On the wrong path

Has the world become more unstable, more ugly, more vicious? Or was it always like that, just less overtly?

Or am I just feeling my age?

I was watching the tennis the other day. One of the players’ behaviour verged on the psychotic. Talking and swearing to himself, shouting hysterically at the umpire, his coach, the audience. Then the other participant freaked out too, whacking one ball hard at his opponent’s body, and then another dangerously into the crowd. I remember a time when we were shocked by a little badinage from the spoilt brat John McEnroe, and even more by a glimpse of lace on Gussie Moran’s knickers. But nowadays there is a new level of bad behaviour. The game was not stopped, and the hitherto staid denizens of Wimbledon reacted by cheering and stamping, thereby encouraging the disturbing goings-on.

In the old days, the joy of cricket was lounging in the sun listening to the gentle sound of leather on willow. Nowadays the sport is accompanied by a cacophony of shouting, cheering, racist abuse and banging drums, while men in grubby tracksuits (elegant whites rarely seen now except in dated dramas) snarl at one another on the pitch in an apparently permitted practice called “sledging.”

Certainly, things feel more unstable to me. We are living our lives against the backdrop of a sadistic war in Ukraine and have just got rid of a prime minister who rode roughshod over our democratic institutions. Or have we? His dying days were full of denial and threats of an imminent return, à la Trump. I feel we have not seen the last of that dangerously volatile personality, and his smiling, nodding acolytes.

I am not alone in my disquiet. I have been doing countrywide book tour events, which often involve a questionand-answer session. On one occasion, a sedate-looking woman in the audience stood up and said calmly and firmly that she had lost faith in everything she should trust and had until now trusted. The government, the police, the church, the press and even, after the revelations of its corrupt betrayal of its workers, the Post Office.

People seem to feel strongly that our moral compass has gone missing. “What can we do about it?” is the cry that always comes up. One good thing about the Boris Johnson affair is that it eventually created a wave of disgust from the public that even the most servile and self-serving politicians had to respond to. During several of my exciting Q and A sessions, normally restrained booklovers were ready for

In the old days, the joy of cricket was listening to the gentle sound of leather on willow. Nowadays the sport is accompanied by a cacophony of shouting

revolution—but settled for an onslaught of letters to their MP.

Lest I should be over-pleased with myself at the warm reception of my book, one of the reviews was without doubt the most vicious that I have ever received for anything in my 70-year career. Some, over that time, have been harsh—I have done a lot of rubbish—but it feels that comment nowadays in the press, and especially on social media, competes to inflict the most lacerating wound.

My personal life has definitely become more unstable. No plans can be made with any certainty. I booked to go to France and the flight was cancelled. The weather turned vicious and confined us to our homes again while the out- ofcontrol sun set fire to fields and houses. I was due to work on a film and then Covid struck me, bringing another 10-day isolation with a violent cough, agonising sore throat and chronic headache. “It’s like a mild cold.” Oh really?

Once again when I was left to my own thoughts and unable to talk them through with anyone face-to-face, everything definitely felt to me to be unstable, ugly, vicious.

Until—the first night of the Proms. Oh, blessed BBC. I switched the television over from a pathetic debate between prospective prime ministers (God help us) to see hundreds of singers radiant with joy and dedication packed into the Albert Hall, making a thing of beauty of Verdi’s Requiem. There was a huge orchestra and two massive choirs, one

charmingly from Crouch End. Wonderful, grey-haired men singing their guts out, and makeup-less women, bright and glowing at the sheer thrill of being part of something so transcendental.

Then there was Masabane Cecilia Rangwanasha. I think she came down from heaven for the gig and is actually an angel. Her voice floats or roars out of her: effortless, soaring, full of passion. It is supernatural. God must be involved.

So once again music comes to my rescue. Never mind my elderly angst. For a couple of magic hours, life was the very reverse of unstable, ugly, vicious. It was glorious. ♦