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.
Friday, 20 May 2005
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!
Sunday, 24 April 2005
Humble apologies!
I see from my site meter that at least six people have accessed this blog since I completed my latest entry in the small hours of this morning. Checking it yesterday, by the way, I noticed the rather sinister domain name of army.mil having been here at some point, looking at my comments last year about the sad story of Ken Bigley, the murdered hostage in Iraq. Perhaps this software which the powers that be are rumoured to use which looks for certain "trigger" words spotted something there- though it seems unlikely it would have left a trace if that was the case!
Ken Bigley and his family were devout Catholics, and no doubt their thoughts may have turned back to him as this morning they watch the inaugaral papal mass, as I do now while I watch it on telly and His Holiness Pope Benedict delivers his first homile in St Peter's chair. However, I haven't got much time to stay and watch this or comment on it yet as I have to read another bit of the teaching attributed to "old rocky" as I affectionately call St Peter, at the United Free Church of Feltham; I'm doing a reading this morning.
Before I do anything else though, I must apologise for any error of fact in my "early edition" which I shall correct later. It seems the Eastern Orthodox Easter is actually next Sunday- I think! At least, that's the conclusion I come to as Radio 4 will be celebrating it in Sunday worship then. The first rule of good journalism is check your facts- even if the scandal sheets get away with interpreting that very loosely. I suppose they take the view like pilate "What is Truth". That's no excuse, mind, for the Church Times- sorry, I mean the News of the World, to take seven torrid pages to spill the beans on the Beckhams again today (despite the couple's attempt to get an injunction preventing them doing so).
Nevertheless, getting back to papal matters, it's a touching sign to see the Eastern clergy very much represented at Benedict's "enthronement", and the gospel was read in both latin and greek this morning as a sign of the hope for the visible unity of the church. Amen to all that- and that's a fact!
Ken Bigley and his family were devout Catholics, and no doubt their thoughts may have turned back to him as this morning they watch the inaugaral papal mass, as I do now while I watch it on telly and His Holiness Pope Benedict delivers his first homile in St Peter's chair. However, I haven't got much time to stay and watch this or comment on it yet as I have to read another bit of the teaching attributed to "old rocky" as I affectionately call St Peter, at the United Free Church of Feltham; I'm doing a reading this morning.
Before I do anything else though, I must apologise for any error of fact in my "early edition" which I shall correct later. It seems the Eastern Orthodox Easter is actually next Sunday- I think! At least, that's the conclusion I come to as Radio 4 will be celebrating it in Sunday worship then. The first rule of good journalism is check your facts- even if the scandal sheets get away with interpreting that very loosely. I suppose they take the view like pilate "What is Truth". That's no excuse, mind, for the Church Times- sorry, I mean the News of the World, to take seven torrid pages to spill the beans on the Beckhams again today (despite the couple's attempt to get an injunction preventing them doing so).
Nevertheless, getting back to papal matters, it's a touching sign to see the Eastern clergy very much represented at Benedict's "enthronement", and the gospel was read in both latin and greek this morning as a sign of the hope for the visible unity of the church. Amen to all that- and that's a fact!
Bye George-what a Navy Lark!
Just another twenty minutes or so remaining (as I begin typing) of what some say should be the most patriotic day of the year for all true Englishmen and women- St George's Day! And, for that matter, the birthday and reputed dying day of not just England's, but probably the world's most recognised and gifted dramatist, good old Will Shakespeare (or whichever one of the numerous spellings of the Bard of Avon's surname you choose to use).
Now I've always been a sentimental soul and love all the tradition and pageantry of great occasions and our national heritage. In fact, for a while today, I even thought of affixing one of the remaing red roses for a lovely lost lady, from Mum's floral funeral tribute still in the garden, to my own clothing as I went off to Reading for what turned out to be a very enjoyable radio club meeting followed by a very tasty Indian meal. However, wisely probably I decided against such ostentation in the end and instead settled for reading about some of the exploits of St George and his history in a certain redtop newspaper discarded by a previous traveller on my Reading-bound train.
Now it is rare indeed that I would agree with The Sun- so often an organ of pointless or even baseless scandal and drivel. It's a paper best left for wrapping chips or cleaning windows (yes, really!) However, travelling light with no magazines or books with me today I was surprised to find Wapping's Saturday edition was actually quite interesting. The tone of the paper seems to have become a bit less narrow-minded and flippant and I couldn't agree more with their leader about a case of political correctness gone ga-ga with one of today's stories. Mind you, whether they have their facts right of course is another matter!
It seems that the top brass or whoever determines these things had decreed that several ships of the RN fleet currently engaged in an exercise in Plymouth could not display the flag of St George today. The simple but evocative red cross of England, symbol of sporting dreams more often dashed than realised, also forms the basis of the British senior service's own flag of sovereignty, the White Ensign but today it was a definite no show, at least in the navy's second home.
The reason for this bit of absurd pseduo-diplomatic nonsense? Apparently there were fears it would offend the Turks, who as NATO members were also taking part in the exercise. It might be seen as too nationalistic on what is Turkey's national day. Of course, as "The Sun says", the fact that St George himself was born in what is present day Turkey seems to have been of no report. How do the ignoramuses who decree these things get away with it?
The Sun wasted no time in launching an attack on our homogenised society, and for once I agree with them. The diversity that we are so often being encouraged to embrace actually ends up bringing about a black and white society with no room for celebration of our individual characteristics- like that of "Englishness" or our national differences such as the musical heritage of Wales or Caledonia's culinary creations and wonderful whiskey. While patriotism may often be the last refuge of a scoundrel (who was it that said that?), pride in the land of our birth and our heritage is a wholly honourable and indeed Biblical attribute most of the time provided it does no harm to others, as for instance anyone with sensitivity to the Jewish faith would tell you today on what is their Passover festival weekend.
Passover or Pesach is one of the most beautiful and special feasts in Jewish society, beloved of children and putting the family at its heart. Like George saving the damsel from the dragon, even if that tale is more likely to be myth than fact, it is a time for Jews everywhere to remember being saved from some ghastly evil and instead offered friendship with God and a new life, known theologically as "Salvation"
EASTERY-BOURNE AGAIN
Talking of salvation, earlier in the week I went down to Eastbourne to do a bit more sorting out of my bits and pieces in my "second" home there, as well as pick up my post, but principally to attend the bible study group held there every fortnight at The Ranworth Hotel, the home of two good friends of mine in Eastbourne's Ceylon Place Baptist Church. The folk of that congregation are a bit like wandering Israelites themselves at the moment, with no permanent home after selling their own building in a bit of a leap of faith some fifteen months ago. As a result, they now meet on Sundays in the local Methodist Church hall, which as someone who comes from that tradition I welcome warmly.
Nevertheless, there is a very real human longing to have a place to call our own home. It's a nebulous concept which cannot be limited by the people we see there or see no more, but it's dear to most folk I know. A hymn writer of an earlier era put it well I think in "I Vow to Thee My Country"- yet one figure of faith has banned this as too jingoistic for the 21st century.
I guess for the Jews who celebrate Passover, the longing to go home is also the sentiment most poignantly expressed in their heartfelt plea at some of their festivals (Passover or New Year? I can't recall): "Next year in Jerusalem".
Thursday night's theme at the Ranworth house group though was based around the 1st chapter of the book of Colossians in the New Testament. Even for someone with a background in Biblical studies like myself ( I have a degree in Religious Studies and History), it's a hard passage to grasp as it attempts to unpack the idea of "Salvation" and what it really means for Christian believers and indeed for all of humanity.
As one who has experienced many instances of what I believe to be God's touch in my own life, I long to share this with others not out of any misplaced loyalty to God and his "country", but because like so many billions of others, I believe that in the story of the life, death and resurection of Jesus Christ is the whole kernel of truth about the meaning of mankind and the wonderful hope that we can actually know God and find his love in an often hopeless world. I gather that next Sunday will be the Eastern Orthodox Easter; a pity it could not quite coincide with the inaugaration of Pope Benedict today, but there are certainly encouraging signs of unity and friendship between the two great streams of Christendom which parted company around a thousand years ago.
St Peter's courtyard in the eternal city, Rome, is a riot of colour tonight, as apparently it has been decked out with flowers. An appropriate reminder maybe of the garden tomb which we remembered a month ago while our Eastern brothers and sisters in the faith will celebrate in a week's time. What a joyful mystery we celebrate this and every Sunday! May today in Rome be a time when the old emnities, the pointless differences between us so often, are put aside again for a little while and Christians around the world remember those words of scripture; "How good it is when Brothers and sisters dwell together in unity"!
ORGANIC RADIO
I had plenty of time for inner reflection today as I supped my fair trade cappucino and my tasty, wholesome Tobermory shortbread in the Reading International Solidarity Centre cafe. Back in January, when I was in the midst of the trauma of my dear Mum's terminal diagnosis and not knowing how long she would be with us, I gave a brief mention in this blog to the Reading International Radio Group meetings.
After several years in the cemtra; library, these ever-popular gatherings have now moved to a new venue in that town famous in times past for Biscuits, Bricks and Beer. At the first meeting in the new venue, I must admit I was barely able to concentrate on the speakers and the hobby as my mind was so tied up with worry for my loved one.
Now, four weeks exactly after we lost Mum, of course the sadness is still there and has touched my soul several times this week. There's no point in pretending I don't miss my mother, and it is a very strange and empty feeling to return home here to Feltham knowing she is no longer seen by our eyes. But just because someone or something is no longer seen in the flesh does not mean that the remembrance cannot be very real and comforting. How true it is that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Many of my older confreres at Reading today, I feel, must have been feeling this as we thought about an interesting and historic chapter in UK broadcasting.
One of the hype sites for digital radio is called "lovemyradio.com" (you do the work- I won't paste it in!) and for everyone of those who have been attending these meetings, some for three decades now, that is a very true sentiment indeed. We love our radio, but some miss the way it used to be. But is it just the medium itself we love? Can you really feel the deepest affection for the diverse assemblage of valves, semi-conductors, integrated circuits, capacitors, coils, aerials and wires that make up a typical radio transmission and reception chain, or is it something else that inspires the peculiar passion of the DXer, the "ham" and the listener?
Love can blossom for inanimate components if you have a particular bent for the technical, which is why a throng of enthusiastic hams and hunters will be racing down to Kempton later today (Sunday 24th) for a radio and electronics rally at Sunbury's race course. I may even join them myself, once I have got the priority of praise and worship done for the morning at church. High time I brush up my technical knowledge and take advantage of the newly-liberalised use of the bands open to those of us who have earned the right to a callsign, so hi to all from G7UPT (currently lapsed but planning to renew my "ticket").
However, for far more of us the beauty and the joy of radio are found in its people,programmes and voices. Mere music alone doth not a radio station make, though it clearly plays a very important part for many. This St George's Day Reading meeting celebrated a time in English (and indeed British!) broadcasting history which now basks in a glow of nostalgia as warm as the valves which once powered names like Radio Caroline and Radio London "Big L", and tears flow like the salt water which nearly drowned them.
