoming a thing of the past, as our well intentioned government unwittingly – or otherwise – dreams-up additional ways of creating a new legion of unemployed while, at the same time, attempting to beat the benefit cheats.
Then there are the twin issues of travel and the weather. If you live in the country, and you don’t drive, you’re stuffed, because the buses run – at best – a couple of times a day, or at worst, they don’t run at all. As for the weather, you’ll need to equip yourself for extremes. When it’s summery in the country, it is idyllic. In the winter, however, it can be horrendous.
So, here’s the rub. If you’re a car or motor-cycle owner, and you have access to the internet: essential if you wish to maintain contact with the outside world, you’re onto a winner. Also, if you love the open air, and Mother Nature in all her guises – good and bad – then the country life is definitely for you. If not, don’t even think about it.
To most city dwellers in England, the attractions of an idyllic life in the countryside will always remain the stuff of which dreams are made. For an increasingly lucky few, however, such dreams have become a reality, thus enabling them to purchase cottages or other property, for weekend breaks or even retirement, in rural surroundings. Meanwhile, the rest of us are left to daydream about the perceived advantages of the country life, if only to be prepared in the unlikely event of our lottery ticket coming-up trumps.
So, what are the advantages of living in the country, as opposed to the city? Well, for starters, the air is cleaner. At this point, I find my mind’s eye conjuring-up images of waking gently at dawn, leaping from my bed, and throwing open the window to take-in a lung full of fresh morning air. Suddenly, my mind’s ear takes over, and I realise I am being greeted by a dawn chorus of birdsong so uplifting, it brings a broad smile to my face.
As the dawn chorus fades, it is replaced by the occasional crowing of a cockerel, and the distant bleating of a sheep, not to mention that most redolent of all country sounds, the lowing of cows, as they plod their way to the milking shed. Suddenly, a nearby church bell chimes to remind me it’s time for that hearty English farmhouse breakfast. But hang on a moment. Do you notice what’s missing? Yes, that’s right … traffic noise.
With a little research and foresight, there are still rural locations in England where traffic noise, and all those other undesirable – and often unnecessary – city noise factors can become a dim and distant memory. In the country, you can actually hear yourself think, unless that is, you’re standing within shouting distance of a working combine harvester. But then, by taking a lazy stroll a few hundred yards further down the lane, all will be birdsong, sunshine and the rustle of leaves in the trees again.
Another advantage to life in the countryside becomes evident at night. Given even a partially clear sky, the stars shine and twinkle as bright as diamonds, and certainly as no city dweller will have seen, except perhaps in a planetarium. There’s no substitute for the real thing, however. Indeed, I have been known, while driving through the country late at night, to stop in a lay-by and gaze-upwards in awe at the sheer splendour of the starry dome above my head. Even after all these years, to see the Milky Way draped like a chiffon scarf across the night sky, still has me cooing with schoolboy wonderment at one of life’s truly great spectacles.
Perhaps, though, the most obvious advantage to life in the countryside is the pace of life itself. In the city many of us are dragged kicking and screaming into the slipstream of a daily routine conducted at breakneck speed. Try as we might, we can’t seem to escape the cycle and, sooner rather than later, all the rush and hurry around us turns us into the human equivalent of worker ants: hyper-active and anonymous.
A few hours in the country, however, can change all that. Like some half-forgotten discipline, the ability to relax creeps up on us until we discard our wrist watches, laptops, mobile phones, and maybe even the sleeping pills and tranquilisers. At last, we learn to take each hour as it comes, instead of hurtling into each minute as if it is our last. Such is the therapeutic potential of the countryside.
Unfortunately, there are always drawbacks to any wish list, and life in the country is no exception to that rule. For example, successive governments have ensured that country dwellers, by and large, have much farther to travel for the bulk of their shopping. Until recently, rural communities could rely on the village shop to provide most of their daily needs but, in recent years, traditional village stores have been vanishing at an alarming rate: often the victims of aggressive price cutting by the big supermarkets.
Similarly, the village Post Office is becoming a thing of the past, as our well intentioned government unwittingly – or otherwise – dreams-up additional ways of creating a new legion of unemployed while, at the same time, attempting to beat the benefit cheats.
Then there are the twin issues of travel and the weather. If you live in the country, and you don’t drive, you’re stuffed, because the buses run – at best – a couple of times a day, or at worst, they don’t run at all. As for the weather, you’ll need to equip yourself for extremes. When it’s summery in the country, it is idyllic. In the winter, however, it can be horrendous.
So, here’s the rub. If you’re a car or motor-cycle owner, and you have access to the internet: essential if you wish to maintain contact with the outside world, you’re onto a winner. Also, if you love the open air, and Mother Nature in all her guises – good and bad – then the country life is definitely for you. If not, don’t even think about it.
TOWN LIVING IN ENGLAND
GROWING up in the south eastern suburbs of London during the 1950s was, I seem to recall, a largely carefree experience. Always the loner, I would think nothing of climbing onto my Raleigh Lenton Tourist bicycle, and riding off to spend half a day or more exploring the vast expanses of my home town.
It really didn’t matter to me whether my journey took me across Westminster Bridge and past the Houses of Parliament, or Tower Bridge and the Tower of London, or through the Blackwall or Rotherhithe tunnels, or even aboard the Woolwich Free Ferry. No, all I cared about was the marvellous sense of self determination to go wherever I chose to go. More often than not, this taste of freedom was accompanied by the anticipation of, perhaps, making a new discovery. Maybe I would locate a previously un-visited museum, or a park with playground swings and a lake? Or an urban brook where I could lose myself hand-fishing for sticklebacks or tadpoles?
Then there were those memorable occasions when I managed to find a way, Raleigh bike and all, through the perimeter fencing encircling the World War II Battle of Britain airfield Biggin Hill. Aircraft were my great passion, and air displays were, without doubt, one of the highlights of my childhood. However, when there were no air displays on offer, I’d simply jump onto a Green Line bus and traipse twenty-odd miles across Greater London to watch the comings and goings at – the then – partly tented London (now Heathrow) Airport.
Writing these words, I can still feel the palpable mixture of wanderlust and excitement that embraced me as I left behind, for a fleeting few hours, the challenges of an unhappy home environment. Today, I thank God for those escapades, because they kept me sane, and instilled in me a grim determination to endure all those childhood hardships through to adulthood, and on to what I perceived then as total independence.
Fifty-odd years on, however, it’s a completely different story for pre-and-early teens in all towns, let alone the London of my youth. The streets, parks and heaths are still there, but they are no longer the safe havens they used to be: the sheer volume of traffic has seen to that. Then there’s the violence ... alcohol or drugs related ... and the seemingly constant news reports of abductions and disappearances. No wonder so many of today’s parents have become over-protective towards their offspring to the point of paranoia. Consequently, their children spend much of their time gazing into television and PC screens, or manipulating hand-held computer games, instead of exploring the world outside.
Nevertheless, town living still has its up-side. For starters, all the essential amenities are usually within easy reach. Shops, hospitals, schools, restaurants, cinemas, sports facilities, theatres, swimming baths and public transport too: all are close at hand for the townie.
But there are still a few drawbacks for some. Take, for instance, the town dwelling jogger or power walker, especially the novice who, on a whim, decides to shed a few pounds by plodding the pavements close to home. Has it ever occurred to him or her that taking exercise alongside a busy road may be tantamount to smoking a couple of extra strong cigarettes? Think of all the damage those diesel and other fumes may be doing to his or her lungs.
Then there’s the question of unnecessary noise. Boy racers in souped-up autos, with windows lowered, and a two thousand watt in-car sound system blasting out the latest dance floor track (they all sound the bloomin’ same to me). Or the inconsiderate neighbour who throws open his or her windows and treats everyone within several hundred yards to constant replays of Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart or Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red. Nightmare, or what?
In hindsight, I seem to be making a good case here for not living in a town. However, there will always be some who thrive on the noise, the pollution and the danger of town living. To them it’s an extreme sport: an adrenaline rush that starts at 7 a.m. with the clock radio’s rude awakening, and ends sometime after midnight in a lingering red wine glow surrounded by a small mountain of aluminium take-away food containers.
At least he or she will have something to celebrate. After all, to have triumphed over another day without being knocked down by a truck, mugged in an alleyway, or poisoned by traffic fumes, is a feat in itself. No-one can suggest to them that they ‘ought to get out more’ because they have been there, done that, and worn-out a few T-shirts in the process. To them, life in the town or city is just what the doctor ordered, and they can’t get enough of it.
Rather them than me, I say. Mind you, I still live in an urban environment, although my adoptive hometown is much, much smaller than the London of my childhood. Torquay is a seaside resort in the far south west of England. It’s all very picturesque and they call it the English Riviera, but there’s a big downside. One of the most irritating things about living in a coastal town in England is the seagulls. Of all God’s creatures, size-for-size seagulls are one of the noisiest, messiest and most aggressive of species. Their incessant, tuneless screams and squawks, frequent bickering and ear-splitting alarms calls can – and do – shatter the peace of many a pleasant summer’s afternoon in the garden. At the same time, those deeply unpleasant sounds drown-out the other, far more agreeable birdsongs, especially during the spring nesting season. And the downside doesn’t end there, because seagull droppings are not only voluminous, they’re corrosive too. In fact, they can eat their way through motor vehicle bodywork quicker than acid rain.
You can’t blame the gulls, though, because they seem to know when they’re onto a good thing. They’re scavengers and, given the upsurge in the number of fast food outlets all over Britain in recent years, plus the tendency of inconsiderate humans to throw half-eaten take-aways onto the street, the seagulls in coastal towns now congregate and nest on town-centre rooftops, instead of rocky cliff faces a few miles away.
Needless to say, their presence just inland in ever greater numbers can make an awful mess of any newly cleaned car. And, as for the noise pollution caused by their raucous squawking and squealing, at all hours of the day or night? Well, I don’t mind telling you, it’s enough to have this expatriate Londoner hankering, once again, after the dubious delights of England’s capital city.
It really didn’t matter to me whether my journey took me across Westminster Bridge and past the Houses of Parliament, or Tower Bridge and the Tower of London, or through the Blackwall or Rotherhithe tunnels, or even aboard the Woolwich Free Ferry. No, all I cared about was the marvellous sense of self determination to go wherever I chose to go. More often than not, this taste of freedom was accompanied by the anticipation of, perhaps, making a new discovery. Maybe I would locate a previously un-visited museum, or a park with playground swings and a lake? Or an urban brook where I could lose myself hand-fishing for sticklebacks or tadpoles?
Then there were those memorable occasions when I managed to find a way, Raleigh bike and all, through the perimeter fencing encircling the World War II Battle of Britain airfield Biggin Hill. Aircraft were my great passion, and air displays were, without doubt, one of the highlights of my childhood. However, when there were no air displays on offer, I’d simply jump onto a Green Line bus and traipse twenty-odd miles across Greater London to watch the comings and goings at – the then – partly tented London (now Heathrow) Airport.
Writing these words, I can still feel the palpable mixture of wanderlust and excitement that embraced me as I left behind, for a fleeting few hours, the challenges of an unhappy home environment. Today, I thank God for those escapades, because they kept me sane, and instilled in me a grim determination to endure all those childhood hardships through to adulthood, and on to what I perceived then as total independence.
Fifty-odd years on, however, it’s a completely different story for pre-and-early teens in all towns, let alone the London of my youth. The streets, parks and heaths are still there, but they are no longer the safe havens they used to be: the sheer volume of traffic has seen to that. Then there’s the violence ... alcohol or drugs related ... and the seemingly constant news reports of abductions and disappearances. No wonder so many of today’s parents have become over-protective towards their offspring to the point of paranoia. Consequently, their children spend much of their time gazing into television and PC screens, or manipulating hand-held computer games, instead of exploring the world outside.
Nevertheless, town living still has its up-side. For starters, all the essential amenities are usually within easy reach. Shops, hospitals, schools, restaurants, cinemas, sports facilities, theatres, swimming baths and public transport too: all are close at hand for the townie.
But there are still a few drawbacks for some. Take, for instance, the town dwelling jogger or power walker, especially the novice who, on a whim, decides to shed a few pounds by plodding the pavements close to home. Has it ever occurred to him or her that taking exercise alongside a busy road may be tantamount to smoking a couple of extra strong cigarettes? Think of all the damage those diesel and other fumes may be doing to his or her lungs.
Then there’s the question of unnecessary noise. Boy racers in souped-up autos, with windows lowered, and a two thousand watt in-car sound system blasting out the latest dance floor track (they all sound the bloomin’ same to me). Or the inconsiderate neighbour who throws open his or her windows and treats everyone within several hundred yards to constant replays of Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart or Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red. Nightmare, or what?
In hindsight, I seem to be making a good case here for not living in a town. However, there will always be some who thrive on the noise, the pollution and the danger of town living. To them it’s an extreme sport: an adrenaline rush that starts at 7 a.m. with the clock radio’s rude awakening, and ends sometime after midnight in a lingering red wine glow surrounded by a small mountain of aluminium take-away food containers.
At least he or she will have something to celebrate. After all, to have triumphed over another day without being knocked down by a truck, mugged in an alleyway, or poisoned by traffic fumes, is a feat in itself. No-one can suggest to them that they ‘ought to get out more’ because they have been there, done that, and worn-out a few T-shirts in the process. To them, life in the town or city is just what the doctor ordered, and they can’t get enough of it.
Rather them than me, I say. Mind you, I still live in an urban environment, although my adoptive hometown is much, much smaller than the London of my childhood. Torquay is a seaside resort in the far south west of England. It’s all very picturesque and they call it the English Riviera, but there’s a big downside. One of the most irritating things about living in a coastal town in England is the seagulls. Of all God’s creatures, size-for-size seagulls are one of the noisiest, messiest and most aggressive of species. Their incessant, tuneless screams and squawks, frequent bickering and ear-splitting alarms calls can – and do – shatter the peace of many a pleasant summer’s afternoon in the garden. At the same time, those deeply unpleasant sounds drown-out the other, far more agreeable birdsongs, especially during the spring nesting season. And the downside doesn’t end there, because seagull droppings are not only voluminous, they’re corrosive too. In fact, they can eat their way through motor vehicle bodywork quicker than acid rain.
You can’t blame the gulls, though, because they seem to know when they’re onto a good thing. They’re scavengers and, given the upsurge in the number of fast food outlets all over Britain in recent years, plus the tendency of inconsiderate humans to throw half-eaten take-aways onto the street, the seagulls in coastal towns now congregate and nest on town-centre rooftops, instead of rocky cliff faces a few miles away.
Needless to say, their presence just inland in ever greater numbers can make an awful mess of any newly cleaned car. And, as for the noise pollution caused by their raucous squawking and squealing, at all hours of the day or night? Well, I don’t mind telling you, it’s enough to have this expatriate Londoner hankering, once again, after the dubious delights of England’s capital city.
REMEMBERING SPRING 1956
OVER here in England, exactly sixty years ago – in May 1956 – little did we know that the music world was about to be shaken to its core by a young American singer. It had all started quietly enough a few weeks earlier, on January 28, when Jack Philbin, the producer of the popular Stateside CBS television programme ‘Stage Show’, was shown a photograph of the young vocalist in question.
“He’s a guitar playing Marlon Brando,” exclaimed Philbin, but he and the show’s stars (the band leader brothers Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey), refused to allow their guest singer to perform a song that had, in fact, been released as a single just twenty-four hours earlier. That song was Heartbreak Hotel and the recording artist in question was Elvis Presley.
Two weeks later Presley made his third guest appearance on ‘Stage Show’ but, on that occasion, the production team were compelled to give him the okay to perform Heartbreak Hotel because it was beginning to attract the interest of US radio stations. However, there was another problem. That latest television engagement by Presley and his band had to be performed on borrowed instruments because their own equipment was en-route to Florida in advance of a hastily arranged tour.
The rest, as they say, is the stuff of popular music history. Heartbreak Hotel entered the American Billboard 100 at No.68 on March 3, 1956 and it went-on to reach the top spot on April 21, where it stayed for a total of eight weeks. Meanwhile, on May 19, 1956, the Record Mirror UK listings showed Heartbreak Hotel entering the British charts at No.17 and, in the weeks that followed, it climbed to peak at No.3 on June 30, 1956.
Presley’s Heartbreak Hotel wasn’t exactly the birth of rock ‘n’ roll because Bill Haley and His Comets had burst onto the scene the previous year with Shake Rattle and Roll, followed by Rock Around the Clock. Nevertheless, Elvis Presley’s iconic recording marked a real breakthrough for RnR and the beginning of the end for the big band era.
While all this was going-on, our news broadcasts here at home were being dominated by cloak and dagger issues. It all began on February 11, 1956 when two of the so-called ‘Cambridge Spies’ Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean suddenly appeared in Moscow after vanishing in mysterious circumstances some five years earlier. A little over two months after that, between April 18 and 27, the Russian leaders Bulganin and Khrushchev (B&K as the British press referred to them) visited Britain at the invitation of HM Government.
Sixty years ago, at the height of the Cold War between East and West, this much publicised visit was seen by many of us in Britain as a welcome thaw in relations. After all, in those days, the threat of instant nuclear annihilation was a very real, and constant, possibility so such moves towards détente were viewed as a step in the right direction. Regrettably, though, any hopes the people may have had of an easing of tensions between Britain and the Soviet Union were scuppered by an unusual event that remains shrouded in mystery to this day.
On April 19, 1956, the day after B&K arrived in Portsmouth on board the Russian cruiser Ordzhonikidze, a frogman – Commander Lionel ‘Buster’ Crabb – who was allegedly working for MI6, entered the waters of Portsmouth Harbour and vanished. On May 4, more than a week after B&K had returned home, the Soviet Government protested to the Foreign Office that a frogman had been seen in the vicinity of their ship during its stay in Portsmouth.
In a Commons statement Prime Minister Sir Anthony Eden told MPs, “It would not be in the public interest to disclose the circumstances in which Commander Crabb is presumed to have met his death. While it is the practice for ministers to accept responsibility, I think it is necessary in the special circumstances of this case to make it clear that what was done was done without the authority or knowledge of Her Majesty’s ministers. Appropriate disciplinary steps are being taken.”
Despite efforts from Labour MPs to persuade him to elaborate, the prime minister refused to add any more to his statement, and that was seen as an attempt by him to distance the British Government from Commander Crabb’s activities, so as not to upset the Russians.
On a lighter political note, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Harold MacMillan, announced on April 17, 1956, the launch of a new savings initiative called Premium Bonds which was to take place in November of that year. He also announced that the Premium Bonds would be purchased in units of £1, and the first prize draw, featuring a top prize of £1000, was to be held in June 1957.
On the sporting front, the 1956 FA Cup Final at Wembley Stadium on May 5 resulted in a 3-1 win for Manchester City over Birmingham City. However, that particular final became even more memorable long after the final whistle had blown. Deep into the second half, the German-born Manchester City goalkeeper Bernhard ‘Bert’ Trautmann made a brave save when he dived for the ball at the feet of Birmingham City’s Peter Murphy.
Trautmann was clearly injured but he was promptly treated on the pitch by his team’s first-aiders, and he insisted on playing on. A short while later, as he collected his cup winner’s medal, Trautmann’s head and neck looked bent in a rather unusual way, but he soldiered on. Four days after that, Trautmann was X-rayed and it showed he’d played the last fifteen minutes of the final with a broken neck. Happily, he made a full recovery and went-on to play for Manchester City until 1964.
How times have changed!
“He’s a guitar playing Marlon Brando,” exclaimed Philbin, but he and the show’s stars (the band leader brothers Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey), refused to allow their guest singer to perform a song that had, in fact, been released as a single just twenty-four hours earlier. That song was Heartbreak Hotel and the recording artist in question was Elvis Presley.
Two weeks later Presley made his third guest appearance on ‘Stage Show’ but, on that occasion, the production team were compelled to give him the okay to perform Heartbreak Hotel because it was beginning to attract the interest of US radio stations. However, there was another problem. That latest television engagement by Presley and his band had to be performed on borrowed instruments because their own equipment was en-route to Florida in advance of a hastily arranged tour.
The rest, as they say, is the stuff of popular music history. Heartbreak Hotel entered the American Billboard 100 at No.68 on March 3, 1956 and it went-on to reach the top spot on April 21, where it stayed for a total of eight weeks. Meanwhile, on May 19, 1956, the Record Mirror UK listings showed Heartbreak Hotel entering the British charts at No.17 and, in the weeks that followed, it climbed to peak at No.3 on June 30, 1956.
Presley’s Heartbreak Hotel wasn’t exactly the birth of rock ‘n’ roll because Bill Haley and His Comets had burst onto the scene the previous year with Shake Rattle and Roll, followed by Rock Around the Clock. Nevertheless, Elvis Presley’s iconic recording marked a real breakthrough for RnR and the beginning of the end for the big band era.
While all this was going-on, our news broadcasts here at home were being dominated by cloak and dagger issues. It all began on February 11, 1956 when two of the so-called ‘Cambridge Spies’ Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean suddenly appeared in Moscow after vanishing in mysterious circumstances some five years earlier. A little over two months after that, between April 18 and 27, the Russian leaders Bulganin and Khrushchev (B&K as the British press referred to them) visited Britain at the invitation of HM Government.
Sixty years ago, at the height of the Cold War between East and West, this much publicised visit was seen by many of us in Britain as a welcome thaw in relations. After all, in those days, the threat of instant nuclear annihilation was a very real, and constant, possibility so such moves towards détente were viewed as a step in the right direction. Regrettably, though, any hopes the people may have had of an easing of tensions between Britain and the Soviet Union were scuppered by an unusual event that remains shrouded in mystery to this day.
On April 19, 1956, the day after B&K arrived in Portsmouth on board the Russian cruiser Ordzhonikidze, a frogman – Commander Lionel ‘Buster’ Crabb – who was allegedly working for MI6, entered the waters of Portsmouth Harbour and vanished. On May 4, more than a week after B&K had returned home, the Soviet Government protested to the Foreign Office that a frogman had been seen in the vicinity of their ship during its stay in Portsmouth.
In a Commons statement Prime Minister Sir Anthony Eden told MPs, “It would not be in the public interest to disclose the circumstances in which Commander Crabb is presumed to have met his death. While it is the practice for ministers to accept responsibility, I think it is necessary in the special circumstances of this case to make it clear that what was done was done without the authority or knowledge of Her Majesty’s ministers. Appropriate disciplinary steps are being taken.”
Despite efforts from Labour MPs to persuade him to elaborate, the prime minister refused to add any more to his statement, and that was seen as an attempt by him to distance the British Government from Commander Crabb’s activities, so as not to upset the Russians.
On a lighter political note, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Harold MacMillan, announced on April 17, 1956, the launch of a new savings initiative called Premium Bonds which was to take place in November of that year. He also announced that the Premium Bonds would be purchased in units of £1, and the first prize draw, featuring a top prize of £1000, was to be held in June 1957.
On the sporting front, the 1956 FA Cup Final at Wembley Stadium on May 5 resulted in a 3-1 win for Manchester City over Birmingham City. However, that particular final became even more memorable long after the final whistle had blown. Deep into the second half, the German-born Manchester City goalkeeper Bernhard ‘Bert’ Trautmann made a brave save when he dived for the ball at the feet of Birmingham City’s Peter Murphy.
Trautmann was clearly injured but he was promptly treated on the pitch by his team’s first-aiders, and he insisted on playing on. A short while later, as he collected his cup winner’s medal, Trautmann’s head and neck looked bent in a rather unusual way, but he soldiered on. Four days after that, Trautmann was X-rayed and it showed he’d played the last fifteen minutes of the final with a broken neck. Happily, he made a full recovery and went-on to play for Manchester City until 1964.
How times have changed!
FIFTY YEARS ON
IT'S EASTER Sunday, March 27, 2016 ... and exactly fifty years ago I was living in my home town of London and fast approaching my twentieth birthday. In common with many of my fellow Post War Baby Boomers, at every opportunity, I was listening to the so-called pirate radio stations Radio London and Radio Caroline. The fantastic Summer of Sixty-Six was just a few months away when Paint it Black by the Rolling Stones; Sunny Afternoon by The Kinks; Paperback Writer by The Beatles (not to mention their fab album "Revolver"), plus God Only Knows by The Beach Boys and, of course, England’s World Cup win would make it such a memorable summer for music and sport.
However, there were storm clouds looming. The BBC and the government were scheming to outlaw pirate radio stations, and they succeeded in doing so the following year. But we Baby Boomers were – and still are – a fair minded lot and, back then, we demanded a music station to cater for the popular music tastes of our parents’ and grandparents’ generations. And so BBC Radio 2 was born, to compliment the younger sounds of BBC Radio 1.
Nearly half a century later, it’s a completely different tune. We Baby Boomers are now the older generation and the BBC has chipped away at our share of the music radio cake to leave us with little more than left-over crumbs. Now that can’t be right – or fair – can it? After all, there are more than ten million UK seniors, and most of us pay for our BBC licence. If that doesn’t represent a huge, largely untapped and deserving audience, I don’t know what does!
However, there were storm clouds looming. The BBC and the government were scheming to outlaw pirate radio stations, and they succeeded in doing so the following year. But we Baby Boomers were – and still are – a fair minded lot and, back then, we demanded a music station to cater for the popular music tastes of our parents’ and grandparents’ generations. And so BBC Radio 2 was born, to compliment the younger sounds of BBC Radio 1.
Nearly half a century later, it’s a completely different tune. We Baby Boomers are now the older generation and the BBC has chipped away at our share of the music radio cake to leave us with little more than left-over crumbs. Now that can’t be right – or fair – can it? After all, there are more than ten million UK seniors, and most of us pay for our BBC licence. If that doesn’t represent a huge, largely untapped and deserving audience, I don’t know what does!
PENSIONERS IN POVERTY
ACCORDING to a recent study by the OECD (the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development) more than one in ten UK pensioners receiving only the State Pension lives in poverty. This finding was placed into even sharper focus when Caroline Abrahams, the charity director at Age UK said, “This report helps to explain why 1.6 million older people are living in poverty here and constantly struggle to make ends meets.”
Tom McPhail of the Bristol based Hargeaves Lansdown financial services company went even further by saying, “This analysis makes embarrassing reading for the politicians who have been responsible for the UK’s pensions over the past 25 years.”
Overall, the OECD report shows that Britain lags a long way behind in the State Pensions league. Of the 34 nations polled, we in the UK came third from bottom in the rankings, which were calculated against each nation’s average wage. Only pensioners in Mexico and Chile get a worse deal than us. I kid you not. We were only beaten into last place by Mexico and Chile!
In fact, those of us in Britain who rely solely on the State Pension get a meagre 38% of the average UK wage, while our neighbours in Germany and France receive half and more than two thirds respectively. And it doesn’t end there because pensioners in The Netherlands are paid 96% of that nation’s average take-home pay, and in Spain it’s 89.5%, while Turkey’s OAPs get a whopping 106% of Turkey’s national average wage. As for the remainder of the 34 developed or emerging nations polled by the OECD, their pensioners receive an average of 63% of each nation’s average wage as their state pension. That’s a quarter more than we get in the UK … twenty-five per cent!
Despite our near global poor relation status, we UK pensioners continue to be targeted by some of our own politicians, media-types and uninformed talking heads who think we’re too well-off. You know the type: firstly they refer to the State Pension as a benefit, which it’s not. It’s an entitlement. Then they demand we’re stripped of our bus passes, winter fuel allowance and free TV licences.
True, some of us have been able to pay into private pensions over the years, so we’re able to top-up our State Pension income to a more meaningful level. But more than one-and-a-half-million others haven’t been so fortunate. Instead, they’ve spent their working lives in menial, badly paid jobs that gave them just enough to survive on, and no chance whatsoever of saving for their retirement. Now, they’re living in poverty while, last year alone, David Cameron insisted on throwing £12 billion in tax payer’s money into the black hole of overseas aid: often to corrupt and underserving regimes.
The result is 1.6 million UK pensioners struggle to survive, while people in far-off lands benefit from the very tax contributions those same UK pensioners may have made during their working lives. It beggars belief that our government continues to pour eye-watering amounts of money into aiding the (alleged) disadvantaged elsewhere in the world, while here at home we have so much poverty. Surely those 1.6 million struggling UK pensioners deserve a much better deal? Perhaps it’s time, then, for Mr Cameron to add another issue to his demands for EU changes. How about State Pension parity across all European states at around fifty to sixty per cent of each nation’s average wage? That would help to lift one in ten UK pensioners out of the poverty trap.
