Or should it be "The Spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak"? I may have had some aspirations to work in the world of publishing, but I'd probably be bankrupt by now if my publication dates for a hard copy magazine were as erratic as these "regular ramblings"! I'm sorry if you've visited here at all since reading my last entry ten days ago, expecting something more, but it's only on this Bank Holiday Monday afternoon that I have managed to get round to doing it: a busy but enjoyable few days have been spent flitting between Feltham, the capital and the coast which I may well touch upon in this latest helping of Savagian prose or in the near future. Oh, I've had the inspiration to write, all right, and even the quirky titles- but my mind and body have just not quite managed to connect with the keyboard long enough to get my thoughts down in print and committed to the blogosphere.
Never mind, here we are now and I hope you find today's read interesting. To my surprise and delight, I know that readers of this blog are coming from the most unlikely of web searches and from all corners of the globe. I guess there's a vain self-publisher in all of us, really, residing in the same part of the brain where that book that is supposedly inside everyone is supposed to dwell. Adding the site meter to this page a few months ago has been very enlightening and encouraging, particularly when I see the length of time some of you are spending on this site. Fair swells one with pride it does!
On the other hand, you may find my waffly ways just a bit too prosaic and it may have you instead reaching for the Prozac, though I certainly hope not. Coming back to the title at the head of this posting, I don't know whether I should feel proud or ashamed that some 21 thousand words have already appeared here through Google's good offices since a modest beginning on that memorable Saturday morning last August when Great Britain carried home another record gold medal in the coxless fours in Athens (that posting was entitled "Matthew Row the Boat Ashore"). Incidentally, the awesome previous performance at Athens was re-created this weekend at the international rowing regatta not a million miles from here at Dorney Lake, near Windsor. I'm rather ashamed to admit though, I don't even know who won! I guess perhaps I am being rather too much of a "dry bob"- the Eton College term for non-rowers, though in fact I'd love to be messing about on the water even though I'm useless with an oar between my fingers and thumbs.
The beauty of blogs though is that there are no rules, apart obviously from the usual ones of the law and good taste. I hope nobody ever feels I have offended against the latter as it would be the last thing I would ever wish to do. There is more than enough of that about in the dross that passes for entertainment on British TV screens these days. Maybe you will have guessed from that, I shall NOT be glued to the bedbound antics of the Housemates in Big Brother VI, which has just started on Channel 4. What is the world coming to, indeed, when a Crazy Frog, genitalia covered by a fig leaf on the orders of the Advertising Standards Authority, tops the singles/ringles charts with what many regard as the most irritating sound ever to make it onto a CD? Surely there are far more important issues for our troubled world to be dealing with right now, as the future of the "European project" is thrown into chaos by the informed democratic decisions of some other amphibiously-linked citizens the other side of the channel. Vive la France, Vive la difference?
Meanwhile, for those unable to muster enough money for a square meal, let alone an emetic ringtone, the hope has to be that as the summit of the world's political heavyweights on these shores draws ever closer, and "Saint" Bob Geldof attempts to garner the true great and the good of the music world for Live8 (very good!) twenty years after that astounding July megamoney, charitychampion event which was Live Aid took place, we really can see poverty made history.
Well, we can have our ideals, but even Jesus knew that some ideals will never become reality while they rely on greedy, selfish humans. Sorry, Sir Bob, but "the poor you will always have with you".
HOORAY FOR HOLIDAYS
However, I guess I should not be too much of a killjoy, because that is the very opposite of the kind of guy I am. Indeed, these last few days I've had a great time enjoying some of the numerous events that provide great entertainment in what passes for an English summer, while still remembering the most important person in my life- in any life- who literally inspires me, breathes into me. Jesus Christ was the friend of sinners, but boy did he know how to have a great time and enjoy good grub! His first recorded miracle, in the gospel of St John chapter 2 was to turn water into wine at a wedding feast, while among his last appearances to his friends was the charmingly down to earth breakfast of bread and fish beside a lake in Palestine.
I suppose you could say that last appearance was the great Bank Holiday picnic to trump them all. Today's holiday, which I know in the US honours veterans of many a conflict, is here in England and Wales now known by the rather uninspiring title of "Late Spring Bank Holiday". However, those of us of a certain vintage will still call it Whitsun, because it was originally the Holy Day to celebrate the feast of Pentecost, or "Whit/White Sunday" in recognition of the new converts baptised in white garments on that day both in Biblical times and in the later church. Although it is a sad bone of contention in some sections of the church, undoubtedly those events changed the world forever and should still be restoring us and re-creating the world today. This is where we can truly make history.
Pentecost was Jesus delivering on a promise- that he would not leave or forsake his loyal followers, or indeed anyone who would believe in him, even though they saw his face and touched his body no more. Instead, here was the church freed up to serve all mankind, whether Jew or Gentile, slave or free, Oriental or Occidental, Turkish or English, Greek or Roman. Even in our secular age, our European brothers and sisters- with the exception of France this year, which perhaps contributed to yesterday's shock referendum verdict- will still have celebrated this great feast a fortnight ago, and long may they continue to do so. I'd rather have the spirit of love, joy and peace within me to enjoy, than a spirit of cynicism any day!
OPEN HEART SURGERY
Twenty years ago this month, and indeed as I recall on another Pentecost weekend, I knelt at the simple altar in my home church here in Feltham, and confirmed before God, clergy and congregation, my belief that I am a wretched sinner saved only by His grace and the awesome sacrfice made by Christ on the cross. I've made many mistakes in my life, and the older I get the more I recognise them rather too late, but this was definitely not one of them! Through his free gift of faith, making the simple decision to follow Christ without doubt was the most joyful, life-changing thing I have ever done. I know that I can trust in him, and him alone, for "salvation" and "life in all its fulness". Christian Barnaard may have given a renewed lease of life to many cardiac patients nearly forty years ago, but only Jesus can offer a life transplant. Alleluia for that! A hole in the heart is replaced by a heart "strangely warmed".
I used double quotes at the end of that last sentence, for I am quoting from the words of one of my spiritual heroes, who has been much in mind this last week and which inspired my main posting title today. Last Tuesday, marked a day of great celebration for all "the people called Methodists" worldwide: it was "Wesley Day". This commemorates the same date in 1738 (though pedants will point out that the subsequent calendar change should, strictly, change the date of its observation), when John Wesley was converted, and a movement which many believe saved Great Britain from the political revolutions which swept Europe and North America in the late eighteenth century was set alight. However long I blog on, I don't think I will ever compete in stature with such memorable words as these in his journal for that day:
"In the evening I went very unwillingly to a society in Aldersgate Street, where one [ i.e the preacher] was reading Luther's Preface to the Epistle to the Romans. About a quarter before nine, while he was describing the change which God works in the heart through faith in Christ, Christ alone for salvation. and an assurance was given me that He had taken away my sins, even mine, and saved me from the law of sin and death!"
Elsewhere, Wesley had remarked that he felt his heart "strangely warmed", and no wonder! Like his younger brother Charles, writer of an unknown number of timeless hymns which are nuggets of sublime theology, he had discovered that burning reality of Christian faith that actually however wretched our lives and our world, it can be changed. Perhaps in a year when politicians prattle on about "respect" in one form or another and "celebrities" of all shapes and sizes attempt to bring a new world order about, the real "author of peace and lover of concord" - nothing to do with Anglo-French aviation projects gone the way of all steel here- it' way past time to devote more attention to the humblest celebrity of all who is the only one who will really change things forever. It's time to Make Unbelief History!
Happy the man whose hopes rely
on Israel's God: he made the sky,
and earth, and seas, with all their train;
his truth for ever stands secure,
he saves th'oppressed, he feeds the poor,
and none shall find his promise vain.
At which point, I'm off out to practice a little bit of local charity- at a village fete in East Bedfont, near the famous topiary peacocks of St Mary's church which some believe were first cut to prick the vain pomposity and worldly thinking of those entering the church. Proud as a peacock, maybe, but pride cometh before a fall. Nevertheless, whatever you are up to this Whitsun week, happy holiday- and I am sure I will be back here again soon. If you're you're a new reader, welcome. If you're one of my regulars, whether in Adelaide or Tucson, Germany or Glastonbury, may the Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and give you peace. Amen!
Monday, 30 May 2005
Friday, 20 May 2005
The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore
Dreadful grammar, classic Neil Diamond song particularly in the original version by The Walker Brothers. Not a manufacturer of potato crisps, nor of a famous scotch whiskey, but the jokey nickname ascribed to two of my friends who though sharing the same surname are unrelated. John and Philip are they, and the first coining of this particular name-pairing was many years ago at an old rectory in Warwickshire, where they were mistaken as siblings while staying with another mutual friend at a bed and breakfast there- while I opted for the rather cheaper option of my cousin's spare room in the county town.
The occasion of this trip to Shakespeare's county was not a bardic pilgrimage to nearby Stratford-on-Avon, but the shared blessing of the famous Stoneleigh Bible Week at the huge National Agricultural Centre twixt Coventry, Warwick and Leamington Spa. For a decade, these were the highlight of the summer for around thirty thousand Christians from all over the world, attending to share in vibrant, joyful worship and listen to often dynamic, sometimes life-changing but always helpful preaching and teaching from many of the big names on the "charismatic scene", including the founder of Newfrontiers (or New Frontiers International as it was then known), Terry Virgo. Many would even claim with fervent belief- and who am I to doubt them- that by God's amazing grace, they were !healed at Stoneleigh. Books, music and testimonies still bear witness to the power of God working in them at these significant occasions in the life of the late twentieth century church.
