February 22, 2022
'To believe in something, and not to live it, is dishonest'
- Mahatma GandhiEmotions can wash over you in unexpected waves. To keep the nautical theme, one moment you can be on an even keel, looking at a calm horizon then, suddenly out of the blue, you’re knocked off balance and you struggle to hold your footing.
So it was when I received a brief email with a recommendation from an online trader, “because you bought 6x pairs ladies’ cotton panties ...”
That may seem like an introduction to some light-hearted tale, but it’s not, far from it.
That pitch for me to purchase brought back some very painful memories, and coincided with the breaking national news that would soon become ‘Partygate’ - the revelations and investigations for apparent breaches in the rules set by Government within the walls, and garden walls, of Downing Street at the height of the Covid pandemic.
The scandal has dragged on and on, probably to a degree where most are now fed up of it. The dust is settling and even when the now-famous Sue Gray and now-infamous Metropolitan Police present their findings, it is unlikely much will change after another brief political storm. Just as the weather works its way through the alphabet – Arwen, Barra, Corrie, Dudley, Eunice, Franklin etc – ‘Storm Partygate’ will be overshadowed by more crises and more dead cats tossed around for distraction
But what makes ‘Partygate’ matter to me it that it is personal, and it should be for every single person who believes in common decency, never mind accountability by our elected, chosen representatives.
My tale and my guilt are insignificant compared to tens of thousands of others. The audience I can share it with is tiny but, if we all shouted out and challenged; if we all found ourselves supported by those who were fortunate to escape any major trauma during the pandemic and find within themselves some empathy, then maybe all those whispers could rise to a roar. It is a forlorn hope, but, really, that wishful balm is all I have left to ease my own hoarseness.
It begins literally days before the United Kingdom went into lockdown at the end of March 2020. My mum was in supported accommodation and her health was failing. Hearing loss was now joined by macular degeneration, an irreversible eye condition that would lead to blindness, bringing with it on the journey into darkness a kaleidoscope of colourful hallucinations. At first these manifested themselves in strange, but harmless, displays of flora, but these would slowly be replaced by visions much darker.
A few of her friends had gone into residential care and after each time she visited them, she became more resolute that this was what she wanted ... and needed. We worked with doctors, specialists and social workers on a variety of assessments. As the hallucinations worsened so, it seemed, her memories also began to fade and the greater her confusion.
A psychiatric evaluation recommended greater social interaction to ease her growing feelings of isolation. Social services increased her care provision. As a family we tried to balance what the experts recommended against what mum herself believed was best.
Whatever was happening to her faculties there were, of course, times of great clarity. The last time we laughed together was when I left a psychiatric consultation with her and, sitting in the car, we both agreed we had barely understood a word that was said. She talked freely and easily, but I could sense her fear and weariness.
Meanwhile the care package was being restructured as the hallucinations became worse. She saw people now who sought her out wherever she went; there were children, sometimes noisy, sometimes standing silent just staring at her. Then came the notes they left, which she saw as proof of their existence, though they were written in her own shaky handwriting. Then there were the snakes, the vermin and, finally, the dead bodies.
Throughout her life, probably because of a damaged childhood, mum desperately needed company and in her failing health she relied on it increasingly, and at all times of day and night.
The social workers we dealt with were kind and understanding. A respite break was to be arranged in a care home of mum’s choosing to see if she would be happy and in the meantime efforts were made to encourage her to socialise more. There were activities in her supported accommodation complex; she enjoyed a day out every week to a group for the visually impaired, and it was recommended she spend every Friday at a nearby day centre.
I took her there to meet the members and while I saw to the paperwork she joined the others in the common room. It is probably my last treasured memory of my mum.
After I had spoken to the management and explained my mother’s health issues, she was all set to join them the next week, if she felt it was for her. I walked back into the common room to find her sitting at a table with a group of members. She was smiling and seemed happy, and I heard her tell them that her son had brought her and, as I approached the table she saw me, smiled and exclaimed, “Oh, here he is,” and reached out to take my hand.
That was her only visit, and the last moment of physical affection I remember.
We went into official lockdown the next week. Mum could receive no visitors other than accredited carers. All activities in the complex were halted with meals left outside the door. Everyone in the complex, though living together under the same roof, had to be isolated; there was no mixing and no socialising.
These were the rules.
While all professional services stressed the need for social interaction, my 95-year-old mother, virtually deaf and blind, suffering increasingly horrible hallucinations, was basically confined alone to her room with only the visits from approved carers to break her day.
These were the rules.
We were banned from visiting. The police were checking where you were going, doctors were almost impossible to see, never mind to make a house call, and mum was deteriorating. Even when the key safe broke to allow carers access, we couldn’t buy a replacement and fit it, so mum sat up through the night to make sure she didn't miss the carer.
These were the rules.