Tom McPhail of the Bristol based Hargeaves Lansdown financial services company went even further by saying, “This analysis makes embarrassing reading for the politicians who have been responsible for the UK’s pensions over the past 25 years.”
Overall, the OECD report shows that Britain lags a long way behind in the State Pensions league. Of the 34 nations polled, we in the UK came third from bottom in the rankings, which were calculated against each nation’s average wage. Only pensioners in Mexico and Chile get a worse deal than us. I kid you not. We were only beaten into last place by Mexico and Chile!
In fact, those of us in Britain who rely solely on the State Pension get a meagre 38% of the average UK wage, while our neighbours in Germany and France receive half and more than two thirds respectively. And it doesn’t end there because pensioners in The Netherlands are paid 96% of that nation’s average take-home pay, and in Spain it’s 89.5%, while Turkey’s OAPs get a whopping 106% of Turkey’s national average wage. As for the remainder of the 34 developed or emerging nations polled by the OECD, their pensioners receive an average of 63% of each nation’s average wage as their state pension. That’s a quarter more than we get in the UK … twenty-five per cent!
Despite our near global poor relation status, we UK pensioners continue to be targeted by some of our own politicians, media-types and uninformed talking heads who think we’re too well-off. You know the type: firstly they refer to the State Pension as a benefit, which it’s not. It’s an entitlement. Then they demand we’re stripped of our bus passes, winter fuel allowance and free TV licences.
True, some of us have been able to pay into private pensions over the years, so we’re able to top-up our State Pension income to a more meaningful level. But more than one-and-a-half-million others haven’t been so fortunate. Instead, they’ve spent their working lives in menial, badly paid jobs that gave them just enough to survive on, and no chance whatsoever of saving for their retirement. Now, they’re living in poverty while, last year alone, David Cameron insisted on throwing £12 billion in tax payer’s money into the black hole of overseas aid: often to corrupt and underserving regimes.
The result is 1.6 million UK pensioners struggle to survive, while people in far-off lands benefit from the very tax contributions those same UK pensioners may have made during their working lives. It beggars belief that our government continues to pour eye-watering amounts of money into aiding the (alleged) disadvantaged elsewhere in the world, while here at home we have so much poverty. Surely those 1.6 million struggling UK pensioners deserve a much better deal? Perhaps it’s time, then, for Mr Cameron to add another issue to his demands for EU changes. How about State Pension parity across all European states at around fifty to sixty per cent of each nation’s average wage? That would help to lift one in ten UK pensioners out of the poverty trap.
IT'S YOUR RIGHT - USE IT! (Torbay Times April 2015)
IN A FEW short weeks, we’ll be facing one of the most critical general elections to be held in Britain since the end of World War II. But why is it so critical? Because far too many of the most important people in any election have decided that their crucial role is meaningless. I refer, of course, to us, the voters: the decent, law-abiding majority who live at street level in the real world and not some privileged, cocooned existence many of our politicians have known all their lives. Yes, WE are the most important players in the coming general election, because the overwhelming majority of us have that inalienable, democratic right to cast our vote as we see fit, in a secret ballot.
However, in recent decades, vast numbers of us have not been bothering to vote, and that has resulted in very poor turn-outs which, in turn, have brought unpopular government after unpopular government. To make matters even worse, in the run-up to this May’s general election, the seemingly ubiquitous, self-appointed, public spokesperson Russell Brand has been trying to make a virtue out of not voting, by encouraging others to follow his lead. He claims by not voting he is making a protest. But he is wrong! So wrong, in fact, his ‘don’t vote’ strategy undermines the very fabric of the democratic process. Indeed, if that unravelling of democracy were to gain momentum, it would have the potential to propel us all into the nightmare of an unrepresentative totalitarian government.
So, in response to Brand’s assertions, I would like to put forward the other side of the argument. In short, not voting is not a virtue or a protest. On the contrary, it’s a cop-out and a rejection of a human right. By not voting, you throw away your rights to express your opinion through a secret ballot, and you also throw away your right to complain when a government makes decisions that are against your interests. Far too often, these days, we hear people claiming that they have rights, but how many of them actually vote? And how many of them know the true meaning of democracy?
Here’s what Wikipedia has to say on the subject: “Democracy is a system of government in which all the people of a state are involved in making decisions about its affairs, typically by voting to elect representatives to a parliament or similar assembly. The term Democracy originates from the Greek word demokratia which translates as rule of the people.” But how can the people rule, and how can a Democracy exist if vast numbers of the people don’t bother to vote?
Here, then, is an alternative to not voting. If you’re on the electoral role and you want to make a protest on May 7, the only way of doing so effectively is by attending your polling station during voting hours and casting your vote. If you don’t trust any of the individual candidates listed on your voting slip and/or any of those leading their respective political parties in Westminster, say so! Simply spoil your voting slip by scrawling across it “I don’t trust any of you” or any other words of your choice, then fold it, and place it in the ballot box. By doing so, not only will you have exercised your right to vote, but you will also have made a powerful protest, and you’ll be helping to keep democracy alive.
And here’s how. Every vote in every ballot box is counted, and that includes spoilt voting slips. The more spoilt voting slips cast in an election, the louder the protest will be, because the returning officer in every parliamentary constituency is duty-bound by law to state how many spoilt voting slips have been counted. He or she does this when publicly announcing the details of the election’s results. So, if you really don’t have a preferred candidate or political party on May 7, get out and cast your vote anyway, by spoiling it. That voting slip will be counted along with all the others and, if enough voters decide to protest in this fashion, the political powers-that-be will be forced to take notice.
Please don’t listen to those who try to make a virtue out of not voting. They’re wrong! Not voting is not a protest. On the contrary, not voting removes your democratic human right to protest, despite what others might try to tell you.
However, in recent decades, vast numbers of us have not been bothering to vote, and that has resulted in very poor turn-outs which, in turn, have brought unpopular government after unpopular government. To make matters even worse, in the run-up to this May’s general election, the seemingly ubiquitous, self-appointed, public spokesperson Russell Brand has been trying to make a virtue out of not voting, by encouraging others to follow his lead. He claims by not voting he is making a protest. But he is wrong! So wrong, in fact, his ‘don’t vote’ strategy undermines the very fabric of the democratic process. Indeed, if that unravelling of democracy were to gain momentum, it would have the potential to propel us all into the nightmare of an unrepresentative totalitarian government.
So, in response to Brand’s assertions, I would like to put forward the other side of the argument. In short, not voting is not a virtue or a protest. On the contrary, it’s a cop-out and a rejection of a human right. By not voting, you throw away your rights to express your opinion through a secret ballot, and you also throw away your right to complain when a government makes decisions that are against your interests. Far too often, these days, we hear people claiming that they have rights, but how many of them actually vote? And how many of them know the true meaning of democracy?
Here’s what Wikipedia has to say on the subject: “Democracy is a system of government in which all the people of a state are involved in making decisions about its affairs, typically by voting to elect representatives to a parliament or similar assembly. The term Democracy originates from the Greek word demokratia which translates as rule of the people.” But how can the people rule, and how can a Democracy exist if vast numbers of the people don’t bother to vote?
Here, then, is an alternative to not voting. If you’re on the electoral role and you want to make a protest on May 7, the only way of doing so effectively is by attending your polling station during voting hours and casting your vote. If you don’t trust any of the individual candidates listed on your voting slip and/or any of those leading their respective political parties in Westminster, say so! Simply spoil your voting slip by scrawling across it “I don’t trust any of you” or any other words of your choice, then fold it, and place it in the ballot box. By doing so, not only will you have exercised your right to vote, but you will also have made a powerful protest, and you’ll be helping to keep democracy alive.
And here’s how. Every vote in every ballot box is counted, and that includes spoilt voting slips. The more spoilt voting slips cast in an election, the louder the protest will be, because the returning officer in every parliamentary constituency is duty-bound by law to state how many spoilt voting slips have been counted. He or she does this when publicly announcing the details of the election’s results. So, if you really don’t have a preferred candidate or political party on May 7, get out and cast your vote anyway, by spoiling it. That voting slip will be counted along with all the others and, if enough voters decide to protest in this fashion, the political powers-that-be will be forced to take notice.
Please don’t listen to those who try to make a virtue out of not voting. They’re wrong! Not voting is not a protest. On the contrary, not voting removes your democratic human right to protest, despite what others might try to tell you.
IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE CATHARS
REFLECTING quietly on a recent visit to the Languedoc region of Southern France, brings to mind the opening lines of that inspired text by Max Ehrmann ... the Desiderata. “Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.” Those simple words seem to offer a fitting description of the calm and quietude experienced throughout my visit, and they tend also to echo the serenity and beauty of an area that, thus far, has escaped the less desirable effects of tourism.
The holiday itself took the form of a personal pilgrimage fuelled by the first few chapters of the best-seller The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail by Messrs Bagent, Leigh and Lincoln: not to mention several books by the late Arthur Guirdham. Together, those books instilled in me a desire to experience, first hand, a region of France which, during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, witnessed the flowering and eventual extermination of a socio-relgious group called The Cathars.
In the light of recent developments within both the Anglican and Roman Catholic Churches, it is interesting to note that The Cathars encouraged the ordination of both men and women, but only after they had experienced the responsibilities of adult life, including home-building and parenthood. Perhaps, the most intriguing aspect of Cathar thought, however, was a fundamental belief in the concept of re-incarnation ... a concept also embraced by the early Christian Church. In fact, history records that, had the Roman Emperor Justinian not anathematised it in 553 AD, the concept of re-incarnation might very well have remained as part of the Christian ethic to this day.
But enough of the theology lesson. This vacation was also intended to be an escape from the rigours of twentieth century Britain. And in that respect, the venture was a resounding success.
Forsaking hotels, my wife Jenny and I sampled the hospitality of the French equivalent of Britain’s own farmhouse bed and breakfast industry: a decision which also presented us with the opportunity of improving our, otherwise, tenuous grasp of the French language. Gites de France, alternatively known as Chambre D’Hotes, are tightly regulated by a national charter, and this seems to be reflected in the quality of the accommodation, the warmth of welcome, and the standard of cuisine. Contrary to popular opinion, the French are not incapable of catering for vegetarians. All one has to do is ask. Indeed, during my stay, I enjoyed a variety of delicious vegetable dishes, plus of course, the ubiquitous vegetarian standby ... omelette. (I haven’t eaten an egg since!)
We based our vacation - following a two day drive across France - in the charming town of Foix, having crossed the channel overnight from Plymouth to Roscoff aboard the superb Brittany Ferries vessel Val de Loire. Foix nestles in the foothills of The Pyrenees, and is within striking distance of all the major Cathar sites of interest, including the spectacular mountain-top fortress of Montsegur. It was here, on March 16, 1244, after a lengthy siege, 215 Cathars (both men and women) were thrown into the flames of a gigantic stake, because they would not renounce their beliefs.
Thirty-four years earlier, on July 22, 1210, a similar fate had befallen 140 Cathars at the beautiful village of Minerve (located some 60 Km north-east of Carcassonne, and surrounded on three sides by a deep gorge). Minerve today, retains much of its medieval atmosphere, despite its restaurants and museums. Most compelling of all, though, is the town’s simple monument to those who perished on that summer day 802 years ago.
The perfectly intact medieval city of Carcassonne is, by contrast, an impressive testimony to the construction industry of the Middle Ages. Its great walls and turrets have an unmistakable air of permanence and impregnability that few twentieth century buildings can match. Carcassonne was regarded as the greatest fortress of its day, and it must have presented to its attackers a redoubtable target. The prospect of a lengthy siege, and the likelihood of many casualties would, almost certainly, have been uppermost in the minds of the Crusaders massed beyond the city’s walls in the Autumn of 1209. However, following that year’s long hot summer, Carcassonne’s water supply failed and many in the garrison succumbed to an outbreak of typhoid. The result was a siege that lasted a mere three weeks: an outcome that guaranteed the eventual obliteration of the Cathar movement and its sympathisers. In spite of a major rebuild in the late 19th Century, Carcassonne retains its medieval atmosphere and it remains, today, one of Europe’s truly magnificent historical landmarks: a living museum of life in the Middle Ages, if you can ignore the numerous souvenir shops nestling within its ancient walls, of course.
Earlier in that same summer of 1209, the nearby town of Beziers - a stone’s throw from the Mediterranean coast - had witnessed one of the most horrific events of the entire campaign against the Cathars. Historians record that some seven thousand inhabitants of the town (Cathars and Catholics alike) were herded into the church of St Madeleine and put to the sword. When asked by a Crusader who should be slain, the notorious inquisitor the Abbe of Citeaux, Arnaud Amaury replied ... “Kill them all. God will know His own”.
Happily, today, Beziers has moved beyond its macabre history, and has evolved into a delightfully lazy town of broad leafy avenues, plus numerous pavement cafes and restaurants. The town’s museum too, is well worth a visit, but do try to avoid using the Beziers underground car park; unless you have a penchant for mazes and puzzles!
For a true sense of history and an all-embracing atmosphere of peace and tranquility, however, the spa town of Alet-les-Bains takes some beating. Alet-les-Bains is a trading town with a history that stretches as far back as the Ancient Egyptians, and the Greek and Roman cultures that followed. Adjacent to the town’s tiny cathedral, with its curious Star of David circular windows, you’ll find the presbytery which has been converted into an exposition by author and illustrator Roger Antoni.
In spite of our minimal command of each other’s languages, Roger, Jenny and myself spent upwards of two hours in deep historical discussion, thanks to a multitude of hand signals, numerous sketches and my trusty French-English dictionary. By then, it was time for lunch, and a short walk to the Alet-les-Bains town square produced that day’s culinary piece de resistance ... a truly delicious vegetable dish, plus all the trimmings, at the Auberge de la Main Argent Hotel and Restaurant. Formidable!
A few kilometres south of Alet-les-Bains lies the hilltop village of Rennes-le-Chateau: the focal point of the aforementioned best selling book The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail. It was here in 1891 that the then parish priest Berenger Sauniere unearthed two parchments dating from 1244 and 1644 respectively. The events following that discovery can only be described as mysterious. Suddenly Sauniere began to act strangely. His postage bills alone showed he was spending way beyond his means. Then, in 1896, he began to spend even more extravagantly, on such community spirited ventures as the construction of a new road leading to Rennes-le-Chateau, followed by the installation of the village’s very first running water supply.
Eventually, however, Sauniere’s new-found financial freedom took a bizarre twist. Over the following ten years, he commissioned not only the building of the Tour Magdala, a strange tower nestling on the sheer cliff-edge of Rennes-le-Chateau, but also a rambling country house which he never occupied. By the time of his death in 1917, it is estimated that Sauniere’s spending spree amounted to the equivalent of several million pounds. Where did this wealth come from? No one knows. Sauniere took his secret to the grave. But compelling evidence unearthed since the 1970s indicates that the two mysterious parchments discovered by him in 1891 may have led him to hidden treasure. Moreover, there now exists a school of thought embracing the possibility that the treasure itself, once located, will point to the whereabouts of the legendary Holy Grail and the long lost Ark of The Covenant. Clearly, the on-going investigation still has many more avenues to explore.
Speaking of which (well, nearly): the French road system, by comparison with our own here in the UK, is far superior. Often smoother, straighter and - in off peak periods - noticeably less congested than their British counterparts, the French network of non-motorway roads are, in general, a delight to drive on. The Auto-route tolls in France, however, can be a drain on one’s fiscal resources. But the speed and convenience of French motorways, not to mention their remarkable lack of road works and lane restrictions, can far outweigh any expenditure involved, especially on one’s homeward journey.
It may take a couple of days to complete, but once the homeward journey by road over, you’ll realise just how rested you are. A trip to the Languedoc region of France is indeed a chance to “go placidly amid the noise and the haste” and, above all, sample the peace and tranquility of one of Europe’s most historic and picturesque locations.
Copyright: David Lowe 1993
REFLECTING quietly on a recent visit to the Languedoc region of Southern France, brings to mind the opening lines of that inspired text by Max Ehrmann ... the Desiderata. “Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.” Those simple words seem to offer a fitting description of the calm and quietude experienced throughout my visit, and they tend also to echo the serenity and beauty of an area that, thus far, has escaped the less desirable effects of tourism.
The holiday itself took the form of a personal pilgrimage fuelled by the first few chapters of the best-seller The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail by Messrs Bagent, Leigh and Lincoln: not to mention several books by the late Arthur Guirdham. Together, those books instilled in me a desire to experience, first hand, a region of France which, during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, witnessed the flowering and eventual extermination of a socio-relgious group called The Cathars.
In the light of recent developments within both the Anglican and Roman Catholic Churches, it is interesting to note that The Cathars encouraged the ordination of both men and women, but only after they had experienced the responsibilities of adult life, including home-building and parenthood. Perhaps, the most intriguing aspect of Cathar thought, however, was a fundamental belief in the concept of re-incarnation ... a concept also embraced by the early Christian Church. In fact, history records that, had the Roman Emperor Justinian not anathematised it in 553 AD, the concept of re-incarnation might very well have remained as part of the Christian ethic to this day.
But enough of the theology lesson. This vacation was also intended to be an escape from the rigours of twentieth century Britain. And in that respect, the venture was a resounding success.
Forsaking hotels, my wife Jenny and I sampled the hospitality of the French equivalent of Britain’s own farmhouse bed and breakfast industry: a decision which also presented us with the opportunity of improving our, otherwise, tenuous grasp of the French language. Gites de France, alternatively known as Chambre D’Hotes, are tightly regulated by a national charter, and this seems to be reflected in the quality of the accommodation, the warmth of welcome, and the standard of cuisine. Contrary to popular opinion, the French are not incapable of catering for vegetarians. All one has to do is ask. Indeed, during my stay, I enjoyed a variety of delicious vegetable dishes, plus of course, the ubiquitous vegetarian standby ... omelette. (I haven’t eaten an egg since!)
We based our vacation - following a two day drive across France - in the charming town of Foix, having crossed the channel overnight from Plymouth to Roscoff aboard the superb Brittany Ferries vessel Val de Loire. Foix nestles in the foothills of The Pyrenees, and is within striking distance of all the major Cathar sites of interest, including the spectacular mountain-top fortress of Montsegur. It was here, on March 16, 1244, after a lengthy siege, 215 Cathars (both men and women) were thrown into the flames of a gigantic stake, because they would not renounce their beliefs.
Thirty-four years earlier, on July 22, 1210, a similar fate had befallen 140 Cathars at the beautiful village of Minerve (located some 60 Km north-east of Carcassonne, and surrounded on three sides by a deep gorge). Minerve today, retains much of its medieval atmosphere, despite its restaurants and museums. Most compelling of all, though, is the town’s simple monument to those who perished on that summer day 802 years ago.
The perfectly intact medieval city of Carcassonne is, by contrast, an impressive testimony to the construction industry of the Middle Ages. Its great walls and turrets have an unmistakable air of permanence and impregnability that few twentieth century buildings can match. Carcassonne was regarded as the greatest fortress of its day, and it must have presented to its attackers a redoubtable target. The prospect of a lengthy siege, and the likelihood of many casualties would, almost certainly, have been uppermost in the minds of the Crusaders massed beyond the city’s walls in the Autumn of 1209. However, following that year’s long hot summer, Carcassonne’s water supply failed and many in the garrison succumbed to an outbreak of typhoid. The result was a siege that lasted a mere three weeks: an outcome that guaranteed the eventual obliteration of the Cathar movement and its sympathisers. In spite of a major rebuild in the late 19th Century, Carcassonne retains its medieval atmosphere and it remains, today, one of Europe’s truly magnificent historical landmarks: a living museum of life in the Middle Ages, if you can ignore the numerous souvenir shops nestling within its ancient walls, of course.
Earlier in that same summer of 1209, the nearby town of Beziers - a stone’s throw from the Mediterranean coast - had witnessed one of the most horrific events of the entire campaign against the Cathars. Historians record that some seven thousand inhabitants of the town (Cathars and Catholics alike) were herded into the church of St Madeleine and put to the sword. When asked by a Crusader who should be slain, the notorious inquisitor the Abbe of Citeaux, Arnaud Amaury replied ... “Kill them all. God will know His own”.
Happily, today, Beziers has moved beyond its macabre history, and has evolved into a delightfully lazy town of broad leafy avenues, plus numerous pavement cafes and restaurants. The town’s museum too, is well worth a visit, but do try to avoid using the Beziers underground car park; unless you have a penchant for mazes and puzzles!
For a true sense of history and an all-embracing atmosphere of peace and tranquility, however, the spa town of Alet-les-Bains takes some beating. Alet-les-Bains is a trading town with a history that stretches as far back as the Ancient Egyptians, and the Greek and Roman cultures that followed. Adjacent to the town’s tiny cathedral, with its curious Star of David circular windows, you’ll find the presbytery which has been converted into an exposition by author and illustrator Roger Antoni.
In spite of our minimal command of each other’s languages, Roger, Jenny and myself spent upwards of two hours in deep historical discussion, thanks to a multitude of hand signals, numerous sketches and my trusty French-English dictionary. By then, it was time for lunch, and a short walk to the Alet-les-Bains town square produced that day’s culinary piece de resistance ... a truly delicious vegetable dish, plus all the trimmings, at the Auberge de la Main Argent Hotel and Restaurant. Formidable!
A few kilometres south of Alet-les-Bains lies the hilltop village of Rennes-le-Chateau: the focal point of the aforementioned best selling book The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail. It was here in 1891 that the then parish priest Berenger Sauniere unearthed two parchments dating from 1244 and 1644 respectively. The events following that discovery can only be described as mysterious. Suddenly Sauniere began to act strangely. His postage bills alone showed he was spending way beyond his means. Then, in 1896, he began to spend even more extravagantly, on such community spirited ventures as the construction of a new road leading to Rennes-le-Chateau, followed by the installation of the village’s very first running water supply.
Eventually, however, Sauniere’s new-found financial freedom took a bizarre twist. Over the following ten years, he commissioned not only the building of the Tour Magdala, a strange tower nestling on the sheer cliff-edge of Rennes-le-Chateau, but also a rambling country house which he never occupied. By the time of his death in 1917, it is estimated that Sauniere’s spending spree amounted to the equivalent of several million pounds. Where did this wealth come from? No one knows. Sauniere took his secret to the grave. But compelling evidence unearthed since the 1970s indicates that the two mysterious parchments discovered by him in 1891 may have led him to hidden treasure. Moreover, there now exists a school of thought embracing the possibility that the treasure itself, once located, will point to the whereabouts of the legendary Holy Grail and the long lost Ark of The Covenant. Clearly, the on-going investigation still has many more avenues to explore.
Speaking of which (well, nearly): the French road system, by comparison with our own here in the UK, is far superior. Often smoother, straighter and - in off peak periods - noticeably less congested than their British counterparts, the French network of non-motorway roads are, in general, a delight to drive on. The Auto-route tolls in France, however, can be a drain on one’s fiscal resources. But the speed and convenience of French motorways, not to mention their remarkable lack of road works and lane restrictions, can far outweigh any expenditure involved, especially on one’s homeward journey.
It may take a couple of days to complete, but once the homeward journey by road over, you’ll realise just how rested you are. A trip to the Languedoc region of France is indeed a chance to “go placidly amid the noise and the haste” and, above all, sample the peace and tranquility of one of Europe’s most historic and picturesque locations.
Copyright: David Lowe 1993
IS BARNETT FAIR?
THE following article was published in my "Pensioners Platform" column in the August-September 2014 edition of the Torbay Times circulating around South Devon in England. The article questions the fairness of the Barnett Formula in relation to the people of England.
FIRST things first, that’s not a printing error you see in the title of this month’s article. Nor is it intended as a tongue-in-cheek play on the Cockney Londoner rhyming slang for “hair”. On the contrary, the title is spelt correctly, and it raises a very serious question that affects all of us here in the South West of England … pensioner or not.
Let me explain: way back in 1978, Labour Prime Minister James Callaghan and his Cabinet were so troubled by the rise of Scottish and Welsh nationalism, they invited the then Chief Secretary to the Treasury Joel Barnett to devise a formula that distributed the funding for UK public services in a way that favoured the people of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. By his own admission, the late Lord Barnett drew-up his formula “almost on the back of an envelope” and it was quickly enshrined into law. Nearly forty years on, the Barnett Formula is still in force, and it continues to benefit every person in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, at the expense of the people of England. Even Lord Barnett himself admitted that his Barnett Formula was only intended as a short-term measure. In fact, at a public enquiry in 2009 he said, “I do not consider it is successful. I do not think it is fair. I thought it might last a year or two before the government would decide to change it. It never occurred to me for one moment that it would last this long.”
Nevertheless, successive governments have not only kept the Barnett Formula in-place, but they have also gone out of their way to conceal its skewed and deeply discriminatory – some might say racist – mechanism from the English people. Consequently, for some thirty-seven years, the people of England have lost-out to the people of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, and here’s the proof:-
The latest Treasury public expenditure figures (2012-13) detailing the Barnett Formula sums allocated for public services across the nations of the United Kingdom show that Northern Ireland was granted £10,876 per head of population; Scotland £10,152; Wales £9,709 and England £8,529 per head of population. That means every person in Scotland (when looking at the UK average) is being allocated £1,364 more than everyone else. And that translates to a whopping £1,623 advantage every Scot has over every person in England.
In fact, it gets worse because, when broken down further into England’s nine regions, we here in the South West are in a rather lowly sixth place behind London, the North East; the North West; Yorkshire & Humber and the West Midlands, with an allocation of £8,219 per head of population.
Adding even more weight to the unfairness of the above allocations, earlier this year, the Local Government Association (LGA), which represents councils south of the Border, revealed that the Barnett Formula system means England’s communities are being “short-changed” by £4.1 billion a year.
Is it any wonder, then, that Scotland has been able to offer free prescriptions for all, while the NHS in England struggles to meet some of the basic demands placed upon it? Then there’s the Scotland government’s funding of education that guarantees free university tuition, while England’s universities are forced to charge up to £9000. Both of these advantages – and quite a few others – come about because Scotland’s devolved parliament can spend its Barnett Formula annual windfall as it sees fit.
Now, I ask you, is that fair in a so-called equality conscious United Kingdom? Come to that, is it right to deliberately disadvantage the majority English population by forcing us, as tax payers, to contribute to Scotland’s disproportionate Barnett Formula hand-outs? After all, when all the facts and figures are laid on the table, England and its tax-paying workforce still represent the power house of the UK’s economy.
So, whatever the result of Scotland’s Referendum on September 18, surely it’ll be time to scrap the thoroughly discredited Barnett Formula, and give back to the people of England their rightful – and equal – share of public service funding?
In the meantime, we’re left to ponder one simple question: is the Barnett Formula fair on the people of England? Given the statistics and quotes mentioned earlier, the answer appears to be a resounding … NO IT ISN’T!
FIRST things first, that’s not a printing error you see in the title of this month’s article. Nor is it intended as a tongue-in-cheek play on the Cockney Londoner rhyming slang for “hair”. On the contrary, the title is spelt correctly, and it raises a very serious question that affects all of us here in the South West of England … pensioner or not.
Let me explain: way back in 1978, Labour Prime Minister James Callaghan and his Cabinet were so troubled by the rise of Scottish and Welsh nationalism, they invited the then Chief Secretary to the Treasury Joel Barnett to devise a formula that distributed the funding for UK public services in a way that favoured the people of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. By his own admission, the late Lord Barnett drew-up his formula “almost on the back of an envelope” and it was quickly enshrined into law. Nearly forty years on, the Barnett Formula is still in force, and it continues to benefit every person in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, at the expense of the people of England. Even Lord Barnett himself admitted that his Barnett Formula was only intended as a short-term measure. In fact, at a public enquiry in 2009 he said, “I do not consider it is successful. I do not think it is fair. I thought it might last a year or two before the government would decide to change it. It never occurred to me for one moment that it would last this long.”