The fact that enjoying such wonderful Christian fellowship for six days also meant enduring floods, heatstroke, the pungent aroma of cowpats from the recently vacated cattle sheds where meetings were held, and a long queue for early morning showers while camping, never seemed to put many of these happy, clappy souls off. However, with a couple of exceptions I and my friends much preferred our home comforts and a decent cooked breakfast before launching into the satisfying spiritual and physical exercise of the day ahead.
Many friendships were no doubt forged at Stoneleigh, many happy times remembered, many the seed of spiritual growth planted in hungry, holy hearts. But life is about endings and beginnings, change and growth, no less for the Christian than for any other soul. The Bible Weeks are no more-though some might think this owed more to a massive hike in site fees by the Royal Agricultural Society around the turn of the century than any wider move of the Holy Spirit. Nevertheless, that same Holy Spirit lights a fire which can appear spontaneously, marvellously and spectacularly even when the sun isn't shining, whether you're in a cow shed or comfy bed.
You wouldn't know it in most churches in Britain today, but this has been the week when Christian believers say "Happy Birthday to Us"! Pentecost, celebrated last Sunday but originally observed fifty days after the Jewish passover, is generally recognised as when the church came into being, when the promised "comforter, advocate, helper", depending on your translation of the Greek paraclete came down from Heaven to birth and a movement which would move and shake the world for ever was born. When people start hearing and comprehending in their own language words audibly spoken in a dialectical form otherwise quite alien to them, something quite remarkable and surely of God is going on. What Babelfish and Alta Vista among others still sometimes hilariously fail to do in the 21st Century, the Holy Spirit of God could accomplish effortlessly in one memorable gathering in 1st century Jerusalem. People could hear and understand the very word of God in their own tongue, whatever it might be- but the paradox is that such a divine occurrence almost defied description. Even the learned Dr Luke, saint as he is to us now, struggled to give full expression to the mystery and wonder of this fabulous event in his account of the happenings in the second chapter of the book of Acts. Simile and metaphor instead came into their own, as talk of tongues of fire, rushing winds and descending doves excite the imagination of the modern reader and filled the hearts of the Jerusalem hearers.
This was the party to end all parties, bringing the best present of all to the ecclesia and new life to the assembled believers and astounded observers from every corner of the ancient world. What a pity then that modern man seems to so neglect, even doubt, the power and meaning of that great event, promised to the motley crowd of disciples and followers just days earlier by their saviour as he left them in his earthly form.
So much of society today and worst still even the church, seem to treat Pentecost, or Whitsun as it is also traditionally known, as little more than another day, whereas in reality it is one of the great Christian festivals. For the Holy Spirit it is which breathed life and still does into all the great teachings, doctrines and truths of the Christian faith. He- for the Spirit is regarded as a person as much as Jesus- it is that I believe enables me to write these words which express something of the hope and faith I have, and why I write it-even if this last fortnight, my own spirit has been willing to "blog", but my tired flesh has been too weak! And so as we approach another Sunday of celebration, when the church remembers that great mystery which is the union of God in three persons, Father Son and Holy Spirit, we pray, Come Holy Spirit
DREAM, DREAM, DREAM
Another great song from the sixties, especially in the Bobby Gentry and Glenn Campbell version with its wonderful harmonies. By gum, I must be in nostalgic mode today. Perhaps it's got something to do with the return of a grand old name of the airwaves, Big L- Radio London-, which is now back on Medium Wave. No, it's not a dream: they are there, mabye not always loud and clear but on the air nonetheless, through a clever way of avoiding the UK broadcasting acts which prevent them being either landlubbers or broadcasting the ocean wave for more than 28 days at a time.
Although the studios are in Frinton on Sea- once famed for being the town with no pubs- for no logical reason other than the rosy glow of reminiscence (Frinton has a big place in the heart of pirate radio lovers, or is that lubbers?)- the transmitters are based in Holland, which in itself is another memory of the pirate days of yore.
Although I have some memory of the pre-67 pirates- Harold Wilson's Marine Broadcasting Offences Act silenced most of them in August of that year- for me the golden age was the early seventies, especially of Radio Nordsee International who sent me my first ever "QSL", or acknowledgement card. I've very fond memories of lsitening to them in the garden shed in Feltham of a summer school holiday afternoon, which I guess was the closest I ever got to a "shack" back then. I listened in practically every day as I recall,sad radio anorak that I am.
RNI too have had their try at being legal and yet still being all at sea, but so far at least have not followed Big L on the sea path over to Holland. However, they are coming through with a weak but interference-free signal here in Eastbourne, where I am sitting once again mid-afternoon though this time with four walls around me rather than weatherboard-style painted timber. 1395 is worth a try if you are in Eastern England or anywhere in Europe, though with only 20 kW being pushed out of Holland it's hardly a powerhouse.
For many of a generation just before me, this might seem like the fulfilment of a dream, with a station they loved so much back in those halcyon, hopeful days of the sixties kissing the eardrums once again. But how will Big L fare in an age dominated by big names, like G-Cap and Clear Channel? They might have one for the moment, but whether they can keep their bank balance in the clear remains to be seen.
ANYWAY
You may well be wondering by now why I have called this blog by the title its got. I wish I could offer a clever answer to that, but the simple one is it was the best I could come up with when I started it way back last August! If anyone can come up with a new title, whether quirky or conventional, I'm open to suggestions! However, it does tend to reflect a word often seen in my e-mails, and maybe in my conversations as well. I've got the mind of a grasshopper, which loves jumping from one topic to another, in case you hadn't noticed. "Dream..." was supposed to be telling you about my illustrated nocturnal narrative of early this morning, where I suddenly found myself back at Stoneleigh, but rather lost though desperately trying to get out of the camp by checkout time at the end of the Bible week. Though I had been there many times during the week, I could not for the life of me find the tent or other accommodation I had been in throughout the week, and I was worried about the consequences about not being able to find my way home. Ooh, watch out Mark, you're nearly into another song there, with Jon Anderson lurking in the corner with a little help from Vangelis.
What does it all mean? You tell me: I'm no Daniel nor a Joseph, who were the great interpreters of the dreams of even a pharoah in Biblical times. Was it Joe or was it Dan- ashamed to admit I forget for the moment- who stuck his neck out to tell the great one what his strange visions of cows both thin and fat meant? There you go you see, bovine imagery again and more of Stoneleigh? Or am I lost? Don't think so, but I hope my dream doesn't mean I am in for a lean time of it, anything but.
As a friend remarked to me this morning, yes it has been a tough year for me with all that has happened, but I feel that with the Spirit's help and my all too muddled prayers, things are starting to come together. I should not say too much here, perhaps- it's been Christian Aid amusingly counting their chickens in their advertising theme this Christian Aid week, along with a few moo cows too- but next week I have an interview with another Christian organisation I am quite keen to work from and from whence come many other prestigious names.
I'm feeling that I am finally "back home" in Feltham, even though I'm still a bit clueless at what to do with my home here by the coast. These occasional excursions to Eastbourne are very enjoyable. And, though I've dreamt about her alive from time to time recently, even dear Mum is now back home as we have collected her ashes. Somehow about me right now, despite the indifferent weather which still makes summer seem a long way off at times, I am at my most vital again, enjoying life and its social opportunities, and hopefully at last making the most of my abilities. As long as no thin cows are lurking behind the next bedhead....
UNDERNEATH THE SPREADING CHESTNUT TREE
Walmington on Sea calling... Do you know how it is when no matter how hard you try, you can't get a particular tune or sometimes the pictorial associations it brings up out of your mind? That's how it's been for me for much of May everytime I've walked under or driven past a fine specimen of Aesculus hippocastanum, I can't help but recall a classic episode of Dad's Army which was actually supposed to be set in this part of Sussex- even if it was mainly filmed in Norfolk! In my mind I'm singing those classic words, and seeing the great assemblage of immortal characters which made the wartime comedy so unforgettable and such a gem amidst the dross which passes for television entertainment these days. The latest offering from ITV1 is so crass it doesn't even merit a mention here.
I guess it must be the combination of the VE Day 60 celebrations and a particularly fine display of blossom by the horse chestnut this May which makes me think of that little love song. Apparently, according to no less a source than Time magazine, it was this song performed in a spontaneous "royal command" at a boys' camp (Scouts, maybe?) complete with actions which impressed George VI in those dark days early in the war. That was long before the US came in to join the fray, and set up their headquarters, along with the rest of the Allied Expeditionary Force, in the leafy glades of my native county. D-Day owes as much to the clay soils of Bushy Park as to the sandy beaches of Normandy, it's easily forgotten.
Chestnut Sunday on the 8th May celebrated the calendrical coincidence which brought the commemoration of the sixtieth anniversary of the end of war in Europe, and the annual celebration of the cheering sight which is Sir Christopher Wren's famous avenue of Horse Chestnut Trees in one of London's smaller Royal Parks. This year, my brother and I paid it a visit and great fun it is too. Though rain punctuated the latter part of the day, the parade of horses, vintage cycles and vintage military vehicles was witness by a splendid crowd and blessed by weather which showed the tres at their finest, as was the intention. I don't know about being in England now that April's here, but May has been a lovely one for tree huggers and historians alike, whatever the weather.
Horse Chestnuts also abound in another part of the Royal estate, this time in Windsor itself. Yesterday saw me taking advantage of the rare opportunity- only available on six days a year to the general public- to visit the burial place of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, and to enjoy the relative peace of the sublime grounds which surround the mausoleum, surely one of the grandest Victorian buildings of all. It speaks of another age indeed, when at least on the surface, reverence and respect were the order of the day. It speaks also of the mere mortality of man, and yet of the fine things of creation and eternity which divine "digits" have designed.
