Integrity

It’s a difficult job being Prime Minister, or First Minister or indeed any leading position. There are always different forces acting in different directions, often causing dilemmas of choice. It must be difficult to maintain integrity, to remain honest and uphold the ideals one professes. What a shame that our leaders seem to have given up on it.

Maybe PMs have always lied. When the only news was what was in the newspapers or on the very formal radio and TV bulletins perhaps it was difficult to tell. I am sure Churchill, Macmillan, Wilson, didn’t tell the whole truth, but obvious lies were rare. Tony Blair lied about Iraq’s weapons (unless he really was demented) but otherwise was pretty honest, I think. It is thus quite a change to have three successive PMs prepared to spout absolute nonsense and pretend it is the truth. Johnson lied because it was in his nature. I don’t think he could see a difference between lies and the truth because he could never be bothered to find out the facts. Truss was and remains barmy. Sunak has, I think, learned to lie and is terrible at it. Nevertheless he has found that if you repeat a lie often enough many people will come to accept it as the truth.

Integrity seems to be lacking in Tory politicians. The number of Tory MPs suspended or sacked in recent years for misbehaviour of one form or another is quite incredible and it continues with candidates for the general election removed almost as soon as they are chosen. The Labour Party on the other hand seems to ban its people from standing for Parliament if they have ever said or done something that doesn’t fit with the current policy. Nevertheless, integrity still seems to be a struggle for some in the party.

I would have thought that an aspiring Labour politician would be very wary of businessmen (or women) offering large sums of money to help you get elected. One would expect such a politician to carefully examine the motives and background of the donor to ensure that it fitted in with Labour Party morals. Hence I have to doubt the integrity of Vaughan Gething, recently appointed Prif Weinidog (1st Minister) of the Senedd Cymraeg. Surely, accepting £200,000 from the owner of a waste business already convicted of pollution irregularities was unwise. Hence whether he has broken rules or not I cannot think he is a suitable person to lead Cymru.

Maintaining integrity is difficult. I worked for 35 years as a teacher. For about 14 of those years my only responsibility as a class (laboratory) teacher was to my own wellbeing and that of my students. It was my job to encourage their development, to give them the knowledge and skills for life, perhaps start them on the road of a career, and, of course, help them get the best exam results they could. For another ten years or so I was head of department. Now I had responsibility for my staff (teachers and technicians) and the department budget, but still not many conflicts of interest. For the remaining 11 years or so I was on the Senior Management Team. There, my responsibilities included the whole school – students, parents, staff and governors. Now there were conflicts. What to do with a disturbed pupil – did the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many. Balancing budgets, dealing with governors misconceptions of what a school was. For a short period I had aspirations to be a headteacher but I saw how those I worked with were conflicted. Their integrity was damaged as certain ideals were flung out in order to keep certain factions (particularly governors) content. Hence, I think I know a little of what it means to be a leader but still I can’t abide lies.

Foxton Locks, last summer, a hot day

The topic of writing group this week was “ageing”. Should one accept it or fight it? Unless we lose our life when young as many of the troops on the D-day beaches did, then we have to face getting older. What is old? There were obviously a lot of possibilities with this topic which were taken up in various ways by members of our group. I chose a SF satire approach. A lot of what follows is “true” even though the story is fiction. None of the characters is real (not quite). I changed the title. It was going to be called “In The Court of the King” and I was going to include a joke about being up a creek without a paddle but didn’t have space.

Three Score Years and Ten

“We are delighted to welcome you to Paddle Creek, Dr. Oldman, I’m Nathan.“ The young man with the exceptionally pale, smooth skin gave me a broad smile. He did not offer to shake my hand but signalled to me to sit on the vast, low sofa. I sat, tugging down the hem of my dress to cover my knees. I’d dressed for the Caribbean but the aircon was making me shiver.

                “I’m pleased to be here,” I replied, “Although I am not sure why you have a position for a gerontologist.”

                The young man grimaced. “We don’t use that word here, Doctor.”

                “What? Gerontology?”

                He winced again. “Yes. As you no doubt know, it’s derived from the Greek for old and man. Mr Mazon does not permit any reference to ageing, old, elderly or any other such term.”

                I was a little surprised. “But you offered me the post knowing my name.”

                There was a flash of that smile again. “That is why you will be addressed and referred to by your title or your first name.”

                “Ah, Persephone. My friends call me Percy.”

                “Very well, Doctor Percy it is.”

                “What is my role here if Mr Mazon isn’t interested in my work?”  In truth I did not want to question my appointment too closely. They were paying me very well indeed, as well as throwing in all expenses paid accommodation on the island, and I was glad to get away from the chaos that was my life back home.

