The Epilogue 2024
In 1992, the political philosopher, Francis Fukuyama, wrote The End of History and the Last Man, declaring that with the ascension of Western liberal democracy and the collapse of the Soviet Union we had reached the ‘end-point of humanity’s ideological evolution’. That was bollocks, wasn’t it. It’s been ten years since I wrote The Benevolence of Rogues, and since then there has been a tear in the universe, and the title of Chapter 30, ‘The Lunatics Have Taken Over the Asylum,’ has become a reality.
For a while, the leader of the free world was President Donald J. Trump. When he wasn’t re-elected, hundreds of his followers, or millions dependent on who’s telling it, embarked on an unscheduled tour of the Senate while crying “freedom” in homage to Mel Gibson’s Braveheart and dressed as the Village People. Hold on to your furry hat and horns, as Trump is back on the campaign trail. Meanwhile, the incumbent President Biden will no doubt board a plane to attend the coronation of Queen Victoria. In my country, the former Mayor of London, Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, became Prime Minister. He regularly delivered state addresses to bring clarity and reassurance to a nation troubled at first by Brexit and later the coronavirus. With the aid of a good interpreter who specialises in Latin and Klingon, sometimes these messages even got through. I watched one broadcast on a split screen with a woman in the left-hand corner relaying his words in sign language. I’m no expert, but she appeared to give the sign for ‘buggered’ and mouthed “What the fuck?” Brains must be his speechwriter because Boris answered one question from the press audience with, “Absolutely, I couldn’t agree with you less.” The phenomenon of the cult of personality around politicians is something I never thought I’d see outside North Korea. However, I wasn’t surprised that Boris’s lasted as long as a freshly ironed seam on his shirt.
Yet, the greatest change I have seen since I wrote Benevolence is the increasing lack of tolerance for the views of others. The extreme views of those on the left and the right that I ridiculed in Benevolence are now mainstream. Sensible debate is drowned in vitriol and if you defend freedom of speech, you will be denounced, supposedly to protect civil liberties. We’ve forgotten how to have a discussion, let alone how to argue. A couple of years ago, a Rogue in this book told me that he and others were angry with me and I was no longer welcome because of how I voted on Brexit – though I never tell anyone how I voted. However, after debating the pros and cons of his argument, I framed my response so as not to exasperate the situation, and told him to go fuck himself. A few months ago, another Rogue asked if I was going to erase him from Benevolence. “Why?” I asked. “Because I believe that Donald Trump has been sent by God (an image of a plague of locusts popped into my head). I’m an anti-vaxer (though he made sure he had both covid jabs before attending their rallies). I know that the Royal family are all alien lizards in human form, and Vladimir Putin is the kind of leader we need in the West.” I waited for him to burst out laughing and saying ‘Gotcha!’ He remained stony-faced. “I couldn’t give a damn about your politics or beliefs, and I savour the stories of the adventures we shared. Also, if I deleted the stories of the Rogues in Benevolence who are also as mad as a bicycle, it would be a pamphlet. Anyway, thanks.”
“Thanks for what?”
“Now, I understand why you thought it was a good idea to blow-dry your hair in the bath before launching yourself into the ceiling.”
In 2014, ISIS tried to build their caliphate and attempted to erase evidence of all other faiths. Perversely, it reminded me of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem Ozymandias. The Pharaoh Ramesses II (Ozymandias in Greek) boasts that ‘his works would make the mighty look on and despair’, but now his grand kingdom is a place where “lone and level sands stretch far away”. The irony is that Shelley’s poem about how the mighty fall and are soon forgotten adds to the Ramesses myth. Like the blood on Lady’s Macbeth’s hands, visible marks can disappear but everything leaves a trace. If a historical event advanced our world or highlighted what’s good about humanity, celebrate it. If it exposed our malevolence and inhumanity, learn from it, even be ashamed by it, but don’t waste time trying to erase it from history. If one day we discover how to travel through time, I’m optimistic that when those wishing to erase the past, who will therefore be emotionally stunted, sit down by their computer to do so, their plans for world domination will be waylaid by the discover of porn. This can happen to the best of us; well, Jocky anyway. When he first connected his tank-sized Amstrad computer to the internet, he had his curries delivered and rarely saw daylight for two years.
In the last ten years, armchair warriors have added social media to their armoury. Up ‘til then they had to rely on shouting drunken abuse at fellow passengers on a late-night bus or educating the bar staff on the need for higher walls to be erected between the urinals. Prison must be utopia. The internet has become a tool of misinformation. Foreign governments, freelance hackers, trolls, it matters not. All are selective in their interpretation of history to fit their objectives. Is this something new? In respect to social media, yes, there are now many more channels to spread disinformation, but governments and the media are no strangers to extolling misinformation. US troops entered Vietnam in 1964, but the public weren’t told until a year later. President Richard Nixon later extended the war into Cambodia but failed to mention this to Congress or the American people. When you add the acts committed by the Chinese and Russian regimes, is it any wonder that cinema audiences seek escapism and flock to the silver screen to watch endless reincarnations of Spiderman and Batman. However, when it comes to corrupting the facts, call me old-fashioned, but I’ll leave it to the politicians. We should get something for our money, after all we are covering their expenses for duck houses and flag poles,
“Alternative truths” and “being economical with the truth” are new terms we’ve recently adopted. But lies are nothing new. The greatest exponent of this, as you know, is Brains. The twirling of his upturned hand, with his fingers extended, while declaring “Average” in response to my question “Was that true or was it a lie?” will be acknowledged by historians as the birth of “Fake news.” His contribution to the art of bullshittery is matched only by Plato’s contribution to the school of thought. I mention Brains in the same breath as politicians because, as we have seen, the inability to find one’s arse with both hands does not make one unelectable.