Tony Blair, currently suffering from a slipped disc poor chap, has made the restoration of "respect" a key part of his post-election platform. It featured strongly in the Queen's speech, delivered on Tuesday at the State Opening of Parliament. I watched this spectacle with all its ancient splendour, pageantry and esoteric moments with a mixture of enjoyment and puzzlement. What on earth is the "Cap of Maintenance" all about? Despite the efforts of Huw Edwards and the excellent though soon departing BBC Political Editor Andrew Marr, I am still none the wiser.
Nevertheless, for all that some of the trappings of monarchy and state in Britain seem to fulfil no useful purpose, isn't that part of the elusive quality of "Britishness"? Whatever it is, I am somehow proud of it, and felt especially so yesterday when visiting Frogmore, or when traipsing past good old Buck House while in London on Wednesday, or visiting our National Archive- the former Public Record Office- for the first time the same day. We've much to celebrate, much to respect, much to commend, much to conserve. So why can't we get it right, why can't our young people go out on the streets wearing hooded garments without somehow being seen as a threat, or our war heroes walk the streets at night safe from the threat of gun crime or knife attack?
As in all things, of course, the media probably paints things much blacker than they really are. Despite that, there has surely been a loss of those fundamental virtues so much associated with Britain by our neighbours and visitors, and of which really we should be justly proud. Ask any foreigner what they find most quaint about British life, and like it as not you will hear "Queuing, politeness, a nice cup of tea".
And yet, even those who lived through the war supposedly to defend our freedom to enjoy such things seem to have forgotten this at times. Never mind the young losing their respect, what have the older generation done to conserve it. Yes, my friend Dave and I had to queue patiently and politely to get into Frogmore grounds, to the museum and to get our nice cup of tea yesterday-but we did so without complaining. Why should we, we were waiting for something well worth seeing, and as it turned out we were helping those less fortunate than ourselves by doing so (proceeds from yesterday's opening, ironically, were going to the Chichester Diocesan Association and the Sussex Deaf Association). Yet all around us, all I could hear were elderly people complaining about poor organisation, not enough catering facilities and having to wait too long. I appreciate the infirmity of a few maybe, but where is the blitz spirit of the rest? It's sad to see the generation that saw their own sovereign's home bombed and their daughter join the war effort unable to wait just a few more moments for a cuppa while they seem to forget they waited six years for peace. Is it our young that need educating, or our old. Or is it all of us? "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us". Maybe what we really need to do is to learn once again, whether under a beautiful display of "candles" on the humble horse chestnut, or under the candles of a mausoleum altar, to remember the Lord our God. Respect Him,every day, and the rest should follow suit.
The occasion of this trip to Shakespeare's county was not a bardic pilgrimage to nearby Stratford-on-Avon, but the shared blessing of the famous Stoneleigh Bible Week at the huge National Agricultural Centre twixt Coventry, Warwick and Leamington Spa. For a decade, these were the highlight of the summer for around thirty thousand Christians from all over the world, attending to share in vibrant, joyful worship and listen to often dynamic, sometimes life-changing but always helpful preaching and teaching from many of the big names on the "charismatic scene", including the founder of Newfrontiers (or New Frontiers International as it was then known), Terry Virgo. Many would even claim with fervent belief- and who am I to doubt them- that by God's amazing grace, they were !healed at Stoneleigh. Books, music and testimonies still bear witness to the power of God working in them at these significant occasions in the life of the late twentieth century church.
The fact that enjoying such wonderful Christian fellowship for six days also meant enduring floods, heatstroke, the pungent aroma of cowpats from the recently vacated cattle sheds where meetings were held, and a long queue for early morning showers while camping, never seemed to put many of these happy, clappy souls off. However, with a couple of exceptions I and my friends much preferred our home comforts and a decent cooked breakfast before launching into the satisfying spiritual and physical exercise of the day ahead.
Many friendships were no doubt forged at Stoneleigh, many happy times remembered, many the seed of spiritual growth planted in hungry, holy hearts. But life is about endings and beginnings, change and growth, no less for the Christian than for any other soul. The Bible Weeks are no more-though some might think this owed more to a massive hike in site fees by the Royal Agricultural Society around the turn of the century than any wider move of the Holy Spirit. Nevertheless, that same Holy Spirit lights a fire which can appear spontaneously, marvellously and spectacularly even when the sun isn't shining, whether you're in a cow shed or comfy bed.
You wouldn't know it in most churches in Britain today, but this has been the week when Christian believers say "Happy Birthday to Us"! Pentecost, celebrated last Sunday but originally observed fifty days after the Jewish passover, is generally recognised as when the church came into being, when the promised "comforter, advocate, helper", depending on your translation of the Greek paraclete came down from Heaven to birth and a movement which would move and shake the world for ever was born. When people start hearing and comprehending in their own language words audibly spoken in a dialectical form otherwise quite alien to them, something quite remarkable and surely of God is going on. What Babelfish and Alta Vista among others still sometimes hilariously fail to do in the 21st Century, the Holy Spirit of God could accomplish effortlessly in one memorable gathering in 1st century Jerusalem. People could hear and understand the very word of God in their own tongue, whatever it might be- but the paradox is that such a divine occurrence almost defied description. Even the learned Dr Luke, saint as he is to us now, struggled to give full expression to the mystery and wonder of this fabulous event in his account of the happenings in the second chapter of the book of Acts. Simile and metaphor instead came into their own, as talk of tongues of fire, rushing winds and descending doves excite the imagination of the modern reader and filled the hearts of the Jerusalem hearers.
This was the party to end all parties, bringing the best present of all to the ecclesia and new life to the assembled believers and astounded observers from every corner of the ancient world. What a pity then that modern man seems to so neglect, even doubt, the power and meaning of that great event, promised to the motley crowd of disciples and followers just days earlier by their saviour as he left them in his earthly form.
So much of society today and worst still even the church, seem to treat Pentecost, or Whitsun as it is also traditionally known, as little more than another day, whereas in reality it is one of the great Christian festivals. For the Holy Spirit it is which breathed life and still does into all the great teachings, doctrines and truths of the Christian faith. He- for the Spirit is regarded as a person as much as Jesus- it is that I believe enables me to write these words which express something of the hope and faith I have, and why I write it-even if this last fortnight, my own spirit has been willing to "blog", but my tired flesh has been too weak! And so as we approach another Sunday of celebration, when the church remembers that great mystery which is the union of God in three persons, Father Son and Holy Spirit, we pray, Come Holy Spirit
DREAM, DREAM, DREAM
Another great song from the sixties, especially in the Bobby Gentry and Glenn Campbell version with its wonderful harmonies. By gum, I must be in nostalgic mode today. Perhaps it's got something to do with the return of a grand old name of the airwaves, Big L- Radio London-, which is now back on Medium Wave. No, it's not a dream: they are there, mabye not always loud and clear but on the air nonetheless, through a clever way of avoiding the UK broadcasting acts which prevent them being either landlubbers or broadcasting the ocean wave for more than 28 days at a time.
Although the studios are in Frinton on Sea- once famed for being the town with no pubs- for no logical reason other than the rosy glow of reminiscence (Frinton has a big place in the heart of pirate radio lovers, or is that lubbers?)- the transmitters are based in Holland, which in itself is another memory of the pirate days of yore.
Although I have some memory of the pre-67 pirates- Harold Wilson's Marine Broadcasting Offences Act silenced most of them in August of that year- for me the golden age was the early seventies, especially of Radio Nordsee International who sent me my first ever "QSL", or acknowledgement card. I've very fond memories of lsitening to them in the garden shed in Feltham of a summer school holiday afternoon, which I guess was the closest I ever got to a "shack" back then. I listened in practically every day as I recall,sad radio anorak that I am.
RNI too have had their try at being legal and yet still being all at sea, but so far at least have not followed Big L on the sea path over to Holland. However, they are coming through with a weak but interference-free signal here in Eastbourne, where I am sitting once again mid-afternoon though this time with four walls around me rather than weatherboard-style painted timber. 1395 is worth a try if you are in Eastern England or anywhere in Europe, though with only 20 kW being pushed out of Holland it's hardly a powerhouse.
For many of a generation just before me, this might seem like the fulfilment of a dream, with a station they loved so much back in those halcyon, hopeful days of the sixties kissing the eardrums once again. But how will Big L fare in an age dominated by big names, like G-Cap and Clear Channel? They might have one for the moment, but whether they can keep their bank balance in the clear remains to be seen.
ANYWAY
You may well be wondering by now why I have called this blog by the title its got. I wish I could offer a clever answer to that, but the simple one is it was the best I could come up with when I started it way back last August! If anyone can come up with a new title, whether quirky or conventional, I'm open to suggestions! However, it does tend to reflect a word often seen in my e-mails, and maybe in my conversations as well. I've got the mind of a grasshopper, which loves jumping from one topic to another, in case you hadn't noticed. "Dream..." was supposed to be telling you about my illustrated nocturnal narrative of early this morning, where I suddenly found myself back at Stoneleigh, but rather lost though desperately trying to get out of the camp by checkout time at the end of the Bible week. Though I had been there many times during the week, I could not for the life of me find the tent or other accommodation I had been in throughout the week, and I was worried about the consequences about not being able to find my way home. Ooh, watch out Mark, you're nearly into another song there, with Jon Anderson lurking in the corner with a little help from Vangelis.
