The early Covid-19 vaccination roll-out was a great UK achievement, not a Brexit one. This is something to celebrate amongst all the failures and mistakes. If we believe the lies (mainly by disgraced former Prime Minister Boris Johnson) we diminish a truly great British achievement.
Brexit didn’t meaningfully enable the UK to roll out Covid-19 vaccines earlier. The UK was still in the post-Brexit transition period in late 2020, which meant it remained under EU rules. Crucially, EU law allowed any member state or transitioning state to issue its own emergency authorisation for medicines. The UK used that existing mechanism through the MHRA. It didn’t need to leave the EU to do so, and countries inside the EU could’ve done the same if they’d chosen to.
Where the UK did move faster was in planning, procurement, and regulatory readiness. The MHRA worked at extraordinary speed, the NHS had a well-organised distribution plan, and the government pre-ordered large quantities of vaccine early. Those advantages came from national decisions and infrastructure, not from Brexit itself.
The UK Covid-19 Inquiry concludes that the government’s response in March 2020 was simply too little, too late. It paints a picture of a moment when decisive action was needed and, instead, hesitation allowed the virus to spread unchecked. According to the report, bringing in lockdown just a week earlier would likely have saved around 23,000 lives during the first wave in England. That single week, the inquiry suggests, became the difference between containment and tragedy.
Yet the inquiry goes further, arguing that lockdown might not have been necessary at all if basic measures such as early social distancing and the prompt isolation of those with symptoms had been introduced. The implication is stark: a different approach, taken earlier and with clearer communication, could have altered the entire trajectory of the pandemic’s opening months.
The report also criticises the government for failing to learn from its early mistakes. Missteps that should have prompted urgent reflection weren’t addressed, leading to further avoidable harm during later waves. This failure, the inquiry says, was inexcusable. At the heart of the problem lay what it describes as a toxic and chaotic culture within government, a climate that clouded judgement and made good decision-making harder. It highlights how the leadership of the time, including then-Prime Minister Boris Johnson, struggled to confront and correct these challenges.
Taken together, the inquiry’s findings offer a sobering reflection on the cost of delay, confusion, and poor communication at a moment when clarity and courage were needed most.
Creation begins in silence, in that deep and holy mystery before words, before time, before even the first breath. Then comes the divine utterance that breaks the stillness. God speaks, and everything stirs into being. In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. It’s such a spare line, yet it carries the full weight of existence. The writer of Genesis doesn’t try to prove God’s reality or outline his methods; the story simply opens with him, because nothing else can be understood without that beginning. Every galaxy and mountain, every tide and atom, rests on that quiet, intentional act of love.
Creation isn’t something sealed away in ancient history, it’s the heartbeat of the present moment. Each sunrise that washes the world with colour, each newborn cry that breaks into the air, each stubborn seed pushing its way through dark soil continues that divine creativity. God didn’t set the universe spinning and then step back. He remains the sustaining pulse of life, still speaking light into our darkness, still breathing hope where we’ve forgotten how to look for it. Creation tells us that life isn’t random or accidental; it’s a gift, shaped by love and held by grace.
When we pause beneath a starlit sky or feel the wind threading its way through the trees, something deep within us recognises the signature of the one who made us. We’re woven into this creation too, shaped from dust yet filled with God’s breath. That truth draws out both wonder and responsibility. If creation is sacred, then caring for it becomes sacred as well, whether that means protecting forests and oceans, tending to our communities, or treating one another with gentleness and dignity.
“In the beginning” isn’t only a statement about the universe’s first moment; it’s an invitation for us now. Each day we’re offered the chance to begin again, to create goodness, beauty, and peace in the small spaces we inhabit. The same Spirit who hovered over the waters still moves through us, steadying us when life feels chaotic, guiding us when the shadows seem too deep, and helping us shape something new, hopeful, and alive.
International Men’s Day, celebrated each year on 19 November, offers a gentle pause in the calendar, inviting us to look with honesty, compassion, and gratitude at the diverse experiences of men and boys. It isn’t about elevating men above anyone else, nor is it a counterpoint to the vital work of International Women’s Day; instead, it’s a moment to acknowledge the responsibilities, pressures, joys, and vulnerabilities that shape men’s lives, and to encourage healthier, kinder ways of being in the world.
Too often, men are expected to be unshakeable: strong without faltering, providers without rest, problem-solvers who mustn’t admit fear, sadness, or loneliness. These expectations may look admirable on the surface, but they quietly restrict the full range of human expression. International Men’s Day encourages men to speak with honesty, to seek help when they need it, and to recognise that strength and tenderness aren’t opposites, but threads woven together into a fuller, freer life.
The day also calls attention to the relationships that help men flourish: friendships that allow vulnerability, families shaped by love rather than duty, workplaces where asking for support isn’t seen as weakness, and communities where men help to lift others up. It celebrates positive role models, those who show that empathy, fairness, and courage can coexist; those who challenge harmful stereotypes; those who raise boys with gentleness and integrity.