The era of the offshore pirates was our main subject today, as with anoraks actually taken off for the moment we enjoyed various videos and recordings about the heyday of the seaborne celebrities between 1964 and 1967, and their latter rising from Davy Jones' locker as legal temporary stations or "RSLs". Now safely out of the hands of Tony Benn, the late Harold Wilson et al, big names like Keith "Cardboard Shoes" Skues, Ed "Stewpot" Stewart (my personal favourite), Pete Brady, Dave Cash and many others have once again shown why these pioneers paved the way for a form of personality radio those of us too young to remember its heyday have much reason to be grateful for. Without the influence of the pirates, so a somewhat ironic BBC TV report claims, there would have been no pop radio and none of the hundreds of local radio stations which now populate the airwaves.
MORE OR LESS?
But are these two a penny ILR stations pumping out anything actually worth listening to and are they worthy successors to their marine forerunners? Can the millions made by covetous shareholders really be justified by the anodyne, homogenous diet pumped out by so many of the independent stations in the noughties, or do we need a return to the sound and the sentiment of the sixties wonders or even earlier eras of sound broadcasting?
One person who certainly seems to think a change is needed is Mr Millionaire himself, Chris Tarrant, who with his interests in a major radio production company is now aiming to bring a better breed of station to the South Coast in a new licence bid. Whether this will really be the case however, or the mere empty promises that so many ILR franchise bids seem to contain, remains to be seen (or do I mean heard?).
Maybe radio needs a patron saint (though I expect someone will point out it already has one somewhere!); can we travellers across the ether dare to hope the final answer for our prayers for better broadcasting can be answered by St Christopher of Celador?
Belief in a resurrection of radio listening -which among some age groups seems to be dying a death- is what we seek. But have faith: Jesus saves souls and - in places like the tsunami disaster zone of the Andaman Islands- radio even saves lives. Alleluia!
Now I've always been a sentimental soul and love all the tradition and pageantry of great occasions and our national heritage. In fact, for a while today, I even thought of affixing one of the remaing red roses for a lovely lost lady, from Mum's floral funeral tribute still in the garden, to my own clothing as I went off to Reading for what turned out to be a very enjoyable radio club meeting followed by a very tasty Indian meal. However, wisely probably I decided against such ostentation in the end and instead settled for reading about some of the exploits of St George and his history in a certain redtop newspaper discarded by a previous traveller on my Reading-bound train.
Now it is rare indeed that I would agree with The Sun- so often an organ of pointless or even baseless scandal and drivel. It's a paper best left for wrapping chips or cleaning windows (yes, really!) However, travelling light with no magazines or books with me today I was surprised to find Wapping's Saturday edition was actually quite interesting. The tone of the paper seems to have become a bit less narrow-minded and flippant and I couldn't agree more with their leader about a case of political correctness gone ga-ga with one of today's stories. Mind you, whether they have their facts right of course is another matter!
It seems that the top brass or whoever determines these things had decreed that several ships of the RN fleet currently engaged in an exercise in Plymouth could not display the flag of St George today. The simple but evocative red cross of England, symbol of sporting dreams more often dashed than realised, also forms the basis of the British senior service's own flag of sovereignty, the White Ensign but today it was a definite no show, at least in the navy's second home.
The reason for this bit of absurd pseduo-diplomatic nonsense? Apparently there were fears it would offend the Turks, who as NATO members were also taking part in the exercise. It might be seen as too nationalistic on what is Turkey's national day. Of course, as "The Sun says", the fact that St George himself was born in what is present day Turkey seems to have been of no report. How do the ignoramuses who decree these things get away with it?
The Sun wasted no time in launching an attack on our homogenised society, and for once I agree with them. The diversity that we are so often being encouraged to embrace actually ends up bringing about a black and white society with no room for celebration of our individual characteristics- like that of "Englishness" or our national differences such as the musical heritage of Wales or Caledonia's culinary creations and wonderful whiskey. While patriotism may often be the last refuge of a scoundrel (who was it that said that?), pride in the land of our birth and our heritage is a wholly honourable and indeed Biblical attribute most of the time provided it does no harm to others, as for instance anyone with sensitivity to the Jewish faith would tell you today on what is their Passover festival weekend.
Passover or Pesach is one of the most beautiful and special feasts in Jewish society, beloved of children and putting the family at its heart. Like George saving the damsel from the dragon, even if that tale is more likely to be myth than fact, it is a time for Jews everywhere to remember being saved from some ghastly evil and instead offered friendship with God and a new life, known theologically as "Salvation"
EASTERY-BOURNE AGAIN
Talking of salvation, earlier in the week I went down to Eastbourne to do a bit more sorting out of my bits and pieces in my "second" home there, as well as pick up my post, but principally to attend the bible study group held there every fortnight at The Ranworth Hotel, the home of two good friends of mine in Eastbourne's Ceylon Place Baptist Church. The folk of that congregation are a bit like wandering Israelites themselves at the moment, with no permanent home after selling their own building in a bit of a leap of faith some fifteen months ago. As a result, they now meet on Sundays in the local Methodist Church hall, which as someone who comes from that tradition I welcome warmly.
Nevertheless, there is a very real human longing to have a place to call our own home. It's a nebulous concept which cannot be limited by the people we see there or see no more, but it's dear to most folk I know. A hymn writer of an earlier era put it well I think in "I Vow to Thee My Country"- yet one figure of faith has banned this as too jingoistic for the 21st century.
I guess for the Jews who celebrate Passover, the longing to go home is also the sentiment most poignantly expressed in their heartfelt plea at some of their festivals (Passover or New Year? I can't recall): "Next year in Jerusalem".
Thursday night's theme at the Ranworth house group though was based around the 1st chapter of the book of Colossians in the New Testament. Even for someone with a background in Biblical studies like myself ( I have a degree in Religious Studies and History), it's a hard passage to grasp as it attempts to unpack the idea of "Salvation" and what it really means for Christian believers and indeed for all of humanity.
As one who has experienced many instances of what I believe to be God's touch in my own life, I long to share this with others not out of any misplaced loyalty to God and his "country", but because like so many billions of others, I believe that in the story of the life, death and resurection of Jesus Christ is the whole kernel of truth about the meaning of mankind and the wonderful hope that we can actually know God and find his love in an often hopeless world. I gather that next Sunday will be the Eastern Orthodox Easter; a pity it could not quite coincide with the inaugaration of Pope Benedict today, but there are certainly encouraging signs of unity and friendship between the two great streams of Christendom which parted company around a thousand years ago.
St Peter's courtyard in the eternal city, Rome, is a riot of colour tonight, as apparently it has been decked out with flowers. An appropriate reminder maybe of the garden tomb which we remembered a month ago while our Eastern brothers and sisters in the faith will celebrate in a week's time. What a joyful mystery we celebrate this and every Sunday! May today in Rome be a time when the old emnities, the pointless differences between us so often, are put aside again for a little while and Christians around the world remember those words of scripture; "How good it is when Brothers and sisters dwell together in unity"!
ORGANIC RADIO
I had plenty of time for inner reflection today as I supped my fair trade cappucino and my tasty, wholesome Tobermory shortbread in the Reading International Solidarity Centre cafe. Back in January, when I was in the midst of the trauma of my dear Mum's terminal diagnosis and not knowing how long she would be with us, I gave a brief mention in this blog to the Reading International Radio Group meetings.
After several years in the cemtra; library, these ever-popular gatherings have now moved to a new venue in that town famous in times past for Biscuits, Bricks and Beer. At the first meeting in the new venue, I must admit I was barely able to concentrate on the speakers and the hobby as my mind was so tied up with worry for my loved one.
Now, four weeks exactly after we lost Mum, of course the sadness is still there and has touched my soul several times this week. There's no point in pretending I don't miss my mother, and it is a very strange and empty feeling to return home here to Feltham knowing she is no longer seen by our eyes. But just because someone or something is no longer seen in the flesh does not mean that the remembrance cannot be very real and comforting. How true it is that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Many of my older confreres at Reading today, I feel, must have been feeling this as we thought about an interesting and historic chapter in UK broadcasting.
One of the hype sites for digital radio is called "lovemyradio.com" (you do the work- I won't paste it in!) and for everyone of those who have been attending these meetings, some for three decades now, that is a very true sentiment indeed. We love our radio, but some miss the way it used to be. But is it just the medium itself we love? Can you really feel the deepest affection for the diverse assemblage of valves, semi-conductors, integrated circuits, capacitors, coils, aerials and wires that make up a typical radio transmission and reception chain, or is it something else that inspires the peculiar passion of the DXer, the "ham" and the listener?
Love can blossom for inanimate components if you have a particular bent for the technical, which is why a throng of enthusiastic hams and hunters will be racing down to Kempton later today (Sunday 24th) for a radio and electronics rally at Sunbury's race course. I may even join them myself, once I have got the priority of praise and worship done for the morning at church. High time I brush up my technical knowledge and take advantage of the newly-liberalised use of the bands open to those of us who have earned the right to a callsign, so hi to all from G7UPT (currently lapsed but planning to renew my "ticket").
However, for far more of us the beauty and the joy of radio are found in its people,programmes and voices. Mere music alone doth not a radio station make, though it clearly plays a very important part for many. This St George's Day Reading meeting celebrated a time in English (and indeed British!) broadcasting history which now basks in a glow of nostalgia as warm as the valves which once powered names like Radio Caroline and Radio London "Big L", and tears flow like the salt water which nearly drowned them.
The era of the offshore pirates was our main subject today, as with anoraks actually taken off for the moment we enjoyed various videos and recordings about the heyday of the seaborne celebrities between 1964 and 1967, and their latter rising from Davy Jones' locker as legal temporary stations or "RSLs". Now safely out of the hands of Tony Benn, the late Harold Wilson et al, big names like Keith "Cardboard Shoes" Skues, Ed "Stewpot" Stewart (my personal favourite), Pete Brady, Dave Cash and many others have once again shown why these pioneers paved the way for a form of personality radio those of us too young to remember its heyday have much reason to be grateful for. Without the influence of the pirates, so a somewhat ironic BBC TV report claims, there would have been no pop radio and none of the hundreds of local radio stations which now populate the airwaves.
MORE OR LESS?
But are these two a penny ILR stations pumping out anything actually worth listening to and are they worthy successors to their marine forerunners? Can the millions made by covetous shareholders really be justified by the anodyne, homogenous diet pumped out by so many of the independent stations in the noughties, or do we need a return to the sound and the sentiment of the sixties wonders or even earlier eras of sound broadcasting?
One person who certainly seems to think a change is needed is Mr Millionaire himself, Chris Tarrant, who with his interests in a major radio production company is now aiming to bring a better breed of station to the South Coast in a new licence bid. Whether this will really be the case however, or the mere empty promises that so many ILR franchise bids seem to contain, remains to be seen (or do I mean heard?).
Maybe radio needs a patron saint (though I expect someone will point out it already has one somewhere!); can we travellers across the ether dare to hope the final answer for our prayers for better broadcasting can be answered by St Christopher of Celador?