What does it all mean? You tell me: I'm no Daniel nor a Joseph, who were the great interpreters of the dreams of even a pharoah in Biblical times. Was it Joe or was it Dan- ashamed to admit I forget for the moment- who stuck his neck out to tell the great one what his strange visions of cows both thin and fat meant? There you go you see, bovine imagery again and more of Stoneleigh? Or am I lost? Don't think so, but I hope my dream doesn't mean I am in for a lean time of it, anything but.
As a friend remarked to me this morning, yes it has been a tough year for me with all that has happened, but I feel that with the Spirit's help and my all too muddled prayers, things are starting to come together. I should not say too much here, perhaps- it's been Christian Aid amusingly counting their chickens in their advertising theme this Christian Aid week, along with a few moo cows too- but next week I have an interview with another Christian organisation I am quite keen to work from and from whence come many other prestigious names.
I'm feeling that I am finally "back home" in Feltham, even though I'm still a bit clueless at what to do with my home here by the coast. These occasional excursions to Eastbourne are very enjoyable. And, though I've dreamt about her alive from time to time recently, even dear Mum is now back home as we have collected her ashes. Somehow about me right now, despite the indifferent weather which still makes summer seem a long way off at times, I am at my most vital again, enjoying life and its social opportunities, and hopefully at last making the most of my abilities. As long as no thin cows are lurking behind the next bedhead....
UNDERNEATH THE SPREADING CHESTNUT TREE
Walmington on Sea calling... Do you know how it is when no matter how hard you try, you can't get a particular tune or sometimes the pictorial associations it brings up out of your mind? That's how it's been for me for much of May everytime I've walked under or driven past a fine specimen of Aesculus hippocastanum, I can't help but recall a classic episode of Dad's Army which was actually supposed to be set in this part of Sussex- even if it was mainly filmed in Norfolk! In my mind I'm singing those classic words, and seeing the great assemblage of immortal characters which made the wartime comedy so unforgettable and such a gem amidst the dross which passes for television entertainment these days. The latest offering from ITV1 is so crass it doesn't even merit a mention here.
I guess it must be the combination of the VE Day 60 celebrations and a particularly fine display of blossom by the horse chestnut this May which makes me think of that little love song. Apparently, according to no less a source than Time magazine, it was this song performed in a spontaneous "royal command" at a boys' camp (Scouts, maybe?) complete with actions which impressed George VI in those dark days early in the war. That was long before the US came in to join the fray, and set up their headquarters, along with the rest of the Allied Expeditionary Force, in the leafy glades of my native county. D-Day owes as much to the clay soils of Bushy Park as to the sandy beaches of Normandy, it's easily forgotten.
Chestnut Sunday on the 8th May celebrated the calendrical coincidence which brought the commemoration of the sixtieth anniversary of the end of war in Europe, and the annual celebration of the cheering sight which is Sir Christopher Wren's famous avenue of Horse Chestnut Trees in one of London's smaller Royal Parks. This year, my brother and I paid it a visit and great fun it is too. Though rain punctuated the latter part of the day, the parade of horses, vintage cycles and vintage military vehicles was witness by a splendid crowd and blessed by weather which showed the tres at their finest, as was the intention. I don't know about being in England now that April's here, but May has been a lovely one for tree huggers and historians alike, whatever the weather.
Horse Chestnuts also abound in another part of the Royal estate, this time in Windsor itself. Yesterday saw me taking advantage of the rare opportunity- only available on six days a year to the general public- to visit the burial place of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, and to enjoy the relative peace of the sublime grounds which surround the mausoleum, surely one of the grandest Victorian buildings of all. It speaks of another age indeed, when at least on the surface, reverence and respect were the order of the day. It speaks also of the mere mortality of man, and yet of the fine things of creation and eternity which divine "digits" have designed.
Tony Blair, currently suffering from a slipped disc poor chap, has made the restoration of "respect" a key part of his post-election platform. It featured strongly in the Queen's speech, delivered on Tuesday at the State Opening of Parliament. I watched this spectacle with all its ancient splendour, pageantry and esoteric moments with a mixture of enjoyment and puzzlement. What on earth is the "Cap of Maintenance" all about? Despite the efforts of Huw Edwards and the excellent though soon departing BBC Political Editor Andrew Marr, I am still none the wiser.
Nevertheless, for all that some of the trappings of monarchy and state in Britain seem to fulfil no useful purpose, isn't that part of the elusive quality of "Britishness"? Whatever it is, I am somehow proud of it, and felt especially so yesterday when visiting Frogmore, or when traipsing past good old Buck House while in London on Wednesday, or visiting our National Archive- the former Public Record Office- for the first time the same day. We've much to celebrate, much to respect, much to commend, much to conserve. So why can't we get it right, why can't our young people go out on the streets wearing hooded garments without somehow being seen as a threat, or our war heroes walk the streets at night safe from the threat of gun crime or knife attack?
As in all things, of course, the media probably paints things much blacker than they really are. Despite that, there has surely been a loss of those fundamental virtues so much associated with Britain by our neighbours and visitors, and of which really we should be justly proud. Ask any foreigner what they find most quaint about British life, and like it as not you will hear "Queuing, politeness, a nice cup of tea".
And yet, even those who lived through the war supposedly to defend our freedom to enjoy such things seem to have forgotten this at times. Never mind the young losing their respect, what have the older generation done to conserve it. Yes, my friend Dave and I had to queue patiently and politely to get into Frogmore grounds, to the museum and to get our nice cup of tea yesterday-but we did so without complaining. Why should we, we were waiting for something well worth seeing, and as it turned out we were helping those less fortunate than ourselves by doing so (proceeds from yesterday's opening, ironically, were going to the Chichester Diocesan Association and the Sussex Deaf Association). Yet all around us, all I could hear were elderly people complaining about poor organisation, not enough catering facilities and having to wait too long. I appreciate the infirmity of a few maybe, but where is the blitz spirit of the rest? It's sad to see the generation that saw their own sovereign's home bombed and their daughter join the war effort unable to wait just a few more moments for a cuppa while they seem to forget they waited six years for peace. Is it our young that need educating, or our old. Or is it all of us? "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us". Maybe what we really need to do is to learn once again, whether under a beautiful display of "candles" on the humble horse chestnut, or under the candles of a mausoleum altar, to remember the Lord our God. Respect Him,every day, and the rest should follow suit.
Friday, 6 May 2005
The yawning after the night before
Don't expect this posting to be as long as my previous late night marathon earlier this week. I'm rather tired and fancy an afternoon nap! I'm not ready for my dotage just yet, but following the British General Election this last 30 hours or so has been an exhausting business- and that's just as a mere viewer, never mind candidate or counter!
However, it seems that even the tellers who continue to tally up the votes in our wonderfully old-fashioned British system of a cross on a ballot paper without a chad in sight have their limits. The umpteenth re-count for one southern constituency has now been held off til tomorrow as the counting staff were tired and needed a break. This brought no sympathy from BBC newsreader Fiona Bruce though, nor the sixtyish elder of the two Dimbleby brothers who fronted the corporation's ever-superior Election Night coverage. "Where's their Stamina?" Ms Bruce offered somewhat condescendingly late this morning, though she probably has a point.
The whole BBC team had been on air from 9.55 p.m last night. Judging from the results of their joint ICM/MORI exit poll with the commercial broadcaster ITV, mind, they could just have easily have packed their bags and gone home there and then: amazingly, the prediction is for once remarkably close to the actual final result which seems to leave birthday boy Blair (52 today and probably feeling it!) with a 66 seat majority- exactly what the poll predicted.
Still, where's the fun in relying on opinion polls? Had the broadcasters left it at that, not only would the broadcasters have been perilously close to giving in to the hated US way of doing things, but we would have lost all the drama, the shocks and surprises of the greatest reality show around, such a mammoth undertaking that we only get to see it every four or five years. And boy, there were certainly plenty of surprises for both unwitting viewer and politico last night and this morning.
I do miss the action and the building tension and the involvement in the whole process I used to get when I worked for the BBC. My one and so far only visit to a count was to the Hastings and Rye constituency in John Major's surprise election victory of 92, when I served as technical assistant to one of the Beeb's more technophobe freelance journos. Great fun! Elections are best shared with someone else, I always feel, but unfortunately my brother was pretty tired last night and bowed to having to get up for work in the morning. Where's HIS stamina: that never stopped me back on that incredible May morning of 1997 when New Labour first ousted the Tories after an eighteen-year spell in power.
I remember then going off to pray in the park- well, the Pavilion Gardens, Brighton, to be precise- after spending an exciting night in the BBC's old Brighton base sharing the event with my mate Andrew who works for the BBC's regional TV news department. Staggered was not the word when we discovered that even true blue Hove (Brighton's classier neighbour since united with it as a city) had succumbed to the New Labour charm- though I was amazed to find that they still managed victory there last night even after a change of candidate. Somehow, at that time it really did seem like a new dawn for Britain, and maybe we somehow all believed as the victory song of Blair's Buddies had it :"Things can only get better". But have they?
Well, who knows? It all depends whose figures you believe, what criteria you take and how you judge the betterment of the country. Certainly, if measured purely in terms of material wealth and how it is spread across society, I would say that Britain is a better place after eight years of Labour government (though where have those years gone so quickly!?). My own present situation excepted, which is partly due to my own actions in giving up a stressful, unsatisfying job last June, unemployment has never been so low for decades. More people own their own homes than ever before, mortgage rates though past their nadir are still as low as many folk can remember.
People are, it would seem, better educated- if at a price. More folk have access to university education than ever before, rather reminiscent of the Open University days and the "white heat of technology" of Harold Wilson under which Blair spent his teenage years and surely left their legacy. But hang on: right in the middle of the campaign, Britain's last remaining volume car maker, Rover, becomes "Over" as they go bust, and now even the great name of Marconi and the US giant IBM are having to lay workers off as the merciless march of market forces once again bite into the benevolent intentions of progressively minded politicians.
