Meddlesome Messiahs

‘You will own nothing, and you shall be happy’ has become the lightning rod for conspiracy theorists and associated, perhaps not accurately, with Klaus Schwab, the founder and present leader of the WEF, an organisation that descends upon Davos each year to pontificate and make backroom deals. The actual quote, as far as I can make out, comes from a WEF Promo video made in 2016; it headed a list of Utopian prophecies i.e. what an ideal world might be like in 2030. The conspiracy gained traction when, during the Covid crisis, the WEF talked about ‘The Great Reset’ i.e. the world would not return to what it had been before Covid but would ‘Build Back Better.’

Conspiracy theorists (and a label doesn’t make them necessarily wrong) believe that this is a well organised plot to reshape the world in the interests of global elites, a world where property rights are restricted politically and/or economically, where dissent is controlled by digital currency that can be cut off for ‘bad’ behaviour eg Trudeau and the Canadian truckers (the stick) and Social Credit where rewards accrue for ‘responsible’ behaviour, (the carrot)

The great and the good are quick to rebut these arguments as exaggerated fears and disinformation. Some inadvertently shoot themselves in the foot, when they attack the internet for spreading ideas they don’t happen to agree with. Rather like renaissance popes, preferring restriction to debate.

In photographs Klaus Schwab appears a pleasant old man, a benevolent grandpa handing out a Werther Original toffee, and yes, I know his father was a  Nazi—another label used as a club by every man and his dog. Those who defend him see value in creating a forum where the world’s movers and shakers can share ideas on neutral ground. For example this year provided remarkable insights into the future of AI—one that is almost upon us. 

 You could even argue that ‘You will own nothing, and you shall be happy’ —rather than a chilling threat, is the essence of the Christian—certainly the monastic ideal. On a minor note, I ‘own’ CD’s but much prefer my Apple subscription for music I will never own. 

But, at the back of my mind, are the words of Christ. ‘A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit; neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. By their fruits ye shall know them.’ It’s a useful yardstick to judge individuals and organisations. With regard to the WEF, the conclusion is debatable, especially with men like Tony Blair rumoured to have his eyes on the presidency when the 82 year old Klaus pops his clogs and forgoes the profits he accrues from the organisation.

To be honest,  I can’t call to mind any ‘good fruits’ emanating from the WEF other than the well remunerated prostitutes that flock to Davos every year charging £700 an hour – not a euphemism for the politicians. What I am aware of is the carbon footprint of those who’d lecture others. And what I am aware of are the delusions of grandeur from some of its participants, in particular John Kerry, who enjoys multiple homes, cars, yacht, and private jet. As one who has been touched by the finger of God, he rambled on: ‘When you start to think about it, it’s pretty extraordinary that we – select group of human beings because of whatever touched us at some point in our lives—are able to sit in a room and come together and actually talk about saving the planet. . . I mean, it’s so almost extra-terrestrial to think about saving the planet.’ And there was me thinking that was Superman’s job. Perhaps he’d been at the sherry.

What Davos man doesn’t say is that it is the ordinary Joe who will be doing the saving, restricted in travel, in heating their homes and doing without, learning to enjoy factory food and sustainable insects—meat preserved for those who can afford it along with the other small pleasures in life. 

It may be that the likes of Kerry, Gore, Schwab, Blair, and their ilk have the power and wealth to make mischief, meddlesome Messiahs, touched by the finger of God or the Devil.  It may be they’re a bunch of delusional men with more money than sense. In the words of John Lennon ‘Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.’ And when life and plans conflict, it can sometimes get messy.

Croft Castle

St Michael and All Angels. Twelfth century origins but essentially C14th . Worth reading about here

Here lies Sir Richard de Croft and Eleanor, his wife, slumbering in stone while the world around them changes. 

And just outside——the castle. 

When you wander through its rooms you sense the family around you as each generation of Croft leaves their imprint. It’s akin to drifting through transparencies, one overlaying the other. Here for example is the drawing room, restored to interwar tastes, and which resembles an Agatha Christie set waiting for Poirot. 

I love the phonograph and small drinks' table.

But back to the very beginning or, at least, its Norman origins.

