11/11. A date as seered in western memory as another equally chilling "11" date was to become 83 years later. At 11.00 a.m. on the 11th November, 1918, the guns fell silent as the "war to end all wars" came to an end.
Nearly ninety years after that most terrible act of collective youthful slaughter finally ended, we still remember Armistice Day on this date every autumn. Although the national remembrance commemorations now culminate on the nearest weekend to it , it has been touching and humbling how the 11th has once again taken on a significance of its own in recent years.
Across Britain today, people will have gathered in shops, offices, factories, schools, churches and streets to take just two minutes out of the timespan of eternity to remember those who lost their lives in the defence of others. With war in Iraq seeming no nearer its end, and casualties continuing to haunt the headlines on all sides, somehow the grief of remembrance takes on an even more poignant feel even for those of us untouched directly by war. Lawrence Binyon's famous words, quoted this morning and a thousand times over during this Remembrancetide, are as moving as ever.
And yet, this morning as I decided to watch the BBC coverage of the Field of Remembrance service attended by the Queen outside Westminster Abbey, the silence was shattered not by the dolesome toll of Big Ben chiming the eleventh hour, but by the insistent ringing of my telephone. Given the timing, I felt sure it could not be something or someone who could not wait. When the call transferred to my mobile and displayed "Unknown", I knew I had even less reason to answer it.
Actually, there was a certain irony in this. To quote another great poet :" send not to ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee". As this irksome shattering of the silence invaded my consciousness, the TV pictures were showing the inscription on the tomb of the "Unknown" warrior inside Westminster Abbey. However, it goes on to eulogise the "freedom" for which he and countless millions died in four bloody years early last century and yet which so many others have suffered the same fate since. So much for the "war to end wars".
War makes me angry. It should make any sane soul seathe with anger not at the alleged aggressor or the foreign foe, but at the senseless cruelty of it all. The questionable motivation of the present conflict in the Gulf only highlights just how awful for ordinary souls with little care for the great affairs of state is man's continued inhumanity to man. I could not say that war is never justified, even though my natural inclination has always leaned to pacifism. Nevertheless, the causes for which it is prosecuted these days seem geared ever more to a balance of payments than a balance of power and it sickens me.
Despite the interruptions, I tried to observe the silence as solemnly as I could, and reflect on young lives so mercifully ended. Today's forces in Britain are at least volunteers with some comprehension of the horrors they may face, but the combatants of World War I and II were largely conscripts, with little choice in the matter. But why did they die? Was it for "freedom"? Freedom from what? A freedom from breeding bleeding or a freedom for breeding greed?
When I listened to the voicemail message my failure to answer the phone had led to, I was livid! It turned out the call was an appeal to little more than my basest avaricious instincts, to inform me that I have "won a holiday" and needed to key 9! To quote the late John Junor: "pass the sick bag, Alice". This was an insult, to the fallen and the surviving. What crass soul in some corporate ivory tower the other side of the pond deemed it necessary to set an auto-dialler to call my number at the very moment those who breathed their last were being remembered? Did they die wielding bayonet and bullet so he could live touting Visa and MasterCard? The cause of freedom is ill-served by such thoughtless manifestations of our riches-obsessed society. If the nation's largest retailers can have the decency to remember them, who the years will not condemn, could not the unknown corporate moguls who perpetrate this automated telephonic nonsense have the humanity to do so too.
Thursday, 11 November 2004
Wednesday, 3 November 2004
Too Close, Too Cool
I struggled to find a suitably Savagian title for today's blog, which is very much the morning after the night before. Not that I have been indulging in strong drink, you understand, but I did feel it an amusing diversion to buy a bottle of Marks and Spencers US-Style beer (brewed in the EU- bizarre!) to enjoy while awaiting the outcome of what Blogger calls NaPreVoDa. This is, of course, their rather silly Russian-sounding acronym for "National Presidential Voting Day", 2nd November 2004.
Like it or loathe it, you cannot ignore an American presidential election. Yet I'm sure that the British media seem to have been taking more of an interest in this contest and its final outcome than they have in earlier ones. Could it be that we are subtly becoming the 51st state, the one with no electoral votes? God help us all if we are, but I do hope that God's hand is on the final winner of this contest which seems to have been going on forever.
Certainly for most Americans, it's a tacit assumption that their nation is guided not by the divine dollar-as often seems the case- but by the God of Gods. So inherent in the national psyche is this assumption of God's existence- a trait to be admired and encouraged- that it is actually THE official motto of the USA, though suprisingly only supplanted "E Pluribus Unum" in the mid fifties of the twentieth century. More info on the history and background of the "Great Seal" of the United States at http://www.usscouts.org/flag/sealmotto.html
The American political process is seriously weird and yet oddly fascinating, like the nation itself. Rather than doze with Dimbleby or snooze with Snow last night on BBC ONE TV, I decided it would be a nice idea to take it from the top, as it were, with WTOP, a news radio station in Downtown Washington DC (www.wtop.com) What a marvellous world-shrinker the web is to enable me to do this! I listened for a few minutes to their mid-evening coverage before tiredness got the better of me in our wee small hours. I returned to the more familiar cultural style of BBC Radio5 Live, and the comforting and familiar Scots tones of Naughty James- Jim Naughtie of the BBC's Today radio show sent me off into the land of nod but the land of the free pervaded my light sleep as the "projected" results started to come in.
The dawn's early light brought the news that George Dubya seems set for another four years in the White House, much to my personal disappointment. I decided it was time to forsake the analysis and speculation of Messrs Humphries and Naughtie though and returned to WTOP, surprisingly still there on the cordless speaker as I had expected the PC to crash at some point during the night. It's a wonder drivers in WTOP's catchment area don't collide though, if they try to concentrate on the motormouth pace of the information delivered on their chosen station. Broadband may be able to tell it like it is ever faster, but to take all this stuff in you need broadbrain!
Mind you, it was of course only 3.30 in the morning on the East coast when I tuned in. I presume even in the capital of the most powerful nation on Earth, there's not much traffic about at that time of the day, or am I wrong? It was Americans who invented 24/7 life, after all. Not necessarily a good thing. OK, someone has to keep the essential services running while the majority sleep, but surely mankind has managed to survive many millenia of civilisation without needing to buy a bagel or a bog roll in the middle of the night?
Which reminds me: whatever happened to 7-11? Somehow, I think they would have changed their name by now as I can't imagine many stores thriving on those hours alone now. I was reminded of the convenience store phenomenon last night, when on a whim I decided to do a Google on "Fort Myers Beach", the lovely Gulf destination I holidayed with my family in back in Septemember of 82. FMB, on Estero Island, was I believe badly hit by Hurricane Charley in late summer, but it's re-assuring to see that the "Sandpiper Gulf Resort" seems to have escaped unscathed. Judging from the website, it is much the same as it was when we visited it two decades ago, which is suprising. Been there, seen that, got the T-Shirt. Er well I have, actually. Still.
(BACK) ON THE RADIO
One of the most fun things about listening to any international commercial radio service, but particularly US stations, is the strange range of adverts they carry. In a few seconds of sound byte, a whole cultural education programme could be delivered to would be migrants seeking a green card. Want to remember ex-servicemen and women, or veterans as they are increasingly being called even in the UK? Well in the US you don't need to wear your poppy with pride, as millions of Britons will be doing for the next twelve days or so. Instead, why not give make the ultimate sacrifice and let them have one of your gas guzzlers?
Yes, really! Seems the latest American charity wheeze is for folk to give their car to some good cause, either a veteran's charity or one for special needs, to quote just two examples I heard this morning. Can't quite see it spreading to Britain, somehow, though it might appeal to the good Christian souls of Chorleywood, Hertfordshire, who apparently have the highest proportion of two-car ownership in the UK and also one of the most evangelical Anglican congregations.
BEATING ABOUT THE G W BUSH
Coming back to my title brings me back to what must be the most maddening cliche of the last eighteen hours or so of media blasting from across the pond. Even the venerable Wogan himself made reference to it before Pause for Thought this morning. Where on earth did "Too Close to Call" come from? I've been unable to find any suitably succinct web definition of its derivation, so if you have the answer, do let me know please! As far as I can gather, though, it has something to do with the prevailing trust not in the good old "returning officer" as it would be here in Blighty, but in the manic efforts of CBS, MSNBC and ABC (not to mention 21st Century Fox, CNN etc etc) to be the first to bring the final election results to a salivating audience. It makes the efforts of Basildon or Basingstoke to get the first declarations out fairly tame by comparison!
What a strange manifestation of democracy this media madness is. As the future not just of the US but of the free world hangs not on a chad but the Buck-eyed state (eh?) of Ohio, where "provisional results" cannot be released for eleven days (why, in the name of sanity?) isn't it about time we stop all this "will he, won't he" over the result? Meanwhile, senator Kerry can go back, sadly, to doing his stand-ins for Herman Munster (as one wag described him this morning) and the presenters on WTOP can stop mistaking him for Kennedy, even if he does bare a striking similarity to the last Catholic Democrat for president. But look what tragically happened to him. Maybe he's better off back in Boston.
Finally, my mind thinks back to the thrill of an earlier election, to 1992, when William Jefferson Clinton (hopeful parents must have named him!) stopped selling over-priced greeting cards (joke!) and became the answer to life, the US and everything as president number 42! BBC Radio Sussex, where I was then happily working, took a very keen interest in this contest, especially since they had a "special correspondent" in Iowa who came free of charge. He was my good mate Andrew, then a BBC engineer visiting relatives in Iowa, but was somewhat phased when mid-morning presenter Julian Clegg, using the trans-Atlantic link I had just set up, asked him "So it's too close to call"? Well, wouldn't you be a bit slow on the uptake if you'd been got up from your bed at 5 a.m in sleepy Des Moines? Ah, Bill Bryson where are you now?
Like it or loathe it, you cannot ignore an American presidential election. Yet I'm sure that the British media seem to have been taking more of an interest in this contest and its final outcome than they have in earlier ones. Could it be that we are subtly becoming the 51st state, the one with no electoral votes? God help us all if we are, but I do hope that God's hand is on the final winner of this contest which seems to have been going on forever.
Certainly for most Americans, it's a tacit assumption that their nation is guided not by the divine dollar-as often seems the case- but by the God of Gods. So inherent in the national psyche is this assumption of God's existence- a trait to be admired and encouraged- that it is actually THE official motto of the USA, though suprisingly only supplanted "E Pluribus Unum" in the mid fifties of the twentieth century. More info on the history and background of the "Great Seal" of the United States at http://www.usscouts.org/flag/sealmotto.html
The American political process is seriously weird and yet oddly fascinating, like the nation itself. Rather than doze with Dimbleby or snooze with Snow last night on BBC ONE TV, I decided it would be a nice idea to take it from the top, as it were, with WTOP, a news radio station in Downtown Washington DC (www.wtop.com) What a marvellous world-shrinker the web is to enable me to do this! I listened for a few minutes to their mid-evening coverage before tiredness got the better of me in our wee small hours. I returned to the more familiar cultural style of BBC Radio5 Live, and the comforting and familiar Scots tones of Naughty James- Jim Naughtie of the BBC's Today radio show sent me off into the land of nod but the land of the free pervaded my light sleep as the "projected" results started to come in.
The dawn's early light brought the news that George Dubya seems set for another four years in the White House, much to my personal disappointment. I decided it was time to forsake the analysis and speculation of Messrs Humphries and Naughtie though and returned to WTOP, surprisingly still there on the cordless speaker as I had expected the PC to crash at some point during the night. It's a wonder drivers in WTOP's catchment area don't collide though, if they try to concentrate on the motormouth pace of the information delivered on their chosen station. Broadband may be able to tell it like it is ever faster, but to take all this stuff in you need broadbrain!
Mind you, it was of course only 3.30 in the morning on the East coast when I tuned in. I presume even in the capital of the most powerful nation on Earth, there's not much traffic about at that time of the day, or am I wrong? It was Americans who invented 24/7 life, after all. Not necessarily a good thing. OK, someone has to keep the essential services running while the majority sleep, but surely mankind has managed to survive many millenia of civilisation without needing to buy a bagel or a bog roll in the middle of the night?
Which reminds me: whatever happened to 7-11? Somehow, I think they would have changed their name by now as I can't imagine many stores thriving on those hours alone now. I was reminded of the convenience store phenomenon last night, when on a whim I decided to do a Google on "Fort Myers Beach", the lovely Gulf destination I holidayed with my family in back in Septemember of 82. FMB, on Estero Island, was I believe badly hit by Hurricane Charley in late summer, but it's re-assuring to see that the "Sandpiper Gulf Resort" seems to have escaped unscathed. Judging from the website, it is much the same as it was when we visited it two decades ago, which is suprising. Been there, seen that, got the T-Shirt. Er well I have, actually. Still.
(BACK) ON THE RADIO
One of the most fun things about listening to any international commercial radio service, but particularly US stations, is the strange range of adverts they carry. In a few seconds of sound byte, a whole cultural education programme could be delivered to would be migrants seeking a green card. Want to remember ex-servicemen and women, or veterans as they are increasingly being called even in the UK? Well in the US you don't need to wear your poppy with pride, as millions of Britons will be doing for the next twelve days or so. Instead, why not give make the ultimate sacrifice and let them have one of your gas guzzlers?
Yes, really! Seems the latest American charity wheeze is for folk to give their car to some good cause, either a veteran's charity or one for special needs, to quote just two examples I heard this morning. Can't quite see it spreading to Britain, somehow, though it might appeal to the good Christian souls of Chorleywood, Hertfordshire, who apparently have the highest proportion of two-car ownership in the UK and also one of the most evangelical Anglican congregations.
BEATING ABOUT THE G W BUSH
Coming back to my title brings me back to what must be the most maddening cliche of the last eighteen hours or so of media blasting from across the pond. Even the venerable Wogan himself made reference to it before Pause for Thought this morning. Where on earth did "Too Close to Call" come from? I've been unable to find any suitably succinct web definition of its derivation, so if you have the answer, do let me know please! As far as I can gather, though, it has something to do with the prevailing trust not in the good old "returning officer" as it would be here in Blighty, but in the manic efforts of CBS, MSNBC and ABC (not to mention 21st Century Fox, CNN etc etc) to be the first to bring the final election results to a salivating audience. It makes the efforts of Basildon or Basingstoke to get the first declarations out fairly tame by comparison!
What a strange manifestation of democracy this media madness is. As the future not just of the US but of the free world hangs not on a chad but the Buck-eyed state (eh?) of Ohio, where "provisional results" cannot be released for eleven days (why, in the name of sanity?) isn't it about time we stop all this "will he, won't he" over the result? Meanwhile, senator Kerry can go back, sadly, to doing his stand-ins for Herman Munster (as one wag described him this morning) and the presenters on WTOP can stop mistaking him for Kennedy, even if he does bare a striking similarity to the last Catholic Democrat for president. But look what tragically happened to him. Maybe he's better off back in Boston.
