Latest news with #Etonian
Spectator
23-05-2025
- Politics
- Spectator
Harold Wilson was awful and brilliant
Does anyone still talk about Harold Wilson, the Labour prime minister who died 30 years ago today? Though the Labour party often seems keen to forget a leader who won – almost uniquely – four out of five elections, he was, perhaps more than anyone, the prime minister who ushered in the modern age. When he stood in the general election of 1964, he was widely billed as a moderniser. Up against Tory Alec Douglas-Holme – the grouse-shooting Old Etonian Earl, who described the old age pension as 'donations' to the elderly and had, as chancellor, used matchsticks to understand economics – Wilson seemed like the dawning of a new age. Words like 'thrusting,' 'dynamic,' 'purposeful' and 'scientific' were thrown about him, and he promised a 'New Britain' 'forged in the white heat' of a technological revolution.
New Statesman
21-05-2025
- Sport
- New Statesman
Letter from Wigan
Photo by George Hutton In early March, Darren Orme was reported missing from his home on the Beech Hill estate in Wigan. He was well known locally as a 'superfan' of Wigan Athletic football club, and his disappearance galvanised the local community in his support. As the days passed and he had not been found, flowers, scarves and football shirts were left in his honour outside the Brick Community Stadium, as if his loss was already being mourned. The stadium, renamed in May 2024 to reflect a partnership with a local anti-poverty charity, is the home ground of Wigan Athletic and Wigan Warriors, the all-conquering rugby league club coached by Matt Peet. Both clubs are owned by Mike Danson, the CEO of GlobalData and owner of the New Statesman, who was born and grew up in Wigan. Under his ownership, the two clubs, once rivals, are working in collaboration as the Wigan Sporting Group and will share an open-plan office at the Robin Park Arena, adjacent to the Brick stadium. Darren's body was eventually found in a river near the stadium. His funeral was held on 24 April and many hundreds of local people were in attendance alongside players and officials from the football and rugby clubs. 'We'd never seen anything like it before,' Kris Radlinski, who played 332 games for Wigan Warriors from 1993 to 2006 and is now the CEO of the club, told me. 'There was silence, there was respect. The funeral procession did a lap of the stadium on the way to the church. At the end of the lap, the procession stopped, and the family got out to thank all the footballers and rugby players who were there. It was a powerful moment, the closest together the two clubs have felt in 30 years.' Professor Chris Brookes (universally known as 'Doc'), chairman of Wigan Warriors, agreed the symbolism was striking. 'The two clubs now need to move forward in a connected way, so we are working actively to combine resources and efforts, maximising our contribution to the people of Wigan and our loyal fanbases.' The sports group is an anchor institution in a town that has very few. Lisa Nandy, MP for Wigan since 2010, says 'sport is the glue holding the town together'. Danson, Radlinski and Peet are all from the town and understand that the Warriors are much more than a club: they represent a culture, a community, and create a sense of shared belonging. When George Orwell came to Wigan and Barnsley in the 1930s to write about the effects of mass unemployment, he found an England he could respect – even believe in. Deep underground with the miners in the Wigan coalfields, this contrarian old Etonian encountered a way of life that profoundly affected his politics. Orwell did not sentimentalise the northern working class in The Road to Wigan Pier, but admired their fortitude, togetherness and patriotism. He believed in a socialism that was not 'book-trained' but was compatible with the common decency of the 'submerged working class', among whom he briefly lived in Wigan. In a 1943 BBC broadcast, Orwell acknowledged that Wigan, though 'not worse than fifty other places', had 'always been picked on as a symbol of the ugliness of the industrial areas'. Lisa Nandy understands the sentiment. 'A whole industry has developed around understanding the rise of Nigel Farage's Reform,' she scornfully said. 'These people travel up from London almost like David Attenborough to observe these strange people in the wilds. They write absolute shite about us and then get back on their trains.' I told her I was in Wigan not as some kind of anthropologist but because I'd been asked to visit by Tom Gatti and Gordon Brown to write about the connection between sport, politics and the common good for this special issue of the magazine. Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe Nandy and I met on a bright morning at the Robin Park Arena where civil society groups were taking part in the Warriors' inaugural mental health awareness week. We spoke to a group of 12-year-old boys; they were among 40 children there, some of whom had been excluded from school. They were being encouraged to see how sport could offer discipline and definition to what one volunteer, a former police officer, called 'their often-chaotic lives'. 'I don't want to be in school,' one boy told me. 