Is my epilogue a mindless rant? Of course, I’ve reached that age. But my faith in common decency remains. In 2020, I recruited a new generation of Rogues during the first Covid outbreak, bringing together courageous men and women who volunteered to deliver protective clothing and medicines to hospitals and nursing homes across the country. Of course, more enemies were made and bureaucratic toes flattened, but that is what Benevolent Rogues do. It’s in our DNA. What they did was not as perilous as the risks taken every day by the brave doctors, nurses, paramedics, carers in nursing homes, and many others on the front line, but there were risks. Several Rogues caught the virus, some died.
My friend Kath volunteered to help food banks throughout the pandemic, others kept an eye on an elderly neighbour to make sure they wanted for nothing, many cheered the heroes of the NHS from their doorstep on a Thursday night. Despite what Thatcher said, community is important and, yes, it exists, as most pulled together and helped in their own way.
The horrendous war in the Ukraine is another dark episode to add to the many in our history. If you want to understand the mentality of Putin and his cronies, you could read one of several autobiographies on him or just buy the Sopranos DVD box-set. But one event has reaffirmed my faith in humanity. Since Putin’s invasion, the Polish people have taken in more than one and a half-million Ukrainian refugees. Poland is not a wealthy country and some of its politicians are well-over the borderline nut jobs, but though there are tensions, its people have performed the largest humanitarian act I’ve witnessed in my lifetime.
What of the Rogues, Benevolent or otherwise? H, Tommy, Nutnut, Chelsea Mark, Davy, Terry, Waffle, and all, continue to make their way through life in their usual chaotic, idiosyncratic manner, and keep me smiling along the way. During the first covid lockdown, Nutnut posted a photo of himself on Facebook wearing a gasmask at the breakfast table. It had nothing to do with the virus. It was his day off. When it comes to H and Tommy, our politics could not be more diverse. It matters not. We’ve always known that just because someone disagrees with you, it doesn’t mean they hate you. Politics has never impinged on my ongoing battles with my nemesis, the Bear. This is because he has no political allegiances, has no idea who is in power, and he is easily distracted by a custard doughnut waved above his head, irrespective of its sell by date.
I lost contact with Itchy and Scratchy, new monikers for Numbnuts and Jocky, since one runs a pub in Bangkok and the other regularly scales a stool on the other side of the bar. However, I’m sure they will appear on my doorstep one day, providing they still have teeth and can use them to gnaw through the restraining straps on each other’s straitjacket.
I visited James, Wayne, and Larry in Australia. All as strong willed and independently minded as ever, with partners, and some now have families. With such powerful cornerstones, those they love will thrive.
Sam, Gertrude, Hannah, Maureen, Amelia, and others continue to be role models for younger women, and not just their own daughters. They fought for sexual equality well before the #MeToo movement and carry on in the tradition of Grace Jones thumping Russell Harty when men need to be put in their place.
The greatest fighter I’ve ever known, my mother Biddy, passed away, but she kept up the tradition on the female side of the family of living to a good old age. She died at the height of the Covid pandemic. Because of government restrictions, on my visits to the nursing home, we had to keep two metres apart. Biddy would be taken down by lift in her wheelchair and wheeled to a window to talk to me, while I stood outside in the courtyard.
“How are you, Biddy?” I asked her on one visit.
“Your teachers want to see me again about your behaviour,” she replied, shaking her head. Alzheimer’s had kicked in. “Anyway, I couldn’t give a toss about that. You’re beyond help.”
“I love yer Mum. By the way, do you know why I’m standing out here in the rain?”
“You’re still stupid. There’s also a virus going around, I hear.” She paused. “I’m worried.”
“Why, Mum?”
“If they all die here, I’ll have no one to talk to.”
I smiled as she beckoned me forward, and whispered while pointing at the carer manning her wheelchair. “And she doesn’t look too good, either.”
I was by her bedside when she died. Despite Catholic priests preaching about the afterlife, none seemed eager to get there, for not one would enter the care home to give Biddy the last rites. I resigned myself to fulfilling the role and searched the internet for what was involved. I swear her eyes half opened and a canny smile appeared when she saw that her son of all people was reading the sacrament and making the sign of the cross.
At her funeral, because of Boris’s Covid restrictions (he had some lively parties at the time, I hear) I sat alone on the front pew. Behind me, three of my cousins were spread out across the cemetery’s memorial church.
After the service, the funeral director approached me outside the church.
“Unfortunately, in line with government guidance, you can’t travel in the limousine with your late mother.”
