Dec. 22 The Day After The End of the World

Well, here we are; running headlong at the wall that is the end of the year and like Paul Carrack, I’m “Looking back, over my shoulder…” A while ago, the Queen had an ‘annus horribilis’. She’s not alone. In talking to you, many have had misfortunes this year where it would be easy to look back and say “Poor me, Why me? Dearie me”. Luckily, there have been gifts too, so let’s focus on these, instead of dwelling on memories that will only bring sadness.

The Olympics, for instance… What an Opening Ceremony! The best TV I have seen since the Morecambe and Wise Christmas specials; a visual history through the ages, a celebration - of everything that makes Britain, Britain. I’m reading A Short History of England at the moment (England you’ll note, not Britain) which makes it difficult to understand the current rage against immigration. Nearly no one can trace their ancestry back to the indigenous pre-Roman tribes, mainly because most of the original Brits got wiped out by the genocidal approach of invading forces in the first 700 years of our recorded history. Most of today’s Brits are descended from French, Danish, German, Italian (Roman) and Scandinavian visitors - and the slaves they brought with them, which explains our love of cheese, wine, pastries, sausages and pasta.

Back to the Olympics though, many of us were able to spot ourselves on BBC’s i-Player as we watched the torch pass by. I saw myself taking photos of the torch handover in Spalding Town Centre, also Dick & Jan Maddock on Crown Hill in Rayleigh. Plus we had the buzz of vicarious armchair glory through our athletes, Mo Farrah, Jessica Ennis et al, people who deserve their celebrity for years of sacrifice, training and commitment.

And we have Bradley Wiggins’ superhuman effort to win the Tour de France, without drugs apparently, proving that anything is possible. Then, the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee with its pomp, pageantry and concert of old men singing badly, and the Paralympic Games which gave rise to a greater understanding of other people’s problems, normally swept under the carpet to avoid the discomfort of thinking about them.

Talking of which, did you see The Best of Men? I recommend it. It’s a short TV film - just 90 minutes, of how the Paralympics got started by a German doctor in the last war. He was a Jew, so expelled from Germany and used by the British Army in Stoke Mandeville hospital to treat crippled soldiers. The English doctors had given up on them so the treatment philosophy was ‘keep them sedated till they die’. Our hero though, Dr. Ludwig Guttmann, was having none of it. He wanted these people, written-off as cripples, to live life as full people as much as they could, and fought the establishment to enable that in a rejection of the easier, safe, conventional attitudes of an uncaring organisation waiting for them to die. Have a box of tissues handy. You’ll need them, and not in a good way as in Debbie Does Dallas. It’s the most moving film I’ve seen in a long while.

We all love a story of the underdog fighting (and winning) against the establishment. I’ve just finished Exposure - Michael Woodford’s story as one-time President of Olympus, sacked for exposing a massive internal fraud. I recommend it to those of you with a knowledge of accounting. Without this it will be a meaningless (but justified) rant against the Japanese ethos of not criticising the elite social strata however badly, incompetently or dishonestly  they behave.

Olympus lost billions of dollars on speculative investments (or ‘gambling’ as it is sometimes known) and then tried to hide it by bullying and threatening anyone who wanted to expose it.

That’s it. O.K. Spoiler Alert, admittedly - but I’ve saved you £20. If however, you have an accounting and/or Internal Control background, it is rife with politics, business transgressions, devious acquisitions and mergers that are an Internal Auditor’s wet dream. Anyone want to borrow my copy, let me know.

I see the Andrew Mitchell story, like yeast, refuses to die. I complained in the last letter about journos not bringing out the full story. I live in earnest hope that this may be corrected here. I’m writing this bit on Dec 18th. when the story appears on today’s news bulletins. However, it is still at the “I can’t say too much as it is sub-judice”, stage.  When you get the next letter in January, there should have been more developments. What fun!

That pointless paragraph was by way of an introduction to me noticing a sea change in the way of the world today - made up of several small waves. Firstly, the Ubiquitous Apology. It seems no matter how severe the transgression, all is forgiven if you just apologise. It’s as easy as that.

Andrew Mitchell was, by his own admission, hugely offensive to police officers who wouldn’t acknowledge his importance, swearing at and talking down to two officers doing their jobs. Then, when talking down again to the press in subsequent interviews, he thought an ungracious and unconvincing apology, lacking humility, was enough to draw a line and carry on as Chief Whip.