'I want to be here. I want to be active!' Wigan has advantages, not least in elite sports; the diaspora of former Warriors players includes Andy Farrell, head coach of Ireland rugby union team and now also of the British and Irish Lions squad that will tour Australia, and Sean Edwards, who is the defence coach for the French rugby union national team. The town's largest employer is Heinz, but it provides largely low-skilled work in food processing and packaging. Like other former coalfield communities (many of them rugby league towns), Wigan suffers from intergenerational inequality and economic stagnation. 'Not long ago mining and industrial production offered back-breaking work, but work with purpose: it won wars and underpinned our security,' Josh Simons, the former head of Labour Together and a local MP, told me. 'Since then, the internet revolution has offered little to northern towns. Our public realm has been left in ruins and our public services trashed.' Wigan has the highest male suicide rate in the country and some of the highest rates of domestic violence. It has the highest school suspension rate in England and as many as 23,000 children live in poverty (the theme of this guest-edited issue). Between 2010 and 2017 the local council had its budget cut by 43 per cent, the third worst affected local authority in England. There is inadequate infrastructure for new housing and lower than average life expectancy. Loneliness is a scourge, particularly among young men. The area has had several local 'asylum hotels', invariably located in poorer areas in England, which have been another source of tension, alongside rising house prices and rent costs. 'Rents have got higher and higher and so more and more houses have been turned into HMOs [houses of multiple occupancy] because that's the only thing that people can afford,' Nandy said. 'But on top of that, we've also had Serco buying up asylum accommodation, very concentrated in particular postcodes, even particular streets, because they go for the places that are cheapest. And obviously that's caused serious problems because you've then got several families in accommodation that's only meant for one. You've got problems with bin collections, with a very transient community in what used to be a very settled community. And so it's a double whammy because not only is the community changed beyond recognition, without people having any control over it, but it's also that the prices that your kids are now paying [for housing] have become ever higher.' (Serco say they do not buy property but lease from private landlords.) In a previous conversation, Nandy mentioned to me that the north of England was so tense it could 'go up in flames'. What did she mean exactly? 'Last summer, when we had the horrendous murder of those young girls [in Southport], there was already a real sense of tension in the north. People have watched their town centres falling apart, their life has got harder over the last decade and a half… I don't remember a time when people worked this hard and had so little to show for it.' She referenced again the 'huge pressures on housing'. And then said: 'All of that has fuelled a real sense of anger about what people are being asked to put up with. And it all really came to a head around Southport, because, you know, your children being safe, your community being a decent place to live. It was one of those absolute flashpoint moments… a moment of release. I don't mean the violent organised thuggery. People rejected that very strongly here, but people want to speak out, to be heard.' The notion of something going up in flames suggests that one spark could ignite a conflagration. 'That's what happened last summer.' Could it happen again? 'It could do. I mean, we are not complacent about it all.' I've been visiting the post-industrial north-west for more than three decades and wrote about the decline of the racially and religiously segregated towns of Rochdale and Oldham in my book about the condition of England, Who Are We Now? (2021), which Nandy told me she had read. In a speech in Manchester in July 2019, shortly after he became prime minister, Boris Johnson lamented the decline of the old mining and mill towns of Lancashire and Yorkshire. 'The story has been, for young people growing up there, one of hopelessness, or the hope that one day they'll get out and never come back.' Johnson promised to 'level up' the north but the Conservative wish to reduce regional inequalities amounted to little more than rhetoric. Who now speaks seriously of levelling up? 'It was totally discredited,' Nandy said. 'It became very much a group of civil servants being tasked to wander around the north of England, pointing at things and saying 'let's put a bit of money behind that' rather than empowering communities to be able to make that contribution themselves. What we got here in Wigan was a small refund on the money that had been taken from us, but dictated by a group of civil servants in Whitehall as to how we could spend it.' Politics is about place – where people live, go to school, work, interact, play sports, socialise, worship – but what happens when a place loses its purpose? Visiting the former mill towns of the north-west for the first time, I noticed the grandeur of the civic architecture – the High Victorian town halls and arcades, the great churches, the former libraries and exchanges, the miners' and technical colleges – but was dismayed to observe how many of these buildings had been neglected or were derelict, a standing rebuke to generations of politicians who had failed the north. Wigan has not lost its purpose, but it is burdened with social, economic and spatial inequalities, reduced social mobility and diminished aspiration. Mike Danson explained how Wigan is attempting to address these issues. 