Nevertheless, successive governments have not only kept the Barnett Formula in-place, but they have also gone out of their way to conceal its skewed and deeply discriminatory – some might say racist – mechanism from the English people. Consequently, for some thirty-seven years, the people of England have lost-out to the people of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, and here’s the proof:-
The latest Treasury public expenditure figures (2012-13) detailing the Barnett Formula sums allocated for public services across the nations of the United Kingdom show that Northern Ireland was granted £10,876 per head of population; Scotland £10,152; Wales £9,709 and England £8,529 per head of population. That means every person in Scotland (when looking at the UK average) is being allocated £1,364 more than everyone else. And that translates to a whopping £1,623 advantage every Scot has over every person in England.
In fact, it gets worse because, when broken down further into England’s nine regions, we here in the South West are in a rather lowly sixth place behind London, the North East; the North West; Yorkshire & Humber and the West Midlands, with an allocation of £8,219 per head of population.
Adding even more weight to the unfairness of the above allocations, earlier this year, the Local Government Association (LGA), which represents councils south of the Border, revealed that the Barnett Formula system means England’s communities are being “short-changed” by £4.1 billion a year.
Is it any wonder, then, that Scotland has been able to offer free prescriptions for all, while the NHS in England struggles to meet some of the basic demands placed upon it? Then there’s the Scotland government’s funding of education that guarantees free university tuition, while England’s universities are forced to charge up to £9000. Both of these advantages – and quite a few others – come about because Scotland’s devolved parliament can spend its Barnett Formula annual windfall as it sees fit.
Now, I ask you, is that fair in a so-called equality conscious United Kingdom? Come to that, is it right to deliberately disadvantage the majority English population by forcing us, as tax payers, to contribute to Scotland’s disproportionate Barnett Formula hand-outs? After all, when all the facts and figures are laid on the table, England and its tax-paying workforce still represent the power house of the UK’s economy.
So, whatever the result of Scotland’s Referendum on September 18, surely it’ll be time to scrap the thoroughly discredited Barnett Formula, and give back to the people of England their rightful – and equal – share of public service funding?
In the meantime, we’re left to ponder one simple question: is the Barnett Formula fair on the people of England? Given the statistics and quotes mentioned earlier, the answer appears to be a resounding … NO IT ISN’T!
A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE (this is a true story)
WE all knew dad was terminally ill, and so did he. Despite two major gastric operations, the cancer had spread to his liver, and there was nothing more the surgeons could do for him. After half a lifetime of indifferent health, and at the age of just fifty-four, dad was moving inexorably towards that last great mystery that confronts us all at the end of our journey here on earth. Nevertheless, he was bearing his burden with great dignity and courage, yet mum and I still made sure we were there for him in those rare moments when his resolve threatened to desert him.
Christmas 1970 was fast approaching, and dad’s symptoms were growing worse with the passing of every day. For several months he had been unable to eat solid foods. Now, even liquid sustenance was causing him great distress. The prospects for a happy festive season were bleak indeed.
Mum tip-toed out of the bedroom and carefully closed the door behind her. Gently resting her index finger against her lips, she turned to indicate to me that dad was sleeping peacefully. Moments later, the anguish on mum’s face seemed to grow in intensity, and she whispered, “David, what can we possibly do to make dad’s Christmas more comfortable?” Playing for time, I replied, “Leave it with me, mum, I’ll give it some thought.” In truth, I didn’t know what thoughts might enter my mind, or what – if any – solutions might be found in answer to mum’s heartfelt plea. However, I knew there was a very special place near at hand, where I could contemplate her question and its profound implications.
At that time, I was a Sunday School teacher at St John’s Anglican Church in Penge, south east London. I enjoyed round-the-clock access to that cavernous, neo-gothic building, and so I knew at once that, that was there I would be able to find the kind of peace and solitude to confront a truly challenging moment in my life.
Later that same day, I sat in the tranquility of St John’s Church, drinking in the aloneness of the moment while, at the same time, searching for the words to express my deepest thoughts. Eventually, as if from afar, I heard myself softly offering-up a simple prayer. “Lord, we know it’s going to be dad’s last Christmas here on earth, and we want so much to make it a peaceful and joyous time for him. Please grant him some relief from his symptoms, so he might enjoy at least a little Christmas Fayre.” After several more minutes of quiet contemplation, I walked out of the church, and into the noise and haste of a south London rush hour. Nevertheless, deep down in my heart, I was at peace. I knew my prayer had been heard.
Two days later ... December 21, 1970 ... mum telephoned me at home. Her voice was hushed, and full of hesitation, as she alerted me to an unexpected development. “David: look, I’m not quite sure what to make of this, and I don’t want either of us to get our hopes up too much, but dad hasn’t shown any symptoms since yesterday morning. He has even had a bowl of vegetable soup today, plus a couple of cups of tea, and he hasn’t once complained of feeling nauseous. Do you think it’s worth getting-in a turkey and a few Christmas goodies after all?” My response was emphatic. “Yes, I think that’s a wonderful idea mum!”
Within the hour, mum and I were in the local supermarket loading our trolley with vegetables, fruit, nuts, crisps, mince pies and soft drinks, not to mention bottles of assorted wines, beers and spirits. A can of Ye Olde Oak Ham was also high on the agenda, as was pork sausage meat, and ... of course ... a turkey big enough to feed a small army.
Our shopping expedition was not complete, however, until mum had purchased a special Christmas card for dad, plus a bottle of his favourite cream sherry. With every passing minute, I felt a growing certainty that my intercession in St John’s Church just two days earlier was being answered in a remarkable way. Consequently, I was in two minds. Should I tell mum about the prayer I had offered-up for dad? Or should I simply place my trust in that inner voice which seemed to be saying, “Be at peace, my son, there’s no need to tell her.” Needless to say, the trusted inner voice won the day.
Christmas Eve morning arrived, and mum telephoned me to report that dad was still free of all the symptoms he’d been suffering until just four days previously. My wife and I, together with our two year old daughter Jacqueline, arrived at mum and dad’s council flat opposite Beckenham Place Park at four o’clock that same afternoon. Jacqueline was already excited and full of expectation over what Father Christmas might be bringing her. And, to be spending Christmas at Nana and Nandad’s home! Well, that was something extra special for her: a genuine Christmas surprise.
We all enjoyed a light supper, while the turkey cooked in the oven, filling the whole flat with that distinctive Yuletide aroma. Dad even remarked on his appetite, and how he was looking forward to Christmas Dinner. A little later in the evening, he tried a sip or two of brandy. Much to everyone’s delight, he suffered no adverse effects, so mum presented him with an early Christmas gift: his bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry.
One small glass-full was sufficient to last dad the rest of the evening, but he showed a little less temperance when it came to another of his favourite tit-bits. Salted peanuts! For as long as I had known him, dad couldn’t resist salted peanuts. And on that Christmas Eve, he quietly munched his way through two medium-sized bags full.
It was just like the Christmas Eves of old. A cosy, rosy, warm and cheerful evening, full of laughter and background music courtesy of Perry Como, Andy Williams and Tony Bennett, among others. For several hours, we were all lifted high above the trauma of dad’s terminal illness, and into the light of a traditional family Yuletide gathering. In fact, more of the same was to follow.
For the first time in six months, dad ate a proper cooked meal on that Christmas Day, but not before he’d polished-off a home-made prawn cocktail starter, plus a glass or two of white wine. A small portion of Christmas pudding with single cream followed the main course, after which dad went-on to enjoy a Christmas Night laced with the odd mince pie, several more glasses of sherry, a couple of brandies and, yes, another bag of salted peanuts. I couldn’t recall how long it had been since I’d seen him eating and drinking so heartily. However, not once did he complain of nausea or discomfort.
In fact, dad thoroughly enjoyed himself over that Christmas and New Year period, and he remained entirely free of symptoms until January 3, 1971. In the weeks that followed the debilitating symptoms that had disappeared so suddenly on December 20 began to re-appear and, at length, he was admitted to St Christopher’s Hospice in Sydenham. He passed peacefully into the higher life on the evening of June 23, 1971, but more than forty years on, I continue to feel his presence in my quieter moments.
These days, when December comes around, I still find time to ponder the extraordinary events of Christmas 1970. Given that dad was so desperately ill, with the effects of those strength sapping symptoms convulsing his poor body for many months previously; some slight relief over that festive period would have been a welcome respite for us all. However, against all the odds, that hoped-for slight relief had been surpassed and dad’s symptoms had completely disappeared for a period of two full weeks. Surely, that speaks of one thing only: a truly remarkable Christmas miracle!
Christmas 1970 was fast approaching, and dad’s symptoms were growing worse with the passing of every day. For several months he had been unable to eat solid foods. Now, even liquid sustenance was causing him great distress. The prospects for a happy festive season were bleak indeed.
Mum tip-toed out of the bedroom and carefully closed the door behind her. Gently resting her index finger against her lips, she turned to indicate to me that dad was sleeping peacefully. Moments later, the anguish on mum’s face seemed to grow in intensity, and she whispered, “David, what can we possibly do to make dad’s Christmas more comfortable?” Playing for time, I replied, “Leave it with me, mum, I’ll give it some thought.” In truth, I didn’t know what thoughts might enter my mind, or what – if any – solutions might be found in answer to mum’s heartfelt plea. However, I knew there was a very special place near at hand, where I could contemplate her question and its profound implications.
At that time, I was a Sunday School teacher at St John’s Anglican Church in Penge, south east London. I enjoyed round-the-clock access to that cavernous, neo-gothic building, and so I knew at once that, that was there I would be able to find the kind of peace and solitude to confront a truly challenging moment in my life.
Later that same day, I sat in the tranquility of St John’s Church, drinking in the aloneness of the moment while, at the same time, searching for the words to express my deepest thoughts. Eventually, as if from afar, I heard myself softly offering-up a simple prayer. “Lord, we know it’s going to be dad’s last Christmas here on earth, and we want so much to make it a peaceful and joyous time for him. Please grant him some relief from his symptoms, so he might enjoy at least a little Christmas Fayre.” After several more minutes of quiet contemplation, I walked out of the church, and into the noise and haste of a south London rush hour. Nevertheless, deep down in my heart, I was at peace. I knew my prayer had been heard.
Two days later ... December 21, 1970 ... mum telephoned me at home. Her voice was hushed, and full of hesitation, as she alerted me to an unexpected development. “David: look, I’m not quite sure what to make of this, and I don’t want either of us to get our hopes up too much, but dad hasn’t shown any symptoms since yesterday morning. He has even had a bowl of vegetable soup today, plus a couple of cups of tea, and he hasn’t once complained of feeling nauseous. Do you think it’s worth getting-in a turkey and a few Christmas goodies after all?” My response was emphatic. “Yes, I think that’s a wonderful idea mum!”
Within the hour, mum and I were in the local supermarket loading our trolley with vegetables, fruit, nuts, crisps, mince pies and soft drinks, not to mention bottles of assorted wines, beers and spirits. A can of Ye Olde Oak Ham was also high on the agenda, as was pork sausage meat, and ... of course ... a turkey big enough to feed a small army.
Our shopping expedition was not complete, however, until mum had purchased a special Christmas card for dad, plus a bottle of his favourite cream sherry. With every passing minute, I felt a growing certainty that my intercession in St John’s Church just two days earlier was being answered in a remarkable way. Consequently, I was in two minds. Should I tell mum about the prayer I had offered-up for dad? Or should I simply place my trust in that inner voice which seemed to be saying, “Be at peace, my son, there’s no need to tell her.” Needless to say, the trusted inner voice won the day.
Christmas Eve morning arrived, and mum telephoned me to report that dad was still free of all the symptoms he’d been suffering until just four days previously. My wife and I, together with our two year old daughter Jacqueline, arrived at mum and dad’s council flat opposite Beckenham Place Park at four o’clock that same afternoon. Jacqueline was already excited and full of expectation over what Father Christmas might be bringing her. And, to be spending Christmas at Nana and Nandad’s home! Well, that was something extra special for her: a genuine Christmas surprise.
We all enjoyed a light supper, while the turkey cooked in the oven, filling the whole flat with that distinctive Yuletide aroma. Dad even remarked on his appetite, and how he was looking forward to Christmas Dinner. A little later in the evening, he tried a sip or two of brandy. Much to everyone’s delight, he suffered no adverse effects, so mum presented him with an early Christmas gift: his bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry.
One small glass-full was sufficient to last dad the rest of the evening, but he showed a little less temperance when it came to another of his favourite tit-bits. Salted peanuts! For as long as I had known him, dad couldn’t resist salted peanuts. And on that Christmas Eve, he quietly munched his way through two medium-sized bags full.
It was just like the Christmas Eves of old. A cosy, rosy, warm and cheerful evening, full of laughter and background music courtesy of Perry Como, Andy Williams and Tony Bennett, among others. For several hours, we were all lifted high above the trauma of dad’s terminal illness, and into the light of a traditional family Yuletide gathering. In fact, more of the same was to follow.
For the first time in six months, dad ate a proper cooked meal on that Christmas Day, but not before he’d polished-off a home-made prawn cocktail starter, plus a glass or two of white wine. A small portion of Christmas pudding with single cream followed the main course, after which dad went-on to enjoy a Christmas Night laced with the odd mince pie, several more glasses of sherry, a couple of brandies and, yes, another bag of salted peanuts. I couldn’t recall how long it had been since I’d seen him eating and drinking so heartily. However, not once did he complain of nausea or discomfort.
In fact, dad thoroughly enjoyed himself over that Christmas and New Year period, and he remained entirely free of symptoms until January 3, 1971. In the weeks that followed the debilitating symptoms that had disappeared so suddenly on December 20 began to re-appear and, at length, he was admitted to St Christopher’s Hospice in Sydenham. He passed peacefully into the higher life on the evening of June 23, 1971, but more than forty years on, I continue to feel his presence in my quieter moments.
These days, when December comes around, I still find time to ponder the extraordinary events of Christmas 1970. Given that dad was so desperately ill, with the effects of those strength sapping symptoms convulsing his poor body for many months previously; some slight relief over that festive period would have been a welcome respite for us all. However, against all the odds, that hoped-for slight relief had been surpassed and dad’s symptoms had completely disappeared for a period of two full weeks. Surely, that speaks of one thing only: a truly remarkable Christmas miracle!
DRAMATIC ARRIVAL (this is a true story)
SOMEHOW, from the moment the pregnancy was confirmed, I knew my first-born would be a girl. Much more than a mere hunch, it was a strange and unshakable kind of certainty that refused to be sidelined.
At that time, I put my belief in the outcome down to a kind of pipe dream that had its origins in my love of a song from the score of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s stage and film-musical Carousel. The song in question – sung beautifully by Gordon MacRae in the film-musical – is entitled Soliloquy, and it reflects on the subject of parenthood from the father’s perspective, especially in relation to the arrival of a baby girl.
By April 1969, it was becoming apparent that the baby was big ... very big! In fact, at one point, it was thought my wife was carrying twins. Later, however, we were told it was definitely just one infant, but there were complications. The baby was a breech presentation – bottom first – and it was at this point that the possibility of a Caesarean delivery was mooted.
My wife was admitted to Stonepark Maternity Hospital in Beckenham, Kent five days after the baby was due. Up to that moment in time, she'd shown no signs of going into labour, so she was given a further twenty-four hours to settle-in. She was then placed on an induction drip, and within a couple of hours she was experiencing mild contractions. Those contractions continued throughout the first day. At 7 pm that evening, the drip was removed to allow my wife to have a good night’s rest. Then, soon after breakfast the following morning, she was placed on the drip once again, only for the drip to be removed that same evening, for the same reason as the night before.
This ‘on-off’ induction process continued for a further four days, yet my wife showed no signs of going into a full-blown labour. She did, however, become increasingly fatigued and emotional. By that time, I was beginning to get worried, and I expressed my concern to the ward sister, who assured me all was well. Nevertheless, something kept telling me all was not as well as it should have been. The following morning, at last, the consultant gynaecologist resolved that, if my wife hadn’t entered the latter stages of labour by tea-time on Wednesday June 18, her waters would be broken. I remained with her until the last moment on that Wednesday afternoon, and then made my way to my parents’ council flat opposite Beckenham Place Park. There, Mum served-up a delicious evening meal, after which, the three of us – Mum, Dad and I – calmly discussed the events of the previous few days.
The telephone rang shortly after 6 o’clock, and I sprang to answer it. “Is that Mr David Lowe?” asked the disembodied female voice. “Yes,” I replied expectantly. “Ah ... Mr Lowe, this is the ward sister at Stonepark Maternity Hospital speaking. I’m calling to ask your permission for an emergency Caesarean to be performed on your wife”. A curious numbness raced through my body, and all I could hear echoing through my head was one word: “emergency”.
“What do you expect me to say?” I blurted-out. “Yes, of course you have my permission. But what on earth is going-on? Is everything all right?” Mum clasped her hand to her mouth. She could see from my reaction, that things had gone terribly wrong. Dad reached out and placed his arm around Mum’s shoulder, while the hospital sister replied to my questions. “Yes Mr Lowe, everything’s okay ... at the moment,” she said.
Poor Dad: I’d never known him to be lost for words, but when I repeated what I had just been told, he sank into his armchair dumbfounded, and stared out of the window in disbelief. Mum was close to tears, but she sat me down in another armchair, and then scurried-off to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea.
Half an hour later, I was becoming restless. “It’s no good I’ve got to get to that hospital. I can’t sit around any more waiting for another telephone call.” Both Mum and Dad understood, but Mum in particular gave voice to overriding her concerns. “Oh, David,” she pleaded. “Do be careful on that motor-cycle of yours. Please take your time and make sure you don’t do anything silly.”
A few moments later, I was still re-assuring Mum and Dad that I would be okay, as I kick-started my BSA 350 motor bike. It roared into life and, with a wave, I began the two mile journey to Stonepark Hospital. All the way into Beckenham, being the Sunday school teacher I was at that time, I prayed out loud. “Please God, let them be safe. Please don’t take them from me. Please let them be safe.”
Turning left out of Beckenham High Street, I accelerated up Village Way towards the hilltop junction that would, in turn, take me to the hospital entrance. Still praying out loud, all of a sudden, I sensed in my mind’s ear, something – or someone – telling me to look at my wrist-watch. Releasing my grip on the handlebar, I raised my left arm, and noted it was exactly 6.45 pm. Then, out of the blue, as I placed my hand back on the handle-bar, I was completely engulfed in the most profound sense of peace I had ever experienced. It was as if I had been gently immersed in a warm bath. All the anxiety and anguish I’d been experiencing up to that moment drained from the top of my head and out through the soles of my feet in an instant.
A fraction of a second later, I sensed a strange and powerful presence to my left, skimming along the roadway beside me. I couldn’t see or hear anything, and there was no semblance of touch, but the words I heard in my mind’s ear were unmistakable. “Be at peace, my child, all is well. You have a beautiful baby daughter. All is well,” said the still small voice. Whoever he was remains a mystery to me to this day. But he was definitely a “he” and he was definitely there beside me. Moreover, he brought with him such love; such reassurance; such peace. I just knew my prayers had been answered.
Sitting quietly in the hospital’s reception area, I was eventually spotted by a nurse, who walked towards me with an enquiring look on her face. “Are you Mr Lowe by any chance?” she asked. I smiled and nodded. “Oh good, I’ve been wondering if you were somewhere close by. Your wife is recovering from the general anesthetic at the moment. You’ll be able to see her in half an hour or so, but would you like to see your baby in the meantime?” “Yes please,” I replied.
“Okay, sit there for a while longer, and I’ll get someone to take you up to the nursery.” The nurse smiled, and turned away. However, she’d only moved a step or two, when she stopped abruptly, spun on her heels, and said, “By the way, Mr Lowe, don’t you want to know what model you’ve got?” I laughed. “Model? Oh, I think I know already, nurse, but do tell me anyway.”
At first she looked puzzled by my response, but soon put her bewilderment aside. “Why, you have a beautiful baby daughter Mr Lowe,” she announced with a chuckle. “She’s a big one, and she’s got a big cry too. In fact, it’s a wonder you can’t hear her from here!” We laughed together. Then, as the nurse was about to walk away again, I remembered something important. Catching hold of her left elbow as she turned, I asked her if she knew what time the baby had been born.
Her reply proved, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that my experience on the way to the hospital had been very special indeed. “Well, Mr Lowe, it just so happens I was assisting in the theatre when your little girl gave her first cry. I remember looking-up at the wall clock. It was exactly a quarter to seven.”
At that time, I put my belief in the outcome down to a kind of pipe dream that had its origins in my love of a song from the score of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s stage and film-musical Carousel. The song in question – sung beautifully by Gordon MacRae in the film-musical – is entitled Soliloquy, and it reflects on the subject of parenthood from the father’s perspective, especially in relation to the arrival of a baby girl.
By April 1969, it was becoming apparent that the baby was big ... very big! In fact, at one point, it was thought my wife was carrying twins. Later, however, we were told it was definitely just one infant, but there were complications. The baby was a breech presentation – bottom first – and it was at this point that the possibility of a Caesarean delivery was mooted.
My wife was admitted to Stonepark Maternity Hospital in Beckenham, Kent five days after the baby was due. Up to that moment in time, she'd shown no signs of going into labour, so she was given a further twenty-four hours to settle-in. She was then placed on an induction drip, and within a couple of hours she was experiencing mild contractions. Those contractions continued throughout the first day. At 7 pm that evening, the drip was removed to allow my wife to have a good night’s rest. Then, soon after breakfast the following morning, she was placed on the drip once again, only for the drip to be removed that same evening, for the same reason as the night before.
This ‘on-off’ induction process continued for a further four days, yet my wife showed no signs of going into a full-blown labour. She did, however, become increasingly fatigued and emotional. By that time, I was beginning to get worried, and I expressed my concern to the ward sister, who assured me all was well. Nevertheless, something kept telling me all was not as well as it should have been. The following morning, at last, the consultant gynaecologist resolved that, if my wife hadn’t entered the latter stages of labour by tea-time on Wednesday June 18, her waters would be broken. I remained with her until the last moment on that Wednesday afternoon, and then made my way to my parents’ council flat opposite Beckenham Place Park. There, Mum served-up a delicious evening meal, after which, the three of us – Mum, Dad and I – calmly discussed the events of the previous few days.
The telephone rang shortly after 6 o’clock, and I sprang to answer it. “Is that Mr David Lowe?” asked the disembodied female voice. “Yes,” I replied expectantly. “Ah ... Mr Lowe, this is the ward sister at Stonepark Maternity Hospital speaking. I’m calling to ask your permission for an emergency Caesarean to be performed on your wife”. A curious numbness raced through my body, and all I could hear echoing through my head was one word: “emergency”.
“What do you expect me to say?” I blurted-out. “Yes, of course you have my permission. But what on earth is going-on? Is everything all right?” Mum clasped her hand to her mouth. She could see from my reaction, that things had gone terribly wrong. Dad reached out and placed his arm around Mum’s shoulder, while the hospital sister replied to my questions. “Yes Mr Lowe, everything’s okay ... at the moment,” she said.
Poor Dad: I’d never known him to be lost for words, but when I repeated what I had just been told, he sank into his armchair dumbfounded, and stared out of the window in disbelief. Mum was close to tears, but she sat me down in another armchair, and then scurried-off to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea.
Half an hour later, I was becoming restless. “It’s no good I’ve got to get to that hospital. I can’t sit around any more waiting for another telephone call.” Both Mum and Dad understood, but Mum in particular gave voice to overriding her concerns. “Oh, David,” she pleaded. “Do be careful on that motor-cycle of yours. Please take your time and make sure you don’t do anything silly.”
A few moments later, I was still re-assuring Mum and Dad that I would be okay, as I kick-started my BSA 350 motor bike. It roared into life and, with a wave, I began the two mile journey to Stonepark Hospital. All the way into Beckenham, being the Sunday school teacher I was at that time, I prayed out loud. “Please God, let them be safe. Please don’t take them from me. Please let them be safe.”
Turning left out of Beckenham High Street, I accelerated up Village Way towards the hilltop junction that would, in turn, take me to the hospital entrance. Still praying out loud, all of a sudden, I sensed in my mind’s ear, something – or someone – telling me to look at my wrist-watch. Releasing my grip on the handlebar, I raised my left arm, and noted it was exactly 6.45 pm. Then, out of the blue, as I placed my hand back on the handle-bar, I was completely engulfed in the most profound sense of peace I had ever experienced. It was as if I had been gently immersed in a warm bath. All the anxiety and anguish I’d been experiencing up to that moment drained from the top of my head and out through the soles of my feet in an instant.
A fraction of a second later, I sensed a strange and powerful presence to my left, skimming along the roadway beside me. I couldn’t see or hear anything, and there was no semblance of touch, but the words I heard in my mind’s ear were unmistakable. “Be at peace, my child, all is well. You have a beautiful baby daughter. All is well,” said the still small voice. Whoever he was remains a mystery to me to this day. But he was definitely a “he” and he was definitely there beside me. Moreover, he brought with him such love; such reassurance; such peace. I just knew my prayers had been answered.
Sitting quietly in the hospital’s reception area, I was eventually spotted by a nurse, who walked towards me with an enquiring look on her face. “Are you Mr Lowe by any chance?” she asked. I smiled and nodded. “Oh good, I’ve been wondering if you were somewhere close by. Your wife is recovering from the general anesthetic at the moment. You’ll be able to see her in half an hour or so, but would you like to see your baby in the meantime?” “Yes please,” I replied.
“Okay, sit there for a while longer, and I’ll get someone to take you up to the nursery.” The nurse smiled, and turned away. However, she’d only moved a step or two, when she stopped abruptly, spun on her heels, and said, “By the way, Mr Lowe, don’t you want to know what model you’ve got?” I laughed. “Model? Oh, I think I know already, nurse, but do tell me anyway.”
At first she looked puzzled by my response, but soon put her bewilderment aside. “Why, you have a beautiful baby daughter Mr Lowe,” she announced with a chuckle. “She’s a big one, and she’s got a big cry too. In fact, it’s a wonder you can’t hear her from here!” We laughed together. Then, as the nurse was about to walk away again, I remembered something important. Catching hold of her left elbow as she turned, I asked her if she knew what time the baby had been born.
Her reply proved, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that my experience on the way to the hospital had been very special indeed. “Well, Mr Lowe, it just so happens I was assisting in the theatre when your little girl gave her first cry. I remember looking-up at the wall clock. It was exactly a quarter to seven.”
A SIGN OF THE TIMES?
THOSE of us of a certain age will recall the American vocal group the Fifth Dimension and their 1969 chart-topping hit “Aquarius ~ Let the Sun Shine In”. At the height of the Flower Power Era, the words of that song seemed to promise a new age of enlightenment for all mankind.
Sadly, it didn't quite happen at that time but, according to a growing number of astrologers and other people in the know we’re now on the threshold of another opportunity to change things for the better, once and for all.
Back in 1969, I was a Sunday school teacher and, in all honesty, I didn’t have a clue what the Fifth Dimension were on about when they sang… “when the Moon is in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars”. And, as for the title, what on earth was the Age of Aquarius anyway?
Upwards of fifty years later, my Sunday school teaching days have long since passed into history, and I’ve moved-on from the Anglican Church. However, from the moment I walked away from the Church of England in 1979, my life’s path has continued to keep me immersed in matters spiritual and mystical. In fact, along the way, I’ve experienced some remarkable events: several of which I've written about and, indeed, some of the resulting articles are included on this website.
In the meantime, I'd like to explain the image shown at the bottom of this article, because it forms a tiny part of the spiritual-mystical journey alluded to above. For starters, I'm not sure whether this is a familiar sight elsewhere in the world but, here in England, a solitary abstract fish symbol (see the Ichthys image at the top of this article) can be seen attached to many private motor vehicles. The symbol itself represents the Age of Pisces and is sometimes referred to as Jesus Fish. In fact, Jesus' birth marked the beginning of the Age of Pisces and that Age is destined to last approximately 2000 years. It is fairly safe to assume, therefore, that most – if not all – of the drivers who display the fish symbol on their motor vehicles here in the UK are committed Christians.