Finally, my mind thinks back to the thrill of an earlier election, to 1992, when William Jefferson Clinton (hopeful parents must have named him!) stopped selling over-priced greeting cards (joke!) and became the answer to life, the US and everything as president number 42! BBC Radio Sussex, where I was then happily working, took a very keen interest in this contest, especially since they had a "special correspondent" in Iowa who came free of charge. He was my good mate Andrew, then a BBC engineer visiting relatives in Iowa, but was somewhat phased when mid-morning presenter Julian Clegg, using the trans-Atlantic link I had just set up, asked him "So it's too close to call"? Well, wouldn't you be a bit slow on the uptake if you'd been got up from your bed at 5 a.m in sleepy Des Moines? Ah, Bill Bryson where are you now?
Sunday, 31 October 2004
Time Gentlemen Please...and ladies, cats, dogs, children
World Time = Greenwich Mean Time (GMT) - Current Time in every Time Zone...
Summer is over for another year :-( In just half an hour, the official end of "British Summer Time" will be with us, and good old Greenwich Mean Time returns to the fore until next March. While it will be good to wake up and find it light earlier for a while, I hardly relish the darkness which will fall as of today from around 4.30 in the afternoon. Suddenly, we're plunged into winter.
I retain some of the fascination I have always had with the clock changeover, and this site which my brother pointed me to includes some fascinating detail about it. If YOU forgot, and you are in the UK, USA or Europe, don't forget: SPRING forward, FALL (i.e Autumn) back. On the other hand, if by chance you are one of those lucky souls basking in the sun in Oz or NZ- welcome to Summer! However, whether I will bother waiting up another half hour to see what Brian Gobby says on the Accurist Timeline, or watch the Ceefax timecheck change, or hear announcers on the air get dreadfully confused, I don't know. It's time for bed!
On the other hand, at least it makes life easier for DXers and international listening enthusiasts alike. But catch me calling it UTC? Never! The current changeover dates for Summer and Winter times may be fixed by EU directives, but this is one British legacy we can be proud of. At least the World Service recognises that and has not yielded to the tendency to talk about Universal time. Dreadful, and not even true. So what is the time zone on the moon, or Jupiter, or Saturn, pray?
Which, this being Sunday, is what I shall be doing later and why I have returned to Eastbourne from the bosom of the family in Feltham after a frustrating afternoon not being able to sort the car out. It seems I may have a problem with the fuel injection system, which is what I suspected anyway when the car suddenly gave up on me on the M25 last Monday. Mercifully, I was able to get over to the hard shoulder safely and waited for the AA, but he could not really offer much help, especially when he found the sump emtpy. At least the engine seems OK, but it's another expense I could do without right now-even if some other generous benefactor pays it!
Let us pray that the winter ahead, will be a time when the message of peace in our homes and families might be more widely applied. It's probably a vain hope, but where there is no hope there is no point!
Summer is over for another year :-( In just half an hour, the official end of "British Summer Time" will be with us, and good old Greenwich Mean Time returns to the fore until next March. While it will be good to wake up and find it light earlier for a while, I hardly relish the darkness which will fall as of today from around 4.30 in the afternoon. Suddenly, we're plunged into winter.
I retain some of the fascination I have always had with the clock changeover, and this site which my brother pointed me to includes some fascinating detail about it. If YOU forgot, and you are in the UK, USA or Europe, don't forget: SPRING forward, FALL (i.e Autumn) back. On the other hand, if by chance you are one of those lucky souls basking in the sun in Oz or NZ- welcome to Summer! However, whether I will bother waiting up another half hour to see what Brian Gobby says on the Accurist Timeline, or watch the Ceefax timecheck change, or hear announcers on the air get dreadfully confused, I don't know. It's time for bed!
On the other hand, at least it makes life easier for DXers and international listening enthusiasts alike. But catch me calling it UTC? Never! The current changeover dates for Summer and Winter times may be fixed by EU directives, but this is one British legacy we can be proud of. At least the World Service recognises that and has not yielded to the tendency to talk about Universal time. Dreadful, and not even true. So what is the time zone on the moon, or Jupiter, or Saturn, pray?
Which, this being Sunday, is what I shall be doing later and why I have returned to Eastbourne from the bosom of the family in Feltham after a frustrating afternoon not being able to sort the car out. It seems I may have a problem with the fuel injection system, which is what I suspected anyway when the car suddenly gave up on me on the M25 last Monday. Mercifully, I was able to get over to the hard shoulder safely and waited for the AA, but he could not really offer much help, especially when he found the sump emtpy. At least the engine seems OK, but it's another expense I could do without right now-even if some other generous benefactor pays it!
Let us pray that the winter ahead, will be a time when the message of peace in our homes and families might be more widely applied. It's probably a vain hope, but where there is no hope there is no point!
Tuesday, 26 October 2004
On the Radio: John Peel RIP
BBC NEWS | Entertainment | TV and Radio | Legendary radio DJ John Peel dies
This was the sad news I became aware of when turning on to the late Mr Ravenscroft's second radio home this evening at 6.30 for the last episode of the current series of Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy- the product of another great radio talent who died too young. John Peel- as everyone knew him even if both the name and the accent belied his public school upbringing- was one of Radio's best, and the airwaves will be the poorer without him. I can't pretend that I was ever one of the camp followers for his Radio One shows, and even Home Truths was only an occasional listen for me. Nevertheless, there was a humour and a compassion in his personality which few in modern radio can match with their off the peg "personas". Peel brought a touch of the Python to the nuances of everyday life and I know his team - including a producer I used to work with at Radio Sussex- will be devastated by his passing.
And never mind radio, what will the voice-over industry do without perhaps the most famous Liverpudlian voice on the air after the Beatles? Peel's was the much-used narration for many a TV show- including the peculiarly appealing earlier series of A Life of Grime- as well as countless ads. He will be mourned indeed for a long time to come, and with his too early and tragic death Radio One loses a piece of its heritage. God Bless you, John and may your comforting voice now be heard in the heavenlies.
This was the sad news I became aware of when turning on to the late Mr Ravenscroft's second radio home this evening at 6.30 for the last episode of the current series of Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy- the product of another great radio talent who died too young. John Peel- as everyone knew him even if both the name and the accent belied his public school upbringing- was one of Radio's best, and the airwaves will be the poorer without him. I can't pretend that I was ever one of the camp followers for his Radio One shows, and even Home Truths was only an occasional listen for me. Nevertheless, there was a humour and a compassion in his personality which few in modern radio can match with their off the peg "personas". Peel brought a touch of the Python to the nuances of everyday life and I know his team - including a producer I used to work with at Radio Sussex- will be devastated by his passing.
And never mind radio, what will the voice-over industry do without perhaps the most famous Liverpudlian voice on the air after the Beatles? Peel's was the much-used narration for many a TV show- including the peculiarly appealing earlier series of A Life of Grime- as well as countless ads. He will be mourned indeed for a long time to come, and with his too early and tragic death Radio One loses a piece of its heritage. God Bless you, John and may your comforting voice now be heard in the heavenlies.
Monday, 25 October 2004
Forty Winks....?
Why do we talk of having FORTY winks? Why not thirty-nine, or forty-four or even,dare I suggest, forty-two? It's a question I suppose Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable or, these days, an internet equivalent should be able to answer I guess. But it remains a puzzle. If you have any ideas as to the derivation of this quaint and somehow very English phrase, answers in a comments post please.
Whatever the number of eye movements, rapid or otherwise, an afternoon snooze remains one of the great remaining pleasures of a British Sunday. I've just surfaced from my cat nap, and I will defend to the end a Briton's duty to doze on the original day of rest. I guess political correctness and respect for our multi-faith society means I ought to really say "a" day of rest, but nobody ever said you had to be a believer to enjoy a day's refrain from the concerns of the rest of the week, did they?
A sleep during one's normal waking hours can be so much more satisfying than the shut-eye undertaken in the hours of darkness. But why restrict it to Sundays? Why not take on one of the less controversial aspects of the European lifestyle, the siesta? Give us a referendum on that and I bet the result would be a unanimous "yes". Productivity would soar, crativity would flourish and everyone would be refreshed ready to count beans again after counting sheep. Yes, I'm all in favour of that. Let's get Britain snoring!
NICE CREAM
The strains of "Girls and Boys come out to play" brought this rather old boy dashing out to the ice cream van while writing this blog yesterday. It's another of those great British institutions is the ice cream van, though if the EU had had their way a few years ago it would have gone the same way as the threatened demise of the milkman some years back. Why do we have to have these pointless rules from Brussels which serve no-one's best interests? The one that really gets me is having to list all the ingredients of toiletries on the packaging- but in Latin! Now what possible use is that to anybody? Presumably the bureaucrats would say it's to help medical teams in the event of an emergency involving all these chemicals, but is it really necessary to go to these extremes? What's wrong with the local lingo so that consumers unschooled in the classics can actually understand what's in their products. If you mean water, why not say so rather than confusing the issue with Aqua!
I suppose it's another of those things we just have to live with, but my non-milk fat semi-soft aerated confection in a flour-based edible receptacle complete with granulated chocolate flavoured compacted pieces and fructose topping was very tasty indeed, and Mum agreed as she had one too. It's a 99 to you and me.
Memories too of following the ice cream vans as boys and putting our own words to their chimes. "Your Ice creams are terrible/watery" seemed to do the trick with this particular tune in getting a freebie.
Whatever the number of eye movements, rapid or otherwise, an afternoon snooze remains one of the great remaining pleasures of a British Sunday. I've just surfaced from my cat nap, and I will defend to the end a Briton's duty to doze on the original day of rest. I guess political correctness and respect for our multi-faith society means I ought to really say "a" day of rest, but nobody ever said you had to be a believer to enjoy a day's refrain from the concerns of the rest of the week, did they?
A sleep during one's normal waking hours can be so much more satisfying than the shut-eye undertaken in the hours of darkness. But why restrict it to Sundays? Why not take on one of the less controversial aspects of the European lifestyle, the siesta? Give us a referendum on that and I bet the result would be a unanimous "yes". Productivity would soar, crativity would flourish and everyone would be refreshed ready to count beans again after counting sheep. Yes, I'm all in favour of that. Let's get Britain snoring!
NICE CREAM
The strains of "Girls and Boys come out to play" brought this rather old boy dashing out to the ice cream van while writing this blog yesterday. It's another of those great British institutions is the ice cream van, though if the EU had had their way a few years ago it would have gone the same way as the threatened demise of the milkman some years back. Why do we have to have these pointless rules from Brussels which serve no-one's best interests? The one that really gets me is having to list all the ingredients of toiletries on the packaging- but in Latin! Now what possible use is that to anybody? Presumably the bureaucrats would say it's to help medical teams in the event of an emergency involving all these chemicals, but is it really necessary to go to these extremes? What's wrong with the local lingo so that consumers unschooled in the classics can actually understand what's in their products. If you mean water, why not say so rather than confusing the issue with Aqua!
I suppose it's another of those things we just have to live with, but my non-milk fat semi-soft aerated confection in a flour-based edible receptacle complete with granulated chocolate flavoured compacted pieces and fructose topping was very tasty indeed, and Mum agreed as she had one too. It's a 99 to you and me.
Memories too of following the ice cream vans as boys and putting our own words to their chimes. "Your Ice creams are terrible/watery" seemed to do the trick with this particular tune in getting a freebie.
Monday, 18 October 2004
Wars, Winds and Wordsworth
No blog posting for over a week now. Oh dear, I must rectify that! It's not of course that opportunity hasn't presented itself; goodness knows I have plenty of time on my hands right now. However, I've been spending most of my on-line sessions recently in some interesting e-mail conversations with friends so this one, started last week, never got finished. Maybe I ought to abandon my "long form" style altogether in favour of quicker, pithier paragraphs; let me know what you think.
Today's title however reminds me of that rather tacky but strangely enjoyable mini series The Winds of War of many years back. They don't make them like that anymore, and some would say thank goodness! I believe it was one of Robert Mitchum's last parts, but I can still see him and all the glamorous wartime lovelies, and hear that rather epic theme tune with its poignancy and pathos.
Film and TV will probably always rush to the calamitous and profound emotions of conflict to bring "entertainment", but the unsanitised reality of course is that war stinks. Real people die, not the triumphs of some make-up artist's brush to rise again at the "cut", but mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and innocent young lives who have barely had time to explore this wonderful world, let alone make sense of it's awfulness.
The horror that is post-Saddam Iraq continues to dominate the headlines, but how many other conflicts go unreported or half-forgotten? This is where international broadcasting comes into it's own, so maybe I ought to be listening to short wave a bit more. Darfur and Sudan got mentions a week or two back, but now it is firmly back to Iraq. The latest controversies revolve around the US attempting to bring in the Black Watch to take over their duties, but retaining control. The US continue to bomb Faluja, supposedly justified in an effort to root out the killers of Ken Bigley and many others.
Meanwhile,close to the supposed centre of power in the interim regime in Baghdad itself, Iraqi activists struck last week. At least 7 people are reported killed, but I will wager it is actually many more. Let no one pretend that Iraq was liberated last year: the conflict rages on, and nobody is the victor but sanity is the loser.
And yet, still Tony Blair at Prime Minister's Questions last Wednesday would not concede that going to war was wrong. Oh, he will apologise for just about everything else, admit that the intelligence was wrong, but not for the lives that have been lost in the vainglorious attempt to demonstrate that might is right in league with George Bush. I guess that's politics, but it's not humility. The world needs more of that.
I'm being unusually open in my own opinions here, perhaps, about the war. I don't pretend for one moment that Saddam Hussein had any merits, but what has replaced him for the moment is no better. And yet, it gets to the point where the news becomes so repetitive and sickening you almost want to turn your ears and eyes off to it. For heaven's sake, we know Blair will not apologise for the war, so why don't we just let the past and it's mistakes rest, and get on with planning for a peaceful future. Or is that just too much to ask?
WINDY WORDS
It was a stormy week weatherwise, as local media on Wednesday reported a tornado in Horsham, where I have friends. I worried for them for a while, but fortunately an e-mail reply later in the week revealed all is OK. There was quite a trail of devastation left behind in the small hours of the morning there though. Further east here in East Sussex, we seem to have fared a little better, but it nevertheless has been a time of galoshes and gusts. With the seventeenth anniversary of the great storm just passed this weekend, a few hearts must have missed a beat or two with worry at the time. My own concern during the heavy rain was more for the people of Lewes and Uckfield, the most badly hit during the floods of October 2000.
Is global warming a reality and is this a consequence? Who knows- I don't think even the experts do quite frankly. However, as someone pointed out on the radio yesterday, there is nothing new about all this. Indeed, the very make up of our British Isles has happened as a consequence of melting ice and receeding flood, so why should we expect the future to be any different?
WORDSWORTH WEMEMBERED
Excuse the shades of Elmer Fudd- did you know you can even get Google in his language? It probably comes of singing along with "I tought I taw a Putty Tat" on Abracadbra last week on the DAB, but I can't resist some rather tacky alliteration with all the W's this morning.
