Thursday, 18 December 2014


Grief: Take it or Leave it.

Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door

As the poet Longfellow remarked, ‘there is no grief like the grief that does not speak.’ Who is interested in another person’s grief? We see their tears, we see sadness, exasperation, but it is not ours. We comfort ourselves with the salving thought that ‘they’, i.e., the grieving, will ‘get over it’. We lean on old aphorisms such as ‘time is a healer’ but until we are plunged into the real territory of our own deep grief, such attitudes are simply conscience-serving window dressing.
    To speak about one’s grief, to expose and reveal it, is not a very English thing to do. But bringing it out into the open can be a mild form of catharsis. To write about it like this and show it to the world need not be shameful. Those who see this and perhaps absorb it can dispose of it as they wish.  Share my thoughts or dismiss them. I do not care; yet I am a writer and words flow from my brain and onto a page.
     The opening lines of this post are by a rock band, Mike and The Mechanics. The Living Years is a song about the singer’s father and the many things he wished he had said to him before he died. I first heard it on BBC Radio 2 in the early 1990s, and the idea of expressing one’s grief in such a way was described by Dieter Meier, of the Swiss electro-funk band Yello, as ‘disgusting and self-indulgent’. For a while, until recently, I think I shared Dieter Meier’s view. But not now.

      When my daughter Sarah died at 11.10 pm on December 23 2012,  a whole chapter of my life was torn from me and shredded. Sarah was the reason for so many things. The reason for love, the reason for marriage, the reason for me taking life’s responsibilities seriously. As I held her hand as she breathed her last on that hospital bed, I kissed her on the forehead and, like a drowning man, 46 years of being a father ran through my conscience like an epic movie. Sarah loved me and her mother deeply, and that love was reciprocated day in, day out.
     And among all the flickering memories, my shame reared its head. Where was I on October 2nd 1966 when she was born, as her 19 year old mother, Wendy, went through the first agonies of  childbirth? Was I at the bedside to see her emerge into the world? No. I was celebrating in the Olde Blue Bell pub in Hull.

     I did, however, give her all my time and my love when she was a little girl. She was the cutest infant a father could ever wish for. She never complained, rarely cried, loved my stories and made us laugh. In fact she made us smile right to the end.

I shall always remember the glorious Autumn day in 1987 when she realised that living in Grimsby with her then boyfriend Kevin had been a bad mistake. She packed her bags, I picked her up and drove her here to Mansfield to live with us again. We stopped at a pub on the way and sat outside in the sunshine drinking and smoking, planning her future. And she would never be out of work. She did her job well; geriatric care and nursing. From the age of 16 right until the cancer struck her down, she served the NHS with hardly ever taking time off for illness. And her colleagues loved her. Why wouldn’t they? She was lovely.  
      Yet where was I at many of the crucial moments in her final two years of struggle with her cancer? Sure, I took her for her regular chemotherapy sessions to Nottingham, and her daily radiotherapy, but was I there with her on the day she finally lost the power of her legs and became unable to walk? No. I simply heard about it on the phone. Could I have spent much more time with her during those dark days when she could no longer get up the stairs to the bathroom? No. I left her daily care to her long-suffering husband, Ivan, and simply turned up occasionally to take her out to lunch with her wheelchair. Could I have been of much more help to Ivan, who faced changing her dressings every morning before going to work, until he had to surrender the task to the District Nurse? Yes. I should have been there, I should have done more, and offered my services. But although Sarah only lived ten minutes away, her cancer seemed to be happening at a distance. Perhaps, I hoped, she would be cured. Maybe she would get better. I placed my trust in medicine and science. Sarah was my lovely, lively, bubbly daughter and surely, fate could not remove her from our presence. Could it? Would it? But that’s what fate did.