At its heart, International Men’s Day is an invitation towards wholeness. It’s a reminder that every man, whatever his story, is at his best when he’s allowed to be fully human: strong and soft, steady and questioning, responsible and deeply loved.
Whitewashing history always begins with a quiet stroke of omission, a gentle brushing-over of the uncomfortable, until the smoothed surface looks almost natural. Yet beneath that surface is the truth: history isn’t tidy, and the stories we inherit are often shaped as much by what’s left out as by what’s included. When nations tell their own story, there’s a temptation to look back with soft light and forgiving eyes, to protect a sense of pride or continuity. But when the past is edited to soothe rather than illuminate, we lose something essential: the ability to recognise the full humanity of those who came before us, and to understand how the present was shaped by their lives, their suffering, and their resilience.
One clear example of history being white-washed is the way many British schoolbooks for decades described the British Empire as a mostly benevolent force that “brought civilization”, while quietly downplaying or ignoring the brutality of colonial rule, the famines exacerbated by imperial policies, the suppression of independence movements, and the economic extraction that enriched Britain at the expense of colonized peoples. This softening of the truth didn’t just distort the past, it also shaped how generations understood power, identity, and responsibility, drifting away from the full, hard reality of what empire actually meant for those who lived under it.
Whitewashing doesn’t always come from malice; often it’s a product of the stories people were themselves told, passed down like heirlooms with cracks unnoticed or unspoken. But good intentions don’t undo the harm. When harmful truths are obscured, the voices of those who suffered are pushed further into the margins. Their experiences become footnotes, or disappear altogether. Without confronting those realities, we risk repeating patterns of inequality and injustice, because we never fully saw them in the first place.
Telling the whole truth doesn’t diminish a nation; it deepens it. It invites humility, maturity, and a more expansive understanding of who “we” are. When we face history honestly, with all its light and shadow, we gain the chance to grow into something better, something truer. And perhaps the most hopeful part of all is that it’s never too late to tell the fuller story, and to listen to the voices that were once left out.
Whenever we look back, we’re not encountering the past in its raw form; we’re meeting it through the eyes of those who chose what to record, what to preserve, and what to pass on. Their choices shape the stories we inherit. Every source carries a viewpoint, every narrative has a tilt, and every retelling reflects questions and concerns that belong as much to the present as to the era being described. Yet it would be unfair to say that history is nothing more than personal perspective dressed up as fact.
This becomes especially clear when we consider how history has treated minorities. For centuries, whole communities found their experiences skimmed over, distorted, or erased, not because they were unimportant, but because power decided whose voices mattered. When stories are missing, societies lose more than detail; they lose truth, empathy, and the chance to understand the full richness of their own heritage. Restoring these overlooked voices doesn’t just fill gaps, it reshapes our understanding. It allows people to see themselves reflected where they were once invisible, and it encourages all of us to reckon more honestly with the world we’ve inherited.
Even so, history isn’t a free-for-all. The evidence left behind – letters, diaries, court records, ruins, census lists, artefacts, and countless other fragments – anchors interpretation. These traces act as guard-rails, keeping our reconstructions from drifting too far into fantasy. The past happened in particular ways, and while our understanding evolves, the underlying facts resist being bent beyond recognition. Historians listen carefully to the material they have, aware that fresh questions can bring new insights, and that each generation returns to the archive with different eyes.
Interpretation thrives in the spaces between those facts: in the motives we infer, the consequences we weigh, and the meanings we draw. Two people can study the same event and see different shades of significance, not because one is wrong, but because human experience is textured and complex. This isn’t a weakness; it’s a sign that history is alive and responsive to the needs and curiosities of each age.
So history lives in a delicate balance. It’s rooted in evidence, shaped by interpretation, and enriched by expanding the circle of voices allowed to speak. Its subjectivity doesn’t undermine it; rather, it encourages humility, compassion, and deeper listening as we try to understand who we are, where we’ve come from, and how the long human story continues to unfold.
The line so often tossed around in public debate – “A lie is halfway round the world before the truth has got its boots on” – has a far older and richer story than most people realise. It’s usually pinned on Churchill or Twain, partly because it sounds like something either might have said, but the trail leads back more than two centuries before them, to a writer who understood human frailty with almost surgical clarity.
In 1710, Jonathan Swift published a piece in The Examiner in which he sighed over the power of falsehood to shape public opinion. His words still feel painfully current: “Falsehood flies, and truth comes limping after it, so that when men come to be undeceiv’d, it is too late; the jest is over, and the tale hath had its effect.” Swift saw how quickly a rumour could take on a life of its own, leaving truth to hobble along behind, patient, earnest, and too often ignored.