Okay, with all that explained, here’s how the image below came about. One day in 1999 I was caught in a traffic jam behind a motor car that had one of those fish symbols stuck to its boot (trunk) lid. As I studied the symbol, I suddenly realized that its abstract nature could also represent a similarly abstract image of an amphora: a large clay vessel used in ancient Greece and Rome to carry water, oil or wine.
My very next thought was: given that the Age of Pisces (the fish) is about to give way to the Age of Aquarius (the water carrier), that very same transformational passage of time could be represented – with the addition of a hint of liquid – by five of those fish symbols placed in an arc. A few days later, whilst sitting at my personal computer, I created the image I’d seen in my mind’s eye and it lay on my private files until last year.
In the light of recent events the Occupy Wall Street and Occupy London Stock Exchange movements, not to mention the on-going Arab Spring, 2011 seemed an appropriate moment to share that mind’s-eye image I created more than a decade ago. Why? Because I have been reading an increasing number of articles by prominent astrologers and others who see these major people-driven events as the first stirrings of the global challenge to the old order that will, in turn, mark the end of the Age of Pisces (the fish) and herald the arrival of the Age of Aquarius (the water carrier).
To quote another line from that Fifth Dimension song… “this is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius”. I sincerely hope so.
Sadly, it didn't quite happen at that time but, according to a growing number of astrologers and other people in the know we’re now on the threshold of another opportunity to change things for the better, once and for all.
Back in 1969, I was a Sunday school teacher and, in all honesty, I didn’t have a clue what the Fifth Dimension were on about when they sang… “when the Moon is in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars”. And, as for the title, what on earth was the Age of Aquarius anyway?
Upwards of fifty years later, my Sunday school teaching days have long since passed into history, and I’ve moved-on from the Anglican Church. However, from the moment I walked away from the Church of England in 1979, my life’s path has continued to keep me immersed in matters spiritual and mystical. In fact, along the way, I’ve experienced some remarkable events: several of which I've written about and, indeed, some of the resulting articles are included on this website.
In the meantime, I'd like to explain the image shown at the bottom of this article, because it forms a tiny part of the spiritual-mystical journey alluded to above. For starters, I'm not sure whether this is a familiar sight elsewhere in the world but, here in England, a solitary abstract fish symbol (see the Ichthys image at the top of this article) can be seen attached to many private motor vehicles. The symbol itself represents the Age of Pisces and is sometimes referred to as Jesus Fish. In fact, Jesus' birth marked the beginning of the Age of Pisces and that Age is destined to last approximately 2000 years. It is fairly safe to assume, therefore, that most – if not all – of the drivers who display the fish symbol on their motor vehicles here in the UK are committed Christians.
Okay, with all that explained, here’s how the image below came about. One day in 1999 I was caught in a traffic jam behind a motor car that had one of those fish symbols stuck to its boot (trunk) lid. As I studied the symbol, I suddenly realized that its abstract nature could also represent a similarly abstract image of an amphora: a large clay vessel used in ancient Greece and Rome to carry water, oil or wine.
My very next thought was: given that the Age of Pisces (the fish) is about to give way to the Age of Aquarius (the water carrier), that very same transformational passage of time could be represented – with the addition of a hint of liquid – by five of those fish symbols placed in an arc. A few days later, whilst sitting at my personal computer, I created the image I’d seen in my mind’s eye and it lay on my private files until last year.
In the light of recent events the Occupy Wall Street and Occupy London Stock Exchange movements, not to mention the on-going Arab Spring, 2011 seemed an appropriate moment to share that mind’s-eye image I created more than a decade ago. Why? Because I have been reading an increasing number of articles by prominent astrologers and others who see these major people-driven events as the first stirrings of the global challenge to the old order that will, in turn, mark the end of the Age of Pisces (the fish) and herald the arrival of the Age of Aquarius (the water carrier).
To quote another line from that Fifth Dimension song… “this is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius”. I sincerely hope so.
HONEYMOON IN HOLLYWOOD
SOON after my fifty-ninth birthday on October 7, 2005 my partner Jenny made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. “This time next year, I want to take you away on a special sixtieth birthday holiday, and I want you to choose where we go” she said.
In all honesty, it wasn’t a difficult choice. I’d always wanted to visit the USA. So, with Jenny’s enthusiastic approval, I sat at my PC and called-up the invaluable Trip Advisor website, while Jenny thumbed through several travel brochures. Within a couple of hours, we’d narrowed our preferences down to Los Angeles, California and one Virgin Atlantic package in particular … at the stylish Renaissance Hollywood hotel.
The following afternoon, Jenny and I booked fourteen nights at the Renaissance Hollywood and then added a hire car, just for good measure. After returning home, we scoured the Trip Advisor website again and, that same evening, booked an eve-of-flight room plus a fortnight’s car parking at the Crowne Plaza Hotel, Heathrow.
And it didn’t stop there. A few weeks later, Jenny and I were checking through our holiday documentation for the umpteenth time, when we suddenly found ourselves discussing the possibility of getting married while we were in the USA. I vaguely remember saying something like “yeah, let’s go for it. After all, we’ve been together for twenty-six years now, so I guess that’s long enough for any couple to have been testing the water.”
The next morning, I telephoned Katy Strong, a wedding co-ordinator at Virgin Atlantic, who advised we could add a three night stay in Las Vegas to our existing holiday package. Katy also confirmed that, on Saturday October 7 (my sixtieth birthday) we could marry at the Little Chapel of the Flowers on Las Vegas Boulevard. All we needed to do was to decide on the hotel in which to stay. After yet more deliberation, Jenny and I settled for the luxurious Venetian Hotel, a huge baroque complex, complete with canals and gondolas.
At last, everything was set, and we headed for Heathrow on Monday October 2. For a surprisingly small additional sum at the time of booking, we’d upgraded to a club room at the Crowne Plaza Hotel; a decision which got our holiday off to the perfect start. Indeed, the Crowne Plaza’s room, facilities, food and proximity to Heathrow Airport itself couldn’t have been bettered. We’ll certainly be staying there again, the next time we fly from Heathrow.
The security at Heathrow early the following morning was reassuringly vigilant but, despite this, our Virgin Atlantic Boeing 747 flight on Mustang Sally, still took-off on-time. The nine-hours-plus flight itself was a delight. The cabin crew were friendly and attentive throughout, and the on-board entertainment was comprehensive to say the least. The food was excellent too, and almost before we knew it, we were landing at Los Angeles airport some twenty minutes ahead of schedule.
Security at Los Angeles Airport Arrivals was noticeably slower, yet no less thorough, than at Heathrow. Eventually, with forms filled, passports stamped and entry documents verified, Jenny and I finally climbed into our pre-hired Royal Livery Service taxi … a huge air conditioned limo driven by Karo (my thanks to Torbay songstress Karen Taylor for her recommendation).
Within the hour, Karo pulled-in to the Renaissance Hollywood Hotel forecourt where our baggage was quickly unloaded and placed onto a trolley. Minutes later, Jenny and I were being shown into our enormous fifteenth floor room. In fact the room was so big it was furnished with a sofa, an armchair, a lounger chair and matching foot stool, a large coffee table, a desk plus office chair, a king sized bed with bedside cabinets and radio CD player, a dresser and TV unit, fridge, safe and a huge built-in wardrobe.
The room’s bathing, shower and toilet facilities were similarly spacious, yet despite the abundance of furniture, fixtures and fittings throughout, we still had plenty of space left-over in which to move around. The crowning glory, though, was the view from the room’s windows. Fifteen floors below us lay busy north Hollywood. Then as one’s gaze rose slowly into the green hills beyond, a familiar sight glinted back in the sunlight. There, little more than one mile distant, stood the world famous Hollywood sign. Perfect! We’d been allocated a simply wonderful room, with a view to remember for the rest of our lives.
The following morning, Jenny and I returned by taxi to LAX airport where we picked-up our hire car … a massive white Dodge Charger. A few minutes later, I ventured tentatively onto the busy California Freeway system for the very first time. However, it didn’t take me long to get a feel for the purposeful and very direct nature of driving in the USA.
Everyone seems to know where they’re going on Californian roads, but they’re gonna do it their way, and usually at speed. I wouldn’t recommend the experience to dawdlers or nervous drivers, but for those of us who enjoy a behind-the-wheel challenge, it’s a valuable opportunity to test overall driving skills and powers of concentration in equal measure.
The rest of that day Jenny and I spent wandering around Hollywood on foot. Luckily our hotel was just a stone’s throw from some of tinsel town’s most famous attractions, including Mann’s Chinese Theatre, on the forecourt of which, many great film and theatrical stars have left their hand and shoe prints immortalised in cement. In addition, the nearby Walk of Fame had just about every stage, screen, pop and TV star’s name you can ever think of embedded into the sidewalk paving slabs.
Little more than one hundred yards west along the Walk of Fame from the Chinese Theatre stands the Roosevelt Hotel where the first Oscars ceremony was held on May 16, 1929. In contrast, today’s Oscars ceremonies are held at the Kodak Theatre located in the spectacular Highland Complex which, in turn, houses the Renaissance Hollywood Hotel. Fittingly, our first full day in the USA ended with a superb meal in our hotel’s stylish Twist Restaurant.
After breakfast the following morning, Jenny and I collected together our wedding outfits and pre-packed weekend suitcase, climbed into our air-conditioned Dodge Charger and headed – we thought – for Las Vegas. Instead, upwards of an hour later we realised we were travelling west along the Ventura Freeway towards Santa Barbara, when in fact we should have been travelling east, in the general direction of San Bernardino.
A quick about turn, though, soon saw us passing close to the song-title towns of Pasadena and Glendora, with the scenic San Gabriel Mountains to our left. A little later, we spotted a gap in the mountainous terrain laying some miles ahead of us, which we knew from our road map would mark the point at which we would join the Interstate 15. From there, it would be plain sailing all the way to Vegas.
And so it proved to be. Along the way, though, Jenny and I enjoyed some of the most breathtaking and occasionally inhospitable scenery either of us had ever seen. As if to lend weight to the spectacular views from our car, evocative western movie place names adorned many of the roadside signposts, among them Shadow Valley, Indian Creek, Death Valley, Devil’s Playground and Mountain Pass. This was, in every sense of the phrase, a road journey to savour. Now I know why they call it the Big Country.
Incongruously sprouting out of the middle of an otherwise barren landscape, Las Vegas itself eventually came into view. The first impression is of a gleaming, glittering, multi-coloured hotchpotch of gigantic hotels, nestling alongside fairy-tale castles and detailed replicas of some of the world’s most iconic structures, including the Eiffel Tower, the Great Pyramid, New York’s Empire State Building and the bell tower overlooking the Piazza San Marco in Venice.
In fact it was that very bell tower that gave us a rough bearing on the Venetian Hotel from the busy freeway and, more by luck than judgement, we found our way to the hotel’s enormous forecourt in a matter of minutes.
As its name implies, the Venetian Hotel embodies the unique flavour, soaring architecture and art of the fabled Italian city thanks, in part, to a cathedral-like, domed entrance lobby, complete with fountain, plus a truly atmospheric indoor canal-side walk surrounded by a maze of shops and restaurants. The attention to Venetian detail is, in a word, stunning. In contrast, the Venetian’s ground floor casino is ultra modern, and easily the biggest single area of floor space I have ever seen. It’s noisy too … very noisy.
Compared to the bustle of the hotel’s lower levels, our suite on the twenty-seventh floor of The Venetian was peaceful and plush. Entering the suite, one passed the double doors to a huge marbled bathroom, shower and toilet area on the left. A few feet further on, the room opened-up to reveal a similarly spacious sleeping area, complete with built-in wardrobe, TV and dresser unit, and a king-sided bed with drapes at its head. Accessed by a couple of steps, a lower level beyond the sleeping area, served as a comfortable lounge, dining and office space. In fact, the suite at The Venetian proved to be even bigger than our room at the Renaissance Hollywood, yet every bit as welcoming.
Indeed, our Venetian suite was so cosy and quiet Jenny and I placed an overnight order for breakfast in the room for the following morning. The sun shone brightly onto the dining table as we tucked into our assortment of fruit juices, toast, pastries and scrambled eggs. It was Friday October 6, the day before our wedding, and we had final preparations to attend to, by way of a visit to the Little Chapel of the Flowers.
That objective achieved, Jenny and I spent the rest of the day sight-seeing on foot. Along the way, we witnessed a curious mix of the old alongside the new. Several of Las Vegas’s world famous casino and hotel signs such as Stardust; the Frontier and the Sahara are now dwarfed by more modern structures; including the dizzying 1,149 foot Stratosphere Tower with its restaurants, viewing galleries and hair-raising theme park rides perched on top.
Being a little more conservative in tastes, Jenny and I opted for an eve-of-wedding dinner at Lutece, one of a number of top-flight restaurants within the Venetian Hotel complex. Very enjoyable it was too, and very reasonably priced.
Our wedding day dawned sunny and warm and at 10.55 am, by prior arrangement, Jenny and I made our way to the Venetian Hotel forecourt to await our stretched-limo. Dennis, our driver for the morning, pulled-up on time, leapt-out of his door and ushered us both into the gleaming white vehicle in a matter of seconds. Less than five minutes later we were gliding into the Little Chapel of the Flowers car park.
On entering the chapel, Jenny and I were introduced to the minister, the Rev Jerry Stevens, who congratulated us on our twenty-six years together. Jerry then asked us if we would prefer the more formal religious ceremony, or the simple ceremony. We chose the latter, and Jerry then explained the order of service to us.
Moments later, Jenny and I stood hand in hand at the far end of the chapel listening to Jerry’s calming and often amusing preamble. Then came the exchanging of rings, followed by a prayer, and finally the time honoured tradition of the groom being invited to kiss the bride. It was all very relaxed and uncomplicated, and it was all over in a matter of a few minutes. Nevertheless, it was exactly what Jenny and I had wanted … a simple, quiet, yet meaningful and, above all, unforgettable wedding.
Within the hour, Dennis had ferried us back to the Venetian Hotel, where we discarded our wedding outfits for T-shirts and shorts, and picked-up the sightseeing where we had left-off the day before. That evening, we returned to the Lutece Restaurant where general manager Vince Adams found us a romantic table for two on the terrace overlooking the Venetian’s network of outdoor canals. Once again, the food was outstanding and very reasonably priced. Forgive the cliche, but it genuinely was the perfect end to a perfect day.
Interstate 15 beckoned after breakfast the following morning, and several hours later we were caught-up once again in the curiously welcoming rush and hurry of Los Angeles. Now our honeymoon could begin in earnest.
Over the next eight days, Jenny and I took-in as much of Southern California as our hire car and feet would allow. Along the way, we encountered only one minor problem. Our Dodge Charger sprang an ominous leak under its engine block on the Monday, so we returned it to the car hire company, who promptly exchanged it for an even bigger and more luxurious champagne coloured Chrysler 300. What a car!
Despite losing more than half that day, Jenny and I still managed to cram-in a visit to the world’s most exclusive shopping street ~ Rodeo Drive ~ plus the Beverley Wilshire Hotel, the exterior of which was used in the film Pretty Woman. Then, before returning to our own hotel, we took a leisurely drive around Beverley Hills, and marvelled at some of the fabulous properties.
The City of San Diego lies some eighty miles south of central Los Angeles. That was our chosen destination the following day and, after an enjoyable drive down Interstate 5, we were struck by the cleanliness of California’s second largest city. Before leaving San Diego city limits, Jenny and I found ourselves in the delightful little town of La Jolla. Typically American, right down to the white picket fencing around some of the gardens, La Jolla is home to one of the prettiest stretches of coastline in the whole of California.
Over a light lunch in La Jolla, Jenny and I discussed the possibility of heading for Long Beach, where the Queen Mary is berthed. By the time we arrived in Long Beach dusk was settling fast. Upwards of an hour of missed turns and non-existent road signing then conspired to prevent us from ever seeing the old ocean liner. However, just as I was about to give-up and head for Hollywood, Jenny spotted the very first sign we’d seen containing those magic words Queen Mary.
Five minutes later, with car safely parked we strolled towards the familiar ocean going outline topped by three huge red and black funnels. Dressed in T-shirts and summer shorts, we didn’t think for one moment we’d be allowed on-board. However, a brief conversation with a security officer at the end of the ship’s gangway proved otherwise. “Of course you can go on-board. The bars and restaurants are all open to non-residents” he said.
Of all the wonderful moments Jenny and I have to treasure from our honeymoon, the dinner we enjoyed on the Queen Mary that evening takes some beating for sheer romantic setting.
Nevertheless, there were numerous other memorable experiences over the six days that remained. Some of the other expeditions and excursions that still evoke fond memories of our honeymoon in Hollywood include visits to Santa Barbara and the San Fernando Valley, plus the fascinating Universal Studios, Santa Monica, Beverley Hills (again), and the world famous Venice Beach which Jenny likened to a Totnes on sea.
And yes, we even caught glimpses of a number of stars, including Robin Williams; rock ‘n’ roll legend Jerry Lee Lewis and Erik Estrada from the Seventies TV series ChiPs … remember him?
All in all, it was a hugely enjoyable fortnight, full of the often exotic sights, sounds and tastes of California and Nevada, and it all passed much too quickly. The holiday of a lifetime? I’d say so!
In all honesty, it wasn’t a difficult choice. I’d always wanted to visit the USA. So, with Jenny’s enthusiastic approval, I sat at my PC and called-up the invaluable Trip Advisor website, while Jenny thumbed through several travel brochures. Within a couple of hours, we’d narrowed our preferences down to Los Angeles, California and one Virgin Atlantic package in particular … at the stylish Renaissance Hollywood hotel.
The following afternoon, Jenny and I booked fourteen nights at the Renaissance Hollywood and then added a hire car, just for good measure. After returning home, we scoured the Trip Advisor website again and, that same evening, booked an eve-of-flight room plus a fortnight’s car parking at the Crowne Plaza Hotel, Heathrow.
And it didn’t stop there. A few weeks later, Jenny and I were checking through our holiday documentation for the umpteenth time, when we suddenly found ourselves discussing the possibility of getting married while we were in the USA. I vaguely remember saying something like “yeah, let’s go for it. After all, we’ve been together for twenty-six years now, so I guess that’s long enough for any couple to have been testing the water.”
The next morning, I telephoned Katy Strong, a wedding co-ordinator at Virgin Atlantic, who advised we could add a three night stay in Las Vegas to our existing holiday package. Katy also confirmed that, on Saturday October 7 (my sixtieth birthday) we could marry at the Little Chapel of the Flowers on Las Vegas Boulevard. All we needed to do was to decide on the hotel in which to stay. After yet more deliberation, Jenny and I settled for the luxurious Venetian Hotel, a huge baroque complex, complete with canals and gondolas.
At last, everything was set, and we headed for Heathrow on Monday October 2. For a surprisingly small additional sum at the time of booking, we’d upgraded to a club room at the Crowne Plaza Hotel; a decision which got our holiday off to the perfect start. Indeed, the Crowne Plaza’s room, facilities, food and proximity to Heathrow Airport itself couldn’t have been bettered. We’ll certainly be staying there again, the next time we fly from Heathrow.
The security at Heathrow early the following morning was reassuringly vigilant but, despite this, our Virgin Atlantic Boeing 747 flight on Mustang Sally, still took-off on-time. The nine-hours-plus flight itself was a delight. The cabin crew were friendly and attentive throughout, and the on-board entertainment was comprehensive to say the least. The food was excellent too, and almost before we knew it, we were landing at Los Angeles airport some twenty minutes ahead of schedule.
Security at Los Angeles Airport Arrivals was noticeably slower, yet no less thorough, than at Heathrow. Eventually, with forms filled, passports stamped and entry documents verified, Jenny and I finally climbed into our pre-hired Royal Livery Service taxi … a huge air conditioned limo driven by Karo (my thanks to Torbay songstress Karen Taylor for her recommendation).
Within the hour, Karo pulled-in to the Renaissance Hollywood Hotel forecourt where our baggage was quickly unloaded and placed onto a trolley. Minutes later, Jenny and I were being shown into our enormous fifteenth floor room. In fact the room was so big it was furnished with a sofa, an armchair, a lounger chair and matching foot stool, a large coffee table, a desk plus office chair, a king sized bed with bedside cabinets and radio CD player, a dresser and TV unit, fridge, safe and a huge built-in wardrobe.
The room’s bathing, shower and toilet facilities were similarly spacious, yet despite the abundance of furniture, fixtures and fittings throughout, we still had plenty of space left-over in which to move around. The crowning glory, though, was the view from the room’s windows. Fifteen floors below us lay busy north Hollywood. Then as one’s gaze rose slowly into the green hills beyond, a familiar sight glinted back in the sunlight. There, little more than one mile distant, stood the world famous Hollywood sign. Perfect! We’d been allocated a simply wonderful room, with a view to remember for the rest of our lives.
The following morning, Jenny and I returned by taxi to LAX airport where we picked-up our hire car … a massive white Dodge Charger. A few minutes later, I ventured tentatively onto the busy California Freeway system for the very first time. However, it didn’t take me long to get a feel for the purposeful and very direct nature of driving in the USA.
Everyone seems to know where they’re going on Californian roads, but they’re gonna do it their way, and usually at speed. I wouldn’t recommend the experience to dawdlers or nervous drivers, but for those of us who enjoy a behind-the-wheel challenge, it’s a valuable opportunity to test overall driving skills and powers of concentration in equal measure.
The rest of that day Jenny and I spent wandering around Hollywood on foot. Luckily our hotel was just a stone’s throw from some of tinsel town’s most famous attractions, including Mann’s Chinese Theatre, on the forecourt of which, many great film and theatrical stars have left their hand and shoe prints immortalised in cement. In addition, the nearby Walk of Fame had just about every stage, screen, pop and TV star’s name you can ever think of embedded into the sidewalk paving slabs.
Little more than one hundred yards west along the Walk of Fame from the Chinese Theatre stands the Roosevelt Hotel where the first Oscars ceremony was held on May 16, 1929. In contrast, today’s Oscars ceremonies are held at the Kodak Theatre located in the spectacular Highland Complex which, in turn, houses the Renaissance Hollywood Hotel. Fittingly, our first full day in the USA ended with a superb meal in our hotel’s stylish Twist Restaurant.
After breakfast the following morning, Jenny and I collected together our wedding outfits and pre-packed weekend suitcase, climbed into our air-conditioned Dodge Charger and headed – we thought – for Las Vegas. Instead, upwards of an hour later we realised we were travelling west along the Ventura Freeway towards Santa Barbara, when in fact we should have been travelling east, in the general direction of San Bernardino.
A quick about turn, though, soon saw us passing close to the song-title towns of Pasadena and Glendora, with the scenic San Gabriel Mountains to our left. A little later, we spotted a gap in the mountainous terrain laying some miles ahead of us, which we knew from our road map would mark the point at which we would join the Interstate 15. From there, it would be plain sailing all the way to Vegas.
And so it proved to be. Along the way, though, Jenny and I enjoyed some of the most breathtaking and occasionally inhospitable scenery either of us had ever seen. As if to lend weight to the spectacular views from our car, evocative western movie place names adorned many of the roadside signposts, among them Shadow Valley, Indian Creek, Death Valley, Devil’s Playground and Mountain Pass. This was, in every sense of the phrase, a road journey to savour. Now I know why they call it the Big Country.
Incongruously sprouting out of the middle of an otherwise barren landscape, Las Vegas itself eventually came into view. The first impression is of a gleaming, glittering, multi-coloured hotchpotch of gigantic hotels, nestling alongside fairy-tale castles and detailed replicas of some of the world’s most iconic structures, including the Eiffel Tower, the Great Pyramid, New York’s Empire State Building and the bell tower overlooking the Piazza San Marco in Venice.
In fact it was that very bell tower that gave us a rough bearing on the Venetian Hotel from the busy freeway and, more by luck than judgement, we found our way to the hotel’s enormous forecourt in a matter of minutes.
As its name implies, the Venetian Hotel embodies the unique flavour, soaring architecture and art of the fabled Italian city thanks, in part, to a cathedral-like, domed entrance lobby, complete with fountain, plus a truly atmospheric indoor canal-side walk surrounded by a maze of shops and restaurants. The attention to Venetian detail is, in a word, stunning. In contrast, the Venetian’s ground floor casino is ultra modern, and easily the biggest single area of floor space I have ever seen. It’s noisy too … very noisy.
Compared to the bustle of the hotel’s lower levels, our suite on the twenty-seventh floor of The Venetian was peaceful and plush. Entering the suite, one passed the double doors to a huge marbled bathroom, shower and toilet area on the left. A few feet further on, the room opened-up to reveal a similarly spacious sleeping area, complete with built-in wardrobe, TV and dresser unit, and a king-sided bed with drapes at its head. Accessed by a couple of steps, a lower level beyond the sleeping area, served as a comfortable lounge, dining and office space. In fact, the suite at The Venetian proved to be even bigger than our room at the Renaissance Hollywood, yet every bit as welcoming.
Indeed, our Venetian suite was so cosy and quiet Jenny and I placed an overnight order for breakfast in the room for the following morning. The sun shone brightly onto the dining table as we tucked into our assortment of fruit juices, toast, pastries and scrambled eggs. It was Friday October 6, the day before our wedding, and we had final preparations to attend to, by way of a visit to the Little Chapel of the Flowers.
That objective achieved, Jenny and I spent the rest of the day sight-seeing on foot. Along the way, we witnessed a curious mix of the old alongside the new. Several of Las Vegas’s world famous casino and hotel signs such as Stardust; the Frontier and the Sahara are now dwarfed by more modern structures; including the dizzying 1,149 foot Stratosphere Tower with its restaurants, viewing galleries and hair-raising theme park rides perched on top.
Being a little more conservative in tastes, Jenny and I opted for an eve-of-wedding dinner at Lutece, one of a number of top-flight restaurants within the Venetian Hotel complex. Very enjoyable it was too, and very reasonably priced.
Our wedding day dawned sunny and warm and at 10.55 am, by prior arrangement, Jenny and I made our way to the Venetian Hotel forecourt to await our stretched-limo. Dennis, our driver for the morning, pulled-up on time, leapt-out of his door and ushered us both into the gleaming white vehicle in a matter of seconds. Less than five minutes later we were gliding into the Little Chapel of the Flowers car park.
On entering the chapel, Jenny and I were introduced to the minister, the Rev Jerry Stevens, who congratulated us on our twenty-six years together. Jerry then asked us if we would prefer the more formal religious ceremony, or the simple ceremony. We chose the latter, and Jerry then explained the order of service to us.
Moments later, Jenny and I stood hand in hand at the far end of the chapel listening to Jerry’s calming and often amusing preamble. Then came the exchanging of rings, followed by a prayer, and finally the time honoured tradition of the groom being invited to kiss the bride. It was all very relaxed and uncomplicated, and it was all over in a matter of a few minutes. Nevertheless, it was exactly what Jenny and I had wanted … a simple, quiet, yet meaningful and, above all, unforgettable wedding.
Within the hour, Dennis had ferried us back to the Venetian Hotel, where we discarded our wedding outfits for T-shirts and shorts, and picked-up the sightseeing where we had left-off the day before. That evening, we returned to the Lutece Restaurant where general manager Vince Adams found us a romantic table for two on the terrace overlooking the Venetian’s network of outdoor canals. Once again, the food was outstanding and very reasonably priced. Forgive the cliche, but it genuinely was the perfect end to a perfect day.
Interstate 15 beckoned after breakfast the following morning, and several hours later we were caught-up once again in the curiously welcoming rush and hurry of Los Angeles. Now our honeymoon could begin in earnest.
Over the next eight days, Jenny and I took-in as much of Southern California as our hire car and feet would allow. Along the way, we encountered only one minor problem. Our Dodge Charger sprang an ominous leak under its engine block on the Monday, so we returned it to the car hire company, who promptly exchanged it for an even bigger and more luxurious champagne coloured Chrysler 300. What a car!
Despite losing more than half that day, Jenny and I still managed to cram-in a visit to the world’s most exclusive shopping street ~ Rodeo Drive ~ plus the Beverley Wilshire Hotel, the exterior of which was used in the film Pretty Woman. Then, before returning to our own hotel, we took a leisurely drive around Beverley Hills, and marvelled at some of the fabulous properties.