     And so this week every December these guilty thoughts will re-surface, punctuating the 46 years of love we shared. I look now at your smiling face on the wall above this computer and grieve. I grieve because I will not hear your footsteps coming down the path on a summer afternoon to sit and drink beer with me at a barbecue. I grieve that you will not bounce laughing and joking into my life on Boxing Day, I grieve that on New Year’s Eve you will not be there in your chair at the end of our table laughing and drinking, ready to bring in another year. And I grieve on Christmas Eve as I sit by the fire reminiscing about all the wonderful Yuletides we spent together, especially when you were our firstborn child.

     Is there anything good in all this? Yes; your brother Martin is still with us. I know this time of year hurts him as it does us. Yet at the end, from your hospital bed, you asked me why I was so unhappy and I could not find the words. But you told me not to worry because everything was fine, because you knew the end was coming and you’d faced bravely up to it.
     Is there an afterlife, darling? God, (whoever you are, with your warped sense of cruelty) I hope so. Will we meet again? I hope so too. We still have much to discuss, and there are still things I would like to say to you. Grief: do we get ‘over it’? No. Never. Rest in peace, dear girl. I love you.


(For Sarah: October 2 1966 - December 23  2014)

Last night I had a golden dream
Real and perfect, so it seemed
In that cerebral sleeping world
You re-appeared, my much-missed girl.

Your smile and laughter, warm embrace
Your lilting voice and smiling face
Seemed to offer me a choice
That hope might dare to raise its voice.

An option from on-going grief
An alternative, a new belief … but;
Still reaching out, holding your hand,
The dream dispersed, as grains of sand.

Decades of life, I now have seven
Yet hardly dared believe in heaven
Perhaps this was my soul’s defeat
Maybe heaven’s where the dream’s complete.

Although our grief will still persist
Heaven’s a thought I can’t resist
Because last night you came to me
Through a door into eternity.

And we shall laugh, embrace again
Beyond this life of strife and strain
Dreams incomplete, unkindly ended
In heaven are fulfilled and mended.

Saturday, 29 November 2014

A Shaky Memoir

 Unreliable Memoirs

Sometimes, and that means much of my time these days, a writer writes simply to get the words out of his heart and soul and onto the page lest they die when he does. I suppose a lot of this is to do with ego; we feel that what we carry around in our mental rucksack is worthy of sharing with the world, and we’ll not know if that was the case until someone reads it all and passes judgment.
For years, over long hours of eating, drinking and smoking, I’ve been regaling anyone who’ll listen with stories about childhood and the formative years until marriage in 1966. The first volume I completed, Crazy Horse and The Coalman, has gone out to a limited circle of family and friends and, in general, was well received. It told the story from birth to my teens, with a narrative which ran simultaneously with the true story of my all-time hero, Tsunke Witco, a.k.a. the great Lakota Sioux Chief  Crazy Horse. It was a fun book to write, because I managed to recall much about childhood, all the innocent joy, those open-ended days when the world truly is ours and none of the grisly challenges of living have yet come into play. Yet now I’ve completed volume 2, which takes me from 1959 to 1966, and although I imagined it would be easy remembering everything that happened between the ages 15 to 23, I was totally wrong. Perhaps when we leave childhood our perception widens. There’s much more to take in and memorise.  Starting work means having to get things right, having to worry, look at the clock, take on responsibilities. All these restrictions, which one never had at school, create a dense fog over everything, and out memory is blurred. I have a rough chronology of important events, but they fade in and out like a radio signal fighting against static.

   So All Aboard The Calaboose seems roughly the way things were, now that I’ve finally finished it, but many of the characters, minor events and locations seem fuzzy. All I could do is subtitle it ‘A Shaky Memoir’. I would have loved to call it ‘Unreliable’, but the great Clive James beat me to that several decades ago. After all, the story does begin in 1958 and when we get past 70 perhaps a little confusion is allowed. They do say that our geriatric brain cells are dying at a rate of knots, and that’s not a suggestion I shall argue with.  So, with this book, all 400+ pages of it, the first edition is for family and friends and, anyone who knows me, reading this blog, who fancies trying their luck, can e-mail me and express an interest at . This is a story of a young life which seemed to be going wrong from the start. Yet from my current vantage point, gazing back down the decades, I realise that without those adventures sailing around the world, and the failed forays into rock’n’roll, then the life I’ve enjoyed (and fortunately, still do) may well have been much more mundane. All Aboard The Calaboose is certainly not for the prudish or the faint-hearted. But if you want to sidestep the callous present and take a stride back into a vanished world of hope and youthful adventure, and you like to laugh, you’ll enjoy it. I think. I hope. As for publishers, I can’t imagine anyone worth submitting this to who would give it a deal. But what the hell. I’ve written it, and that’s all that matters. It’s out of my head and onto the page.

