Well, maybe not quite. Knowing my enthusiasm for blogging this last week, I would not be at all surprised if there is another posting from me later on this New Year's Eve, though at the turn of the year itself, I shall probably be indulging in a glass of festive cheer with my Mum and trying to remember once again the words of Auld Lang Syne as millions around the world will be doing at sometime in the next 31 hours or so.
Could auld Robbie Burns ever have dreamt what a poignant impact his most famous song would have every January 1st come bong time, that strangely resonant hour of midnight when the most famous clock bell in the world, Big Ben, tolls the death knell for the old year? Moments later tonight, the noisiest pyrotecnhics will welcome in the new baby which has already been named: Anno Domini 2005.
So, assuming this "victory ceremony" has not already been and gone by the time you read this, how are you doing as we head for the finishing line of the tough race which has been A.D. 2004? Will you cross it in amazement like the newly-ennobled Dame Kelly Holmes back in August, one of the most enduringly happy visual images of this year which we now bid farewell to. Or, as the year closes in sombre mood with the continuing horror of events in the Indian Ocean communities, are you waiting for the start of the next big event tomorrow morning?
The news these last few days, understandably, has been of little else but the human tragedies and miracles in the aftermath of the tsunami. It will continue to be so for many of the early days of the new year as the death toll continues to rise well past one hundred thousand. The enormity of what has happened is stunning and tear-jerking, but if the best of the human condition which has been seen in the wake of the floods is to have true meaning, then ordinary life has to go on, even with its moments of joy and personal celebration. It's something Britons know well as the Blitz spirit. It is also very much in the spirit of Christmas and, I pray as we head into a new circuit of days, I hope it's something we will see much more of though please God no more flood horrors.
Whatever the scale of the destruction, and it cannot be under-stated just what an unprecedented natural disaster this is, every life lost had meaning and a value beyond rubies, just as those that remain do. So many islands affected: John Donne's words of centuries ago are more pertinent than ever: "No man is an island...Every man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in humanity. Therefore, send not to ask for whom the bell tolls: it tolls for thee"
FIVE GOLD RINGS
Oh what a surprise the New Year's Honours are -not- at the end of this Olympic year. I'm very pleased for Dame Kelly for this honour which surely crowns her year, along with the knighthood for Sir Matthew Pinsent and most deservedly of all maybe, the royal honour for paralympian Dame Tanni Grey-Thompson.
We may not all possess legs worthy of Wonder Woman like Dame Kelly, or the nation's largest lungs like Sir Matthew, but we all deserve to collect our medals from our maker for whatever the last twelve laps have brought. Christmas is the starting gun for the second chance in the race of life which began with the worst false start ever by Adam. As the starting gun for a new year is raised, Christians are still remembering the celebration of the triumph of life and light over death and darkness which is at the heart of the Christian faith.
Christ is our bugfix!For all its ever-present annoying faults and the often self-caused flaws in its software, Mankind is the most amazing creation of all. The technology which enables me to bring these words to you may be mind-boggling, but nothing can top the complexity of the mind and spirit which makes each human being unique. That was the theme at the heart of the Stephen Spielberg film AI- Artificial Intelligence, shown on BBC ONE last night, which was itself very thought-provoking about the nature of life, love and happiness.
We revel at midnight because we have survived another year; we party because we live and move and have our being. Whether worse for wear after over-indulgent celebration,after pushing a body to its physical limits like our talented sportsmen and women, or enduring tiredness for the sake of the safety of others like aid workers and emergency services, New Year is humanity's celebration of itself, of survival and of promise. New Year may not have been God the creator's chosen feast but I know he too would raise a glass in Heaven at the award-winning performance of each fragile specimen of homo sapiens crossing the line at midnight. I wish you an enjoyable but sensible celebration, and a very happy, peaceful, healthy and prosperous New Year
Friday, 31 December 2004
Thursday, 30 December 2004
On the Fifth Day of Christmas
Or is it? Thursday 29th December might be regarded as the day for H Samuel and jewellers everywhere to cheer with glee as gold ring sales hit the roof and yet more gifts are distributed to true loves everywhere.
But has today been the fifth day, or merely the fourth day of the twelve very welcome days of Christmas? It all depends on whether you count Christmas Day as the first day, or the day after. Some sources, and my own understanding, has always been that Christmas Day stands alone, not as one of the delightful dozen, but others would say it is included. This calculation also leads to the inevitable controversy every January over when the decorations should be down: is Twelfth Night the 5th or the 6th? The sixth is certainly Epiphany, when the wise men appeared to Jesus, but in the Eastern church it is actually Christmas Day!
It all gets very perplexing, like so much else at this time of the year. Those who believe silly superstitions would certainly say you have to have your decorations down by Twelfth Night, or you will have bad "luck" throughout the year. I have no turck with that, and for my part I will keep my little fibre optic tree up in Eastbourne right til the very last minute if I can. However, the Twelve Days tradition is one I rather wish we'd make more of in modern times- especially if it involved a few more parties!
PETER PAN AND THE THREE BEARS
Today was a day to go saleing for me, and once again I took myself off to our best local major shopping centre, Kingston upon Thames. I always like to try to grab a few post-Christmas bargains in the clothes departments, even when as this year it might not come out as such a bargain by the time I've paid interest on credit! However, I did have another reason for visiting Kingston today. It was the swansong performance for this year by one of the town's most enchanting seasonal attractions, the Bentalls Bears. and I could not resist one last chance to see them again, after witnessing their charming animatatronic antics on Christmas Eve too.
The ursine trio of Barney, Amber and Daisy- a name more fitting of the cow which had joined the tableaux this year rather than a definitely boyish bear, if you ask me- have been delighting young visitors to the indoor shopping centre which was built on the site of the famous old Bentall's store with its landmark facade, for around a decade now. I say young visitors, because the little ones are clearly the main target audience -it's a real joy to see the look of delight in their eyes when our furry chums start their half hourly performance of a couple of seasonal songs. However, from experience I think middle-aged adults like me are just as charmed as the little ones by these giant furry friends. So irresistible are they, that I went and saw them no less than three times this afternoon in between my bargain-hunting.
Christmas is a time when I think we can all be justified in trying, for just a while at least, to try to recapture the wonder and enjoyment of life which seems to come so naturally to little children. It's also a time when we can dream of a better world untouched and untarnished by the cruel realities of life from which the innocent and vulnerable juniors of our world can rarely be isolated today.
Around all the other birthdays celebrated over this last week, one which has been deservedly commemorated especially is the centenary last Monday of Peter Pan and the Darling clan. Thanks to the fantastic adventures of J M Barrie's most famous creation, Pan-tomime promoters across the world will once again this year be thrilling audiences young and old with flying boys and gigantic dogs, fancy fairies and glamorous godmothers. We will continue to cheer as the boy who never grew up tries to take his charges away from the trials and tribulations of the adult world to that special place called Neverland.
But every pantomime has to have a villain, and of course in the case of Peter Pan the villain is the evil Captain Hook, with his vicious metal prosthetic hand waiting to reach out and capture his unwary victims. We'll hiss and boo his every appearance, and cheer and clap as our hero comes to the rescue of the young charges and everyone lives happily ever after.
COMING BACK DOWN TO EARTH
If only real life could be like that. The harsh and terrible reality is that 100 000 souls of every nationality and creed will never see another Christmas or enjoy any of the beauties of living and breathing on this homeland we call Earth. Last Sunday's events in the Indian Ocean fractured the fantasy in an instant, and yet somehow it is hard to take in the horrible reality of such an estimated death toll as the result of the earthquake Tsunami. This is already being described as the worst natural disaster ever, and yet there is a sense of the surreal about it which is almost like watching a Hollywood blockbuster. It's very hard to get to grips with the enormity of what has happened, even with the most graphic accounts and startling pictures the like of which have not been seen since 9/11- and I hope never will be again.
If only we could rewind the film on this horrendous event which will inevitably be the main feature on world TV news screens for weeks to come. Or better still, write a happy ending.
The main aid agencies of course are in place and have done their best to respond instantly to the urgent needs of so many people in such disparate societies separated by thousands of miles but united by the awesome and dreadful power of millions of gallons of sea water making landfall across an ocean. Whatever the agencies' efforts might bring in the way of relief of the worst suffering though, inevitably it is rather like trying to put a sticking plaster on a hole in a dam. I've no doubt I will try to do my bit, as will millions upon millions of able individuals around the world. I may have scorned the power of money on Sunday, but it also has the fantastic ability to do good at times like this.
Nevertheless, with an almost unavoidable pun, it is like a drop in the ocean compared to the devastating and incredible scale of the damage caused by the nameless tsunami- more destructive than even the worst of hurricanes can ever have been. If that word was largely unknown to most Westerners a few days ago, it surely is now for the most grim of reasons.
HEAL THE NATIONS, SAVE THE CHILDREN
But every river starts with a tiny spring. If any good can be found in recent events, and what lies ahead, it is perhaps the realisation that we are all interdependent on each other for shelter, sustenance and survival. The merciless speed with which the tidal wave took the lives of so many who were until that point getting on with their everyday life or their holiday of a lifetime, makes one realise with a cold start that life itself is as fragile and vulnerable as a piece of flimsy wrapping paper discarded on Christmas Day.
We could look on like the helpless audience at a panto where disaster strikes and feel where is God in all this. As I said the other day, it can be all too easy to try to come up with a pithy short answer to that, but of course because God is such a mystery, it cannot so easily be explained away. It seems that a huge number of the casualties of this biggest flood, dare I suggest, since Noah, were children- the most precious and the most vulnerable. Could a God of love really allow his children to suffer in this way?
Such questions on the problem of suffering have troubled men of faith for centuries. I wouldn't pretend to have the intellect or the strength of belief to add anything profound or new to what has already been said. What I do know, however, is that Jesus said whoever has faith as small as a mustard seed can move mountains.
Many mountains can potentially be moved in the next twelve months. It's supremely ironic that this time-crucial need for humanitarian assistance comes just on the cusp of Britain taking on the presidency of the G8 group of the world's richest nations, and also the rolling presidency of the EU. Next year, there is to be a special focus on the needs of Africa- a continent whose existing needs already evoke so many tears. But her people will need our help too in these next few months- it's not just Asia which felt the full force of the tsunami, but African nations too on the Indian Ocean seaboard. Indeed, the whole world weeps and the whole world suffers. Maybe the signs of spending and continued enjoyment I saw in Kingston today were actually a psychological effort to re-invigorate spirits fatigued and deadened by just one disaster too many.
The world has enough resources to feed everyone's need, but not everyone's greed. As a Christian, it's my belief that we will never see the true relief of all human suffering until the Lord comes again- and as with countless millions of believers, I pray that will be soon. But that is no excuse for not putting our money where our mouth is, showing love in action, until He come. However small our token, even if it is like the Widow's Mite in the Bible- this frail old lady gave her last penny for the needs of others- we can use it wisely and see it do miracles. Medicine may not yet have come up with the secret of eternal youth, but thanks to J M Barrie assigning the rights of Peter Pan to Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children, countless young lives have been improved and even saved thanks to one person's generosity. One hundred years on, there is a lesson there in selfless giving, child protection and the relief of suffering which we can all learn from. Children see another person's unhappiness, and they are moved to want to bring a smile back to that person's face. My prayer tonight is that the world can bring smiles back to the tear-soaked souls of a score of lands where life can never be the same again after December 2003. Let us bring them our gifts with our true love.
But has today been the fifth day, or merely the fourth day of the twelve very welcome days of Christmas? It all depends on whether you count Christmas Day as the first day, or the day after. Some sources, and my own understanding, has always been that Christmas Day stands alone, not as one of the delightful dozen, but others would say it is included. This calculation also leads to the inevitable controversy every January over when the decorations should be down: is Twelfth Night the 5th or the 6th? The sixth is certainly Epiphany, when the wise men appeared to Jesus, but in the Eastern church it is actually Christmas Day!
It all gets very perplexing, like so much else at this time of the year. Those who believe silly superstitions would certainly say you have to have your decorations down by Twelfth Night, or you will have bad "luck" throughout the year. I have no turck with that, and for my part I will keep my little fibre optic tree up in Eastbourne right til the very last minute if I can. However, the Twelve Days tradition is one I rather wish we'd make more of in modern times- especially if it involved a few more parties!
PETER PAN AND THE THREE BEARS
Today was a day to go saleing for me, and once again I took myself off to our best local major shopping centre, Kingston upon Thames. I always like to try to grab a few post-Christmas bargains in the clothes departments, even when as this year it might not come out as such a bargain by the time I've paid interest on credit! However, I did have another reason for visiting Kingston today. It was the swansong performance for this year by one of the town's most enchanting seasonal attractions, the Bentalls Bears. and I could not resist one last chance to see them again, after witnessing their charming animatatronic antics on Christmas Eve too.
The ursine trio of Barney, Amber and Daisy- a name more fitting of the cow which had joined the tableaux this year rather than a definitely boyish bear, if you ask me- have been delighting young visitors to the indoor shopping centre which was built on the site of the famous old Bentall's store with its landmark facade, for around a decade now. I say young visitors, because the little ones are clearly the main target audience -it's a real joy to see the look of delight in their eyes when our furry chums start their half hourly performance of a couple of seasonal songs. However, from experience I think middle-aged adults like me are just as charmed as the little ones by these giant furry friends. So irresistible are they, that I went and saw them no less than three times this afternoon in between my bargain-hunting.
Christmas is a time when I think we can all be justified in trying, for just a while at least, to try to recapture the wonder and enjoyment of life which seems to come so naturally to little children. It's also a time when we can dream of a better world untouched and untarnished by the cruel realities of life from which the innocent and vulnerable juniors of our world can rarely be isolated today.
Around all the other birthdays celebrated over this last week, one which has been deservedly commemorated especially is the centenary last Monday of Peter Pan and the Darling clan. Thanks to the fantastic adventures of J M Barrie's most famous creation, Pan-tomime promoters across the world will once again this year be thrilling audiences young and old with flying boys and gigantic dogs, fancy fairies and glamorous godmothers. We will continue to cheer as the boy who never grew up tries to take his charges away from the trials and tribulations of the adult world to that special place called Neverland.