A Norman knight, Bernard de Croft, was rewarded with an estate and on this spot built a rudimentary castle;  in 1085, he was rewarded with a mention in the Domesday Book. The family next stumbles into the spotlight  when Sir John de Croft marries Jonet, the daughter of Owen Glyndwr in the 1390s and finds himself in an embarrassing position—caught up in Glyndwr’s rebellion against the English Henry 1V. 

His grandson, Richard de Croft, a wily dog, fought for the Yorkist Edward IV against the Lancastrian Henry VI and after the Yorkist victory at the battle of Mortimer Cross (1461) was duly rewarded. Twenty-seven years later, he changed sides and fought for the Lancastrian, Henry VII and never looked back, and never will, buried in his splendid tomb in the adjoining church.

 

In 1570, his grandson, Sir James Croft became Elizabeth I’s Comptroller of the Royal Household, and it was then that the old castle was pulled down and replaced by a more comfortable Elizabethan equivalent, complete with formal gardens. 

Sir James’ grandson, Sir Herbert Croft, complicated things a little, becoming  a Catholic, and retiring to a Benedictine monastery in France. Three of his sons inherited Croft in turn. The eldest, Sir William Croft fought for the king in the English Civil war and was killed in 1645  during his retreat from Stokesay Castle. 

Sir William Croft

The second son also fought in the war but died without an heir, and so the inheritance passed to the third son, the Reverend Herbert Croft, shown above to the right.

After the Restoration, the newly restored Charles II made him Bishop of Hereford as a reward for his loyalty. Over the years, Herbert spent what he had restoring the castle, unaware of what his grandson would do to the Croft estate.

                                  

The grandson, Sir Archer Croft. invested in the South Sea Company, exporting slaves to the Spanish Americas. It was a gigantic Ponzi scheme later to become known as the South Sea Bubble. When it collapsed in 1720, Sir Archer Croft was ruined and lost much of his wealth including the castle. 

Crofts were not to return to Croft Castle for another 170 years. Even so, they remained an important family though never a fortunate one. 

A later Herbert Croft— the Reverend Sir Herbert Croft 5th Baronet is a case in point. One of his great treasures was an early Samuel Johnson's Dictionary. Sir Herbert, though was never entirely satisfied with Johnson's own definitions, and if you look at his copy, it is marked with his own 'superior' definitions scrawled in the margins. Herbert was also obsessed with trees and planted three million of them over 1000 acres.  It cost him more than he had and he was arrested for debt, imprisoned, and eventually fled to France where he lived in exile. His worst sin, perhaps, was being unable to provide a dowry for his three daughters who remained unmarried as a result. 

Herbert's library and study. His portrait adorns the wall

                                

                                                  Sir Richard Croft 1762 - 1818

                                 

                          

Sir Richard Croft, a leading obstetrician, was called upon by the future George IV to handle the pregnancy of his daughter, the Princess Charlotte. Unfortunately, both mother and child died, and the shamed Sir Richard committed suicide soon after.  

During the C18th  the castle was owned by a succession of richer families, each making their mark on the building as shown below. The Crofts though were never far and never forgot the castle they'd once owned. 

The Blue Room with its distinctly C18th clock. The eyes near the top of the clock move from side to side with every tick. Most unnerving. 

The Jacobean panelling was brought from Stanage Park in Radnorshire and painted pale blue. The gilded rosettes at the centre of the panels were hand painted - 300 of them - so no two are exactly the same. The 'trompe l'oeil' technique gives the roses a 3 D effect. 

A chest of drawers with a porcelain Tulip Holder for each individual very expensive flower. 

And then, 170 years later the family repurchased Croft in 1923 for the young James Croft, the 11^th Baronet. During the interwar years the castle was brought back to life by these modern Crofts.

Mrs Owen Croft 1885 - 1972 as a young woman. She  married Major Owen Croft a younger brother of Herbert, the 10th Baronet. When her husband died in 1956 she went into deep mourning. She had her car sprayed black, edged her stationery in black and wore mourning clothes until she died sixteen years later. 

Henry Page Croft and his wife Nancy painted by society artist  Phillip de Laslo in the 1920s

 In 1941 James, the 11th baronet died and his cousin, Sir Henry Page Croft inherited what had become a temporary Girls' School— St Mary's Convent School for Girls. 

