Let's cut Rishi some slack - outcry shows Keir is a sanctimonious prig

The previous day I’d visited the town’s Saint-Symphorien cemetery to tour the war graves of the soldiers who had fought for Britain and her allies as well as those from Germany. 

There, I’d met Judith, an English teacher from Buckinghamshire who was teaching the war poets to her Upper Sixth. 

I’d never visited any of the battle sites of the two great wars and none of the military graves, so I didn’t quite know what I was expecting to feel. Nor had I ever previously been moved to tears in my professional career.   

Nothing can prepare you, however, for the feelings of indescribable sorrow and compassion that engulf you as you inspect the inscriptions etched on the gravestones of the fallen made by those who had loved them. 

Many of the tombstones stood over the remains of unknown soldiers and were inscribed by a message that had been chosen by Rudyard Kipling who had worked for the Imperial War Graves Commission during the conflict. “A soldier of the Great War, known unto God.” 

My report included this paragraph, which accurately describes my emotions now when you see old soldiers recalling the memories of their dead comrades during these commemorations. 

“I have read these words many times in books and heard them uttered in films. But to encounter them here engraved on stone on hallowed ground is almost unbearable: such desolation, such hope. 

“For a few minutes, and perhaps for ever, nothing else in your own wretched little world seems to matter in the face of this nobility.”

Some of the 4,600 headstones lit up during the Commonwealth War Graves Commission’s Great Vigil to mark the 80th anniversary of D-Day, at the Bayeux War Cemetery in Normandy, France. Picture: Jane Barlow/PA Wire

Grave circumstances
The Saint-Symphorien cemetery had been built by German soldiers in 1917 and they’d designated it to take the remains of both their own comrades and those they’d been fighting. Within the cemetery there’s a little landscaped crescent where the graves of 46 British soldiers are located. 

They had been collected and buried with great care by the German 
soldiers and seemed to convey the victory of redemption over condemnation.  

The Germans had also erected an obelisk on this site with the inscription: “Here repose 46 English soldiers of the Royal Middlesex Regiment.” 

It’s said that Catholics must visit Rome at least once in our lives in the same way that Muslims are required to visit Mecca and Jews to visit Jerusalem. I respect this. 

I’d say, though, that – given the opportunity – it’s also vital to visit the graves of the fallen and the sites of the battles where they fell. 

There you will come to know what true nobility and mercy feels like.  

Rishi in a rush
I CAN’T really imagine what might have made Rishi Sunak and his advisers think that it could ever have been acceptable to bail from Thursday’s D-Day commemoration events in northern France

Yet, I feel that we should probably cut the Prime Minister some slack now. 

His apology was quick and unequivocal and it’s clear that he had already attended several such events in the course of the previous 48 hours. Predictably, Mr Sunak’s error of judgment was condemned by all of his political opponents. 

I can’t have been the only person, however, who found some of this to be opportunistic and more than a little distasteful too. In particular, Sir Keir Starmer seemed almost gleeful in his condemnation of Mr Sunak. 

“For me, there was only one choice,” said Sir Keir, making himself seem selfless and heroic, “which was to be there, to pay my respects, to say thank you and to have the opportunity to speak to those veterans.” He then added that the Prime Minister “will have to answer for his choices”. What a sanctimonious prig.

It’s beyond doubt that Sir Keir will become Britain’s next Prime Minister … and one who is entirely devoid of charm and grace.

Hoots Mons
DURING my visit to Mons 10 years ago, I came to be caught up in a minor drama featuring pathos and humour in equal measure.

I’d visited a café in Mons town square called La Corde, whose owner Michael – a kindly and effusive Belgian – joined me for a smoke and a drink. Michael was eager to convey his tearful appreciation for what Britain had done for his country during the war.

And I was quick to acknowledge the bravery of a small and ill-equipped Belgian force in slowing the advances of the Germans during the first weeks of the war.   

After a little while he disappeared back inside his café to pour more of his very damn fine wine. A few minutes later, I heard the crash of crockery hitting the floor and went inside to find Michael lying behind the counter in some distress. 

He seemed to be pointing to the counter and I realised that he was looking at the jars holding the sugar sachets and that he must be having a diabetic fit. So, after firing a few of these into him and ensuring he didn’t swallow his tongue,  he was back on his feet and full of apologies. 

“It must be the excitement of the day,” he said, and we resumed talking about FC Anderlecht and Paul Van Himst. 

Suddenly, he leaned forward and planted a smacker on my kissers. “It is no coincidence that 100 years after your country came to Belgium’s aid that you have been sent here to save me,” he exclaimed. 

They are a poetic and vivid people, the Belgians.