But every pantomime has to have a villain, and of course in the case of Peter Pan the villain is the evil Captain Hook, with his vicious metal prosthetic hand waiting to reach out and capture his unwary victims. We'll hiss and boo his every appearance, and cheer and clap as our hero comes to the rescue of the young charges and everyone lives happily ever after.
COMING BACK DOWN TO EARTH
If only real life could be like that. The harsh and terrible reality is that 100 000 souls of every nationality and creed will never see another Christmas or enjoy any of the beauties of living and breathing on this homeland we call Earth. Last Sunday's events in the Indian Ocean fractured the fantasy in an instant, and yet somehow it is hard to take in the horrible reality of such an estimated death toll as the result of the earthquake Tsunami. This is already being described as the worst natural disaster ever, and yet there is a sense of the surreal about it which is almost like watching a Hollywood blockbuster. It's very hard to get to grips with the enormity of what has happened, even with the most graphic accounts and startling pictures the like of which have not been seen since 9/11- and I hope never will be again.
If only we could rewind the film on this horrendous event which will inevitably be the main feature on world TV news screens for weeks to come. Or better still, write a happy ending.
The main aid agencies of course are in place and have done their best to respond instantly to the urgent needs of so many people in such disparate societies separated by thousands of miles but united by the awesome and dreadful power of millions of gallons of sea water making landfall across an ocean. Whatever the agencies' efforts might bring in the way of relief of the worst suffering though, inevitably it is rather like trying to put a sticking plaster on a hole in a dam. I've no doubt I will try to do my bit, as will millions upon millions of able individuals around the world. I may have scorned the power of money on Sunday, but it also has the fantastic ability to do good at times like this.
Nevertheless, with an almost unavoidable pun, it is like a drop in the ocean compared to the devastating and incredible scale of the damage caused by the nameless tsunami- more destructive than even the worst of hurricanes can ever have been. If that word was largely unknown to most Westerners a few days ago, it surely is now for the most grim of reasons.
HEAL THE NATIONS, SAVE THE CHILDREN
But every river starts with a tiny spring. If any good can be found in recent events, and what lies ahead, it is perhaps the realisation that we are all interdependent on each other for shelter, sustenance and survival. The merciless speed with which the tidal wave took the lives of so many who were until that point getting on with their everyday life or their holiday of a lifetime, makes one realise with a cold start that life itself is as fragile and vulnerable as a piece of flimsy wrapping paper discarded on Christmas Day.
We could look on like the helpless audience at a panto where disaster strikes and feel where is God in all this. As I said the other day, it can be all too easy to try to come up with a pithy short answer to that, but of course because God is such a mystery, it cannot so easily be explained away. It seems that a huge number of the casualties of this biggest flood, dare I suggest, since Noah, were children- the most precious and the most vulnerable. Could a God of love really allow his children to suffer in this way?
Such questions on the problem of suffering have troubled men of faith for centuries. I wouldn't pretend to have the intellect or the strength of belief to add anything profound or new to what has already been said. What I do know, however, is that Jesus said whoever has faith as small as a mustard seed can move mountains.
Many mountains can potentially be moved in the next twelve months. It's supremely ironic that this time-crucial need for humanitarian assistance comes just on the cusp of Britain taking on the presidency of the G8 group of the world's richest nations, and also the rolling presidency of the EU. Next year, there is to be a special focus on the needs of Africa- a continent whose existing needs already evoke so many tears. But her people will need our help too in these next few months- it's not just Asia which felt the full force of the tsunami, but African nations too on the Indian Ocean seaboard. Indeed, the whole world weeps and the whole world suffers. Maybe the signs of spending and continued enjoyment I saw in Kingston today were actually a psychological effort to re-invigorate spirits fatigued and deadened by just one disaster too many.
The world has enough resources to feed everyone's need, but not everyone's greed. As a Christian, it's my belief that we will never see the true relief of all human suffering until the Lord comes again- and as with countless millions of believers, I pray that will be soon. But that is no excuse for not putting our money where our mouth is, showing love in action, until He come. However small our token, even if it is like the Widow's Mite in the Bible- this frail old lady gave her last penny for the needs of others- we can use it wisely and see it do miracles. Medicine may not yet have come up with the secret of eternal youth, but thanks to J M Barrie assigning the rights of Peter Pan to Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children, countless young lives have been improved and even saved thanks to one person's generosity. One hundred years on, there is a lesson there in selfless giving, child protection and the relief of suffering which we can all learn from. Children see another person's unhappiness, and they are moved to want to bring a smile back to that person's face. My prayer tonight is that the world can bring smiles back to the tear-soaked souls of a score of lands where life can never be the same again after December 2003. Let us bring them our gifts with our true love.
Tuesday, 28 December 2004
It's always darkest before the dawn
Are you sure? How do they know? Levels of light may be measured in lux, but can any scientific evidence back this trite saying up with an equivalent measurement of darkness? I don't seem to be getting much feedback on these blogs via the site, so if there are any scientists or amateur boffins out there who would like to offer any thoughts on this one, do let me know won't you.
It's one of those sayings I guess which links experience with everyday observation. Ancient man must have realised that after the event we now call the Winter Solstice, already a week past, the days seemed to be getting longer and they must have felt a blessed relief from the cold darkness of winter. And yet, what's always struck me as paradoxical about the period after Christmas is that while the evenings undoubtedly lighten rapidly, mornings are a different story! As I type, it's still decidedly dark to the West, and will be for another hour yet, but over to the East it's definitely la lighter shade of blue.
It's the sort of darkness which makes me wish we were a hibernating species at times, but thanks to Pipex Dial regarding these extra Christmas bank holidays as "normal" days, I'm back to early morning blogging to be able to benefit from unmetered access before dawn. OK, it's not my phone bill but my generous Mum and brother's at the moment, but I still try to watch the pennies and anyway it seems impossible to get a connection during peak time.
Today is that strange creation of recent decades, as I recall, called "Holiday Tuesday". This is supposed to be to make up for Christmas Day falling on a Saturday this year, when (the argument goes) many people would normally be off work anyway so would not benefit from the holiday. I'm all in favour of more holidays, but it does lead to an image of Britain being the lazy man of Europe at this time of year. Mind you, I was checking a list of public holidays in other European countries last night, and we are the only country that has both yesterday- which I still maintain was the Boxing Day holiday proper- and today as acknowledged Bank Holidays this year. Yet much of Europe has Christmas Eve as a holiday- understandable as it is when their main celebrations take place- and New Year's Eve. Plus, in several cases, Epiphany or Twelfth Night. Lazy, us? Perhaps you ought to look to your own house first.
THIS TWILIGHT GAP
Radio 4 has a loosely spiritual programme on Sundays called "Something Understood". While I still bemoan the loss of its forerunner programme of favourite hymns to start the day, this show can often give very insightful and interesting approaches to the familiar landmarks of human experience and just occasionally come up with something profound. It can have a tendency to be a bit new ageist, but I did like this week's show which looks at this strange dying days of the year in December between Christmas and the New Year, which were named "this Twilight Gap" by the popular guru who calls himself "The Barefoot Doctor" this time last year. Copyright restrictions probably prevented him paying homage to Rod Serling's zone, I suspect.
The Doctor's conclusion is that this is a time for gentle reflection and self-analysis, nothing too taxing or hard but I'd tend to go along with that view I guess. The festivities are drawing to a close, as is the year, and I must start once again to think of how I want to spend the next year of my life- or rather, to ask God to guide me on where I can best apply my abilities.
THE HARDEST QUESTION
Meanwhile, for some of us the holiday and the rest goes on and I feel like going back to bed. For others though, life after Christmas was changed in an instant, tragically and disastrously, for the latest post Christmas reminder that however sophisticated our society, we are still at the mercy of the forces of nature. The Tsunami which has hit the Indian Ocean, devastating many countries and causing the loss of countless thousands of lives is a terrible event which I cannot trivialise for a moment. It understandably causes many to ask "Where is your God of love" to allow this? I can't pretend any easy answer- and there isn't one. But I do know that His Love is revealed in the humanity which, as with last year's earthquake in Iran, will be most manifest in the aid, support and compassion which the world will now rush in to rescue these devastated communities. Where there is disaster and death, there can still be love and life.
It's one of those sayings I guess which links experience with everyday observation. Ancient man must have realised that after the event we now call the Winter Solstice, already a week past, the days seemed to be getting longer and they must have felt a blessed relief from the cold darkness of winter. And yet, what's always struck me as paradoxical about the period after Christmas is that while the evenings undoubtedly lighten rapidly, mornings are a different story! As I type, it's still decidedly dark to the West, and will be for another hour yet, but over to the East it's definitely la lighter shade of blue.
It's the sort of darkness which makes me wish we were a hibernating species at times, but thanks to Pipex Dial regarding these extra Christmas bank holidays as "normal" days, I'm back to early morning blogging to be able to benefit from unmetered access before dawn. OK, it's not my phone bill but my generous Mum and brother's at the moment, but I still try to watch the pennies and anyway it seems impossible to get a connection during peak time.
Today is that strange creation of recent decades, as I recall, called "Holiday Tuesday". This is supposed to be to make up for Christmas Day falling on a Saturday this year, when (the argument goes) many people would normally be off work anyway so would not benefit from the holiday. I'm all in favour of more holidays, but it does lead to an image of Britain being the lazy man of Europe at this time of year. Mind you, I was checking a list of public holidays in other European countries last night, and we are the only country that has both yesterday- which I still maintain was the Boxing Day holiday proper- and today as acknowledged Bank Holidays this year. Yet much of Europe has Christmas Eve as a holiday- understandable as it is when their main celebrations take place- and New Year's Eve. Plus, in several cases, Epiphany or Twelfth Night. Lazy, us? Perhaps you ought to look to your own house first.
THIS TWILIGHT GAP
Radio 4 has a loosely spiritual programme on Sundays called "Something Understood". While I still bemoan the loss of its forerunner programme of favourite hymns to start the day, this show can often give very insightful and interesting approaches to the familiar landmarks of human experience and just occasionally come up with something profound. It can have a tendency to be a bit new ageist, but I did like this week's show which looks at this strange dying days of the year in December between Christmas and the New Year, which were named "this Twilight Gap" by the popular guru who calls himself "The Barefoot Doctor" this time last year. Copyright restrictions probably prevented him paying homage to Rod Serling's zone, I suspect.
The Doctor's conclusion is that this is a time for gentle reflection and self-analysis, nothing too taxing or hard but I'd tend to go along with that view I guess. The festivities are drawing to a close, as is the year, and I must start once again to think of how I want to spend the next year of my life- or rather, to ask God to guide me on where I can best apply my abilities.
THE HARDEST QUESTION
Meanwhile, for some of us the holiday and the rest goes on and I feel like going back to bed. For others though, life after Christmas was changed in an instant, tragically and disastrously, for the latest post Christmas reminder that however sophisticated our society, we are still at the mercy of the forces of nature. The Tsunami which has hit the Indian Ocean, devastating many countries and causing the loss of countless thousands of lives is a terrible event which I cannot trivialise for a moment. It understandably causes many to ask "Where is your God of love" to allow this? I can't pretend any easy answer- and there isn't one. But I do know that His Love is revealed in the humanity which, as with last year's earthquake in Iran, will be most manifest in the aid, support and compassion which the world will now rush in to rescue these devastated communities. Where there is disaster and death, there can still be love and life.
Sunday, 26 December 2004
Thank You For the Music
It's around this time during the festive celebrations that the charms of music to soothe the Savage breast are seasonally challenged. Suddenly, after all the heavenly wonder of carols crossing the frosty ether, the cosy, lullabyesque qualities of praises to the new-born Jesus change all too rapidly back to more everyday sounds of music. Gone are the triumphant encouragement for all nations to joyfully rise with Adeste Fideles, or if you prefer O come All Ye Faithful. Banished to the back of the CD rack for another twelve months can so easily go the Manger, Away along with the wondrous childhood of Jesus which, officially at least we remember for a further twelve days and even in some Christian tradition right through to Candlemas on 2nd February.
Thank heavens then on this first Sunday after Christmas for Classic FM. Now 12 years old, I wonder how the British airwaves ever managed without this gem of a radio station which, surprisingly for a commercial service, deservedly trumpets its programmes in December as "The Sound of Christmas". Throughout this morning, they have been playing "Boxing Day Requests", with a goodly smattering of seasonal favourites to keep the Christmas cheer flowing and joining families separated by distance or other commitments- much in the tradition of good old Family Favourites way back when.
I thought that the Christmas flavour might dissipate like flat champagne after mid-day, but no. One-time MP and well-known football fan David Mellor is Classic FM's unlikely but popular celebrity presenter in the slot once occupied, indeed, by love birds Cliff Michelmore and Jean Metcalfe on the old BBC Light Programme.
Mellor's choice of music already this afternoon has included the sinfonia from Bach's Christmas Oratorio, and now Debussy's lovely Clair de Lune, a most evocative and romantic celebration of the celestial presence which, mysteriously, is missing from the Christmas story in the Bible. We all know about the star in the East, but where was the moon? If it was anything like the lovely clear evenings of the last couple of Christmas nights, our sun's little brother must surely have been guiding those Magi by midnight too.
On a cold frosty Sunday afternoon, and a snowy one elsewhere but not here in the South East, this sort of music is as warming as a mug of mulled wine -as Mellor suggests, just the sort of thing to enjoy slouched in a comfortable armchair after too much turkey and Christmas pud the day before. Not that we have over-indulged ourselves Chez Savage, though the marvellous meal at the Magpie yesterday afternoon certainly provided a soporific spread come home time and I was glad to doze off to Classic's wonderfully eclectic mix of carols old and new- so much more satisfying than the eye candy of so much festive TV today. No wonder Rennies are sponsoring ITV's Christmas drama as even the best of it seems like a repeat, or burp as we call them in our household.
Apparently, according to TV show Full on Food, tiredness after a big meal is induced by the body diverting blood flow to the digestive system to cope: and there was me thinking it was just the effect of too much wine.