'In her book Team of Rivals, Doris Kearns Goodwin described how Abraham Lincoln got various parties to work together during the Civil War for the greater good,' he said. 'In today's communities we are facing huge economic and social problems, but the challenge is to solve them. In Wigan we have a team of 'community anchors'. David Molyneux and Alison McKenzie-Folan at Wigan council are exceptional, similarly our MPs offer a special set of skills. On the sports side, the rugby and the football clubs work together. The combination, with charity and business, shows a unique way of working – our own team of rivals. They are all locals, and they want to create change and a thriving town for the next generation.' One plan is to invest in Al and tech hubs. Wigan has local expertise in sport, sports data and food processing. Josh Simons said: 'We're working to ensure the AI and data revolution actually benefits local people – so food and process manufacturing businesses in Wigan have the latest in AI-powered technology and skills.' On Saturday 17 May, I visited Edge Hall Road in Orrell, three miles to the west of Wigan town centre, for the official opening of a new high-performance centre for women and girls. Edge Hall Road was originally built as the permanent ground of Orrell rugby union club, but in recent years, under the previous ownership of Wigan Warriors, the site had become derelict. Transformed by £350,000 of investment, it is now the new home of Wigan Athletic and Wigan Warriors women's teams and when I visited girls were out on the pitch in small groups playing football and rugby. Simons was there and we chatted again about the social and economic challenges affecting the local community. Like all Red Wall Labour MPs, he is keenly alert to the threat posed by the Reform insurgency. Orrell has 11,000 residents but very limited healthcare. Simons has been working with the Wigan sports group, in partnership with the NHS, to create a new health hub at Edge Hall Road that 'will benefit the whole community'. The key word here is community. A nation is more than an 'imagined community' because our lives are embedded in relationships, institutions and networks. Lisa Nandy used an Orwellian phrase when she spoke to me of the 'country that lies beneath the surface', by which she meant the experience of those who feel submerged, or frustrated, or ignored. Simons said the people he represented were 'angry and they are right to be'. For most people politics is not national, it is experienced locally, through a run-down, boarded-up high street, a bankrupt or impecunious council, an unreliable bus service, uncollected rubbish, a dysfunctional postal service, a school playing field sold to property developers, a GP practice where you cannot get an appointment, a hospital in special measures. If communities beyond the great cities are deprived of investment and opportunity, if economic security and social capital are missing, if the intermediate institutions and places where we gather and interact are absent or become derelict, as the Edge Hall Road site was, people's collective aspiration becomes thwarted. More than a sports club, the regenerated Edge Hall Road is a social asset, 'anchoring' a community, creating a sense of common purpose and belonging. Wigan and the post-industrial north need more of them. [See also: Why George Osborne still runs Britain] Related
Yahoo
15-05-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Simon Mann was the last of a generation of white mercenaries. What came after may be far worse
Simon Mann, the Old Etonian soldier of fortune who died last week at the age of 72, should have been the coda to the inglorious symphony of the white mercenary in Africa. So madcap, so incongruous was the 'Wonga Coup' he attempted to launch in Equatorial Guinea in 2004 that it seemed to belong to another era. Africa had moved on, old hands declared. Mann, poor fellow, had failed to read the winds of change. Yet far from being a holdover from the past, Mann has proved to be a harbinger of the present. Analysts reckon there are now more foreign mercenaries operating in Africa than ever before. The Russians, in the form of the Wagner Group, were the vanguard of the second wave, arriving in 2017. But others are following in ever greater numbers, Turks, Chinese and Romanians among them – perhaps soon even Americans, with Erik Prince, the founder of the infamous Blackwater mercenary group, reportedly offering Congo his services as part of a putative minerals deal with Donald Trump. Some are shadowy outfits, manned by ruthless racketeers, deployed to advance their states' geopolitical ambitions. Others lay claim to greater respectability. Blanching at the term 'mercenary', they call themselves private military contractors. Many play a vital role in protecting weak governments by training inexperienced national armies, guarding key installations and taking the lead in counterinsurgency operations against Islamist militants. Whatever their role, few of the new generation have the panache of the mercenaries of yesteryear who culminated with Mann. Their era began in the early Sixties, in the years when newly independent African states were struggling to find their feet. From Nigeria and Congo to Angola and the island states of the Indian Ocean, they were on