Over the next century and a half, writers, preachers, and pamphleteers repeated variations of Swift’s idea. The imagery softened, shifted, and picked up new colours as it passed from hand to hand. Then, in 1855, the Victorian preacher Charles Haddon Spurgeon offered the version that would change everything: “A lie will go round the world while truth is pulling its boots on.” With that single stroke, he transformed Swift’s lament into a vivid little proverb. Suddenly truth wasn’t limping, it was simply taking too long to get dressed, fumbling at the laces while lies dashed gleefully away.
From that moment, the wording began to crystallise. Newspapers and speakers adapted it freely; the boots sometimes became shoes, and the distance travelled grew from a circuit to half the globe. By the early twentieth century, the familiar modern form had settled into the language, sharpened and polished by repetition: “A lie is halfway round the world before the truth has got its boots on.”
The quote we know today isn’t the invention of a single brilliant mind, but the product of three centuries of observation: Swift’s sharp insight, Spurgeon’s memorable turn of phrase, and the slow, steady work of time. It reminds us that truth often arrives late, but it does, eventually, arrive.
I bristle at the idea that you can only be a patriot if you support right-wing politics, because love of one’s country isn’t a narrow lane reserved for a single worldview, but a wide, living landscape shaped by all who call it home.
Patriotism, to me, is the quiet pride that comes from the familiar sights, the tenderness you feel for the winding streets and windswept coasts that have held your memories, and the hope that your nation can grow kinder, fairer, and more truthful than it was before. It’s the stubborn belief that we can face our history with honesty, learn from our mistakes, and still strive for a better future.
Reducing all that to a rigid political badge feels painfully small, almost like shrinking the soul of a country to fit a slogan. True patriotism doesn’t ask you to fall in line behind a single ideology. It invites you to love your nation enough to question it, challenge it, and seek its flourishing, even when that means swimming against the tide.
Although not able to attend Stockton Salvation Army this morning (Sunday 16 November 2025) I’ve been able to reflect on the Bible reading at home.
Exodus 13:17 to 14:14 is a gentle reminder that God’s guidance is often longer, slower, and wiser than the paths we’d choose. When Pharaoh finally lets the people go, God doesn’t take them by the quickest route but leads them by the desert road towards the Red Sea, knowing they aren’t ready for the shock of conflict. There’s something tender in that, something that speaks to the long story of every church and every believer: God doesn’t rush maturity, and he doesn’t abandon us when the journey bends in ways we never expected.
The pillar of cloud and fire becomes a symbol of that patient, steady presence. By day and by night, God stays ahead of his people, guiding them with a quiet constancy that doesn’t demand attention but offers reassurance. When I think of my own church celebrating its anniversary, I see echoes of that presence: the unexpected turns navigated with grace, the seasons of joy, the times of strain, and the quiet ways God has held the fellowship together. Even from a distance, I can be part of that gratitude.
Then comes the moment of fear: the roar of Pharaoh’s chariots behind, the sea blocking the way ahead, and the people crying out in panic. Their protests feel painfully human: Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us to the desert to die? It’s the voice we all know when pressure closes in and the future feels impossible. And into that fear, Moses speaks words that settle deeply into the heart of any congregation marking its years: Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you’ll see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today… the Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still (Exodus 14:13–14).
A church anniversary is a moment to breathe in those words again, to remember how many times God has made a way where none seemed open, and to trust that he’s still leading, still guiding, still walking ahead with a faithfulness that doesn’t falter. Even at home, I’m grateful for the journey so far and hopeful for the road still unfolding.
Running in wet weather carries its own quiet appeal. Rain softens the landscape, adds a shimmer to the pavements, and turns an ordinary route into something slightly untamed. Once you’re out in it, it’s often gentler than it first appeared, and there’s a subtle satisfaction in settling into the rhythm of moving through the rain rather than resisting it. Letting go of the idea of staying dry frees you to notice the atmosphere around you; the muted colours, the hum of rainfall, the way everything feels closer and more alive.
Wet ground changes how you run. Roads can become slick, leaves stick underfoot, and puddles can send a cold shock up your legs. Those small challenges encourage a more attentive stride, keeping you balanced and steady, rather than pushing for pace when the conditions ask for care. The rain sharpens your senses in unexpected ways; sound seems clearer, breath feels cleaner, and each step lands with more intention.
A few simple choices make wet-weather running more comfortable. A light, breathable layer helps fend off the chill without overheating. A cap can stop rain from blurring your vision. Since damp fabric can rub, a little anti-chafe balm and a good pair of socks are worthwhile, especially on longer outings. Shoes will inevitably get soaked, yet they dry, and the run tends to stay with you more vividly than the discomfort ever does.
There’s a distinctive clarity that comes from embracing the elements rather than waiting them out. You finish the run damp, tired, and somehow refreshed, reminded that even a grey day can offer its own kind of beauty.
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