Everything in the garden is not lovely, Mr Blair, and people know it. This is why, surely, the party has lost a large part of its previous majority over all other parties and as the commentators put it this morning, Anthony Charles Lynton Blair has had his wings clipped. Not that it may worry him too much, apart from party solidarity; he has already indicated he will not be fighting the next election which surely now falls to Gordon Brown, the prudent chancellor who has taken much of the credit for Labour's economic successes.
Who his main contender will be though, for that far off date in 2009 or even the end of the decade, who knows! This lunchtime in Putney brought the shock news from Michael Howard, the conservative leader, that he too would not be around for the next meeting of red, gold and blue and numerous other colours of the political spectrum in a few years time. Howard blames age, he being 63 now, though this seems a somewhat untenable argument given that the 20th century's greatest politician, Sir Winston Churchill whose memory will be much to the fore this VE60 weekend, was still serving in the highest office in the land around the age of eighty. And look what he managed to achieve, even after the ignominy of defeat in the so called "Khaki election" of that year.
Which leaves just the third force in this wonderfully entertaining manifestation of democracy we call the British political system. The boy Charlie done good! Well, I've got to say that of Mr Kennedy and the Liberal Democrats haven't I, as he is the same age as me and has just become a new daddy- so there's hope for me yet! However, few people are saying that the Lib Dem success story yesterday- gaining another dozen seats or so- was a one off reaction of protest to Britain's involvement in Gulf War II, which many would have seen as Mr Blair's nemesis. We may not yet have proportional representation, but we do have a third force in British politics at last in the shape of the Lib Dems.
Thank the Lord for that; another memory of my GCE exams and particularly the original Liberal party's contribution to the foundations of the welfare state we Brits so treasure. Remember it was Liberals who first gave us retirement pensions, unemployment insurance and numerous other benefits we now take for granted and would protect to the last. Could it be that their time has now come again? Well, who knows: it's very unpredictability is one of the most fascinating manifestations of politics, but if a week is a long time, what price four/five more years. Never mind, the spirit of Churchill lives on. Let us never forget how much was owed to so few- the one time Liberal chancellor who later became Britain's great Tory wartime leader, and Lloyd George who, actually, did not know my father.
GOD GETS THE VOTE
When all is said and done, politicians are after all only human. They have feet of clay, and as the late, great Robin Day once so memorably said can be "here today, gone tomorrow". Wasn't it to John Nott, one time Tory cabinet member, who promptly walked off from the interview in disgust? Fragile things, pragmatic and idealistic- the people as well as their politics, which has to be about more than expediency but as Blair was humble enough to admit this morning, listening to people. The trouble is you see, politicians don't have all the answers, but our modern secular society tends to lionise them and expect them to do so.
The reality is, it seems to me, nothing will ever change for permanent good in our society until our basic spiritual state is changed. There was a well-crafted if occasionally rather long-winded piece by historian Simon Schama in the Guardian earlier this week (register at www.guardian.co.uk to read it), who was back in England observing and participatiing in our election after many years exposure to the very different US model. He made the point how the "G" word- otherwise the name of the almighty- rarely gets a mention in British campaigning, which is so very different to the US model.
This may be political pragmatism in our so called diverse and multi-cultural society, but I think it is also a great shame that our politicans do not make more reference back to the bedrock of values on which our society was founded- and most of those are the Judaeo-Christian (and indeed Muslim) ideals captured in stone literally in the Ten Commandments. Should not this underlie everything we as a society do- but who even cares or knows much about them these days? I was gratified to see a clergyman asking a question of a panel of the great and the good via the mouthpiece of Jeremy Paxman this morning, but where have been our religious leaders through much of the rest of the campaign? Christian action has been there, certainly, but it has been far too low key.
What will really change Britain- not just for four years, nor for a decade but for the duration- is when people are motivated as John Wesley was motivated, back in the eighteenth century when most of the constituencies were rotten boroughs and the only people with the vote were the landed and the sycophantic supporters of the privileged classes. I think it would be true to say that Britain c2005 is a much more classless society, though not quite, but it is definitely a much less respectful society and we need to learn to show proper regard for people such as teachers and the police again.
Tony Blair in some way seemed to acknowledge this this morning in his "victory" speech, which was followed by a wholesome family group gathering outside Number Ten after a courtesy visit to Her Majesty. In fact, the British constitution, unwritten though it is.
did not require Mr Blair to have audience with HM at all, as an incumbent Prime Minister. Nevertheless, he did so out of respect. That in itself can be a loaded word: the vitriol of ex-labour Iraq rebel George Galloway's speech and subsequent media interviews on winning the Bethnal Green and Bow seat showed anything but the qualities his party's name suggested.
John Wesley, the founder of what became the Methodist Church, is often said to have prevented a revolution in the late seventeen hundreds in Britain, something which was rife in the spirits of France and America among other territories at that time. Wesley founded schools, the forerunners of trade unions and all manner of other activities which taught the "poor" to respect themselvs and yet actually offered a way out of their misery, hope for the future and a new life. He effectively overturned the old order of privilege and condescension which had been the rule of government in England up til that time.
But what motivated Wesley? Not the promise of another four of five years in government, nor least of all the hope of a nice comfortable life in the upper house upon his retirement. Wesley knew that what mattered was not who was holding the reins in Westminster or what king was doleing out patronage from Windsor castle, but how close men's souls were to the king of kings. Much has been said during the general election campaign about the lack of a great theme for this battle of the ballots, and I'd agree. At least Wesley knew what was needed and put it in a four-pronged attack which everyone could remember- the four "Alls" of Methodism:
All people can be saved
All people need to be saved
All people can know they are saved
All people can be saved to the uttermost
Sounds like a better prescription for good government than "If you value it, vote for it" any day. Wesley, whose conversion day is celebrated later this month- had a proper sense of perspective. I'm praying for all our newly-elected, or returning, politicians today; I pray that they- whatever their beliefs- may make their watchwords in this responsible office more of John and his younger brother Charles' treasured epithets:
"Do all the good you can,
By all the means you can,
In all the ways you can,
In all the places you can,
At all the times you can
To all the people you can"
If a politician can allow this to overtake selfish ambition or pointless momentary pragmatism, then maybe he or she at the end of their earthly service can know too, like John Wesley that "things can only get better", or to put it another way as he did on his deathbed "the best is yet to be"
However, it seems that even the tellers who continue to tally up the votes in our wonderfully old-fashioned British system of a cross on a ballot paper without a chad in sight have their limits. The umpteenth re-count for one southern constituency has now been held off til tomorrow as the counting staff were tired and needed a break. This brought no sympathy from BBC newsreader Fiona Bruce though, nor the sixtyish elder of the two Dimbleby brothers who fronted the corporation's ever-superior Election Night coverage. "Where's their Stamina?" Ms Bruce offered somewhat condescendingly late this morning, though she probably has a point.
The whole BBC team had been on air from 9.55 p.m last night. Judging from the results of their joint ICM/MORI exit poll with the commercial broadcaster ITV, mind, they could just have easily have packed their bags and gone home there and then: amazingly, the prediction is for once remarkably close to the actual final result which seems to leave birthday boy Blair (52 today and probably feeling it!) with a 66 seat majority- exactly what the poll predicted.
Still, where's the fun in relying on opinion polls? Had the broadcasters left it at that, not only would the broadcasters have been perilously close to giving in to the hated US way of doing things, but we would have lost all the drama, the shocks and surprises of the greatest reality show around, such a mammoth undertaking that we only get to see it every four or five years. And boy, there were certainly plenty of surprises for both unwitting viewer and politico last night and this morning.
I do miss the action and the building tension and the involvement in the whole process I used to get when I worked for the BBC. My one and so far only visit to a count was to the Hastings and Rye constituency in John Major's surprise election victory of 92, when I served as technical assistant to one of the Beeb's more technophobe freelance journos. Great fun! Elections are best shared with someone else, I always feel, but unfortunately my brother was pretty tired last night and bowed to having to get up for work in the morning. Where's HIS stamina: that never stopped me back on that incredible May morning of 1997 when New Labour first ousted the Tories after an eighteen-year spell in power.
I remember then going off to pray in the park- well, the Pavilion Gardens, Brighton, to be precise- after spending an exciting night in the BBC's old Brighton base sharing the event with my mate Andrew who works for the BBC's regional TV news department. Staggered was not the word when we discovered that even true blue Hove (Brighton's classier neighbour since united with it as a city) had succumbed to the New Labour charm- though I was amazed to find that they still managed victory there last night even after a change of candidate. Somehow, at that time it really did seem like a new dawn for Britain, and maybe we somehow all believed as the victory song of Blair's Buddies had it :"Things can only get better". But have they?
Well, who knows? It all depends whose figures you believe, what criteria you take and how you judge the betterment of the country. Certainly, if measured purely in terms of material wealth and how it is spread across society, I would say that Britain is a better place after eight years of Labour government (though where have those years gone so quickly!?). My own present situation excepted, which is partly due to my own actions in giving up a stressful, unsatisfying job last June, unemployment has never been so low for decades. More people own their own homes than ever before, mortgage rates though past their nadir are still as low as many folk can remember.
People are, it would seem, better educated- if at a price. More folk have access to university education than ever before, rather reminiscent of the Open University days and the "white heat of technology" of Harold Wilson under which Blair spent his teenage years and surely left their legacy. But hang on: right in the middle of the campaign, Britain's last remaining volume car maker, Rover, becomes "Over" as they go bust, and now even the great name of Marconi and the US giant IBM are having to lay workers off as the merciless march of market forces once again bite into the benevolent intentions of progressively minded politicians.