Belief in a resurrection of radio listening -which among some age groups seems to be dying a death- is what we seek. But have faith: Jesus saves souls and - in places like the tsunami disaster zone of the Andaman Islands- radio even saves lives. Alleluia!
Wednesday, 20 April 2005
Holy Smoke Gets In Your Eyes
Batman? No, Vatman actually, or Vatican Man at any rate! The world's one billion catholics have a new pope today, in the shape of Cardinal Josef Ratzinger, or Pope Benedict the Sixteenth as we should now refer to His Holiness. I would have brought you my perspective on this appointment late last night, but like the emissions from the crude chimney which announced a "result" to the waiting faithful, a glitch in the system meant my nocturnal nattering was lost just as I was about to go to print.
White smoke or black smoke? The signals were unclear to many for a while over the two days the conclave took to appoint the new pontiff, leading to many premature cheers. At least the tension was not kept up for long though, as this was one of the shortest conclaves in the history of the Catholic church. Writing from my Protestant perspective though, I think somehow it was obvious the 78-year old Bavarian was the most credible successor to John Paul II. He had impressed many with his eulogy at the late Pope's funeral mass, and in the mass which preceeded the symbolic locking of the doors of the Sistine Chapel while the ancient process of election under the guidance of the Holy Spirit took place.
White smoke or black smoke? The signals were unclear to many for a while over the two days the conclave took to appoint the new pontiff, leading to many premature cheers. At least the tension was not kept up for long though, as this was one of the shortest conclaves in the history of the Catholic church. Writing from my Protestant perspective though, I think somehow it was obvious the 78-year old Bavarian was the most credible successor to John Paul II. He had impressed many with his eulogy at the late Pope's funeral mass, and in the mass which preceeded the symbolic locking of the doors of the Sistine Chapel while the ancient process of election under the guidance of the Holy Spirit took place.
Sunday, 10 April 2005
Of Popes and Polls, Piety and Pals
A new week has begun with another Sunday: this is the day that the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it! As I write this at coming up to 3.00 BST on a sunny Springtime Sunday afternoon in Feltham, there is good reason to be glad indeed, even though the week that has just passed has been one where on both a personal and international level there was more cause for solemnity and sadness- though it climaxed with the joy for at least one middle-aged couple of their long-delayed and often controversial marriage yesterday. Need I mention names...?
It has been a momentous and historic week indeed, one in which somehow I feel humanity is made a little humbler, and a little more aware of its maker. Pontiffs and princes, powers and dominions have been laid low, quite literally in the late John Paul II's case, and an heir apparent got down on his knees at the altar to confess his sins. But the hyperbole with which the press jumped upon one feature of Charles and Camillas's wedding service yesterday- or should I say their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall- was just a little over the top in my view. ALL have sinned, and fall short of the glory of God- but the good news is we are forgiven and God gives us innumerable second chances.
DON'T QUIT
We never know what the next moment will bring, let alone the next day. My dear, late Mum once gave me a poster of a poem called "Don't Quit"- easily found on the web with a quick Google if you are not familiar with it. Recalling the day on Friday on which a far smaller but no less loving group -family and friends of Rose Irene Savage, widow of this parish- said their final farewells to a dearly loved lady just hours after a great pope was buried with pomp and ceremony in front of millions worldwide, it seems appropriate to quote one of my favourite lines from this inspirational if rather secular poem:
"Life is queer with its twists and turns, as everyone of us sometimes learns"
Well, a Prime Minister, a Prince and a sometime preacher in Middlesex certainly found that to be true this week! A Requiem mass and due respect for His Holiness mean the postponement of the formal election announcement at the beginning of the week, and the Vicar of Christ's funeral on Friday meant even the Prince of Wales had to postpone his wedding. For my own part, I had to adjust my sermon last Sunday to take in the sad impact of the papal death, as did our dear friend Julia Spencer who preached at Christ Church this morning. And how could I do a eulogy to my own mother on the same day as the papal funeral. Somehow, though, with God's help, I did.
In the age of the global village, we have all been reminded that we are here for but a brief span, and yet each of us has the capacity in that brief appearance to do things which can change the world for the better and leave our personal contribution to history. Actually, every life matters! I suppose it is a kind of proof, if it were needed, of chaos theory. And a reminder that high or low, God has no favourites. His love endures forever, and nothing can separate us from it- neither death nor life! This was one of the themes of Julia's lovely service this morning at Christ Church here in Feltham, where we also held Mum's funeral thanksgiving on Friday.
What a comforting and enduring truth this is, which carries me now through a time of change and challenge as Matthew and I adjust to life without our Mum but also the opportunities and singular joys that mid life can bring. Unlike Tony Blair, just a few years older than me, who does not intend to see out the whole of the next parliament as leader (IF of course he is re-elected in 3 1/2 weeks time!) I'm certainly not ready to quit just yet, though I've enjoyed my rest! It's time to find a new purpose, and like cleaning my glasses to refresh the vision- for where there is no vision, the people perish, or so says scripture.
STARTING OVER
New beginnings are on many people's minds right now: for the newly wed royals as they start their new life, for the Catholic church as the daunting task of finding a successor to John Paul II begins later this month- and for the people of the United Kingdom as Tony Blair finally revealed the worst kept secret in politics with the calling of a General Election for 5th May.
We never know what the next moment will bring, let alone the next day. Therefore, let's enjoy and live life in all its fulness, as both a pope and a mother showed themselves to have done this week. But let us remember our creator, and give him thanks for each breath we take.
It has been a momentous and historic week indeed, one in which somehow I feel humanity is made a little humbler, and a little more aware of its maker. Pontiffs and princes, powers and dominions have been laid low, quite literally in the late John Paul II's case, and an heir apparent got down on his knees at the altar to confess his sins. But the hyperbole with which the press jumped upon one feature of Charles and Camillas's wedding service yesterday- or should I say their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall- was just a little over the top in my view. ALL have sinned, and fall short of the glory of God- but the good news is we are forgiven and God gives us innumerable second chances.
DON'T QUIT
We never know what the next moment will bring, let alone the next day. My dear, late Mum once gave me a poster of a poem called "Don't Quit"- easily found on the web with a quick Google if you are not familiar with it. Recalling the day on Friday on which a far smaller but no less loving group -family and friends of Rose Irene Savage, widow of this parish- said their final farewells to a dearly loved lady just hours after a great pope was buried with pomp and ceremony in front of millions worldwide, it seems appropriate to quote one of my favourite lines from this inspirational if rather secular poem:
"Life is queer with its twists and turns, as everyone of us sometimes learns"
Well, a Prime Minister, a Prince and a sometime preacher in Middlesex certainly found that to be true this week! A Requiem mass and due respect for His Holiness mean the postponement of the formal election announcement at the beginning of the week, and the Vicar of Christ's funeral on Friday meant even the Prince of Wales had to postpone his wedding. For my own part, I had to adjust my sermon last Sunday to take in the sad impact of the papal death, as did our dear friend Julia Spencer who preached at Christ Church this morning. And how could I do a eulogy to my own mother on the same day as the papal funeral. Somehow, though, with God's help, I did.
In the age of the global village, we have all been reminded that we are here for but a brief span, and yet each of us has the capacity in that brief appearance to do things which can change the world for the better and leave our personal contribution to history. Actually, every life matters! I suppose it is a kind of proof, if it were needed, of chaos theory. And a reminder that high or low, God has no favourites. His love endures forever, and nothing can separate us from it- neither death nor life! This was one of the themes of Julia's lovely service this morning at Christ Church here in Feltham, where we also held Mum's funeral thanksgiving on Friday.
What a comforting and enduring truth this is, which carries me now through a time of change and challenge as Matthew and I adjust to life without our Mum but also the opportunities and singular joys that mid life can bring. Unlike Tony Blair, just a few years older than me, who does not intend to see out the whole of the next parliament as leader (IF of course he is re-elected in 3 1/2 weeks time!) I'm certainly not ready to quit just yet, though I've enjoyed my rest! It's time to find a new purpose, and like cleaning my glasses to refresh the vision- for where there is no vision, the people perish, or so says scripture.
STARTING OVER
New beginnings are on many people's minds right now: for the newly wed royals as they start their new life, for the Catholic church as the daunting task of finding a successor to John Paul II begins later this month- and for the people of the United Kingdom as Tony Blair finally revealed the worst kept secret in politics with the calling of a General Election for 5th May.
We never know what the next moment will bring, let alone the next day. Therefore, let's enjoy and live life in all its fulness, as both a pope and a mother showed themselves to have done this week. But let us remember our creator, and give him thanks for each breath we take.
Sunday, 3 April 2005
See you in the mourning: the end of an era
A week after my own dear Mum passed away, tonight brought the news from the Vatican which to me had seemed imminent for the past month or so. Pope John Paul II, who was the third longest serving occupant of St Peter's throne, died around 20.40 BST yesterday.
Karol Woytyla - excuse my spelling but Polish is such a difficult language!- was without question one of the great popes, and yet a very approachable and human man who changed history-even down to his influence on the fall of Communism in Europe. Even to Protestants like me, who do not feel obligated to the authority structure of the Catholic church, he was a giant of a Christian who was faithful to his Lord to the end. He died as he had lived, with humility and love; ready to meet the saviour, but caring to the end on this earth for the flock of millions entrusted to him in the great tradition of St Peter which we remember around this time of the year.
John Paul II will be a "hard act to follow". His papacy spanned two centuries and 26 years. The world he walked in as a sheep among wolves in 1978 is a very different one in the 21st Century, but the wolves remain albeit in different guises. If ever there was a man to embody the central Christian tenet of forgiveness and love for enemies, this was he. John Paul's meeting with his would-be assassin in the early eighties, recalled in news coverage tonight, spoke more of the message of the gospels than a thousand homilies ever could.
It has indeed been a strange Eastertide this year. The manner of John Paul's passing has in many ways echoed that of my Mum, whose funeral will take place on Friday April 8th, while the papparazzi and the pompous, the royalists and the regal, gather down the road from here in historic Windsor to witness the marriage of our heir apparent to his lifelong love. I dread the former, of course, the final parting, but hope that I will have the courage and strength of character to pay the due tribute to the acts of love and service Rose Savage brought to all those who knew her, just as the funeral of John Paul II around the same time will be one of gratitude and thanksgiving for the life of a great servant of God.
What an irony, and what a tall order for me this week as I have to wear the mantle of mourning as bravely as I can along with my brother- and yet in 10 hours time present a morning service here at Christ Church! I was not planned for today, but the scheduled preacher has himself been in hospital so I have been asked to take his place at short notice. A privilege, but also a challenge, to speak of the continuing message of Easter on this "low Sunday", also known as Quasimodo Sunday, while the bells toll for the loss of a great man of God.