Most of last week, my memories turned regularly back to a very happy holiday of exactly a year ago, when I revisited the English Lake District. I had been there only once previously, back on a Merrymaker day trip in May 1979 in the good old days of British Rail. However, I remember how awe-struck I was by the beauty of Windermere and the surrounding fells and mountains, and vowed that I would return one day. A pity that it took me nearly a quarter of a century to do so, but I very much doubt it will be another 25 years before I return to explore this wonderful consequence of climate change eons ago.
It was perhaps appropriate that my arrival in Windermere village was greeted by that nasty fine rain which always seems to penetrate through to the marrow. At least it wasn't actually cold and windy though, How very different the scene looked the next morning, a Sunday, and how appropriate was the first hymn at the lovely service I attended at Windermere Methodist Church: Hills of the North Rejoice! As those who read my Christmas newsletter last year will know, that has always been one of my favourites.
Anybody who has known me for a while will also know that I tend to have the sort of memory that can remember the most miniscule details of past happenings. Last week therefore, I was remembering what I was doing at the same time 366 days ago (don't forget this has been a leap year!). There were so many experiences precious to recall which salved this unsettling time in my present life. Wandering around Ambleside on a Sunday afternoon, for instance, after a cream tea by the lake. Marvelling at the level of detail and expression on a fresco in the parish church there, which preserves on stone a local ceremony which took place poignantly in that dark and dangerous period around the start of the Second World War. Or the sedate passage southwards down Windermere to Lakeside on Monday morning, or taking delight in the antics of the otters in the aquarium there, following my ride on the Lakeside and Haverthwaite Steam Railway. And could I ever forget probably the most heavenly train journey in Britain, along the Settle to Carlisle line on the Wednesday afternoon? If Windermere took my breath away in 1979, this holiday certainly left me gasping anew at the beauty of it all, and marvelling at the creator behind the splendour of the landscape.
However, probably the day of that holiday which most endures for me was the Tuesday, when I followed in the footsteps of probably the greatest of the romantic poets, William Wordsworth. Taking tea and a Danish (or was it coffee? See, my memory is not infallible!) sitting next to the tiny river which runs through Grasmere, before following the tourist hordes to the church Wordsworth worshipped in there was a good starter, but somehow it didn't quite capture the spirit of wandering lonely as a cloud.
Looking round Dove Cottage, the house he shared with his sister Dorothy, was getting nearer to the essence of the man; it was certainly a fascinating trip back in time. At the next door museum maintained by the Wordsworth Trust, I felt a time of high emotion and joy as somehow this great channel of the muse took on flesh and blood again in the twenty-first century, though time seems to stand still in these parts. Never was a scribe better named.His ability to encapsulate the profound beauty of his surroundings in rhyme and rhythm, syllables and syntax would stir the poet in all but the hardest heart: it certainly did in mine.
However, it was the area around Rydal Mount, Wordsworth's later home, that I found my most precious time of the day. Over a pub pint of the delicious complexity which is Coniston Bluebird Bitter (well, had to sample a local brew, didn't I!) I refreshed my thirsty body before exploring alone the wonderful, relatively simple little church built by Wordsworth's patronage at Rydal Mount. It's interior with it's rounded roof reminded me rather of a tube train, and hence figuratively of the journey that we are all making towards eternity. Yet it's not with anguish or fear this image came to mind, but with cheer. The interior of the church is bright and airy, almost like the light of a spring day which so famously inspired the Lakeland poet as he watched my favourite flower, the daffodil, dancing in the breeze.
Outside in the churchyard, I shared my joys,my hopes and my disappointments with the Lord, looking out over the timeless watery serenity of Grasmere as the poet did on many occasions. No wonder he loved this area so much. I bet he prayed here too.
As I sat there and brought my words as well as my silences to The Master, I thought back to my own hopes and promise of early boyhood. I recalled the wonderful primary school teachers who had helped to foster my own love of the language, of the high marks scored for "composition" (i.e creative writing) and of always being the one who got asked to help the other children with their spelling. Doubt I would do so well at the latter now! I thought of those holiday accounts I used to love writing and which meant so much to my grandma. And once again, I realised that I longed to write, that I felt born to write, but how and where?
Well, maybe in part you're seeing an answer to that particular prayer right now- excuse the pun. I would never have dreamt a year ago that I could be letting the world and his wife read my opinions and thoughts so easily through the web (even less that anyone should actually want to read them!). I would not have even had the time or energy, with the stressful existence which was my previous job, to get writing most of the time. I'm not intending to be conceited, but this most definitely is one of my gifts. But as we were reminded at the excellent service and AGM at church yesterday, gifts from God are meant to be used and shared. Yet still I'm asking how best can I use this gift, where should I be applying it for God's glory rather than self-satisfaction and maybe earning a crust.
I guess my full answer may only be found at the last stop, when the Victory line draws nigh to Heaven's Gate and my earthly journey is done. There are no day return tickets on this trip,except in memory, but every opportunity to enjoy the journey as much as you can: "life in all its fulness", Jesus called it. He meant us to get the most out of travelling along that permanent way to the truth and thelife. In his earthly life and teaching, I find all penalty fares are cancelled and a new ticket written by the engineer of creation. No long dark tunnel or impossible gradient is too much for him- indeed he said that faith could move mountains. In Him are words worth trusting. In the beginning was the Word...
ON THE RADIO
I just finished typing my original posting in time to catch the Daily Service on Radio4. It took me ages to realise that this is actually offered as an alternative programme on DAB, though I guess it makes sense- hence "DService" as the radiotext identifier on my Pure Evoke's display. It was an excellent service which fitted in well with some of the thoughts I've written above actually, but one thing puzzles me with the technology.
Both Radio 4's main service and the Daily Service show a sampling rate of 64kbps- quite abysmal really, but we'll have to live with it I guess. However, there is a quite noticeable difference in the audible volume levels between the Daily Service and the main service. This becomes very prominent at 10.00 when both streams of the multiplex join together again. In fact, it is so noticeable that I often have to turn the volume down again. Why is this? Is it something to do with the compression used? Any technophiles out there who can supply an answer, and has anyone noticed this with other DAB opts, such as 5 Live sports extra?
Today's title however reminds me of that rather tacky but strangely enjoyable mini series The Winds of War of many years back. They don't make them like that anymore, and some would say thank goodness! I believe it was one of Robert Mitchum's last parts, but I can still see him and all the glamorous wartime lovelies, and hear that rather epic theme tune with its poignancy and pathos.
Film and TV will probably always rush to the calamitous and profound emotions of conflict to bring "entertainment", but the unsanitised reality of course is that war stinks. Real people die, not the triumphs of some make-up artist's brush to rise again at the "cut", but mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and innocent young lives who have barely had time to explore this wonderful world, let alone make sense of it's awfulness.
The horror that is post-Saddam Iraq continues to dominate the headlines, but how many other conflicts go unreported or half-forgotten? This is where international broadcasting comes into it's own, so maybe I ought to be listening to short wave a bit more. Darfur and Sudan got mentions a week or two back, but now it is firmly back to Iraq. The latest controversies revolve around the US attempting to bring in the Black Watch to take over their duties, but retaining control. The US continue to bomb Faluja, supposedly justified in an effort to root out the killers of Ken Bigley and many others.
Meanwhile,close to the supposed centre of power in the interim regime in Baghdad itself, Iraqi activists struck last week. At least 7 people are reported killed, but I will wager it is actually many more. Let no one pretend that Iraq was liberated last year: the conflict rages on, and nobody is the victor but sanity is the loser.
And yet, still Tony Blair at Prime Minister's Questions last Wednesday would not concede that going to war was wrong. Oh, he will apologise for just about everything else, admit that the intelligence was wrong, but not for the lives that have been lost in the vainglorious attempt to demonstrate that might is right in league with George Bush. I guess that's politics, but it's not humility. The world needs more of that.
I'm being unusually open in my own opinions here, perhaps, about the war. I don't pretend for one moment that Saddam Hussein had any merits, but what has replaced him for the moment is no better. And yet, it gets to the point where the news becomes so repetitive and sickening you almost want to turn your ears and eyes off to it. For heaven's sake, we know Blair will not apologise for the war, so why don't we just let the past and it's mistakes rest, and get on with planning for a peaceful future. Or is that just too much to ask?
WINDY WORDS
It was a stormy week weatherwise, as local media on Wednesday reported a tornado in Horsham, where I have friends. I worried for them for a while, but fortunately an e-mail reply later in the week revealed all is OK. There was quite a trail of devastation left behind in the small hours of the morning there though. Further east here in East Sussex, we seem to have fared a little better, but it nevertheless has been a time of galoshes and gusts. With the seventeenth anniversary of the great storm just passed this weekend, a few hearts must have missed a beat or two with worry at the time. My own concern during the heavy rain was more for the people of Lewes and Uckfield, the most badly hit during the floods of October 2000.
Is global warming a reality and is this a consequence? Who knows- I don't think even the experts do quite frankly. However, as someone pointed out on the radio yesterday, there is nothing new about all this. Indeed, the very make up of our British Isles has happened as a consequence of melting ice and receeding flood, so why should we expect the future to be any different?
WORDSWORTH WEMEMBERED
Excuse the shades of Elmer Fudd- did you know you can even get Google in his language? It probably comes of singing along with "I tought I taw a Putty Tat" on Abracadbra last week on the DAB, but I can't resist some rather tacky alliteration with all the W's this morning.
Most of last week, my memories turned regularly back to a very happy holiday of exactly a year ago, when I revisited the English Lake District. I had been there only once previously, back on a Merrymaker day trip in May 1979 in the good old days of British Rail. However, I remember how awe-struck I was by the beauty of Windermere and the surrounding fells and mountains, and vowed that I would return one day. A pity that it took me nearly a quarter of a century to do so, but I very much doubt it will be another 25 years before I return to explore this wonderful consequence of climate change eons ago.
It was perhaps appropriate that my arrival in Windermere village was greeted by that nasty fine rain which always seems to penetrate through to the marrow. At least it wasn't actually cold and windy though, How very different the scene looked the next morning, a Sunday, and how appropriate was the first hymn at the lovely service I attended at Windermere Methodist Church: Hills of the North Rejoice! As those who read my Christmas newsletter last year will know, that has always been one of my favourites.
Anybody who has known me for a while will also know that I tend to have the sort of memory that can remember the most miniscule details of past happenings. Last week therefore, I was remembering what I was doing at the same time 366 days ago (don't forget this has been a leap year!). There were so many experiences precious to recall which salved this unsettling time in my present life. Wandering around Ambleside on a Sunday afternoon, for instance, after a cream tea by the lake. Marvelling at the level of detail and expression on a fresco in the parish church there, which preserves on stone a local ceremony which took place poignantly in that dark and dangerous period around the start of the Second World War. Or the sedate passage southwards down Windermere to Lakeside on Monday morning, or taking delight in the antics of the otters in the aquarium there, following my ride on the Lakeside and Haverthwaite Steam Railway. And could I ever forget probably the most heavenly train journey in Britain, along the Settle to Carlisle line on the Wednesday afternoon? If Windermere took my breath away in 1979, this holiday certainly left me gasping anew at the beauty of it all, and marvelling at the creator behind the splendour of the landscape.
However, probably the day of that holiday which most endures for me was the Tuesday, when I followed in the footsteps of probably the greatest of the romantic poets, William Wordsworth. Taking tea and a Danish (or was it coffee? See, my memory is not infallible!) sitting next to the tiny river which runs through Grasmere, before following the tourist hordes to the church Wordsworth worshipped in there was a good starter, but somehow it didn't quite capture the spirit of wandering lonely as a cloud.
Looking round Dove Cottage, the house he shared with his sister Dorothy, was getting nearer to the essence of the man; it was certainly a fascinating trip back in time. At the next door museum maintained by the Wordsworth Trust, I felt a time of high emotion and joy as somehow this great channel of the muse took on flesh and blood again in the twenty-first century, though time seems to stand still in these parts. Never was a scribe better named.His ability to encapsulate the profound beauty of his surroundings in rhyme and rhythm, syllables and syntax would stir the poet in all but the hardest heart: it certainly did in mine.
However, it was the area around Rydal Mount, Wordsworth's later home, that I found my most precious time of the day. Over a pub pint of the delicious complexity which is Coniston Bluebird Bitter (well, had to sample a local brew, didn't I!) I refreshed my thirsty body before exploring alone the wonderful, relatively simple little church built by Wordsworth's patronage at Rydal Mount. It's interior with it's rounded roof reminded me rather of a tube train, and hence figuratively of the journey that we are all making towards eternity. Yet it's not with anguish or fear this image came to mind, but with cheer. The interior of the church is bright and airy, almost like the light of a spring day which so famously inspired the Lakeland poet as he watched my favourite flower, the daffodil, dancing in the breeze.
Outside in the churchyard, I shared my joys,my hopes and my disappointments with the Lord, looking out over the timeless watery serenity of Grasmere as the poet did on many occasions. No wonder he loved this area so much. I bet he prayed here too.
As I sat there and brought my words as well as my silences to The Master, I thought back to my own hopes and promise of early boyhood. I recalled the wonderful primary school teachers who had helped to foster my own love of the language, of the high marks scored for "composition" (i.e creative writing) and of always being the one who got asked to help the other children with their spelling. Doubt I would do so well at the latter now! I thought of those holiday accounts I used to love writing and which meant so much to my grandma. And once again, I realised that I longed to write, that I felt born to write, but how and where?
Well, maybe in part you're seeing an answer to that particular prayer right now- excuse the pun. I would never have dreamt a year ago that I could be letting the world and his wife read my opinions and thoughts so easily through the web (even less that anyone should actually want to read them!). I would not have even had the time or energy, with the stressful existence which was my previous job, to get writing most of the time. I'm not intending to be conceited, but this most definitely is one of my gifts. But as we were reminded at the excellent service and AGM at church yesterday, gifts from God are meant to be used and shared. Yet still I'm asking how best can I use this gift, where should I be applying it for God's glory rather than self-satisfaction and maybe earning a crust.
I guess my full answer may only be found at the last stop, when the Victory line draws nigh to Heaven's Gate and my earthly journey is done. There are no day return tickets on this trip,except in memory, but every opportunity to enjoy the journey as much as you can: "life in all its fulness", Jesus called it. He meant us to get the most out of travelling along that permanent way to the truth and thelife. In his earthly life and teaching, I find all penalty fares are cancelled and a new ticket written by the engineer of creation. No long dark tunnel or impossible gradient is too much for him- indeed he said that faith could move mountains. In Him are words worth trusting. In the beginning was the Word...
ON THE RADIO
I just finished typing my original posting in time to catch the Daily Service on Radio4. It took me ages to realise that this is actually offered as an alternative programme on DAB, though I guess it makes sense- hence "DService" as the radiotext identifier on my Pure Evoke's display. It was an excellent service which fitted in well with some of the thoughts I've written above actually, but one thing puzzles me with the technology.