Now he seems to have become the hero a.k.a. victim, as it seems evidence has been fabricated by the police (Surely Not?). Now it’s the police’s turn to apologise to him. Again, bad behaviour on both sides - all fixed by a hindsight apology, with possibly a few minor players going to jail to feed the call of the baying pack for a sacrifice. Meanwhile, the puppet masters remain untouched, lurking in the shadows. This story is shaping up to look like an orchestrated police campaign to attack the govt. for budget cuts; in footballing terms - ‘A bit of afters’.

Separately, the bloke who accused Lord McAlpine of sexual abuse, apologised for mistaking his identity. Well, that’s alright then - forgive and forget. Never mind the unfounded abuse heaped on poor old McAlpine by the media and a hysterical Twitter lynch mob in the interim.

Or Jimmy Carr apologising for paying the tax that was due - just like you and me - but castigated publicly because his accountants took advantage of poorly-made tax laws. Why aren’t politicians apologising for making and not correcting, bad laws, open to exploitation?

The Aussie DJs apologising for their ‘prank’ is also worth a mention in that it wasn’t funny, therefore, not a joke. The intended humour, relied on making someone look foolish publicly - so others could point and mock. Hugely funny for those mocking but not for the poor butt of the joke, who was just being a nurse. It was a nasty, mean, cruel stunt - to have a laugh at someone else’s expense. She dies, they apologise. Well, that’s alright then. No harm done.

The NSW Premier commented in the immediate aftermath that it was “just a prank” and that “no laws had been broken”. It seems to me that impersonating someone to get private medical information would be unlawful - but what do I know? In this country we call it blagging and when used by our gutter press has resulted in people going to jail, but the NSW Premier thinks no laws have been broken. It would be  interesting to research his ancestry and see if he was descended from convicts. That would go a long way to explaining his grasp of the law.

David Cameron apologised for the police and political cover-up after Hillsborough. Why did he apologise? Was he responsible? No - he’d only just left university.

Why didn’t anyone from Thatcher’s government apologise? Was it just another pointless, insincere apology to give Cameron a photo op to show how caring he is?

That’s enough examples. Apologies are overused misdirection to avoid identifying poor judgement and the proper placement of responsibility and accountability, making acceptable…

“I killed your Gran. I’m really sorry. It was a joke.”

“That’s alright, mate. Apology accepted. What’re you having?”

Secondly, whistle-blowers now seem to be getting the praise they deserve a lot more. Take Michael Woodford of Olympus, mentioned earlier. A whistle-blower tipped him off and he had the balls to follow it up in the face of intimidation and threat and see it to a conclusion. He continued by writing to the board of Olympus about his concerns - with a cc to their accountants. The board castigated him violently for copying the accountants as they wanted it kept hidden, making Woodford a whistle-blower, albeit a powerful, clever, articulate one. Talking of which…

The British government’s collusion in American torture is coming into the spotlight. Julian Assange has made a career out of whistle-blowing, with another million docs to be released. While I recognise the need for secrecy to protect the public’s safety, it is also used by people with private agendas to hide their behaviour (and agenda). What a pity honesty is valued so lightly by our leaders.

My joy is in this growing trend to undermine the secrecy that shrouds bad behaviour. Yes, politicians both in government and in business try to justify their actions with faux honourable reasons - luckily, they think the public are as gullible as they are so believe that their pretence and words will be accepted. As long as politician remain that stupid, there is hope.

Which leads nicely into my third point, the complacency of politicians. I’ll be quick with this as this is getting too serious and too sensible, both qualities that I despise. Despite the atrocious thefts of a few years back, MPs are at it again stealing from the public. Margaret Moran and Maria Miller have hogged the headlines lately, bright people who don’t seem to read the papers. If they had, they would have known not to try this so soon after the last exposé . The Telegraph is still watching as are political opponents - ready to shop them at the drop of a hat.

Alternatively, if they do read the papers, then you’d have to guess at simple Arrogant Complacency. I think this has to be your degree subject, to qualify as a politician.