The City of San Diego lies some eighty miles south of central Los Angeles. That was our chosen destination the following day and, after an enjoyable drive down Interstate 5, we were struck by the cleanliness of California’s second largest city. Before leaving San Diego city limits, Jenny and I found ourselves in the delightful little town of La Jolla. Typically American, right down to the white picket fencing around some of the gardens, La Jolla is home to one of the prettiest stretches of coastline in the whole of California.
Over a light lunch in La Jolla, Jenny and I discussed the possibility of heading for Long Beach, where the Queen Mary is berthed. By the time we arrived in Long Beach dusk was settling fast. Upwards of an hour of missed turns and non-existent road signing then conspired to prevent us from ever seeing the old ocean liner. However, just as I was about to give-up and head for Hollywood, Jenny spotted the very first sign we’d seen containing those magic words Queen Mary.
Five minutes later, with car safely parked we strolled towards the familiar ocean going outline topped by three huge red and black funnels. Dressed in T-shirts and summer shorts, we didn’t think for one moment we’d be allowed on-board. However, a brief conversation with a security officer at the end of the ship’s gangway proved otherwise. “Of course you can go on-board. The bars and restaurants are all open to non-residents” he said.
Of all the wonderful moments Jenny and I have to treasure from our honeymoon, the dinner we enjoyed on the Queen Mary that evening takes some beating for sheer romantic setting.
Nevertheless, there were numerous other memorable experiences over the six days that remained. Some of the other expeditions and excursions that still evoke fond memories of our honeymoon in Hollywood include visits to Santa Barbara and the San Fernando Valley, plus the fascinating Universal Studios, Santa Monica, Beverley Hills (again), and the world famous Venice Beach which Jenny likened to a Totnes on sea.
And yes, we even caught glimpses of a number of stars, including Robin Williams; rock ‘n’ roll legend Jerry Lee Lewis and Erik Estrada from the Seventies TV series ChiPs … remember him?
All in all, it was a hugely enjoyable fortnight, full of the often exotic sights, sounds and tastes of California and Nevada, and it all passed much too quickly. The holiday of a lifetime? I’d say so!
IF YOU CAN'T BEAT 'EM....
The following article was published in my "Pensioners Platform" column in the April-May 2013 edition of the Torbay Times circulating around south Devon, England. It's a plea to all UK pensioners to get computer savvy and then on-line.
ACCORDING to a recent report, many youngsters are spurning the age-old tradition of confiding in, and learning from, their grandparents. Instead, they’re turning to their personal computers, laptops and tablets and going on-line in search of answers to life’s more perplexing questions. The internet is, of course, a remarkable resource for facts, figures and general information, but it will never possess something that most grandparents have in abundance … the ability to impart genuine worldly wisdom.
Highs and Lows
Worldly wisdom comes from experiencing the sometimes stark reality of life’s highs and lows up close and personal. Indeed, in common with our own grandparents and their grandparents before them, the life lessons we seniors have learned from those experiences have tended to stay with us. And that’s where their value comes into its own. As was the case when we were young, our grandchildren, and today’s youngsters in general, have a thirst for knowledge and understanding that many of them can’t – or won’t – share with their parents. These issues are often very personal and private concerns that have their root in their relationships with their peers and the wider world.
In comparison, most of today’s pensioners have been there, done that and worn-out the T-shirts, and so they carry with them a reservoir of knowledge – worldly wisdom – that can be readily tapped by young people. Taking advantage of this reservoir can bring answers to deeply troubling questions that cannot properly be addressed on-line, and especially on social networks, where self-appointed counsellors peddle their misleading and, sometimes, downright dangerous opinions.
No I Can’t!
So what can we grandparents do to wrestle back the initiative when it comes to interacting with our grandchildren? Well, first and foremost, we could adopt the ancient maxim of “if you can’t beat ‘em, then join ‘em”. Let’s face it, today’s young ones are not going to give-up their cyber lifestyles, so we need to climb on-board too. How? Okay, unless you’ve already done so, why not treat yourself to a laptop, PC or tablet and then ask you grandson(s) and/or granddaughter(s) to show you the basics? Wait a moment, though: I think I can hear some of you shouting at me already! “I’m much too old learn how to work a computer” … “I’m useless at new technology” … “Sit me at a personal computer, laptop or tablet, and I’m bound to break it” … I hear you cry.
Yes You Can!
My answer to all those claims is “oh, no you’re not, and no you won’t!” Instead of putting-up barriers to your options, first ask yourself these questions. Do you use a TV and/or DVD player remote control? And do you remember how easy it was to get the hang of the remote control, and then expand your use of it through trial and error? If your answer to both questions is “yes” then I can assure you, you could learn the basics of how to work a personal computer, laptop or tablet very quickly indeed. From there, it’s just one small step and you’ll be on-line and interacting, not only with your grandchildren, but, even more importantly, with your fellow pensioners all over the UK and overseas.
Free Courses
Go on, give it a go! I promise you, your world will quickly open-up beyond your wildest dreams and you’ll be asking yourself why you didn’t invest in a personal computer much, much sooner. By the way, if you don’t have grandchildren or you rarely, if ever, see them, there are free personal computer courses for beginners at the libraries in Torquay (01803 208300), Paignton (01803 208321) and Brixham (01803 853870). Once you’re on-line and broadening your cyber horizons through trial and error, why not enrol on Facebook and join the PENSIONERS PLATFORM UK Facebook group page I launched last year? The group is growing slowly but steadily and there’s always a warm welcome for new members.
ACCORDING to a recent report, many youngsters are spurning the age-old tradition of confiding in, and learning from, their grandparents. Instead, they’re turning to their personal computers, laptops and tablets and going on-line in search of answers to life’s more perplexing questions. The internet is, of course, a remarkable resource for facts, figures and general information, but it will never possess something that most grandparents have in abundance … the ability to impart genuine worldly wisdom.
Highs and Lows
Worldly wisdom comes from experiencing the sometimes stark reality of life’s highs and lows up close and personal. Indeed, in common with our own grandparents and their grandparents before them, the life lessons we seniors have learned from those experiences have tended to stay with us. And that’s where their value comes into its own. As was the case when we were young, our grandchildren, and today’s youngsters in general, have a thirst for knowledge and understanding that many of them can’t – or won’t – share with their parents. These issues are often very personal and private concerns that have their root in their relationships with their peers and the wider world.
In comparison, most of today’s pensioners have been there, done that and worn-out the T-shirts, and so they carry with them a reservoir of knowledge – worldly wisdom – that can be readily tapped by young people. Taking advantage of this reservoir can bring answers to deeply troubling questions that cannot properly be addressed on-line, and especially on social networks, where self-appointed counsellors peddle their misleading and, sometimes, downright dangerous opinions.
No I Can’t!
So what can we grandparents do to wrestle back the initiative when it comes to interacting with our grandchildren? Well, first and foremost, we could adopt the ancient maxim of “if you can’t beat ‘em, then join ‘em”. Let’s face it, today’s young ones are not going to give-up their cyber lifestyles, so we need to climb on-board too. How? Okay, unless you’ve already done so, why not treat yourself to a laptop, PC or tablet and then ask you grandson(s) and/or granddaughter(s) to show you the basics? Wait a moment, though: I think I can hear some of you shouting at me already! “I’m much too old learn how to work a computer” … “I’m useless at new technology” … “Sit me at a personal computer, laptop or tablet, and I’m bound to break it” … I hear you cry.
Yes You Can!
My answer to all those claims is “oh, no you’re not, and no you won’t!” Instead of putting-up barriers to your options, first ask yourself these questions. Do you use a TV and/or DVD player remote control? And do you remember how easy it was to get the hang of the remote control, and then expand your use of it through trial and error? If your answer to both questions is “yes” then I can assure you, you could learn the basics of how to work a personal computer, laptop or tablet very quickly indeed. From there, it’s just one small step and you’ll be on-line and interacting, not only with your grandchildren, but, even more importantly, with your fellow pensioners all over the UK and overseas.
Free Courses
Go on, give it a go! I promise you, your world will quickly open-up beyond your wildest dreams and you’ll be asking yourself why you didn’t invest in a personal computer much, much sooner. By the way, if you don’t have grandchildren or you rarely, if ever, see them, there are free personal computer courses for beginners at the libraries in Torquay (01803 208300), Paignton (01803 208321) and Brixham (01803 853870). Once you’re on-line and broadening your cyber horizons through trial and error, why not enrol on Facebook and join the PENSIONERS PLATFORM UK Facebook group page I launched last year? The group is growing slowly but steadily and there’s always a warm welcome for new members.
ON THE ELGAR TRAIL
NO DOUBT moved by its uniqueness, the celebrated English composer Sir Edward Elgar succeeded in capturing, in his music, the natural beauty of his homeland, and the underlying pragmatism of its people. Rolling green hills and patchwork landscapes, quiet country lanes and wildly changeable weather: they are all there in Elgar’s scores, together with musical portraits of many of his friends and acquaintances. Indeed, one might even argue that Elgar’s works are the very essence of Englishness expressed in music.
Appropriately enough, Edward Elgar was born in a simple English countryside cottage at Broadheath near Worcester on June 2, 1857: the son of a music-seller and organist. That cottage is still intact, and now serves as a museum ... a lasting tribute to the life and works of the great composer. Crammed full of Elgar memorabilia, the cottage and its delightful garden are the ultimate destination on a well-signposted Elgar Trail, which also takes in the historic city of Worcester, and the composer’s beloved Malvern Hills ... the inspiration of several of his best loved works.
You will need at least a couple of days to explore the Elgar Trail, and if, like me, your journey takes the form of a musical pilgrimage, you simply must not miss the opportunity of stating as much in the museum’s visitor’s book. Once you have paid your respects to Elgar, if you have any spare time at your disposal, a visit to the ancient market town of Ludlow, with its impressive castle ruins, is well worth the extra miles on your speedometer. Widely regarded as “the perfect historic town”, Ludlow, to this day, retains most of its medieval street plan, which goes some way to explaining how Ludlow has come to accumulate upwards of 500 listed buildings within its boundaries.
One of the town’s most notable historical connections concerns the fact that here, in Ludlow castle, in April 1502, the recently married Arthur, Prince of Wales, the eldest son of King Henry VII, fell ill and died, thus leaving his younger brother Henry ... later to become Henry VIII ... heir to the throne.
Prince Arthur was interred in Worcester Cathedral - thus re-establishing our links with the Elgar Trail. Today the narrow walkway on the raised plinth circling Arthur’s tomb bears witness to the many thousands of people - royalty and commoners alike - who have shuffled around the sarcophagus over the past 500 years. In contrast, part of the crypt of Worcester cathedral has been renovated to provide a modern chapel for prayer and healing. Indeed, whilst sitting quietly for ten minutes in this oasis of utter silence, I gradually became conscious of the all-embracing peace of the place.
Twenty-six miles south west of Worcester, and still very much part of the Elgar Trail, stands the equally historic city of Hereford: the home town of (among others) the 17th century orange-seller-cum-comedienne Nell Gwyn, who also doubled as mistress to Charles II. It is not clear whether Ms Gwyn frequented Hereford cathedral, but if she did, she would probably have gazed upon one of the cathedral’s principal claims to fame ... the unique medieval Mappa Mundi ... an ancient map, and an intriguing insight into how 13th Century scholars viewed the world from both spiritual and geographical perspectives.
As for accommodation, the Elgar Trail and the surrounding area, offers-up numerous hotels and other smaller establishments. However, if you have ever dreamed of staying in a typically English stately pile, the Warner Holidays hotel at Holme Lacey near Hereford will be right up your street. This magnificently refurbished and tastefully extended former manor house stands in its own beautifully landscaped grounds. Sweeping lawns and tree-lined pathways lead to a lake, with peaceful views of hillside meadows beyond. Surely, here, we find yet more images of the England that Edward Elgar captured so lyrically in his music.
Appropriately enough, Edward Elgar was born in a simple English countryside cottage at Broadheath near Worcester on June 2, 1857: the son of a music-seller and organist. That cottage is still intact, and now serves as a museum ... a lasting tribute to the life and works of the great composer. Crammed full of Elgar memorabilia, the cottage and its delightful garden are the ultimate destination on a well-signposted Elgar Trail, which also takes in the historic city of Worcester, and the composer’s beloved Malvern Hills ... the inspiration of several of his best loved works.
You will need at least a couple of days to explore the Elgar Trail, and if, like me, your journey takes the form of a musical pilgrimage, you simply must not miss the opportunity of stating as much in the museum’s visitor’s book. Once you have paid your respects to Elgar, if you have any spare time at your disposal, a visit to the ancient market town of Ludlow, with its impressive castle ruins, is well worth the extra miles on your speedometer. Widely regarded as “the perfect historic town”, Ludlow, to this day, retains most of its medieval street plan, which goes some way to explaining how Ludlow has come to accumulate upwards of 500 listed buildings within its boundaries.
One of the town’s most notable historical connections concerns the fact that here, in Ludlow castle, in April 1502, the recently married Arthur, Prince of Wales, the eldest son of King Henry VII, fell ill and died, thus leaving his younger brother Henry ... later to become Henry VIII ... heir to the throne.
Prince Arthur was interred in Worcester Cathedral - thus re-establishing our links with the Elgar Trail. Today the narrow walkway on the raised plinth circling Arthur’s tomb bears witness to the many thousands of people - royalty and commoners alike - who have shuffled around the sarcophagus over the past 500 years. In contrast, part of the crypt of Worcester cathedral has been renovated to provide a modern chapel for prayer and healing. Indeed, whilst sitting quietly for ten minutes in this oasis of utter silence, I gradually became conscious of the all-embracing peace of the place.
Twenty-six miles south west of Worcester, and still very much part of the Elgar Trail, stands the equally historic city of Hereford: the home town of (among others) the 17th century orange-seller-cum-comedienne Nell Gwyn, who also doubled as mistress to Charles II. It is not clear whether Ms Gwyn frequented Hereford cathedral, but if she did, she would probably have gazed upon one of the cathedral’s principal claims to fame ... the unique medieval Mappa Mundi ... an ancient map, and an intriguing insight into how 13th Century scholars viewed the world from both spiritual and geographical perspectives.
As for accommodation, the Elgar Trail and the surrounding area, offers-up numerous hotels and other smaller establishments. However, if you have ever dreamed of staying in a typically English stately pile, the Warner Holidays hotel at Holme Lacey near Hereford will be right up your street. This magnificently refurbished and tastefully extended former manor house stands in its own beautifully landscaped grounds. Sweeping lawns and tree-lined pathways lead to a lake, with peaceful views of hillside meadows beyond. Surely, here, we find yet more images of the England that Edward Elgar captured so lyrically in his music.
HAMPSHIRE ~ ENGLAND'S JANE AUSTEN COUNTY
ANYONE reading newspapers, listening to the radio or watching television in recent years cannot fail to have noticed that the very existence of England has been the subject of considerable debate. Politicians and academics of a certain hue, not to mention journalists and commentators of a particular persuasion have all, at some point, asserted that England is essentially a figment of the imagination; that it has no true history or cultural heritage, and that the English people are confused about their national identity. In the face of such aspersions, the vast majority of English citizens have remained uncharacteristically diffident.
Perhaps, then, we should all get out more? After all, the England of old, in all its diversity, is still out there waiting to be rediscovered. And what better place to start any such exploration than the ancient city of Winchester, in the heart of Hampshire. Once the capital of Alfred’s Saxon kingdom of Wessex, Winchester is also renowned for its connections with the Arthurian legend, and in particular, Arthur’s famous Round Table.
The first known written account of Arthur’s life appeared in 1130, in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s tome History of the Kings of Britain. Within its pages, Geoffrey claims that Merlin arranged for the fifteen year old Arthur to be crowned at Silchester, some 25 miles north of Winchester. Geoffrey does not, however, make mention of the Round Table. That honour goes to Robert Wace who, in his 1155 work Roman de Brut, states that “Arthur seated his knights at a round table, so that all should be equal”.
Approximately two hundred years after Robert Wace’s words were published, a huge round table was constructed in the fashion of Arthur’s legendary innovation. Little is known about the table’s early function. Indeed, eight more English monarchs were to pass into history, before a certain Henry VIII came to the throne in 1509, and ordered that the table should be re-painted. Henry dictated that, in the table’s centre there should be a Tudor rose. Radiating from the rose, he settled for striking black and white shafts, to the perimeter, where the names of the knights were to be inscribed. That table now hangs in Winchester’s Great Hall, which was built on the site of the city’s original castle hall between 1222 and 1235.
Another place of historical interest in Winchester is St Cross Hospital, which incorporates England’s oldest almshouse. Founded in 1132 by William the Conqueror’s grandson Henri du Blois, St Cross Hospital famously served as a staging post for many Crusaders, who spent their last nights there, and prayed in the church, before sailing from nearby Southampton. Even before the Crusades, it was a favourite gathering place for pilgrims on their way to and from Canterbury. In more recent times, however, the tranquil setting of St Cross Hospital gave inspiration to the English poet John Keats, and later moved the English novelist Anthony Trollope to write The Warden, and the Barchester Chronicles.
But Hampshire’s connection with the English written word doesn’t end with Keats and Trollope. On the contrary, of all the literary figures to be associated with the county, none ranks higher than Jane Austen. Famed throughout the world for her novels Pride and Prejudice; Emma and Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen was born on December 16, 1775, some twelve miles north east of Winchester, in the village of Steventon.
The seventh of eight children, Jane was the daughter of the then Vicar of Steventon. In common with her fictional character Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice, the young Jane was a keen walker, and regularly strode the three miles to the village of Dummer (which was then known as Popham Lane) to collect the family mail from what is now known as the Wheatsheaf Inn.
During her twenty-five years at Steventon Rectory, Jane wrote three of her novels: Northanger Abbey; Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice. In fact, her father offered the latter to a publisher in 1797, but it was rejected without being read.
In 1801, Jane’s father decided to retire to the more urban surroundings of Bath. Jane was then twenty-five, and she and her sister Cassandra made the move with her parents. Bath, however, provided only a temporary home, as Jane’s father died in 1805, and in early 1807, Jane, her mother and sister moved to Southampton to live with brother Frank
It was during her time in Southampton that Jane rediscovered her wanderlust through riverboat excursions to the New Forest; the shipyards at Northam, and the Gothic ruins of Netley Abbey. She also enjoyed strolls along the banks of Southampton Water, or the rivers Itchen and Test ... no doubt gaining inspiration for her novels along the way.
Happily, much of what Jane observed on her wanderings remains every bit as accessible today. The only difference being: Jane’s writings and Hampshire’s place in history are now inextricably linked in England’s vibrant cultural heritage.
Perhaps, then, we should all get out more? After all, the England of old, in all its diversity, is still out there waiting to be rediscovered. And what better place to start any such exploration than the ancient city of Winchester, in the heart of Hampshire. Once the capital of Alfred’s Saxon kingdom of Wessex, Winchester is also renowned for its connections with the Arthurian legend, and in particular, Arthur’s famous Round Table.
The first known written account of Arthur’s life appeared in 1130, in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s tome History of the Kings of Britain. Within its pages, Geoffrey claims that Merlin arranged for the fifteen year old Arthur to be crowned at Silchester, some 25 miles north of Winchester. Geoffrey does not, however, make mention of the Round Table. That honour goes to Robert Wace who, in his 1155 work Roman de Brut, states that “Arthur seated his knights at a round table, so that all should be equal”.
Approximately two hundred years after Robert Wace’s words were published, a huge round table was constructed in the fashion of Arthur’s legendary innovation. Little is known about the table’s early function. Indeed, eight more English monarchs were to pass into history, before a certain Henry VIII came to the throne in 1509, and ordered that the table should be re-painted. Henry dictated that, in the table’s centre there should be a Tudor rose. Radiating from the rose, he settled for striking black and white shafts, to the perimeter, where the names of the knights were to be inscribed. That table now hangs in Winchester’s Great Hall, which was built on the site of the city’s original castle hall between 1222 and 1235.
Another place of historical interest in Winchester is St Cross Hospital, which incorporates England’s oldest almshouse. Founded in 1132 by William the Conqueror’s grandson Henri du Blois, St Cross Hospital famously served as a staging post for many Crusaders, who spent their last nights there, and prayed in the church, before sailing from nearby Southampton. Even before the Crusades, it was a favourite gathering place for pilgrims on their way to and from Canterbury. In more recent times, however, the tranquil setting of St Cross Hospital gave inspiration to the English poet John Keats, and later moved the English novelist Anthony Trollope to write The Warden, and the Barchester Chronicles.
But Hampshire’s connection with the English written word doesn’t end with Keats and Trollope. On the contrary, of all the literary figures to be associated with the county, none ranks higher than Jane Austen. Famed throughout the world for her novels Pride and Prejudice; Emma and Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen was born on December 16, 1775, some twelve miles north east of Winchester, in the village of Steventon.
The seventh of eight children, Jane was the daughter of the then Vicar of Steventon. In common with her fictional character Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice, the young Jane was a keen walker, and regularly strode the three miles to the village of Dummer (which was then known as Popham Lane) to collect the family mail from what is now known as the Wheatsheaf Inn.
During her twenty-five years at Steventon Rectory, Jane wrote three of her novels: Northanger Abbey; Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice. In fact, her father offered the latter to a publisher in 1797, but it was rejected without being read.
In 1801, Jane’s father decided to retire to the more urban surroundings of Bath. Jane was then twenty-five, and she and her sister Cassandra made the move with her parents. Bath, however, provided only a temporary home, as Jane’s father died in 1805, and in early 1807, Jane, her mother and sister moved to Southampton to live with brother Frank
It was during her time in Southampton that Jane rediscovered her wanderlust through riverboat excursions to the New Forest; the shipyards at Northam, and the Gothic ruins of Netley Abbey. She also enjoyed strolls along the banks of Southampton Water, or the rivers Itchen and Test ... no doubt gaining inspiration for her novels along the way.
Happily, much of what Jane observed on her wanderings remains every bit as accessible today. The only difference being: Jane’s writings and Hampshire’s place in history are now inextricably linked in England’s vibrant cultural heritage.
THOMAS HARDY ~ THE WESSEX WORDSMITH
IF ANY literary figure, past or present, can lay claim to the mantle of Wordsmith of Wessex, surely Thomas Hardy can. Distantly related to Vice Admiral Thomas Hardy who, at the Battle of Trafalgar, famously responded to Nelson’s dying request of “kiss me Hardy”, our celebrated namesake and man of words drew his first breath just nine months after the his naval forbear breathed his last.
Thomas Hardy was born on June 2, 1840 in Higher Bockhampton, Dorset, the son of a stonemason, and for many years, he seemed destined to follow in his father’s construction industry footsteps. Indeed, he trained as an architect, and worked in the field until 1871, when his novel Desperate Remedies caught the attention of the book reading public.
Hardy’s birthplace still stands today. The dwelling is now known as Hardy’s Cottage, and it's a short walk from the Higher Bockhampton car park. The cottage was built by Hardy’s great grandfather in 1801, and it was here Thomas Hardy wrote several of his most popular novels, including Under the Greenwood Tree and Far From the Madding Crowd.
Renowned for his depiction of the beautiful Dorset countryside, Hardy took great pleasure in creating fictional identities for well-known English towns. For example, Dorchester became the Casterbridge of The Mayor of Casterbridge fame, while Weymouth was renamed Budmouth Regis in both The Trumpet-Major and Under the Greenwood Tree. Even Hardy’s birthplace took-on a new identity. In Under the Greenwood Tree, Higher Bockhampton becomes Upper Mellstock.
Higher Bockhampton is well sign-posted on the A35 Bournemouth to Dorchester road, and it serves as an appropriate starting point for a tour of the countryside Thomas Hardy knew, and wrote of, so well. For instance, approximately eight miles to the east of Higher Bockhampton, on the junction of the A35 with the A31, stands Bere Regis ... renamed by Hardy as Kingsbere in Tess of the d’Urbervilles ... where Tess and her family set-up their four poster bed, outside the village church.
Taking the minor roads from Bere Regis, head south west to Moreton. There, in the village cemetery, you’ll find the grave of Thomas Hardy’s friend T.E. Lawrence, the legendary Lawrence of Arabia. If your road map is sufficiently detailed, search for the B3390, alongside which you should find a reference to Clouds Hill, where T.E. Lawrence lived before his untimely death.
In the same vicinity you’ll also find Gallows Hill which provides one of several stunning views of Hardy’s fictitious Egdon Heath, spoken of in his Wessex Novels. Clearly, this picturesque part of England possesses a charm that can lift the spirits of even the most determined cheerless soul. However, Dorset also has its darker side.
On July 6, 1685, a popular uprising against King James II, led by the Duke of Monmouth resulted in a crushing defeat of Monmouth and his army at the Battle of Sedgemoor: the last battle to be fought on English soil. Further retribution was sought by James II, when he appointed the First Baron Jeffreys of Wem, to try those who had risen against the monarchy. Judge Jeffreys held his notorious Bloody Assize in Dorchester later that same year. Since then Jeffreys has been known simply as The Hanging Judge.
Today, it's a popular hotel and restaurant, but Judge Jeffreys’ residence and courthouse still stands in Dorchester High Street; a stark reminder of the brutal repression that played such a significant role in England’s pre-industrial revolution past.
On a broadly similar note, this same area of Dorset saw the emergence and repression of the trade union movement. Located on the old A35 Dorchester to Bournemouth road, the village of Tolpuddle has earned its place in the history books. Nevertheless, it maintains our links with Thomas Hardy, because Tolpuddle was the birthplace of Hardy’s grandfather and great grandfather. As for the village’s main claim to fame, here in February 1834, six young farm workers were arrested and escorted to Dorchester. And, overnight, they became the Tolpuddle Martyrs.
Their crime was the formation of a trades union, in an attempt to escape from their grinding poverty. One of the defendants, George Loveless, spoke these words at their trial, “If we have violated any law, it was not done intentionally. We have injured no person or property. We were uniting to preserve ourselves, our wives and our children from utter degradation and starvation.” Despite their plea, the six men were deported. However, they were eventually pardoned, and all six returned home to a heroes’ welcome.
Dorset has many more true, and sometimes deeply moving, stories to impart through its quintessentially English landscape and its tranquil villages. And thanks to the pen of Thomas Hardy, that same breathtaking scenery and the hamlets that nestle within it, have also proved to be the inspiration behind some of England’s finest works of fiction.
Thomas Hardy was born on June 2, 1840 in Higher Bockhampton, Dorset, the son of a stonemason, and for many years, he seemed destined to follow in his father’s construction industry footsteps. Indeed, he trained as an architect, and worked in the field until 1871, when his novel Desperate Remedies caught the attention of the book reading public.
Hardy’s birthplace still stands today. The dwelling is now known as Hardy’s Cottage, and it's a short walk from the Higher Bockhampton car park. The cottage was built by Hardy’s great grandfather in 1801, and it was here Thomas Hardy wrote several of his most popular novels, including Under the Greenwood Tree and Far From the Madding Crowd.
Renowned for his depiction of the beautiful Dorset countryside, Hardy took great pleasure in creating fictional identities for well-known English towns. For example, Dorchester became the Casterbridge of The Mayor of Casterbridge fame, while Weymouth was renamed Budmouth Regis in both The Trumpet-Major and Under the Greenwood Tree. Even Hardy’s birthplace took-on a new identity. In Under the Greenwood Tree, Higher Bockhampton becomes Upper Mellstock.
Higher Bockhampton is well sign-posted on the A35 Bournemouth to Dorchester road, and it serves as an appropriate starting point for a tour of the countryside Thomas Hardy knew, and wrote of, so well. For instance, approximately eight miles to the east of Higher Bockhampton, on the junction of the A35 with the A31, stands Bere Regis ... renamed by Hardy as Kingsbere in Tess of the d’Urbervilles ... where Tess and her family set-up their four poster bed, outside the village church.
Taking the minor roads from Bere Regis, head south west to Moreton. There, in the village cemetery, you’ll find the grave of Thomas Hardy’s friend T.E. Lawrence, the legendary Lawrence of Arabia. If your road map is sufficiently detailed, search for the B3390, alongside which you should find a reference to Clouds Hill, where T.E. Lawrence lived before his untimely death.