MONEY MONEY MONEY
Today's blog is beginning to look more like a homage to Abba than to the continuing strange mixture of emotions and delights of Christmastime. I couldn't avoid the puns, but surely the nation's retailers could, just for 24 hours or so, avoid the need to force their staff away from hearth and home to open up stores not just on the day after Christmas, but on a Sunday. That at least prevents them opening too early, and to six hours trading at most but are we really all so desperate for a new sofa that we have to get it less than 12 hours after Christmas Day ends? Even then, you needn't expect delivery for weeks, usually.
Watching ITV for a change as we did for much of Christmas evening, there was no avoiding the relentless assault on the basest instincts of man- double your discount, a certain well-known furniture retailer is proclaiming to a bowldlerised cover of Katie Melua's Closest Thing to Crazy. Yes, like double the discount on the inflated price you would dare to charge in the first place if we would but pay it. Why has Britain gone 24/7 money mad? Who do we blame- the internet and shop til you droportunities, or those oldest and most vile of vices, greed and jealousy? Instead of dashing out to get the latest new kitchen or lounge suite to keep up with the Joneses, why not just invite the Joneses in for a seasonal tipple and some tasty vittals just as you are- isn't that what this season is really supposed to be all about, i.e welcoming others into our overcrowded lives?
RELAX AND ESCAPE
Traditionally among TV advertisers, and for that matter radio, this was the time when the holiday ads started to saturate the screen and speaker. With the anticipation of Christmas evaporated in the space of a few all too short hours, everyone needed something else to look forward to on cold,dull winter days and the next summer holiday seemed the perfect motivator. However, in the age of e-bookers, it seems, all that has gone and choosing your holiday can happen any time of the year. Nevertheless, there can be a very real desire to escape, especially as January looms which once the decorations have finally come down, always seems the longest month even though it has exactly the same number of days as the one which preceeds it. And, like the purrfect cat curled up in an armchair, I'm all for relaxing!
Classic FM seem to have recaptured the old spirit of holiday longing with their latest compilation CD set, which features a hot air balloon on the cover and four hours of the finest classical music. Roll on Summer- but hey, the sun is shining so maybe I need a Sunday walk for my own mini escape! I'd rather have it this way than cloudy any day, but particularly today. Contrary to popular terminology though, it is NOT Boxing Day when the 26th falls on a Sunday. As far as I am concerned, it's still Christmas Sunday- when and who decided to change this, or is it just that all too prevalent attitude of "let's not bother about that issue"?
St Stephen's Day, also commemorated tomorrow (Monday) but never on a Sunday, is supposed to be a time for properly remembering all those persecuted for their beliefs, especially St Stephen himself, the first Christian martyr. It's therefore perhaps the perfect time to take to heart what Her Majesty addressed in a well-received Christmas message yesterday. In a year which has seen all too much evidence of tension arising over the different beliefs and understandings of our multi-faith society, she stressed the importance of tolerance and mere humanity towards those whose approach to life is different to our own, and said she sees this as a fundamental virtue of British life.
For the Queen as a Christian, this is most vividly represented in the parable of the Good Samaritan, which we all too easily forget is a classic example of cross-cultural understanding and compassion which goes the extra mile.
The origins of "Boxing Day" lie in a pleasant but ulitmately divisive tradition- that of the "upper" classes deigning to reward their "servants" with seasonal gifts of money and kind. Fine though this is in a way, and musically represented by Good King Wenceslas, it's really not in the spirit of the total emptying of all but love which Jesus came to bring. Because Christians believe that ALL have sinned and fall short of the Glory of God which is seen in the teaching and example of Jesus the Messiah,, we must never forget Sunday- even though I have to confess I was unable to get to church myself today. Because he lived, died and rose again, we celebrate the greatest mystery of all. Our everday lives to which we all too soon return should be about seeking to enjoy that, and worship Him, even if we can't explain it or have all the answers. But why should we? As our minister in Feltham, John Graham, said at a lovely Christmas Morning service yesterday, can you explain just why you like your favourite piece of music? To explain the mystery is to lose its power; God's love in Jesus cannot be priced on any swing ticket, but it IS a ticket to life!
Thank heavens then on this first Sunday after Christmas for Classic FM. Now 12 years old, I wonder how the British airwaves ever managed without this gem of a radio station which, surprisingly for a commercial service, deservedly trumpets its programmes in December as "The Sound of Christmas". Throughout this morning, they have been playing "Boxing Day Requests", with a goodly smattering of seasonal favourites to keep the Christmas cheer flowing and joining families separated by distance or other commitments- much in the tradition of good old Family Favourites way back when.
I thought that the Christmas flavour might dissipate like flat champagne after mid-day, but no. One-time MP and well-known football fan David Mellor is Classic FM's unlikely but popular celebrity presenter in the slot once occupied, indeed, by love birds Cliff Michelmore and Jean Metcalfe on the old BBC Light Programme.
Mellor's choice of music already this afternoon has included the sinfonia from Bach's Christmas Oratorio, and now Debussy's lovely Clair de Lune, a most evocative and romantic celebration of the celestial presence which, mysteriously, is missing from the Christmas story in the Bible. We all know about the star in the East, but where was the moon? If it was anything like the lovely clear evenings of the last couple of Christmas nights, our sun's little brother must surely have been guiding those Magi by midnight too.
On a cold frosty Sunday afternoon, and a snowy one elsewhere but not here in the South East, this sort of music is as warming as a mug of mulled wine -as Mellor suggests, just the sort of thing to enjoy slouched in a comfortable armchair after too much turkey and Christmas pud the day before. Not that we have over-indulged ourselves Chez Savage, though the marvellous meal at the Magpie yesterday afternoon certainly provided a soporific spread come home time and I was glad to doze off to Classic's wonderfully eclectic mix of carols old and new- so much more satisfying than the eye candy of so much festive TV today. No wonder Rennies are sponsoring ITV's Christmas drama as even the best of it seems like a repeat, or burp as we call them in our household.
Apparently, according to TV show Full on Food, tiredness after a big meal is induced by the body diverting blood flow to the digestive system to cope: and there was me thinking it was just the effect of too much wine.
MONEY MONEY MONEY
Today's blog is beginning to look more like a homage to Abba than to the continuing strange mixture of emotions and delights of Christmastime. I couldn't avoid the puns, but surely the nation's retailers could, just for 24 hours or so, avoid the need to force their staff away from hearth and home to open up stores not just on the day after Christmas, but on a Sunday. That at least prevents them opening too early, and to six hours trading at most but are we really all so desperate for a new sofa that we have to get it less than 12 hours after Christmas Day ends? Even then, you needn't expect delivery for weeks, usually.
Watching ITV for a change as we did for much of Christmas evening, there was no avoiding the relentless assault on the basest instincts of man- double your discount, a certain well-known furniture retailer is proclaiming to a bowldlerised cover of Katie Melua's Closest Thing to Crazy. Yes, like double the discount on the inflated price you would dare to charge in the first place if we would but pay it. Why has Britain gone 24/7 money mad? Who do we blame- the internet and shop til you droportunities, or those oldest and most vile of vices, greed and jealousy? Instead of dashing out to get the latest new kitchen or lounge suite to keep up with the Joneses, why not just invite the Joneses in for a seasonal tipple and some tasty vittals just as you are- isn't that what this season is really supposed to be all about, i.e welcoming others into our overcrowded lives?
RELAX AND ESCAPE
Traditionally among TV advertisers, and for that matter radio, this was the time when the holiday ads started to saturate the screen and speaker. With the anticipation of Christmas evaporated in the space of a few all too short hours, everyone needed something else to look forward to on cold,dull winter days and the next summer holiday seemed the perfect motivator. However, in the age of e-bookers, it seems, all that has gone and choosing your holiday can happen any time of the year. Nevertheless, there can be a very real desire to escape, especially as January looms which once the decorations have finally come down, always seems the longest month even though it has exactly the same number of days as the one which preceeds it. And, like the purrfect cat curled up in an armchair, I'm all for relaxing!
Classic FM seem to have recaptured the old spirit of holiday longing with their latest compilation CD set, which features a hot air balloon on the cover and four hours of the finest classical music. Roll on Summer- but hey, the sun is shining so maybe I need a Sunday walk for my own mini escape! I'd rather have it this way than cloudy any day, but particularly today. Contrary to popular terminology though, it is NOT Boxing Day when the 26th falls on a Sunday. As far as I am concerned, it's still Christmas Sunday- when and who decided to change this, or is it just that all too prevalent attitude of "let's not bother about that issue"?
St Stephen's Day, also commemorated tomorrow (Monday) but never on a Sunday, is supposed to be a time for properly remembering all those persecuted for their beliefs, especially St Stephen himself, the first Christian martyr. It's therefore perhaps the perfect time to take to heart what Her Majesty addressed in a well-received Christmas message yesterday. In a year which has seen all too much evidence of tension arising over the different beliefs and understandings of our multi-faith society, she stressed the importance of tolerance and mere humanity towards those whose approach to life is different to our own, and said she sees this as a fundamental virtue of British life.
For the Queen as a Christian, this is most vividly represented in the parable of the Good Samaritan, which we all too easily forget is a classic example of cross-cultural understanding and compassion which goes the extra mile.
The origins of "Boxing Day" lie in a pleasant but ulitmately divisive tradition- that of the "upper" classes deigning to reward their "servants" with seasonal gifts of money and kind. Fine though this is in a way, and musically represented by Good King Wenceslas, it's really not in the spirit of the total emptying of all but love which Jesus came to bring. Because Christians believe that ALL have sinned and fall short of the Glory of God which is seen in the teaching and example of Jesus the Messiah,, we must never forget Sunday- even though I have to confess I was unable to get to church myself today. Because he lived, died and rose again, we celebrate the greatest mystery of all. Our everday lives to which we all too soon return should be about seeking to enjoy that, and worship Him, even if we can't explain it or have all the answers. But why should we? As our minister in Feltham, John Graham, said at a lovely Christmas Morning service yesterday, can you explain just why you like your favourite piece of music? To explain the mystery is to lose its power; God's love in Jesus cannot be priced on any swing ticket, but it IS a ticket to life!
Saturday, 25 December 2004
Born this Happy Morning
O Come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant
O Come ye, O Come ye, to Bethlehem
Come and behold Him, Born the King of Angels
O Come let us adore him, O come let us adore him
O come let us adore him, Christ the Lord!
Yay, Lord, we greet thee
Born this happy morning
Jesus to thee be glory given
Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing
O Come let us adore him, O come let us adore him
O Come let us adore him, Christ the Lord!
Dawn breaks on Christmas Day 2004 in Britain. A wintry blanket of white covers many parts already, but here in Feltham we still await that finishing touch, like the icing on the choicest Christmas cake, to adorn the most special day of the year. The sun is rising and unto us a Son is given! Beaming like the indescribable smile on the faces of new parents, today's sunshine pierces the gloom of our winter lives as the best news ever published is once again proclaimed from the churchtops if not the redtops.
Bells tell the ancient story, the good news, the gospel. The message of joy is preached wherever the name of Christ is known and once again men and women are reminded that despite our legion of faults and failures, God who made us still loves us!
Yet to many today, the event that gave this most special of all birthdays its name, means little. I don't self-righteously condemn their ignorance of Jesus Christ, his life and teaching- but I do feel passionate sorrow that they have not received yet the most precious gift anyone can ever receive: the most wonderful news that true life is eternal, undying, and full of joy because Jesus came into our world and grew to give his whole self for us. Greater love has no man than this.
Life has meaning. However humble, however wretched it may seem, or however famous or prosperous it may be, it is precious to the God who made islands and highlands, amoeba and asteroid, blue whales and slimy snails, mountain peaks and oceans deeps cosy firelight and lover's moonlight.
I've strived in these past four months to apply something of my own passion at working with language to express something of who I am and how I see the world, and hope that you have found some pleasure and maybe fellow feeling in reading my efforts. I didn't start out intending to make this an evangelical forum nor a virtual pulpit, but as I say in my profile, if you want to see the real me, then you have to read of my Lord more often than not too.
Yet somehow, any words I write seem strangely inadequate for a day like today. Repeated though it is every 365 days, or 366 in the case of this year, no human attempt at communication can fully convey the majesty and the glory of Christmas Day. It can never lose its unique place in mine and countless other human hearts, believers or not. The celebration of Christ's nativity may have started as a counter to the pagan feasts of Saturnalia, Yule and such like, with their promise of the return of the sun after months of darkness, at least in the Northern Hemisphere. There is a longing, a yearning in the human heart for brighter hopes and better tomorrows which has about it a universal quality understood by all. We have all experienced walking in darkness, and it is a very worrying experience.
But Jesus is God's way of showing us that the future is bright, and it has nothing to do with strangely-coloured mobile telephones but everything to do with telling it on the mountains, over the hills and everywhere- that Jesus Christ is born. Hymn-writers and homily preachers have tried to express it for centuries; some succeed with profundity, such as Charles Wesley- who managed the not easy task of transforming a very popular inn song to one of the most moving of all Christmas hymns:
Mild, he lays his glory by
Born that Man no more may die
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth
Hark the Herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born king!
The most complete account in the Bible narratives of Jesus' birth is found in the familiar but never failing account given by the Jewish doctor Luke. I guess if he were here today he might be the Robert Winston of his day, marvelling at new life and doing everything to help expectant mothers. If you are unfamiliar with the account of Jesus' birth, follow this link:
http://www.rc.net/wcc/readings/luke21.htm
Or use your Christmas book token to buy a bible!
However, as I said earlier, words are so often inadequate to convey the simple yet profound truth at the heart of the Christmas story. Philosophers, psychologists, theologians, thinkers, doers, movers and shakers may all have their try and even this would-be professional communicator tried his best with the privilege of leading Christmas Day worship at a local Methodist church four years ago. But I realised then that the most insightful words about Christmas were written twenty centuries ago, many believe by the man closest to the heart and mind of Jesus, his best friend if you like. I can add nothing to the words of St John, except to wish you once again a peaceful, joyful Christmas- and the delight of surprised discovery, even of the Word of God!