So that’s the sea change; (i) it doesn’t matter what crime you commit, apologise and you’ll be let off; (ii) whistle blowers are being encouraged and (iii) MPs are still, thick/complacent/greedy/thieves (tick one or more), believing their words will be believed over their actions - how naïve.

With Christmas coming up, my sister wanted me to make my Mulled Wine recipe. Forgetting that I got it from her originally (the recipe of her neighbour), and viewed through the shifting mist of confusion based on a quicksand of misunderstanding, this is now established in the D’Abreo Christmas tradition as Bren’s recipe. I’m happy to take all misplaced credit. It goes…

Bottle of cheap red wine (as you’re going to add spices to it, there’s no point in using the good stuff)

2 or 3 cinnamon sticks         2 or 3 teaspoons of Demerara sugar

Good pinch of nutmeg         Good pinch of powdered ginger

Half a lemon (sliced)            Half an orange (sliced)

and 12 cloves

Mix it all together and heat very slowly, but DO NOT boil. Stir often and drink it hot.

The Mayan End of the World was due an hour ago (21st Dec today). It’s late - typical; nothing runs on time anymore. In truth… I was kind of hoping it wouldn’t happen as I have set my Freesat and Freeview boxes to record stuff over Christmas. Had it ended today, missing Dr. Who and Kung Fu Panda would have been a real disappointment.

It seems today’s cars are brimming with gadgets to make driving easier? In my car, I have a Bluetooth ‘Hands-Free Kit’ and also ‘Cruise Control’ that pretty-well drives the car for you; great devices that apparently ‘take the driving out of driving’. Without reading the manuals from cover to cover, I believe I am now free to read my Kindle, do my nails or take a short nap on my trips to Essex. If only motor manufacturers can come up with something to give me a neck massage to lead me into the nap, life will be complete.

I found a great book that I recommend for those of you who like dry wit. It is called ‘Imagine My Surprise…  Unpublished Letters to the Daily Telegraph’. Here, I give you two extracts which, while possibly breaking copyright may serve as an advert for the book, so I ask forgiveness.

“SIR - it is bad enough reading that Colin Firth’s wife has dispensed with her underwear, but to publish the fact that 67% of women over 80 are sexually active and that most ‘achieve orgasm’, is devastating. Are you mad?

I am a mere male of 68 years, not a rampant young stud, and am still trying to live up to vague sexual expectations. Being uncertain whether or not I have succeeded is bad enough, but the thought of perhaps another two decades of strenuous and possibly gymnastic duties, is just too much. My only resort is to prevent my wife from reading the Telegraph.”

The 2nd letter advises, “Fifty shades of Grey - succinctly describes my lingerie collection.”

‘Imagine My Surprise’ covers a myriad of topics in this dry yet eloquent style, including my personal favourite The Use and Abuse of Language, where Aberrant Apostrophes, misplaced or just plain missing, punctuation and the pretentious use of “I” when the speaker means “me”, in an attempt to appear educated - are all misuses to make your teeth curl. Supposedly-educated newsreaders get it wrong all the time - so don’t feel bad if you also don’t know the English grammar rule on when to say “me” or “I” (it depends on whether you are the subject or the object of the pivotal verb in the sentence). Other chapters include - Family Life, Politics, the Monarchy, Sport and TV & Radio - topics commanding witty, original and astute observations. An amusing, undemanding read for when you want a bit of light relief from Life.

It is easy to ramble on about Life. It is a generous visitor that brings the gifts of sadness, anger, surprise, inspiration and best of all amusement and entertainment in generous quantities every day. This year has been a roller-coaster ride for me and, as I am aware, for some of you too. If we can accept with dignity, the unavoidable ‘horribilis’ aspects that haunt us all from time-to-time, and consider the benefits, our cups will be half full of warm mulled wine. And when we are credited with the recipe, however, unjustified, accept it quietly, adding humility to your character.

Let me close this year with a heartfelt Thank You to you all for your friendship. The phone calls, the texts, the letters, the e-mails -whether jokes, photos, flash mob videos or personal conversations, and your Christmas Cards, keep us connected. Life has blessed me generously all of my life and of the gifts I have received, friendship is the most valued.

Dec 1st

Do you find that it is a recurring theme in life to miss things because we are in such a rush; a rush to milk life, to look into the distance or simply to meet the day-to-day demands that we face?
 