Time now though to get some sleep, but also prayer and prepare as we reflect on the mysteries of God and his timings. We are all in this world for but a little while, but we can all make a difference and leave it a better place. Would that my life could have something of the great about it when I too have to answer that homecoming call, which will come sooner than expected, judging from the swift passage of time. Would that we could ALL hear, as Karol Woytyla will tonight when the Lord calls him by name: "Well done, my good and faithful servant". A fallen world needs the risen Christ now more than ever. May John Paul II's successor, whoever he is, be able to present this Good News in such a faithful and relevant way to the people of today, that soon the Earth shall be filled with the glory of God, as the waters cover the sea.
Karol Woytyla - excuse my spelling but Polish is such a difficult language!- was without question one of the great popes, and yet a very approachable and human man who changed history-even down to his influence on the fall of Communism in Europe. Even to Protestants like me, who do not feel obligated to the authority structure of the Catholic church, he was a giant of a Christian who was faithful to his Lord to the end. He died as he had lived, with humility and love; ready to meet the saviour, but caring to the end on this earth for the flock of millions entrusted to him in the great tradition of St Peter which we remember around this time of the year.
John Paul II will be a "hard act to follow". His papacy spanned two centuries and 26 years. The world he walked in as a sheep among wolves in 1978 is a very different one in the 21st Century, but the wolves remain albeit in different guises. If ever there was a man to embody the central Christian tenet of forgiveness and love for enemies, this was he. John Paul's meeting with his would-be assassin in the early eighties, recalled in news coverage tonight, spoke more of the message of the gospels than a thousand homilies ever could.
It has indeed been a strange Eastertide this year. The manner of John Paul's passing has in many ways echoed that of my Mum, whose funeral will take place on Friday April 8th, while the papparazzi and the pompous, the royalists and the regal, gather down the road from here in historic Windsor to witness the marriage of our heir apparent to his lifelong love. I dread the former, of course, the final parting, but hope that I will have the courage and strength of character to pay the due tribute to the acts of love and service Rose Savage brought to all those who knew her, just as the funeral of John Paul II around the same time will be one of gratitude and thanksgiving for the life of a great servant of God.
What an irony, and what a tall order for me this week as I have to wear the mantle of mourning as bravely as I can along with my brother- and yet in 10 hours time present a morning service here at Christ Church! I was not planned for today, but the scheduled preacher has himself been in hospital so I have been asked to take his place at short notice. A privilege, but also a challenge, to speak of the continuing message of Easter on this "low Sunday", also known as Quasimodo Sunday, while the bells toll for the loss of a great man of God.
Time now though to get some sleep, but also prayer and prepare as we reflect on the mysteries of God and his timings. We are all in this world for but a little while, but we can all make a difference and leave it a better place. Would that my life could have something of the great about it when I too have to answer that homecoming call, which will come sooner than expected, judging from the swift passage of time. Would that we could ALL hear, as Karol Woytyla will tonight when the Lord calls him by name: "Well done, my good and faithful servant". A fallen world needs the risen Christ now more than ever. May John Paul II's successor, whoever he is, be able to present this Good News in such a faithful and relevant way to the people of today, that soon the Earth shall be filled with the glory of God, as the waters cover the sea.
Wednesday, 30 March 2005
Tears from Heaven
Collecting his bus pass today, unbelievably, is Slowand himself, Eric Clapton. As this fan site indicates, he shares his big day with Radio 2's Mr Walker, who has overcome great adversity himself in recent years. I don't suppose I will get round to listening to the show myself, but I wish Eric a happy day indeed. He's surely one of the most gifted guitarists of all time, whose performances on such classics as Leyla are legendary.
However, one of my favourite Eric Clapton tracks is one he now prefers not to perform. In 1991, he lost his 4 year old son Conor in a tragic accident when the boy fell from an apartment balcony. The loss of a child must surely be the worst bereavement of all, but as with all losses somehow time heals. Clapton wrote "Tears in Heaven" as a kind of musical catharsis for his grief back then, but 14 years on he feels that he does not want to play it so often. His love and grief for his lost son will always be there, but somehow he has learnt to move on and the pain is no longer so raw.
I was reminded of this song today particularly, albeit by changing the title just slightly. For the last couple of days, there has been that awful oppressive greyness coupled with spring rain. I should not normally complain about the latter- and if it helps to prevent the hosepipe bans which are already being touted, so much the better.
Right now however it is the last sort of weather I want as it only magnifies the sorrow and sadness within as we continue to mourn my Mum. I need some more of the warm, yellow stuff, just as we had in the week following my Dad's death in 1999.
Somehow, spring sunshine sheds new light and hope on everything, and particularly as we continue to celebrate this Eastertide. I was thinking last night of how much this home means to me at this time of year in particular, looking out at the evening skyscape over to the west and the sun setting over Heathrow, or waking to it in the morning from my bedroom window. It may be the same sun in the same sky, but it is never quite the same in Eastbourne.
But no sign or hope of sun today, though the forecast does show the hope of some sunny intervals tomorrow and then a brighter weekend- no April fooling here. No doubt then my thoughts will turn to "All in the April Evening", that wonderful old spiritual song which always comes to my mind at this time of the year. I don't favour the idea of a fixed Easter, but somehow it always seems more natural to have Easter in April and that is one of the most special months for me. This year however, I will probably see it in a different light entirely.
Before I can get into any "enjoyment" of April evenings, however, there is the trauma of Mum's funeral to get through. Matthew and I went down to the funeral directors this morning and I wondered whether the tears might start flowing then. Somehow, when you have to undertake this horrible task it really brings home the reality of the situation. Matthew dealt with all the formalities of registering the death yesterday, and collecting Mum's few effects, such as they were, from the hospital.
Neither of us feel that we want to see Mum in a chapel before the funeral. It won't be our Mum we see but some shell which is the earthly part of her no longer needed for the moment. Instead, I want to remember her smiles which she still managed to make even up until very recently although she was probably feeling great sadness inside. Somehow, having to look through a brochure to choose a coffin is a somewhat surreal experience and suddenly all those junk mail brochures for pointless products don't seem so bad. I can understand why people cling to the reassuring things of this material world.
As I write, we still haven't got a time and date for the service: our minister is currently away at the Methodist holiday come conference "Easter People" of which I have many fond memories during its early days myself. We won't be able to finalise a date and time until he is able to let us know of his availability- he won't be back til Saturday, although I hope to have the details finalised before then. Part of me even wishes or wonders that I could be down there in Torquay this week, finding new inspiration and ideas to serve the Lord I love so much. However, it was not to be this year.
Strangely, though, getting back to those tears, I haven't really been able to shed any so far- maybe I won't. This in no way devalues the loss I feel, or the sorrow. Maybe it is just that I have shed them inwardly for a long time.
Nevertheless, seeing my brother Matthew running a hand under his nose as we dealt with the arrangements, masking his feelings, made me realise that clearly he mourns more than he lets on. But maybe the tears are coming more FROM Heaven- as Mum and indeed Dad look on at us and care as much as ever, see us suffering for the moment. But there will be joy, there will be new opportunities and there will be chances to smile again. It is often said that death gives meaning to life, and what a life Mum lived. She fitted much into her eighty years, and it is that I want to smile about and contemplate, as we plan her thanksgiving service. Music was so much Mum's life for so long. So, rather than tears in Heaven, no doubt there will be smiles and applause, as now they hear a new star and a new voice. And maybe Conor Clapton too will be in the audience, along with the Risen Jesus who is our hope and reminds us that death is not the end but a glorious new start.
However, one of my favourite Eric Clapton tracks is one he now prefers not to perform. In 1991, he lost his 4 year old son Conor in a tragic accident when the boy fell from an apartment balcony. The loss of a child must surely be the worst bereavement of all, but as with all losses somehow time heals. Clapton wrote "Tears in Heaven" as a kind of musical catharsis for his grief back then, but 14 years on he feels that he does not want to play it so often. His love and grief for his lost son will always be there, but somehow he has learnt to move on and the pain is no longer so raw.
I was reminded of this song today particularly, albeit by changing the title just slightly. For the last couple of days, there has been that awful oppressive greyness coupled with spring rain. I should not normally complain about the latter- and if it helps to prevent the hosepipe bans which are already being touted, so much the better.
Right now however it is the last sort of weather I want as it only magnifies the sorrow and sadness within as we continue to mourn my Mum. I need some more of the warm, yellow stuff, just as we had in the week following my Dad's death in 1999.
Somehow, spring sunshine sheds new light and hope on everything, and particularly as we continue to celebrate this Eastertide. I was thinking last night of how much this home means to me at this time of year in particular, looking out at the evening skyscape over to the west and the sun setting over Heathrow, or waking to it in the morning from my bedroom window. It may be the same sun in the same sky, but it is never quite the same in Eastbourne.
But no sign or hope of sun today, though the forecast does show the hope of some sunny intervals tomorrow and then a brighter weekend- no April fooling here. No doubt then my thoughts will turn to "All in the April Evening", that wonderful old spiritual song which always comes to my mind at this time of the year. I don't favour the idea of a fixed Easter, but somehow it always seems more natural to have Easter in April and that is one of the most special months for me. This year however, I will probably see it in a different light entirely.
Before I can get into any "enjoyment" of April evenings, however, there is the trauma of Mum's funeral to get through. Matthew and I went down to the funeral directors this morning and I wondered whether the tears might start flowing then. Somehow, when you have to undertake this horrible task it really brings home the reality of the situation. Matthew dealt with all the formalities of registering the death yesterday, and collecting Mum's few effects, such as they were, from the hospital.
Neither of us feel that we want to see Mum in a chapel before the funeral. It won't be our Mum we see but some shell which is the earthly part of her no longer needed for the moment. Instead, I want to remember her smiles which she still managed to make even up until very recently although she was probably feeling great sadness inside. Somehow, having to look through a brochure to choose a coffin is a somewhat surreal experience and suddenly all those junk mail brochures for pointless products don't seem so bad. I can understand why people cling to the reassuring things of this material world.
As I write, we still haven't got a time and date for the service: our minister is currently away at the Methodist holiday come conference "Easter People" of which I have many fond memories during its early days myself. We won't be able to finalise a date and time until he is able to let us know of his availability- he won't be back til Saturday, although I hope to have the details finalised before then. Part of me even wishes or wonders that I could be down there in Torquay this week, finding new inspiration and ideas to serve the Lord I love so much. However, it was not to be this year.
Strangely, though, getting back to those tears, I haven't really been able to shed any so far- maybe I won't. This in no way devalues the loss I feel, or the sorrow. Maybe it is just that I have shed them inwardly for a long time.
Nevertheless, seeing my brother Matthew running a hand under his nose as we dealt with the arrangements, masking his feelings, made me realise that clearly he mourns more than he lets on. But maybe the tears are coming more FROM Heaven- as Mum and indeed Dad look on at us and care as much as ever, see us suffering for the moment. But there will be joy, there will be new opportunities and there will be chances to smile again. It is often said that death gives meaning to life, and what a life Mum lived. She fitted much into her eighty years, and it is that I want to smile about and contemplate, as we plan her thanksgiving service. Music was so much Mum's life for so long. So, rather than tears in Heaven, no doubt there will be smiles and applause, as now they hear a new star and a new voice. And maybe Conor Clapton too will be in the audience, along with the Risen Jesus who is our hope and reminds us that death is not the end but a glorious new start.