Both Radio 4's main service and the Daily Service show a sampling rate of 64kbps- quite abysmal really, but we'll have to live with it I guess. However, there is a quite noticeable difference in the audible volume levels between the Daily Service and the main service. This becomes very prominent at 10.00 when both streams of the multiplex join together again. In fact, it is so noticeable that I often have to turn the volume down again. Why is this? Is it something to do with the compression used? Any technophiles out there who can supply an answer, and has anyone noticed this with other DAB opts, such as 5 Live sports extra?
Thursday, 7 October 2004
A Fish out of Weather
It was a sad day on BBC TV and Radio on Wednesday, as Michael Fish delivered his last weather forecasts for the Beeb. Actually, I'm surprised he's stayed on this long, as I am sure he turned sixty some months ago- the official retirement age for the BBC (lucky people!) and most civil servants, which is what he remained. Ah well, such are the strange ways of the Met Office, I suppose.
Naturally, it was a day of affectionate reminiscing, including of course endless re-runs of the notorious "hurricane" clip. As was his privilege on his final day, Michael put the record straight on that one- more information on the website. Just goes to show, though, how easily things get taken out of context and get misquoted.
Fish may not be everyone's favourite dish, but he certainly has personality if not always the best fashion sense in the past. Nevertheless, did BBC producers really have to mar his last day with those embarrasing seventies non-fashions (he's been in the job for thirty years!) and David Bedfordesque moustache? In later years, he was actually voted Britain's BEST dressed man, maybe when wearing one of his stylish blazers. I loved his own quip about one of these "the colour's supposed to be salmon, but I think it's gone off". Well, what more could you expect from a fish!
The BBC Weather site is a wealth of information on a Briton's favourite topic, actually. Read it in full and you could be well on your way to becoming a top flight met man yourself, I imagine. Mr Fish though was apparently one of the old style met forecasters who could tell from the signs what was coming and didn't rely on a supercomputer. Maybe he was even able to use that gift with his early girlfriends: he could look into a girl's eyes and tell weather. Mmm, the old ones may be the best, but they don't work on screen as well as they do on radio, do they?
Talking of radio, I got an e-mail from Mark Griffiths at Classic FM a wee while ago! I'd entered his late competition by identifying that beautiful piano piece Fuer Elise by Beethoven, more correctly known as Bagatelle number 25. It was written for a love of his life; I wonder if a girl I was thinking of a few minutes ago likes classical music? I was reflecting at this early hour that maybe I don't know how lucky I am in some ways to have the single life and this degree of freedom, but it doesn't make up for a cuddle up on a chilly night with your ever-loving and I'd rather be woken at this hour by the sound of joyful children's laughter than the noisy piece of equipment upstairs,possibly a fan heater, which seems to have mercifully stopped for the moment.
The radio is a great companion, though, and unlike other halfs, you need never have a cross word with it. Except, maybe, when DAB Radio 4's Daily Service disappears entirely with no rhyme or reason, or when interference or fading cuts a programme at a crucial moment. I do love the overnight show on Classic FM- so comforting and stress-relieving,at least when I AM stressed. Leaving my previous job has rid me of much of that for the moment and in some ways I shall actually regret it when I have to return to work. I recall though what a comforter the radio was when I was a wee lad and my Dad was, I thought, seriously ill-turned out he was in hospital with stress, interestingly at the age I am now.
Dad's much in my thoughts this week as we approach the anniversary of his loss five years ago on Saturday, but time is a healer so I don't need to dash to the American Forces Network (AFN) like I did back then. For years after that, whenever I heard Blue Mink's "Band of Gold" with the line "Now that you've gone", I couldn't help thinking it was about someone who had died, as I feared my Daddy had back then as a 12 year old. As you may have gathered reading these posts, I have a very over-imaginative mind at times! I often find it hard though to not think about the next loss I will have to face in the not too distant future, that of my Mum, and fear how I will handle that.
Like all of us, I want to be happy, all of the time. Life is not like that of course though, but Jesus did say that those who mourn, those who make peace, those who thirst after righteousness (i.e try to better the world for the sake of those unable to do it for themselves) are blessed, which is often translated as "happy".
Michael Fish's last day certainly gave the weather most associated with him-strong winds, but it didn't stop me feeling really quite happy yesterday as I spent time in the afternoon contemplating spiritual things as the wind made it's presence felt though mercifully with much less force than that frightening day back in 1987 when SE England took the brunt of the "Great Storm". As it punched the rooftops, I went into the marvellous Anglo-Catholic edifice which is St Saviour's Eastbourne, which was apparently designed by Street, the architect of the Royal Courts of Justice in London. This church is a wonderful building where one wants to linger, contemplating particularly the marvellous glass and ceramic mosaics telling bible stories with life-like faces showing real emotion and feeling. Iconic almost.
Afterwards, I strolled down to the seafront, for a cup of tea and a scone along with the wrinklies in the sun lounge of the Wish Tower restaurant. I shouldn't jest though, as soon enough I will join their league. It's time to Carpe Diem, as my old school motto says, gather the day at this harvest time- something else I have much had on my mind this week as the prolonged Harvest Festival period draws to a close.
But WHAT exactly is a tare? I was contemplating that great old school favourite "Come ye thankful people come" with it's line "Wheat and tares together sown". Now not being a farmer, I really don't know: perhaps I should ask Tim at church who is! I remember freight wagons on trains used to say "Tare weight" or something like that. My ever inquisitive mind wants to know; if I can't find out from the internet, I guess I never will. Or perhaps just a good old fashioned dictionary! Instead though, maybe www.factcheck.com might be able to help-apparently quoted by one of the Vice Presidential candidates in his debate yesterday. It appears however he may have shot himself in the foot: I'd better read it to find out why.
Things are starting to look up on the work front. I have had contact from no less than three agencies this week, and I registered with another (The Work Shop) yesterday. I feel I have reached the point where I am content to take something to pay the bills while my quest for that job which is "just me" goes on. Who knows, I may be pleasantly surprised. Not so sure, though, that I really want to spend out £40 a week commuting to a Brighton call centre for eight weeks, which was one offer I had on Monday. We'll see.
Well I guess it's time to get back to the DAB set in the bedroom for a bit more shut eye after catching the end of the shipping forecast (Fisher, Dogger, German Bite- Woof!) I know, it' spelt Bight, but you know what I mean. Then afterwards, another Prayer for the Day from Judy Merry who is always insightful and I like a lot. Radio is still a far from perfect medium, but will we ever reach perfection in audio visual technology, I wonder? We certainly won't reach it in our personal lives this side of glory, but that's no reason to stop trying and it is the essence of taking one more step along the road as Christians. From the old into the new, keep me travelling along with you! And help me Lord, to be in your catch of fish. Amen.
(PS: I just missed the prayer on air anyway, so time to check it out on the website before catching more Zzz's. Freedom, don't you just love it!)
Naturally, it was a day of affectionate reminiscing, including of course endless re-runs of the notorious "hurricane" clip. As was his privilege on his final day, Michael put the record straight on that one- more information on the website. Just goes to show, though, how easily things get taken out of context and get misquoted.
Fish may not be everyone's favourite dish, but he certainly has personality if not always the best fashion sense in the past. Nevertheless, did BBC producers really have to mar his last day with those embarrasing seventies non-fashions (he's been in the job for thirty years!) and David Bedfordesque moustache? In later years, he was actually voted Britain's BEST dressed man, maybe when wearing one of his stylish blazers. I loved his own quip about one of these "the colour's supposed to be salmon, but I think it's gone off". Well, what more could you expect from a fish!
The BBC Weather site is a wealth of information on a Briton's favourite topic, actually. Read it in full and you could be well on your way to becoming a top flight met man yourself, I imagine. Mr Fish though was apparently one of the old style met forecasters who could tell from the signs what was coming and didn't rely on a supercomputer. Maybe he was even able to use that gift with his early girlfriends: he could look into a girl's eyes and tell weather. Mmm, the old ones may be the best, but they don't work on screen as well as they do on radio, do they?
Talking of radio, I got an e-mail from Mark Griffiths at Classic FM a wee while ago! I'd entered his late competition by identifying that beautiful piano piece Fuer Elise by Beethoven, more correctly known as Bagatelle number 25. It was written for a love of his life; I wonder if a girl I was thinking of a few minutes ago likes classical music? I was reflecting at this early hour that maybe I don't know how lucky I am in some ways to have the single life and this degree of freedom, but it doesn't make up for a cuddle up on a chilly night with your ever-loving and I'd rather be woken at this hour by the sound of joyful children's laughter than the noisy piece of equipment upstairs,possibly a fan heater, which seems to have mercifully stopped for the moment.
The radio is a great companion, though, and unlike other halfs, you need never have a cross word with it. Except, maybe, when DAB Radio 4's Daily Service disappears entirely with no rhyme or reason, or when interference or fading cuts a programme at a crucial moment. I do love the overnight show on Classic FM- so comforting and stress-relieving,at least when I AM stressed. Leaving my previous job has rid me of much of that for the moment and in some ways I shall actually regret it when I have to return to work. I recall though what a comforter the radio was when I was a wee lad and my Dad was, I thought, seriously ill-turned out he was in hospital with stress, interestingly at the age I am now.
Dad's much in my thoughts this week as we approach the anniversary of his loss five years ago on Saturday, but time is a healer so I don't need to dash to the American Forces Network (AFN) like I did back then. For years after that, whenever I heard Blue Mink's "Band of Gold" with the line "Now that you've gone", I couldn't help thinking it was about someone who had died, as I feared my Daddy had back then as a 12 year old. As you may have gathered reading these posts, I have a very over-imaginative mind at times! I often find it hard though to not think about the next loss I will have to face in the not too distant future, that of my Mum, and fear how I will handle that.
Like all of us, I want to be happy, all of the time. Life is not like that of course though, but Jesus did say that those who mourn, those who make peace, those who thirst after righteousness (i.e try to better the world for the sake of those unable to do it for themselves) are blessed, which is often translated as "happy".
Michael Fish's last day certainly gave the weather most associated with him-strong winds, but it didn't stop me feeling really quite happy yesterday as I spent time in the afternoon contemplating spiritual things as the wind made it's presence felt though mercifully with much less force than that frightening day back in 1987 when SE England took the brunt of the "Great Storm". As it punched the rooftops, I went into the marvellous Anglo-Catholic edifice which is St Saviour's Eastbourne, which was apparently designed by Street, the architect of the Royal Courts of Justice in London. This church is a wonderful building where one wants to linger, contemplating particularly the marvellous glass and ceramic mosaics telling bible stories with life-like faces showing real emotion and feeling. Iconic almost.
Afterwards, I strolled down to the seafront, for a cup of tea and a scone along with the wrinklies in the sun lounge of the Wish Tower restaurant. I shouldn't jest though, as soon enough I will join their league. It's time to Carpe Diem, as my old school motto says, gather the day at this harvest time- something else I have much had on my mind this week as the prolonged Harvest Festival period draws to a close.
But WHAT exactly is a tare? I was contemplating that great old school favourite "Come ye thankful people come" with it's line "Wheat and tares together sown". Now not being a farmer, I really don't know: perhaps I should ask Tim at church who is! I remember freight wagons on trains used to say "Tare weight" or something like that. My ever inquisitive mind wants to know; if I can't find out from the internet, I guess I never will. Or perhaps just a good old fashioned dictionary! Instead though, maybe www.factcheck.com might be able to help-apparently quoted by one of the Vice Presidential candidates in his debate yesterday. It appears however he may have shot himself in the foot: I'd better read it to find out why.
Things are starting to look up on the work front. I have had contact from no less than three agencies this week, and I registered with another (The Work Shop) yesterday. I feel I have reached the point where I am content to take something to pay the bills while my quest for that job which is "just me" goes on. Who knows, I may be pleasantly surprised. Not so sure, though, that I really want to spend out £40 a week commuting to a Brighton call centre for eight weeks, which was one offer I had on Monday. We'll see.
Well I guess it's time to get back to the DAB set in the bedroom for a bit more shut eye after catching the end of the shipping forecast (Fisher, Dogger, German Bite- Woof!) I know, it' spelt Bight, but you know what I mean. Then afterwards, another Prayer for the Day from Judy Merry who is always insightful and I like a lot. Radio is still a far from perfect medium, but will we ever reach perfection in audio visual technology, I wonder? We certainly won't reach it in our personal lives this side of glory, but that's no reason to stop trying and it is the essence of taking one more step along the road as Christians. From the old into the new, keep me travelling along with you! And help me Lord, to be in your catch of fish. Amen.
(PS: I just missed the prayer on air anyway, so time to check it out on the website before catching more Zzz's. Freedom, don't you just love it!)
Sunday, 3 October 2004
The Three R's
New readers start here! I know I've had a flattering plug this week in Communication, the monthly journal of the British DX Club. So, if this is the first time you have happened across my blog, or made a deliberate effort to surf to it- welcome! If you're one of the regulars from the past six weeks or so since I started this wonderful activity on the other hand, well thanks for putting up with my 'stream of consciousness' writing so far
There are no "rules" as such with blogs, apart from the law and common courtesy which I do my best to observe. "Blogistan" is very much a country peopled by individual Ian's, normal Normans and eccentric Ericas, all with their own way of seeing things and saying things so as a muttering Mark I'm no different. However, obviously some postings may make more interesting reading to you than others. Just like reading any other newspaper or magazine, you're probably not going to read literally every line from end to end(including the ads!), so I won't feel offended if you pass on some of my postings! I would though rather stimulate honest opinions and exchanges of views, so don't hold back and if you have any criticisms, I want to hear them. If I willingly place myself in a public stocks, I expect to have the odd tomato or bad egg hurled at me once in a while!
Still, it's probably easier to read a piece where you have some idea where you are going, or to use the current cliche a "road map". I'm therefore going to try to put some pointers such as paragraph headings in these postings from now on, if I go off on a different road with my grasshopper mind. I was once described by my English teacher as an enigma, i.e with a great ability and potential with the language but a tendency to laziness. I think he probably had me sussed quite well actually, such that 27 years later probably not much has changed! At the same time, I take to heart encouragingly the words of another academic, in this case my lecturer at night school when I took my A Level History ten years after flunking it at the same school. He said I was a born essay writer!
Well, whether that is true is not for me to say but I do adore writing and long to do it more. Indeed, in my ideal world I'd probably be making a living from it. For the present though, I'm happy to log on and blog on, so trust you will enjoy reading my humble or perhaps self-indulgent thoughts from time to time. So, on with this first posting of the month, and back to the Three- or perhaps more- R's...
RADIO
Mr Marconi's world-changing invention has been a friend to me ever since I was a wee lad. However, as with all friends I've sometimes spent more time and played with it more often than others, simply because of the demands of daily living and other distractions, many of which if I am honest are not particularly fulfilling and add little to my knowledge of our global village and the God who I believe built it. Yesterday though (Saturday 2nd) brought I think, something of a renewal of my vows of marriage to this wonderful medium and a strengthening of metaphorical and literal friendships.