Today is Saturday Nov. 17th and I have for the last few weeks, been sorting out my CD collection. I mentioned the i-Tunes library in the last letter but there are of course actual CDs as well, many of which are in i-Tunes; probably more that are not. The house move and then the unpacking threw them all up in the air, of course. Then there was the discarding to charity shops of a few that I simply had to have at one time, but for the life of me, can’t quite recall why. All in all, the fallout from that spoke to the filing clerk in me pleading for order from chaos so sorting, regrouping and cataloguing has been a demanding mistress for some time.

This exercise is proving to be a source of much joy, largely through the discovery of albums I never knew I had. I suspect I bought Atomic Kitten and their grannies Bananarama, for the sleeve photos more than the music, but Nathan Jones being chided for being “gone too long”, still makes one catch the breath. Neil Sedaka’s album ‘Laughter and Tears’ sums it up perfectly though. That’s what music does; it brings laughter and tears. How often does a particular number remind you of where you were - or of a past love? How does it do that?

I can still recall my open-mouthed awe at the Beatles on the Roof of Abbey Road doing Get Back; gawping crowds in the street and the police standing around bemused. Unconventional - but was it against the law? No one knew and no one under 20 cared. Another memory that’ll last forever, is the Shadows’ Apache. My cousin Malcolm who got me started on the guitar, taught me Apache in 1961. He was living with us at the time. I was off sick from school (and in those days you really had to be sick for your Mum to let you stay home). Malcolm went to work that day, but showed me three chords before he left, and promised to teach me Apache if I could play them when he got home. So I spent the day in bed, sniffling, snuffling, wheezing and sneezing - and learning my first chords.

Now 50 years later, my love of the guitar is resurfacing… I have just booked a 3-day course in January at a college in Northants to learn song-writing. As guitar-playing skills will be exercised, I have picked up one of the acoustics again and am playing once more (a) to restore flexibility in the fingers and (b) to loosen up the voice. I have few unfulfilled ambitions, but one that remains is to write a song and record it. I have written several songs and have a recording deck which records instruments and voices to six digital tracks for mixing down to the two other tracks to get stereo. Repeating this process allows you to superimpose further instruments and voices.

 

Being able to play guitar means I can cover the demands of lead, rhythm and bass. Then, if I start in the right key for the main tune, I can sing harmony with myself. Finally, having a keyboard that does drum voices including cymbals, as well as 70-odd instruments including piano, strings and wind instruments, one day soon I hope to have a song written, performed and arranged, entirely by me. I don’t promise anything professional or even hope for approval. This will be little more than the realisation of a dream that I never got around to doing anything about. Probably one of the last things on the Bucket List.

 

This is the real reason behind the CD listing exercise. In general, the bungalow is neat and tidy and I live it in quite happily. However, this study still has boxes everywhere; boxes that contain mysterious treasures waiting to be discovered. In a corner behind me, there are six guitars in their cases that I can’t get to, and two banjos. In another corner lies a keyboard, on its side. Dotted here and there are instrument and mic stands. In a box somewhere, lies a transformer and a lead that the keyboard needs. Without that, it remains resolutely silent. Until all of this is in its place, the recording project goes no further. Ideally, I need Mary Poppins to help tidy this room because if I have to do it manually… I shudder at the thought.

 

I had lunch with my son Steve on Friday, we often do this to catch-up on each other’s lives, then did a bit of Christmas shopping in Peterborough. In the exploration of Peterborough’s town centre, I found a ‘Jessops’ and was pleasantly surprised at their product range. It seems that one’s digital photos can feature in calendars (that can start at any month), desk planners, notepads, mouse mats, key fobs, mugs and acrylic or chipboard blocks - so, plenty of ideas for presents. Vistaprint offer similar products as does Photobox. Many sentimental projects lay ahead.

 

My photo collection is extensive with a capital ‘EXT’. Apart from the thousands of digital photos in this PC, there are even more in paper form from the preceding 50 years of film, in 30 albums and five plastic crates (also waiting for Mary Poppins), plus thousands more negatives where I no longer have the prints. Luckily, I have a scanner that turns negatives the right way around, in digital format, ready for improvement/restoration in Photoshop, then saving onto the PC.