Sunday, 27 March 2005
Time Turns on Today
If you've been reading these blogs regularly for the last five months, you may recall my musing on the clock change back in October when we "gained" an hour as BST gave way to GMT for the winter months. Now, on Easter Day, we move on- and true to usual form, the fine spring weather of Good Friday and yesterday has given way to a rather dreary, even slightly drizzly Easter afternoon.
Not that the weather in anyway deterred the thousands lining the towpaths and thronging from the pubs alongside Old Father Thames for the 151st meet of the Oxford and Cambridge University boat clubs. ITV1's first coverage of the traditional riperian clash lacked the panache, perhaps, of the BBC coverage they have done so well for years, but it still provided excellent coverage of a thrilling race which I enjoyed watching along with my brother, who has stayed here in Feltham today but has spent some time down in Sussex for the weekend.
Enjoying normal things and the events of Eastertide have proved to be both helpful but poignant this year. In this posting, sad to tell but not unexpectedly given recent events, I have to report that my beloved Mum died at about 2.00 a.m GMT on Easter Saturday morning. Neither my brother or I were actually there at the time, and instead it fell to that modern instrument of both good news and bad news, the telephone, to alert us to it. Matt and I had been with Mum for much of Good Friday, and I did wonder whether or not I should have stopped through the night. However, as it happens, would it have helped? I think not. We had after all spent much of the last twelve days with Mum and I think she would have wanted to spare us the pain of witnessing that final moment of passing in some ways- I could have been asleep anyway if I'd stayed.
So what did I feel then, and what do I feel now? This is where it comes back to the weather, and how yesterday was strangely easier to bear than the days before. It's certainly true what they say in situations like this that the end comes as a release, as much for the one mourned as those doing the mourning. Just sitting alongside an inert Mum, not able to communicate directly with us, nor eat drink or move, had been agonising, as had been those previous "false alarms" when we were told to expect the worst. Of course the loss is as grievous as ever, but maybe in some ways I have done some of my grieving already, indeed have been doing so ever since the terminal diagnosis was first made.
Yet today, of all days, is my ground for hope and should be for all people but especially those who believe that the Biblical accounts of Easter are true. The whole future of humanity does indeed turn on what happened on that first Easter Day. Contrary to Nietzche's nihilist philosophy and the oh so hopeless views of so many, God is not dead- indeed, he is very much alive and Easter Day proves that he wants us to live with him for eternity. Oh, we will probably have to taste the pains of death first, from both sides- the pain of parting for those that remain, chiefly, but Jesus rising again, in a physical body which it understandably took his followers some time to recognise, is our hope that death is not the end. All those who have loved and lost have hope of being reunited with their dear ones- though death could never end the love of a mother or for a mother anyway.
For my part, my sense of loss is for all that has gone and been enjoyed over the years, that can never now be experienced in quite the same way. I felt a mild sorrow as I watched the Boat Race, remembering the many times I've watched it on telly with Mum over the years. I had an inner sigh as I reflected that my 45th birthday last June, which happened to occur on a Sunday, turned out to be the last one I will have spent with my Mum- which makes it all the more precious for that. At the time, funnily enough, I had been thinking back to my 40th, and how quickly those five years had gone. I had celebrated the big 40 with a mega party at the Civil Service Sports club in Chiswick, very close to the big event on the Thames today. Maybe I even held on to the hope that I would also celebrate my fiftieth with my whole family, but it is not to be.
So, we mourn but we also move on. Despite the weather, Spring has most definitely arrived. The time between now and Mum's funeral will probably seem like an eternity, and even then there will be lots of practicalities to sort out with probate- not nearly so easy as it was with Dad, since most of his funds were in joint names. These are all the unwelcome legacies that a loss leaves, but there is also the chance for closure, with affectionate remembrance of all that has gone but new opportunities.
Who knows what I will have to report come the end of October when the clocks once again revert to good old GMT? Only God knows. The Resurrection is our greatest proof that God is the greatest dispenser of surprises the World will ever know. They might not always be the kind of surprises we want, but he always provides hope, comfort and joy to mitigate the sorrows and the suffering of this life.
If you are reading this, and are unconvinced, don't worry- you are not alone. So was the famous "doubting" Thomas, who apparently only acquired his epithet in about the fifteenth century. To have doubts about the truth of Christ's resurrection is a perfectly understandable and rational reaction. But the very inclusion of Thomas's story in the gospel accounts shows that God understands our weaknesses and our lack of belief, but loves us still.
Today then, maybe you might like to read the full story of Easter, perhaps for the first time; if you don't have a bible, there are plenty of on-line resources which will have the relevant passages for you. If you read of the resurrection- all the accounts give slightly different details but share a common core- and want to accept it with all your heart, you don't need to change your name to Thomas, or to Mary, or even to Peter, the disciple who disowned Jesus three times on that awful eve of crucifixion. Peter became a great servant of the early church, faithful follower of the risen Lord and the first occupant of the papal chair in Rome which John Paul II is hanging on to by a divine thread at the moment. You don't need complex words, formulas or even to step across a church doorway to know the joy of the first Easter today: just say, like Thomas "Lord, I believe: help my unbelief".
Not that the weather in anyway deterred the thousands lining the towpaths and thronging from the pubs alongside Old Father Thames for the 151st meet of the Oxford and Cambridge University boat clubs. ITV1's first coverage of the traditional riperian clash lacked the panache, perhaps, of the BBC coverage they have done so well for years, but it still provided excellent coverage of a thrilling race which I enjoyed watching along with my brother, who has stayed here in Feltham today but has spent some time down in Sussex for the weekend.
Enjoying normal things and the events of Eastertide have proved to be both helpful but poignant this year. In this posting, sad to tell but not unexpectedly given recent events, I have to report that my beloved Mum died at about 2.00 a.m GMT on Easter Saturday morning. Neither my brother or I were actually there at the time, and instead it fell to that modern instrument of both good news and bad news, the telephone, to alert us to it. Matt and I had been with Mum for much of Good Friday, and I did wonder whether or not I should have stopped through the night. However, as it happens, would it have helped? I think not. We had after all spent much of the last twelve days with Mum and I think she would have wanted to spare us the pain of witnessing that final moment of passing in some ways- I could have been asleep anyway if I'd stayed.
So what did I feel then, and what do I feel now? This is where it comes back to the weather, and how yesterday was strangely easier to bear than the days before. It's certainly true what they say in situations like this that the end comes as a release, as much for the one mourned as those doing the mourning. Just sitting alongside an inert Mum, not able to communicate directly with us, nor eat drink or move, had been agonising, as had been those previous "false alarms" when we were told to expect the worst. Of course the loss is as grievous as ever, but maybe in some ways I have done some of my grieving already, indeed have been doing so ever since the terminal diagnosis was first made.
Yet today, of all days, is my ground for hope and should be for all people but especially those who believe that the Biblical accounts of Easter are true. The whole future of humanity does indeed turn on what happened on that first Easter Day. Contrary to Nietzche's nihilist philosophy and the oh so hopeless views of so many, God is not dead- indeed, he is very much alive and Easter Day proves that he wants us to live with him for eternity. Oh, we will probably have to taste the pains of death first, from both sides- the pain of parting for those that remain, chiefly, but Jesus rising again, in a physical body which it understandably took his followers some time to recognise, is our hope that death is not the end. All those who have loved and lost have hope of being reunited with their dear ones- though death could never end the love of a mother or for a mother anyway.
For my part, my sense of loss is for all that has gone and been enjoyed over the years, that can never now be experienced in quite the same way. I felt a mild sorrow as I watched the Boat Race, remembering the many times I've watched it on telly with Mum over the years. I had an inner sigh as I reflected that my 45th birthday last June, which happened to occur on a Sunday, turned out to be the last one I will have spent with my Mum- which makes it all the more precious for that. At the time, funnily enough, I had been thinking back to my 40th, and how quickly those five years had gone. I had celebrated the big 40 with a mega party at the Civil Service Sports club in Chiswick, very close to the big event on the Thames today. Maybe I even held on to the hope that I would also celebrate my fiftieth with my whole family, but it is not to be.
So, we mourn but we also move on. Despite the weather, Spring has most definitely arrived. The time between now and Mum's funeral will probably seem like an eternity, and even then there will be lots of practicalities to sort out with probate- not nearly so easy as it was with Dad, since most of his funds were in joint names. These are all the unwelcome legacies that a loss leaves, but there is also the chance for closure, with affectionate remembrance of all that has gone but new opportunities.
Who knows what I will have to report come the end of October when the clocks once again revert to good old GMT? Only God knows. The Resurrection is our greatest proof that God is the greatest dispenser of surprises the World will ever know. They might not always be the kind of surprises we want, but he always provides hope, comfort and joy to mitigate the sorrows and the suffering of this life.
If you are reading this, and are unconvinced, don't worry- you are not alone. So was the famous "doubting" Thomas, who apparently only acquired his epithet in about the fifteenth century. To have doubts about the truth of Christ's resurrection is a perfectly understandable and rational reaction. But the very inclusion of Thomas's story in the gospel accounts shows that God understands our weaknesses and our lack of belief, but loves us still.
Today then, maybe you might like to read the full story of Easter, perhaps for the first time; if you don't have a bible, there are plenty of on-line resources which will have the relevant passages for you. If you read of the resurrection- all the accounts give slightly different details but share a common core- and want to accept it with all your heart, you don't need to change your name to Thomas, or to Mary, or even to Peter, the disciple who disowned Jesus three times on that awful eve of crucifixion. Peter became a great servant of the early church, faithful follower of the risen Lord and the first occupant of the papal chair in Rome which John Paul II is hanging on to by a divine thread at the moment. You don't need complex words, formulas or even to step across a church doorway to know the joy of the first Easter today: just say, like Thomas "Lord, I believe: help my unbelief".
Thursday, 24 March 2005
Maundy before Mournday?
Maundy Thursday. This always used to be a bitter-sweet day for me: often it marked the start of the school Easter holidays, and that sense of being "demob happy" never quite left me in my years at work. The rare time in the year where a public holiday is observed on a Friday, followed by a weekend and then another holiday, seemed to throw one's sense of time into total confusion. On Maundy Thursday itself, I've always in the past found a real sense of hurrying around making preparations and yet, for the past twenty years since I became a Christian, it has been one of the most beautiful and meaningful days of the year as our Lord's last night on Earth is remembered.
This Maundy Thursday though, and the days that will follow it, take on an added poignancy and sense of worry quite devoid of the normal sense of expectation and relative happiness I have experienced in the past at this time. What is the Lord's will for my dear Mum? How much longer can she possibly hang in there? Is it too much to hope that she can survive through the Easter weekend and share in earthly celebrations of the most important festival and the core of Christianity? Or is God himself going to draw her into that permanent Easter before we even get to that?