Dozed off on Friday night to the soporific sounds of thirties dance music in a language I couldn't understand, but it was absolutely wonderful and unexpected to hear. The frequency was 6165 kHz in the 49 metre band, and I discovered the next day the station was Radio Croatia . Although there was interference audible underneath, I had no problem listening, and this made an unusual change from the soothing late-night fare I normally listen to from Classic FM In fact, it reminded me what a wonderful world of listening still lies out there, despite the increasing tendency for broadcasters to abandon ship on the high frequen-cies. How much more thrilling it must have been, then, for listeners in an era before jumbo jet jaunting and satellite seeing to experience faraway places and different cultures through little more than a thin paper cone, a few bits of wire and solder or maybe a pair of heavy headphones.
The world of broadcasting is so very different today, where a flick of a switch or a a click of a mouse can bring up the latest happenings in both sound and vision anywhere from Hamburg to Harare, or Aberdeen to Auckland. Yet somehow that only heightens the appeal and the marvel, at both the new technology- the highways, if you like- which brings this entertainment and information to our fingertips, and the by-ways, the "side streets" of local stations, short term event stations and other curiosities, which still make the hobby of "DXing", or distant listening, so fascinating.
This duopoly of the old and the new was brought home with a fascinating visit on Saturday to the studios of the World Radio Network, known for short as WRN. The trip was arranged by Mike Terry, who I've mentioned before in this blog is a fellow member of the British DX Club a, one of our longest-serving in fact. Mike had been planning this trip for some time, but I have to admit I had not originally approached it with a great deal of enthusiasm of expectation. When you've worked in radio particularly, as I have, there can be something of a blase attitude of "when you've seen one radio station, you've seen them all", after a while. Nothing could be further from the truth in WRN's case, however. We had an enthralling afternoon both learning about the background to the station and their exciting plans, as well as looking round the "business end" where a large bank of flashing lights and whirring gubbins worthy of the Tardis transported in radio programming from all over the globe.
WRN is a unique organisation in that it takes in programmes from most of the world's major international broadcasters and then sends them flying out again through satellites and cables to landfall listener-side to the world's TVs, radios and PCs. It's an interesting and unique business proposition which nevertheless remains in the hands of three former BBC bods, but looks set to go from strength to strength as the means of digital delivery continue to grow and burgeon.
I've known of WRN's existence for some time, of course (they started in 1992) and for a while used to listen to them through WorldSpace, a somewhat less well-organised satellite system which started with good intentions but has rather lost the plot recently. Following my visit to WRN yesterday, however, I intend to hook the WorldSpace receiver back up to it's windowsill mini-dish, so that I can take full advantage of the excellent programming "bouquet" WRN offers. Even if I don't do that, there's always the option of catching up via the net and cordless speakers. Can you think of a more comforting way to end a dark and damp autumn night on a large island in the North Atlantic, by moving by the magic of technology to hear what's happening in the warm seas of the Pacific on a Spring day? That's how I concluded my Saturday night, falling asleep listening to Radio New Zealand in perfect quality, thanks to WRN. Excellent stuff.
Having said all that, it takes a lot to stifle the pleasure of chance discovery which a short wave radio set with an old fashioned "analogue" tuner can bring. On my late night train journey back from London, my audio boat landed me on the far off shores of the People's Republic, with the enchanting sounds of China Roots on China Radio International (find their website at www.cri.org.)
For those that would like to know more about WRN, there should be a report on this visit in the next edition of Communication. This is of course sent on subscription to members. We always welcome new participants, whatever your level of interest in broadcast radio or however long you've been listening. Check out the BDXC website for more information. Also, look out for an article on WRN written by my good buddy Chris Brand in a forthcoming edition of RADIO ACTIVE, an excellent magazine available from all good newsagents.
My other R's ?
RAIL
How great it is to see the name of Southern back on the rail map of Britain. The network now may be a shadow of its pre-Beeching heyday, but it recalls a wonderful part of Britain's rail heritage. I'll never forget the thrill my brother Matthew and I got from "driving" an electric multiple unit out of Strawberry Hill depot on the Southern- and the deafening hiss of the brakes as we let go of the "dead man's handle" remains a powerful arual memory even now.
However, I bet the old Southern had on-board loos which worked, which is more than can be said for their hi-tech modern equivalent. The new Electrostar trains have sophisticated sensors which lock the loo when the waste tank is 80 per cent full, meaning they can't be used. But what possible harm can be done by a little tinkling of uric acid on some isolated rail track in the middle of nowhere? Sometimes I think nanny state restrictions are just slightly mad!
REAL ALE
Working "facilities" are all the more needed on the homeward trip after a pint or two of a great cask ale. After the WRN visit, we made our way through a little boxes Vauxhall housing estate, to a pub which I think was called the Mawby Arms. Full of locals flitting between fillies and foulers- racing and soccer- it didn't look a promising venue for a post-visit chinwag at first. However, first impressions can be deceptive. The pub had an excellent range of three cask ales, of which my choice was the very tasty Kickoff from Robinsons of Stockport. I need to investigate this one further! The real ale lubricated some good chat for a couple of hours, before I headed back to Feltham for an evening visit- though no more beer!
Radio, Rail and Real Ale made for a fun day out yesterday and are things I take great delight in. However, if all these great enjoyments of life were taken away from me, I know I'd still have the one thing that matters most- my faith in Jesus Christ. Learning to read and write is a fundamental right, but I wonder how many modern folk know that it's only through the efforts of faithful Christians that some people are able to do so at all. Our education system has its roots in the tireless social action of folk who knew the three R's that matter most, and for me without this the rest is meaningless. Believing in the meaning of the life and death of Christ savours all my other friendships and family ties; in other words, it brings a Really Redeeming Relationship. Amen
Links: Tried to paste in some links here readers, but seem to be having some technical troubles which prevent it right now. I'm sure a little searching with Google should soon trawl up anything you might want to know about from the above though. Try pasting in:
www.bdxc.org.uk
www.classicfm.org
www.wrn.org
www.southern-railway.co.uk
There are no "rules" as such with blogs, apart from the law and common courtesy which I do my best to observe. "Blogistan" is very much a country peopled by individual Ian's, normal Normans and eccentric Ericas, all with their own way of seeing things and saying things so as a muttering Mark I'm no different. However, obviously some postings may make more interesting reading to you than others. Just like reading any other newspaper or magazine, you're probably not going to read literally every line from end to end(including the ads!), so I won't feel offended if you pass on some of my postings! I would though rather stimulate honest opinions and exchanges of views, so don't hold back and if you have any criticisms, I want to hear them. If I willingly place myself in a public stocks, I expect to have the odd tomato or bad egg hurled at me once in a while!
Still, it's probably easier to read a piece where you have some idea where you are going, or to use the current cliche a "road map". I'm therefore going to try to put some pointers such as paragraph headings in these postings from now on, if I go off on a different road with my grasshopper mind. I was once described by my English teacher as an enigma, i.e with a great ability and potential with the language but a tendency to laziness. I think he probably had me sussed quite well actually, such that 27 years later probably not much has changed! At the same time, I take to heart encouragingly the words of another academic, in this case my lecturer at night school when I took my A Level History ten years after flunking it at the same school. He said I was a born essay writer!
Well, whether that is true is not for me to say but I do adore writing and long to do it more. Indeed, in my ideal world I'd probably be making a living from it. For the present though, I'm happy to log on and blog on, so trust you will enjoy reading my humble or perhaps self-indulgent thoughts from time to time. So, on with this first posting of the month, and back to the Three- or perhaps more- R's...
RADIO
Mr Marconi's world-changing invention has been a friend to me ever since I was a wee lad. However, as with all friends I've sometimes spent more time and played with it more often than others, simply because of the demands of daily living and other distractions, many of which if I am honest are not particularly fulfilling and add little to my knowledge of our global village and the God who I believe built it. Yesterday though (Saturday 2nd) brought I think, something of a renewal of my vows of marriage to this wonderful medium and a strengthening of metaphorical and literal friendships.
Dozed off on Friday night to the soporific sounds of thirties dance music in a language I couldn't understand, but it was absolutely wonderful and unexpected to hear. The frequency was 6165 kHz in the 49 metre band, and I discovered the next day the station was Radio Croatia . Although there was interference audible underneath, I had no problem listening, and this made an unusual change from the soothing late-night fare I normally listen to from Classic FM In fact, it reminded me what a wonderful world of listening still lies out there, despite the increasing tendency for broadcasters to abandon ship on the high frequen-cies. How much more thrilling it must have been, then, for listeners in an era before jumbo jet jaunting and satellite seeing to experience faraway places and different cultures through little more than a thin paper cone, a few bits of wire and solder or maybe a pair of heavy headphones.
The world of broadcasting is so very different today, where a flick of a switch or a a click of a mouse can bring up the latest happenings in both sound and vision anywhere from Hamburg to Harare, or Aberdeen to Auckland. Yet somehow that only heightens the appeal and the marvel, at both the new technology- the highways, if you like- which brings this entertainment and information to our fingertips, and the by-ways, the "side streets" of local stations, short term event stations and other curiosities, which still make the hobby of "DXing", or distant listening, so fascinating.
This duopoly of the old and the new was brought home with a fascinating visit on Saturday to the studios of the World Radio Network, known for short as WRN. The trip was arranged by Mike Terry, who I've mentioned before in this blog is a fellow member of the British DX Club a, one of our longest-serving in fact. Mike had been planning this trip for some time, but I have to admit I had not originally approached it with a great deal of enthusiasm of expectation. When you've worked in radio particularly, as I have, there can be something of a blase attitude of "when you've seen one radio station, you've seen them all", after a while. Nothing could be further from the truth in WRN's case, however. We had an enthralling afternoon both learning about the background to the station and their exciting plans, as well as looking round the "business end" where a large bank of flashing lights and whirring gubbins worthy of the Tardis transported in radio programming from all over the globe.
WRN is a unique organisation in that it takes in programmes from most of the world's major international broadcasters and then sends them flying out again through satellites and cables to landfall listener-side to the world's TVs, radios and PCs. It's an interesting and unique business proposition which nevertheless remains in the hands of three former BBC bods, but looks set to go from strength to strength as the means of digital delivery continue to grow and burgeon.
I've known of WRN's existence for some time, of course (they started in 1992) and for a while used to listen to them through WorldSpace, a somewhat less well-organised satellite system which started with good intentions but has rather lost the plot recently. Following my visit to WRN yesterday, however, I intend to hook the WorldSpace receiver back up to it's windowsill mini-dish, so that I can take full advantage of the excellent programming "bouquet" WRN offers. Even if I don't do that, there's always the option of catching up via the net and cordless speakers. Can you think of a more comforting way to end a dark and damp autumn night on a large island in the North Atlantic, by moving by the magic of technology to hear what's happening in the warm seas of the Pacific on a Spring day? That's how I concluded my Saturday night, falling asleep listening to Radio New Zealand in perfect quality, thanks to WRN. Excellent stuff.
Having said all that, it takes a lot to stifle the pleasure of chance discovery which a short wave radio set with an old fashioned "analogue" tuner can bring. On my late night train journey back from London, my audio boat landed me on the far off shores of the People's Republic, with the enchanting sounds of China Roots on China Radio International (find their website at www.cri.org.)
For those that would like to know more about WRN, there should be a report on this visit in the next edition of Communication. This is of course sent on subscription to members. We always welcome new participants, whatever your level of interest in broadcast radio or however long you've been listening. Check out the BDXC website for more information. Also, look out for an article on WRN written by my good buddy Chris Brand in a forthcoming edition of RADIO ACTIVE, an excellent magazine available from all good newsagents.
My other R's ?
RAIL
How great it is to see the name of Southern back on the rail map of Britain. The network now may be a shadow of its pre-Beeching heyday, but it recalls a wonderful part of Britain's rail heritage. I'll never forget the thrill my brother Matthew and I got from "driving" an electric multiple unit out of Strawberry Hill depot on the Southern- and the deafening hiss of the brakes as we let go of the "dead man's handle" remains a powerful arual memory even now.
However, I bet the old Southern had on-board loos which worked, which is more than can be said for their hi-tech modern equivalent. The new Electrostar trains have sophisticated sensors which lock the loo when the waste tank is 80 per cent full, meaning they can't be used. But what possible harm can be done by a little tinkling of uric acid on some isolated rail track in the middle of nowhere? Sometimes I think nanny state restrictions are just slightly mad!
REAL ALE
Working "facilities" are all the more needed on the homeward trip after a pint or two of a great cask ale. After the WRN visit, we made our way through a little boxes Vauxhall housing estate, to a pub which I think was called the Mawby Arms. Full of locals flitting between fillies and foulers- racing and soccer- it didn't look a promising venue for a post-visit chinwag at first. However, first impressions can be deceptive. The pub had an excellent range of three cask ales, of which my choice was the very tasty Kickoff from Robinsons of Stockport. I need to investigate this one further! The real ale lubricated some good chat for a couple of hours, before I headed back to Feltham for an evening visit- though no more beer!
Radio, Rail and Real Ale made for a fun day out yesterday and are things I take great delight in. However, if all these great enjoyments of life were taken away from me, I know I'd still have the one thing that matters most- my faith in Jesus Christ. Learning to read and write is a fundamental right, but I wonder how many modern folk know that it's only through the efforts of faithful Christians that some people are able to do so at all. Our education system has its roots in the tireless social action of folk who knew the three R's that matter most, and for me without this the rest is meaningless. Believing in the meaning of the life and death of Christ savours all my other friendships and family ties; in other words, it brings a Really Redeeming Relationship. Amen
Links: Tried to paste in some links here readers, but seem to be having some technical troubles which prevent it right now. I'm sure a little searching with Google should soon trawl up anything you might want to know about from the above though. Try pasting in:
www.bdxc.org.uk
www.classicfm.org
www.wrn.org
www.southern-railway.co.uk
Friday, 1 October 2004
On the last day of September
Or maybe I'd do better calling it "I'm tired and I want to go to bed". Not that I need to be shown the way home, mind, as I'm already there!
However, couldn't resist the opportunity to post as the ninth month of the year draws to a close- it would be kind of cheating, wouldn't it, if I posted tomorrow and changed the date! The big ship may well have been sailing on the Ally, Ally O (which I gather is or was a nickname for the Manchester Ship Canal at one stage!), but no sign of any on the English English Channel today. Mind you, earlier in the week the locals of Camber Sands must have been sad to see the departure of a huge ship which had been grounded for a fortnight, making it the most celebrated hulk of metal in Sussex since the Athena B back in the seventies.