Everything in the garden is not lovely, Mr Blair, and people know it. This is why, surely, the party has lost a large part of its previous majority over all other parties and as the commentators put it this morning, Anthony Charles Lynton Blair has had his wings clipped. Not that it may worry him too much, apart from party solidarity; he has already indicated he will not be fighting the next election which surely now falls to Gordon Brown, the prudent chancellor who has taken much of the credit for Labour's economic successes.
Who his main contender will be though, for that far off date in 2009 or even the end of the decade, who knows! This lunchtime in Putney brought the shock news from Michael Howard, the conservative leader, that he too would not be around for the next meeting of red, gold and blue and numerous other colours of the political spectrum in a few years time. Howard blames age, he being 63 now, though this seems a somewhat untenable argument given that the 20th century's greatest politician, Sir Winston Churchill whose memory will be much to the fore this VE60 weekend, was still serving in the highest office in the land around the age of eighty. And look what he managed to achieve, even after the ignominy of defeat in the so called "Khaki election" of that year.
Which leaves just the third force in this wonderfully entertaining manifestation of democracy we call the British political system. The boy Charlie done good! Well, I've got to say that of Mr Kennedy and the Liberal Democrats haven't I, as he is the same age as me and has just become a new daddy- so there's hope for me yet! However, few people are saying that the Lib Dem success story yesterday- gaining another dozen seats or so- was a one off reaction of protest to Britain's involvement in Gulf War II, which many would have seen as Mr Blair's nemesis. We may not yet have proportional representation, but we do have a third force in British politics at last in the shape of the Lib Dems.
Thank the Lord for that; another memory of my GCE exams and particularly the original Liberal party's contribution to the foundations of the welfare state we Brits so treasure. Remember it was Liberals who first gave us retirement pensions, unemployment insurance and numerous other benefits we now take for granted and would protect to the last. Could it be that their time has now come again? Well, who knows: it's very unpredictability is one of the most fascinating manifestations of politics, but if a week is a long time, what price four/five more years. Never mind, the spirit of Churchill lives on. Let us never forget how much was owed to so few- the one time Liberal chancellor who later became Britain's great Tory wartime leader, and Lloyd George who, actually, did not know my father.
GOD GETS THE VOTE
When all is said and done, politicians are after all only human. They have feet of clay, and as the late, great Robin Day once so memorably said can be "here today, gone tomorrow". Wasn't it to John Nott, one time Tory cabinet member, who promptly walked off from the interview in disgust? Fragile things, pragmatic and idealistic- the people as well as their politics, which has to be about more than expediency but as Blair was humble enough to admit this morning, listening to people. The trouble is you see, politicians don't have all the answers, but our modern secular society tends to lionise them and expect them to do so.
The reality is, it seems to me, nothing will ever change for permanent good in our society until our basic spiritual state is changed. There was a well-crafted if occasionally rather long-winded piece by historian Simon Schama in the Guardian earlier this week (register at www.guardian.co.uk to read it), who was back in England observing and participatiing in our election after many years exposure to the very different US model. He made the point how the "G" word- otherwise the name of the almighty- rarely gets a mention in British campaigning, which is so very different to the US model.
This may be political pragmatism in our so called diverse and multi-cultural society, but I think it is also a great shame that our politicans do not make more reference back to the bedrock of values on which our society was founded- and most of those are the Judaeo-Christian (and indeed Muslim) ideals captured in stone literally in the Ten Commandments. Should not this underlie everything we as a society do- but who even cares or knows much about them these days? I was gratified to see a clergyman asking a question of a panel of the great and the good via the mouthpiece of Jeremy Paxman this morning, but where have been our religious leaders through much of the rest of the campaign? Christian action has been there, certainly, but it has been far too low key.
What will really change Britain- not just for four years, nor for a decade but for the duration- is when people are motivated as John Wesley was motivated, back in the eighteenth century when most of the constituencies were rotten boroughs and the only people with the vote were the landed and the sycophantic supporters of the privileged classes. I think it would be true to say that Britain c2005 is a much more classless society, though not quite, but it is definitely a much less respectful society and we need to learn to show proper regard for people such as teachers and the police again.
Tony Blair in some way seemed to acknowledge this this morning in his "victory" speech, which was followed by a wholesome family group gathering outside Number Ten after a courtesy visit to Her Majesty. In fact, the British constitution, unwritten though it is.
did not require Mr Blair to have audience with HM at all, as an incumbent Prime Minister. Nevertheless, he did so out of respect. That in itself can be a loaded word: the vitriol of ex-labour Iraq rebel George Galloway's speech and subsequent media interviews on winning the Bethnal Green and Bow seat showed anything but the qualities his party's name suggested.
John Wesley, the founder of what became the Methodist Church, is often said to have prevented a revolution in the late seventeen hundreds in Britain, something which was rife in the spirits of France and America among other territories at that time. Wesley founded schools, the forerunners of trade unions and all manner of other activities which taught the "poor" to respect themselvs and yet actually offered a way out of their misery, hope for the future and a new life. He effectively overturned the old order of privilege and condescension which had been the rule of government in England up til that time.
But what motivated Wesley? Not the promise of another four of five years in government, nor least of all the hope of a nice comfortable life in the upper house upon his retirement. Wesley knew that what mattered was not who was holding the reins in Westminster or what king was doleing out patronage from Windsor castle, but how close men's souls were to the king of kings. Much has been said during the general election campaign about the lack of a great theme for this battle of the ballots, and I'd agree. At least Wesley knew what was needed and put it in a four-pronged attack which everyone could remember- the four "Alls" of Methodism:
All people can be saved
All people need to be saved
All people can know they are saved
All people can be saved to the uttermost
Sounds like a better prescription for good government than "If you value it, vote for it" any day. Wesley, whose conversion day is celebrated later this month- had a proper sense of perspective. I'm praying for all our newly-elected, or returning, politicians today; I pray that they- whatever their beliefs- may make their watchwords in this responsible office more of John and his younger brother Charles' treasured epithets:
"Do all the good you can,
By all the means you can,
In all the ways you can,
In all the places you can,
At all the times you can
To all the people you can"
If a politician can allow this to overtake selfish ambition or pointless momentary pragmatism, then maybe he or she at the end of their earthly service can know too, like John Wesley that "things can only get better", or to put it another way as he did on his deathbed "the best is yet to be"
Tuesday, 3 May 2005
Murphy's Score
Another Mayday holiday draws to a close and it's nearly "time for bed". No sign of Zebedee tonight, but the Magic Roundabout which is the annual World Snooker Championship each Spring has brought an astounding new talent to the fore- Shaun Murphy. Amazing was another of the A-dominated adjectives used by the BBC commentary team in attempting to describe this new phenomenon with a cue action to rival none, yet who started the tournament as a 150-1 qualifier. Not surprisingly, perhaps, even the venerable greats of the sport of old who were present in Sheffield's Crucible tonight were running out of superlatives to describe his performance in what was a gripping 4 hours of television. Mind you, I did briefly doze off, but I was in good company as it seems quite a few of the spectators did at earlier stages of the 2 1/2 week championship!
I could not play snooker for toffee myself: the only time I've tried in the past was on the tiny table we used to have in the sixth form centre at my school, known as the ROSLA block as it also contained facilities to help accommodate the extra students staying around when the Raising Of The School Leaving Age kept teenage brats compulsorily in the classroom up til sixteen in 1973.
My snooker efforts were so bad, due to my poor co-ordination and sight problems at the time, that my cue went nearer to popping a hole in the table than to potting a ball in a pocket. That doesn't stop me and many other useless sportsmen though being an armchair spectator at this time of the year and being awe-struck at the precision of the players, the tension and the tactics and the colourfulness of the sport, which brought the game to the fore with the spread of colour TV in Britain from the early seventies. The concentration these two finalists- Matthew Stevens of Wales was the loser in the penultimate frame of 35- managed to maintain over about sixteen hours of play spread over the two days of the final was awesome, but so was their steely determination to win.
Of course, it won't be long before the hacks are out searching for the big story around young Mr Murphy, and no doubt the headline writers will have a field day tomorrow trying to top a great human interest story with the best pun they can muster after a not so lazy holiday. Incidentally, for me it was a nice restful one today including a nostalgic walk by my old school on Hanworth Park (or the Air Park as seventy years after the last flights it still gets called), as I recalled it's thirty years this month since I sat my GCE's- frightening! However, the BBC team has beaten the journos to it with at least one great opening for a sports story: "Shaun has re-written Murphy's Law tonight and shown that what can go right will go right." What an impressive player, and definitely one to watch. The amazing thing is, he is not yet even in the world rankings!
However, whatever else happens in Murphy's career, one thing he will be remembered for is being the last ever EMBASSY World Snooker Champion. While I'm a non-smoker myself and favour banning of smoking in public places to a degree, it does conflict with my basic libertarian principles. It is also rather sad to see the much-admired sponsorship of Imperial Tobacco (doesn't that company name speak of the Britain of old!) disappear from the game after over two decades of support.
WEAPONS OF MISINSTRUCTION
As it happens, the banning of tobacco sponsorship and even all forms of advertising of it, is largely Britain's response to yet another EU directive. It's rather strange now when you go into a tobacconist's or any other retail outlet for the evil weed, that the only brand they can alert you to is the leading purveyor of roll-your-own papers. This always makes me think of both my grand-dad and my Dad, who were Old Holborn smokers to their last- and sadly in my Dad's case I am sure that his latest breath came much earlier than it otherwise might as a result. I wonder though if we can look forward to the Rizla World Snooker Championship next year? Doesn't have quite the ring of truth about it, does it?