hand – often with the blessing of Whitehall and the Quai d'Orsay – to support secessionist movements, prop up feeble governments or mount the occasional coup. Of Mann's forebears the two that most stand out were 'Mad Mike' Hoare, a stiff-lipped Anglo-Irishman and one-time accountant, and Bob Denard, the flamboyant Frenchman with whom he had an unspoken rivalry. Hoare, who bore a passing resemblance to Montgomery, led his motley fighters, the fabled Wild Geese, in defeating Congo's China-backed Simba rebels, who numbered Che Guevara in their ranks, and shoring up the breakaway province of Katanga. He and his 300 men recaptured Stanleyville, later to be renamed Kisangani, from the Simbas, freed 2,000 European hostages, most of them nuns and priests – and then dynamited the vaults of every bank in the city before drinking its taverns dry. It was a tale of derring-do worthy of Empire and made Hoare, who made his men attend church every Sunday, a hero on Fleet Street. Among those who lapped up his antics back home was the young Simon Mann, sitting in the back of a classroom plotting imaginary coups in his atlas. Hoare did much to romanticise the reputation of the white mercenary in black Africa. Yet the image belied a darker reality, too. Some of Hoare's men were German ex-Nazis who still wore the Iron Cross. Most had old-fashioned views on race. Hoare and his Wild Geese had no compunction about shedding blood, decorating their trucks with the heads of Simba warriors they had slain. Hoare, who died in 2020 at the age of 100, may have been a character but, if anything, Denard was even more swashbuckling. He had been in Katanga at the same time as Hoare, leading a unit called 'les affreux' ('the terrible ones'). He later changed sides, was shot in the head by a North Korean soldier, recovered under the care of a nurse and then married her. He reportedly had six other wives, some of them at the same time. After a failed attempt to seize power in Yemen and Benin, he turned his attention in 1977 to Comoros, an archipelago in the Indian Ocean, launching the first of four coup attempts he made there. Leading just 50 men, equipped with sawn-off shotguns and two dozen cases of Dom Perignon champagne, he toppled the socialist president, who was shot dead 'while attempting to escape'. Denard effectively ran the country for the next decade as head of the presidential guard, a position he lost after the puppet president he installed was also shot mysteriously. Denard was acquitted of the killing but the mounting presidential body count did him no favours. Whatever their flaws, Mann grew up idolising such men. Like them, he would go on to find triumph and disaster on the world's poorest continent. He helped set up Executive Outcomes, which made a fortune protecting Angola's oil fields from rebel attack in the 1990s and was later involved with an offshoot, Sandline International, seeing action in diamond-rich Sierra Leone's civil war. But in an uncanny echo of his two heroes, Mann's mercenary career ended with a ludicrously injudicious coup attempt. In 1981, Hoare attempted to seize power in the Seychelles, flying economy into Victoria, the capital, with a group of mercenaries disguised as members of a beer appreciation society, The Ancient Order of Froth Blowers. Taking their cover too seriously, most of the men had over indulged on the flight. After starting a brawl in the arrivals hall, a customs officer found an AK-47 in one of their bags, prompting a gun battle that ended when Hoare and his men hijacked an Air India flight to get back to South Africa. The mercenaries drank all the champagne on board and were promptly arrested on arrival. In 1995, Denard's final attempt to take back power in Comoros similarly failed after he and his men drifted onto a beach in inflatable dinghies one moonless night only to find the French army waiting for them. Denard, who died in 2007, spent 10 months in a French prison, Mad Mike Hoare 33 months in a South African one. Mann, whose father and grandfather both captained England at cricket, did more time than both of them combined after a fantastical plot, allegedly concocted in 2004 in the hallowed surroundings of White's, the club in St James's, to overthrow Obiang Nguema, then, as now, the dictator of Equatorial Guinea. The conspiracy was ludicrously complicated, with Mann buying an old Boeing 727 to fly his mercenaries from South Africa to Equatorial Guinea, making a detour in Harare to pick up weapons. The plan was then to fly across the continent to meet an advance party already in Equatorial Guinea, storm the presidential palace and then install a little-known exile as the country's new leader. The problem for Mann was that the entire plot had been blown wide open even before his crew left South Africa. Mann and his team were promptly arrested on arrival in Zimbabwe, where he would serve four years before being transferred to complete a further 13 months in Equatorial Guinea's notorious Black Beach prison. Mann's outfit had neither the intelligence nor the infrastructure in place to succeed, notes Piers Pigou, a Johannesburg-based analyst who has long studied mercenary operations in Africa. 'It was a bit of a Heath Robinson operation,' he said. 