Clive James was dying when I met him. Everybody knew it, because the great writer and broadcaster had said so in print. He was embarrassed at not having gone already, he said when we sat down to talk. And talk. And talk. Never meet your heroes, they say. They’re wrong.
Please, take five minutes out with me to sit and think about things that matter. This was written for The Independent On Sunday yesterday. They died in the dark, some of them. Young men, volunteers mostly, cut down by bullets and bombs, fire and fever. Australians, New Zealanders, Brits and Irishmen, Africans and Indians and many,Continue reading “Gallipoli – or why the hell do we bother to remember?”