I ought to be able to say that in some super-spiritual way I am being drawn into greater understanding of our Lord's passion and just what he went through in that "Holy Week" which went all too quickly. I ought to be able to say that I feel his strength and his hand close by on my shoulder, as I so often do. I ought to know that he weeps with me as he did with the sisters of Lazarus, even though the frail flesh that contains my Mum is still with us, breathing and constantly sleepy and therefore considered by medicine to be close to the end.
I ought to know where my place lies at this time, what I can do, what I can say. I ought to feel strong. Yet, despite the support of my dear brother Matthew, I feel so weak and helpless, so longing for sweet sleep to take away the pain and to forget it all. To wake up in the morning and find my troubles behind me. Above all, like a helpless child, I feel like saying "I want my Mummy"!
On this day last year, whenever it fell, I was at this very moment sitting in a dark cinema in Eastbourne watching "The Passion of the Christ". This was surely the most affecting film I have ever seen. Controversial though it was, and played out in an unfamiliar language, it portrayed the final hours of Christ's life on Earth before the crucifixion in the most graphic way I have ever seen it portrayed. The full horror of that grisly death was brought home in a way that could not be ignored. Thereby, in some way, the full horror of any death, any loss, was suggested. For death and loss are the ultimate insult and offence against the love which God offers us and which, on that night he was betrayed, Christ his son asked us to have for one another.
I suppose if I am honest I have had much experience of grief for my Mum already. That ought to make facing whatever the next few days holds "easier", but it doesn't. Fear still grips me, confusion, the strange and almost surreal attempts to carry on with normal life, even down to watching the same television programmes I've always enjoyed together with some that just pass the time. So much of the daytime fare on offer now seems to be about what money you can make from your home, or how you can trade up or find a nice new place in the country- what you can get, rather than what you can give.
This though is surely symbolic of the ignorance and distaste for spiritual values and the eternal things that so many folk in our society seem to have today, or am I being unkind? In finding joy in the beauty of Springtime, or hankering after a nice rural retreat, that "God shaped hole" is being revealed in many folk. Yet we can only taste and enjoy the pleasures of this world for a time. At the moment, I have been finding it hard to find meaning in all the things people search for, and in the apparent lack in my own life at this stage- at 45. I have no children, no job. What is the point in life. How can I be joyful again when I have to face such loss? Yet to see myself in simply these terms is to give in to the one Jesus defeated at Calvary! It is why he spent forty days in the desert of temptation and loneliness, grappling with Satan to find his own meaning.
ALL THE VAIN THINGS THAT CHARM ME MOST
I sacrifice them to his blood. Isaac Watts wrote his great Passiontide hymn "When I survey the Wondrous Cross" in an age long before PDAs and iPODs, flat screen TVs and world cruises. Yet the hedonism and self-seeking of his generation were probably as real as they are in ours, even if his had a more accepting faith in Christ than ours does. The brevity of life in his time brought a recognition of the importance of trusting in something larger than life, something beyond life, something which gives hope and meaning for eternity.
I do not know what the next few days will bring. Making decisions at this time is so difficult. Matthew is still undecided as I write, whether he should join his usual Easter camp with the scouts in the Ashdown Forest, or whether his duty lies here in Middlesex. I feel for him. Part of me thinks that he should go, while the other half wants him around for support and to just "be there" if the terrible expected event of Mum's passing happens this weekend. And yet even if it does, nothing can really be done on a practical level til Tuesday. What a horrible, difficult burden you have thrown at us, Lord, yet what a privilege of love you have given us in having a Mum who loves us so much that she is still clinging on in there to life, even if she can't say so. May her journey through life's close, whenever it comes, be comforted by the knowledge that on the other side she will meet you, who has conquered death that we all might live.
I do not know whether I will have the opportunity for another posting between now and Easter Sunday. How very different it is from the joyful anticipation of Christmas I wrote about just three months ago today, when did we but know it, Mum already suspected in her mind that something was wrong and that she might not see another Christmas. Nevertheless, we will have our memories of so many joyful Christmasses and happy Easters, of playtime and fun time and of the wonder of childhood. However you spend your holiday weekend, and wherever you are, may you experience life in all its fulness but remember your maker in the passover from Passiontide to Eastertide. God Bless MARK
This Maundy Thursday though, and the days that will follow it, take on an added poignancy and sense of worry quite devoid of the normal sense of expectation and relative happiness I have experienced in the past at this time. What is the Lord's will for my dear Mum? How much longer can she possibly hang in there? Is it too much to hope that she can survive through the Easter weekend and share in earthly celebrations of the most important festival and the core of Christianity? Or is God himself going to draw her into that permanent Easter before we even get to that?
I ought to be able to say that in some super-spiritual way I am being drawn into greater understanding of our Lord's passion and just what he went through in that "Holy Week" which went all too quickly. I ought to be able to say that I feel his strength and his hand close by on my shoulder, as I so often do. I ought to know that he weeps with me as he did with the sisters of Lazarus, even though the frail flesh that contains my Mum is still with us, breathing and constantly sleepy and therefore considered by medicine to be close to the end.
I ought to know where my place lies at this time, what I can do, what I can say. I ought to feel strong. Yet, despite the support of my dear brother Matthew, I feel so weak and helpless, so longing for sweet sleep to take away the pain and to forget it all. To wake up in the morning and find my troubles behind me. Above all, like a helpless child, I feel like saying "I want my Mummy"!
On this day last year, whenever it fell, I was at this very moment sitting in a dark cinema in Eastbourne watching "The Passion of the Christ". This was surely the most affecting film I have ever seen. Controversial though it was, and played out in an unfamiliar language, it portrayed the final hours of Christ's life on Earth before the crucifixion in the most graphic way I have ever seen it portrayed. The full horror of that grisly death was brought home in a way that could not be ignored. Thereby, in some way, the full horror of any death, any loss, was suggested. For death and loss are the ultimate insult and offence against the love which God offers us and which, on that night he was betrayed, Christ his son asked us to have for one another.
I suppose if I am honest I have had much experience of grief for my Mum already. That ought to make facing whatever the next few days holds "easier", but it doesn't. Fear still grips me, confusion, the strange and almost surreal attempts to carry on with normal life, even down to watching the same television programmes I've always enjoyed together with some that just pass the time. So much of the daytime fare on offer now seems to be about what money you can make from your home, or how you can trade up or find a nice new place in the country- what you can get, rather than what you can give.
This though is surely symbolic of the ignorance and distaste for spiritual values and the eternal things that so many folk in our society seem to have today, or am I being unkind? In finding joy in the beauty of Springtime, or hankering after a nice rural retreat, that "God shaped hole" is being revealed in many folk. Yet we can only taste and enjoy the pleasures of this world for a time. At the moment, I have been finding it hard to find meaning in all the things people search for, and in the apparent lack in my own life at this stage- at 45. I have no children, no job. What is the point in life. How can I be joyful again when I have to face such loss? Yet to see myself in simply these terms is to give in to the one Jesus defeated at Calvary! It is why he spent forty days in the desert of temptation and loneliness, grappling with Satan to find his own meaning.
ALL THE VAIN THINGS THAT CHARM ME MOST
I sacrifice them to his blood. Isaac Watts wrote his great Passiontide hymn "When I survey the Wondrous Cross" in an age long before PDAs and iPODs, flat screen TVs and world cruises. Yet the hedonism and self-seeking of his generation were probably as real as they are in ours, even if his had a more accepting faith in Christ than ours does. The brevity of life in his time brought a recognition of the importance of trusting in something larger than life, something beyond life, something which gives hope and meaning for eternity.
I do not know what the next few days will bring. Making decisions at this time is so difficult. Matthew is still undecided as I write, whether he should join his usual Easter camp with the scouts in the Ashdown Forest, or whether his duty lies here in Middlesex. I feel for him. Part of me thinks that he should go, while the other half wants him around for support and to just "be there" if the terrible expected event of Mum's passing happens this weekend. And yet even if it does, nothing can really be done on a practical level til Tuesday. What a horrible, difficult burden you have thrown at us, Lord, yet what a privilege of love you have given us in having a Mum who loves us so much that she is still clinging on in there to life, even if she can't say so. May her journey through life's close, whenever it comes, be comforted by the knowledge that on the other side she will meet you, who has conquered death that we all might live.
I do not know whether I will have the opportunity for another posting between now and Easter Sunday. How very different it is from the joyful anticipation of Christmas I wrote about just three months ago today, when did we but know it, Mum already suspected in her mind that something was wrong and that she might not see another Christmas. Nevertheless, we will have our memories of so many joyful Christmasses and happy Easters, of playtime and fun time and of the wonder of childhood. However you spend your holiday weekend, and wherever you are, may you experience life in all its fulness but remember your maker in the passover from Passiontide to Eastertide. God Bless MARK
Saturday, 19 March 2005
Golden Brown
So, what came to your mind first of all when you read today's subject line? It could almost be a question straight out of a therapist's textbook, perhaps training material for Chris Barrie whose latest creation is attempting to get into the minds of a whole host of weird and wonderful creations portrayed by Paul Whitehouse on Help! on BBC Two on Sunday nights at present. Not that I have seen anything other than the trailers so far mind, but it looks like a good show.
Or did you think of the excellent Stranglers classic hit from a past decade. Now, which was it- the nineties? No, it must have been the eighties, surely. But time moves by so painfully quickly- the pain being that you only realise how fast it has gone after the event! It's middle aged crisis mixed with the prospect of bereavement, I'm sure, but I seem to have been spending a lot more time lately feeling sorry that I did not make more of my own youth when that song was out. On the other hand, the unashamed hedonism of the twenties means nothing compared to the spiritual blessings in the decades since.
I'm not being a goodie goodie when I say that I have never dabbled with wacky backy or illegal drugs of any kind. However, right now particularly, I can understand how people with difficult lives and the complexities of trying to cope can be led to indulge in the kind of substance the Stranglers song was supposedly all about: Golden Brown, some alleged, was a reference to Heroin. Spurious at best. Why do people take drugs? To numb the pain of life, I guess, and to attempt to find something better that the "real world" cannot offer.
There was a young patient in my Mum's ward earlier this week, just 17 and apparently a Christian. She had been admitted after taking an overdose. Very sad. This morning's headlines focus on the government reviewing its decision to "downgrade" cannabis as an illegal drug, now that it has been noted that many cannabis takers are more prone to mental illness.
The cynics and the atheists might also say that people turn to religion as a crutch or to fill a void. Well, leave them to their scoffing say I. Religious belief may be the stuff of faith rather than the senses, but I would rather have faith than live in the vacuum of nothingness which is otherwise the "meaning" of life, isn't it? For the non-believer, by the way, it is easy to forget that even the Bible itself acknowledges that everything in life can appear meaningless- see Ecclesiastes- but it has to be taken in context: "the fool in his heart says there is no God". Surely more foolish to believe in nothing than to believe in one who loves and saves, even from the harshest of live's troubles- which I know all about right now- and has known all our human woes and sorrows. On the eve of Holy Week 2005, a point to ponder
GOING TO THE GEE-GEES
Or did "Golden Brown" sound to you like a racehorse? If so, then you have probably been glued to the Cheltenham Festival this week, as classy Gloucestershire turns for the week to Little Ireland. I've even found myself watching the gee gees over the last couple of days, but in the sad setting of a hospital ward with Mum, still with us but acknowledged as being on "open order" since Sunday-which is why Matthew and I have been spending most of our time in Bronte Ward since then and doing what little we can to support our dear one with our presence and compassion- but feeling so helpless.