 

Apart from recent visits to Ken & Maria in France, Chelsea Flower Shows, National Trust houses and gardens and the Lake District, I have photos of all of my life: my sons as children - this is Stephen arriving home from the hospital, (he’s 39 now),

 

 

my teenage years in a pop group - the Sabres - in the 60s, mainly in black and white, although a few in colour, life as a young married, then, after the divorce, the girlfriends and the years of travel, the people I met in those travels, and the friends I made.

 

Two years after my divorce, I was given the chance to travel around Europe with Ford, first as an Internal Auditor, then launching accounting systems. The Iron Curtain was still up so I just saw Western European capital cities from Finland through Scandinavia, down to Portugal, across Spain to Italy and up via Austria and Switzerland back into France, Belgium and Holland. For 10 years, I stayed in grand hotels and ate in fine restaurants, courtesy of Ford to whom I am immensely grateful for providing the lifestyle, experiences, education and the resultant friends. Then, after the Berlin Wall came down, the USSR broke up and the Cold War ended, I saw Belgrade before Yugoslavia went into meltdown; all of this between 1980 and 1990.

 

In the years that followed, the travel continued and by the gift of two friends, Pete Smith and Norman Lyons, I experienced life in Portugal for five years in the mid-90s, made close friends and saw fabulous sights. I stayed in castles, palaces, monasteries and a hunting lodge perched on the edge of a cliff, saw breath-taking valleys in the North and unending Roman roads bisecting vast plains of wheat in the heart of Portugal, peasant villages off the maps, one with a donkey tied up at a front door and two women washing clothes at the village pond; treasured memories of a world that I didn’t realise existed.

 

Lastly, at the end of the 20th century, my cousin Lorraine invited me to Oz for the wedding of her daughter Desirée to Rob - which led to four more visits in the next five years. This was mainly to see the cousins and their families in Perth but which also managed to encompass visits to Sydney, Melbourne, Cairns, the Rainforest, and the Great Barrier Reef, while seeing the deserts that make up the middle of that country. Also Ayers Rock, emus, camels and kangaroos in the wild and the salt plains - by train and plane when travelling back and forth. Flying there and back gave me the chance to take a look at Dubai, Muscat, Bangkok, Singapore, Los Angeles (including the Hotel California), Hollywood, and Hawaii. Separately, in this period, I ran with Terry Russell (at his instigation), in the Paris, New York and London marathons in the 12 months between May 1990 and April 1991. As I write this, further memories of golf tours, holidays, barbecues, landmark birthday parties and simple dinner parties resurface.

 

I mention these experiences because I had a camera with me in all these places and back there for a moment, we were talking Jessops and their product range which uses your own photos. I also mentioned having “thousands of photos”. You may have thought that was just a turn of phrase like the overused and misused "Amazing", "Awesome", "Absolutely" and "Literally" but there are literally, thousands of photos. In short, my life can be told in pictures. What a task that would be, scanning where it’s a paper photo, sorting, remembering (correctly? By no means guaranteed), then adding a few words to give the photos meaning to a future viewer.

 

While these thoughts have meandered freely because undoubtedly, I ramble, there is usually a point, and the point is this: “Give it a little thought. Doesn’t this apply to you too? You all have photo collections. Don’t they tell your life story; your triumphs, your holidays, the people that mattered, your kids' development across their tiny dot, cute years?” Aren’t we lucky that in our cameras, scanners and PCs, we have the instruments of capturing our lives so readily and so cheaply?

 

Certainly, four of you, Bill, Carole, Gabrielle & Pete are genealogists, interested in family trees, our histories and the lives of our forebears in general. For you four - and any others to whom this idea appeals, why not leave a pictorial history of your own family life for descendants that might have a similar interest? You could just leave a pile of photos for people to puzzle over when you’re gone, or perhaps leave a few words as well, to tell them the story of your life - or at least bits of it?

 

I’m doing that to some extent with these Letters From Lincs. Big Swinging Dick did that with his wonderfully entertaining letters from St. Helena. Apart from the light relief that they provided at the time, they are also a record for future family historians.

 

The best bit for me, is that these letters we write, or indeed anything we write, are not just a simple record for the history books. They tell the world who we are. The way they are written speaks of our essence, our nature; whether we are optimistic or pessimistic, celebrating or complaining, cup half-full or half-empty, self-centred or giving, Drama Queen or philosopher. The style of writing we adopt paints us for all to see. What we talk about, the humour in describing it, the things that matter to us and the words we choose to show that they matter, they all speaks of who we are.