In the same vicinity you’ll also find Gallows Hill which provides one of several stunning views of Hardy’s fictitious Egdon Heath, spoken of in his Wessex Novels. Clearly, this picturesque part of England possesses a charm that can lift the spirits of even the most determined cheerless soul. However, Dorset also has its darker side.
On July 6, 1685, a popular uprising against King James II, led by the Duke of Monmouth resulted in a crushing defeat of Monmouth and his army at the Battle of Sedgemoor: the last battle to be fought on English soil. Further retribution was sought by James II, when he appointed the First Baron Jeffreys of Wem, to try those who had risen against the monarchy. Judge Jeffreys held his notorious Bloody Assize in Dorchester later that same year. Since then Jeffreys has been known simply as The Hanging Judge.
Today, it's a popular hotel and restaurant, but Judge Jeffreys’ residence and courthouse still stands in Dorchester High Street; a stark reminder of the brutal repression that played such a significant role in England’s pre-industrial revolution past.
On a broadly similar note, this same area of Dorset saw the emergence and repression of the trade union movement. Located on the old A35 Dorchester to Bournemouth road, the village of Tolpuddle has earned its place in the history books. Nevertheless, it maintains our links with Thomas Hardy, because Tolpuddle was the birthplace of Hardy’s grandfather and great grandfather. As for the village’s main claim to fame, here in February 1834, six young farm workers were arrested and escorted to Dorchester. And, overnight, they became the Tolpuddle Martyrs.
Their crime was the formation of a trades union, in an attempt to escape from their grinding poverty. One of the defendants, George Loveless, spoke these words at their trial, “If we have violated any law, it was not done intentionally. We have injured no person or property. We were uniting to preserve ourselves, our wives and our children from utter degradation and starvation.” Despite their plea, the six men were deported. However, they were eventually pardoned, and all six returned home to a heroes’ welcome.
Dorset has many more true, and sometimes deeply moving, stories to impart through its quintessentially English landscape and its tranquil villages. And thanks to the pen of Thomas Hardy, that same breathtaking scenery and the hamlets that nestle within it, have also proved to be the inspiration behind some of England’s finest works of fiction.
LIES, DAMN LIES....
BEARING in mind the appalling inaccuracies of the polls leading-up to the general election of May 2015, my Torbay Times "Pensioners Platform" column of one month earlier appears to have been both topical and rather prophetic!
VICTORIAN Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881) is credited by many, including the celebrated American author Mark Twain (1835-1910), as having coined the phrase, “There are three kinds of lies: namely lies, damn lies and statistics”. Around 150 years after Disraeli first used the term, life today seems to be governed – some might say blighted – by statistics that invariably prove to be wrong. And that begs one question; can statistics ever be relied upon to be accurate?
As I write this article, we’re being bombarded by statistics relating to the general election on May 7. Indeed, it will be interesting to see if any pre-election statistical prediction gets anywhere near the actual result. Will we be asking, on May 8, why the pollsters got it so wrong? If so, perhaps our next question should be, what’s the point of polls and statistical projections anyway?
Don’t worry, that’s all I’m going to say about the general election in this month’s column because I would like, instead, to share with you, a worrying example of how statistics can be used to mislead and misinform. Let me explain. On Thursday March 26, I was browsing through a copy of that day’s Daily Mail when, on page three, I came across an article titled, “Cheers to retirement!” Harmless enough you might think, but the sub-title made for rather disturbing reading, and I quote: “Typical OAPs take three holidays a year, splash-out £330 a month, go rambling, and put their feet-up with a glass of wine at 6.30pm every day.”
Excuse me? Typical OAPs? I then read deeper into the article to discover that a survey of retirees over the age of sixty had produced results that claimed 94 per cent of those polled “are enjoying their post-work life, while half said they were having more fun than ever before.”
The article then went-on to talk about, “an average disposable income of £330 per month, which allows them to go on three holidays a year, plus two weekends away, and seventeen day trips. The study also showed that most pensioners eat out three times a month, and one in ten do so more than twice a week.”
By the time I had reached that part of the Daily Mail article, I was wondering how “most” or “typical” pensioners could possibly afford that kind of lifestyle? My wife Jenny and I certainly can’t. In fact, I had to read the reference to three holidays a year several times before realising it wasn’t a misprint. Given the deeply discriminatory cost of travel insurance for the Over 60s today, we’ll be lucky to afford one holiday this year. In truth, Jenny and I have no such plans for 2015, because there are things that need sorting-out in our home, so it’s all about prioritising. In fact, the majority of our retired friends and acquaintances are in exactly the same situation. Surely, then, we are far more representative of average UK pensioners than those referred to as “typical” and “most” in the Daily Mail article?
As if I’d not already seen enough I then read a reference to, “one in twenty pensioners taking at least five weekend breaks in Britain every year”. That was when I lost patience and jumped to the end of the article to find-out who had organised the poll. It came as no surprise to discover the survey was commissioned by Senior Railcard, an organisation which runs a rail discount scheme for train companies. Senior Railcard will, of course, have an interest in how we UK pensioners travel throughout the year but, in the light of what I’d read in the article, I was sceptical. Just how reliable were the survey’s results?
My suspicions were soon justified because, on the very next line, I read that Senior Railcard had polled just 1,260 pensioners. Hang-on I thought: how on earth can a poll of a mere 1,260 out of more than ten million UK pensioners be expected to produce an accurate picture? Who were those 1,260 pensioners anyway? Were they a true cross-section of the UK pensioner community? Your guess is as good as mine.
Yet again, it seems, pollsters (statisticians) have taken the circumstances of a tiny sample of people and massaged the results to produce a distorted bigger picture. That’s what Benjamin Disraeli meant when he stated statistics are the biggest lie. And that’s why we should, perhaps, treat all polls with suspicion. In truth, some UK pensioners may be able to afford three holidays a year, but are “most” or “typical” UK pensioners in that fortunate position? I doubt it very much.
VICTORIAN Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881) is credited by many, including the celebrated American author Mark Twain (1835-1910), as having coined the phrase, “There are three kinds of lies: namely lies, damn lies and statistics”. Around 150 years after Disraeli first used the term, life today seems to be governed – some might say blighted – by statistics that invariably prove to be wrong. And that begs one question; can statistics ever be relied upon to be accurate?
As I write this article, we’re being bombarded by statistics relating to the general election on May 7. Indeed, it will be interesting to see if any pre-election statistical prediction gets anywhere near the actual result. Will we be asking, on May 8, why the pollsters got it so wrong? If so, perhaps our next question should be, what’s the point of polls and statistical projections anyway?
Don’t worry, that’s all I’m going to say about the general election in this month’s column because I would like, instead, to share with you, a worrying example of how statistics can be used to mislead and misinform. Let me explain. On Thursday March 26, I was browsing through a copy of that day’s Daily Mail when, on page three, I came across an article titled, “Cheers to retirement!” Harmless enough you might think, but the sub-title made for rather disturbing reading, and I quote: “Typical OAPs take three holidays a year, splash-out £330 a month, go rambling, and put their feet-up with a glass of wine at 6.30pm every day.”
Excuse me? Typical OAPs? I then read deeper into the article to discover that a survey of retirees over the age of sixty had produced results that claimed 94 per cent of those polled “are enjoying their post-work life, while half said they were having more fun than ever before.”
The article then went-on to talk about, “an average disposable income of £330 per month, which allows them to go on three holidays a year, plus two weekends away, and seventeen day trips. The study also showed that most pensioners eat out three times a month, and one in ten do so more than twice a week.”
By the time I had reached that part of the Daily Mail article, I was wondering how “most” or “typical” pensioners could possibly afford that kind of lifestyle? My wife Jenny and I certainly can’t. In fact, I had to read the reference to three holidays a year several times before realising it wasn’t a misprint. Given the deeply discriminatory cost of travel insurance for the Over 60s today, we’ll be lucky to afford one holiday this year. In truth, Jenny and I have no such plans for 2015, because there are things that need sorting-out in our home, so it’s all about prioritising. In fact, the majority of our retired friends and acquaintances are in exactly the same situation. Surely, then, we are far more representative of average UK pensioners than those referred to as “typical” and “most” in the Daily Mail article?
As if I’d not already seen enough I then read a reference to, “one in twenty pensioners taking at least five weekend breaks in Britain every year”. That was when I lost patience and jumped to the end of the article to find-out who had organised the poll. It came as no surprise to discover the survey was commissioned by Senior Railcard, an organisation which runs a rail discount scheme for train companies. Senior Railcard will, of course, have an interest in how we UK pensioners travel throughout the year but, in the light of what I’d read in the article, I was sceptical. Just how reliable were the survey’s results?
My suspicions were soon justified because, on the very next line, I read that Senior Railcard had polled just 1,260 pensioners. Hang-on I thought: how on earth can a poll of a mere 1,260 out of more than ten million UK pensioners be expected to produce an accurate picture? Who were those 1,260 pensioners anyway? Were they a true cross-section of the UK pensioner community? Your guess is as good as mine.
Yet again, it seems, pollsters (statisticians) have taken the circumstances of a tiny sample of people and massaged the results to produce a distorted bigger picture. That’s what Benjamin Disraeli meant when he stated statistics are the biggest lie. And that’s why we should, perhaps, treat all polls with suspicion. In truth, some UK pensioners may be able to afford three holidays a year, but are “most” or “typical” UK pensioners in that fortunate position? I doubt it very much.
DYSTONIA? NO, IT'S NOT A BALTIC STATE!
Introduction:
OKAY, it’s time for a full-on, no-holds-barred, cards-on-the-table revelation!
Able bodied or not, we all face major challenges in our lives and we will always have the choice to surrender to them, or fight them. I’m partially disabled by a condition called Dystonic Tremor … one of the Dystonia family of afflictions. In my book, however, surrender is not, nor never will be, an option. And here’s why.
Dystonia?
As mentioned in passing above, Dystonia is a progressive neurological condition possessing some similarities to Parkinson’s disease. It attacks anyone at any age, and in a number of different, debilitating ways. There are more than 70,000 known Dystonia sufferers in the UK alone. Now, compare that to the approximately 130,000 sufferers of Parkinson’s disease in the UK. Not a great deal of difference is there.
“Wait a minute!” I hear you cry? “Just about everybody’s heard of Parkinson’s disease, but I’ve never heard of Dystonia.”
Regrettably, you’re not alone. Indeed, even some medical professionals admit they’d not heard of Dystonia until recently. However, I’m hoping this article will act like a snowflake settling on a mountainside. Think of it: if a sufficient number of snowflakes fall on that same mountainside, sooner or later a critical mass will be reached. And I think you know what happens then. Avalanche!
Anyway, enough of the metaphors: as stated earlier, I’m partially disabled by a Dystonic Tremor that severely affects my hands, arms and head. But let me make one thing clear; this is not a sob-story. On the contrary, it is a rallying cry to all those who – like me – suffer the effects of physical disability. Moreover, in telling my story I hope to raise the awareness of Dystonia while, at the same time, encouraging other disability sufferers to tell their stories too. Doing so will, I believe, demonstrate the fact that facing disability with determination and even a sense of humour can have its rewards.
Where it all began:
My earliest recollection of the condition that has gone-on to render me partially disabled remains etched in my memory. On a winter’s night in 1955, when I was nine years old, my parents allowed me to stay-up late to watch a film with them on our walnut enclosed, nine-inch-screened, black and white television set. The film was an adaptation of the H. G. Wells novel “The Shape of Things to Come” and watching it troubled me deeply. So much so, by the end of the film, I was aware that my right hand was trembling. When I showed my shaking hand to my parents, instead of the anticipated comforting words and reassurances, my actions were met by a near-hysterical response from them both. “You mustn’t do that,” they screamed. “You mustn’t allow yourself to show fear or fright.”
I guess their reaction had a parallel with the old – and similarly flawed – expectation that big boys shouldn’t cry. However, for me, there was something else about my mum and dad’s unexpected anger that I simply couldn’t get my nine-year-old head around. You see, my father had a very noticeable tremor in both hands, but nobody seemed to be bothered about it: least of all, him. In fact, I clearly remember how – as a joke – he would carry an empty teacup in a saucer, and noisily rattle them as he walked from the living room into the kitchen. More often than not, dad’s antics resulted in fits of giggles from my mother, and anyone else who happened to be present. In the case of my own trembling hand, however, there was no laughter, only loud and angry condemnation.
In the years following that confusing yet formative episode, I became ever more aware that, in moments of stress at school or at home, my right hand would start to tremble. Naturally, I tried my best to hide the shaking by folding my arms in front of me or clasping my hands behind my back, or shoving them in my pockets. But the more I tried to cover-up the condition – especially from my parents – the more it made its presence felt.
Musicianship
Despite the gradually increasing severity of the right hand tremor, I took-up playing the guitar in 1961. From that day onwards, the first few moments of playing were always a bit of a challenge but, as I became more proficient, the more fluid my finger action and co-ordination became. Happily, I went-on to become a member of a couple of moderately successful rock, pop and soul groups in Swinging Sixties London. Somehow, though, I knew deep down my guitar playing days weren’t going to last forever.
Defection
As disco took hold during the mid-1970s I tired of ‘live’ music and eventually defected to the disc jockey camp by setting-up my own mobile discotheque. Thanks to the cueing levers on the gram decks, I was able to cue tracks without too much difficulty, but I was continually reminded that the tremor was becoming more problematical. Indeed, by then, even drinking a cup of tea, a mug of coffee or a glass of wine or beer was becoming a struggle. For a while, though, I tried to compensate by using two hands and that helped but, as time passed, the tremor began to affect my left hand as well.
Radio
While the slow but steadily increasing severity of the tremor was uppermost in my mind at every disco engagement, from my earliest days as a DJ, clients and fellow disc jockeys alike remarked – not on my tremulous hands – but on something altogether different. “Hey David, with a voice like yours, you ought to be on radio,” they would say. Eventually I took the hint and began sending audition tapes to radio stations. After several long years of circulating my tapes all over the UK, in October 1981, I got my big break into radio at BBC Radio Medway in Kent. Unfortunately, there were no cueing levers on the BBC studio equipment, but I devised a method of locking my left shoulder, elbow and wrist which – although awkward – enabled me to overcome the problem of cueing LP tracks or 45 rpm EPs and singles.
Three years later, I moved to Devon where I soon became a member of the DevonAir Radio freelance team. However, in 1990, after more than six years with DevonAir, I was shown the door. At the same time another door opened and I quickly found myself returning to my British Broadcasting Corporation radio roots with BBC Radio Devon. This, by chance, coincided with the explosion in popularity of compact disc technology. Even though the tremor had been worsening in my hands and arms throughout those years with DevonAir Radio, suddenly, the wholesale switch to CD machines at the BBC made my on-air studio activities very much easier.
Another Door
Prior to my return to the BBC in 1990, yet another career opportunity unexpectedly opened-up for me. In 1987, on the strength of my background in ‘live’ music, I was invited to write a weekly entertainments column for the provincial daily newspaper, the South Devon Herald Express. That column … called The LoweDown … went-on to enjoy an unbroken weekly run of 24 years and two months.
Hands on Assistance
Looking back, I can see that the technological advances in the BBC studios, and the arrival of computerisation at the Herald Express soon afterwards, assisted my media aspirations enormously. Consequently, the more intrusive effects of my tremor were, for a while, reduced to a broadly manageable nuisance level.
Deterioration
By way of contrast, though, as the Dystonic Tremor in my hands deteriorated, dining-out became increasingly fraught with self-consciousness. Also, my handwriting ability deteriorated markedly, to the point where it became very slow and ultimately painful to write with a ball-point pen. Curiously, though, I discovered that a pencil is much easier to use than a pen. Consequently, I was able to regain just a little of my handwriting speed and legibility for a while longer, but that has since gone. As for my computer keyboard skills: encouragingly, they’re still hanging-on in there, although for every ten keystrokes I make, on average, two will need correcting. Nevertheless, I can still type effectively, and that’s due to a cushioned support on which I rest the heels of my palms. I guess it helps to have long fingers too.
No Hiding Place
While technological help was at hand in my radio and writing careers, it has to be said nothing has come to the rescue where my head tremor is concerned. I first noticed an involuntary ‘no-no’ movement in my head in the mid-1980s, and it has grown progressively worse ever since.
Of all the tremor symptoms, the head tremor is, by far, the most embarrassing and inconvenient, especially if – like yours truly – you happen to stand six foot five inches tall and weigh-in at around 270 pounds. In all sincerity, the expressions “standing-out” and “sore thumb” do tend to come to mind on a near-daily basis.
TV and Film
As if to complicate the matter still further, unlike hand and arm tremor, head tremor cannot be hidden or disguised. And that, for me, has resulted in yet another significant financial sacrifice. My earning potential in television and film was wiped-out overnight when my head tremor suddenly increased in severity in the late-1990s. Up to that time, under my stage name of Lewis Adler, I’d been making regular supporting cast appearances in such popular TV series as Casualty; Wycliffe, Inspector Lynley and Dangerfield. So, in common with the last vestiges of my guitar playing days, my work in TV and film effectively came to an end too. That is, until May 2014, when I was awarded the part of a disabled man called Timothy Blake in an episode of Casualty entitled “The Index Case”. That episode was transmitted on October 18, 2014 and I’m hoping my on-screen efforts will help to breathe new life into my TV and film career. Fingers crossed.
Diagnosis
By now, you may be wondering how long it took for my tremor condition to be correctly diagnosed. And therein resides another aspect to the story. Way back in the 1950s, our family’s doctor (not to mention my parents and other close relations) regarded my hand tremors as nothing more complicated than nerves. In my mind’s ear I can still hear them today, “David suffers with his nerves, you know,” they’d whisper to anyone who was listening.
However, as I went through my teenage years and into adulthood, I began to question that assumption. After all, how does one who suffers from “nerves” have the nerve to play guitar in front of hundreds of people, or broadcast on radio to tens of thousands of people, or act in front of millions of TV viewers?
In the end, I convinced myself the “nerves” label was completely wrong, so I resolved to get to the bottom of the problem once and for all. To cut a much longer story short, in 1988, I was diagnosed as suffering from Essential Tremor, but even that turned-out to be a miss-diagnosis. Then, in 2010 – as my head tremor became ever more pronounced – I sought a fourth opinion. Thankfully, my then GP referred me to a neurosurgeon at Torbay hospital in Devon who, in turn, referred me to a consultant specialist in movement abnormalities at Derriford hospital in Plymouth. The specialist put me through a whole raft of tests and then confidently announced I’d been suffering the effects of Dystonic Tremor since childhood. At last, I had the answer I’d been searching for, for most of my adult life.
Prognosis:
Dystonic Tremor is not life-threatening, but I seem to be slowly collecting a set of the condition’s symptoms. How so? Well, over the past year or two, I have begun to notice the tremor occasionally trying to attack my voice. Much to my relief, though, it didn’t adversely affect my radio work which continued until May 2014. However, one has to be realistic: Dystonia has spread from my right hand, to my left hand, then up into my neck and head, and it clearly has the potential to do irreparable damage to my powers of speech. So, I’ll meet that challenge too when, and if, it comes.
Treatment
Even before the Essential Tremor diagnosis in 1988, there were other hurdles to overcome: the most nightmarish of which were extreme reactions to a couple of commonly prescribed drugs. Consequently, alleviating or reducing the tremor through drug therapy was a non-starter for me. Similarly, since the Dystonic Tremor diagnosis in 2010, and in an effort to address the head tremor only, I’ve had regular botox injections in my neck muscles. Sadly they haven’t helped either, but I don’t give-up that easily. At the time of writing this article, my specialist at Derriford hospital is making arrangements for me to be treated with a different botox.
There is another option, and that’s deep brain stimulation (DBS): a series of major surgical procedures involving the insertion of probes into the brain to block the signals causing the movement abnormalities. My thoughts on this issue are quite straight-forward. If I could be guaranteed the restoration of my guitar-playing abilities by agreeing to the DBS procedure, then I would gladly accept. If not, I’m prepared to take the consequences.
On a lighter note, believe it or not, small amounts of alcohol seem to have a mildly beneficial – albeit temporary – effect. For a while, a glass or three of wine will smooth-out the tremor to a more manageable level. I guess, though, the chances of a regular medicinal bottle of Sicilian red on prescription are pretty remote. But it’s a nice thought.
Bloodied but Unbowed
In the final analysis, and in spite of the loss of so much of my earning potential in music, TV and film, I’ve not become idle or defeatist. Quite the reverse in fact. For example, I’m still a columnist in the UK provincial press. These days I write the monthly Pensioners Paltform column in my local monthly newspaper the Torbay Times. And in 2011, I self-published my first novel-length work: a 122,000 word occult thriller titled “Redeeming Factor”, written under my stage and pen-name of Lewis Adler.
It took me nine months to complete the first draft of “Redeeming Factor” in 2008, and another three years to realise the objective of getting the novel onto the e-book shelves. Then, in 2013, I published my ghosted autobiography titled “Maisie Pops” and I’m pleased to report it continues to sell steadily. Today, both e-books are available for download to Kindle, Kobo and most other e-book readers, via Amazon and numerous other on-line outlets. At the time of writing this piece, I’m currently working on the sequel to “Maisie Pops” which I’ve cunningly titled “More Maisie Pops”.
And Finally
So, in conclusion, here’s my message to all those afflicted by physical disability of one form or another; in particular my fellow Dystonia sufferers. Please DON’T GIVE UP! And please don’t become reclusive. Always look for a way to meet the challenges. Very often there is a positive flip-side to the pervasive, negative effects of Dystonia and many other physical disabilities. So just keep on keeping on, even if it may seem a little quirky to do so.
In fact, I think I’ll close this article on just such a quirky note, by saying … In my case, I may not be able to play my guitars any more but, hey, I can still shake a mean tambourine without even trying!
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AFTERWORD: Any Dystonia sufferers or bona fide medical professionals with an interest in Dystonia are welcome to contact me. I am happy to speak publicly from a Dystonia sufferer’s perspective, and I can be reached:-
Via e-mail at: [email protected] or via Skype at: david.l.lowe
Or on the DYSTONIA DEVON UK Facebook Group page
OKAY, it’s time for a full-on, no-holds-barred, cards-on-the-table revelation!
Able bodied or not, we all face major challenges in our lives and we will always have the choice to surrender to them, or fight them. I’m partially disabled by a condition called Dystonic Tremor … one of the Dystonia family of afflictions. In my book, however, surrender is not, nor never will be, an option. And here’s why.
Dystonia?
As mentioned in passing above, Dystonia is a progressive neurological condition possessing some similarities to Parkinson’s disease. It attacks anyone at any age, and in a number of different, debilitating ways. There are more than 70,000 known Dystonia sufferers in the UK alone. Now, compare that to the approximately 130,000 sufferers of Parkinson’s disease in the UK. Not a great deal of difference is there.
“Wait a minute!” I hear you cry? “Just about everybody’s heard of Parkinson’s disease, but I’ve never heard of Dystonia.”
Regrettably, you’re not alone. Indeed, even some medical professionals admit they’d not heard of Dystonia until recently. However, I’m hoping this article will act like a snowflake settling on a mountainside. Think of it: if a sufficient number of snowflakes fall on that same mountainside, sooner or later a critical mass will be reached. And I think you know what happens then. Avalanche!
Anyway, enough of the metaphors: as stated earlier, I’m partially disabled by a Dystonic Tremor that severely affects my hands, arms and head. But let me make one thing clear; this is not a sob-story. On the contrary, it is a rallying cry to all those who – like me – suffer the effects of physical disability. Moreover, in telling my story I hope to raise the awareness of Dystonia while, at the same time, encouraging other disability sufferers to tell their stories too. Doing so will, I believe, demonstrate the fact that facing disability with determination and even a sense of humour can have its rewards.
Where it all began:
My earliest recollection of the condition that has gone-on to render me partially disabled remains etched in my memory. On a winter’s night in 1955, when I was nine years old, my parents allowed me to stay-up late to watch a film with them on our walnut enclosed, nine-inch-screened, black and white television set. The film was an adaptation of the H. G. Wells novel “The Shape of Things to Come” and watching it troubled me deeply. So much so, by the end of the film, I was aware that my right hand was trembling. When I showed my shaking hand to my parents, instead of the anticipated comforting words and reassurances, my actions were met by a near-hysterical response from them both. “You mustn’t do that,” they screamed. “You mustn’t allow yourself to show fear or fright.”
I guess their reaction had a parallel with the old – and similarly flawed – expectation that big boys shouldn’t cry. However, for me, there was something else about my mum and dad’s unexpected anger that I simply couldn’t get my nine-year-old head around. You see, my father had a very noticeable tremor in both hands, but nobody seemed to be bothered about it: least of all, him. In fact, I clearly remember how – as a joke – he would carry an empty teacup in a saucer, and noisily rattle them as he walked from the living room into the kitchen. More often than not, dad’s antics resulted in fits of giggles from my mother, and anyone else who happened to be present. In the case of my own trembling hand, however, there was no laughter, only loud and angry condemnation.
In the years following that confusing yet formative episode, I became ever more aware that, in moments of stress at school or at home, my right hand would start to tremble. Naturally, I tried my best to hide the shaking by folding my arms in front of me or clasping my hands behind my back, or shoving them in my pockets. But the more I tried to cover-up the condition – especially from my parents – the more it made its presence felt.
Musicianship
Despite the gradually increasing severity of the right hand tremor, I took-up playing the guitar in 1961. From that day onwards, the first few moments of playing were always a bit of a challenge but, as I became more proficient, the more fluid my finger action and co-ordination became. Happily, I went-on to become a member of a couple of moderately successful rock, pop and soul groups in Swinging Sixties London. Somehow, though, I knew deep down my guitar playing days weren’t going to last forever.
Defection
As disco took hold during the mid-1970s I tired of ‘live’ music and eventually defected to the disc jockey camp by setting-up my own mobile discotheque. Thanks to the cueing levers on the gram decks, I was able to cue tracks without too much difficulty, but I was continually reminded that the tremor was becoming more problematical. Indeed, by then, even drinking a cup of tea, a mug of coffee or a glass of wine or beer was becoming a struggle. For a while, though, I tried to compensate by using two hands and that helped but, as time passed, the tremor began to affect my left hand as well.
Radio
While the slow but steadily increasing severity of the tremor was uppermost in my mind at every disco engagement, from my earliest days as a DJ, clients and fellow disc jockeys alike remarked – not on my tremulous hands – but on something altogether different. “Hey David, with a voice like yours, you ought to be on radio,” they would say. Eventually I took the hint and began sending audition tapes to radio stations. After several long years of circulating my tapes all over the UK, in October 1981, I got my big break into radio at BBC Radio Medway in Kent. Unfortunately, there were no cueing levers on the BBC studio equipment, but I devised a method of locking my left shoulder, elbow and wrist which – although awkward – enabled me to overcome the problem of cueing LP tracks or 45 rpm EPs and singles.
Three years later, I moved to Devon where I soon became a member of the DevonAir Radio freelance team. However, in 1990, after more than six years with DevonAir, I was shown the door. At the same time another door opened and I quickly found myself returning to my British Broadcasting Corporation radio roots with BBC Radio Devon. This, by chance, coincided with the explosion in popularity of compact disc technology. Even though the tremor had been worsening in my hands and arms throughout those years with DevonAir Radio, suddenly, the wholesale switch to CD machines at the BBC made my on-air studio activities very much easier.
Another Door
Prior to my return to the BBC in 1990, yet another career opportunity unexpectedly opened-up for me. In 1987, on the strength of my background in ‘live’ music, I was invited to write a weekly entertainments column for the provincial daily newspaper, the South Devon Herald Express. That column … called The LoweDown … went-on to enjoy an unbroken weekly run of 24 years and two months.
Hands on Assistance
Looking back, I can see that the technological advances in the BBC studios, and the arrival of computerisation at the Herald Express soon afterwards, assisted my media aspirations enormously. Consequently, the more intrusive effects of my tremor were, for a while, reduced to a broadly manageable nuisance level.
Deterioration
By way of contrast, though, as the Dystonic Tremor in my hands deteriorated, dining-out became increasingly fraught with self-consciousness. Also, my handwriting ability deteriorated markedly, to the point where it became very slow and ultimately painful to write with a ball-point pen. Curiously, though, I discovered that a pencil is much easier to use than a pen. Consequently, I was able to regain just a little of my handwriting speed and legibility for a while longer, but that has since gone. As for my computer keyboard skills: encouragingly, they’re still hanging-on in there, although for every ten keystrokes I make, on average, two will need correcting. Nevertheless, I can still type effectively, and that’s due to a cushioned support on which I rest the heels of my palms. I guess it helps to have long fingers too.