Chapter 1:1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. 1:2 The same was in the beginning with God. 1:3 All things were made through him. Without him was not anything made that has been made. 1:4 In him was life, and the life was the light of men. 1:5 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness hasn’t overcome it. 1:6 There came a man, sent from God, whose name was John. 1:7 The same came as a witness, that he might testify about the light, that all might believe through him. 1:8 He was not the light, but was sent that he might testify about the light. 1:9 The true light that enlightens everyone was coming into the world.
1:10 He was in the world, and the world was made through him, and the world didn’t recognize him. 1:11 He came to his own, and those who were his own didn’t receive him. 1:12 But as many as received him, to them he gave the right to become God’s children, to those who believe in his name: 1:13 who were born not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God. 1:14 The Word became flesh, and lived among us. We saw his glory, such glory as of the one and only Son of the Father, full of grace and truth.
O Come ye, O Come ye, to Bethlehem
Come and behold Him, Born the King of Angels
O Come let us adore him, O come let us adore him
O come let us adore him, Christ the Lord!
Yay, Lord, we greet thee
Born this happy morning
Jesus to thee be glory given
Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing
O Come let us adore him, O come let us adore him
O Come let us adore him, Christ the Lord!
Dawn breaks on Christmas Day 2004 in Britain. A wintry blanket of white covers many parts already, but here in Feltham we still await that finishing touch, like the icing on the choicest Christmas cake, to adorn the most special day of the year. The sun is rising and unto us a Son is given! Beaming like the indescribable smile on the faces of new parents, today's sunshine pierces the gloom of our winter lives as the best news ever published is once again proclaimed from the churchtops if not the redtops.
Bells tell the ancient story, the good news, the gospel. The message of joy is preached wherever the name of Christ is known and once again men and women are reminded that despite our legion of faults and failures, God who made us still loves us!
Yet to many today, the event that gave this most special of all birthdays its name, means little. I don't self-righteously condemn their ignorance of Jesus Christ, his life and teaching- but I do feel passionate sorrow that they have not received yet the most precious gift anyone can ever receive: the most wonderful news that true life is eternal, undying, and full of joy because Jesus came into our world and grew to give his whole self for us. Greater love has no man than this.
Life has meaning. However humble, however wretched it may seem, or however famous or prosperous it may be, it is precious to the God who made islands and highlands, amoeba and asteroid, blue whales and slimy snails, mountain peaks and oceans deeps cosy firelight and lover's moonlight.
I've strived in these past four months to apply something of my own passion at working with language to express something of who I am and how I see the world, and hope that you have found some pleasure and maybe fellow feeling in reading my efforts. I didn't start out intending to make this an evangelical forum nor a virtual pulpit, but as I say in my profile, if you want to see the real me, then you have to read of my Lord more often than not too.
Yet somehow, any words I write seem strangely inadequate for a day like today. Repeated though it is every 365 days, or 366 in the case of this year, no human attempt at communication can fully convey the majesty and the glory of Christmas Day. It can never lose its unique place in mine and countless other human hearts, believers or not. The celebration of Christ's nativity may have started as a counter to the pagan feasts of Saturnalia, Yule and such like, with their promise of the return of the sun after months of darkness, at least in the Northern Hemisphere. There is a longing, a yearning in the human heart for brighter hopes and better tomorrows which has about it a universal quality understood by all. We have all experienced walking in darkness, and it is a very worrying experience.
But Jesus is God's way of showing us that the future is bright, and it has nothing to do with strangely-coloured mobile telephones but everything to do with telling it on the mountains, over the hills and everywhere- that Jesus Christ is born. Hymn-writers and homily preachers have tried to express it for centuries; some succeed with profundity, such as Charles Wesley- who managed the not easy task of transforming a very popular inn song to one of the most moving of all Christmas hymns:
Mild, he lays his glory by
Born that Man no more may die
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth
Hark the Herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born king!
The most complete account in the Bible narratives of Jesus' birth is found in the familiar but never failing account given by the Jewish doctor Luke. I guess if he were here today he might be the Robert Winston of his day, marvelling at new life and doing everything to help expectant mothers. If you are unfamiliar with the account of Jesus' birth, follow this link:
http://www.rc.net/wcc/readings/luke21.htm
Or use your Christmas book token to buy a bible!
However, as I said earlier, words are so often inadequate to convey the simple yet profound truth at the heart of the Christmas story. Philosophers, psychologists, theologians, thinkers, doers, movers and shakers may all have their try and even this would-be professional communicator tried his best with the privilege of leading Christmas Day worship at a local Methodist church four years ago. But I realised then that the most insightful words about Christmas were written twenty centuries ago, many believe by the man closest to the heart and mind of Jesus, his best friend if you like. I can add nothing to the words of St John, except to wish you once again a peaceful, joyful Christmas- and the delight of surprised discovery, even of the Word of God!
Chapter 1:1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. 1:2 The same was in the beginning with God. 1:3 All things were made through him. Without him was not anything made that has been made. 1:4 In him was life, and the life was the light of men. 1:5 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness hasn’t overcome it. 1:6 There came a man, sent from God, whose name was John. 1:7 The same came as a witness, that he might testify about the light, that all might believe through him. 1:8 He was not the light, but was sent that he might testify about the light. 1:9 The true light that enlightens everyone was coming into the world.
1:10 He was in the world, and the world was made through him, and the world didn’t recognize him. 1:11 He came to his own, and those who were his own didn’t receive him. 1:12 But as many as received him, to them he gave the right to become God’s children, to those who believe in his name: 1:13 who were born not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God. 1:14 The Word became flesh, and lived among us. We saw his glory, such glory as of the one and only Son of the Father, full of grace and truth.
Friday, 24 December 2004
Cruising into Christmas
Christmas Eve 2004
We're nearly there! After the 27-day journey through the waters of Advent the captain of the good ship Rejoice calls the angels to their watch stations. The purser is frantically dashing around checking his supplies, the chef's running on auto-pilot light preparing the biggest scoff-fest for twelve months and in a frantic dash to have enough to go round, the helicopter crews are constantly flying in last-minute provisions and presents before this astounding vessel pulls into port to dock at Port Yule in around seventeen hours time.
Meanwhile, up on the praise deck, the director of music rehearses his amazing combination of trumpets, drums, stringed instruments, mighty organs and the most precious instrument of all, the human voice. The harmony they will create in their heart-stopping performance from midnight is like no sound ever heard on Earth, for this is the music of eternity.
The decorators have been called in, making their customary late appearance to make the forest of evergreens on board sparkle like a jewel chest of treasure as the on-board power plant pushes its pistons right on cue for the final burst of energy needed to ensure everyone has as smooth a crossing as possible over the line into Christmas Day.
No detail is overlooked to make this the loudest, brightest, cheeriest, warmest, snowiest,showiest spectacle the world has ever seen. Agents have been enthusiastically, avariciously even, seeking bookings and making suggestions to would-be passengers on this journey of a light-time for what seems like forever.
It's surely going to be a homecoming to surpass all others as the assembled guests all of races and ranks gather from the four corners of the world in their sumptuously-furnished suites ready to celebrate together in a heart-warming, eye-moistening display of peace and goodwill.
CHILDREN'S CORNER
The little ones are not forgotten of course. Indeed, many say this annual journey was made for them. Sleepy little heads nevertheless find it hard to confine their excitement in anticipation of what awaits at journey's end, the enticing, lovingly wrapped packages under trees dressed like the most beautiful of brides or freely-given presents mysteriously appearing in the middle of the night in a sack, stocking or other suitable receptacle kindly filled by a bearded, benevolent visitor from the frozen north. Chocolate heaven is theirs as tiny tummies prepare to gorge on the finest sweet delights the world's confectioners can deliver.
All seems ready for a perfect end to a journey filled with special moments, as junior performers receive their awards for a million star-struck moments in plays, concerts and services wherever there is a spare space and an appreciative though biased audience. The makers of paper tissues watch profits swell as adult hearts not too hardened by a complex world shed a lakeful of joyful tears at the simplicity and beauty of tomorrow's hope casting off the fears of all the years to simply gaze in wonder.
NO ROOM, NO ROOM
This Advent journey has been full of the most improbable visitors and almost incredible events along the way. Up in the crow's nest, a loud voice was heard crying for much of the journey "Repent and be baptised"! Many scoffed at his words, and his calling claimed from God. Born to elderly parents he was hardly the most likely of candidates for divine promotion. Scorning the countless edible delights on offer below, he settled instead for a strange diet of wild locusts and honey. The powers that be had no time for his wailing and gloom-mongering, and wanted him dead.
Eventually they got their wish, his head on a plate. But not before this man, John, had guided many of his lost fellow-travellers to a better way, or rather THE way, to live their lives. Those who heard his message were the humble of heart who knew the extent of their own awfulness and sought help. John made it quite plain he was not himself the answer, but by following his message, many believed and prepared the way, just as countless millions are preparing today as they have down the centuries. But these people are preparing for a paradox, one of so many in the glorious shared experience which we have come to call Christmas.
I love the December daze which is the last week before Christmas. After all the often painful, joyless, grey, tense, sorrowful waiting of earlier weeks, it has been a delight to participate in events ranging from playing a barmy yokel shepherd in Eastbourne's "Carols Cafe" on Sunday, to singing the part of a king in front of a mixture of indifferent and appreciative Tesco shoppers in Feltham on Monday. It's been a time for celebrating birthdays too: from my own dear younger brother's 44th yesterday, celebrated in both Eastbourne and with delighted surprise in Shoreham, to seeing the delight of a treasured young son of friends turning three on Tuesday and cherishing the un-judgemental friendship and acceptance which he and his young friends and sibling brought to life. But now it's the final countdown.
There's a very different side to this joyful journey story. Down in stowage class, a young woman barely into her teens is about to give birth in the most insanitary, uncomfortable conditions imaginable. Her tradesman husband to be has done his best to make her comfortable, but no room could be found for them in all the comfort zones upstairs. It's an unlikely subject for front page treatment, but tomorrow the real meaning of words becomes true once more. This will be my last posting of my own words before Christmas, but please re-visit on December 25th if you can. Meanwhile, I wish you the most peaceful, joyful and happiest of Christmasses you can have, and God Bless you all.
We're nearly there! After the 27-day journey through the waters of Advent the captain of the good ship Rejoice calls the angels to their watch stations. The purser is frantically dashing around checking his supplies, the chef's running on auto-pilot light preparing the biggest scoff-fest for twelve months and in a frantic dash to have enough to go round, the helicopter crews are constantly flying in last-minute provisions and presents before this astounding vessel pulls into port to dock at Port Yule in around seventeen hours time.
Meanwhile, up on the praise deck, the director of music rehearses his amazing combination of trumpets, drums, stringed instruments, mighty organs and the most precious instrument of all, the human voice. The harmony they will create in their heart-stopping performance from midnight is like no sound ever heard on Earth, for this is the music of eternity.
The decorators have been called in, making their customary late appearance to make the forest of evergreens on board sparkle like a jewel chest of treasure as the on-board power plant pushes its pistons right on cue for the final burst of energy needed to ensure everyone has as smooth a crossing as possible over the line into Christmas Day.
No detail is overlooked to make this the loudest, brightest, cheeriest, warmest, snowiest,showiest spectacle the world has ever seen. Agents have been enthusiastically, avariciously even, seeking bookings and making suggestions to would-be passengers on this journey of a light-time for what seems like forever.
It's surely going to be a homecoming to surpass all others as the assembled guests all of races and ranks gather from the four corners of the world in their sumptuously-furnished suites ready to celebrate together in a heart-warming, eye-moistening display of peace and goodwill.
CHILDREN'S CORNER
The little ones are not forgotten of course. Indeed, many say this annual journey was made for them. Sleepy little heads nevertheless find it hard to confine their excitement in anticipation of what awaits at journey's end, the enticing, lovingly wrapped packages under trees dressed like the most beautiful of brides or freely-given presents mysteriously appearing in the middle of the night in a sack, stocking or other suitable receptacle kindly filled by a bearded, benevolent visitor from the frozen north. Chocolate heaven is theirs as tiny tummies prepare to gorge on the finest sweet delights the world's confectioners can deliver.
All seems ready for a perfect end to a journey filled with special moments, as junior performers receive their awards for a million star-struck moments in plays, concerts and services wherever there is a spare space and an appreciative though biased audience. The makers of paper tissues watch profits swell as adult hearts not too hardened by a complex world shed a lakeful of joyful tears at the simplicity and beauty of tomorrow's hope casting off the fears of all the years to simply gaze in wonder.
NO ROOM, NO ROOM
This Advent journey has been full of the most improbable visitors and almost incredible events along the way. Up in the crow's nest, a loud voice was heard crying for much of the journey "Repent and be baptised"! Many scoffed at his words, and his calling claimed from God. Born to elderly parents he was hardly the most likely of candidates for divine promotion. Scorning the countless edible delights on offer below, he settled instead for a strange diet of wild locusts and honey. The powers that be had no time for his wailing and gloom-mongering, and wanted him dead.
Eventually they got their wish, his head on a plate. But not before this man, John, had guided many of his lost fellow-travellers to a better way, or rather THE way, to live their lives. Those who heard his message were the humble of heart who knew the extent of their own awfulness and sought help. John made it quite plain he was not himself the answer, but by following his message, many believed and prepared the way, just as countless millions are preparing today as they have down the centuries. But these people are preparing for a paradox, one of so many in the glorious shared experience which we have come to call Christmas.
I love the December daze which is the last week before Christmas. After all the often painful, joyless, grey, tense, sorrowful waiting of earlier weeks, it has been a delight to participate in events ranging from playing a barmy yokel shepherd in Eastbourne's "Carols Cafe" on Sunday, to singing the part of a king in front of a mixture of indifferent and appreciative Tesco shoppers in Feltham on Monday. It's been a time for celebrating birthdays too: from my own dear younger brother's 44th yesterday, celebrated in both Eastbourne and with delighted surprise in Shoreham, to seeing the delight of a treasured young son of friends turning three on Tuesday and cherishing the un-judgemental friendship and acceptance which he and his young friends and sibling brought to life. But now it's the final countdown.