'I think everyone was surprised that they ran such a leaky ship, which enabled the authorities in South Africa and therefore Zimbabwe and Equatorial Guinea to be prepared. I still look at that coup and wonder how on earth they think they could have succeeded.' Mann's failed coup seemed like a final hurrah for white mercenaries in Africa. It was certainly an anomaly. By the turn of the millennium, African economies were growing, democracy was on the rise and, though many countries remained chronically weak, conflict was on the wane. Alas, it was not to last. By 2017 a new breed of mercenary had begun to appear in Africa in the form of the Wagner Group, which offered armed services in exchange for access to natural resources – deals remarkably similar to the one Mann and his co-conspirators hoped to strike in Equatorial Guinea. Yevgeny Prigozhin, Wagner's founder, may have lacked the class of the those who ploughed the same furrows in earlier decades: he did not swill champagne like Denard or recite Shakespeare like Hoare. He did not even go to Eton. But, at least in some cases, Wagner was crudely effective. Hired by Faustin-Archange Touadera, the president of the Central African Republic, Wagner beat back the country's Islamist rebels, though it imposed a huge cost. To this day, the CAR remains virtually a Wagner colony, Mr Pigou says. Wagner was nominally dissolved following Prigozhin's death in a mysterious plane crash in 2023 weeks after he marched on Moscow in an attempted rebellion of his own. The outfit, now controlled more directly by the Russian state, continues to prop up half a dozen African governments, most of them military dictatorships, and has faced numerous accusations of perpetrating massacres and other abuses. Other state-linked mercenary outfits of varying quality have also appeared on the scene. Chinese private military groups operate in more than a dozen African states, mainly to protect China-run oil facilities, mines and infrastructure projects, guard logistics routes and protect Chinese nationals against the rising threat of kidnapping. Chinese mercenaries may be authorised by Beijing to carry and use weapons in Africa but, unlike Wagner, they do not directly prop up authoritarian regimes or intervene in internal politics. Other foreign groups are more overtly engaged in fighting. Last year, Sadat, a Turkish private military force with ties to the country's president, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, reportedly suffered casualties while engaging with Islamist insurgents in Niger. Sadat, which insists that it does not provide 'paramilitary or mercenary services', says its focus is on strategic consultancy, military training and protecting important economic facilities. Not all mercenary groups deliver on the bold promises they make. In 2022 the Congolese government hired 1,000 predominantly Romanian mercenaries, who became known as 'the Romeos', to defend eastern cities against the country's M23 rebels. But when the rebels advanced on Goma and Bukavu, the two biggest cities in the east, in January, the Romeos cut and ran, abandoning their weapons and vehicles as they fled for the safety of the UN peacekeeping base. Both cities swiftly fell and the mercenaries eventually surrendered to M23. Not all mercenaries are as rapacious as Wagner or as hapless as the Romeos. Indeed, says Mr Pigou, some do a lot more good than harm. In 2019, Filipe Nyusi, then the president of Mozambique, originally looked to Wagner to fight an Islamist insurgency in the north. After the jihadists humiliated the Russians, killing scores, Mr Nyusi turned instead to a rather different beast, the Dyck Advisory Group (DAG), led by Lionel Dyck, a colonel who served in the Rhodesian army. Dyck, who died last year, broadly fits the definition of a mercenary but he always insisted that his group followed the highest international standards governing private military contractors. As a result, it helped prevent countries like Mozambique, with weak indigenous armies, from slipping into chaos and bloodshed. By training Mozambique's police, it also strengthened the country's ability to defend itself in the future, he argued. While DAG has faced criticism in the past, including of carrying out attacks on civilians which it denies, it is a reminder, cautions Mr Pigou, that blanket, knee-jerk condemnation of mercenary activities in Africa is counterproductive. 'There's a cookie-cutter demonisation of the bloodthirsty white mercenary,' he said. 'There are elements of truth in this, but these narratives are predicated on cartoon characters that don't reflect the realities on the ground. 'They miss the kind of sober cost-benefit analysis of what they guys are able to achieve.' Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
Yahoo
09-05-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Simon Mann, mercenary who was jailed for leading an attempted coup in Equatorial Guinea