Actually, I'd kind of forgotten it was the last day of September until I ventured out for a late afternoon walk today. After some rather miserable conditions earlier in the week, it was actually very nice today. Having found my weight was back up a couple of pounds, I decided I needed a bit more of a walk than usual, so I did a full 3 miles from the Pier to Holywell and back. Had hoped to enjoy a cuppa in the Holywell Tea Chalet with a view over to Beachy Head, but just my luck they seem to be closing earlier now. The sun had dipped down behind the cliffs, so maybe 4.30 is when the urn stops boiling.
Never mind, still a good walk, and I settled for a very nice cuppa and even a scone at the Wish Tower which was still open til 6.00, though next Monday even that haven reverts to it's winter closing time of 5.00. A sure sign that Summer is over, though the sunny pause today, with the yellow fellow almost blindingly bright, I hope augurs well for the Autumn ahead. I have often known October to be a very pleasant month indeed, for weather if not for happenings always. However, no doubt many will be glad to see the back of this month though the traumas of the world continue whatever the month.
As I type, Ken Bigley is still being held hostage somewhere in Iraq (one presumes), despite numerous high profile pleas and efforts to free him. He is clearly being used as a political pawn by his captors. Meanwhile, his Mum is still in hospital. And yet there is hope; his plight has captured hearts all over the world, according to his brother, so maybe we will yet see prayer answered mercifully. Even if not, one cannot blame God for this poor man's plight, but the sins of the world.
I enjoyed my cuppa at the Wish Tower, and sat outside to enjoy it. Although I'd worked up quite a sweat with my brisk walking, it was actually decidedly chillier outside, so maybe I would have been better staying in the sun lounge again. However, being outside gave me the chance to appreciate the fish pond there, which was absolutely teaming with grey and orange coy carp (Goldfish to you and me!). One little girl came by with her parents and was reminded of Finding Nemo, until coming out the other side of the building she looked at them again and said "there's my tea!" Bless her, out of the mouths of babes, eh.
However, I was reminded rather more of Jesus' command to his disciples to put down their nets on the other side, and the great catch they got when they obeyed. It was a precious few moments where I felt spiritually still and encouraged by hearing God's voice, I believe, at a time when I am still out of work and perhaps beginning to feel a little concerned now, yet at the same time at more peace than I have been in such situations before. Maybe that's happening as I mature in faith, and particularly as I attempt to "Practice the Presence of God", which is the theme of the current part of the "Understanding Spirituality" course I'm so enjoying.
On the news front, surprising headlines tonight that Prime Minister Tony Blair is to go into hospital tomorrow for what is described as a routine and low-risk procedure to cure his heart arythmia which first started media tongues wagging about his future next year. He has now announced that though he will stand for the next election and intends to serve a full term, he will not go on beyond that. Probably very wise, if not inevitable. Certainly he's had a tough week, if not a few months. I don't for one moment support what he did on Iraq, but can't help really feeling a certain sorrow for him. But who knows what really goes on in the heart of a politician, or indeed anyone. Only God knows the heart of man, and at least Mr Blair is a Christian, as indeed is his likely successor Gordon Brown. Or should I say James Gordon Brown. Had a fascinating few minutes this evening checking out his biography, on the number 10 website among others- which is kind of appropriate seeing as Mr Brown is actually already living there.
Now, I think it really is time for bed. If you've retrieved this posting from the September archive, which is where it will disappear in a few hours time no doubt, well done! Time for some feedback though- get posting your comments here or if you know me, send an e.
However, couldn't resist the opportunity to post as the ninth month of the year draws to a close- it would be kind of cheating, wouldn't it, if I posted tomorrow and changed the date! The big ship may well have been sailing on the Ally, Ally O (which I gather is or was a nickname for the Manchester Ship Canal at one stage!), but no sign of any on the English English Channel today. Mind you, earlier in the week the locals of Camber Sands must have been sad to see the departure of a huge ship which had been grounded for a fortnight, making it the most celebrated hulk of metal in Sussex since the Athena B back in the seventies.
Actually, I'd kind of forgotten it was the last day of September until I ventured out for a late afternoon walk today. After some rather miserable conditions earlier in the week, it was actually very nice today. Having found my weight was back up a couple of pounds, I decided I needed a bit more of a walk than usual, so I did a full 3 miles from the Pier to Holywell and back. Had hoped to enjoy a cuppa in the Holywell Tea Chalet with a view over to Beachy Head, but just my luck they seem to be closing earlier now. The sun had dipped down behind the cliffs, so maybe 4.30 is when the urn stops boiling.
Never mind, still a good walk, and I settled for a very nice cuppa and even a scone at the Wish Tower which was still open til 6.00, though next Monday even that haven reverts to it's winter closing time of 5.00. A sure sign that Summer is over, though the sunny pause today, with the yellow fellow almost blindingly bright, I hope augurs well for the Autumn ahead. I have often known October to be a very pleasant month indeed, for weather if not for happenings always. However, no doubt many will be glad to see the back of this month though the traumas of the world continue whatever the month.
As I type, Ken Bigley is still being held hostage somewhere in Iraq (one presumes), despite numerous high profile pleas and efforts to free him. He is clearly being used as a political pawn by his captors. Meanwhile, his Mum is still in hospital. And yet there is hope; his plight has captured hearts all over the world, according to his brother, so maybe we will yet see prayer answered mercifully. Even if not, one cannot blame God for this poor man's plight, but the sins of the world.
I enjoyed my cuppa at the Wish Tower, and sat outside to enjoy it. Although I'd worked up quite a sweat with my brisk walking, it was actually decidedly chillier outside, so maybe I would have been better staying in the sun lounge again. However, being outside gave me the chance to appreciate the fish pond there, which was absolutely teaming with grey and orange coy carp (Goldfish to you and me!). One little girl came by with her parents and was reminded of Finding Nemo, until coming out the other side of the building she looked at them again and said "there's my tea!" Bless her, out of the mouths of babes, eh.
However, I was reminded rather more of Jesus' command to his disciples to put down their nets on the other side, and the great catch they got when they obeyed. It was a precious few moments where I felt spiritually still and encouraged by hearing God's voice, I believe, at a time when I am still out of work and perhaps beginning to feel a little concerned now, yet at the same time at more peace than I have been in such situations before. Maybe that's happening as I mature in faith, and particularly as I attempt to "Practice the Presence of God", which is the theme of the current part of the "Understanding Spirituality" course I'm so enjoying.
On the news front, surprising headlines tonight that Prime Minister Tony Blair is to go into hospital tomorrow for what is described as a routine and low-risk procedure to cure his heart arythmia which first started media tongues wagging about his future next year. He has now announced that though he will stand for the next election and intends to serve a full term, he will not go on beyond that. Probably very wise, if not inevitable. Certainly he's had a tough week, if not a few months. I don't for one moment support what he did on Iraq, but can't help really feeling a certain sorrow for him. But who knows what really goes on in the heart of a politician, or indeed anyone. Only God knows the heart of man, and at least Mr Blair is a Christian, as indeed is his likely successor Gordon Brown. Or should I say James Gordon Brown. Had a fascinating few minutes this evening checking out his biography, on the number 10 website among others- which is kind of appropriate seeing as Mr Brown is actually already living there.
Now, I think it really is time for bed. If you've retrieved this posting from the September archive, which is where it will disappear in a few hours time no doubt, well done! Time for some feedback though- get posting your comments here or if you know me, send an e.
Friday, 24 September 2004
Where have all the new cars gone?
Title of this post to be sung to the tune of Where Have All the Flowers Gone>, that very poignant protest song of the sixties. I never knew it was an anti-Vietnam song back in those wide-eyed and innnocent days of mine of course: I just saw it as a lovely song in the same vein as In an English Country Garden. However, its lyrics ring true again now, but where are the folk singers of today to vent their anger at the torrid, horrid world our society seems to be becoming?
The news these past few days has been dominated by the fate of the latest hostages to fall victim to the sub-human extremists of the Middle East. Ken Bigley, a middle-aged Englishmanm has his life hanging in the balance with the threat of chilling execution, most likely beheading, for no other crime apparently than being the wrong nationality in the wrong place at the wrong time. Two of his fellow captives have met that fate in the last week but the mental torture being imposed on his loved ones is almost worse than the physical barbarity of his death sentence. The captors are demanding the release of two Iraqi women held in American jails, something which needless to say the US will not acceed to.
Last night saw Mr Bigley's distraught 86-year old mother, barely able to contain herself, appear before a news conference before later collapsing and needing hospital treatment (although she has at least been discharged this morning). What can possibly drive anyone to such acts of savagery, to forgive the insult to my surname? Have they never had family themselves? Can anyone be so loveless? I do hope and pray that the pleas of his family will have been seen by his captors and move them to mercy, but somehow I fear it will make little difference.
How can anyone so lose their humanity to ruthlessly kill not fellow soldiers or militia men, but disinterested civilians? Of course, the west is not blameless and our leaders have the blood of countless other civilian lives on their hands but this sort of thing just defies belief.
My feelings echo those of 'decent' people everywhere I hope. It was a theme taken up by Father Brian Darcy in a great Pause for Thought on BBC Radio 2 this morning. He called everyone of any faith to spare a prayer to their God for this hapless man and his family and it was a challenge I willingly responded to immediately. The resultant 15 minute prayer session was a blessing of stillness in an unstill world: I find it increasingly wonderful how God can provide such moments of perfect peace, or Shalom as the Bible calls it, at the most unexpected times and in unlikely ways.
As I write this, I am once again having to keep my cool against what seem to me like the excesses of my neighbours below. For the last twelve hours or so, I've heard what sounds like the same piece of music being played over and over accompanied by incessant chatter. Now it's not noisome in itself, but irritating. And yet, I know that good witness means being tolerant to this, understanding and moderate. Compared to the matters above, its a trivial annoyance. My neighbours do after all have every right to enjoy their culture in their flat during the daytime hours and I'd be laughed out of court if I attempted to complain to officialdom this time, I think. This world needs moderation, and it needs moderators. Lord, bring us back to that equilibrium, that "Shalom", which only you can give.
As I said in an earlier posting, I don't think I have known a September like it. But you have to find light relief and normality, indeed almost wallow in the mundane in such situations or else the terrorists win their victory. The little observations of life, these daily details, may not be of earth-shattering importance, but they do ensure that civilised life, whatever that is, can carry on.
It's now two-thirds of the way through the month when the 54 registration came in, but I have yet to see a new car on the road- most unusual. OK, there were eight of them on the back of a transporter the other day, but that doesn't count! Are these moveable cartons of shiny metal and rubber losing their allure? For the sake of the thousands employed in the motor industry, I certainly hope not, but maybe environmentalists would raise a cheer.
It's such a fine balance between enjoying and enduring this consumer-led planet, I find. Laws of physics ordered by the almighty actually make this world go round,not money, and yet there's no tirade against trade in the Bible, something I've perhaps been prone to forget at times. However, it does warn that the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil- though not, as is often misquoted "of all evil". I wonder how much of our present problems are really down to a misguided moneyphilia? At which point, purely by "accident", I'm sure, the weekly LICC mailing popped into the inbox, saying this:
Jesus Walks – Kanye West
Jesus is everywhere - from designer label All Saints’ silver-studded belts proclaiming ‘Jesus loves you’ to River Island’s cartoon-Christ t-shirts bearing the WWJD legend. Never before has the Son of God been so assimilated in order to push product.
It doesn’t stop there. Christ is in the cinema, Christ is in politics, and now Christ is in a pop chart near you. And no, it’s not Christmas, and Sir Cliff is nowhere to be heard. Instead, it’s the goth-shock rocker Marilyn Manson and the critically lauded US rap star Kanye West who are responsible.
Manson’s latest release, a cover of Depeche Mode’s classic ‘My Own Personal Jesus’, attacks America’s right wing , as the Republicans lay claim to divine approval in the run-up to the elections (see ‘God is not a Republican’ at www.licc.org.uk/culture/god-is-not-a-republican).
Kanye’s song ‘Jesus Walks’, however, reveals an even more radical message for contemporary America.
It is many things - an attack on racism and the divide between rich and poor, a confession (‘I want to talk to God but I’m afraid cos we ain’t spoke in so long’) and a rooted ‘gospel’ song depicting Christ’s compassion for the outcast:
‘To the hustlers, killers, murderers, drug dealers, even the strippers, Jesus walks with them. To the victims of welfare, feel we living in hell here, hell yeah, Jesus walks with them.’
But the unique prophetic edge of both the song and album (‘The College Dropout’) is West’s unflinching critique of aspects of his own Afro-American culture. He refuses to embrace the popular image of rapper-as-gangster-hero, and undermines the superficiality of the bling-bling consumer lifestyle. As his recent hit ‘All Falls Down’ decrees, ‘The prettiest people do the ugliest things/For the road to the riches and the diamond rings.’
West also calls into account the deep hypocrisy of a media culture which encourages its stars to flaunt sex and violence but never religious ideals. As he spits in ‘Jesus Walks’, ‘They said you can rap anything except for Jesus.’
Christians wishing to ‘make it’ in the music world are often wary that overt expressions of faith will make them unpopular. Perhaps the gospel according to Kanye shows that incisive social thinking accompanied by assured musicianship is one way to ensure that, directly or indirectly, Jesus gets to talk (if not walk, quite yet) with the MTV masses.
Jason Gardner
How true. God needs witnesses to his goodness. Not people who bling bling but sing sing of his great love forever. At which point, I'd love to quote the hymn based on Vaughan Williams' wonderful Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis, which was one of the hymns they had on the Daily Service pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela this morning. Trouble is, I don't know the words!
THE LONG ROAD
I might not share the spiritual background of the pilgrims venerating the professed relics of Jesus' brother, but I am certainly a pilgrim on the journey on the modern road of life. A few years ago, I had a chorus come to me on one of my prayer breaks on the beach in Portslade, East Sussex, where I was living at the time I put the words to the tune of a lovely tune by the brilliant Mark Knopfler, called
On the long road, the long road of life
Sometimes there's joy, sometimes strife
But through it all
You're still the same
You share the joy
You share the pain
Lord, I love you, yes I do
I'll follow you, follow true
Down that long road, the road of life
That long long road, the road of life.
It is a long road indeed, yet hitting the "motorway" of mortal existence in the forties, you realise how short a journey it can be so it's best to make the most of it. The early pilgrims reached their final destinations footsore and weary, but God is not averse to industrial technology aiding the journey in our age, I'm sure. However, rust will never destroy this chariot. It runs on love and its journey travelled is measured in heartbeats not milemarks. There's a 24/7 hotline to the manufacturer and an eternal lifetime warranty. With features like that, who needs the latest number on a plate?
The news these past few days has been dominated by the fate of the latest hostages to fall victim to the sub-human extremists of the Middle East. Ken Bigley, a middle-aged Englishmanm has his life hanging in the balance with the threat of chilling execution, most likely beheading, for no other crime apparently than being the wrong nationality in the wrong place at the wrong time. Two of his fellow captives have met that fate in the last week but the mental torture being imposed on his loved ones is almost worse than the physical barbarity of his death sentence. The captors are demanding the release of two Iraqi women held in American jails, something which needless to say the US will not acceed to.