There's a very different side to this joyful journey story. Down in stowage class, a young woman barely into her teens is about to give birth in the most insanitary, uncomfortable conditions imaginable. Her tradesman husband to be has done his best to make her comfortable, but no room could be found for them in all the comfort zones upstairs. It's an unlikely subject for front page treatment, but tomorrow the real meaning of words becomes true once more. This will be my last posting of my own words before Christmas, but please re-visit on December 25th if you can. Meanwhile, I wish you the most peaceful, joyful and happiest of Christmasses you can have, and God Bless you all.
Saturday, 18 December 2004
Past Four O'Clock
On a cold frosty morning? It's certainly cold as I sit here in the lounge exactly a week before Christmas, but whether it's frosty I really can't say. Frost and snow are something we rarely see here in the salty coastlands of East Sussex, which in some ways is a shame. Somehow it puts you in a proper Christmassy mood when the weather matches the expectations of the meteorological season, even if White Christmasses are about as rare as a penny black stamp. But it really doesn't matter.
The Christmas season is a heady mix of marvel, myth and Magi. The aroma of the spicey Christmas pudding I had last night with an old friend on his traditional pre-Christmas visit to me were as evocative and comforting as the fragrant Frankincense and Myrrh you can even buy on-line if you follow the advertiser link on the carol website linked to my slightly altered title. Well, if they'd had British Standard Time when it was written as we did in the seventies, then it would have been past four rather than three, I guess! Lovely old English words worth pondering though, from a seasonal song not heard often enough.
The enterprising retailer offers free next day delivery, a privilege not available to the wise men, which I guess must be why their journey took two years. Mind you, the way our once proud postal service seems to be going it mightn't be long before it takes just as long for some people's Christmas presence [ sic ] to arrive.
A STAMP OF APPROVAL
When Aunty Beeb helped to keep me from the wolf's door a few years back, one of the many celebrities I had the privilege of meeting regularly was Sussex author Raymond Briggs. He is a lovely man: although I found him a little difficult to get along with at first, I soon got through a frosty exterior and warmed to a man of real depth and life experience beneath. Whether by Freudian design or inspired, timeless and childlike genius I don't know, but he seemed rather like his own interpretation of the most welcome visitor at this time of year among children of all ages, Father Christmas.
Briggs has turned Father Christmas from a jolly red-faced man into a Victor Meldrew clone who most of the year is a grudging curmudgeon, but come Christmas morning has stamped his bootprints on billions of wintery chimney tops and left his junior clientelle untold delights, shiny new toys with all their promise to be lovingly enjoyed and hopefully with the power of a C cell included. Despite his own desire for a quiet life un-hassled by the demands he was born to, cometh the hour, cometh the man. Briggs' Father Christmas is a worthy hero to star alongside Her Majesty this year on countless millions of envelopes as the final postal push and the card kerfuffle reaches its climax. I guess I'd better get writing a few more of mine if I'm to meet today's second class posting deadline!
AND IS IT TRUE?
Is Father Christmas real or merely a creation for longing hearts, some of them little and others, like Bill Kerr's character in a classic Christmas episode of Hancock's Half Hour on BBC7 earlier this week, well into what we laughingly call maturity? I cannot tell. That is for souls uncynicised by the marketing creation which is our modern Santa to decide. No wonder this ancient hero, by whatever name you choose to call him- Kris Kringle, Der Weihnachtsman and so forth- is so rotund if he's been knocking back the soft stuff: sorry to disappoint, but his redness in Anglo-American society is largely to suit the whims of a Coca Cola marketing man in the early twentieth century. In Germany, you'll find he's blue: well, wouldn't you be blue if you spent most of your life with a herd of cantankerous reindeer at one of the coldest spots on Earth?
However, there is an unintended but wonderful symbolism in Father Christmas's red attire which those who want to see only the best in human nature at this time of the year are unlikely to spot. However, according to one legend it is the reason why perhaps the most popular natural inhabitant of Christmas cards, the robin, is such a burst of colour in the depths of winter.
A drop of blood fell from a cross upon a lonely hill, onto the little bird's breast. Red, the colour of blood that coursed through the veins of the infant Jesus as it has through the miracle which is every child and indeed adult since human life began. I'm not too grown up to try to make Blue Peter a 'must see' whenever I can (Blue? Red? Sorry, I'll try not too confuse you too much!)and last night's programme was a seasonal delight. Not only did we get to see something of the wonderful tradition which is the German Christmas market, but we were introduced to young Dexter Todd, the new-born son of my favourite presenter Liz Barker. I'm pleased to say too that like me, he's a Middlesaxon babe, born as he was at the same hospital as my younger brother was 44 years ago come December 23rd, the West Middlesex. Sleeping soundly and without a care in the world in his little red papoose, he was the perfect image for this time of the year, bless him.
But what kind of a world will he grow in to? Every heart hopes it will be a better one with more promise for people of all races and creeds than the one we endure today, a world without the ghoulish threat of terrorism, global greed and unmet need. It all sounds very much like a line from that lovely Johnny Mathis song I heard for the first time this year on Terry Wogan's Radio 2 show yesterday, When A Child is Born - lyrics at http://www.angelfire.com/ca2/cmascorner/Born.htm.
There the similarity ends however. For whereas in Mathis's song this was a child yet to be born, the Christian believes it's already happened: that child has been born, and that's why we can justifiably "keep the feast" with the finest foods and joy and merriment abundant in seven days time! If God himself can choose to walk among us, take on all our joys and sorrows, our wretchedness and our pain, and then to crown it all take even our human awfulness to a shameful cross where he shed the blood of life then surely there is hope. But he did not stay dead. The awful becomes the aweful as the "new birth" which is Easter morning comes to pass in due time because of Christmas Day.
To so many in our society this will just seem a tall story, as hard to believe in as Father Christmas. Like Mr S Claus in many shopping centres this year, sadly, and in cancelled nativity plays and carol services, the argument goes, any reference to Jesus and Christian symbols should be ditched in the name of political correctness and multi-cultural acceptance. But this really is throwing out the baby with the bathwater, as logic and supposed sophisticated thought try to take the place of simple child-like trust by ignoring this universal life story intended for all. Contemporary drama likes to proclaim it is "based on a true story", but why do we so easily reject what a film maker of a more believing age called The Greatest Story Ever Told?
I'm a journalist by inclination if not in fact, rather than a poet, but one of Britain's best-loved and most characteristic poet laureates, Sir John Betjeman, put it all so much better than I can (full poem at http://www.christmas-time.com/cp-christ.html)
And is it true? and is it true?
The most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?
And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant.
No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was Man in Palestine
And lives to-day in Bread and Wine.
The Christmas season is a heady mix of marvel, myth and Magi. The aroma of the spicey Christmas pudding I had last night with an old friend on his traditional pre-Christmas visit to me were as evocative and comforting as the fragrant Frankincense and Myrrh you can even buy on-line if you follow the advertiser link on the carol website linked to my slightly altered title. Well, if they'd had British Standard Time when it was written as we did in the seventies, then it would have been past four rather than three, I guess! Lovely old English words worth pondering though, from a seasonal song not heard often enough.
The enterprising retailer offers free next day delivery, a privilege not available to the wise men, which I guess must be why their journey took two years. Mind you, the way our once proud postal service seems to be going it mightn't be long before it takes just as long for some people's Christmas presence [ sic ] to arrive.
A STAMP OF APPROVAL
When Aunty Beeb helped to keep me from the wolf's door a few years back, one of the many celebrities I had the privilege of meeting regularly was Sussex author Raymond Briggs. He is a lovely man: although I found him a little difficult to get along with at first, I soon got through a frosty exterior and warmed to a man of real depth and life experience beneath. Whether by Freudian design or inspired, timeless and childlike genius I don't know, but he seemed rather like his own interpretation of the most welcome visitor at this time of year among children of all ages, Father Christmas.
Briggs has turned Father Christmas from a jolly red-faced man into a Victor Meldrew clone who most of the year is a grudging curmudgeon, but come Christmas morning has stamped his bootprints on billions of wintery chimney tops and left his junior clientelle untold delights, shiny new toys with all their promise to be lovingly enjoyed and hopefully with the power of a C cell included. Despite his own desire for a quiet life un-hassled by the demands he was born to, cometh the hour, cometh the man. Briggs' Father Christmas is a worthy hero to star alongside Her Majesty this year on countless millions of envelopes as the final postal push and the card kerfuffle reaches its climax. I guess I'd better get writing a few more of mine if I'm to meet today's second class posting deadline!
AND IS IT TRUE?
Is Father Christmas real or merely a creation for longing hearts, some of them little and others, like Bill Kerr's character in a classic Christmas episode of Hancock's Half Hour on BBC7 earlier this week, well into what we laughingly call maturity? I cannot tell. That is for souls uncynicised by the marketing creation which is our modern Santa to decide. No wonder this ancient hero, by whatever name you choose to call him- Kris Kringle, Der Weihnachtsman and so forth- is so rotund if he's been knocking back the soft stuff: sorry to disappoint, but his redness in Anglo-American society is largely to suit the whims of a Coca Cola marketing man in the early twentieth century. In Germany, you'll find he's blue: well, wouldn't you be blue if you spent most of your life with a herd of cantankerous reindeer at one of the coldest spots on Earth?
However, there is an unintended but wonderful symbolism in Father Christmas's red attire which those who want to see only the best in human nature at this time of the year are unlikely to spot. However, according to one legend it is the reason why perhaps the most popular natural inhabitant of Christmas cards, the robin, is such a burst of colour in the depths of winter.
A drop of blood fell from a cross upon a lonely hill, onto the little bird's breast. Red, the colour of blood that coursed through the veins of the infant Jesus as it has through the miracle which is every child and indeed adult since human life began. I'm not too grown up to try to make Blue Peter a 'must see' whenever I can (Blue? Red? Sorry, I'll try not too confuse you too much!)and last night's programme was a seasonal delight. Not only did we get to see something of the wonderful tradition which is the German Christmas market, but we were introduced to young Dexter Todd, the new-born son of my favourite presenter Liz Barker. I'm pleased to say too that like me, he's a Middlesaxon babe, born as he was at the same hospital as my younger brother was 44 years ago come December 23rd, the West Middlesex. Sleeping soundly and without a care in the world in his little red papoose, he was the perfect image for this time of the year, bless him.
But what kind of a world will he grow in to? Every heart hopes it will be a better one with more promise for people of all races and creeds than the one we endure today, a world without the ghoulish threat of terrorism, global greed and unmet need. It all sounds very much like a line from that lovely Johnny Mathis song I heard for the first time this year on Terry Wogan's Radio 2 show yesterday, When A Child is Born - lyrics at http://www.angelfire.com/ca2/cmascorner/Born.htm.
There the similarity ends however. For whereas in Mathis's song this was a child yet to be born, the Christian believes it's already happened: that child has been born, and that's why we can justifiably "keep the feast" with the finest foods and joy and merriment abundant in seven days time! If God himself can choose to walk among us, take on all our joys and sorrows, our wretchedness and our pain, and then to crown it all take even our human awfulness to a shameful cross where he shed the blood of life then surely there is hope. But he did not stay dead. The awful becomes the aweful as the "new birth" which is Easter morning comes to pass in due time because of Christmas Day.
To so many in our society this will just seem a tall story, as hard to believe in as Father Christmas. Like Mr S Claus in many shopping centres this year, sadly, and in cancelled nativity plays and carol services, the argument goes, any reference to Jesus and Christian symbols should be ditched in the name of political correctness and multi-cultural acceptance. But this really is throwing out the baby with the bathwater, as logic and supposed sophisticated thought try to take the place of simple child-like trust by ignoring this universal life story intended for all. Contemporary drama likes to proclaim it is "based on a true story", but why do we so easily reject what a film maker of a more believing age called The Greatest Story Ever Told?
I'm a journalist by inclination if not in fact, rather than a poet, but one of Britain's best-loved and most characteristic poet laureates, Sir John Betjeman, put it all so much better than I can (full poem at http://www.christmas-time.com/cp-christ.html)
And is it true? and is it true?
The most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?
And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant.
No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was Man in Palestine
And lives to-day in Bread and Wine.
Thursday, 16 December 2004
Tidings of Blunkett and Boy
You'll probably need to register to read the full story from the link to The Guardian above, which you'll be brought to if you roll over the title of this post-though you won't be taxed or asked for evidence of identity before you can do so! Unlike Joseph, as around this time nativity plays and carol services re-tell the familiar story of a humble carpenter making the journey to the obscure backwater that was Bethlehem circa 4 B.C, because a decree by the civil power determined he had to return to the town of his birth for a government census.
Joseph knew his lady was with child, which ordinary folk would take to be his, even though he and Mary were not then married. There would be scandal, rumour, public humiliation and even perhaps the loss of his livelihood: all the consequences of not following the proper conventions of public life of his time if word got out of his doings. Joseph when he heard of Mary's pregnancy was even minded to "do the honourable thing" and divorce her quietly- betrothal was tantamount to a "pre-marriage" agreement.
It all rings strangely familiar bells as the Right Honourable Member for Sheffield Brightside now returns to the relative obscurity of the Commons back benches after three years holding one of the highest offices in the land, and rarely being out of the limelight. The 10.00 news on Radio 4 this morning described David Blunkett's departure last night as "dramatic", but this smacks to me a bit of tabloidese as during the last few days it had surely become inevitable. Everyone could see it coming, it was just a matter of timing.
I said in my earlier posting that I did not have much time for David Blunkett the politician, and certainly in his role as Home Secretary he has been one of the most reviled holders of that important office in many a decade. But blind eyes are surely shedding many a genuine tear right now, and mine were too, as the human story of sacrifice and love behind his resignation became poignantly obvious. Blunkett said that it was not the loss of office that saddens him- he is dispensible-but the possibility that he could never hold a little two-year old boy in his arms and play a part in the upbringing of his youngest son- and another child, possibly his, yet to be born to Kimberly Quinn, the other adult party at the centre of the Blunkett saga. As publisher of The Spectator, she is more than a mere onlooker, she has become the lady in the redtops of this story, although most of the tabloids have shown rare restraint towards her as stress threatens her latest pregnancy.