Simon Mann, who has died aged 72, was an Old Etonian, former SAS officer and soldier of fortune who made millions from providing mercenaries to protect diamond mines and oil refineries in Africa; in 2004, however, he bit off more than he could chew when he became involved in an alleged plot to overthrow the government of Equatorial Guinea. The plot went disastrously wrong when Mann and 67 fellow 'mercenaries' – mostly old sweats from Apartheid-era South Africa's bush wars – were arrested by Zimbabwean security forces at Harare Airport, where they had touched down in order to take on a consignment of arms. Mann claimed that they were on their way to protect diamond interests in the neighbouring Democratic Republic of Congo. But they were accused of setting out to overthrow Equatorial Guinea's tyrannical president Teodoro Obiang Nguema. The story of the alleged coup contained more implausible characters and plot twists than an airport paperback thriller. There was an African dictator who allegedly enjoyed feasting on human testicles, there was the promise of liquid gold – offshore oil reserves that promised to make millions for those daring enough to seize them; there were walk-on roles for mercenaries, business tycoons, the disgraced peer Jeffrey Archer, exiled politicians and Baroness Thatcher's son, Mark. At the centre of everything was Mann, maverick scion of the Watney's brewing empire who seemed to be a throwback to the days of Cecil Rhodes, when white buccaneers toppled governments and ran private fiefdoms. The adventures on which Mann embarked would lead him, eventually, to a foetid cell in Harare's notorious Chikurubi prison, from which he was extradited in secret in February 2008 to Equatorial Guinea, where he was incarcerated in the infamous Black Beach jail. In November 2009 President Obiang granted Mann a complete pardon on humanitarian grounds. Simon Mann was born on June 26 1952. His father, George Mann, was a former Guards officer who captained the England cricket team on their 1948-49 tour of the Cape (Simon's grandfather had also been England cricket captain). Described by the cricketer's bible Wisden as a 'forceful batsman, prone to hitting hard', he later became chairman of Watney's, the brewing giant. Simon followed his father and grandfather to Eton, where he bucked the family trend by preferring rowing to cricket and, according to one friend, was always planning African coups at the back of the class; he was always known as 'Maps Mann' because he always had maps in his hand. Lacking academic ability, he sought an outlet for his daredevil instincts in the Army. After training as an officer at Sandhurst he took a commission in the Scots Guards and did a three-year stint as a troop commander in G Squadron of 22 SAS. Returning to the regular Army, he completed a tour of Northern Ireland and had postings in Cyprus, Germany, Norway, Canada and central America. In the mid-1980s Mann left the army to go into 'business', the precise nature of which remained a mystery even to some of his closest relatives. After a stint selling computer software he moved into the 'security' business, providing bodyguards to wealthy Arabs to protect their Scottish estates from poachers, before briefly getting back into uniform in 1990 to serve on British Gulf war commander Sir Peter de la Billière's staff in Riyadh. In 1993 he set up Executive Outcomes with the entrepreneur Tony Buckingham. A mercenary outfit, it made a fortune protecting oil installations from rebels in Angola's civil war and training Angolan government troops. Two years later he established an offshoot, Sandline International, with a fellow former Guardsman, Lt-Col Tim Spicer, and shipped arms to Sierra Leone in apparent contravention of a UN embargo. With an estimated £10 million in the bank, Mann bought Inchmery, a former residence of the Rothschild family on the banks of the river Beaulieu in Hampshire, together with a Cape Dutch gabled house in Constantia, a secluded suburb of Cape Town whose inhabitants at one time included Earl Spencer and Sir Mark Thatcher. There, he and his third wife, Amanda, became well-known figures on the Cape social scene. As well as meeting Baroness Thatcher at a party thrown by Mark, in a rare foray into the public domain Mann agreed to play the part of Colonel Derek Wilford, commander of the paratroopers who fired on marchers in Derry, in a 2001 television reconstruction of Bloody Sunday. The story of the alleged coup plot emerged from 'confessions' made in prison by Mann and his alleged co-conspirator Nick du Toit, a former South African special officer and member of Executive Outcomes, who had been arrested a day after Mann in the Equatorial Guinea capital Malabo. In his testimony Mann said that he had been approached in 2003 by the Chelsea-based Lebanese oil tycoon, Ely Calil, who had made his fortune trading oil in Nigeria and was a friend of Severo Moto Nsá, self-styled president of the Equatorial Guinea government-in-exile. Moto had long sought the overthrow of President Obiang, and at a subsequent secret meeting in Spain the three men allegedly hatched a plot to bring about the tyrant's downfall. It was claimed that the three men struck a deal under which Calil and Mann would arrange to put Moto in power in return for a lump-sum payment of $16 million. Mann would also get the rights to supply Guinea's future security needs and Calil would become the country's chief oil broker. With the deal concluded, Mann and Calil were alleged to have set about raising the money needed to pay for the operation. The basic deal was that 10 investors would each contribute £100,000. In return they would share £15 million between them on the coup's completion, with the hope of further dividends as the oil began to flow. Du Toit was tasked with recruiting the 80 or so mercenaries needed and, from these, he would take a small advance guard to Guinea in the guise of being involved in a tourist business. Once they were installed, Mann would fly in under cover of darkness with the rest of the men. The president would be seized in his bed and Moto installed. All began according to the alleged plan, and on March 7, with du Toit in Malabo, 64 mercenaries boarded an