Thursday, 30 October 2014

Russell Brand - Muddled Messiah?


You'll look fine on a poster, Russell, but what's your SOLUTION?
I’m a peasant. I live in a nice house, I have a state pension and a car, two TV sets, and I earn a few extra quid from writing. But I’m a peasant, because I come from a long working class heritage and since leaving school in 1959, I’ve done just about every manual job a modern peasant might be expected to do. Labouring, farm work, hospital porter, factory foreman, sewage worker, milkman, bread delivery man, sailor, driver, printer, shop manager, salesman … then, in 1997, finally, writer. All my family have worked with their hands. My brother is a brilliant carpenter, as was his dad (who was my fine step father), and my patriarchal bloodline in Barnsley were all coal miners. My Mother was a maid and a cook and a cleaner. Thankfully, we were able to break this chain with our son, Martin, who managed to get a BA and PhD and can now be referred to as ‘Doctor’. Our much missed and beloved late daughter, Sarah, spent 30 years of her life in the NHS nursing the elderly.  But we’re still peasants.

     It’s silly to say this makes us ‘proud’. That’s as daft as patriotism. You are born wherever your mother has you, and into what social class she occupied. It’s facile to say I’m ‘proud’ of being English or a peasant any more than David Cameron would proclaim his pride in social inequality and capitalism. But Capitalists, by virtue of their wealth, have choices. Their wealth protects them from ‘the peasantry’ and they have a handy firewall between the disenchanted and the money. This protective barrier, Whitehall, MI5, GCHQ, the Police, Parliament and the House of Lords is made up of people who sit in the bearable comfort zone of middle to higher income. Anyone below them, unions, for example, who wish to challenge the status quo and release the imprisoned genie of equality from its well-sealed bottle, will immediately set off Capitalism’s burglar alarm and the firewall will clamp down around us like a massive steel barrier.

India today - Britain tomorrow? The Bullingdon Boys would love this ...
     But looking at the way things are, something has to give. We’ve had pointless, expensive foreign wars. Wages are deliberately kept down. The poor shoulder the blame for everything, innocent though they are. Anything owned by and run by the people is immediately stolen by rapacious capital, which sees the notion of ‘profit’ as the only exchange permissible between human beings. Our politicians only serve themselves. People are feeling powerless, currently forced into a corner to defend our last great possession, the NHS. Now, sadly, they are turning to the vacuous side-show of a phoney politics, a blatant diversionary façade erected by Ukip. Deny it as they may, but Ukip’s constantly expanding xenophobia is every bit as toxic as that developed by Hitler and Goebbels in the 1930s. Ukip are a dangerous distraction, and if people think that the world will be a better place with Farage in power, they should look more carefully at what he stands for.
The Peasants’ Revolt of June 1381 was a medieval result of just the same set of inequalities. A violent system of punishments for offenders prevented peasants from causing trouble. Most areas in England had well-garrisoned castles, the equivalent of our GCHQ and MI5, and the serving soldiers were usually enough to guarantee reasonable behaviour among medieval peasants. Taxes were high, wages low. Barons and Royalty became greedier by the day and lived in luxury. In 1380, Richard II had introduced a new tax called the Poll Tax. This made everyone who was on the tax register pay 5p. It was the third time in four years that such a tax had been used. By 1381, the peasants had had enough. 5p was an impossible commitment then. If you could not pay in cash, you paid in kind, with your seeds, tools etc., the very things peasants needed to survive in the coming year. Pointless foreign wars drained the coffers, and, as ever, the poor were stamped upon until they could take no more punishment, and in place of today’s Ebola fear-mongering, they had the real threat of the Black Death.