HE HAD TO GO
Even the quality press- since the Independent and Times went "compact" the broadsheet adjective no longer serves alone- were agreed that David Blunkett had become a liability. As far as I know, he holds no great religious beliefs but has held Socialism close to his bosom ever since his star first rose in the North amid the men of steel. But Blunkett like all human leaders has feet of clay, ultimately. My Bible readings these past couple of days have looked at the story of King Nebuchadnezzar, one time ruler of all the Babylonian empire. He had the whole ancient world fawning at his feet, but in a moment he was gone. Only Daniel, faithful Jew through all the trials of his time, dared to tell him the truth. He dreamt of a giant statue, made of all the materials which represented wealth and power at that time-but with feet made of a mixture of iron and fragile clay.
I couldn't help but think while reading this of Saddam Hussein, finally discovered in his bolt hole a year ago this week- can it really be that long already? The media-friendly symbol of the deposition of this dictator was, of course, the huge statue of him outside Baghdad, toppled in the path of the advancing US Army eighteen months ago. But peace has not returned to that land, let alone to the Earth, through any efforts of arms and the man since that time. Iraq this Christmas faces an uncertain future, even if the elections scheduled for January go ahead without trouble, which seems a vain hope. Christians in Iraq in particular still face persecution, hardship, misunderstanding and at worst martyrdom- apparently there have been more Christian martyrs this last century throughout the world than at any time in history.
Martyrs and the persecuted were much in my prayers today- and featured in Radio 4's Daily Service- as indeed were all who hold "authority" on Planet Earth, AD 2004. This included our British sovereign: as I looked into the background to the Blunkett story, I recalled that even the "rock" of the crown I referred to on Saturday, was shaken just before Christmas sixty-eight years ago with the Abdication of Edward the Eighth for the woman he loved on 10th December, 1936. The high offices of state can be hewn in the solidity of history, but the human heart is bound together only by the glue of love, without which all else topples.
AND THE GOVERNMENT SHALL BE UPON HIS SHOULDERS
In other words, no man or woman alone can be relied upon to lead us or guide our future actions-but a little child can! This is the wonderful paradox of the gospel stories.
The schedule of modern life means that the events of the Christmas story are often presented out of their temporal context: Holy Innocents' day falls just after Christmas as perhaps a poignant reminder that so-called mature adults are the only defenders of our vulnerable, helpless young. Herod the king, in his raging - to quote the words of the poignant Coventry Carol- slew all the little children in Bethlehem under two whom he saw as a threat to his "rule"- though in reality he had already been trodden under the feet of Roman imperialism anyway. Some might say there are some bells ringing there of similar power structures in today's world, mentioning no names. Perhaps we ought to send them all to Coventry.
Meanwhile, getting back to the hero of our time-jumping story, Joseph was warned in a dream that he had to go. It's funny how God so often uses the only times he can command our full attention, in our sleeping- to tell us things which are really for our own good. Joseph took his wife Mary and their infant child Jesus away into exile, to Egypt. There they were shielded from the gaze of the sudden unwelcome, mis-reported and misinterpreted publicity that befell them after those remarkable events in Bethlehem occupied all onlookers for so long.
These events too you will find reported differently depending on whose account you read, but believers know there is the vital kernel of truth at their heart, like a Christmas nut waiting to be opened before consumption. The birth of this special boy, long foreseen by the sages and wiseacres of the age much as David Blunkett's downfall has been this autumn, was destined according to scripture to bring the rising and falling of many nations. Yet at the same time and with the paradox which is divine love, He would bring salvation where meek souls would receive him still.
Perhaps now the sorry Blunkett saga is over, we can in these last nine days before Christmas turn our hearts and minds to what really matters in this season of goodwill. Instead of a wounded councillor, as Blunkett now appears, remember the "Wonderful Counsellor, Almighty God, the Everlasting Father- and Prince of Peace" Maybe Isaiah was the Andrew Marr of his day, presciently predicting with divinely inspired prophecy where the reins of power would be held not just in the next six months but for the rest of history. Couple the wise words of centuries-old books with the God-soaked music of George Frederick Handel, one time German immigrant, gifted stranger and herald of harmony, and you start to discover what The Messiah and true compassionate government is all about.
Joseph knew his lady was with child, which ordinary folk would take to be his, even though he and Mary were not then married. There would be scandal, rumour, public humiliation and even perhaps the loss of his livelihood: all the consequences of not following the proper conventions of public life of his time if word got out of his doings. Joseph when he heard of Mary's pregnancy was even minded to "do the honourable thing" and divorce her quietly- betrothal was tantamount to a "pre-marriage" agreement.
It all rings strangely familiar bells as the Right Honourable Member for Sheffield Brightside now returns to the relative obscurity of the Commons back benches after three years holding one of the highest offices in the land, and rarely being out of the limelight. The 10.00 news on Radio 4 this morning described David Blunkett's departure last night as "dramatic", but this smacks to me a bit of tabloidese as during the last few days it had surely become inevitable. Everyone could see it coming, it was just a matter of timing.
I said in my earlier posting that I did not have much time for David Blunkett the politician, and certainly in his role as Home Secretary he has been one of the most reviled holders of that important office in many a decade. But blind eyes are surely shedding many a genuine tear right now, and mine were too, as the human story of sacrifice and love behind his resignation became poignantly obvious. Blunkett said that it was not the loss of office that saddens him- he is dispensible-but the possibility that he could never hold a little two-year old boy in his arms and play a part in the upbringing of his youngest son- and another child, possibly his, yet to be born to Kimberly Quinn, the other adult party at the centre of the Blunkett saga. As publisher of The Spectator, she is more than a mere onlooker, she has become the lady in the redtops of this story, although most of the tabloids have shown rare restraint towards her as stress threatens her latest pregnancy.
HE HAD TO GO
Even the quality press- since the Independent and Times went "compact" the broadsheet adjective no longer serves alone- were agreed that David Blunkett had become a liability. As far as I know, he holds no great religious beliefs but has held Socialism close to his bosom ever since his star first rose in the North amid the men of steel. But Blunkett like all human leaders has feet of clay, ultimately. My Bible readings these past couple of days have looked at the story of King Nebuchadnezzar, one time ruler of all the Babylonian empire. He had the whole ancient world fawning at his feet, but in a moment he was gone. Only Daniel, faithful Jew through all the trials of his time, dared to tell him the truth. He dreamt of a giant statue, made of all the materials which represented wealth and power at that time-but with feet made of a mixture of iron and fragile clay.
I couldn't help but think while reading this of Saddam Hussein, finally discovered in his bolt hole a year ago this week- can it really be that long already? The media-friendly symbol of the deposition of this dictator was, of course, the huge statue of him outside Baghdad, toppled in the path of the advancing US Army eighteen months ago. But peace has not returned to that land, let alone to the Earth, through any efforts of arms and the man since that time. Iraq this Christmas faces an uncertain future, even if the elections scheduled for January go ahead without trouble, which seems a vain hope. Christians in Iraq in particular still face persecution, hardship, misunderstanding and at worst martyrdom- apparently there have been more Christian martyrs this last century throughout the world than at any time in history.
Martyrs and the persecuted were much in my prayers today- and featured in Radio 4's Daily Service- as indeed were all who hold "authority" on Planet Earth, AD 2004. This included our British sovereign: as I looked into the background to the Blunkett story, I recalled that even the "rock" of the crown I referred to on Saturday, was shaken just before Christmas sixty-eight years ago with the Abdication of Edward the Eighth for the woman he loved on 10th December, 1936. The high offices of state can be hewn in the solidity of history, but the human heart is bound together only by the glue of love, without which all else topples.
AND THE GOVERNMENT SHALL BE UPON HIS SHOULDERS
In other words, no man or woman alone can be relied upon to lead us or guide our future actions-but a little child can! This is the wonderful paradox of the gospel stories.
The schedule of modern life means that the events of the Christmas story are often presented out of their temporal context: Holy Innocents' day falls just after Christmas as perhaps a poignant reminder that so-called mature adults are the only defenders of our vulnerable, helpless young. Herod the king, in his raging - to quote the words of the poignant Coventry Carol- slew all the little children in Bethlehem under two whom he saw as a threat to his "rule"- though in reality he had already been trodden under the feet of Roman imperialism anyway. Some might say there are some bells ringing there of similar power structures in today's world, mentioning no names. Perhaps we ought to send them all to Coventry.
Meanwhile, getting back to the hero of our time-jumping story, Joseph was warned in a dream that he had to go. It's funny how God so often uses the only times he can command our full attention, in our sleeping- to tell us things which are really for our own good. Joseph took his wife Mary and their infant child Jesus away into exile, to Egypt. There they were shielded from the gaze of the sudden unwelcome, mis-reported and misinterpreted publicity that befell them after those remarkable events in Bethlehem occupied all onlookers for so long.
These events too you will find reported differently depending on whose account you read, but believers know there is the vital kernel of truth at their heart, like a Christmas nut waiting to be opened before consumption. The birth of this special boy, long foreseen by the sages and wiseacres of the age much as David Blunkett's downfall has been this autumn, was destined according to scripture to bring the rising and falling of many nations. Yet at the same time and with the paradox which is divine love, He would bring salvation where meek souls would receive him still.
Perhaps now the sorry Blunkett saga is over, we can in these last nine days before Christmas turn our hearts and minds to what really matters in this season of goodwill. Instead of a wounded councillor, as Blunkett now appears, remember the "Wonderful Counsellor, Almighty God, the Everlasting Father- and Prince of Peace" Maybe Isaiah was the Andrew Marr of his day, presciently predicting with divinely inspired prophecy where the reins of power would be held not just in the next six months but for the rest of history. Couple the wise words of centuries-old books with the God-soaked music of George Frederick Handel, one time German immigrant, gifted stranger and herald of harmony, and you start to discover what The Messiah and true compassionate government is all about.
Sunday, 12 December 2004
Labour Pains
Round about this time in her pregancy, the Virgin Mary must have been getting very uncomfortable. The Bible doesn't elaborate on the time scale of how long the journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem would have taken, but in times long before the advent of luxury suspension Mercedes ambulances it certainly wouldn't have been an easy journey, whether on foot or even less on a grumpy donkey.
I'd always kind of assumed that the third Sunday in Advent was devoted to Mary's part in the nativity story, but I may be wrong. In any event, today is celebrated in the Roman Catholic tradition as "Gaudete" (pronounced Gow-day-tay) Sunday, which apparently means "Rejoice". Amazing what you can learn from a Radio 4 Sunday Worship; from my limited knowledge of Latin I knew it must have something to do with Christmas, but hitherto I'd always assumed this was just a rather catchy seasonal song by the brilliant Steeleye Span sung in uniquely nasal voices.
Certainly, once you get into the "decades" of December and even more the teens starting tomorrow, then the big day is surely near. It's a time of expectancy and preparation indeed, but it's so sad that in our "must have it now" society, the discipline of waiting gives way to the quick fix of current pleasure that so many crave.
Let's not get precious about it though: on dull winter days like today, when the sun ain't gonna shine any more, the delights of this season crave indulgence to ease the gloom. The Toy and Carol service at my home church here this morning was pure delight, with playthings sure to delight little eyes and disadvantaged kids come the 25th, a marvellously lit tree, the traditional crib and a good old Methodist sing-song. Not to mention a surprisingly large congregation to gladden the heart for Mum and I- so pleased I managed to get her to come.
I see no reason why in what is supposed to be a period of a spiritual "clean up" there should not be room for a little early celebration, particularly on the Lord's Day. The Europeans do this sort of thing so much better than us, and this time last week it was lovely to celebrate an Advent Sunday with some of my faithful friends in the very English setting of Shoreham by Sea. I'm a huge fan of one of Germany's many festive exports, Stollen, and this sugary, spongy delight should bring a little comfort to another cold afternoon later today, but this time in the bosom of my family here in Feltham.
Quick fixes though can also have permanent consequences! For most of December it has been impossible to escape David Blunkett somewhere in the headlines. The Home Secretary has been forced to put his own house in order publicly, as revelations emerged in a certain Sunday scandal sheet of a love affair which has led to a disputed paternity suit over a child now two and known in coverage as "A", while it is claimed he "fast tracked" a visa application with unacceptable favouritism for the child's nanny. I am not this high-ranking politician's biggest fan by any means, but I do find it galling that so much newsprint is being wasted on beying for his blood and meanwhile far more important issues in the world go largely unreported.
It's not been an easy ride for the Labour party these past few weeks either. Quite apart from possible fall-out with Cabinet colleagues over comments in the forthcoming Blunkett biography, with what has been described as rather bizarre ill-timing ahead of an expected election, Her Majesty's government are now proposing to force all civil servants to labour on for another five years before they can collect their pension for their service to the Crown. Even then it is likely to be based on an average of salary rather than the final salary so enjoyed by many pensioners in public or private employment until now. There are sure to be consequences from this quick fix solution to the baby-boomer pensions timebomb, and it is my generation that will be taking the flak whatever the next twenty years or so bring, I fear
WINTER WINDSOR WANDERINGS
In uncertain times, and though governments may come and go, the British crown is supposedly the rock on which our society stands through good and ill. Yesterday, my brother and I took a late afternoon train trip on the line our grandfather had worked for innumerable years to the fine old Berkshire town from which our current monarch takes her family name. I take a certain pride that this ancient borough is but a 20-minute ride away from Feltham, and from Staines onwards the wheels on the track still go clickety clack, which instantly conjures up memories of the boyish pleasure of trains which never dies for most blokes. Whether loco-hauled or EMU-fronted, the London and South Western Railway as it once was has been helping the great and the good and the sheer blooming rich to make this passage for more than a century and a half now. Or at any rate, they would have done before four by fours and Daimler doors took over to provide their transports of delight to the impressive edifice which has stood sentinel over the town for a millennium or more.