No Hiding Place
While technological help was at hand in my radio and writing careers, it has to be said nothing has come to the rescue where my head tremor is concerned. I first noticed an involuntary ‘no-no’ movement in my head in the mid-1980s, and it has grown progressively worse ever since.
Of all the tremor symptoms, the head tremor is, by far, the most embarrassing and inconvenient, especially if – like yours truly – you happen to stand six foot five inches tall and weigh-in at around 270 pounds. In all sincerity, the expressions “standing-out” and “sore thumb” do tend to come to mind on a near-daily basis.
TV and Film
As if to complicate the matter still further, unlike hand and arm tremor, head tremor cannot be hidden or disguised. And that, for me, has resulted in yet another significant financial sacrifice. My earning potential in television and film was wiped-out overnight when my head tremor suddenly increased in severity in the late-1990s. Up to that time, under my stage name of Lewis Adler, I’d been making regular supporting cast appearances in such popular TV series as Casualty; Wycliffe, Inspector Lynley and Dangerfield. So, in common with the last vestiges of my guitar playing days, my work in TV and film effectively came to an end too. That is, until May 2014, when I was awarded the part of a disabled man called Timothy Blake in an episode of Casualty entitled “The Index Case”. That episode was transmitted on October 18, 2014 and I’m hoping my on-screen efforts will help to breathe new life into my TV and film career. Fingers crossed.
Diagnosis
By now, you may be wondering how long it took for my tremor condition to be correctly diagnosed. And therein resides another aspect to the story. Way back in the 1950s, our family’s doctor (not to mention my parents and other close relations) regarded my hand tremors as nothing more complicated than nerves. In my mind’s ear I can still hear them today, “David suffers with his nerves, you know,” they’d whisper to anyone who was listening.
However, as I went through my teenage years and into adulthood, I began to question that assumption. After all, how does one who suffers from “nerves” have the nerve to play guitar in front of hundreds of people, or broadcast on radio to tens of thousands of people, or act in front of millions of TV viewers?
In the end, I convinced myself the “nerves” label was completely wrong, so I resolved to get to the bottom of the problem once and for all. To cut a much longer story short, in 1988, I was diagnosed as suffering from Essential Tremor, but even that turned-out to be a miss-diagnosis. Then, in 2010 – as my head tremor became ever more pronounced – I sought a fourth opinion. Thankfully, my then GP referred me to a neurosurgeon at Torbay hospital in Devon who, in turn, referred me to a consultant specialist in movement abnormalities at Derriford hospital in Plymouth. The specialist put me through a whole raft of tests and then confidently announced I’d been suffering the effects of Dystonic Tremor since childhood. At last, I had the answer I’d been searching for, for most of my adult life.
Prognosis:
Dystonic Tremor is not life-threatening, but I seem to be slowly collecting a set of the condition’s symptoms. How so? Well, over the past year or two, I have begun to notice the tremor occasionally trying to attack my voice. Much to my relief, though, it didn’t adversely affect my radio work which continued until May 2014. However, one has to be realistic: Dystonia has spread from my right hand, to my left hand, then up into my neck and head, and it clearly has the potential to do irreparable damage to my powers of speech. So, I’ll meet that challenge too when, and if, it comes.
Treatment
Even before the Essential Tremor diagnosis in 1988, there were other hurdles to overcome: the most nightmarish of which were extreme reactions to a couple of commonly prescribed drugs. Consequently, alleviating or reducing the tremor through drug therapy was a non-starter for me. Similarly, since the Dystonic Tremor diagnosis in 2010, and in an effort to address the head tremor only, I’ve had regular botox injections in my neck muscles. Sadly they haven’t helped either, but I don’t give-up that easily. At the time of writing this article, my specialist at Derriford hospital is making arrangements for me to be treated with a different botox.
There is another option, and that’s deep brain stimulation (DBS): a series of major surgical procedures involving the insertion of probes into the brain to block the signals causing the movement abnormalities. My thoughts on this issue are quite straight-forward. If I could be guaranteed the restoration of my guitar-playing abilities by agreeing to the DBS procedure, then I would gladly accept. If not, I’m prepared to take the consequences.
On a lighter note, believe it or not, small amounts of alcohol seem to have a mildly beneficial – albeit temporary – effect. For a while, a glass or three of wine will smooth-out the tremor to a more manageable level. I guess, though, the chances of a regular medicinal bottle of Sicilian red on prescription are pretty remote. But it’s a nice thought.
Bloodied but Unbowed
In the final analysis, and in spite of the loss of so much of my earning potential in music, TV and film, I’ve not become idle or defeatist. Quite the reverse in fact. For example, I’m still a columnist in the UK provincial press. These days I write the monthly Pensioners Paltform column in my local monthly newspaper the Torbay Times. And in 2011, I self-published my first novel-length work: a 122,000 word occult thriller titled “Redeeming Factor”, written under my stage and pen-name of Lewis Adler.
It took me nine months to complete the first draft of “Redeeming Factor” in 2008, and another three years to realise the objective of getting the novel onto the e-book shelves. Then, in 2013, I published my ghosted autobiography titled “Maisie Pops” and I’m pleased to report it continues to sell steadily. Today, both e-books are available for download to Kindle, Kobo and most other e-book readers, via Amazon and numerous other on-line outlets. At the time of writing this piece, I’m currently working on the sequel to “Maisie Pops” which I’ve cunningly titled “More Maisie Pops”.
And Finally
So, in conclusion, here’s my message to all those afflicted by physical disability of one form or another; in particular my fellow Dystonia sufferers. Please DON’T GIVE UP! And please don’t become reclusive. Always look for a way to meet the challenges. Very often there is a positive flip-side to the pervasive, negative effects of Dystonia and many other physical disabilities. So just keep on keeping on, even if it may seem a little quirky to do so.
In fact, I think I’ll close this article on just such a quirky note, by saying … In my case, I may not be able to play my guitars any more but, hey, I can still shake a mean tambourine without even trying!
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AFTERWORD: Any Dystonia sufferers or bona fide medical professionals with an interest in Dystonia are welcome to contact me. I am happy to speak publicly from a Dystonia sufferer’s perspective, and I can be reached:-
Via e-mail at: [email protected] or via Skype at: david.l.lowe
Or on the DYSTONIA DEVON UK Facebook Group page
DIE CASTS TO DIE FOR
ASK any British man over sixty to recall his favourite childhood toy, and there is a very good chance his eyes will mist over, and he’ll break into a broad nostalgic smile. At the same time, a couple of magical words may pass his lips: “Dinky” and “Corgi”, each word redolent of die-cast toy-making at its very best. Once uttered, either one of those words will be sufficient for our subject to unlock a flood of boyhood memories and, in his enthusiasm, he will invariably resort to a description - in minute detail - of the very model of his affection.
Indeed, my own favourite was a Dinky Toy ... a bright yellow Bedford articulated low-loader with red wheel hubs. I seem to remember those post-war Bedfords had a very distinctive engine noise, and I worked hard at replicating the sound whenever I played with that particular model. Goodness knows how many hours I spent lying prostrate with one side of my face to the floor (or garden path) and hand outstretched, weaving the toy through imaginary obstacles.
Mind you, that little yellow Bedford wasn’t the only die-cast model that caught my eye. Far from it! My cousin Geoff, for instance, possessed several Dinky and Corgi toys that really took my fancy, and I made a bee-line for them whenever the opportunity presented itself. In particular, there was an elegant Foden flatbed lorry, plus an impressive tank transporter, complete with tank, not to mention a double-decker Ecurie Ecosse racing-car transporter.
Sixty-odd years on, and today’s young boys are thoroughly spoilt for choice when it comes to play things. Gone are the days of simple metal, wooden or plastic toys. Now the overwhelming demand is for anything that contains a micro-processor, and the more complex and mind-boggling the better!
However, die-cast models are currently enjoying a renaissance, thanks in part to nostalgia, and thanks also to a growing collectables market. Occasionally, we hear stories of long lost Dinky or Corgi toys turning-up in mint condition in their original boxes and going-on to fetch thousands of pounds at auction. But such examples tend to give a distorted view of the overall picture.
Many of today’s die-cast models are purchased by collectors - not so much to spirit away in a private time capsule in the hope they will appreciate in value - but, instead, for the model’s aesthetics. In fact, a growing number of collectors are turning their homes into motor showrooms in miniature with the aid of attractive wood and glass display cabinets that are now widely available.
Nevertheless, even then, some collectors can find themselves sitting on a genuine investment, thanks to the most unlikely of global events. Take, for example, the re-integration of Hong Kong into China in 1997. Since the hand-over, die-cast models of Hong Kong’s buses have become eagerly sought-after. Indeed, an omnibus enthusiast in Devon, England tells me that his £12.50 Original Omnibus Company Model 43201 (a three axle Olympian in the livery of the Kowloon Motor Bus Company) purchased in early 1998, is now valued at very nearly four times that amount!
On a somewhat lighter note, British manufacturer Lledo has recently released a “limited edition hand-painted grubby version” of Del Boy’s famous Reliant Robin used in the hit British TV comedy Only Fools and Horses. Needless to say, every finished item (the Lledo Model number is VA22003 by the way) is unique, and therefore, highly collectable.
Clearly, die cast models have come a long way since 1931 when Frank Hornby of Meccano fame decided to produce a series of accessories, including motor vehicles, to compliment his hugely popular Hornby trains. Initially, these accessories were marketed under the brand name of Modelled Miniatures, but they failed to impress the young boys of the time.
With the benefit of hindsight, today’s marketing people would almost certainly argue that the complex nature of the brand name caused the problem. And one can’t help but sympathise with that assertion. After-all, you try saying “modelled miniatures” with a gob-stopper in your mouth! Happily, though, Frank Hornby’s company hit the toyland jackpot in 1934 when it opted for a name change, and introduced the word “Dinky” to every pre-teenage boy’s vocabulary.
For the following twenty years, Dinky Toys remained unchallenged in the market place. Then, in 1953, Lesney Products had the foresight to manufacture a die-cast model of the Coronation Coach. Then, from the proceeds of that product, they were able to fund the development and launch of the Matchbox 1-75 Series. Contrary to trade expectations, the toy buying public took these little models to their hearts, and the Matchbox series became an overnight success story. Dinky Toys, at last, had some real competition on its hands.
Three years later - in 1956 - the former pre-eminence of Dinky Toys was further undermined when Corgi Toys were introduced by the Mettoy company. Corgis matched Dinky size-for-size, but they took die-cast model innovation into entirely new realms, by including windows and other features. Up to that time, such intricacies had been deemed unnecessary by the Dinky Toy company. Consequently, Corgi had stolen a march on their major competitor, and for Dinky Toys it was down-hill all the way to the closure of their famous Binns Road factory in Liverpool at the end of November 1979.
Since then, die-cast models of every description have continued to exert a powerful influence over collectors world-wide. Accordingly, new manufacturers have appeared on the scene, such as the aforementioned Lledo company, plus Exclusive First Editions, Vitesse, Onyx, Bang and Quartzo, among others. Naturally, some of these manufacturers confine their product line to specific areas, including buses and racing cars. For example, one model to catch my eye recently was Mike Hawthorn’s 1955 Le Mans D-Type Jaguar, produced by Brumm.
Without doubt, die-cast model collecting is very much on the road, and steadily increasing in popularity. Oh, by the way, don’t run away with the notion that collecting die-cast models is exclusively a “thing for the lads”. On the contrary, I have it on very good authority that more and more women are taking-up the hobby, including those who drive buses and trucks for a living.
Author’s Note: This is an article I wrote for a magazine in 1999. I am neither a collector of die cast models, nor an authority on the subject.
Indeed, my own favourite was a Dinky Toy ... a bright yellow Bedford articulated low-loader with red wheel hubs. I seem to remember those post-war Bedfords had a very distinctive engine noise, and I worked hard at replicating the sound whenever I played with that particular model. Goodness knows how many hours I spent lying prostrate with one side of my face to the floor (or garden path) and hand outstretched, weaving the toy through imaginary obstacles.
Mind you, that little yellow Bedford wasn’t the only die-cast model that caught my eye. Far from it! My cousin Geoff, for instance, possessed several Dinky and Corgi toys that really took my fancy, and I made a bee-line for them whenever the opportunity presented itself. In particular, there was an elegant Foden flatbed lorry, plus an impressive tank transporter, complete with tank, not to mention a double-decker Ecurie Ecosse racing-car transporter.
Sixty-odd years on, and today’s young boys are thoroughly spoilt for choice when it comes to play things. Gone are the days of simple metal, wooden or plastic toys. Now the overwhelming demand is for anything that contains a micro-processor, and the more complex and mind-boggling the better!
However, die-cast models are currently enjoying a renaissance, thanks in part to nostalgia, and thanks also to a growing collectables market. Occasionally, we hear stories of long lost Dinky or Corgi toys turning-up in mint condition in their original boxes and going-on to fetch thousands of pounds at auction. But such examples tend to give a distorted view of the overall picture.
Many of today’s die-cast models are purchased by collectors - not so much to spirit away in a private time capsule in the hope they will appreciate in value - but, instead, for the model’s aesthetics. In fact, a growing number of collectors are turning their homes into motor showrooms in miniature with the aid of attractive wood and glass display cabinets that are now widely available.
Nevertheless, even then, some collectors can find themselves sitting on a genuine investment, thanks to the most unlikely of global events. Take, for example, the re-integration of Hong Kong into China in 1997. Since the hand-over, die-cast models of Hong Kong’s buses have become eagerly sought-after. Indeed, an omnibus enthusiast in Devon, England tells me that his £12.50 Original Omnibus Company Model 43201 (a three axle Olympian in the livery of the Kowloon Motor Bus Company) purchased in early 1998, is now valued at very nearly four times that amount!
On a somewhat lighter note, British manufacturer Lledo has recently released a “limited edition hand-painted grubby version” of Del Boy’s famous Reliant Robin used in the hit British TV comedy Only Fools and Horses. Needless to say, every finished item (the Lledo Model number is VA22003 by the way) is unique, and therefore, highly collectable.
Clearly, die cast models have come a long way since 1931 when Frank Hornby of Meccano fame decided to produce a series of accessories, including motor vehicles, to compliment his hugely popular Hornby trains. Initially, these accessories were marketed under the brand name of Modelled Miniatures, but they failed to impress the young boys of the time.
With the benefit of hindsight, today’s marketing people would almost certainly argue that the complex nature of the brand name caused the problem. And one can’t help but sympathise with that assertion. After-all, you try saying “modelled miniatures” with a gob-stopper in your mouth! Happily, though, Frank Hornby’s company hit the toyland jackpot in 1934 when it opted for a name change, and introduced the word “Dinky” to every pre-teenage boy’s vocabulary.
For the following twenty years, Dinky Toys remained unchallenged in the market place. Then, in 1953, Lesney Products had the foresight to manufacture a die-cast model of the Coronation Coach. Then, from the proceeds of that product, they were able to fund the development and launch of the Matchbox 1-75 Series. Contrary to trade expectations, the toy buying public took these little models to their hearts, and the Matchbox series became an overnight success story. Dinky Toys, at last, had some real competition on its hands.
Three years later - in 1956 - the former pre-eminence of Dinky Toys was further undermined when Corgi Toys were introduced by the Mettoy company. Corgis matched Dinky size-for-size, but they took die-cast model innovation into entirely new realms, by including windows and other features. Up to that time, such intricacies had been deemed unnecessary by the Dinky Toy company. Consequently, Corgi had stolen a march on their major competitor, and for Dinky Toys it was down-hill all the way to the closure of their famous Binns Road factory in Liverpool at the end of November 1979.
Since then, die-cast models of every description have continued to exert a powerful influence over collectors world-wide. Accordingly, new manufacturers have appeared on the scene, such as the aforementioned Lledo company, plus Exclusive First Editions, Vitesse, Onyx, Bang and Quartzo, among others. Naturally, some of these manufacturers confine their product line to specific areas, including buses and racing cars. For example, one model to catch my eye recently was Mike Hawthorn’s 1955 Le Mans D-Type Jaguar, produced by Brumm.
Without doubt, die-cast model collecting is very much on the road, and steadily increasing in popularity. Oh, by the way, don’t run away with the notion that collecting die-cast models is exclusively a “thing for the lads”. On the contrary, I have it on very good authority that more and more women are taking-up the hobby, including those who drive buses and trucks for a living.
Author’s Note: This is an article I wrote for a magazine in 1999. I am neither a collector of die cast models, nor an authority on the subject.
MUSIC TO OUR EARS? (published summer 2015)
A LITTLE over one year ago my 32 year career as a producer and presenter of radio programmes came to an abrupt end. Indeed, you may recall the Mail on Sunday front page banner headline on May 11, 2014 which blazed “BBC Sacks DJ for Playing the Sun Has Got His Hat On!” In the week following that headline, I experienced a media frenzy of tabloid proportions. And that included lots of radio and TV interviews, a featured segment on Have I Got News for You, and even on-camera TV support from Prime Minister David Cameron and London Mayor Boris Johnson, both of whom felt the “problem” could have been handled better.
In that same week, I received many hundreds of emails, letters, cards and other messages of support from all over the world. In fact, to this day, I continue to receive communications from my former listeners, all of whom say they’re still missing my radio programmes. And that’s why, by mid-August of last year, I’d already made-up my mind that, if a meaningful radio opportunity came my way, I’d return the loyalty shown by so many listeners by accepting it.
Out of the blue, on Sunday June 14, I received a Facebook private message from a former listener in Cirencester. He revealed he’d been talking to the CEO at the easy listening internet radio station Serenade Radio, and he’d mentioned my name. At first, the CEO thought he didn’t know me, but when my Facebook friend reminded him about last year’s “Sun Has Got His Hat On” fiasco, he remembered all about my run-in with the BBC and the press reports. Indeed, the Serenade Radio CEO then told my Facebook friend he would like me to contact him urgently. It was one of those occasions when I knew I had to take action, and I did so.
To cut a longer story short, by the time you’re reading this article, I will be on-air again, because, on July 4 and 5, I’d have taken-over the Saturday and Sunday lunchtime (noon to 3pm) slots on Serenade Radio. So, if you have a PC, laptop, tablet or smartphone, it would be nice to have your company sometime. All you need to do is type www.serenade-radio.com into your internet browser, and that’ll take you to the Serenade Radio home page. There you’ll see a brown button marked “Click here to listen”, so click on that button, and it’ll open-up a small window on your screen. Then click on the white triangle inside the green circle, sit back and enjoy the nostalgic music.
If you don’t have a laptop, tablet or smartphone, maybe you have a grandson or granddaughter, niece or nephew who does? I’m sure they’ll be happy to show you how easy it is to listen-in to my nostalgic Serenade Radio shows. Perhaps they’ll even go all secretive on you and set-up a surprise Christmas gift? After all, computerised tablets are very convenient; very versatile and very reasonably priced.
So, what has this got to do with UK pensioners’ issues? Well, in short, I believe it’s about time the BBC catered for the more mature, more discerning listening and viewing audience. The corporation already has dedicated children’s television channels, plus music radio channels for younger people, but it simply doesn’t cater for us seniors. In fact, all we get is the left-over crumbs from a radio and TV ‘cake’ that caters for just about everybody, except us. The token gesture of an occasional pre-1960s recording among the rock and rap on radio simply isn’t good enough, and nor are those expletive-ridden; sexually explicit; often unintelligible; unnecessarily noisy and/or violent, darkly-lit TV series.
We UK pensioners number more than ten million and we’re increasing in number every year. That huge figure represents a very substantial, and largely untapped, radio and/or television audience. More importantly, we seniors have been paying the TV and radio licence fee tax most of our adult lives and many of us are still forking-out for it every year. So surely we deserve a much bigger share of the TV and radio output?
Fairness alone determines it’s time for a dedicated national radio station and TV channel for the UK’s ten million seniors. And I’m not advocating endless repeats of Dad’s Army and the Antiques Roadshow or wall to wall Al Jolson, Mantovani, Jim Reeves and David Whitfield recordings on radio. On the contrary, I’m talking about meaningful, relevant, entertaining programmes made by seniors, for seniors.
Note: the above article was published in the July-August, 2015 edition of the Torbay Times
In that same week, I received many hundreds of emails, letters, cards and other messages of support from all over the world. In fact, to this day, I continue to receive communications from my former listeners, all of whom say they’re still missing my radio programmes. And that’s why, by mid-August of last year, I’d already made-up my mind that, if a meaningful radio opportunity came my way, I’d return the loyalty shown by so many listeners by accepting it.
Out of the blue, on Sunday June 14, I received a Facebook private message from a former listener in Cirencester. He revealed he’d been talking to the CEO at the easy listening internet radio station Serenade Radio, and he’d mentioned my name. At first, the CEO thought he didn’t know me, but when my Facebook friend reminded him about last year’s “Sun Has Got His Hat On” fiasco, he remembered all about my run-in with the BBC and the press reports. Indeed, the Serenade Radio CEO then told my Facebook friend he would like me to contact him urgently. It was one of those occasions when I knew I had to take action, and I did so.
To cut a longer story short, by the time you’re reading this article, I will be on-air again, because, on July 4 and 5, I’d have taken-over the Saturday and Sunday lunchtime (noon to 3pm) slots on Serenade Radio. So, if you have a PC, laptop, tablet or smartphone, it would be nice to have your company sometime. All you need to do is type www.serenade-radio.com into your internet browser, and that’ll take you to the Serenade Radio home page. There you’ll see a brown button marked “Click here to listen”, so click on that button, and it’ll open-up a small window on your screen. Then click on the white triangle inside the green circle, sit back and enjoy the nostalgic music.
If you don’t have a laptop, tablet or smartphone, maybe you have a grandson or granddaughter, niece or nephew who does? I’m sure they’ll be happy to show you how easy it is to listen-in to my nostalgic Serenade Radio shows. Perhaps they’ll even go all secretive on you and set-up a surprise Christmas gift? After all, computerised tablets are very convenient; very versatile and very reasonably priced.
So, what has this got to do with UK pensioners’ issues? Well, in short, I believe it’s about time the BBC catered for the more mature, more discerning listening and viewing audience. The corporation already has dedicated children’s television channels, plus music radio channels for younger people, but it simply doesn’t cater for us seniors. In fact, all we get is the left-over crumbs from a radio and TV ‘cake’ that caters for just about everybody, except us. The token gesture of an occasional pre-1960s recording among the rock and rap on radio simply isn’t good enough, and nor are those expletive-ridden; sexually explicit; often unintelligible; unnecessarily noisy and/or violent, darkly-lit TV series.
We UK pensioners number more than ten million and we’re increasing in number every year. That huge figure represents a very substantial, and largely untapped, radio and/or television audience. More importantly, we seniors have been paying the TV and radio licence fee tax most of our adult lives and many of us are still forking-out for it every year. So surely we deserve a much bigger share of the TV and radio output?
Fairness alone determines it’s time for a dedicated national radio station and TV channel for the UK’s ten million seniors. And I’m not advocating endless repeats of Dad’s Army and the Antiques Roadshow or wall to wall Al Jolson, Mantovani, Jim Reeves and David Whitfield recordings on radio. On the contrary, I’m talking about meaningful, relevant, entertaining programmes made by seniors, for seniors.
Note: the above article was published in the July-August, 2015 edition of the Torbay Times
A MOTHER'S FELINE FRIENDS (a true story)
EARLY in March 1990, my mother was discharged from Torbay Hospital in Devon, and admitted to a Torquay nursing home suffering from the effects of an inoperable brain tumor. At first, she shared a room with another resident, but as her condition worsened, Mum was moved into a room of her own. Two days later, a big black cat arrived on the scene ... from where nobody seemed to know.
Mum always had a soft-spot for cats. I remember how upset she’d been when – in 1955 – our white and tan, battle-scarred, street-fighter of a tomcat called Sammy was knocked down and killed on a busy road not far from our prefab home near Mottingham in south-east London. I found Sammy lying dead in the gutter while I was out on a cub scout’s Bob-a-Job errand. Without delay I returned home and reported my find to Mum, and she promptly walked to the scene to satisfy herself that it was, indeed, our Sammy. Poor Mum was inconsolable for the rest of the day.
As if to heap misery upon misfortune, two years later, Sooty: a black and white tomcat Mum and Dad bought to replace Sammy, suffered a spinal injury. At first we thought the little bald patch on Sooty’s back was an itchy sore. However, no cream or ointment helped, because the cat would lick it off as soon as it was applied.
Then, late one Friday evening, Sooty walked into the living room where we were watching Dragnet on television. As he tried to walk under a fireside chair, his back brushed against a wooden strut. Frozen to the spot, Sooty began to yowl and spit. The noise was terrifying. Dad slowly approached the chair and gently lifted it away from the cat’s arched back. Then, placing the chair to one side, he gathered-up the now becalmed cat in a towel, and took him into the back garden.
Before climbing into bed that night, I shone my torch through the half open bedroom window, and quietly called Sooty’s name. Two pin-points of light appeared at the far end of the garden, as the torch beam picked-out the cat’s eyes. At least he now seemed to be at rest after his earlier ordeal.
The following morning, I awoke early and went straight to my bedroom window. Sooty was nowhere to be seen. I raced into the kitchen and unlocked the back door. There, wedged between the prefab wall and a broom-head our cat sat staring-up at me with wide pleading eyes. “Come on then Sooty,” I called. “C’mon on boy. Come and have some breakfast”. Sooty didn’t move.
“Mum!” I shouted, “come quickly, I think there’s something wrong with Sooty.” Mum was by my side in a few seconds. “Try moving the broom, David,” she said. Holding my breath, I gently removed the broom from beside the cat’s body and, as I did so, he raised himself up on his front legs. I sighed with relief. However, as he stepped towards the threshold of the back door, my sense of relief turned to horror. Sooty was hauling himself along on his front paws. His back legs, trailing pitifully behind him, were useless. He was paralysed.
Mum burst into tears, and I felt an aching helplessness in my chest. There was obviously nothing either of us could do for our pet cat except make him as comfortable as possible. Later that morning, Dad and I took Sooty to the local PDSA clinic where he was put out of his misery. The vet concluded that our little black and white cat had been bitten by a dog or a fox, and the wound had damaged his spinal cord, which – the night before – had severed.
On our return home, Mum was still crying, and she remained deeply upset by the experience for several weeks. In common with the fondly remembered Sammy, she had quickly formed a powerful bond with Sooty, and now he too had been taken from her in equally distressing circumstances.
How apt, then, that some thirty-three years later, a big black tomcat should appear out of nowhere as Mum drifted inexorably towards the end of her life. The first time I saw that handsome feline specimen, he was curled-up on the chair next to Mum’s bed. Instinctively, I felt that this magnificent creature had arrived on the scene to assist in some way, and so I insisted that it should be allowed to wander in and out of my mother’s room at will.
Over the next few days, each time I arrived at the nursing home, the big black cat would be on sentry duty; either asleep on Mum’s bed or quietly washing himself on the bedside chair. In fact, on one occasion, I lifted the cat close to Mum’s face so she could stroke it and say hello. How moving it was to witness her empathy with, and unconditional love for, that beautiful animal. As desperately ill as she was, Mum was still able to tickle him under the chin and call him “boofles” ... an affectionate term she had used for both Sammy and Sooty all those years before.
On the afternoon of March 22, 1990, I was advised by Mum’s doctor that her time was very close, so the big black tomcat and I held a four hour vigil at her bedside as she slipped deeper into unconsciousness. Mum passed peacefully away on that same evening and, according to the nursing home matron, the mysterious black cat walked out of the building shortly before Mum’s passing at 8.50pm. He was never seen again.
Mum always had a soft-spot for cats. I remember how upset she’d been when – in 1955 – our white and tan, battle-scarred, street-fighter of a tomcat called Sammy was knocked down and killed on a busy road not far from our prefab home near Mottingham in south-east London. I found Sammy lying dead in the gutter while I was out on a cub scout’s Bob-a-Job errand. Without delay I returned home and reported my find to Mum, and she promptly walked to the scene to satisfy herself that it was, indeed, our Sammy. Poor Mum was inconsolable for the rest of the day.