Truth and lies seem to be all that any of the chattering classes and the media want to talk about now, in the last three days of campaigning before the General Election on Thursday. As I type, Tony Blair is being grilled by Jonathan Dimbleby on ITV1, probably the penultimate drubbing he is going to get now but the younger member of the Dimbleby Dynasty is really making sure he gets a hard time of it over the chronology and veracity of the decision to take Britain to war over Iraq.
I feel a certain pity for Mr Blair really, whether or not I agree with the decision he took. I pity the population of our so-called democracy too that this now seems to be the "parting shot" from the other parties and hence the media, that will garner most of the coverage between now and Thursday. It's an ill-tempered, desperate attempt almost by some to oust Blair from Downing Street-even though all the opinion polls yesterday still gave Labour a slim lead over the opposition. The war has happened, like it or not- and as a pacifist at heart, of course I didn't. But let's look at the bigger picture, if you'll forgive the cliche.
Blair has already said he will not be seeking a fourth term of office, so to some extent we know that he will be on his way out anyway, whatever Thursday's outcome. So why continue to villify him and smear him at this stage when there are really far more important issues, both domestic and international, to be dealt with?
For me, one of the most concerning issues and the thing I most disliked with the last regime was the march of the nanny state and the threat to our freedoms their solutions to real or imagined threats bring. I've never supported ID cards, and I cringe at the amount of interference government or indeed anybody in positions of authority now try to make in individual lives. It is reaching some quite ridiculous proportions, and we become more like the US each day, particularly with our litigious, ambulance-chasing attitudes which are one of the most loathsome trends we have inherited from across the pond. You can barely turn Classic FM on these days without hearing an ad for "DGL Bluemel, Personal Injury Solicitors"
Of course, the public has to be protected from the genuinely negligent and the downright dangerous in our society, wherever they are found- which can be just as much in multi-national corporate boardrooms as front rooms or classrooms. But isn't it, frankly, just crossing the borders of insanity when film trailers on TV have to carry meaningless footnotes which warn that the film "contains mild peril". Oh come on, PLEASE! Who do they think we are? If this trend continues, can I ever expect to be allowed to show the ever-brilliant 1970s Lionel Jeffries version of The Railway Children to any of my favourite children, for fear the scenes of iron horse carnage nearly and neatly avoided in that film might damage young minds forever? Please let us keep a sense of proportion.
THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN
In the same vein, I guess, there are whispers abroad in Hollywood now as to whether the Medieval Crusades are a suitable subject for a blockbuster movie. Funny how nobody seemed to raise these objections when Gladiator came out, or any of the recent epics such as Troy. The Kingdom of Heaven is apparently the title of the Orlando Bloom film which tackles this difficult era in history, but can a mere film of ancient history really stir up old passions and inflame conflict between the communities? I haven't seen the film yet, nor indeed read much publicity for it other than being attracted to the title in a recent market research survey on my cinema-going habits- which are fairly irregular to say the least. Neverthless, as a graduate in History and Religious Studies, I feel this is a "must see" film for me at the moment.
Not knowing the subject of the film until hearing about the controversy though, I wondered whether this might have been a nice gentle film about the wonder of childlike belief and enjoyment of the things of God which Jesus Christ commended us to emulate. I saw his point ably demonstrated yet again on Sunday afternoon, as I took my dear friends the Tett family to the Hounslow Urban Farm. This was an absolute delight of a day, and it was a joy to see their two littluns (one girl and her younger brother) feeding and petting the animals, using up some of their boundless energy on the play equipment, and sharing in the picnic I had prepared for them-though their little three year old seemed more interested in the ride-on bulldozers than his Thomas the Tank Engine shaped ham roll! I was even more delighted to conclude a pleasant afternoon in company- for I was alone this weekend with Matthew away in Wales, canoeing- with a gorgeous pint of Adnam's Broadside in the garden of The Green Man, close by the entrance to Heathrow. This pub is a welcome anachronism: a village-style local with a huge garden and children's play area, and six horses in the field adjoining. My young friend thought, as her Dad put it, that she was in horsey heaven. Ah, bless!
Children have such a reviving role for the jaded souls of all we world-weary adults, I feel. Surely then it should be them that are foremost in the election campaign, yet mysteriously almost children's issues have taken a lower profile than usual at this election, with the exception of the ever present mantra of Education, Education, Education. Before I met up with my friends yesterday, I was preaching at Christ Church again, and made the theme of my sermon "God's Manifesto". Jesus Christ didn't need to employ spin doctors to come up with fancy slogans, only to have to change them days later when the negative connotations were realised. Instead, he look little children in his arms, blessed them and said "Suffer Little Children to come unto me, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven". Some of what he meant was that their trust, their unconditional love and their wonder at the world is what we should never lose.
Jesus actually made manifest - the origin of the word manifesto as I said in my sermon- by his actions and teaching, the simplest political mandate of all. Surely if we are honest and true, this is one which everyone aspires to carry out, so why do we not? "Love your neighbour as yourself"- no room for Michael Howard's Immigration quota there then.
More troublesome for many though is the premise from which only the fulfilment of that command can truly come "love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your mind and with all your soul". Our present Prime Minister would appear to be a committed believer, but do I overlook the Blair blur and the Blah Blah to vote Labour? Or should I follow what has always been my own political ideal: "Freedom of choice, but equality of opportunity", to whichever party I perceive best meets that and still serves the kingdom? Not easy, but I am determined to use wisely my first-time postal vote in the Eastbourne and Willingdon constituency. Maybe I should just place my cross where the real Cross leads me.
VICTORY IN EUROPE BECKONS
No, not a slogan from the Europhile section of any one party-strange how united they all seem to have been this time round, incidentally. This is a reminder, as if we need one this week, that the sixtieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War in Europe occurs on Sunday- or is it Monday, or even Saturday? Apparently back in '45, there were doubts as to when the official end of the war should be celebrated.
Amid all the casualties of that barbaric regime which was the Nazis, as always one of the first but also the last was truth. Nevertheless, it won't stop many a commentator and purported witnesses this week to Hitler's last days in the Berlin bunker attempting to bring new revelations of what happened as the Reich which was supposed to last a thousand years was, mercifully for civilisation, toppled with a suicide pill and the dark despair of seven years was ended.
We should never forget the price paid for our freedom, which is why I emphasised in my sermon yesterday the importance of voting. I was inspired and encouraged to see that one of the two youngest members of the congregation, who has just turned eighteen, will be exercising his democratic choice on Thursday. Indeed, I believe that while we owe it's origins to the Greeks, government of the people by the people is probably the best way we as fallible and fallen beings can try to prepare the way for the kind of society we are meant to be. As a Christian of course, I believe we won't ultimately see that til Jesus comes again, and that will be a totally new World Order - a theocracy- which no amount of UN resolutions can change. With no more need for hustings and heckling, everyone will see that it will then be the best of all possible worlds, and it will be more wonderful and peaceful than we could ever imagine. But until that day, let us pray that we get the government we need, not the government we deserve!
TURN YOUR RADIO ON
Whatever happened to Ray Stevens? Was he the snooker player's Dad? No, not quite, but he did have a string of popular hits in the seventies mainly, including Bridget the Midget and The Streak (the fastest thing on two feet!). More philosophically though, there was a lovely song called Turn Your Radio On. The idea behind this was to tune your inbuilt "radio" receiver in to "get in touch with God", i.e to pray. "Everybody has a radio receiver, all you've got to do is listen for the sound", he entuned. Well, that is certainly true-but my own faith owes a lot to steam wireless, and especially to short wave broadcasts from such stations as Adventist World Radio, Trans World Radio and HCJB, back in my teens in the seventies, which really got me thinking about spiritual things. My practical enjoyment of the radio hobby has basically never waned over the years, but like many of my generation I guess it seems to get a new lease of life every now and then. Mid-Life or should that be Medium Wave Life, maybe. At a boot fair on the Air Park today, I picked up a Russian 4-bander, probably from the early seventies judging from the dial markings. So now it really is time for bed- yes, alright Mr Z, I hear you!- and recall memories of that exam-laden summer and listening under the bedclothes on a Philips RL-411 to the wonderful worldwide waves. Internet people, eat your cyber hearts out!
I could not play snooker for toffee myself: the only time I've tried in the past was on the tiny table we used to have in the sixth form centre at my school, known as the ROSLA block as it also contained facilities to help accommodate the extra students staying around when the Raising Of The School Leaving Age kept teenage brats compulsorily in the classroom up til sixteen in 1973.
My snooker efforts were so bad, due to my poor co-ordination and sight problems at the time, that my cue went nearer to popping a hole in the table than to potting a ball in a pocket. That doesn't stop me and many other useless sportsmen though being an armchair spectator at this time of the year and being awe-struck at the precision of the players, the tension and the tactics and the colourfulness of the sport, which brought the game to the fore with the spread of colour TV in Britain from the early seventies. The concentration these two finalists- Matthew Stevens of Wales was the loser in the penultimate frame of 35- managed to maintain over about sixteen hours of play spread over the two days of the final was awesome, but so was their steely determination to win.