The tree outside Windsor castle looks every bit as majestic as it's bigger cousin in the nation's capital in Trafalgar Square. Yet Windsor as a shopping area is a relatively modest place- though bling understandably abounds in a few ghettos of gentrydom and new money. Few of our coppers ended up being spent in the town, though we did very much enjoy the lights in the main shopping street and looking round the familiar high street retailers in search of cards and ideas. For this also has to be the time when the avalanche of cards starts to snow down on letterboxes and pigeonholes throughout the land- yet mine have yet to be written! Maybe I ought to be getting on with that right now rather than blogging on!
TIMETABLE TROUBLES
Talking of the railways though, it's rare for a week to pass by without them being in the news in some way, shape or form. Complaining about our trains is not just a national pastime, it seems almost to be an international one- not for nothing was Mussolini remembered for getting them to run on time (even if according to Stephen Fry this is a myth). But I wonder what my Grand-dad Wallace would make of the huge logistical exercise which is the new national time table coming into force today. Apparently, it is the first wholesale revision of the patterns of service and train paths since the end of steam in 1967. That was back in the good old days when they probably even still had station cats: as our beloved moggy Mrs (Mitzi) cat is now pestering me for her lunch, it's definitely "time" I go, hoping there are no delays due to frozen points on the food tin.
I'd always kind of assumed that the third Sunday in Advent was devoted to Mary's part in the nativity story, but I may be wrong. In any event, today is celebrated in the Roman Catholic tradition as "Gaudete" (pronounced Gow-day-tay) Sunday, which apparently means "Rejoice". Amazing what you can learn from a Radio 4 Sunday Worship; from my limited knowledge of Latin I knew it must have something to do with Christmas, but hitherto I'd always assumed this was just a rather catchy seasonal song by the brilliant Steeleye Span sung in uniquely nasal voices.
Certainly, once you get into the "decades" of December and even more the teens starting tomorrow, then the big day is surely near. It's a time of expectancy and preparation indeed, but it's so sad that in our "must have it now" society, the discipline of waiting gives way to the quick fix of current pleasure that so many crave.
Let's not get precious about it though: on dull winter days like today, when the sun ain't gonna shine any more, the delights of this season crave indulgence to ease the gloom. The Toy and Carol service at my home church here this morning was pure delight, with playthings sure to delight little eyes and disadvantaged kids come the 25th, a marvellously lit tree, the traditional crib and a good old Methodist sing-song. Not to mention a surprisingly large congregation to gladden the heart for Mum and I- so pleased I managed to get her to come.
I see no reason why in what is supposed to be a period of a spiritual "clean up" there should not be room for a little early celebration, particularly on the Lord's Day. The Europeans do this sort of thing so much better than us, and this time last week it was lovely to celebrate an Advent Sunday with some of my faithful friends in the very English setting of Shoreham by Sea. I'm a huge fan of one of Germany's many festive exports, Stollen, and this sugary, spongy delight should bring a little comfort to another cold afternoon later today, but this time in the bosom of my family here in Feltham.
Quick fixes though can also have permanent consequences! For most of December it has been impossible to escape David Blunkett somewhere in the headlines. The Home Secretary has been forced to put his own house in order publicly, as revelations emerged in a certain Sunday scandal sheet of a love affair which has led to a disputed paternity suit over a child now two and known in coverage as "A", while it is claimed he "fast tracked" a visa application with unacceptable favouritism for the child's nanny. I am not this high-ranking politician's biggest fan by any means, but I do find it galling that so much newsprint is being wasted on beying for his blood and meanwhile far more important issues in the world go largely unreported.
It's not been an easy ride for the Labour party these past few weeks either. Quite apart from possible fall-out with Cabinet colleagues over comments in the forthcoming Blunkett biography, with what has been described as rather bizarre ill-timing ahead of an expected election, Her Majesty's government are now proposing to force all civil servants to labour on for another five years before they can collect their pension for their service to the Crown. Even then it is likely to be based on an average of salary rather than the final salary so enjoyed by many pensioners in public or private employment until now. There are sure to be consequences from this quick fix solution to the baby-boomer pensions timebomb, and it is my generation that will be taking the flak whatever the next twenty years or so bring, I fear
WINTER WINDSOR WANDERINGS
In uncertain times, and though governments may come and go, the British crown is supposedly the rock on which our society stands through good and ill. Yesterday, my brother and I took a late afternoon train trip on the line our grandfather had worked for innumerable years to the fine old Berkshire town from which our current monarch takes her family name. I take a certain pride that this ancient borough is but a 20-minute ride away from Feltham, and from Staines onwards the wheels on the track still go clickety clack, which instantly conjures up memories of the boyish pleasure of trains which never dies for most blokes. Whether loco-hauled or EMU-fronted, the London and South Western Railway as it once was has been helping the great and the good and the sheer blooming rich to make this passage for more than a century and a half now. Or at any rate, they would have done before four by fours and Daimler doors took over to provide their transports of delight to the impressive edifice which has stood sentinel over the town for a millennium or more.
The tree outside Windsor castle looks every bit as majestic as it's bigger cousin in the nation's capital in Trafalgar Square. Yet Windsor as a shopping area is a relatively modest place- though bling understandably abounds in a few ghettos of gentrydom and new money. Few of our coppers ended up being spent in the town, though we did very much enjoy the lights in the main shopping street and looking round the familiar high street retailers in search of cards and ideas. For this also has to be the time when the avalanche of cards starts to snow down on letterboxes and pigeonholes throughout the land- yet mine have yet to be written! Maybe I ought to be getting on with that right now rather than blogging on!
TIMETABLE TROUBLES
Talking of the railways though, it's rare for a week to pass by without them being in the news in some way, shape or form. Complaining about our trains is not just a national pastime, it seems almost to be an international one- not for nothing was Mussolini remembered for getting them to run on time (even if according to Stephen Fry this is a myth). But I wonder what my Grand-dad Wallace would make of the huge logistical exercise which is the new national time table coming into force today. Apparently, it is the first wholesale revision of the patterns of service and train paths since the end of steam in 1967. That was back in the good old days when they probably even still had station cats: as our beloved moggy Mrs (Mitzi) cat is now pestering me for her lunch, it's definitely "time" I go, hoping there are no delays due to frozen points on the food tin.
Sunday, 5 December 2004
I'm A Casualty, Get Me Dancing Out of Here!
Dulux tops ratings again: emulsioned wall new star of prime time TV: gloss spin-offs promised. Critics say it is the finest performance they have ever seen-watching paint dry has never been so exciting!
Well thankfully, the topics in Media Guardian Unlimited, of which I am a keen daily on-line reader, have not quite descended to this level, but it can't be long, I fear. This last fortnight has seen more shameless saturation by the new breed of money-grabbers at ITV plc with the phenomenon which is "I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here". The proverbial wild horses would not normally get me to watch such drivel, and yet millions still do it seems. Goodness knows why, but it's a ratings banker though I think it's plain bonkers.
However, tonight by circumstances more bizarre than anything seen in reality TV, I effectively had to endure the eye candy of a late night episode of IAC,GMOOH in surroundings I would normally have less desire to be in than an Australian jungle. After enjoying a great afternoon visit from my Mum and brother, down for the day from Feltham, they were both about to leave after an enjoyable and dramatic episode of Casualty, the Beeb's own ratings banker for 18 years now, and guaranteed to garner the viewers of a Saturday evening whatever the antics the other lot dare to trot out.
STRICTLY DUMB PRANCING
Trotting is maybe an appropriate choice of phrase, as our other favourite viewing had been the semi-final of Strictly Come Dancing, the surprise hit of 2004 for the corporation. My heading for this paragraph is my nickname for it, but it's not appropriate really as it's a far from dumb show and actually enormously enjoyable. This is the kind of reality TV I DO like. These celebrities have all shown genuine commitment and a real growth in their dancing abilities since the show started over two months ago, and have provided the best "must see" family viewing for nearly a decade. Everyone has their favourite, and I'm still rooting for Denise Lewis, former Olympic heptathlete, as I have since day one. She's a lovely mover! However, it is hard to choose: equally fine performances tonight were put in by the quaintly-named East Enders star Jill Halfpenny (pronounced Half rather than Hay- I think), the more camp than Butlins Julian Clary, and the eternally Snowman-bound Aled Jones.
On tonight's performances, my view was that surely Julian would go out, as indeed it was of all the show judges. And yet, the viewers thought differently: much to my amazement and disappointment Aled was ditched so does not make it to the final. I think my brother Matthew's theory that it is all a fix may have something to it: Aled currently has a punishing schedule with a concert tour also taking place at the moment, and I can't help feeling that, secretly at least, he couldn't face another week of hitting the high notes one minute and the high kicks the next. So we're left with just three next week's final from Blackpool-but my money is still on Denise!
TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION
Anyway, after the results came Casualty, with a story which was a mixture of humour and pathos and yet assumedly, until now, bearing some relation to reality. New paramedic fails to show; department overwhelmed by work as American paediatric reg. is forced to return to US (no doubt for a guest spot in ER!). 14-year old girl bought in, condition rapidly deteriorates and found to be suffering from toxic shock syndrome bought on by old wive's tale surrounding "precautions".
Meanwhile, Sid Abbot's wife from the still fondly-remembered "Bless This House", played by the ever lovely Diana Coupland, turns out to be a desperate ailurophile (cat lover) who by smuggling in an orphaned kitten from Spain risks rabies and fears felonious consequences. Popular male psychiatric nurse plans marriage of convenience to scheming Eastern European nurse (to give her residency entitlement), much to the chagrin of her sister. Widowed bigamous wife of popular murdered paramedic discovers beloved husband's love child supported by monthly money transfer from their joint account, leading to "real" wife demanding her rights to his flat and thus rendering Comfort, the innocent party, homeless.
Finally, errant para-medic discovered locked in kinky sauna romp by married love interest and passes out after being rescued by his new colleagues, we later discover. Leads to severe ticking off for frivolous behaviour from paramedic boss Josh before it emerges that said rooky paramedic's Mum is Josh's former love interest and also an NHS staffer herself.
All in a day's work for the tireless staff of Holby City Hospital's Emergency Department, it seems. One of their biggest problems though seems to be that their hospitals is suffering from land-creep. Starting off in Bristol, the accents now clearly seem to be mainly South Waleian. Did someone shift the Severn (or the Wyvern in the case of the fictional series) without telling us? The end credits too always proudly show the contribution of the Wiltshire ambulance service and medical advisers, but in reality I suspect there was more like a month's worth of "action" in a real Emergency Unit than appeared in one day's storyline tonight- as we were to discover less than half an hour later with delicious though unwelcome irony.
It's sad to see my dear Mum so frail and struggling with her mobility these days, although she is nearly eighty. However, she still has so much to give and I believe if she could only get her confidence back, she could enjoy life so much more despite several troubles in recent years. Tonight, another one presented itself, but proved mercifully brief and as I type it would seem that no lasting damage has been done. Mum fell over in my bathroom and cut her head; when Matthew and I noticed blood behind her, we knew the only sensible thing to do would be to call an ambulance. This arrived fairly quickly, and the ambulance men did their stuff, and despite some mishaps got Mum to the DGH in King's Drive very quickly.
I half expected to see the veteran head of nursing of Cas, Charlie Fairhead, making a triumphant appearance in Eastbourne, but the reality was rather more down to earth but just as impressive and even more abundantly caring than any dramatic scenario on a TV plotline. Mum was taken excellent care of, given a good checking over, and had three stitches when it emerged that medical "Superglue" would not be sufficient to repair this particular wound. I never knew such stuff existed til watching a similar procedure done on a forehead wound on "Cas" tonight- though as Mum was being prepared, I remembered that the famous salvers of Germolene also used to make something called "liquid skin" which did a similar job.
Although we were at the hospital for four hours, this was certainly not idle waiting time for the patient patient. She had an ECG, a blood test, the usual checks and an infection and anti-biotic cure all sorted by the superb team of nurses and doctors, most notably "Jill", who do this day after day for not nearly enough reward still, I suspect. The NHS is so much-maligned, and so often with negative effect but unjustly so. OK, so we did spend time standing around the cubicles, punctuated by sitting in the waiting area where the torture of ...Celebrity... was playing unloved on the screen, hardly surprising considering the utter drivel being largely bleeped or hidden from view for legal reasons. Nevertheless, everything was handled in a thoroughly efficient, professional, thorough manner. Though I hope never to have cause to visit this department again, it is of course for the best of reasons! After the 21st-century Nightingales had done their stuff, Mum was patched up and chauffeured back to Feltham by my dear sibling, but not before we gave her a look at the lights that she would have had around 9.30 had things gone as they should.
So, all's well that ends well. Maybe life and drama are not so very far apart after all. However, you wouldn't catch me scraping around for Bush Tucker, so back to my very welcome early morning linctus of Old Speckled Hen bitter. Now that's one real-aleity celebrity I'm happy to drink at any hour, and I hope it will send me off to a long overdue slumber as soon as I know Mum and Matthew are safely back to base.
LET ME ENTERTAIN YOU
I nearly forgot to mention the main attraction in Eastbourne today which prompted Matthew's visit. It wasn't in the first instance my mince pies, or my cooking, or the desire to welcome my kith and kin on one of their rare trips to the Sussex Seaside. It was Eastbourne's Christmas Magic, an event organised by a partnership of town and pound each year-council and traders- to add a little extra to the Christmas shopping proceedings. I've already mentioned that the lights this year are not bad, but it's a pity a little more light was not thrown on the stage which saw an upright feline, a Lord Mayor in waiting and a cook in drag introduce a brilliant firework climax this evening, which both Matthew and I walked down to Sussex Gardens to watch.
The assorted personnel mentioned above were actually a selection of the cast from Dick Whittington and his Cat (of course), this year's main attraction pantomime here. Enjoyable though the fireworks definitely were-very cleverly mixing the Celtic charms of Clannad, for instance, with green rockets, I felt that the pre-show build up left a lot to be desired. So, it would seem, did many others, as the crowds in the town centre were not nearly as numerous as I had imagined they would be. Nevertheless, it was an enjoyable diversion-as was a pint of the newly-discovered Harveys IPA in the Terminus pub. Oh dear, there I go mentioning beer again, though not the Brakspears for which I am infamous. With the traditional three-ring signal from Matt now assuring me of safe homecoming, I think for me it is time for safe bedcoming, perchance to dream.