    Sounds familiar? So what do we do? Occupy a few concourses outside banks, wave banners, express our anger and dismay, then go home. But the peasants of 1381 did something no-one had done before or since - they captured the Tower of London. The Archbishop of Canterbury and the King’s Treasurer were killed. The peasants were supported by the Nigel Farage of their day, a priest called John Ball from Kent. The king, Richard II, was only 14 at the time but despite his youth, he agreed to meet the peasants at a place called Mile End. There, the peasant’s angry and aggressive leader, Wat Tyler, who had marched to London, destroyed tax records and tax registers, imagined that the King’s agreement to the peasant’s demands would be honoured. But as with the ‘promises’ we’ve all heard, such as  ‘no university fees’ or ‘no top-down re-organisation of the NHS’, what could Tyler and John Ball have expected from those who lived in luxury, who turned out in their regal finery to meet this ragtag army of ordinary folk?  Honour? Unbroken promises? On June 15th, the King and his entourage, including London’s Mayor,  Sir William Walworthe, met the rebels at Smithfield outside of the city’s walls. At this meeting, the Lord Mayor killed Wat Tyler. John Ball was hanged, as were many other peasant leaders. Richard did not keep any of his promises, claiming that they were made under threat and were therefore not valid in law.

The murder of Wat Tyler
   That duplicity of the powers-that-be is now the standard of 21st century capitalism. As Hitler said, make the lies big enough and tell them enough times and the people will believe you. David Cameron, George Osborne, Jeremy Hunt and Iain Duncan Smith are all today’s King Richards and Barons, and Boris Johnson is our very own Sir William Walworthe.

    So who can we, the people, turn to? Capitalism has ground the ideas of Marx, Lenin and Trotsky into the ground. The Labour Party, once the champion of the working man, offers nothing more than the limp manifesto of the spineless Nick Clegg. They all dance around the witches’ cauldron of Europe and Immigration, oblivious to the legacy of WW1 and the Third Reich.

     And into this dark melee steps a leather-trousered comedian, Russell Brand. Is he the new Wat Tyler, the new John Ball? Does he seriously think we can bring some sort of fairness and equality to our sorry world by avoiding the ballot box? It’s hard to say. But at least he’s raising his head above the parapet and making people think about all this. He writes brilliantly, and has a lion’s courage. But he has no solutions. The only trouble is, in the zoo which governs us, lions don’t count. It’s that big, dumb boa constrictor, Nigel Farage, and his army of stinging tarantulas who are calling the tune. Maybe, then, we should let Ukip have their way. Once they come out in their true fascist colours and we’ve suffered even more inequality, then perhaps a new peasant’s revolt might be on the cards at last. But this time, we’ll not be meeting the king and the mayor. We’ll be giving them a manual job, a tool box and a council house, and showing them that there’s another life out here, one which they’ve preferred to ignore for far too long.  


Saturday, 4 October 2014


Up Periscope!

Well, it’s taken a long time but finally the re-issue of Honoured By Strangers, my biography of legendary submariner Captain Francis Newton Allen Cromie CB DSO RN (1882-1918) as an e-book finally sees publication on October 9 by Little, Brown Ltd. through their subsidiary, Constable & Robinson. Honoured By Strangers has its faults; I had no idea how to go about writing a biography when I took this on 13 years ago. It was a learning curve but one which has served me well in the ensuing years. Perhaps I ought to have up-dated the book in some way, yet reading through it again recently, and looking at some of the positive reviews it received, I’m pleased I left it in its original state, warts and all. As to what chance it has sales-wise as an e-book is anyone’s guess, because one aspect of having such a launch would have been reliability on its appearance on However, trust my luck - the one company to fall out with Amazon over terms and profits just happens to be the enormous global publishing behemoth, Hachette, the parent company of Little, Brown Ltd. So, I’m wondering if the Hachette/Amazon dispute will seriously damage sales on Amazon. Hachette do have valid issues about the way Amazon tends to hoover up every creative work and sell it on, often diminishing the benefit t both authors and publishers. But that’s capitalism for you. It has triumphed over all notions of fairness and community, and operates with just two driving motives; maximum corporate profits and the care and nurture of faceless shareholders. We in the creative sector are just wild flowers in an artistic meadow - stoop down, pick a free handful and sell them on to a public who don’t give a jot about the creative process which produces their daily entertainment.

