'We've got lots of killers'

 

In a Fox news interview some time ago, Donald Trump was asked to explain his respect for Putin. “He is the leader of his country,” Trump replied before pointing out he was also involved in the fight against the Islamic State terrorists.

The interview then pointed out that: “Putin’s a killer.”

And Trump responded: “There are lots of killers. We’ve got lots of killers. What, do you think our country’s so innocent?”

It was a refreshingly honest thing to hear and if any President in the Sixties or Seventies had said it, he’d have been lauded by radicals everywhere. Times have changed.

Now the reaction was uniform and thundered from  every pulpit: A disgraceful thing to say! There is no moral equivalence with Russia.

Yes, hand on heart, I’d rather be living in America or Britain than in Russia. There is no economic or social equivalence. But moral equivalence?

Liberal democracy depends on prosperity, when that goes, the glove comes off. Sometimes the glove slips, as in the case of the unfortunate Doctor Kelly.

Dr Kelly, a government weapons inspector, threatened disclosure of the Weapons of Mass Destruction lie that took us into Iraq. Such a disclosure threatened the Blair regime and possibly British Intelligence.

On July 19th 9 am Dr Kelly’s body was found in an Oxfordshire wood. A mere three hours later Lord Hutton received a telephone call from the Lord Chancellor, a former flatmate of Tony Blair. Would he chair an inquiry into the death of Dr David Kelly?

Six months later the inquiry reached the conclusion that David Kelly had taken his own life: ‘…the principle cause (being) bleeding from incised wounds to his left wrist which Dr Kelly had inflicted on himself with the knife found besides his body.’  His report added: ‘It is probable that the ingestion of an excess amount of co-proxamol tablets coupled with apparently clinically silent coronary heart disease would have played a part in bringing about death more certainly and more rapidly than would have otherwise been the case

. . . I am further satisfied that no other person was involved in the death of Dr Kelly.’

It went on to accuse the arguments of dissenting reporters as ‘defective’ and absolve ‘Intelligence’ from responsibility for the advice that led to the Iraq war.

What were the ‘defective’ arguments of these dissenting reporters?

Some pointed out strange it was that Hutton was asked to chair his enquiry less than three hours after Kelly’s body was found and before any medical professional had examined it, before it had been formally identified and before anyone even knew how he had died.

Secondly, the ‘Inquiry’ replaced the traditional ‘Coroner’s report where witnesses give testimony on oath and thus removing any threat of being found guilty of perjury. In fact, there was nothing to worry about at all. Dr Kelly’s death certificate was presented five weeks before the Inquiry stopped hearing evidence, which indicates that the ‘authorities’ had already decided how he had died.

On top of all this, Hutton excluded dozens of key witnesses. One was a close friend of Dr Kelly, Mai Pederson a former U.S Air Force officer. Pederson revealed how an old arm injury prevented Dr Kelly from holding a knife properly, and that he suffered from ‘unexplained dysphagia’ meaning he couldn’t swallow pills.

Medical experts also questioned whether Dr Kelly could have died by cutting his ulnar artery which is so small it is impossible to bleed to death by cutting it.

There were no fingerprints on the knife even though Dr Kelly wasn’t wearing gloves—a fact known to the police, but not mentioned at the enquiry.

And finally, in the true spirit of —‘Move on, nothing to see here’ —Lord Hutton made a final but secret request to the state: All records not produced in evidence be closed to the public for thirty years and for all photographs of Dr Kelly’s body and all medical reports relating to his death to be sealed for 70 years.

I don’t know what makes me more angry: the killing of Doctor Kelly, the amateurish nature of it or the even more amateurish cover up, revealing a powerful contempt for both the public and  truth. So, yes, in this case Donald Trump hit the nail on the head.

But on a lighter note. Today is the feast day of Christina The Astonishing, a C12th Walloon who leapt from her coffin at her funeral and flew into the roof of the church refusing to come down because the stench of sin was unbearable. She went on to live in an oven and later a tree. And if you believe that, you’ll likely believe the Hutton Report.

 

Coming soon (as they say)

Coming soon to a kindle and bookshelf near you.

The final draft - the barcode yet to come

Sometimes a picture says more than words. Hmm, perhaps not a good idea to put it so bluntly. Why buy the book? Just stare at the beautiful artwork and the masterful blurb. 

Never mind, it serves as an  excuse for such a short blog

Oh, and this, for anyone in need of a book-cover artist, look no farther than here.