However, yesterday evening things did seem to be improving at least a bit. Mum's temperature was a little bit better, and they had managed to put a cannula in again to offer her intravenous therapy. Although it is marginal, there was at least a sufficient improvement for us not to feel the need to stay overnight again, and instead to enjoy our Friday night date with a pint or two of Young's at the Abercorn Arms in Teddington.
We were warned on Sunday that Mum could go that night- and it proved the longest and most testing of nights of my life, quite unlike anything else I have experienced. However, despite the predictions of the medic, Mum once again pulled through- but so far to a very limited quality of life indeed which is so sad to watch. She is conscious, but has been very drowsy and spending much of her time sleeping. She is not currently taking anything by mouth, and is only able to receive fluids directly into her tummy as there are no useable veins for intravenous therapy.
The cause and the suddenness of this current crisis, despite the gloomy prognosis following the diagnosis of a tumour back in January, has nevertheless shocked us both. As far as the medics are concerned, however, they still don't really know whether the current crisis is due to the effect of Mum's tumour, or to problems fighting the infection which was the reason for her admission last week. If the latter, as I hope, then there is still room for encouragement despite all the most desperate signs. The human body has a remarkable capacity to come back from even the worst crisis. If Mum can somehow defy the odds and overcome, my next posting may not be the sad one I have always feared having to make. But this takes faith as well as a biochemical improvement. May, whatever happens, I never lose that faith.
BACK TO THE DISPATCH BOX
However, I digress slightly from what I intended to post here, though of course I did want to share the highs as well as the lows of my life too as has become my custom in these blogs. Wednesday was Budget Day, so much different from the customary event it was of yore. These days, it is almost banished to a minor media event, receiving coverage only on BBC TWO today rather than ONE- although ITV still carried it on their main channel. And it suddenly becomes a lunchtime rather than mid-afternoon affair (dare I suggest to make the evening papers?), and on a Tuesday rather than a Wednesday.
Some are suggesting that this may be Brown's last budget; if Labour win the expected General Election on May 5th, then our Gordon is destined for the Foreign Office. Whether he approves of this of course is not recorded, though his alleged squabble with his next door neighbour most certainly is. His budget seemed to me to be more bland than grand, although it certainly features some long overdue and welcomed fillips to the housing market (raising of the stamp duty threshold) and and to pensioners. From next year ALL wrinklies will be entitled to free bus travel courtesy of new labour. The Guinness drinkers at Cheltenham will not be thanking Mr Brown for the extra penny on their pint of the dark stuff, but if their tipple is Irish Whiskey, they have been spared once again. I suppose this is the only sensible decision that can be expected of a Scot, albeit a teetotal one.
Weather wise, it's certainly a Golden start to Spring, something to cheer the gloom we obviously feel at the moment. I would like Mum to see another Holy Week, and the hope of Easter- and above all to be able to have a two way conversation with her. In his final week on Earth, Jesus still had time to perform many compassionate healings and show his love to us finally in that sacrifice of Good Friday which was the turning point of history. My next postings will reflect more on these great and profound events.
Or did you think of the excellent Stranglers classic hit from a past decade. Now, which was it- the nineties? No, it must have been the eighties, surely. But time moves by so painfully quickly- the pain being that you only realise how fast it has gone after the event! It's middle aged crisis mixed with the prospect of bereavement, I'm sure, but I seem to have been spending a lot more time lately feeling sorry that I did not make more of my own youth when that song was out. On the other hand, the unashamed hedonism of the twenties means nothing compared to the spiritual blessings in the decades since.
I'm not being a goodie goodie when I say that I have never dabbled with wacky backy or illegal drugs of any kind. However, right now particularly, I can understand how people with difficult lives and the complexities of trying to cope can be led to indulge in the kind of substance the Stranglers song was supposedly all about: Golden Brown, some alleged, was a reference to Heroin. Spurious at best. Why do people take drugs? To numb the pain of life, I guess, and to attempt to find something better that the "real world" cannot offer.
There was a young patient in my Mum's ward earlier this week, just 17 and apparently a Christian. She had been admitted after taking an overdose. Very sad. This morning's headlines focus on the government reviewing its decision to "downgrade" cannabis as an illegal drug, now that it has been noted that many cannabis takers are more prone to mental illness.
The cynics and the atheists might also say that people turn to religion as a crutch or to fill a void. Well, leave them to their scoffing say I. Religious belief may be the stuff of faith rather than the senses, but I would rather have faith than live in the vacuum of nothingness which is otherwise the "meaning" of life, isn't it? For the non-believer, by the way, it is easy to forget that even the Bible itself acknowledges that everything in life can appear meaningless- see Ecclesiastes- but it has to be taken in context: "the fool in his heart says there is no God". Surely more foolish to believe in nothing than to believe in one who loves and saves, even from the harshest of live's troubles- which I know all about right now- and has known all our human woes and sorrows. On the eve of Holy Week 2005, a point to ponder
GOING TO THE GEE-GEES
Or did "Golden Brown" sound to you like a racehorse? If so, then you have probably been glued to the Cheltenham Festival this week, as classy Gloucestershire turns for the week to Little Ireland. I've even found myself watching the gee gees over the last couple of days, but in the sad setting of a hospital ward with Mum, still with us but acknowledged as being on "open order" since Sunday-which is why Matthew and I have been spending most of our time in Bronte Ward since then and doing what little we can to support our dear one with our presence and compassion- but feeling so helpless.
However, yesterday evening things did seem to be improving at least a bit. Mum's temperature was a little bit better, and they had managed to put a cannula in again to offer her intravenous therapy. Although it is marginal, there was at least a sufficient improvement for us not to feel the need to stay overnight again, and instead to enjoy our Friday night date with a pint or two of Young's at the Abercorn Arms in Teddington.
We were warned on Sunday that Mum could go that night- and it proved the longest and most testing of nights of my life, quite unlike anything else I have experienced. However, despite the predictions of the medic, Mum once again pulled through- but so far to a very limited quality of life indeed which is so sad to watch. She is conscious, but has been very drowsy and spending much of her time sleeping. She is not currently taking anything by mouth, and is only able to receive fluids directly into her tummy as there are no useable veins for intravenous therapy.
The cause and the suddenness of this current crisis, despite the gloomy prognosis following the diagnosis of a tumour back in January, has nevertheless shocked us both. As far as the medics are concerned, however, they still don't really know whether the current crisis is due to the effect of Mum's tumour, or to problems fighting the infection which was the reason for her admission last week. If the latter, as I hope, then there is still room for encouragement despite all the most desperate signs. The human body has a remarkable capacity to come back from even the worst crisis. If Mum can somehow defy the odds and overcome, my next posting may not be the sad one I have always feared having to make. But this takes faith as well as a biochemical improvement. May, whatever happens, I never lose that faith.
BACK TO THE DISPATCH BOX
However, I digress slightly from what I intended to post here, though of course I did want to share the highs as well as the lows of my life too as has become my custom in these blogs. Wednesday was Budget Day, so much different from the customary event it was of yore. These days, it is almost banished to a minor media event, receiving coverage only on BBC TWO today rather than ONE- although ITV still carried it on their main channel. And it suddenly becomes a lunchtime rather than mid-afternoon affair (dare I suggest to make the evening papers?), and on a Tuesday rather than a Wednesday.
Some are suggesting that this may be Brown's last budget; if Labour win the expected General Election on May 5th, then our Gordon is destined for the Foreign Office. Whether he approves of this of course is not recorded, though his alleged squabble with his next door neighbour most certainly is. His budget seemed to me to be more bland than grand, although it certainly features some long overdue and welcomed fillips to the housing market (raising of the stamp duty threshold) and and to pensioners. From next year ALL wrinklies will be entitled to free bus travel courtesy of new labour. The Guinness drinkers at Cheltenham will not be thanking Mr Brown for the extra penny on their pint of the dark stuff, but if their tipple is Irish Whiskey, they have been spared once again. I suppose this is the only sensible decision that can be expected of a Scot, albeit a teetotal one.
Weather wise, it's certainly a Golden start to Spring, something to cheer the gloom we obviously feel at the moment. I would like Mum to see another Holy Week, and the hope of Easter- and above all to be able to have a two way conversation with her. In his final week on Earth, Jesus still had time to perform many compassionate healings and show his love to us finally in that sacrifice of Good Friday which was the turning point of history. My next postings will reflect more on these great and profound events.
Thursday, 10 March 2005
The four moons of Gallifray
There was a very eerie sight in the sky over Feltham last night: four little red lights, twinkling like tiny stars. What could this be? My home town may be notorious for it's Young Offender's institution, or the Borstal as those of us of a certain age still think of it- but it hasn't yet got a red light district as far as I know. Or has someone assembled a suburban rival to the London Eye, apparently experiencing financial difficulties right now, much to my surprise. Mmm, could be.
Or maybe, I thought whimsically, we've been transported to another galaxy momentarily and this is part of the launch party for the much-heralded new series of Doctor Who which begins on Easter Saturday.Perhaps these mysterious red lights are actually four satellites shining over the home planet of the latest Who, Christopher Ecclestone, parading along with his arch adversaries today in my alma mater of Cardiff where the series was filmed. Strange choice of location- surely it doesn't look that alien does it, even if it is Wales! One reason I decided not to stay in the capital of the principality after graduating was that I did not feel Welsh enough, although you could say that one reason I have doubts about staying in Eastbourne is that I don't feel old enough!
Enough of these flights of fancy though. The actual answer for these unusual sights on the Middlesex skyline is that they are the aircraft warning lights atop the cranes now adorning the hub of my home town as the new Longford Centre, "Feltham reborn" as the marketing hype has it, takes shape. They do make a graceful sight, by day or night, and it is very encouraging to see the superstructure of this retail, residential and community "ship" taking shape. Here's hoping it will make a real difference to this often unregarded dormitory town on the edge of London, though maybe it's time the area's achievements are given the credit they deserve.
For example:
A favoured variety of pea, the Feltham First, was grown in the very soil on which my house now sits when it was one of the many orchards and market gardens which once made up the landscape of this part of Middlesex
The Feltham tramcar was made here and was in widespread use across the country until trams became displaced by buses in the early sixties. Ironically though, this town never had a tram service of its own
James Bond's Aston Martin was made here, in a factory on the Hanworth Air Park, where the Graf Zeppelin landed in 1932.
And, lest you be wondering how we managed in the days before GPS, General Roy's baseline for the first Ordnance Survey maps was drawn less than a mile from where I now sit.
But what about the pubs....
THE MOON ON THE SQUARE
Sadly, Feltham doesn't really have any classic hostelries any more, though the beer served in those it does have is generally pretty good. Pun intended, but I don't commend the General Roy, the area's newest pub on the edge of the Air Park, which has become one of those dreadful Big Steak places.