                “Oh, he’s very interested in your subject area, Percy.”  There was that condescending smile again. “It’s just that Mr Mazon doesn’t intend getting old or ageing and does not want to hear any reference to those er, conditions.”

                “But he’s nearly seventy,” I blustered.

                “Sixty-nine,” Nathan nodded.

                “Then he’s bound to be experiencing some of the effects of, er, the passing years.”

                “Not if he can help it. Ever since he began to make a success of his business, Alec Mazon has put money and effort into preserving his youth. Your job is to supervise that process, ensure that the various regimes that he uses are working and that he remains in tip top health.”

                “I see.” It promised to be an interesting if hopeless task. Who can put off the ageing process for ever? “When can I examine him?” I said, looking forward to making a start.

                The young man shook his head. “Oh, you won’t be in his presence. Mr Mazon has no contact with anyone. He occupies his villa on the other side of the island alone.”  He pointed out of the vast picture window to the vista of the tropical island with the roof top of a huge mansion just visible on the horizon.

                “Not even his wife?” I said, thinking, surely, he has sex from time to time.

                “They are divorced.”

                “Ah. So how do I supervise his state of health?”

                “Mr Mazon has various sensors that he wears or are implanted which will give you a continuous readout online of all his life signs. Also, you will be supplied with blood and tissue samples at regular intervals. They are taken by a remote unit that one of his companies manufactures.”

                “That’s thoughtful of him,” I said, beginning to feel a little cheeky.

                “And of course you will supervise his medications and diet.”

                “Medication? I thought he was well.”

                “He is. These are preventative – drugs to remove senescent cells, vitamin and antioxidant supplements, telomere lengthening proteins, all that sort of thing.”

                “I see.” I was beginning to understand. Mr Alec Mazon, richest man in the world, was clutching at straws by utilising every method he could find to extend his life. “And his diet; I presume it is vegan, fresh, unprocessed.”

                Nathan smiled once more. “Of course. Not that he eats a lot.”

                “Oh, you mean he uses calorie restriction.” Another documented method of increasing lifespan even if it did mean you were forever hungry.

                “Of course, Doctor. And then there are the gene therapy procedures he undergoes from time to time to eliminate disease-causing genes from his genome. He is planning on mitochondrial replacement therapy soon to boost his energy.”

                “What will I have to do?” I said. Those treatments were outside my experience.

                “Oh, no need to worry. You will just have to schedule them in Mr Mazon’s diary and monitor the effects. They will also be conducted remotely.”

                I wondered how Alec Mazon had time for work or pleasure with all these activities related to keeping him alive for the longest possible period.

                Nathan rose from his chair. “I think that is all you need for now, Doctor. Time, I think, for you to settle into your accommodation. Here is Judah to show you the way.”

                The door had opened and a young man entered the room. Judah seemed almost a clone of Nathan. They were both extremely fit and handsome young men. They looked at each other adoringly. I couldn’t imagine them keeping their hands off each other.

                Judah smiled but didn’t approach me closer than two metres.

                “Oh, there is one other thing I haven’t mentioned,” Nathan said. “Once a month you will supervise the donation of blood my me, Judah and our fellow employees.”

                “That’s very generous of you,” I said, “Does it go to the local transfusion service?”

                “Oh, no, Percy,” Nathan chuckled as if I had made a joke. “We give our blood for Mr Mazon. He has regular transfusions. We have all been chosen as we are a perfect match for his blood.”

                While it was an ancient technique for restoring youthfulness borne out by modern research, it did suggest that Alec Mazon had vampiric tendencies.

                Judah guided me to the door. Nathan called out “We do hope you enjoy your work here Doctor Percy.”

After a month I had settled into the routine of life on Paddle Creek Island. I wasn’t overworked. As Nathan had outlined, all I had to do was keep an eye on the monitor showing all Alec Mazon’s life signs, make sure that he was provided with the narrow range of foods that he permitted himself to eat, and ensure that he took all his drugs and supplements on time. Although I never saw him in person, on screen he or his avatar looked to be fit and perhaps not his full three score years and ten, but wealth is a good medicine, isn’t it.

It was a week after his seventieth birthday. I was relaxing in a hammock with the tablet by my side. I was jolted from my doze by an alarm. I hadn’t heard the sound before and for a moment I wondered what the noise was. Then I realised it was coming from the tablet. I grabbed it and stared in horror at the traces on the screen. Mazon’s heart rate was shooting up while the percentage of oxygen in his blood was falling rapidly. He wasn’t breathing. All his life signs were decaying. Alarms were going off all over the complex now. People, mainly handsome, young men, were running this way and that. Of course, there was no one within a mile of Mazon’s residence to get in and find out what was wrong.