As if to heap misery upon misfortune, two years later, Sooty: a black and white tomcat Mum and Dad bought to replace Sammy, suffered a spinal injury. At first we thought the little bald patch on Sooty’s back was an itchy sore. However, no cream or ointment helped, because the cat would lick it off as soon as it was applied.
Then, late one Friday evening, Sooty walked into the living room where we were watching Dragnet on television. As he tried to walk under a fireside chair, his back brushed against a wooden strut. Frozen to the spot, Sooty began to yowl and spit. The noise was terrifying. Dad slowly approached the chair and gently lifted it away from the cat’s arched back. Then, placing the chair to one side, he gathered-up the now becalmed cat in a towel, and took him into the back garden.
Before climbing into bed that night, I shone my torch through the half open bedroom window, and quietly called Sooty’s name. Two pin-points of light appeared at the far end of the garden, as the torch beam picked-out the cat’s eyes. At least he now seemed to be at rest after his earlier ordeal.
The following morning, I awoke early and went straight to my bedroom window. Sooty was nowhere to be seen. I raced into the kitchen and unlocked the back door. There, wedged between the prefab wall and a broom-head our cat sat staring-up at me with wide pleading eyes. “Come on then Sooty,” I called. “C’mon on boy. Come and have some breakfast”. Sooty didn’t move.
“Mum!” I shouted, “come quickly, I think there’s something wrong with Sooty.” Mum was by my side in a few seconds. “Try moving the broom, David,” she said. Holding my breath, I gently removed the broom from beside the cat’s body and, as I did so, he raised himself up on his front legs. I sighed with relief. However, as he stepped towards the threshold of the back door, my sense of relief turned to horror. Sooty was hauling himself along on his front paws. His back legs, trailing pitifully behind him, were useless. He was paralysed.
Mum burst into tears, and I felt an aching helplessness in my chest. There was obviously nothing either of us could do for our pet cat except make him as comfortable as possible. Later that morning, Dad and I took Sooty to the local PDSA clinic where he was put out of his misery. The vet concluded that our little black and white cat had been bitten by a dog or a fox, and the wound had damaged his spinal cord, which – the night before – had severed.
On our return home, Mum was still crying, and she remained deeply upset by the experience for several weeks. In common with the fondly remembered Sammy, she had quickly formed a powerful bond with Sooty, and now he too had been taken from her in equally distressing circumstances.
How apt, then, that some thirty-three years later, a big black tomcat should appear out of nowhere as Mum drifted inexorably towards the end of her life. The first time I saw that handsome feline specimen, he was curled-up on the chair next to Mum’s bed. Instinctively, I felt that this magnificent creature had arrived on the scene to assist in some way, and so I insisted that it should be allowed to wander in and out of my mother’s room at will.
Over the next few days, each time I arrived at the nursing home, the big black cat would be on sentry duty; either asleep on Mum’s bed or quietly washing himself on the bedside chair. In fact, on one occasion, I lifted the cat close to Mum’s face so she could stroke it and say hello. How moving it was to witness her empathy with, and unconditional love for, that beautiful animal. As desperately ill as she was, Mum was still able to tickle him under the chin and call him “boofles” ... an affectionate term she had used for both Sammy and Sooty all those years before.
On the afternoon of March 22, 1990, I was advised by Mum’s doctor that her time was very close, so the big black tomcat and I held a four hour vigil at her bedside as she slipped deeper into unconsciousness. Mum passed peacefully away on that same evening and, according to the nursing home matron, the mysterious black cat walked out of the building shortly before Mum’s passing at 8.50pm. He was never seen again.
GOING HOME (a sequel to "A Mother's Feline Friends")
IF YOU REMEMBER the 1994 Hovis bread TV advertisement, you'll almost certainly recall the beautiful piece of music that accompanied it. That piece of music was a movement from classical composer Antonin Dvorak's "New World Symphony" entitled "Goin' Home". That same classical movement is central to this rather unusual true short story...
WHEN I first became part of the DevonAir Radio freelance team in 1984, I was invited by the radio station’s manager to produce and present the "Nightwatch" programme from 9pm to midnight, Monday to Friday inclusive. My plan was to develop a relaxed music and chat format, with plenty of scope for the listeners to get involved by way of regular phone-in competitions and dedications. Little did I realise, however, my ideas would find favour with my audience quite so quickly, and in such a pleasing way.
Within a couple of weeks, I had become familiar with the names of a number of regular callers, but one in particular stood-out in my mind. In fact, I could almost set my watch by her. At around ten-past-ten each evening, a lady calling herself “Butterfly” would telephone my studio assistant and ask for a dedication to … “all those listening to the programme on their own”.
Not long afterwards, other listeners began to catch-on to the compassionate nature of “Butterfly’s” dedication by making supportive dedications of their own. In doing so, they adopted similar animal-related soubriquets including Hedgehog, Mouse, Caterpillar and Owl. Eventually, these pseudonyms became so numerous I began to experience some difficulty in remembering who was who. So, as an aid to brevity, I decided to christen them collectively my Nightwatch Menagerie. Suffice it to say this arrangement met with their unanimous approval.
In the ensuing weeks the Nightwatch Menagerie – in common with the rest of the programme’s audience – became a tight-knit local radio family; often sharing each other’s joys and woes over the airwaves. But, for me, “Butterfly” remained an enigma. Indeed, after several months of transmitting her nightly dedication to everyone listening on their own, my curiosity got the better of me, and I set-out to discover who this mysterious lady really was. Happily, I managed to locate her within a few days. “Butterfly’s” real name was Heather, and at that time she lived in a charming cottage in the village of Kingsteignton near Newton Abbot in Devon. In fact, Heather quickly became a very dear friend and confidante.
Let me explain. When my mother became terminally ill in 1989, Heather – who was then a practising bereavement counselor – helped me to find the strength to endure a particularly stressful few months. Mum passed away on March 22, 1990 and the following morning, Heather made a promise. At 3pm on the day of Mum’s funeral in London – some 250 miles distant – she would walk to the ancient church of St Michael, just a few yards from her home in Kingsteignton, and there she would sit quietly for an hour.
I said au revoir to Mum on a beautiful spring afternoon at the Hither Green Crematorium in South London. At exactly 3.50pm, as we filed slowly out of the chapel, the Largo from Antonin Dvorak’s New World Symphony – as used in that famous UK TV advertisement for Hovis bread mentioned above – was playing softly over the chapel’s public address system.
Recognising that familiar and beautiful piece of music moved me deeply. After all, I had first heard the gentle rise and fall of that exquisite melody drifting from my parent’s Ferguson radiogram when I was just eight years old. It had instantly become a personal favourite, and I later discovered that it had, had lyrics added and was also known as Goin’ Home. Hearing it once again at such a pivotal moment in my life was powerfully re-assuring.
By 11pm that same evening, my wife Jenny and I were safely back home in Devon. The following morning dawned sunny and spring-like again and, at around 10.30am, Heather telephoned to check that all was well. Moments later our conversation revealed that a quite remarkable event had taken place less than 24 hours earlier.
“I did as I promised,” announced Heather. “But it was such a beautiful afternoon I decided to sit on a bench in the churchyard instead of sitting inside the church itself. The sun was streaming through the new leaves on the willow branches; the brook was gently babbling at my feet, and a robin was singing in a nearby chestnut tree. It was absolutely idyllic,” she added poetically.
Before I could respond to Heather’s delightful description, she carried-on, “Then, quite suddenly, I began to hear in my mind’s ear, the most marvellous music. I don’t know whether you know it, David, but it’s the Largo from Dvorak’s New World Symphony. And it is also known as Goin’ Home!”
For a second or two, I was rendered speechless. But then I excitedly asked Heather if she’d noticed the time. “Funny you should ask that, my dear,” she replied. “As I became more and more aware of the music in my mind’s ear, I looked first at my wrist watch, and then at the steeple clock. It was exactly ten-to-four!”
WHEN I first became part of the DevonAir Radio freelance team in 1984, I was invited by the radio station’s manager to produce and present the "Nightwatch" programme from 9pm to midnight, Monday to Friday inclusive. My plan was to develop a relaxed music and chat format, with plenty of scope for the listeners to get involved by way of regular phone-in competitions and dedications. Little did I realise, however, my ideas would find favour with my audience quite so quickly, and in such a pleasing way.
Within a couple of weeks, I had become familiar with the names of a number of regular callers, but one in particular stood-out in my mind. In fact, I could almost set my watch by her. At around ten-past-ten each evening, a lady calling herself “Butterfly” would telephone my studio assistant and ask for a dedication to … “all those listening to the programme on their own”.
Not long afterwards, other listeners began to catch-on to the compassionate nature of “Butterfly’s” dedication by making supportive dedications of their own. In doing so, they adopted similar animal-related soubriquets including Hedgehog, Mouse, Caterpillar and Owl. Eventually, these pseudonyms became so numerous I began to experience some difficulty in remembering who was who. So, as an aid to brevity, I decided to christen them collectively my Nightwatch Menagerie. Suffice it to say this arrangement met with their unanimous approval.
In the ensuing weeks the Nightwatch Menagerie – in common with the rest of the programme’s audience – became a tight-knit local radio family; often sharing each other’s joys and woes over the airwaves. But, for me, “Butterfly” remained an enigma. Indeed, after several months of transmitting her nightly dedication to everyone listening on their own, my curiosity got the better of me, and I set-out to discover who this mysterious lady really was. Happily, I managed to locate her within a few days. “Butterfly’s” real name was Heather, and at that time she lived in a charming cottage in the village of Kingsteignton near Newton Abbot in Devon. In fact, Heather quickly became a very dear friend and confidante.
Let me explain. When my mother became terminally ill in 1989, Heather – who was then a practising bereavement counselor – helped me to find the strength to endure a particularly stressful few months. Mum passed away on March 22, 1990 and the following morning, Heather made a promise. At 3pm on the day of Mum’s funeral in London – some 250 miles distant – she would walk to the ancient church of St Michael, just a few yards from her home in Kingsteignton, and there she would sit quietly for an hour.
I said au revoir to Mum on a beautiful spring afternoon at the Hither Green Crematorium in South London. At exactly 3.50pm, as we filed slowly out of the chapel, the Largo from Antonin Dvorak’s New World Symphony – as used in that famous UK TV advertisement for Hovis bread mentioned above – was playing softly over the chapel’s public address system.
Recognising that familiar and beautiful piece of music moved me deeply. After all, I had first heard the gentle rise and fall of that exquisite melody drifting from my parent’s Ferguson radiogram when I was just eight years old. It had instantly become a personal favourite, and I later discovered that it had, had lyrics added and was also known as Goin’ Home. Hearing it once again at such a pivotal moment in my life was powerfully re-assuring.
By 11pm that same evening, my wife Jenny and I were safely back home in Devon. The following morning dawned sunny and spring-like again and, at around 10.30am, Heather telephoned to check that all was well. Moments later our conversation revealed that a quite remarkable event had taken place less than 24 hours earlier.
“I did as I promised,” announced Heather. “But it was such a beautiful afternoon I decided to sit on a bench in the churchyard instead of sitting inside the church itself. The sun was streaming through the new leaves on the willow branches; the brook was gently babbling at my feet, and a robin was singing in a nearby chestnut tree. It was absolutely idyllic,” she added poetically.
Before I could respond to Heather’s delightful description, she carried-on, “Then, quite suddenly, I began to hear in my mind’s ear, the most marvellous music. I don’t know whether you know it, David, but it’s the Largo from Dvorak’s New World Symphony. And it is also known as Goin’ Home!”
For a second or two, I was rendered speechless. But then I excitedly asked Heather if she’d noticed the time. “Funny you should ask that, my dear,” she replied. “As I became more and more aware of the music in my mind’s ear, I looked first at my wrist watch, and then at the steeple clock. It was exactly ten-to-four!”
"THE NAME'S HAYMES" (Sepia CD review)
I AM CURRENTLY taking a break from radio production and presentation to finish the sequel to my e-book “Maisie Pops” – cunningly titled “More Maisie Pops” – and, likewise, written under my pen and stage name of Lewis Adler. However, that doesn’t mean to say my involvement with mid-20th popular music has ceased.
On the contrary, I recently took possession of a new release on the UK’s Sepia label (catalogue No: SEPIA 1290). “The Name’s Haymes” is a 24 track collection from one of the 20th Century’s truly great balladeers Dick Haymes.The recordings on the collection all date from 1957 and 1958, and the first twelve items are a direct lift from Dick’s 1958 album “The Name’s Haymes” featuring Cy Coleman on piano, with the accompaniment directed by Maury Laws. The remaining twelve titles on the CD are listed as bonus tracks under the direction of a number of different conductors, plus a couple of alternate takes from “The Name’s Haymes” album.
Some of the stand-out tracks on “The Name’s Haymes” Sepia CD include superb arrangements of the ballads So Far; This Time the Dream’s On Me; My Heart Stood Still and A Sinner Kissed An Angel, plus equally enjoyable, gentle swing workings of Cheek to Cheek; A Very Precious Love and On a Slow Boat to China. In contrast, there’s a fast and furious take on You Stepped Out of a Dream, and a big brassy version of Oh! Look At Me Now. A word of warning, though, please don’t judge the CD by the moody opening track titled The Long Hot Summer. It’s a very unusual, atmospheric recording, and it opened the original “The Name’s Haymes” LP. In fact The Long Hot Summer and A Very Precious Love alternate takes that close the Sepia CD became the very first Hallmark label single issued in February 1958.
All in all, “The Name’s Haymes” Sepia CD is a wonderfully listenable collection from one of the 20th Century’s all-time-great song stylists … Dick Haymes … he of the distinctive, soothing voice.
====================
And while we’re on the subject of distinctive voices: with more than 30 years of programme-making for the BBC and UK Independent Local Radio under my belt, despite my Dystonic Tremor disability, I’m now fully conversant with the remote VoiceTracking (“Robojock”) method of computerised production and presentation for internet radio.
So, if you’re an internet radio station CEO running VoiceTracking and you’re on the look-out for a seasoned producer~presenter of mid-20th Century popular music radio shows, drop me a line at [email protected] or call me on Skype at david.l.lowe.
Once “More Masie Pops” is published in 2016, I’ll be back in radio mode again … you betcha!
On the contrary, I recently took possession of a new release on the UK’s Sepia label (catalogue No: SEPIA 1290). “The Name’s Haymes” is a 24 track collection from one of the 20th Century’s truly great balladeers Dick Haymes.The recordings on the collection all date from 1957 and 1958, and the first twelve items are a direct lift from Dick’s 1958 album “The Name’s Haymes” featuring Cy Coleman on piano, with the accompaniment directed by Maury Laws. The remaining twelve titles on the CD are listed as bonus tracks under the direction of a number of different conductors, plus a couple of alternate takes from “The Name’s Haymes” album.
Some of the stand-out tracks on “The Name’s Haymes” Sepia CD include superb arrangements of the ballads So Far; This Time the Dream’s On Me; My Heart Stood Still and A Sinner Kissed An Angel, plus equally enjoyable, gentle swing workings of Cheek to Cheek; A Very Precious Love and On a Slow Boat to China. In contrast, there’s a fast and furious take on You Stepped Out of a Dream, and a big brassy version of Oh! Look At Me Now. A word of warning, though, please don’t judge the CD by the moody opening track titled The Long Hot Summer. It’s a very unusual, atmospheric recording, and it opened the original “The Name’s Haymes” LP. In fact The Long Hot Summer and A Very Precious Love alternate takes that close the Sepia CD became the very first Hallmark label single issued in February 1958.
All in all, “The Name’s Haymes” Sepia CD is a wonderfully listenable collection from one of the 20th Century’s all-time-great song stylists … Dick Haymes … he of the distinctive, soothing voice.
====================
And while we’re on the subject of distinctive voices: with more than 30 years of programme-making for the BBC and UK Independent Local Radio under my belt, despite my Dystonic Tremor disability, I’m now fully conversant with the remote VoiceTracking (“Robojock”) method of computerised production and presentation for internet radio.
So, if you’re an internet radio station CEO running VoiceTracking and you’re on the look-out for a seasoned producer~presenter of mid-20th Century popular music radio shows, drop me a line at [email protected] or call me on Skype at david.l.lowe.
Once “More Masie Pops” is published in 2016, I’ll be back in radio mode again … you betcha!
A SANE SCIENTIST SPEAKS
Foreword:-
POLYMERIC FORMALDEHYDE! Try saying that in a hurry. On second thoughts, say it slowly a few times, and then commit it to memory, because those two words may hold the key to a major scientific breakthrough.
Now, before I go any further, let me assure you that I’m not going to blind you with science. On the contrary, I’m not a scientist, but a writer and broadcaster, so what follows in this article will be looking at science from a layman’s point of view. Nevertheless, I believe the subject under discussion here – polymeric formaldehyde – and its effects on a wide variety of everyday issues, will be of interest to scientists and non-scientists alike.
So, how does a writer and broadcaster get involved in scientific theorising? Well, as you'll read in the body of the article, it all started innocently enough in the early weeks of 2013, when I received an e-mail from listener Christopher Baskerville of Stevenage in Hertfordshire. In addition to asking me to feature a specific recording on one of my BBC radio programmes, Christopher went-on to claim that he was “persona non-grata” in the eyes of the UK media. That strange closing remark by him aroused my curiosity, so I replied to his e-mail by asking him to tell me more.
What followed a few days later was an e-mail containing one of the most compelling scientific arguments I have ever read, and one Christopher has given me permission to share with you. In all sincerity, I've never run with the pack, and that's what attracted me to the story. What follows below is the original article.
Question: why is the scientific world ignoring this British scientist’s findings? And why is most of the world’s mass and print media doing the same?
A Captivating Story
HISTORY is peppered with great scientific theories that, at first, have been frowned upon, but have then gone-on to be proved entirely correct. All too often, however, the theorists have pre-deceased the acclaim their discoveries eventually received, and others have conveniently stepped-in to take the credit.
My hope is that such an injustice won’t happen in this particular instance. Let me explain: in my thirty-one years as a broadcaster and writer, I have come-into contact with a wide variety of people from virtually every walk of life, but never have I been so captivated and driven, as I am today, by a story told to me recently by a highly qualified research scientist by the name of Christopher Baskerville.
The Scene is Set
Late last year, I received an e-mail from Christopher who, in addition to asking me to feature a specific recording on one of my BBC radio programmes, went-on to suggest that he was "persona non-grata" in the eyes of the UK media. That strange parting remark by him aroused my curiosity, so I replied to his e-mail by asking him to tell me more. What followed was one of the most compelling scientific arguments I have ever read, and one Christopher has given me permission to share with you here.
The Background
Until his retirement in the 1980s, Christopher had worked for more than 20 years in the UK Civil Service as a high-ranking water pollution research chemist. After retiring, Christopher set-up his own research facilities directed at investigating and quantifying the extent to which air pollution was present in the indoor environment. In order to do this, he used his knowledge of the analytical methods used by the sewage treatment industry. Consequently, by collecting and
analysing condensed water vapour, he was able to quantify levels of indoor air pollution within many homes throughout the British Isles. During these investigations he researched, in considerable depth, the unusual behaviour of a common substance called polymeric formaldehyde, which became activated by a static electrical charge, or by electro magnetism, or on exposure to a fluctuating magnetic field … or a combination of all three.
That discovery encouraged Christopher to broaden his investigations into polymeric formaldehyde by also studying its behaviour – and the circumstances necessary for its appearance as an environmental pollutant – in enclosed spaces like homes and offices, as well as in the open air. As part of this research, he was particularly interested in its effects on, not only humans, but also animals, plant life, and electrical circuitry.
Ignored and Ridiculed
However his findings have been almost completely ignored by the scientific establishment and the media in general. Indeed, at best, it has even been suggested to him that his scientific theories are far too alarming to be made public and, at worst, he has been labelled as a nutter … a mad scientist.
Research Findings
So what is polymeric formaldehyde, and what are these ‘alarming’ effects its activation can have? Put simply, we all have formaldehyde polymers on and within our bodies, and it is kept in equilibrium by the electrical output emanating from our brain. In a healthy individual it ranges between 30 and 60 milligrams per kilogram of body hair. However, if the body becomes contaminated with chemically unstable polymeric formaldehyde, that figure can jump to 300 mg per kg.
Christopher’s research seems to show that such contamination can be triggered by the electro-magnetic radiation (in the frequency range of 100 to 1000MHz) as is used in a myriad of modern day domestic, electronic devices. His research findings also point to contamination
being triggered by our experience of the variations in the earth’s magnetic fields, especially when we travel across time zones. Furthermore, Christopher states that those variations can also be caused by cometry debris, satellites and space junk orbiting the planet interrupting the Solar wind. To illustrate his point Christopher cites jet lag as a disturbance of our body chemistry, brought about by the above mentioned variations in magnetic pulses.
Most significant of all, according to Christopher’s findings, polymeric formaldehyde contamination can be seen to influence the onset of such serious human health issues as MS, Alzheimer’s, depression, asthma, allergies, AIDS and even Sudden Infant Death syndrome (cot death). And it doesn’t end there, because Christopher is convinced that polymeric formaldehyde contamination is also at the heart of extreme human behaviour: several recent and highly publicised examples of which have resulted in the tragic deaths of dozens of children and young people in the USA and Scandinavia. Another aspect to Christopher’s research findings points to polymeric formaldehyde contamination having been responsible for such natural disasters as Dutch elm disease, Ash tree die-back and the Irish potato famine of the 1840s.
Detection and Decontamination
So, how can polymeric formaldehyde contamination be detected in human beings, and how can decontamination be achieved? According to Christopher’s research, a simple test on a strand of human hair, or in a bead of body sweat is sufficient to reveal abnormal levels in a contaminated individual. His recommendations for decontamination range from vigorous exercise like cycling, running or contact sports, followed by a thorough shower, or a bath laced with a little vinegar and sulphur dioxide, to horse riding, swimming, gardening (ideally in your bare feet); yoga or meditation. Christopher also advocates washing newly purchased clothing before wearing it and making sure there’s a circulation of fresh air in one’s bedroom. A small window left slightly open is sufficient to provide the necessary air-flow and thereby prevent contamination.
In His Own Words
Christopher says “Polymeric formaldehyde is, I believe, an essential component of all living matter … humans, animals, plants and microbes. In humans it is kept in equilibrium by the electrical output of the brain. Too much and we become hyper-activated, and prone to disease, as our body biochemistry becomes an attractive diet and environmental habitat for malignant organisms to thrive. Too little and we are dead.”
Why Such Indifference?
Given that Christopher’s painstaking research over several decades has pointed to so many detrimental effects on human health, one wonders why the scientific establishment and the media on both sides of the Atlantic have ignored him and his findings? Even those scientists who have tested Christopher’s theories have, so far, failed to confirm or deny their veracity. What are they afraid of? More importantly, what are they trying to hide from us?
A Captivating Story
HISTORY is peppered with great scientific theories that, at first, have been frowned upon, but have then gone-on to be proved entirely correct. All too often, however, the theorists have pre-deceased the acclaim their discoveries eventually received, and others have conveniently stepped-in to take the credit.
My hope is that such an injustice won’t happen in this particular instance. Let me explain: in my thirty-one years as a broadcaster and writer, I have come-into contact with a wide variety of people from virtually every walk of life, but never have I been so captivated and driven, as I am today, by a story told to me recently by a highly qualified research scientist by the name of Christopher Baskerville.
The Scene is Set
Late last year, I received an e-mail from Christopher who, in addition to asking me to feature a specific recording on one of my BBC radio programmes, went-on to suggest that he was "persona non-grata" in the eyes of the UK media. That strange parting remark by him aroused my curiosity, so I replied to his e-mail by asking him to tell me more. What followed was one of the most compelling scientific arguments I have ever read, and one Christopher has given me permission to share with you here.
The Background
Until his retirement in the 1980s, Christopher had worked for more than 20 years in the UK Civil Service as a high-ranking water pollution research chemist. After retiring, Christopher set-up his own research facilities directed at investigating and quantifying the extent to which air pollution was present in the indoor environment. In order to do this, he used his knowledge of the analytical methods used by the sewage treatment industry. Consequently, by collecting and
analysing condensed water vapour, he was able to quantify levels of indoor air pollution within many homes throughout the British Isles. During these investigations he researched, in considerable depth, the unusual behaviour of a common substance called polymeric formaldehyde, which became activated by a static electrical charge, or by electro magnetism, or on exposure to a fluctuating magnetic field … or a combination of all three.
That discovery encouraged Christopher to broaden his investigations into polymeric formaldehyde by also studying its behaviour – and the circumstances necessary for its appearance as an environmental pollutant – in enclosed spaces like homes and offices, as well as in the open air. As part of this research, he was particularly interested in its effects on, not only humans, but also animals, plant life, and electrical circuitry.
Ignored and Ridiculed
However his findings have been almost completely ignored by the scientific establishment and the media in general. Indeed, at best, it has even been suggested to him that his scientific theories are far too alarming to be made public and, at worst, he has been labelled as a nutter … a mad scientist.
Research Findings
So what is polymeric formaldehyde, and what are these ‘alarming’ effects its activation can have? Put simply, we all have formaldehyde polymers on and within our bodies, and it is kept in equilibrium by the electrical output emanating from our brain. In a healthy individual it ranges between 30 and 60 milligrams per kilogram of body hair. However, if the body becomes contaminated with chemically unstable polymeric formaldehyde, that figure can jump to 300 mg per kg.
Christopher’s research seems to show that such contamination can be triggered by the electro-magnetic radiation (in the frequency range of 100 to 1000MHz) as is used in a myriad of modern day domestic, electronic devices. His research findings also point to contamination
being triggered by our experience of the variations in the earth’s magnetic fields, especially when we travel across time zones. Furthermore, Christopher states that those variations can also be caused by cometry debris, satellites and space junk orbiting the planet interrupting the Solar wind. To illustrate his point Christopher cites jet lag as a disturbance of our body chemistry, brought about by the above mentioned variations in magnetic pulses.
Most significant of all, according to Christopher’s findings, polymeric formaldehyde contamination can be seen to influence the onset of such serious human health issues as MS, Alzheimer’s, depression, asthma, allergies, AIDS and even Sudden Infant Death syndrome (cot death). And it doesn’t end there, because Christopher is convinced that polymeric formaldehyde contamination is also at the heart of extreme human behaviour: several recent and highly publicised examples of which have resulted in the tragic deaths of dozens of children and young people in the USA and Scandinavia. Another aspect to Christopher’s research findings points to polymeric formaldehyde contamination having been responsible for such natural disasters as Dutch elm disease, Ash tree die-back and the Irish potato famine of the 1840s.
Detection and Decontamination
So, how can polymeric formaldehyde contamination be detected in human beings, and how can decontamination be achieved? According to Christopher’s research, a simple test on a strand of human hair, or in a bead of body sweat is sufficient to reveal abnormal levels in a contaminated individual. His recommendations for decontamination range from vigorous exercise like cycling, running or contact sports, followed by a thorough shower, or a bath laced with a little vinegar and sulphur dioxide, to horse riding, swimming, gardening (ideally in your bare feet); yoga or meditation. Christopher also advocates washing newly purchased clothing before wearing it and making sure there’s a circulation of fresh air in one’s bedroom. A small window left slightly open is sufficient to provide the necessary air-flow and thereby prevent contamination.
In His Own Words
Christopher says “Polymeric formaldehyde is, I believe, an essential component of all living matter … humans, animals, plants and microbes. In humans it is kept in equilibrium by the electrical output of the brain. Too much and we become hyper-activated, and prone to disease, as our body biochemistry becomes an attractive diet and environmental habitat for malignant organisms to thrive. Too little and we are dead.”
Why Such Indifference?
Given that Christopher’s painstaking research over several decades has pointed to so many detrimental effects on human health, one wonders why the scientific establishment and the media on both sides of the Atlantic have ignored him and his findings? Even those scientists who have tested Christopher’s theories have, so far, failed to confirm or deny their veracity. What are they afraid of? More importantly, what are they trying to hide from us?