An episode where she believed her flat was littered with the bodies of dead children proved too much for her fragile state of mind and she broke down. Her screams of desperation weren’t enough to ease the restrictions but enough to make the housing provider decree she needed greater care.
Emergency respite was quickly arranged in a Fife care home and, distraught and bewildered, she was transported there by ambulance and then, again found herself isolated by being quarantined. She was alone with strangers, with no support and no reassurance.
These were the rules.
As a family we felt totally helpless and I cannot imagine what mum must have gone through. The hallucinations were still there but she had no idea where she was, or who it was bringing her food and seeing to her care needs. Her only lifeline was a mobile phone, a very basic model so she could operate it, and during her quarantine that was really her only contact with anyone.
These were the rules.
We got through that, with a few traumas, and mum was able to eventually mix with the other residents but, of course, we were still forbidden from any personal contact.
Eventually it seemed there was some light at the end of the tunnel. I spoke to mum every day on the phone. The staff told me she would sit there holding it waiting for me to call.
We would plan outings after the lockdown ended, we would drop off little treats at the care home door and, online, I could buy the little things she desperately needed, like that new underwear.
Mum, while still having episodes of confusion, seemed to be enjoying more clarity and desperately wanted to see her great-grandchildren. Setting up an i-Pad connection was tricky as the care home had to share its single tablet around all the residents, so we relied on calls.
On one I noticed she seemed to be becoming hoarse. That prompted the care home to contact its GP and mum was put into quarantine and isolated again. The doctors, remotely, decided it was nothing to be too concerned about, but her condition worsened.
After one call, which proved be the last time we would speak, mum was struggling for breath and said inhaling was causing her a lot of pain. She broke down and begged me to help her, to do something. She was so frightened.
We immediately phoned the GP with our concerns for her health and state of mind but were told if she didn’t improve they would prescribe steroids and it was really nothing to be worried about.
So mum, in pain, frightened, near blind and deaf, isolated in quarantine, was left alone with her terrifying hallucinations. The lockdown was ending in a couple of days but my wife and I wept at the horror and helplessness of it all just 48 hours from being able to see her.
These were the rules.
Mum died that night.
That’s the raw part of my experience. Of course there is much more. Mum was an organiser and, unbeknownst to all of us, had meticulously pre-arranged her funeral. Who would deliver the eulogy, the readings, the hymns – all of that had been decided. As a much-loved school teacher many were anticipated to attend the funeral, and even the cars for the family members to the service had been organised. The scattering of her ashes were amongst her last wishes. None of these arrangements happened they way she wanted.
These were the rules.
It seemed as if the conclusion of my mother’s life had helped erase who she had been to herself and to others. The rules and regulations surrounding Covid had almost reduced her from an individual to just a statistic.
When you look at her final weeks then add that to other personal family stories of lonely diagnoses and delayed treatments, battles against the virus, home-working, unemployment, financial hardship, mental health issues, schooling difficulties, childcare problems, and every combination of these as well as so much more, the pandemic has left a wound that is still open … and very painful.
Across the UK there have been more than 160,000 Covid-related deaths, that is well over double the British civilian deaths in World War Two, or, to look at it in another disturbing way, 42 per cent of the total British soldiers killed in WW2. It is a shocking number and as to whether it is a statistic aggravated by governmental indecisiveness, incompetence and complacency will, no doubt, be another political storm in months, if not years to come.
The point is when you look at that 160,000 and add the numbers of those who died isolated and alone from non-Covid causes, the volume of harrowing tales is simply mind-boggling. Every single one though has something in common, they are all tightly parcelled up in the rules set by Downing Street.
There were no exceptions for the families who suffered loss. We were told this was a national crisis and something we were all sharing together.
I remember banging my saucepan and joining the clamour of my neighbours in praising the National Health Service. Everyone was making sacrifices and the NHS was our frontline saviour.
That did not last long. The NHS would be the first to be wounded as the conspiracy theories emerged that every battle-weary, emotionally worn-out nurse and doctor was part of a big Covid lie and the praise for their efforts from the doorstep of Downing Street was simply a soundbite while the real bite ahead was what was essentially a pay cut.
And then came the insult to the sacrifice made by millions to keep each other safe. As I stood wearing a mask in an empty car park and picked up the few bags of my mother’s final belongings, including 6x pairs ladies’ cotton panties, it appears they were partying at the heart of Government.
At first there were no such gatherings; then, if there were, all rules were followed; the Prime Minister had not attended if there had been parties; then he had actually attended a party but thought it was a work meeting; then there were more parties ... It became a drip-feed farce.
As one of the 160,000 families outraged by this shocking development, I had to make my feelings known. After all, everyone with that sense of decency would surely be raising their voice in protest and, morally, I had to add mine.
So, like so many up and down the country, I wrote to my Member of Parliament,. North East Fife’s Wendy Chamberlain was sympathetic and even before I received a response she had already expressed her concerns over the continuing revelations, and responses, from the Prime Minister at the Despatch Box.