Now I’m in my seventies, I’m just bordering on lucky that I have any literary product available for sale at all. If I was three decades younger, with a longer calendar ahead, then I would be manning some kind of barricade. All I can do is offer support from the side-lines for art’s angry campaigners, powered by the embers of my socialist outrage which still keep me railing against a world run by, and exclusively for, the super-rich.
Strange in the end, that this long-dead man who, alongside my passion for Crazy Horse, ends up as one of my heroes, should be the subject of my favourite bit of work. Strange, because if I could travel back in time to meet Cromie, we would have little in common. Me, an excessively over-romantic Trotskyist, him a dyed-in-the-wool Imperialist prepared to give his life for that most vacuous of notions, 'King and Country'.  Yet they were different times, different attitudes, different men.  What appealed to me about this somewhat naïve yet brave man was his sense of honour, his compassionate determination, and his hope of salvaging something from the crumbling, changing world he found around him. So, from across the divide on the political battleground, Francis, I salute you, despite our differences. You were that rare thing - a Good Man.


Monday, 15 September 2014




Our lovely late daughter, Sarah, used to say frequently that she had no desire to reach old age. Perhaps this was the inevitable influence of her working life; for
30 years she had worked in the NHS caring for geriatrics. She saw life at its withering end, every day. Leaving us at 46, she had her way. She never grew to be an ‘old lady’, so perhaps those last few smiles she gave us on December 23 2012 signified something. She’d had a good, full life and enjoyed herself. We can’t ask for much more than that.

Those of us left behind, who have ‘grown old’  see life through a different lens. I used to look at retired people when I was still out driving my weekly 1,000 miles up and down the country, making a fraught living, and envy them. No more being ruled by the alarm clock. No bosses telling you what to do. Your days, open-ended; golden hours to fill as you wish. In many ways, yes, this is how it is. Living as we do in England, where we have a pension, a roof over our heads and we don’t starve, we’re some of the luckiest people on the planet. Being old and retired? What’s not to like?

There are things about getting old that they don’t tell you about. That’s because most folk under the age of 60 have no idea what they are. These things come as part of a package along with your pension. Firstly, because of what we call the ‘Protestant Work Ethic’, once we hang up our working clothes the rhythm of life changes. Earning one’s daily bread, keeping the mortgage paid, feeding and clothing the kids, this was the perpetual motion engine which made us function. Leisure time therefore was compressed into the spaces in between, and made precious by the fact. When the machine shuts down, something remains; a sense of guilt. I should be doing something. I’m luckier than most because I fill my time writing, turning my thoughts and interests into words. But I suffer the same external tribulations as my fellow retirees. Prominent among these is that post-65, we enter what I call the ‘season of funerals’. Your friends and relatives, those in this age group, have an inconvenient habit of dying. This inevitably engenders your own personal gloom. How long will I last?  Now that I’m 71, each day another name is flagged up, another death. We’ve had four funerals in the past year. On top of this your whole physique begins to let you down. Aches and pains abound. Bending down to pick up a piece of dropped cutlery becomes a small challenge accompanied by a grunt. I used to sleep well. Now, I hate going to bed. I read until the early hours, and once we do nod off, sleep is wrenched from us by the demands of the bladder. And throughout the day, the outside world, brimming with youthful activity, becomes a more complex and incomprehensible place.

    Being old, we feel like part of another ‘tribe’. We are constantly puzzled. Why are all those people wandering around clutching their I-phones, why do they disfigure themselves with tattoos, why do they throw their  discarded packaging to the pavement? What the hell is the attraction of Rap and Hip-Hop? Why can’t these people take an active interest in politics and social affairs and sort this bloody awful world out?