Last night saw Mr Bigley's distraught 86-year old mother, barely able to contain herself, appear before a news conference before later collapsing and needing hospital treatment (although she has at least been discharged this morning). What can possibly drive anyone to such acts of savagery, to forgive the insult to my surname? Have they never had family themselves? Can anyone be so loveless? I do hope and pray that the pleas of his family will have been seen by his captors and move them to mercy, but somehow I fear it will make little difference.
How can anyone so lose their humanity to ruthlessly kill not fellow soldiers or militia men, but disinterested civilians? Of course, the west is not blameless and our leaders have the blood of countless other civilian lives on their hands but this sort of thing just defies belief.
My feelings echo those of 'decent' people everywhere I hope. It was a theme taken up by Father Brian Darcy in a great Pause for Thought on BBC Radio 2 this morning. He called everyone of any faith to spare a prayer to their God for this hapless man and his family and it was a challenge I willingly responded to immediately. The resultant 15 minute prayer session was a blessing of stillness in an unstill world: I find it increasingly wonderful how God can provide such moments of perfect peace, or Shalom as the Bible calls it, at the most unexpected times and in unlikely ways.
As I write this, I am once again having to keep my cool against what seem to me like the excesses of my neighbours below. For the last twelve hours or so, I've heard what sounds like the same piece of music being played over and over accompanied by incessant chatter. Now it's not noisome in itself, but irritating. And yet, I know that good witness means being tolerant to this, understanding and moderate. Compared to the matters above, its a trivial annoyance. My neighbours do after all have every right to enjoy their culture in their flat during the daytime hours and I'd be laughed out of court if I attempted to complain to officialdom this time, I think. This world needs moderation, and it needs moderators. Lord, bring us back to that equilibrium, that "Shalom", which only you can give.
As I said in an earlier posting, I don't think I have known a September like it. But you have to find light relief and normality, indeed almost wallow in the mundane in such situations or else the terrorists win their victory. The little observations of life, these daily details, may not be of earth-shattering importance, but they do ensure that civilised life, whatever that is, can carry on.
It's now two-thirds of the way through the month when the 54 registration came in, but I have yet to see a new car on the road- most unusual. OK, there were eight of them on the back of a transporter the other day, but that doesn't count! Are these moveable cartons of shiny metal and rubber losing their allure? For the sake of the thousands employed in the motor industry, I certainly hope not, but maybe environmentalists would raise a cheer.
It's such a fine balance between enjoying and enduring this consumer-led planet, I find. Laws of physics ordered by the almighty actually make this world go round,not money, and yet there's no tirade against trade in the Bible, something I've perhaps been prone to forget at times. However, it does warn that the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil- though not, as is often misquoted "of all evil". I wonder how much of our present problems are really down to a misguided moneyphilia? At which point, purely by "accident", I'm sure, the weekly LICC mailing popped into the inbox, saying this:
Jesus Walks – Kanye West
Jesus is everywhere - from designer label All Saints’ silver-studded belts proclaiming ‘Jesus loves you’ to River Island’s cartoon-Christ t-shirts bearing the WWJD legend. Never before has the Son of God been so assimilated in order to push product.
It doesn’t stop there. Christ is in the cinema, Christ is in politics, and now Christ is in a pop chart near you. And no, it’s not Christmas, and Sir Cliff is nowhere to be heard. Instead, it’s the goth-shock rocker Marilyn Manson and the critically lauded US rap star Kanye West who are responsible.
Manson’s latest release, a cover of Depeche Mode’s classic ‘My Own Personal Jesus’, attacks America’s right wing , as the Republicans lay claim to divine approval in the run-up to the elections (see ‘God is not a Republican’ at www.licc.org.uk/culture/god-is-not-a-republican).
Kanye’s song ‘Jesus Walks’, however, reveals an even more radical message for contemporary America.
It is many things - an attack on racism and the divide between rich and poor, a confession (‘I want to talk to God but I’m afraid cos we ain’t spoke in so long’) and a rooted ‘gospel’ song depicting Christ’s compassion for the outcast:
‘To the hustlers, killers, murderers, drug dealers, even the strippers, Jesus walks with them. To the victims of welfare, feel we living in hell here, hell yeah, Jesus walks with them.’
But the unique prophetic edge of both the song and album (‘The College Dropout’) is West’s unflinching critique of aspects of his own Afro-American culture. He refuses to embrace the popular image of rapper-as-gangster-hero, and undermines the superficiality of the bling-bling consumer lifestyle. As his recent hit ‘All Falls Down’ decrees, ‘The prettiest people do the ugliest things/For the road to the riches and the diamond rings.’
West also calls into account the deep hypocrisy of a media culture which encourages its stars to flaunt sex and violence but never religious ideals. As he spits in ‘Jesus Walks’, ‘They said you can rap anything except for Jesus.’
Christians wishing to ‘make it’ in the music world are often wary that overt expressions of faith will make them unpopular. Perhaps the gospel according to Kanye shows that incisive social thinking accompanied by assured musicianship is one way to ensure that, directly or indirectly, Jesus gets to talk (if not walk, quite yet) with the MTV masses.
Jason Gardner
How true. God needs witnesses to his goodness. Not people who bling bling but sing sing of his great love forever. At which point, I'd love to quote the hymn based on Vaughan Williams' wonderful Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis, which was one of the hymns they had on the Daily Service pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela this morning. Trouble is, I don't know the words!
THE LONG ROAD
I might not share the spiritual background of the pilgrims venerating the professed relics of Jesus' brother, but I am certainly a pilgrim on the journey on the modern road of life. A few years ago, I had a chorus come to me on one of my prayer breaks on the beach in Portslade, East Sussex, where I was living at the time I put the words to the tune of a lovely tune by the brilliant Mark Knopfler, called
On the long road, the long road of life
Sometimes there's joy, sometimes strife
But through it all
You're still the same
You share the joy
You share the pain
Lord, I love you, yes I do
I'll follow you, follow true
Down that long road, the road of life
That long long road, the road of life.
It is a long road indeed, yet hitting the "motorway" of mortal existence in the forties, you realise how short a journey it can be so it's best to make the most of it. The early pilgrims reached their final destinations footsore and weary, but God is not averse to industrial technology aiding the journey in our age, I'm sure. However, rust will never destroy this chariot. It runs on love and its journey travelled is measured in heartbeats not milemarks. There's a 24/7 hotline to the manufacturer and an eternal lifetime warranty. With features like that, who needs the latest number on a plate?
Wednesday, 22 September 2004
"Different-abled or Dis-Abled?
BBC - Ouch! Disability Magazine - News, Paralympics, Features, Humour
I mentioned in Saturday's posting how I feel deeply affected when I see folk with Downs Syndrome. However, I was hesitating over my words even as I started to write this paragraph. How easily we label people- but should we? Every human being has so many other qualities, ability and potential beyond that which is immediately apparent to the eyes of those who take for granted the gift of all our senses including sight-and I speak as one who has not had 20/20 vision since the age of 14 and wears glasses most of the time now.
Fortunately, my "disability" is not one that merits any comment from anyone really, and I would certainly not call myself disabled in that sense. A sizeable proportion of the population have to wear spectacles at one stage or other, particularly after a certain age. So nobody would know that part of me is 64 years older than the rest as I have a donated cornea in my left eye, unless I choose to tell them(OK,I have now, haven't "eye"!)
My dear younger brother was boasting in a gentle way the other week that when he had a sight test as part of a work medical, he even read out the maker's name at the bottom of the chart! As he's only eighteen months younger than me though, I expect he'll be needing his fair share of manufactured assistance with reading the small print before long, I'm sure. It comes to us all, though our Mum seems to have managed amazingly well without glasses for close work well into these later years.
I wonder who first came up with the word "disabled"? I'll bet it was an able-bodied person, but I'll also wager they never stopped to realise that they too are actually disabled and so is everyone else in the world. Whether by accident of birth, accidental trauma or simply lacking certain skills others have, none of us have perfect abilities in all things. I'll never be a Rembrandt or a Rooney (Wayne of that ilk, wunderkind of Manchester United)so I'm dis-abled from being a great painter or football player- in the latter case as much by the arrival of middle age as the absence of Rooney's beautiful boots!
However, in God's sight, I already am perfect, because he has made me so, as indeed he has every reader of these thoughts. Every human being is made in his image, whatever their abilities or apparent lack of them. We are not written off as seconds, but restored to our full function through history's pivot, one marvellous sacrifice made not for sporting glory but for human liberation, something far more lasting. Therefore, logically and faithfully, everyone has the ability to do something far greater than their most paralysing of disabilities allow. To each individual, our creator has given unique gifts- and yet it's part of the wonderful topsy turvy grace of God that sometimes those who seem to have the least actually have the most. The first shall be last and the last shall be first is the Lord's order of play, which would make for some very interesting if confusing medal awards at Olympic or Paralympic games!
I've been thinking a lot about the marginalised members of our society tonight as I watched three wonderful BBC Two features which all in different ways addressed disabilities. I was drawn to this web page as a link from the last of them; it had one of the longest, most intriguing titles I've heard in a long time. It was called The Robinsons at Wit's End: This is my Family, and is the second in a wonderfully life-affirming series of Tuesday documentaries. Unfortunately, I missed the first half hour or so of the programme as my forty winks turned into eighty, so it was only after following the link that I learnt the full extent of the pain and sorrow this wonderful family have endured alongside all the joys of being a home of love to six beautiful children, five of whom have special needs or "learning difficulties". Sometimes politically correct labels can do more harm than good, but I think both these descriptions well serve the wonderful young individuals this programme featured.
The narrator of the programme was 13-year old Debra, the only one of the adopted Robinson children without recognised medical or social difficulties. The part of the programme I saw focussed on her entry to teenagerdom and her loving Mum's efforts to help her into the minefield of adolescence while avoiding the temptation to wrap her in cotton wool as she understandably does with the others. Yet each of the other children, particularly young Tish who is of a similar age but had endured a dreadful early childhood, all had something really special to contribute. Her insights, her trust, her unaffected words of appreciation for each of her teachers at her "ordinary" comprehensive in Honiton, Devon, all spoke volumes to me of where Jesus the Saviour, God the loving Father and the Holy Spirit can most often be seen hard at work, yet so often untrumpeted.
I don't know whether this family hold any beliefs at all but for me God was surely evident in this gem of a programme. I hope it gets an early repeat so I can see the rest of it. Isn't it interesting how the most striking parts of the gospel, and the people Jesus paid most attention to, were those who were the least able in 1st Century eyes: those who were disabled through prejudice or the ignorance of others from standing up to the neglect and pretensions of the religious hierarchy of the time.
These characters in scripture to me, were in some ways just like the Robinson children, growing up in an often cruel world which is not so very different from ancient Palestine. Their loving mother understandably fears for them, just as parents of disabled and sick children brought their loved ones to Jesus. He came to bring hope and release the true abilities of all who bore such chronic burdens, of many kinds-adults as well as children, whether those burdens were physical, mental or spiritual. He healed and helped those who were "disabled" through no fault of their own. He still comes today, but now he heals and works through us. He challenges us to see the world differently through eyes of faith. Thank heavens for that: as scripture says, "I can do all things through Christ".
This evening too challenged some of my ignorance of disability issues; maybe it's time for it be at least an optional subject on the national curriculum. For instance, after being somewhat confused by the classification system of athlete's disabilities, I came across a website which clarified something which had been puzzling me. A person can be termed a quadraplegic, even if he or she still has some use of their limbs- it all depends on which part of the spinal cord is affected. In other words, they are not necessarily paralysed, which makes the excellently-written editorial to this website, "Ouch" seem all the more relevant.
Mind you, I can't quite understand how the current games can be regarded as "parallel" when the main Olympics finished three weeks ago. Surely something which is parallel happens at the same time, as in a parallel universe? Semantics maybe, but the issue is confused enough- let's not make it more so.
At the end of the International Day of Peace (21st September) here's to a world in which even the greatest disability of all, our inability to love one another as God has loved us, can lead us to the heavenly podium of the victor.
I mentioned in Saturday's posting how I feel deeply affected when I see folk with Downs Syndrome. However, I was hesitating over my words even as I started to write this paragraph. How easily we label people- but should we? Every human being has so many other qualities, ability and potential beyond that which is immediately apparent to the eyes of those who take for granted the gift of all our senses including sight-and I speak as one who has not had 20/20 vision since the age of 14 and wears glasses most of the time now.
Fortunately, my "disability" is not one that merits any comment from anyone really, and I would certainly not call myself disabled in that sense. A sizeable proportion of the population have to wear spectacles at one stage or other, particularly after a certain age. So nobody would know that part of me is 64 years older than the rest as I have a donated cornea in my left eye, unless I choose to tell them(OK,I have now, haven't "eye"!)
My dear younger brother was boasting in a gentle way the other week that when he had a sight test as part of a work medical, he even read out the maker's name at the bottom of the chart! As he's only eighteen months younger than me though, I expect he'll be needing his fair share of manufactured assistance with reading the small print before long, I'm sure. It comes to us all, though our Mum seems to have managed amazingly well without glasses for close work well into these later years.
I wonder who first came up with the word "disabled"? I'll bet it was an able-bodied person, but I'll also wager they never stopped to realise that they too are actually disabled and so is everyone else in the world. Whether by accident of birth, accidental trauma or simply lacking certain skills others have, none of us have perfect abilities in all things. I'll never be a Rembrandt or a Rooney (Wayne of that ilk, wunderkind of Manchester United)so I'm dis-abled from being a great painter or football player- in the latter case as much by the arrival of middle age as the absence of Rooney's beautiful boots!
However, in God's sight, I already am perfect, because he has made me so, as indeed he has every reader of these thoughts. Every human being is made in his image, whatever their abilities or apparent lack of them. We are not written off as seconds, but restored to our full function through history's pivot, one marvellous sacrifice made not for sporting glory but for human liberation, something far more lasting. Therefore, logically and faithfully, everyone has the ability to do something far greater than their most paralysing of disabilities allow. To each individual, our creator has given unique gifts- and yet it's part of the wonderful topsy turvy grace of God that sometimes those who seem to have the least actually have the most. The first shall be last and the last shall be first is the Lord's order of play, which would make for some very interesting if confusing medal awards at Olympic or Paralympic games!
I've been thinking a lot about the marginalised members of our society tonight as I watched three wonderful BBC Two features which all in different ways addressed disabilities. I was drawn to this web page as a link from the last of them; it had one of the longest, most intriguing titles I've heard in a long time. It was called The Robinsons at Wit's End: This is my Family, and is the second in a wonderfully life-affirming series of Tuesday documentaries. Unfortunately, I missed the first half hour or so of the programme as my forty winks turned into eighty, so it was only after following the link that I learnt the full extent of the pain and sorrow this wonderful family have endured alongside all the joys of being a home of love to six beautiful children, five of whom have special needs or "learning difficulties". Sometimes politically correct labels can do more harm than good, but I think both these descriptions well serve the wonderful young individuals this programme featured.