This means my local these days tends to be the town's Wetherspoon outlet, with the rather uninspiring and unoriginal name of The Moon on the Square. It used to be The Cricketers, a popular friendly pub for several years and where my Mum and Dad enjoyed many a Sunday evening singsong around the old joeanna in the mid seventies. None of that these days: music is barred in J D W's establishments. However, it does make for an easy conversational environment, and I was able to enjoy three pints or so of some tasty beers along with Dave last night- and very welcome they were too along with the conversation.
The beers? Well, I started with a very strange experience: a tasty brew which looked rather more like Fairy Liquid than the product of the malt and the hop. This was Signs of Spring from the Stonehenge brewery; I mused to Dave that its colour made it more suitable for St Pat's Day in a week's time, but it's taste was lovely. However, I followed it up with that well-quaffed brew of my youth, Greene King Abbot Ale, and finally joined Dave in Robinson's England's Champion ale.
It's not often lately that I have had the chance to spend times in the congenial company of my own friends, along with the relaxing companion which is a good pint. It's been good to go out with my brother and his friends at least once a week while Mum has been ill, but it's not quite the same. I've known Dave now for 29 years- which makes me feel really old- so we can chat about most things fairly honestly and it was good to release some of my woes last night, but also feel a bit cheered and at least for a moment forget the gloom which the cloudy weather here today is not helping. Indeed, late evenings seem to be the best time for me lately when I feel at my most relaxed: another day has been got through, and I enjoy either the TV or some humour with BBC 7, or try to get off to sleep with Radio 4 or Radio 5 Live. As I observed in an earlier posting, I am certainly experiencing again the comfort of radio as a constant companion. At which point, time to turn Ken Bruce on again, if you'll pardon the phrase.
RESPITE
In all times of crisis and worry, human beings need something to take their mind off their troubles and to give them a happier focus. Somehow it is how we keep going- few souls can cope with constant trauma, or though it always amazes me how resilient the human spirit is and what some people get through in their lives. I've heard and remembered several people recently who have had losses much sadder than those I keep contemplating and somehow it gives me a kind of encouragement that I will be able to cope and move on myself, though I have had frequent cause to doubt that and worry about it myself recently.
Mothering Sunday proved to be a very worrying day when I honestly thought the end was at hand for my own dear Mum. Awaking at 8.00 to take her a cuppa in bed, where she has spent practically all her time lately, I found her looking very distressed and poorly, with laboured breathing, a pale colour and not even able to take fluids. A call to the excellent District nurses recommended a call to the ambulance service, who arrived very promptly and soon had Mum on the way to the Emergency Department at Ashford Hospital which has become so familiar to us this last year. Shamefully, its days as a fully fledged casualty unit are numbered, as it is due to become a "Walk In" facility in August-apparently due principally to difficulty in recruiting the extra staff required by the European Working Hours directive.
Mum was rushed into resuss, where she received the most excellent attention to control an apparent infection, to help her breathe and to get her blood pressure up, which fell dangerously low at one point. Once again, we were preparing ourselves for the worst. She was admitted to a bed on a male ward about mid-day, but was still very tired and so after a while with her Matthew and I attempted to get on with our own day, though we did return later. The worry and anxiety which seems to never lurk far from the door of my mind was back.
And yet, the next day found Mum looking much better. Once again, the magic bullet which is the anti-biotic seemed to be doing the trick and at least the crisis was under control. I found Mum fairly oblivious of what had happened the day before, and she was even talking much better than I had heard for ages.
The trouble is, it is easy to feel a false sense of security and complacency in these situations. The underlying cause of Mum's illness is not being treated by medicine because it has reached the point where it says it cannot be cured. But Medicine is not God, though science often things it is. Still there is hope, and Mum can still show something of her old self with her interest in others and a determination to live, even when she is so disabled and limited by her condition. Being in hospital though has also brought some comfort to us at home, as the uncomfortable daily routine in her cramped living area is replaced for a moment by hospital food and constant care as against the difficulties we feel with the stream of agency carers that now take care of Mum when she is here.
This illness certainly is teaching us to appreciate the value of each moment of life, even when it is limited by illness or disability. For my own part though, and I am sure this is the way Mum wants it, I also feel able today to make a trip down to Eastbourne to attend the last Ranworth housegroup of this quarter, which I am leading. The theme is "Tuning In"- couldn't have been a better choice for me, could it.
I hope still to have some good news to report when the next blog appears on this site, probably some time towards the end of next week. Meanwhile, thank you if you are reading this and supporting us in prayer- your thoughts and concern are much valued.
Or maybe, I thought whimsically, we've been transported to another galaxy momentarily and this is part of the launch party for the much-heralded new series of Doctor Who which begins on Easter Saturday.Perhaps these mysterious red lights are actually four satellites shining over the home planet of the latest Who, Christopher Ecclestone, parading along with his arch adversaries today in my alma mater of Cardiff where the series was filmed. Strange choice of location- surely it doesn't look that alien does it, even if it is Wales! One reason I decided not to stay in the capital of the principality after graduating was that I did not feel Welsh enough, although you could say that one reason I have doubts about staying in Eastbourne is that I don't feel old enough!
Enough of these flights of fancy though. The actual answer for these unusual sights on the Middlesex skyline is that they are the aircraft warning lights atop the cranes now adorning the hub of my home town as the new Longford Centre, "Feltham reborn" as the marketing hype has it, takes shape. They do make a graceful sight, by day or night, and it is very encouraging to see the superstructure of this retail, residential and community "ship" taking shape. Here's hoping it will make a real difference to this often unregarded dormitory town on the edge of London, though maybe it's time the area's achievements are given the credit they deserve.
For example:
A favoured variety of pea, the Feltham First, was grown in the very soil on which my house now sits when it was one of the many orchards and market gardens which once made up the landscape of this part of Middlesex
The Feltham tramcar was made here and was in widespread use across the country until trams became displaced by buses in the early sixties. Ironically though, this town never had a tram service of its own
James Bond's Aston Martin was made here, in a factory on the Hanworth Air Park, where the Graf Zeppelin landed in 1932.
And, lest you be wondering how we managed in the days before GPS, General Roy's baseline for the first Ordnance Survey maps was drawn less than a mile from where I now sit.
But what about the pubs....
THE MOON ON THE SQUARE
Sadly, Feltham doesn't really have any classic hostelries any more, though the beer served in those it does have is generally pretty good. Pun intended, but I don't commend the General Roy, the area's newest pub on the edge of the Air Park, which has become one of those dreadful Big Steak places.
This means my local these days tends to be the town's Wetherspoon outlet, with the rather uninspiring and unoriginal name of The Moon on the Square. It used to be The Cricketers, a popular friendly pub for several years and where my Mum and Dad enjoyed many a Sunday evening singsong around the old joeanna in the mid seventies. None of that these days: music is barred in J D W's establishments. However, it does make for an easy conversational environment, and I was able to enjoy three pints or so of some tasty beers along with Dave last night- and very welcome they were too along with the conversation.
The beers? Well, I started with a very strange experience: a tasty brew which looked rather more like Fairy Liquid than the product of the malt and the hop. This was Signs of Spring from the Stonehenge brewery; I mused to Dave that its colour made it more suitable for St Pat's Day in a week's time, but it's taste was lovely. However, I followed it up with that well-quaffed brew of my youth, Greene King Abbot Ale, and finally joined Dave in Robinson's England's Champion ale.
It's not often lately that I have had the chance to spend times in the congenial company of my own friends, along with the relaxing companion which is a good pint. It's been good to go out with my brother and his friends at least once a week while Mum has been ill, but it's not quite the same. I've known Dave now for 29 years- which makes me feel really old- so we can chat about most things fairly honestly and it was good to release some of my woes last night, but also feel a bit cheered and at least for a moment forget the gloom which the cloudy weather here today is not helping. Indeed, late evenings seem to be the best time for me lately when I feel at my most relaxed: another day has been got through, and I enjoy either the TV or some humour with BBC 7, or try to get off to sleep with Radio 4 or Radio 5 Live. As I observed in an earlier posting, I am certainly experiencing again the comfort of radio as a constant companion. At which point, time to turn Ken Bruce on again, if you'll pardon the phrase.
RESPITE
In all times of crisis and worry, human beings need something to take their mind off their troubles and to give them a happier focus. Somehow it is how we keep going- few souls can cope with constant trauma, or though it always amazes me how resilient the human spirit is and what some people get through in their lives. I've heard and remembered several people recently who have had losses much sadder than those I keep contemplating and somehow it gives me a kind of encouragement that I will be able to cope and move on myself, though I have had frequent cause to doubt that and worry about it myself recently.
Mothering Sunday proved to be a very worrying day when I honestly thought the end was at hand for my own dear Mum. Awaking at 8.00 to take her a cuppa in bed, where she has spent practically all her time lately, I found her looking very distressed and poorly, with laboured breathing, a pale colour and not even able to take fluids. A call to the excellent District nurses recommended a call to the ambulance service, who arrived very promptly and soon had Mum on the way to the Emergency Department at Ashford Hospital which has become so familiar to us this last year. Shamefully, its days as a fully fledged casualty unit are numbered, as it is due to become a "Walk In" facility in August-apparently due principally to difficulty in recruiting the extra staff required by the European Working Hours directive.
Mum was rushed into resuss, where she received the most excellent attention to control an apparent infection, to help her breathe and to get her blood pressure up, which fell dangerously low at one point. Once again, we were preparing ourselves for the worst. She was admitted to a bed on a male ward about mid-day, but was still very tired and so after a while with her Matthew and I attempted to get on with our own day, though we did return later. The worry and anxiety which seems to never lurk far from the door of my mind was back.
And yet, the next day found Mum looking much better. Once again, the magic bullet which is the anti-biotic seemed to be doing the trick and at least the crisis was under control. I found Mum fairly oblivious of what had happened the day before, and she was even talking much better than I had heard for ages.
The trouble is, it is easy to feel a false sense of security and complacency in these situations. The underlying cause of Mum's illness is not being treated by medicine because it has reached the point where it says it cannot be cured. But Medicine is not God, though science often things it is. Still there is hope, and Mum can still show something of her old self with her interest in others and a determination to live, even when she is so disabled and limited by her condition. Being in hospital though has also brought some comfort to us at home, as the uncomfortable daily routine in her cramped living area is replaced for a moment by hospital food and constant care as against the difficulties we feel with the stream of agency carers that now take care of Mum when she is here.
This illness certainly is teaching us to appreciate the value of each moment of life, even when it is limited by illness or disability. For my own part though, and I am sure this is the way Mum wants it, I also feel able today to make a trip down to Eastbourne to attend the last Ranworth housegroup of this quarter, which I am leading. The theme is "Tuning In"- couldn't have been a better choice for me, could it.
I hope still to have some good news to report when the next blog appears on this site, probably some time towards the end of next week. Meanwhile, thank you if you are reading this and supporting us in prayer- your thoughts and concern are much valued.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