How little you know

For me, if it exists, Purgatory would consist of reconciling every unkind word, thought or deed you’d ever experienced or inflicted on those you’ve met in the course of your life. And I’m a judgemental bugger so I’m in for a hard time. Especially so when I consider that I now know more people dead than alive. 

That last point is something I try to remedy,  I've no intention of being a ‘Nobby-no-mates’ when it’s my time to say adieu.  

With that in mind, there is a lovely prayer taught me by the nuns as a small child.

‘Eternal rest, grant to them, oh Lord

And let perpetual rest shine upon them

May they rest in peace

Amen.’

And, as a minor confession, I say it faithfully each night for all those in my life who have died.

And whether you believe in God or Purgatory or not, it’s far from being a worthless exercise. 

Each and every time, it brings to mind how, in some way or another, you’ve short-changed or misjudged this person or that. It may be an act of selfishness remembered, how you could have treated a person more kindly or with greater respect. And with it, gradually,  you realise  the mystery of one individual's  life, how little you know or will ever know, and the importance of those you come across now. That final point is the ultimate lesson, I think.

The sermon is finished 😅

Taming the Wilderness

Or a small fragment of it.

Last year, I described how rogue damsons had taken over the garden. They were charging towards the Conservatory like the German Sixth Army advancing on Stalingrad.

They seemed almost desperate to proffer their fruit, allowing us to stretch out of the window for an impromptu damson dessert. The problem was they had taken over much of the garden; that little strip to the left was all that remained.

It was dense, almost impassable

And the soil was covered in a thick carpet of ivy with similar rogue tendencies

But here was out chief cause of concern, an old rotten shed succumbing to both.

As described, last year we went at it with chainsaw, spade and fire.  

And ended up with Ground Zero

Early spring, the planting began so there'll be nothing spectacular this summer. But now we have a red and white rose bush growing against the fence (My wife is from Yorkshire and I'm a proud Lancastrian) We also have young Sidalcea, fox gloves, lupins and Canterbury Bells. There is more to come when more undergrowth is cleared. 

Bottom left hand corner is another newly planted rosebush, a Lancastrian/York hybrid yet to flower. 

Hmppff !! The York rose flowered first.

Some newly planted Delphiniums. I'm hoping for a dense cottage garden with hollyhocks, Blue Canterbury bells, more Delphiniums and perhaps some Penstemon next year. Also a much cleaner slab and a wrought cast iron bench 

But this is my pride and joy, and what a weird thing to say: Grass. And not the hippy kind.  Weeks of hard shovelling and the ivy went. Two boxes of grass seed - one for the birds - and daily watering during weeks of sunshine and dry weather. 

And not only grass - light and space

But far fewer damsons. 

Lost for words

Mark Dawson, author and entrepreneur summed it up. If you can’t explain your book/pitch in one sentence forget it. With that in mind, and for the first time, I thought I’d attempt it on the front cover of the new book coming out soon.
And here it is. 

And yes, it is exactly what the story’s about. 

But then doubt sets in. ‘Straddling/draining’ is that one too many words ending in ‘ing’? And what about ‘Time and Space’ – is that too Dr Who derivative? If it is derivative of anything, it’s the long standing Sci Fi tradition of pitting ordinary people against something beyond their experience, John Wyndham being one of the earliest exponents.

And you can’t get anything more ordinary than two Newport teachers:

The back blurb though  allows a little more space and here the human element slips through:

Quantum virus. Inter-dimensional parasite—labels to define an unknowable force, straddling galaxies, draining worlds and apparently unstoppable.

Five moguls, who between them control much of the earth’s wealth, explore the blurred distinctions between exploitation, collaboration and appeasement.

Two Welsh teachers and a self-confessed loser stand in their way

Any views or suggestions would be much appreciated. I swear, such things are more difficult than writing the damn book.

Rubbed by snails

At the start of lockdown, I went off social media, abandoned the blog and lost myself on vacation in the C16th: Thomas Cromwell’s England. It took about a day to switch off my magpie’s love of distraction that a click here and click there immediately satisfies; it’s a life-draining itch. Settling down to read Mantel’s ‘The Mirror and the Light’ demanded much and gave in return. It's both compelling, subtle and dense. This for example:

‘Don’t look back, he had told the king: yet he too is guilty of retrospection as the light fades, in that hour in winter or summer before they bring in the candles, when earth and sky melt, when the fluttering heart of the bird on the bough calms and slows, and the night-walking animals stir and stretch and rouse, and the eyes of cats shine in the dark, when colour bleeds from sleeve and gown into the darkening air; when the page grows dim and letter forms elide and slip into other conformations, so that as the page is turned the old story slides from sight and a strange and slippery confluence of ink begins to flow. You look back into your past and sasy, is this story mine; this land? Is that flitting figure mine, that shape easing itself through alleys, evader of the curfew, fugitive from the day? Is this my life, or my neighbours conflated with mine, or a life I have dreamed and prayed for; is this my essence, twisting into a taper’s flame, or have I slipped into eternity like honey from a spoon? Have I dreamt myself, undone myself, have I forgotten too well?’