As, perhaps, the painting and photo indicate, Sir Henry was ‘old school,’ a military man, a Brigadier General in World War I, later an MP and then Under Secretary of State for War in Churchill’s wartime cabinet. In 1940 he was made Lord Croft, championed all things imperial, opposed the League of Nations as an interfering folly and had opposed self-government for India in 1935. When he died he was succeeded by his son, Michael, the 2^nd Lord Croft, and he and his sister worked non-stop to save Croft from speculators, preserving it instead for the nation through the National Trust. And all the time, Sir Richard and Lady Eleanor slept undisturbed in their tomb.

https://chat.openai.com/auth/login the National Trust cafe there has a wonderfully warm fire but their sausage rolls are horrible. 

It also has a small second hand book shop where I bought this book from my childhood past.

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Horror reminds you that things could be worse

 The trouble with horror is, well . . . it's horrible. But there you go. This is the first rough draft of a scene in which poor Father Michael falls victim to demons—a tiny fragment of the latest work in progress,  one set in 2030 and which sees the return of the two magicians, John Grey and Elizabeth McBride - last seen in the Gift Trilogy. 

Father Michael was up early, unable to sleep. The funeral had unsettled him, Janelle appearing in his dreams as though trying to warn him . . . of what? He wondered why Jane hadn’t been there, and why the funeral had been announced on all major news programmes. None of it made sense, especially Jane’s absence. He brought his coffee to the fire and raked the hot coals with a poker donated by one of his older parishioners. He poked without thinking, enjoying the sound, the scraping of metal on hot coal, the deep orange red of the fire.  Dawn was his favourite time of day, pre-dawn less so. It did though give him the time and peace to pray if only his mind let him. Thoughts of Janelle kept intruding. He'd baptised her, saw her grow, a happy child, mischievous, all now memories and dust. She’d be with God, that was for sure, but where did that leave Jane, poor woman? She had faith, but that wasn’t enough, not for a mother. He rose and knelt before the large brass crucifix on the wall and bowed his head, his prayer interrupted by a soft but persistent knock on the door. Someone else unable to sleep. I’m sorry, Lord. He crossed himself and stood with a groan. Two years at best before his knees took early retirement. And then what? New knees. New pain. Father Michael winced. 

The knocking became louder. They’d be waking the neighbours and those on the other side of the street. He looked around quickly, taking in a glance the faded blue carpet, walls lined with books, the long deep mirror you wanted to dive into, the fire giving all of it a warm and friendly glow. All reasonably tidy, good enough to receive any who came calling this time of day. He brushed dust off one of the chairs as he passed and immediately regretted the action, the clean patch highlighting what remained untouched. 

“Coming,” he said absently and largely to himself, as he unbolted the door. He opened it and stared into an empty street. For a moment it didn’t register: the nothingness; but somebody had been knocking even as he’d drawn back the final bolt. He shivered. And yet there was something. Invisible but palpable. A cold wind pushed him back and he heard a voice, a voice from the room he’d just left.

“Father Michael?”

He sensed evil and crossed himself and walked slowly back to his room. He should have run, but he’d left it too late. He opened the door to his study and tensed and, for a moment, relaxed. 

A lean man stood with his back to the fire. Father Michael studied him, fear slowly ebbing. Early middle age, boyish smile, eyes blue and good humoured, hair the colour of tarnished gold, short a little tousled. He dressed like an officer, in tweeds, blue jumper and checked shirt.  SAS, he wondered, military certainly.

“Father Michael.” Not a question.

“Yes. Who are you? More to the point, how did you get in?”

The smile more disarming. “Arthur Rose. I’m afraid you have something I want.” 

“A burglar then.” Father Michael lowered his voice, one he used in Confession, persuasive, confiding. “I have little of value here. Take what you need.” He felt a presence behind him and turned, fear swelling up again. The new intruder looked respectable enough, dressed like an undertaker in a dark, well-cut suit, his eyes small and black embedded in flesh.

“We want the mirror,” the intruder said, “that one over there.”

“Succinctly put Mr Wenwood.”

Father Michael glanced at the mirror, at the man called Wenwood and then at Arthur Rose, who looked almost apologetic. “Is that all you want? Then take it.” And may God go with you, not meant, or said aloud. “Take anything you want.” He stood to one side. The intruder stepped with him as though bound like a shadow.