                By the time someone did get there it was too late. He was flatlining on every measure. When I arrived, all I could do as the resident medical expert, was pronounce him dead. Alec Mazon had choked on a Brazil nut. I hoped no one would blame me, after all my name does mean ‘bringer of death’.

………………..

Who needs honesty?

I have noticed that a number of government spokespeople have questioned whether the public are interested in the furnishings in No.10, or who said what about COVID victims or whose friends benefitted from the billions spent on pandemic contracts. The principle seems to be that if nobody cares then why bother being honest; stick your nose in the trough and ignore the parts of the press that complain.

It is true that only a small proportion of the voting population take a close interest in what goes on in parliament and in government and only a few relate what goes on there to the job market, the community resources, the price of food etc that they experience. Just over 60% vote in General Elections and far fewer in local elections. So, yes with a comfortable majority in parliament the ruling party can do what they like. The right wing press will only complain if the Tory party doesn’t give them everything they demand. These days there’s not much media which is not right wing. Even MSN on Microsoft Edge is filled with Daily Express headlines.

So, there seems little to stop our slide into a cesspit of corruption and sleaze with an authoritarian government banning all protest and opposition. It may not be done as blatantly as in Russia but the effect will be the same.

What is the result? A break down in law and order at every level of society. The billionaires will get away with fiddling tax and treating workers like dirt, while the mass population will cease to take notice of little local laws because the police will be too busy dancing to the politicians’ tune. An example. Last week someone thought it would be a big joke to report a bomb in a car parked close to where I live. Of course the police and fire service had to react. The local residents were told to vacate their homes for three hours on a chilly evening, and the army bomb squad were called in. Of course it was a hoax. There are supposed to be heavy penalties for making hoax 999 calls but despite there being good leads on who the perpetrators were, the local police shrugged their shoulders and said they would not be taking the case any further. A few people laughed it off as a bit of fun, ignoring the inconvenience it caused to residents and the costs, which will come back to tax payers.

The River Usk near Brecon from the Brynnich Aquaduct

Honesty and integrity in people with responsibilities to others should be a given. Lose it and soon everything will be chaos as there will be no trust in anything. I don’t mean that my political beliefs and policies should be imposed on everyone but I need to be reassured that everyone in positions of power will follow the laws and rules that govern all of us.

Back to writers’ group this week. The task set was to write a piece with no repeated nouns. In discussion we agreed that in a short piece it is good practice not to repeat nouns but can be difficult to follow fully. There were some excellent efforts that employed lots of nouns without repetition. Mine is below, a somewhat rushed affair, but it met the criteria.

The Thing

A roar and rumble rattled the rooftiles. Through the window I saw a streak of brilliant white light pass across the sky. Then there was a thud that shook the ground.
“Something just came down in one of the fields,” I said, turning to face the family.
“Not far away,” Robert said, adding, “come on, kids, let’s see if we can bag a meteorite.” He picked up a torch. We followed him out of the door.
We hurried up the garden path, across the paddock and into the big meadow. The sun had set an hour or so ago. There was no Moon, so it was a dark but clear, starry night.
“Surely it landed somewhere here,” my husband said, “Let’s spread out in a line. Look out for burn marks.”
“Won’t there be a crater,” Lucy said.
We did as we were told and formed a row that paced slowly across the pasture. There was nothing unusual to see. Then I bumped into a solid and heavy mass that was completely invisible. I ran my hands over the surface. It was smooth and hard but seemed to give slightly under pressure like skin over flesh and extended up and down, left and right as far as I could reach.
“There’s an object here,” I called out, “but it can’t be seen at all.”
The others ran to join me and formed a circle stretching out their arms to touch the object.
Ben had a grip on it. “There’s a tube that’s crinkled and bent but soft like an elephant’s trunk.”
My daughter’s fingers traced out a straight line. “There’s a stalk here. It’s springy like a wire.”
My beloved was on his knees feeling around the base. “It is resting on feet shaped liked saucers, five of them.”
We were all deep into our investigations, shouting out our observations to each other with no thought of a possible danger. Perhaps I should have considered the likelihood that we could be injured if whatever the article was reacted in some way.
It did. There was a whistle like whale song followed by the whoosh a cola bottle makes when it’s shaken up and opened suddenly. A gust of wind blew all of us flat on our backs. We crawled together but it was gone.
Feeling a little sheepish I stood up and looked at each of them.
“What was it?” I said, “A creature?”
“An alien?”
“A robot?”
“A spaceship?”
“All of those perhaps,” I concluded, “It was a…. a thing!”

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