“I’ll walk to the grave.”
“But what if we lose you?”
“You’re in a graveyard riding in a hearse.”
Biddy’s coffin started to rock. Was my dear departed mother having one last belly laugh? No, it was just the four pallbearers smothering giggles, having overheard the conversation between their officious boss and me.
In the last ten years, not surprisingly, several Rogues have died. Tom the Bomb is now shadow-boxing with the Lord. Fat Bloke died far too early, leaving behind a wife and a young family. The worst holiday I’ve ever been on was with him. His good looks and charisma attracted so many women that I was exhausted from having to be funny and charming (not me at all) to get noticed. I was so shattered that I had to take a holiday immediately after I got back. Stevie died too, and at his funeral I was reminded of Michael Caine’s quote about the death of a childhood friend. “God’s bowling down my alley now.” Because of the life that Rogues lead, our numbers are dwindling fast. We are like tenpins, where, unfortunately, every ball bowled is a strike. Wurzel’s death, like Fat Bloke’s, hit me hard. After my oldest son was born, over a post-match beer, Wurzel would often talk about his love for his children. I received plenty of sound advice. “When you go shopping, never leave the baby in the pram outside for too long or some old biddy will give you a right earful.” I treasure those times. In the fifty-fifth minute of a premier league match the week after his death (Wurzel was 55 years-old when he was murdered by a coward who struck him across the back of the head with a bottle), supporters from both sides stood up and applauded. A fitting tribute for the gentle giant who never took himself too seriously and made me laugh more than anyone.
RIP wondrous Rogues, I miss you.
And what of this wastrel? I’ve written three trilogies and a stand-alone novel, all thrillers, covering the seismic events of the last hundred years from the Russian Revolution to the American Civil Rights movement. The main protagonists are based on those I met during my convoy days – the best and the worst of us. I’ve written a play, The ‘Pane’ of Rejection, based on writing and dealing with the critics and how to handle criticism. A reviewer said that my wry play was hard on trolls, and I should take into account that they may have mental health issues. The same week, a troll messaged me to demand I remove all black, Jewish and gay characters from my novels, or he and his friends (avatars or inflatables, he didn’t say) would post one-star reviews across all my novels. Funnily enough, my reply wasn’t an emoji hug. Churchill’s Rogue, the first novel in the Rogues Trilogy, was shortlisted for the inaugural Wilbur Smith Adventure Awards, the Lenka Trilogy won the Page Turner audio book award, and The Englander has been shortlisted for the Killer Nashville Claymore Award.
However, the biggest surprise since Benevolence was published was that I married a wonderful lady – I still have a way with people, as my mother-in-law punched me the first time we met – and we now have two mischievous little Rogues to raise. Fatherhood has mellowed me and I blend in (sort of) with the other parents on the school run. But occasionally, though I no longer live in the metropolis, the roguish edge reappears. Last spring, a builder’s vehicle was parked illegally on the corner of the school crossing. A battered one-eyed Miss Piggy, along with several once cuddly toys, were mounted on the front grill of the truck. Class! A dad walking his two little girls to school asked the driver, a short, wiry scaffolder, with a beard and arms as thick as lampposts, if he would please park his truck a little further down the road. He was met with a torrent of abuse. The scaffolder squared up to the family, while the daughters sought cover behind their petrified father. I walked past and waved goodbye to my son as he ran to the school gates before I turned around. I smiled and waved the huddled family towards the school. The scaffolder jutted his chin up at me. “Oh look, another ball-less arsehole, doing a woman’s job.”
For the sake of the children standing with their parents who had gathered on the corners of the congested junction, I leaned my head towards the miniature ginger Tyson Fury and whispered, “My dad was a scaffolder and he was a fucking prick, too. Now, I’m going to give you some health advice,’ leaning further into his flushed face. “Pick up your little fishing-rod and fuck off back to your garden and your gnome friends, or I’ll put your head through the radiator and you can join the rest of your muppet friends.”
I’m sure that from my face he realised I was not a man of violence, though, clearly, I viewed it as an option. He backed away, scurried into the driver’s cabin, crawled onto the cushion on his seat and shot off in his lorry, yelling, “You were fucking lucky today!”
I wouldn’t say that, as I’d forgotten to give my son his packed lunch.
Parents never forget their child’s first words. When I was cradling my first son, he clamped his hands on my face as if he had something important to tell me. My wife and I glanced at each other. Could this be it? Something wonderful and memorable was about to be uttered.
“Idiot,” he said, chuckling.
“That’s hilarious,” I said to my wife. “It almost sounded like idiot. I wonder what he actually said?”
“Idiot!” he repeated, giggling again, slapping my cheeks and kissing me on the nose. My wife roared with laughter. If I do ever forget his first words, I’m sure she will remind me.
I sighed. For one so young to be such an astute judge of character meant that a new chapter – no doubt, the greatest and toughest adventure of all, had begun.
The opening line of Benevolence is “I have achieved nothing” – the worst possible introduction to a memoir. But as I look across at my wife playing with our sons, after all the misadventures, fights, explosions, and acts of outrageous stupidity, perhaps, finally, I have achieved something, after all.
John