“It’s not as simple as that,” Arthur Rose said. “We need to kill you, too.”

Father Michael stiffened.

“You’ve seen us—you see the problem.” The man spoke reasonably with a hint of regret, as though soliciting agreement, willing Father Michael to acquiesce. Two vice-like hands gripped the priest’s shoulder and panic took over.

 There was no escape.

 There had to be.

 He kicked back at the man holding him and froze, suddenly unable to move. The force holding him tightened its grip, until Father Michael found it difficult and then impossible to breathe. His head throbbed and then pounded, his eyes bulged, and the room became red. An invisible hand pulled his head back, farther and farther. He glimpsed a knife gleaming in darkness and fire, felt his backbone about to snap. Pain shrieked through him as the knife swept down and stopped at his throat.

“No,” Arthur Rose said. “We can do better than that.” A director exhorting a better performance.

The pressure eased, but Father Michael remained unable to move. Sweat dripped from his brow. 

“You mean something like this?” Wenwood stepped in front of the priest and slapped him hard on the cheek, and then continued slapping from side to side. Moments before Father Michael all but lost consciousness, the slapping stopped. He saw the knife again, then felt a sudden fierce burning at the side of his head. Father Michael clawed at blood and tattered flesh, the space where his ear had been. His knees buckled and he folded in snot and tears on to the floor.

“Give him time to recover.” The voice a soft, amused drawl. “We have time.”

Father Michael’s head swam. He was in the presence of demons. He’d never experienced evil so raw or intense.

Then the punching began turning flesh into jelly and bones a raw mass of pain.

Father Michael was on his knees, swaying, the world a blurred, narrow slit seen through blood-soaked eyes. He glimpsed dark trousers immaculately creased, and Wenwood squatted down in front of him, brought his face close and spat. He exuded tobacco and sweat, stale meat and fried onions. 

As though from miles away, he heard the scraping of metal on hot coal; he heard Arthur Rose chuckle, then silence. 

“Stand up.”

Father Michael obeyed, creature to another’s will. He staggered to the table, his arms close together and stretched as though bound. He walked as a puppet might, unable to stand by himself. At the table his head and chest folded, slamming into the wood. 

“Raise his head.”

 Wenwood obeyed. His hand went under Father Michael’s chin, forcing his head back again. Through slitted eyes, he saw Arthur Rose advancing, holding a glowing poker like a sword. A moment of eye-searing heat, eyelids crinkling, then blackness and pain, more pain as Wenwood drove the burning poker in deeper and deeper. Father Michael screamed but heard no sound. Nothing came from his mouth. Piss and shit drenched his trousers and legs. He should have fainted by now, but another controlled his mind, and he couldn’t.

“The other.” Arthur Rose’s voice a creamy purr. Burning air and then flesh, as Wenwood drove in the poker a second time. Father Michael convulsed as the restraints binding him relaxed, and he fell to the floor, a twitching lump of flesh and blood.

If needs must

Blessed Sacrament was a strange school. We had school caps that nobody wore, but used in more sensible ways. They made most excellent swords; in the mind of a ten-year-old boy that is. The cap was rolled up tight, the pointy end facing your opponent, and we were off, the three musketeers –sometimes ten or sixteen. Sometimes I was Errol Flynn’s Robin Hood fighting Basil Rathbone’s evil sheriff; on other occasions, Sir Percy Blakeney fighting the villainous Chauvelin. I was master of the thrust and feint, the strategic pirouette. I was in my own little world. My opponent, a boy one year older than me was not impressed. I danced and lunged, tickled his throat with the pointy end of my cap. He stood and looked at me, then punched me in the face. 

Lesson learnt. The direct approach. Don’t waste time. Go for what you want. My fencing days were over, though I continued to fire imaginary guns with two pointed fingers and a noise I can still make with my mouth. 

The direct approach. It works in advertising. Who can forget the jingle ‘You’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent’? I haven’t seen a tube of Pepsodent for years. The jingle remains, as cheerful as ever and more meaningless now than it was then. And apologies to anyone who now cannot prise the tune from their heads

The direct approach. This year is marketing year. Be warned. No more Mr Nice Guy brandishing a rolled school cap and feinting with the occasional advert. Be tolerant, I beg you. There will be more of these on Facebook and Twitter and, yes, even TikTok