Ghosts Of Princes In Towers

ANYONE bemoaning the death of truth in the age of Trump and Johnson would do well to remember that it’s been hijacked throughout history.

Most famously, the ghoulish Goebbels, Hitler’s spin doctor, said: ‘Truth is the greatest enemy of the state.’

The Greek playwright, Aeschylus, wrote: ‘God is not averse to deceit in a just cause.’

But there have been causes anything but just which have leaned to deceit.

If you saw anything this week about the historic opening of Varosha, once the holiday destination of the rich and famous on Cyprus, you’d be forgiven for thinking Turkey had been the big, bad bully of the Mediterranean.

It’s the same old story promoted by right-wing Greek-speaking Cypriots. It fits their narrative of victim-hood, in the same way that Donald J Trump blames everyone and everything for anything.

The truth is a little more complex.

For Cyprus ‘that golden-green leaf thrown into the sea’ has rarely been ‘Greek’, despite the protestations of those in the south of the island.

And when the Greek-speaking peoples of the island fought for independence, they murdered their Turkish-speaking neighbours in cold blood, as well as the British troops they say as an occupying army.

The Greek-speakers, under Archbishop Makarios, won their bid for their own republic, but soon muscled out the Turkish-speakers, who they wanted gone from ‘their’ island.

This is all fact, easily checked, if you go beyond Greek and Greek Cypriot propaganda, made truth by constant propaganda.

But back to Varosha, the ghost town of Cyprus. In 1974, the Turkish Army stopped their advance here. Admittedly the British Army, and the 3rd Battalion of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, stood in the way of any advance into the Sovereign Base Area of Dhekelia.

There is no doubt that the victorious advance of Turkish troops could have claimed the whole island. The Greek Cypriots and any Greek troops stationed there were beaten. Those bleating about ‘occupation’ tend to forget, or conveniently ignore, another truth.

Because Makarios, who had once ordered the killing of British troops, found himself at the centre of a Greek coup. Athens wanted him gone. He fled, ironically, to Britain for sanctuary.

Which left London and Ankara in an embarrasing situation.

Britain, Greece and Turkey were joint guarantors of the peace on Cyprus. When Greece abstained from that role with its power-grab on the island, Britain hesitated, unwilling to act without the say so of Washington, then reeling from Watergate.

Ankara responded after the desperate calls from Turkish Cypriots fearing another bloodbath and more of their land stolen.

It really is as simple as that. With Greece the enemy of Cyprus, as envisaged by its republican vision, Britain sitting on the fence, Turkey intervened.

It’s been a source of discontent among Greek speakers and many Turkish speakers on the island. Many Turkish Cypriots have been unhappy at the ‘Turkification’ that has been evident in the last two decades, with many settlers arriving from the mainland.

That has also been a big source of unhappiness from those in the South, who continue to demand Turkey quit the island and their former lands be returned to them.

‘Give Famagusta back’ or at least the Varosha part was written on protest banners.

If only life was that simple.

Back in 2004, people both sides of the divided island had their chance to reunite. It would have seen a new republic, a new start, a new era of reunification in Europe.

The Turkish Cypriots voted overwhelmingly in favour (64 per cent). The Greek Cypriots said ‘no’ in their hundreds of thousands. Only 24 per cent were in favour of the United Nations-brokered plan.

The prize for reunification offered by Brussels was membership of the European Union. When the Greek Cypriots rejected the scheme, they still won the benefits of membership.

Varosha? The hotels are standing, untouched for 46 years, crumbling in the sea air, monuments to happier times that masked misery for many Cypriots.

There is no doubting Ankara has made many mistakes when it comes to the island, and turning Varosha into a military zone all this time, was one.

But make no doubt, despite the rabble rousing and criticism from Greek Cypriots, this was an historic moment, one I thought would never come. It’s another olive branch offered by the North. There have been many. All rejected by those living in the South.

Maybe it’s time to leave history where it belongs, in the past, and look to the future. Maybe it’s time to embrace truth, learn forgiveness and forge a better life for all those whose lives are tied up in the island’s tomorrow.

Opening Varosha is another step in the right direction.

Journal For Plague Lovers

LIES, damn lies and statistics.

So the old saying went.

For me, it’s now politicians’ lies, damn lies and politicians’ statistics.

Because today, more than ever, the powers-that-be seem intent on fooling the public. Sod truth, sod public health and the right to know. It’s more about manipulation to give a false picture to prop up politicians and their dreams.

Covid 19 has brought it sharply into focus.

Boris Johnson and his circus act of a government have been fudging the figures from day one.

We’re following the science, they said, while clearly ignoring the science.

We would get a world-beating test and trace system, said Boris.

He’s right. It’s the worst in the world, a laughing stock. World-beating in its failure.

But forget about the sham of private companies pocketing billions of taxpayer pounds to work up a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet like a struggling GCSE student.

Think about the lack of tests and the impact that’s had on people, families, communities, places of work,

While the government has sat back, pontificated about science, the figures and, most of all, the economy, it’s the people who have become unnecessarily ill, who have died or lost their jobs.

My wife tested positive for Covid 19 after she, my teenage son and toddler daughter, plus myself, all fell ill.

We could get a test for my NHS clinician wife. The rest of us scrabbled about to get tests.

Phone calls every day, visits to the website, all to no avail. Nothing available. Almost like the government wasn’t taking this very seriously, despite all the hot air coming out of various minister’s mouths.

We finally got tests sent through on Sunday morning. Some five weeks since we last fell ill, although our symptoms had returned. You’re supposed to take the test within five days of falling ill.