Of course, it won't be long before the hacks are out searching for the big story around young Mr Murphy, and no doubt the headline writers will have a field day tomorrow trying to top a great human interest story with the best pun they can muster after a not so lazy holiday. Incidentally, for me it was a nice restful one today including a nostalgic walk by my old school on Hanworth Park (or the Air Park as seventy years after the last flights it still gets called), as I recalled it's thirty years this month since I sat my GCE's- frightening! However, the BBC team has beaten the journos to it with at least one great opening for a sports story: "Shaun has re-written Murphy's Law tonight and shown that what can go right will go right." What an impressive player, and definitely one to watch. The amazing thing is, he is not yet even in the world rankings!
However, whatever else happens in Murphy's career, one thing he will be remembered for is being the last ever EMBASSY World Snooker Champion. While I'm a non-smoker myself and favour banning of smoking in public places to a degree, it does conflict with my basic libertarian principles. It is also rather sad to see the much-admired sponsorship of Imperial Tobacco (doesn't that company name speak of the Britain of old!) disappear from the game after over two decades of support.
WEAPONS OF MISINSTRUCTION
As it happens, the banning of tobacco sponsorship and even all forms of advertising of it, is largely Britain's response to yet another EU directive. It's rather strange now when you go into a tobacconist's or any other retail outlet for the evil weed, that the only brand they can alert you to is the leading purveyor of roll-your-own papers. This always makes me think of both my grand-dad and my Dad, who were Old Holborn smokers to their last- and sadly in my Dad's case I am sure that his latest breath came much earlier than it otherwise might as a result. I wonder though if we can look forward to the Rizla World Snooker Championship next year? Doesn't have quite the ring of truth about it, does it?
Truth and lies seem to be all that any of the chattering classes and the media want to talk about now, in the last three days of campaigning before the General Election on Thursday. As I type, Tony Blair is being grilled by Jonathan Dimbleby on ITV1, probably the penultimate drubbing he is going to get now but the younger member of the Dimbleby Dynasty is really making sure he gets a hard time of it over the chronology and veracity of the decision to take Britain to war over Iraq.
I feel a certain pity for Mr Blair really, whether or not I agree with the decision he took. I pity the population of our so-called democracy too that this now seems to be the "parting shot" from the other parties and hence the media, that will garner most of the coverage between now and Thursday. It's an ill-tempered, desperate attempt almost by some to oust Blair from Downing Street-even though all the opinion polls yesterday still gave Labour a slim lead over the opposition. The war has happened, like it or not- and as a pacifist at heart, of course I didn't. But let's look at the bigger picture, if you'll forgive the cliche.
Blair has already said he will not be seeking a fourth term of office, so to some extent we know that he will be on his way out anyway, whatever Thursday's outcome. So why continue to villify him and smear him at this stage when there are really far more important issues, both domestic and international, to be dealt with?
For me, one of the most concerning issues and the thing I most disliked with the last regime was the march of the nanny state and the threat to our freedoms their solutions to real or imagined threats bring. I've never supported ID cards, and I cringe at the amount of interference government or indeed anybody in positions of authority now try to make in individual lives. It is reaching some quite ridiculous proportions, and we become more like the US each day, particularly with our litigious, ambulance-chasing attitudes which are one of the most loathsome trends we have inherited from across the pond. You can barely turn Classic FM on these days without hearing an ad for "DGL Bluemel, Personal Injury Solicitors"
Of course, the public has to be protected from the genuinely negligent and the downright dangerous in our society, wherever they are found- which can be just as much in multi-national corporate boardrooms as front rooms or classrooms. But isn't it, frankly, just crossing the borders of insanity when film trailers on TV have to carry meaningless footnotes which warn that the film "contains mild peril". Oh come on, PLEASE! Who do they think we are? If this trend continues, can I ever expect to be allowed to show the ever-brilliant 1970s Lionel Jeffries version of The Railway Children to any of my favourite children, for fear the scenes of iron horse carnage nearly and neatly avoided in that film might damage young minds forever? Please let us keep a sense of proportion.
THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN
In the same vein, I guess, there are whispers abroad in Hollywood now as to whether the Medieval Crusades are a suitable subject for a blockbuster movie. Funny how nobody seemed to raise these objections when Gladiator came out, or any of the recent epics such as Troy. The Kingdom of Heaven is apparently the title of the Orlando Bloom film which tackles this difficult era in history, but can a mere film of ancient history really stir up old passions and inflame conflict between the communities? I haven't seen the film yet, nor indeed read much publicity for it other than being attracted to the title in a recent market research survey on my cinema-going habits- which are fairly irregular to say the least. Neverthless, as a graduate in History and Religious Studies, I feel this is a "must see" film for me at the moment.
Not knowing the subject of the film until hearing about the controversy though, I wondered whether this might have been a nice gentle film about the wonder of childlike belief and enjoyment of the things of God which Jesus Christ commended us to emulate. I saw his point ably demonstrated yet again on Sunday afternoon, as I took my dear friends the Tett family to the Hounslow Urban Farm. This was an absolute delight of a day, and it was a joy to see their two littluns (one girl and her younger brother) feeding and petting the animals, using up some of their boundless energy on the play equipment, and sharing in the picnic I had prepared for them-though their little three year old seemed more interested in the ride-on bulldozers than his Thomas the Tank Engine shaped ham roll! I was even more delighted to conclude a pleasant afternoon in company- for I was alone this weekend with Matthew away in Wales, canoeing- with a gorgeous pint of Adnam's Broadside in the garden of The Green Man, close by the entrance to Heathrow. This pub is a welcome anachronism: a village-style local with a huge garden and children's play area, and six horses in the field adjoining. My young friend thought, as her Dad put it, that she was in horsey heaven. Ah, bless!
Children have such a reviving role for the jaded souls of all we world-weary adults, I feel. Surely then it should be them that are foremost in the election campaign, yet mysteriously almost children's issues have taken a lower profile than usual at this election, with the exception of the ever present mantra of Education, Education, Education. Before I met up with my friends yesterday, I was preaching at Christ Church again, and made the theme of my sermon "God's Manifesto". Jesus Christ didn't need to employ spin doctors to come up with fancy slogans, only to have to change them days later when the negative connotations were realised. Instead, he look little children in his arms, blessed them and said "Suffer Little Children to come unto me, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven". Some of what he meant was that their trust, their unconditional love and their wonder at the world is what we should never lose.
Jesus actually made manifest - the origin of the word manifesto as I said in my sermon- by his actions and teaching, the simplest political mandate of all. Surely if we are honest and true, this is one which everyone aspires to carry out, so why do we not? "Love your neighbour as yourself"- no room for Michael Howard's Immigration quota there then.
More troublesome for many though is the premise from which only the fulfilment of that command can truly come "love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your mind and with all your soul". Our present Prime Minister would appear to be a committed believer, but do I overlook the Blair blur and the Blah Blah to vote Labour? Or should I follow what has always been my own political ideal: "Freedom of choice, but equality of opportunity", to whichever party I perceive best meets that and still serves the kingdom? Not easy, but I am determined to use wisely my first-time postal vote in the Eastbourne and Willingdon constituency. Maybe I should just place my cross where the real Cross leads me.
VICTORY IN EUROPE BECKONS
No, not a slogan from the Europhile section of any one party-strange how united they all seem to have been this time round, incidentally. This is a reminder, as if we need one this week, that the sixtieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War in Europe occurs on Sunday- or is it Monday, or even Saturday? Apparently back in '45, there were doubts as to when the official end of the war should be celebrated.
Amid all the casualties of that barbaric regime which was the Nazis, as always one of the first but also the last was truth. Nevertheless, it won't stop many a commentator and purported witnesses this week to Hitler's last days in the Berlin bunker attempting to bring new revelations of what happened as the Reich which was supposed to last a thousand years was, mercifully for civilisation, toppled with a suicide pill and the dark despair of seven years was ended.
We should never forget the price paid for our freedom, which is why I emphasised in my sermon yesterday the importance of voting. I was inspired and encouraged to see that one of the two youngest members of the congregation, who has just turned eighteen, will be exercising his democratic choice on Thursday. Indeed, I believe that while we owe it's origins to the Greeks, government of the people by the people is probably the best way we as fallible and fallen beings can try to prepare the way for the kind of society we are meant to be. As a Christian of course, I believe we won't ultimately see that til Jesus comes again, and that will be a totally new World Order - a theocracy- which no amount of UN resolutions can change. With no more need for hustings and heckling, everyone will see that it will then be the best of all possible worlds, and it will be more wonderful and peaceful than we could ever imagine. But until that day, let us pray that we get the government we need, not the government we deserve!
TURN YOUR RADIO ON
Whatever happened to Ray Stevens? Was he the snooker player's Dad? No, not quite, but he did have a string of popular hits in the seventies mainly, including Bridget the Midget and The Streak (the fastest thing on two feet!). More philosophically though, there was a lovely song called Turn Your Radio On. The idea behind this was to tune your inbuilt "radio" receiver in to "get in touch with God", i.e to pray. "Everybody has a radio receiver, all you've got to do is listen for the sound", he entuned. Well, that is certainly true-but my own faith owes a lot to steam wireless, and especially to short wave broadcasts from such stations as Adventist World Radio, Trans World Radio and HCJB, back in my teens in the seventies, which really got me thinking about spiritual things. My practical enjoyment of the radio hobby has basically never waned over the years, but like many of my generation I guess it seems to get a new lease of life every now and then. Mid-Life or should that be Medium Wave Life, maybe. At a boot fair on the Air Park today, I picked up a Russian 4-bander, probably from the early seventies judging from the dial markings. So now it really is time for bed- yes, alright Mr Z, I hear you!- and recall memories of that exam-laden summer and listening under the bedclothes on a Philips RL-411 to the wonderful worldwide waves. Internet people, eat your cyber hearts out!
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