The fact is, none of this really matters because this confusion is simply another element of the old age package. We all remember, discovering our pop music in our teens, that voice shouting up the stairs - “Turn that bloody racket down!”  It seems that once we stop work at 65, our minds are frozen in aspic and every external movement becomes a threatening conundrum. In the final analysis, my old friends, there is a consolation here. No-one is immune to these afflictions. Yes, once Cheryl Cole’s over-tattooed arse becomes a wrinkled 70 year old approximation of a crocodile handbag, once Dappy from N-Dubs ‘grows up’ (some chance) and sees his various headgear as a clown’s haberdashery, and when Michael McIntyre retires, rich yet in the realisation that he wasn’t 1% as funny as Billy Connolly or Eric Morecambe,  then they too will look in the mirror and text their friends with WTF?

I like being retired for the freedom it gives me to spend time writing down my thoughts. I like the open-ended days. I love the wide landscape of potential creativity. What I don’t like is the unfairness of it all. Fifty years of work, struggle and discipline externally imposed, and what do we get at the end? Ten years of ‘freedom’ if we’re lucky. So in the end biology defeats us. Here endeth this rant.

However, looking at the wider world, all these words I have written here are sheer luxury. As I write this some poor woman in Africa, with a life expectancy of 50, is walking 5 miles every morning to get 5 gallons of muddy water in a jerry can. Children in Iraq and Syria watch as the stark madness of ‘religion’ engulfs and destroys their family as murderous psychopaths, hell-bent on dragging us back to the 12th century, hack innocent people’s heads off whilst telling us that ‘Allah is merciful’. Hundreds of tiny children have died around the globe whilst I’ve been sitting in obese safety and comfort carping on about what a ‘bum deal’ we old English folk have.

Thus I balance it all by telling myself: Quit the crap, abandon the bullshit and face facts. There are degrees of misery in this world and, based on a scale of 1 - 10 mine is a 1. So although navel-gazing is good every now and then, we ought to look down and be thankful that our navel is still there. Time for a pot of tea and a sandwich now, and a cold reality check.


Monday, 1 September 2014


Stained Nation


I am very nervous writing this. The reason?  I am commenting upon a new religion. Many of you are no doubt disciples. This makes me a heretic, but here goes. 

    In the early 1960s, whilst serving in the Merchant Navy, one drunken night, I found myself sitting in a chair in a Tattoo parlour in Valetta, Malta. I had decided that, as a mariner, I ought to at least have a Popeye anchor on my forearm. Then I saw the equally sozzled occupants of the other two chairs. Two huge U.S. Navy sailors, stripped to the waist, were waiting a fresh ‘inking’. Their bodies were already covered in splodgy blue-green tattoos. Panthers, crucifixes, snakes, rosebuds, hearts, the US flag, unidentifiable wildlife. It made me feel nauseous. I got up and left. I had changed by mind.

Half a century later, I’m so glad I did.

   I grew up with tattoos. My father, who served over 20 years in the Army, mostly in India, was the original illustrated man. Flags of the Empire on his back, a tiger and a lion across his chest, spears, crossed rifles, his regimental badge, snakes coiling down his arms, their heads destined to forever poke from his shirt cuffs. As a kid this fascinated me. But tattoos back then were, in the main, the choice of sailors, soldiers, and criminals. As for women being tattooed, most men regarded that as a strong visual hint of prostitution. Today tattoos have a mystique which emanates from the underworld. The Russian Mafia identify their status with their tattooed icons. Mexican and Columbian drug cartels have their own ‘inkings’. Criminals on Death Row in the USA love their tattoos. In the South Pacific, among such nations as the Maoris, tattoos were a tribal badge.  Strange, then, that Britain is now the most ‘inked’ nation in Europe.