My test, and those of my children, have returned negative results. The officials tell me a false positive is unlikely, but false negatives are more frequent.

So, given a virus has aggressive as Covid 19, it’s unlikely that my wife had it and the rest of us didn’t.

Government statistics will tell you otherwise. Because when it comes to this household, the Covid hit rate is 25 per cent.

I presume that’s why Boris et al have made it so hard to get a test, so the figures won’t look so bad and it will prop up their arguments to get the country back up running.

I’m sad for the tens of thousands of people who have lost a family member, a friend, a colleague to Covid 19.

I’m mostly sad for the death of truth.

Ghost Of Your Father

I WAS struggling with my biceps workout the other day when a glorious memory came up.

My step-father, Martin, had asked me to train with him. This was 30 years ago. He’d split up from my mother years earlier and had been persona non grata to the rest of ‘my family’, but graciously remained my friend.

And I was a member of a hardcore gym, was playing rugby and remember one friend of mine saying to another: have you seen his arms? I’m sure that was behind he reasoning to ask me rather than someone – anyone – else.

Thus, I found myself at Coventry’s Windmill Hotel and Golf Course Gym, taking out a membership along with an exuberant Martin.

He asked me to lead a training session and then wasn’t too happy about the idea.

Because in weight training, when you start it’s all about pathways, mind-muscle connection and getting a feel for any given exercise. The best trainers leave their egos at the door. Martin was to find that out.

Martin wanted to biceps curl with heavier weights than those I’d given him. It was almost an insult to his manhood that I’d suggested five kilos, which incidentally I was using when the memory came to me.

So I bet him he couldn’t do 10 good reps with the lightest weight, I think half kilo dumbbells.

I remember the reply being along the lines of rubbish. Always with a smile. Martin wore his smile like a badge of honour.

So I ran him up the dumbbell rack, 10 reps at a time. When we got to a weight he struggled with, I told him to curl out as many reps as he could, with no rest, back down the rack.

When it came to the half kilo dumbbells he struggled to get five reps and flashed me a disconcerted, disappointed look. Bet won, point made and training progress to come.

I always enjoyed Martin’s company and time. He was a wonderful man. When I talk to my son about him, I’m sad they never met. I think Henry would have benefitted from knowing Martin. Most people did. Apart from my family.

But there again, the last decade or so has seen ugly truths about my life finally revealed.

Some of them have been hard to accept, others hard to understand. Yet more have been a blessed relief.

Suffice to say, my faith in Martin was justified. I can’t say whether his faith in me was.

But he was one of the men who played a positive part in my life. My own father had been chased off by the family, seen as ‘not good enough’. I learned a long time ago this was probably not the case, but was too scared of upsetting the status quo to change the course of that relationship.

My grandparents brought me up, and my grandfather was an amazing father figure, even if his time for me was limited for his workaholic nature. He had a gentle sense of humour and was a decent man. He flew fighters during World War Two and put up with a great many trials.

I’m so glad for the love and kindness he showed me. He had an awful death, which, thanks to Alzheimers, lasted a decade. It was a relief when he finally relaxed his hold on life.

He was respected and loved by everybody whose lives he touched. Including his erstwhile step-son, who said he so wanted to be at his funeral, but didn’t want to upset the applecart. We had a lot of applecarts in my family and while my grandmother is still alive, a fair few still exist.

Martin was to die a few years later, far too soon, from cancer.

And it was considering this that I realised that the men who had a role in shaping me in childhood have all gone.

Grandad, Martin and my grandmother’s brothers, Uncle Bob and Uncle David.

These were the people I was so fond of, who blessed me with their time and humour freely.

Uncle Bob, the quiet man who couldn’t stop talking when it came to funny stories of his time in the Fleet Air Arm.

Of making snake sounds near the bamboo toilets in the Far East and watching his comrades dash to safety with trousers round legs, of some of his childhood antics with his mum, and tall stories of life in general. A gentle man with a love of books and a mischievous humour.

His younger brother, David, who also joined the FAA and also made chief petty officer. He was as mad about trains as Uncle Bob was about books.

As I remember Uncle Bob walking with me on a visit to his native Coventry and suddenly disappearing into the wonderfully aromatic second-hand book store near the Coventry to Birmingham main line, so Uncle David disappeared on me, too, some years later.

The Uncle Bob incident reminded me of Mole, catching scent of his home while journeying with the Water Rat and knowing not why he was compelled to return.

With Uncle David it was my first wedding, at the North Norfolk Railway. We didn’t know it but our wedding train would be the record-setting City of Truro – bizarrely, I live in Truro now – and he had the chance to drive the famous and much-loved engine.

A Great Western Railway nut, the opportunity to drive the most famous of GWR engines was a dream come true and when we were leaving to go to the next stage of the commiserations the cry went up that one of the party was missing in action. Uncle David.

He was tracked down to the footplate, joyfully sharing stories of steam with the driver and fireman, almost glued to the spot. An hour of heaven enjoyed to the full. I still don’t know how we quite managed to prise him away.

Uncle David shared his brother’s sense of fun. They both had a way of dipping their head to the side when they told ‘funnies’, ear to shoulder at times. An appetite for life and all that is good.

All gone. Four magnificent gentlemen, whose legacies run deep in my veins.

I realise how fortunate I’ve been to know people like that. I talk about them often to my wife and son. Their memory lives on. Every time I pick up the weights, read a book, especially a book on trains, or think about the model railway to build that will rival Uncle David’s.