old Boeing 727 which Mann had bought for $400,000, and took off for Harare from Wonderboom airport near Pretoria. When the aircraft touched down at Harare airport, it taxied to the military sector, where those on board were expecting to link up with Mann and pick up their weaponry. Instead, Mann, the three flight crew and all 64 mercenaries on board were arrested and their weapons seized. The next day, du Toit and his 14-strong group were arrested in Malabo. All those named by Mann and du Toit in their testimonies denied any involvement in the plot and claimed that the men had been tortured to make false statements, and Mann later claimed that his initial statements had been made under duress. Relatives of those arrested in Harare maintained that they had been on their way to Congo to guard diamond mines. It was noted that the small-scale and rather amateurish nature of the operation hardly suggested planning for a military coup. But other evidence seemed to lend weight to the coup-plot theory. A South African telecoms tycoon, Gianfranco Cicogna, recalled being approached by Mann to invest $120,000 in a 'project' in Equatorial Guinea (he declined). Documentary evidence from one of Mann's offshore companies, Logo Logistics, showed that a person by the name of JH Archer transferred £74,000 to the company just four days before the alleged coup attempt. 'JH' are the initials of Lord Archer, a friend of Ely Calil. Archer's lawyers denied that he had sent money and both he and Calil denied knowing of any coup plot. The biggest fish to become entangled in the scandal was Baroness Thatcher's son, Mark, who was alleged to have paid for a helicopter to fly Moto into Guinea on the night of the coup. His name entered the fray after an explosive but hilarious letter from Mann to his wife was intercepted by prison guards. In the letter, written shortly after his arrest, Mann asked her to elicit the help of chums on the alleged plot's 'wonga list' of financial supporters: 'Our situation is not good and it is very URGENT,' Mann wrote. 'They [the lawyers] get no reply from Smelly [thought to be Ely Calil] and Scratcher [the nickname Mann used for Thatcher, on account of the acne he suffered while at school]...' But Mann then went on to suggest that Scratcher's involvement amounted to more than using his contacts to lobby for their release. 'It may be that getting us out comes down to a large splodge of wonga!' he wrote. 'Of course investors did not think this would happen. Do they think they can be part of something like this with only upside potential – no hardship or risk of this going wrong? Anyone and everyone in this is in it – good times or bad. Now it's bad times and everyone has to f---ing well pull their full weight… Once we get into a real trial scenario we are f---ed.' He ended the letter with the words: 'Anyway [another contact] was expecting project funds inwards to Logo from Scratcher… If there is not enough, then present investors must come up with more.' On July 22 2004 Mann was convicted in Zimbabwe on two counts of attempting to buy firearms illegally. He was sentenced to seven years, later reduced to four. Sir Mark Thatcher was arrested in August 2004 and given a four-year suspended prison term and a hefty fine after pleading guilty to breaking anti-mercenary legislation in South Africa by agreeing to finance the chartering of a helicopter, though he denied knowledge of the coup plot and maintained that his involvement had been unwitting. Kept in solitary confinement at his own request, Mann was said to have endured torture and privation. In April 2007 he was said to be suffering multiple organ failure and to be suffering from a life-threatening intestinal condition caused by poor diet. Hopes that the Zimbabwean courts would turn down any request for his extradition to Equatorial Guinea were dashed in May 2007 when, shortly after his release from jail, he was rearrested following a decision by a Harare court to reject defence arguments that he would not be given a fair trial in Guinea and was likely to be tortured. After his extradition, in March 2008 he was allowed, or possibly encouraged, to give an interview to Channel 4 News in which he again fingered Ely Calil as the mastermind behind the 'f***-up', said that Sir Mark Thatcher was 'part of the team' but dismissed suggestions that Lord Archer or Peter Mandelson were involved. Urbane, charming and apparently relaxed, despite the shackles and years of solitary confinement, Mann claimed not to have been put under pressure by the Equatorial Guinea authorities, though there were suspicions that he might have agreed to 'spill the beans' in return for being spared the death penalty. Simon Mann was married three times. His first two marriages were dissolved and he married thirdly, in 1995, Amanda Freedman, with whom he had four children. They survive him with three children of his earlier marriages. Simon Mann, born June 26 1952, death announced May 9 2025 Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. 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Daily Mail
02-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Daily Mail
Queen Camilla's son Tom Parker-Bowles reflects on his parents 'getting older' and praises his 'great' mother