Though I applaud Ms Chamberlain’s stance, as a Lib Dem she is a minority voice in an Opposition party and in our first-past-the-post system she has no clout where a hefty majority for the winner gives the nation a democratically-elected dictatorship.
Then as the number of Downing Street parties reached double figures, the Scottish National Party leader in the House of Commons, Ian Blackford, called the Prime Minister a liar. This breach of House etiquette led to his ejection from the Chamber at the command of the Speaker, Sir Lindsay Hoyle.
Mr Blackford would, in due course, apologise and return to his place on the Opposition benches. Personally, I would have dearly liked to see every one of the 290 Opposition MPs follow Blackford out, hopefully with a few of the remaining 360 Tories joining them.
If each had yelled ‘Liar’ as they left the Chamber then, perhaps, we may well have seen change at the heart of this Government with a leader, at the centre of a horrendous death toll and two years of public sacrifice, reportedly able to turn on a 'Fred Scuttle' impersonation while singing the Gloria Gaynor anthem ‘I will survive’. Depending on your point of view this is either embarrassing or endearing.
However, my ideal mass walk-out was not to be. Instead, we were again reminded of the rules and calling out a fellow Member as a ‘liar’ was simply not acceptable. While I understand this constitutional decree on politeness, I have a major problem with it because if there is, in my book, one thing worse than calling someone a liar, it is the actual liar.
It was a point I thought, at least in my mum’s memory and my own anger, that I should personally make to Sir Lindsay.
Those who know me probably have me labelled as a crank who simply tilts at windmills for the sake of it. This I do not do. I firmly believe in the raising of voices and can only hope others join with me. Few do.
I haven't won many battles, looking back, probably none, but I hope I have always made my point and perhaps, at least, caused a moment’s consideration or reconsideration by the powers-that-be whose inbox I have gatecrashed.
Given my track record, I did not expect a fulsome response from the Speaker so was surprised at a lengthy reply received from Josh Ryder, assistant to the his secretary.
It pointed out: “The Speaker has noted your comments and asked me to explain that it is not for the Chair to adjudicate on the accuracy, veracity or suitability of Members’ contributions, so long as the contents of their words remain “orderly” in Parliamentary terms. Mr Speaker can only operate within the powers afforded to him by the House and it would not be appropriate for him to play the role of fact checker during, or subsequent to, debates.”
After explaining all the options an MP has before him or her to challenge a contribution, the reply concluded: “The Speaker takes all comments from members of the public very seriously and would like to reassure you that one of his principal concerns is to ensure that the highest standards of debate are maintained in the House of Commons.”
Fair enough.
The reply didn’t really answer my concern though.
And that is … while understanding the need to ensure the highest standards of orderly debate, the House of Commons has evolved somewhat from exchanges across the floor against a background noise of a Hansard quill and ink whizzing across a piece of parchment in the finest shorthand.
The exchanges, especially at Prime Minister’s Questions, do not bounce around the 650 MPs. Radio and television have increased that audience to a potential 60 million, not one of whom has the power to jump to his or her feet and, avoiding the word ‘liar’, yell across the Floor “fabricator” or “fabulist” or “calumniator” or “distorter” or “falsifier” or whatever term is acceptable to describe our national leader’s relationship with the truth and realpolitik.
And Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson knows it. From Downing Street parties to crime figures to accusations of protecting paedophile monsters, the lies ooze into homes via radio, TV and newspapers and idiotic online reader comments, to become truths for enough people to prop up and reinforce the dictatorship.
The ‘lies’ issue is no longer about protecting standards and ensuring orderly behaviour, it simply protects liars and lying to the general public. Challenges and retraction, if they occur, rarely receive the publicity the first flurry of falsehood commands. The first verbal strike is the most effective whatever the veracity - the Jimmy Savile incident is a perfect example.
But at least my protest was read.
Or was it?
Ten days after the response from Josh Ryder, in the the Speaker’s office, I received another reply, this time from another assistant, Kate Winterflood.
This contained nothing new, literally nothing, other than the signature, being a word-for-word copy of the missive I had received from her colleague over a week before.
It is likely my initial communication was simply filed in the folder for responses that merited the stock response and an administrative blunder earned me a second letter.
The notion of any personal interaction is, in reality, probably no more than another falsehood within a system that has nothing to do with representation of the people but is purely lip-service and marketing.
The illusion of that system is that it is working for the benefit of the nation; the reality is that it is working to retain a comfortable, self-perpetuating establishment.
Now when I see a picture of the Downing Street garden party during lockdown, I see my mother’s few belongings outside the door of a care home in an empty car park.
Boris Johnson made rules for my mum, and while they were harsh I'm not saying they were wrong and weren't for the common weal, but he made different ones for himself.
He made himself special and, by doing so, my mother's life meaningless and insignificant. He has sullied her memory and I just don't think that's right.
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