Sitting with a fine Madeira* – a half-bottle left over from Christmas – was one of many golden moments and knocked Twitter into a cocked hat.  

As with Wolf Hall and Bring up the Bodies, I was struck with modern day parallels. Then the burning issue of the day was breaking with the Universal Church of Rome and the vested interests within England that sought to maintain our connection. Today it is Brexit.
Today it is Covid 19. Then it was the ‘Sweating Sickness,’ which appeared out of the blue and within a century burnt itself out.  Reputedly it came into the country via French mercenaries fighting for the future Henry VII, although where they’d contracted it from remains still a mystery. It was called the ‘English Sweate’ precisely because it appeared nowhere else. How come we got to be so lucky?

The disease itself was devastating, its victims dying within the day by . . . sweating. In anyone outbreak it would kill thousands and is graphically described by a French physician in England.

“We saw two prestys standing togeder and speaking togeder, and we saw both of them dye sodenly. Also in die—proximi we se the wyf of a taylour taken and sodenly dyed. Another yonge man walking by the street fell down sodenly.”

“And this sickness cometh with a grete swetyng and stynkyng, with rednesse of the face and of all the body, and a contynual thurst, with a grete hete and hedache because of the fumes and venoms.”

The 1485 outbreak began in September and had gone by October. It reappeared in 1507, then again in 1517. In 1528 it also hit parts of Europe but to a much lesser extent. The last great outbreak was 1521 and then it ceased to be.

Thomas Cromwell lost his family to it, and the king was so terrified of catching it, messengers were sent ahead on any Royal Progress, and he’d change direction immediately at the merest hint of its presence, even – during the 1528 outbreak—abandoning trysts with Anne Boleyn at the height of his ardour. She, apparently, survived the ‘sweating sickness’ but not the axe.

The king had reason to be cautious. Unlike Covid 19, sweating sickness was a young man’s disease. The very old and the very young were normally spared. It was also, for some reason, a rich man’s disease and severely affected nobles living in London and the students of Oxford and Cambridge. In the words of the Chronicler Edward Hall:

“Suddenly there came a plague of sickness called the sweating sickness that turned all his [the King’s] purpose. This malody was so cruel that it killed some within two houres, some merry at dinner and dedde at supper. Many died in the Kinges courte. The Lorde Clinton, the Lorde Gray of Wilton, and many knightes, gentleman and officiers.”

In theory, an affected house would be in isolation for 40 days but there is no real evidence of serious lockdown. With no social welfare or furlough schemes, business continued as normal.

Another passage I particularly liked illustrated the harsh reality of Cromwell at work, along with a description of a particularly loyal servant, the young Rafe Sadler:

‘Never in time for meat or sleep or prayer; always leaving and arriving in the dark, heaving himself onto a steaming horse: a winter of fog and wet wool and rain cascading from slick leather. And Rafe Sadler as his side, drenched, frozen, and shivering like a greyhound whelp, nothing but ribs and eyes; bewildered, bereft, never complaining, once.

It is another foggy day, and it has not lifted by afternoon: rain just holding off, but the air as damp as if the afternoon has been rubbed by snails.’ 

That last line in particular.

The book is full of insights, in particular the nature of continuity and change.  Hackney now, is not particularly pretty, then it was a place of green meadows and crystal-clear springs – and also the site of the older and wealthier Rafe Sadler’s fine new mansion ‘Bricke Place.’ You can still go to ‘Bricke Place.’ Yes, is now called Sutton House, has a Georgian frontage and some beautiful Jacobean panelling inside, but the building is essentially the same that Rafe Sadler had built.

The kitchen with two models - Hackney then, and the house

A much later painting of the house

Sutton House today

The Great Chamber

Tudor politics were brutal, loyalties changed with a blink and a smile. You know Cromwell’s ultimate fate, its undercurrent as relentless as any Greek tragedy, but it still hits you with a shock, partly because of the sociopathic treachery of those largely responsible. Politics is still treacherous but for the moment less brutal.

*The Madeira ran out quickly and was followed by tea. Not so good.