King Charles spoke this week about the 'daunting' and frightening' experience of being told that he had cancer. And his stepson, Tom Parker -Bowles is increasingly conscious of how much time his parents have left. 'Your parents matter,' reflected the food writer, whose father is Brigadier Andrew Parker Bowles, 85, first husband of Queen Camilla, 77. 'My parents are getting older. Birth, death and taxes are the definites in life – it matters. 'If my mother asks for something, you try your best. She's been a great mother to us.' He added of his parents: 'We're there for them as well – as they get older, you appreciate what they've done.' Tom, who's the Mail on Sunday's restaurant critic, has two children, Lola, 17, and Freddy, 15, with his ex-wife, fashion editor Sara Buys. '[When young], you take your parents for granted – my children are that age now,' he said, laughing. 'They only ring if it's, 'Can I get some money please Dad?' Speaking to broadcaster Gabby Logan on her podcast The he said: 'I appreciate going out now with my son and daughter, I love it when we go out to lunch dinner, and we appreciate it.' Tom, who turned 50 last year, is not worried about ageing himself, admitting: 'I like getting older [because] you're not expected to go out.' Last Christmas, he stayed with the Royal Family at Sandringham, their Norfolk retreat, for the first time, at his mother's request. Shortly before then, he remarked: 'For the past 15 years it has been: I go back to my ex-wife's house, sit in my tracksuit bottoms, go to the pub while the beef's in, then try to get my children to watch The Wild Geese. Classic. So this would be a bit different.' The Old Etonian married Buys in 2005 and they divorced in 2022. Freddy was one of the Pages of Honour to the Queen at the Coronation in 2023. In his message issued earlier this week, Charles made a series of poignant remarks about his experience with cancer and revealed that he had taken inspiration from the late Dame Deborah James. She urged sufferers, he said, with moving magnificence to 'find a life worth enjoying; take risks; love deeply; have no regrets; and always, always have rebellious hope.' His Majesty opened up in a message to fellow sufferers as they are invited to Buckingham Palace yesterday to recognise the incredible work of community-based cancer organisations. The King is himself still undergoing regular treatments as someone 'living with cancer', although aides say his recovery continues in a 'very positive direction, as reflected with the very full national and international diary programme' he is undertaking. Tom's comments come after King Charles spoke about the 'daunting' and frightening' experience of being told that he had cancer The food critic told Gabby Logan that his parents are 'getting older' (Tom is seen with his father, Andrew Parker Bowles, in September, 2024 Before his latest remarks about his parents, Tom gave a rare insight into family life with his mother, Queen Camilla, on a leading food podcast. The writer revealed what he grew up eating around the dinner table and what family life was like with his mother, now Queen Camilla, father Andrew Parker-Bowles and sister Laura Lopes. Tom, the Mail on Sunday's restaurant critic, revealed that he grew up eating hearty roast dinners - but loves fast food too. He also gave several insights into Camilla's cooking abilities and her go-to takeaway order. The writer made the revelation during an appearance on the podcast Table Manners with Jessie & Lennie Ware. During the discussion alongside Henry Jeffreys, the Queen's son opened up about what family life was like in the kitchen and around the dinner table. Tom explained his mother always ensured her children ate well - but added she doesn't cook much anymore for obvious reasons. He told the podcast hosts: 'Not so much anymore - She's busy, but she was bringing up two children in the '70s, '80s, in Wiltshire. 'It wasn't that my dad would cook [Camilla] was a good cook, but she wasn't a recipe follower. 'Get a chicken, put a lemon up his a***, you know, put butter all over it, put it in the oven. That's dinner!' He continued to say that growing up, he didn't eat out often, and his first experience of a restaurant was on a trip to London with his grandmother. 'Growing up in Wiltshire in the '70s and '80s, you did not go out to eat,' he confessed. 'I went to London with my granny, who took us to nice Italian restaurants. But in the country - Wimpy in Swindon. ' And, although he enjoyed the occasional treat, he admitted that the most memorable dish from his childhood was roast chicken and a baked potato. He said: 'I suppose it would be my mum's roast chicken. 'And then she'd never make gravy, but she'd she'd cut off that fatty bit and, you know, the bit that hangs over, and put it on the top so and then she'd pour all the juices over your chicken, and it'd be a baked potato, and that was it.' He later described how he would often be allowed the odd takeaway and to rent a film, although Camilla was strict about the movies he could and couldn't watch. Tom said: 'And the other thing was fish and chips. The fish and chip shop was in our local town, so we went to the video shop afterwards. 'She [Camilla] told them I wasn't allowed to get eighteen, so I'd get Lethal Weapon, and the Delta Force (..) whatever it was. 'It was just pre-the Video Recordings Act, so they weren't rated. But she would know all this stuff. 'And then you get fish and chips and a video, and it's just like, this is the life…and a coke! During the podcast, Tom also revealed that his last supper would consist of his mother's roast chicken or his favourite order from McDonald's.