 

On the subject of complaining, the news is currently providing much to moan about. Journalists are a waste of space aren’t they? F’rinstance, they talk so critically about the West Coast Train Line contract debacle but don’t name and shame the people that messed up. Nor do they talk about what’s happened to them now it’s out. Have they been sacked with a golden handshake like the BBC Director General, quietly pensioned off, or promoted? We will never know as journos show every day by their actions that they are only interested in the briefly sensational, not the full story.

Talking of ‘reward for failure’, the BBC boss George Entwhistle, got rewarded for doing a bad job for less than 2 months, with a full year’s salary. No waste of licence-payer’s money there then. He was weak, uninspiring and dithery in any interview. What a wimp. Who on Earth thought that he could be a leader? Again, not the full story. I’d like to know who chose him and who decided to give him twice what he was entitled to (for failure). Why give him such  a generous contract in the first place; one that rewards failure? Let’s examine the people that appointed him - and why.

My perpetual criticism of politicians is that they live in a world of pretence and appearances. No one deals with reality. Greek debt is a prime example. No one is ‘lending’ money to Greece, they are giving it to them. They’ll never pay it back. They can’t. They have no prospect of finding the discipline to get themselves organised financially in the foreseeable future. Large chunks of debt will have to be written off (sorry Hans, this affects you more than the other 99 people reading this).

That’s the cost of creating a United States of Europe. If you doubt that this is the unspoken agenda of a European Common Market, can I point out that they’ve already slipped in a President, a Constitution and our courts and government are routinely overruled by European organisations.

Happily, the rich countries; Germany and France, have to buy this power - and it will be expensive. A United States barely works in America where they have the advantage of a common language, a common currency and similar distribution of the rich and the poor within each member state. While we have wealthy Germany & France on the one hand, with Greece, Spain, Italy and Portugal heavily in debt on the other, and then poorer Eastern European countries also queuing up for hand-outs, it’ll all end in tears. They tried this on a smaller scale by forcing Yugoslavia to be a united ‘country’ and we saw how that ended. Blimey! I sound like the lovechild of Nigel Farage and Enoch Powell after his “Rivers of Blood” speech - writes Doleful D’Abreo, Prophet of Doom.

As ever, I try to tie the end of my letters back to the beginning so I will close with a little about the Lack of Time in our lives. Magicians use misdirection to take the audience’s eyes off the main trick. This is what I believe happens in our consistent whine that we “don’t have enough time”, to justify rushing blindly from pillar to post. We consider so rarely, what really matters. Our American-led work lives train us to assess that everything matters and having multiple Number One priorities is the acceptable norm. Is this really true? It will be if you let it, but that is going along with the herd and letting the mindless hysteria of the masses draw you into a lemming-like charge.

It is a simple truth that Time is the one thing that we have in unlimited quantity. There will still be Time after we are gone. So getting us to focus on a lack of time is the misdirection, achieved by giving us too many options. We try to accept every offer on offer (back to FOMO - Fear Of Missing Out, mentioned a few letters ago). Next year is the 100th Chelsea Flower Show. I have been to the 96th, 97th, 98th and 99th. The 100th should be something special - but they are all wonderful. (Here’s a pic from last year).

When I go, I go on Members’ Day - next year, this will be May 21st. On May 22nd, I will either have gone or have missed it. Either way, Life will go on. The world won’t end. Yesterday, I played golf, today I am typing this to you. Later on, I will be reading, maybe working on a story, maybe shopping, maybe packing my bags for the visit to Essex next week, maybe playing a guitar… I don’t have a measurement system that tells me which is the ‘best’ choice. I do the last thing that appeals and live with the disappointment of looking back at the inviting things I could have done - but didn't.

 

I have a mate, Paul, of some 30 years standing and we’ve often discussed the mistakes we’ve made in our lives. They are manifold - yet we have no regrets as our lives have been full and generous. We deal with reality via a common philosophy of life - “It seemed like a good idea at the time”. When I look back wistfully on things I might have done, the thought also occurs that I might have dropped dead during that alternative activity or as a result of it. As I am still here, it seems that I have made all the right choices so far.