    Undoubtedly, many tattoo artists (my nephew, for instance) are very talented.  Yet it
seems sad that the skin nature gave us no longer seems enough; it has to be scribbled on. Celtic crosses, swallows, Chinese characters. We British have them all. Perhaps an ‘inking’ makes one feel windswept and interesting, an expression of ‘individuality’. But as the well-illustrated Ozzy Osborne commented; “If you want to be different, don’t have a tattoo.” A recent report by the British Sociological Association suggests tattoos can hinder you getting a job. Another suggested that tattooed women were viewed as "less physically attractive, more sexually promiscuous and heavier drinkers".

    As a somewhat ugly, overweight old man I envy athletes with natural bodies like David Beckham. If I had been born that lucky, would I have had all that magnificent muscle tone covered in indecipherable foreign script and dull green graffiti? I think not. I’m sure Cheryl Cole’s derriere was once a pleasant sight. Pity she’s turned it into
a page from a garden centre catalogue. There are many reasons given for being ‘inked’. To honour a loved one. To express your ‘uniqueness’. I know how utterly alone I stand with this view, but to me, the 21st century tattoo represents  the sad decline of culture. It brands people as thick, self-centred, and at the same time, desperate for attention. Skilled the tattoo artists may be, and well paid (Ms. Cole's arse inking cost more than the price of a new car). However, in a few decades, today’s tattooed generation could well be looking at their wrinkled, ink-blotched aged skin and asking “What was I thinking?” To paraphrase that RSPCA warning, ‘a dog isn’t just for Christmas’ - but a tattoo is for life.  

Wednesday, 13 August 2014



Partly due to all the adverse publicity MPs and politicians have received in recent years, among the public, political apathy has increased. There’s that old saying, ‘no matter who you vote for, the government always gets in’. Some things, however, are above and beyond politics. No matter what your political leanings, left, right, liberal or UKIP, for the past 66 years we have all been beneficiaries of one of the finest organisations in Europe; the National Health Service. Even an American think-tank, the Commonwealth Fund, when examining health provision in 11 countries rated our NHS as first for care, access and efficiency. Our health spending is the second lowest of all the countries surveyed. That’s something we can all take pride in. Who came bottom of the list? The USA.  Yet back in the political world, there are those beavering away to dismantle our NHS and replace it with the American model.

"MMmm ... So you haven't managed to locate his Visa card, then?"
At a packed public meeting on August 5 at Pleasley Miners’ Welfare Club with Sir Alan Meale, MP, the public learned some stark frightening facts. 50,000 people demonstrated in support of the NHS at this year’s Conservative Party Conference, yet not one national newspaper or broadcaster reported it. However, day by day the NHS is subject to a constant stream of bad stories about its performance. Yet the story behind this stays buried. 10% of all A&E units have been closed, along with a third of walk-in centres. Half of our 600 ambulance stations are slated for closure. Stressed out GPs are facing the prospect of closing surgeries. 5,000 nurses have been sacked. Since April 2013, billions of pounds of NHS services have been put on the market. 70% of all health contracts given out by our government have gone to the private sector. Richard Branson’s Virgin Health is already operating in some hospitals, and MacDonalds have even been bidding to supply hospital food. Perhaps, if you’re young, fit and healthy, or well off, none of this bothers you. Yet one day you may be ill, and you will certainly grow old. Without the NHS, will you be financially able to cope?

Key positions in the NHS are being filled by executives with a great interest in private health care. The Chief Executive of NHS England, Simon Stevens, has a previous career with the USA’s health insurance giant, United Health. Private health providers, however, can decide not to treat patients they deem ‘unprofitable’.
On Wednesday August 27th The People’s March for the NHS, 300 miles from Jarrow to London, will arrive in Mansfield. It will be led by women, many of them health workers. These are not raving Trotskyists but ordinary working women who have taken the words of the founder of the NHS, Aneurin Bevin, to heart; “'The NHS will last as long as there are folk left with the faith to fight for it.' We should welcome them when they arrive in our town with open arms.

Our NHS is not about politics, left or right. No one should profit from illness. Health care is about  being human.   As Bevin also said “No society can legitimately call itself civilised if a sick person is denied medical aid because of lack of means”.