Well thankfully, the topics in Media Guardian Unlimited, of which I am a keen daily on-line reader, have not quite descended to this level, but it can't be long, I fear. This last fortnight has seen more shameless saturation by the new breed of money-grabbers at ITV plc with the phenomenon which is "I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here". The proverbial wild horses would not normally get me to watch such drivel, and yet millions still do it seems. Goodness knows why, but it's a ratings banker though I think it's plain bonkers.
However, tonight by circumstances more bizarre than anything seen in reality TV, I effectively had to endure the eye candy of a late night episode of IAC,GMOOH in surroundings I would normally have less desire to be in than an Australian jungle. After enjoying a great afternoon visit from my Mum and brother, down for the day from Feltham, they were both about to leave after an enjoyable and dramatic episode of Casualty, the Beeb's own ratings banker for 18 years now, and guaranteed to garner the viewers of a Saturday evening whatever the antics the other lot dare to trot out.
STRICTLY DUMB PRANCING
Trotting is maybe an appropriate choice of phrase, as our other favourite viewing had been the semi-final of Strictly Come Dancing, the surprise hit of 2004 for the corporation. My heading for this paragraph is my nickname for it, but it's not appropriate really as it's a far from dumb show and actually enormously enjoyable. This is the kind of reality TV I DO like. These celebrities have all shown genuine commitment and a real growth in their dancing abilities since the show started over two months ago, and have provided the best "must see" family viewing for nearly a decade. Everyone has their favourite, and I'm still rooting for Denise Lewis, former Olympic heptathlete, as I have since day one. She's a lovely mover! However, it is hard to choose: equally fine performances tonight were put in by the quaintly-named East Enders star Jill Halfpenny (pronounced Half rather than Hay- I think), the more camp than Butlins Julian Clary, and the eternally Snowman-bound Aled Jones.
On tonight's performances, my view was that surely Julian would go out, as indeed it was of all the show judges. And yet, the viewers thought differently: much to my amazement and disappointment Aled was ditched so does not make it to the final. I think my brother Matthew's theory that it is all a fix may have something to it: Aled currently has a punishing schedule with a concert tour also taking place at the moment, and I can't help feeling that, secretly at least, he couldn't face another week of hitting the high notes one minute and the high kicks the next. So we're left with just three next week's final from Blackpool-but my money is still on Denise!
TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION
Anyway, after the results came Casualty, with a story which was a mixture of humour and pathos and yet assumedly, until now, bearing some relation to reality. New paramedic fails to show; department overwhelmed by work as American paediatric reg. is forced to return to US (no doubt for a guest spot in ER!). 14-year old girl bought in, condition rapidly deteriorates and found to be suffering from toxic shock syndrome bought on by old wive's tale surrounding "precautions".
Meanwhile, Sid Abbot's wife from the still fondly-remembered "Bless This House", played by the ever lovely Diana Coupland, turns out to be a desperate ailurophile (cat lover) who by smuggling in an orphaned kitten from Spain risks rabies and fears felonious consequences. Popular male psychiatric nurse plans marriage of convenience to scheming Eastern European nurse (to give her residency entitlement), much to the chagrin of her sister. Widowed bigamous wife of popular murdered paramedic discovers beloved husband's love child supported by monthly money transfer from their joint account, leading to "real" wife demanding her rights to his flat and thus rendering Comfort, the innocent party, homeless.
Finally, errant para-medic discovered locked in kinky sauna romp by married love interest and passes out after being rescued by his new colleagues, we later discover. Leads to severe ticking off for frivolous behaviour from paramedic boss Josh before it emerges that said rooky paramedic's Mum is Josh's former love interest and also an NHS staffer herself.
All in a day's work for the tireless staff of Holby City Hospital's Emergency Department, it seems. One of their biggest problems though seems to be that their hospitals is suffering from land-creep. Starting off in Bristol, the accents now clearly seem to be mainly South Waleian. Did someone shift the Severn (or the Wyvern in the case of the fictional series) without telling us? The end credits too always proudly show the contribution of the Wiltshire ambulance service and medical advisers, but in reality I suspect there was more like a month's worth of "action" in a real Emergency Unit than appeared in one day's storyline tonight- as we were to discover less than half an hour later with delicious though unwelcome irony.
It's sad to see my dear Mum so frail and struggling with her mobility these days, although she is nearly eighty. However, she still has so much to give and I believe if she could only get her confidence back, she could enjoy life so much more despite several troubles in recent years. Tonight, another one presented itself, but proved mercifully brief and as I type it would seem that no lasting damage has been done. Mum fell over in my bathroom and cut her head; when Matthew and I noticed blood behind her, we knew the only sensible thing to do would be to call an ambulance. This arrived fairly quickly, and the ambulance men did their stuff, and despite some mishaps got Mum to the DGH in King's Drive very quickly.
I half expected to see the veteran head of nursing of Cas, Charlie Fairhead, making a triumphant appearance in Eastbourne, but the reality was rather more down to earth but just as impressive and even more abundantly caring than any dramatic scenario on a TV plotline. Mum was taken excellent care of, given a good checking over, and had three stitches when it emerged that medical "Superglue" would not be sufficient to repair this particular wound. I never knew such stuff existed til watching a similar procedure done on a forehead wound on "Cas" tonight- though as Mum was being prepared, I remembered that the famous salvers of Germolene also used to make something called "liquid skin" which did a similar job.
Although we were at the hospital for four hours, this was certainly not idle waiting time for the patient patient. She had an ECG, a blood test, the usual checks and an infection and anti-biotic cure all sorted by the superb team of nurses and doctors, most notably "Jill", who do this day after day for not nearly enough reward still, I suspect. The NHS is so much-maligned, and so often with negative effect but unjustly so. OK, so we did spend time standing around the cubicles, punctuated by sitting in the waiting area where the torture of ...Celebrity... was playing unloved on the screen, hardly surprising considering the utter drivel being largely bleeped or hidden from view for legal reasons. Nevertheless, everything was handled in a thoroughly efficient, professional, thorough manner. Though I hope never to have cause to visit this department again, it is of course for the best of reasons! After the 21st-century Nightingales had done their stuff, Mum was patched up and chauffeured back to Feltham by my dear sibling, but not before we gave her a look at the lights that she would have had around 9.30 had things gone as they should.
So, all's well that ends well. Maybe life and drama are not so very far apart after all. However, you wouldn't catch me scraping around for Bush Tucker, so back to my very welcome early morning linctus of Old Speckled Hen bitter. Now that's one real-aleity celebrity I'm happy to drink at any hour, and I hope it will send me off to a long overdue slumber as soon as I know Mum and Matthew are safely back to base.
LET ME ENTERTAIN YOU
I nearly forgot to mention the main attraction in Eastbourne today which prompted Matthew's visit. It wasn't in the first instance my mince pies, or my cooking, or the desire to welcome my kith and kin on one of their rare trips to the Sussex Seaside. It was Eastbourne's Christmas Magic, an event organised by a partnership of town and pound each year-council and traders- to add a little extra to the Christmas shopping proceedings. I've already mentioned that the lights this year are not bad, but it's a pity a little more light was not thrown on the stage which saw an upright feline, a Lord Mayor in waiting and a cook in drag introduce a brilliant firework climax this evening, which both Matthew and I walked down to Sussex Gardens to watch.
The assorted personnel mentioned above were actually a selection of the cast from Dick Whittington and his Cat (of course), this year's main attraction pantomime here. Enjoyable though the fireworks definitely were-very cleverly mixing the Celtic charms of Clannad, for instance, with green rockets, I felt that the pre-show build up left a lot to be desired. So, it would seem, did many others, as the crowds in the town centre were not nearly as numerous as I had imagined they would be. Nevertheless, it was an enjoyable diversion-as was a pint of the newly-discovered Harveys IPA in the Terminus pub. Oh dear, there I go mentioning beer again, though not the Brakspears for which I am infamous. With the traditional three-ring signal from Matt now assuring me of safe homecoming, I think for me it is time for safe bedcoming, perchance to dream.
Friday, 3 December 2004
The Sound of Silence
Absolute silence is such a rare phenomenon in today's society that to encounter it can be somewhat un-nerving. I awoke this morning to a rather emotional episode of the World Service soap Westway, and then decided to turn the radio off for a bit, as Classic FM was playing some rather doleful chamber music of which I not a fan. This exposed me to the silence.
Nothing. No cars (this is Eastbourne, after all!), no humming of fridges, transformers, slamming car doors. Not even the nightclubbers one might expect to be straggling by at this time on a Friday morning, especially with the festive season starting. No crying child downstairs, no floorboard-creaking feet upstairs. All I could hear was what I have always assumed to be the flow of blood near my eardrums- not even the thump of a lumpy mattress spring as I lay still.
You would think that such silence is very relaxing, especially in the stillness and darkness of night. Yet it's incredibly difficult to "be" still, to shut oneself off to all thoughts and imaginings and mental action. We get so used to constant sensual occupation that it's rather like a standby button which can never be turned off-the power and the energy are still flowing.
I tried to think of things spiritual, to turn my inner voice of silence to God and to thinking on "whatever is pure, whatever is noble, whatever is true" etc. To voice my prayers would be intrusive, but to stay silent too was, paradoxically, distracting. And so I return to the whirr of a quietfan, the click of a computer keyboard and here I am again with one of my night owl blog postings.
Of course, 'hearing' this Sound of Silence, I couldn't help but think of this classic Paul Simon song, and wanted to check out the full lyrics. The link above actually takes you to his harmonic helpmate Mr Garfunkel's site, but interestingly you'll also find it at www.paulsimon.com.
As I type, the Silence is being gently punctured by the wasp-like drone of a light aircraft at altitude: what can they possibly be doing over Eastbourne at this unearthly hour of a December night. Are we being watched? In so many other aspects of life we are these days, and probably heard too though I am not about to be carted off by the men in white coats for hearing voices! But it just goes to show the paradox of silence which is so masterfully conveyed in the oxymoronic title of Mr Simon's 1964 composition which, like my sleeplessness, began at 3 a.m.
A MIDNIGHT CLEAR
Reader, look at the lyrics and take them to heart. As I enjoyed/endured my silence, I thought "only 22 days to Christmas". How much hustle and bustle will threaten to drown out "the silence of eternity" as we roll down that hill to the mid-point of history and the end of another year. The angelic voices and heavenly harmonies kissing our timpanum are part of the special "magic" of the Christmas season, even if the reality of Christ's birth was that it was unlikely to have occurred at night and not a winter's night at that. The "Neon Lights" can be beautiful to look at; one of the few American traditions I approve of is the massed ranks of polychrome twinkles that are appearing in houses and gardens around this time and have been in shops for months.
But let us never let the ephemeral beauty of the sounds and lights of Christmas ever dazzle us, like oncoming headlights and a noisy car horn, from focussing on what really matters. Let us clear our minds and our senses and focus on our inner selves and our outer world, and put our minds as best we can to bettering both. As we do that, we will start to understand the excitement and anticipation of the Advent prophets and man at war with man will truly hear the love song which E H Sears so wonderfully and poetically conveys in his classic hymn ( It Came Upon the Midnight Clear.) Oh hush the noise, ye men of strife, and hear the angels sing!
Nothing. No cars (this is Eastbourne, after all!), no humming of fridges, transformers, slamming car doors. Not even the nightclubbers one might expect to be straggling by at this time on a Friday morning, especially with the festive season starting. No crying child downstairs, no floorboard-creaking feet upstairs. All I could hear was what I have always assumed to be the flow of blood near my eardrums- not even the thump of a lumpy mattress spring as I lay still.
You would think that such silence is very relaxing, especially in the stillness and darkness of night. Yet it's incredibly difficult to "be" still, to shut oneself off to all thoughts and imaginings and mental action. We get so used to constant sensual occupation that it's rather like a standby button which can never be turned off-the power and the energy are still flowing.
I tried to think of things spiritual, to turn my inner voice of silence to God and to thinking on "whatever is pure, whatever is noble, whatever is true" etc. To voice my prayers would be intrusive, but to stay silent too was, paradoxically, distracting. And so I return to the whirr of a quietfan, the click of a computer keyboard and here I am again with one of my night owl blog postings.
Of course, 'hearing' this Sound of Silence, I couldn't help but think of this classic Paul Simon song, and wanted to check out the full lyrics. The link above actually takes you to his harmonic helpmate Mr Garfunkel's site, but interestingly you'll also find it at www.paulsimon.com.
As I type, the Silence is being gently punctured by the wasp-like drone of a light aircraft at altitude: what can they possibly be doing over Eastbourne at this unearthly hour of a December night. Are we being watched? In so many other aspects of life we are these days, and probably heard too though I am not about to be carted off by the men in white coats for hearing voices! But it just goes to show the paradox of silence which is so masterfully conveyed in the oxymoronic title of Mr Simon's 1964 composition which, like my sleeplessness, began at 3 a.m.
A MIDNIGHT CLEAR
Reader, look at the lyrics and take them to heart. As I enjoyed/endured my silence, I thought "only 22 days to Christmas". How much hustle and bustle will threaten to drown out "the silence of eternity" as we roll down that hill to the mid-point of history and the end of another year. The angelic voices and heavenly harmonies kissing our timpanum are part of the special "magic" of the Christmas season, even if the reality of Christ's birth was that it was unlikely to have occurred at night and not a winter's night at that. The "Neon Lights" can be beautiful to look at; one of the few American traditions I approve of is the massed ranks of polychrome twinkles that are appearing in houses and gardens around this time and have been in shops for months.
But let us never let the ephemeral beauty of the sounds and lights of Christmas ever dazzle us, like oncoming headlights and a noisy car horn, from focussing on what really matters. Let us clear our minds and our senses and focus on our inner selves and our outer world, and put our minds as best we can to bettering both. As we do that, we will start to understand the excitement and anticipation of the Advent prophets and man at war with man will truly hear the love song which E H Sears so wonderfully and poetically conveys in his classic hymn ( It Came Upon the Midnight Clear.) Oh hush the noise, ye men of strife, and hear the angels sing!
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