The narrator of the programme was 13-year old Debra, the only one of the adopted Robinson children without recognised medical or social difficulties. The part of the programme I saw focussed on her entry to teenagerdom and her loving Mum's efforts to help her into the minefield of adolescence while avoiding the temptation to wrap her in cotton wool as she understandably does with the others. Yet each of the other children, particularly young Tish who is of a similar age but had endured a dreadful early childhood, all had something really special to contribute. Her insights, her trust, her unaffected words of appreciation for each of her teachers at her "ordinary" comprehensive in Honiton, Devon, all spoke volumes to me of where Jesus the Saviour, God the loving Father and the Holy Spirit can most often be seen hard at work, yet so often untrumpeted.
I don't know whether this family hold any beliefs at all but for me God was surely evident in this gem of a programme. I hope it gets an early repeat so I can see the rest of it. Isn't it interesting how the most striking parts of the gospel, and the people Jesus paid most attention to, were those who were the least able in 1st Century eyes: those who were disabled through prejudice or the ignorance of others from standing up to the neglect and pretensions of the religious hierarchy of the time.
These characters in scripture to me, were in some ways just like the Robinson children, growing up in an often cruel world which is not so very different from ancient Palestine. Their loving mother understandably fears for them, just as parents of disabled and sick children brought their loved ones to Jesus. He came to bring hope and release the true abilities of all who bore such chronic burdens, of many kinds-adults as well as children, whether those burdens were physical, mental or spiritual. He healed and helped those who were "disabled" through no fault of their own. He still comes today, but now he heals and works through us. He challenges us to see the world differently through eyes of faith. Thank heavens for that: as scripture says, "I can do all things through Christ".
This evening too challenged some of my ignorance of disability issues; maybe it's time for it be at least an optional subject on the national curriculum. For instance, after being somewhat confused by the classification system of athlete's disabilities, I came across a website which clarified something which had been puzzling me. A person can be termed a quadraplegic, even if he or she still has some use of their limbs- it all depends on which part of the spinal cord is affected. In other words, they are not necessarily paralysed, which makes the excellently-written editorial to this website, "Ouch" seem all the more relevant.
Mind you, I can't quite understand how the current games can be regarded as "parallel" when the main Olympics finished three weeks ago. Surely something which is parallel happens at the same time, as in a parallel universe? Semantics maybe, but the issue is confused enough- let's not make it more so.
At the end of the International Day of Peace (21st September) here's to a world in which even the greatest disability of all, our inability to love one another as God has loved us, can lead us to the heavenly podium of the victor.
Sunday, 19 September 2004
Technical problems
For reasons I can't yet fathom, yesterday all my postings seemed to move to the extreme left side of the screen and there are no margins. I'm not sure why this is, but I guess it is part of the Blogger learning curve to work out why. I'm experimenting, so just for the sake of variety will try to change the text colour on this posting too, and have changed the template. Hope to return to the "Harbor" at some stage though, as I find it rather comforting.
Quite a time for technical troubles at the moment: I'm very frustrated, having finally seemed to solve the problem with paper feed on my Canon bubble jet, to find that now it is not printing in black, and leaving out some of the colour, even though I have put in new cartridges. I really need my printing facilities right now, so if anyone has any bright ideas I'd really like to hear them- thanks and apologies. MARK
Quite a time for technical troubles at the moment: I'm very frustrated, having finally seemed to solve the problem with paper feed on my Canon bubble jet, to find that now it is not printing in black, and leaving out some of the colour, even though I have put in new cartridges. I really need my printing facilities right now, so if anyone has any bright ideas I'd really like to hear them- thanks and apologies. MARK
Saturday, 18 September 2004
Do I like to be beside the Seaside (Road) ?
Cabe Library 2
Google is an amazing tool for finding all sorts of esoteric links. This I think provides the best introduction to this afternoon's posting. I live just a minute's walk from the Seaside- both the actual watery stuff and the two roads in Eastbourne named using that word which, somewhat confusingly, do not form the seafront but run parallel to it.
Anyway (now you see where my blog title comes in- I do seem to like using this as a paragraph opener!) today is the "Seaside Road Fun Day". I'd spotted advertising for this in shop windows earlier in the week and thought I would drop by and find out what it is all about, but had actually forgotten until earlier this morning when the unusual strains of a Scottish pipe band passed my lugholes.
I was going out for my customary weekend breakfast anyway, but had forgotten to take my wallet so returned home to pick that up. As time was getting on and breakfast stops at 11.30, I also decided to go to T J Hughes rather than Littlewoods for my 8-item treat. No straitened financial circumstances or straightened waist (I wish!) is going to get me to surrender the pleasure of a Saturday sausage just yet.
Both breakfast and location proved a good choice. Fortunately, they still had plenty left of my favourite items (their eggs are brilliant and the fried bread just right) and my favourite table too. This is right by the window of the third floor "Dome" restaurant which is an excellent spot both for its sea view and 'people watching' My large cappuccino, though somewhat strong for my tastes really, lingered nicely while I saw all sorts and conditions of men and women pass by, dashing about their Saturday business, co-operating with the Co-Op or trotting through the Terminus (Road- the main street of the town intersecting at this spot). I particularly noticed three Downs Syndrome people walking across at the lights, reminding me how often I have seen God's image in such faces and that the Paralympics start today in Athens. At least there is another chance for a dose of Grecian sunshine, though to be honest I shall probably do no more than watch the highlights of the opening today.
Getting back to Eastbourne though and the Sunshine coast- living up to its name this afternoon after a gloomy start- from my vantage point, my eyes also took in lots of little features of the skyline you can so easily overlook from ground level. For instance, I'd never noticed the Domed top of the betting shop opposite TJ's, complete with very helpful weathervane and compass pointers- I can never work out which direction is which in this town!- The Dutch gabled ends of the various Edwardian residences above the shops in this area too I find fascinating. Far more typical of the East coast of England than the South-East really: I recall Hull was full of these. There's a very interesting mix of architectural styles here for those that wish to look, and a wide choice of building materials too, quite different from the flint which being so plentiful locally is often the rock of choice.
I finished my coffee just in time to get downstairs for the grand ceremonial ribbon cutting to start the ball rolling on the fun day. Apart from the pipe band standing by under the firm command of their sergeant-major, there were a couple of lovely lassies on stilts, one with fairy wings, and other costumed characters. The significance of their garb escapes me- can't quite work out what era they are from, but very colourful nonetheless.
There's also a barbecue at one of the pubs I've never been in before (dare I risk a cheeseburger and a pint later? So much for good intentions), a steel band (hey, I must hear them after my enjoyment of the Kingston Carnival last Sunday) and various other enticements to investigate the newly regenerated road. It's only just occurred to me that my former colleague Will has probably had a lot to do with this work- good on him. The traffic disruption caused initially during the partial pedestrianising and one-way working of the area proved controversial, but it looks like the traders are determined to make the best of it and I wish them well.
While some of the shops on this road are a bit out of my age bracket these days, like the Blast! clothing store, when funds permit who knows I may even look in the leather shop. I've often thought about having a leather jacket, though can't help thinking of the rather nasty PVC imitation I once wore during the seventies.
However, the shop I shall return to most often without a doubt is the always helpful Christian Resource Centre. Though I've always thought the name a bit dull, it's a brilliant shop where I sometimes have to control my impulse to buy yet more Christian books and magazines. However, the staff and particularly the manager Kevin are always friendly and helpful and a credit to the Christian book trade. Even their vended cappuccino is not bad!
Seaside Road's other brilliant curiosity is The Musgrave Collection the brainchild of one local man, incredibly now in his eighties though looking at least ten years younger than that. A fascinating place. I visited it for this first time a while ago. When, I can't quite remember. Oh, I think it was some time in April though it seems longer. It's dedicated to the life of St Paul, with many beautifully crafted pictures illustrating this together with portraits, models and assorted artefacts on all sorts of aspects of social history- just my sort of place. More info. at http://www.ask.co.uk/ix.asp?q=Musgrave+Collection&ac=none&xx=0&qid=C8EBC5C9E4A20F49941E6968BE63A32C&p=0&s=999&sp=ix&fn=t&b=0&fo=2&r=10&io=1&fp=1&fr=1&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww%2Evisiteastbourne%2Ecom%2Findoor%5Fattractions%2Fmusgrave%2Ehtm&adurl=
I will certainly pay another visit to the attractions of this eclectic mix of shops and services later- it's so convenient. I see that there is even a Learn Direct centre in the internet cafe, which could prove useful for training at the moment. If nothing else, it will cheer me up on a day which started with me feeling in a very down mood, though I am pleased to say the worst of that has now passed. Do I like to be beside the Seaside? Well, my failure to get an interview for the BBC job means that I will probably be by it for a bit longer yet. On balance, despite the occasional calls on my time and energy elsewhere, it's a nice place to be.
Just in case you've wondered, by the way, this is not advertorial but my own unbiased impressions of the local shopping scene. Mind you, it's an interesting idea. Maybe I ought to investigate Adsense!
Google is an amazing tool for finding all sorts of esoteric links. This I think provides the best introduction to this afternoon's posting. I live just a minute's walk from the Seaside- both the actual watery stuff and the two roads in Eastbourne named using that word which, somewhat confusingly, do not form the seafront but run parallel to it.
Anyway (now you see where my blog title comes in- I do seem to like using this as a paragraph opener!) today is the "Seaside Road Fun Day". I'd spotted advertising for this in shop windows earlier in the week and thought I would drop by and find out what it is all about, but had actually forgotten until earlier this morning when the unusual strains of a Scottish pipe band passed my lugholes.
I was going out for my customary weekend breakfast anyway, but had forgotten to take my wallet so returned home to pick that up. As time was getting on and breakfast stops at 11.30, I also decided to go to T J Hughes rather than Littlewoods for my 8-item treat. No straitened financial circumstances or straightened waist (I wish!) is going to get me to surrender the pleasure of a Saturday sausage just yet.
Both breakfast and location proved a good choice. Fortunately, they still had plenty left of my favourite items (their eggs are brilliant and the fried bread just right) and my favourite table too. This is right by the window of the third floor "Dome" restaurant which is an excellent spot both for its sea view and 'people watching' My large cappuccino, though somewhat strong for my tastes really, lingered nicely while I saw all sorts and conditions of men and women pass by, dashing about their Saturday business, co-operating with the Co-Op or trotting through the Terminus (Road- the main street of the town intersecting at this spot). I particularly noticed three Downs Syndrome people walking across at the lights, reminding me how often I have seen God's image in such faces and that the Paralympics start today in Athens. At least there is another chance for a dose of Grecian sunshine, though to be honest I shall probably do no more than watch the highlights of the opening today.
Getting back to Eastbourne though and the Sunshine coast- living up to its name this afternoon after a gloomy start- from my vantage point, my eyes also took in lots of little features of the skyline you can so easily overlook from ground level. For instance, I'd never noticed the Domed top of the betting shop opposite TJ's, complete with very helpful weathervane and compass pointers- I can never work out which direction is which in this town!- The Dutch gabled ends of the various Edwardian residences above the shops in this area too I find fascinating. Far more typical of the East coast of England than the South-East really: I recall Hull was full of these. There's a very interesting mix of architectural styles here for those that wish to look, and a wide choice of building materials too, quite different from the flint which being so plentiful locally is often the rock of choice.
I finished my coffee just in time to get downstairs for the grand ceremonial ribbon cutting to start the ball rolling on the fun day. Apart from the pipe band standing by under the firm command of their sergeant-major, there were a couple of lovely lassies on stilts, one with fairy wings, and other costumed characters. The significance of their garb escapes me- can't quite work out what era they are from, but very colourful nonetheless.
There's also a barbecue at one of the pubs I've never been in before (dare I risk a cheeseburger and a pint later? So much for good intentions), a steel band (hey, I must hear them after my enjoyment of the Kingston Carnival last Sunday) and various other enticements to investigate the newly regenerated road. It's only just occurred to me that my former colleague Will has probably had a lot to do with this work- good on him. The traffic disruption caused initially during the partial pedestrianising and one-way working of the area proved controversial, but it looks like the traders are determined to make the best of it and I wish them well.
While some of the shops on this road are a bit out of my age bracket these days, like the Blast! clothing store, when funds permit who knows I may even look in the leather shop. I've often thought about having a leather jacket, though can't help thinking of the rather nasty PVC imitation I once wore during the seventies.
However, the shop I shall return to most often without a doubt is the always helpful Christian Resource Centre. Though I've always thought the name a bit dull, it's a brilliant shop where I sometimes have to control my impulse to buy yet more Christian books and magazines. However, the staff and particularly the manager Kevin are always friendly and helpful and a credit to the Christian book trade. Even their vended cappuccino is not bad!
Seaside Road's other brilliant curiosity is The Musgrave Collection the brainchild of one local man, incredibly now in his eighties though looking at least ten years younger than that. A fascinating place. I visited it for this first time a while ago. When, I can't quite remember. Oh, I think it was some time in April though it seems longer. It's dedicated to the life of St Paul, with many beautifully crafted pictures illustrating this together with portraits, models and assorted artefacts on all sorts of aspects of social history- just my sort of place. More info. at http://www.ask.co.uk/ix.asp?q=Musgrave+Collection&ac=none&xx=0&qid=C8EBC5C9E4A20F49941E6968BE63A32C&p=0&s=999&sp=ix&fn=t&b=0&fo=2&r=10&io=1&fp=1&fr=1&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww%2Evisiteastbourne%2Ecom%2Findoor%5Fattractions%2Fmusgrave%2Ehtm&adurl=
I will certainly pay another visit to the attractions of this eclectic mix of shops and services later- it's so convenient. I see that there is even a Learn Direct centre in the internet cafe, which could prove useful for training at the moment. If nothing else, it will cheer me up on a day which started with me feeling in a very down mood, though I am pleased to say the worst of that has now passed. Do I like to be beside the Seaside? Well, my failure to get an interview for the BBC job means that I will probably be by it for a bit longer yet. On balance, despite the occasional calls on my time and energy elsewhere, it's a nice place to be.
Just in case you've wondered, by the way, this is not advertorial but my own unbiased impressions of the local shopping scene. Mind you, it's an interesting idea. Maybe I ought to investigate Adsense!
Friday, 17 September 2004
Culture Club
Hey Douglas Coupland!
This is a challenging and thought-provoking interview with Douglas Coupland, he of Generation X, which first appeared in the Church Times about this time last year. One of my regrets is that I don't either find or make time to read intelligent fiction, or indeed as much non-fiction, as I would wish. His latest novel is called Eleanor Rigby- link on the right of this article- and certainly looks worth reading.
There's a distinct conflict between nihilist cynicism and redemptional optimism in this interview. Parts of it make me feel decidedly uncomfortable at 45, a half-decade beyond Coupland's assertions about reaching 40. Can I really have done all there is to do in this life or, as the song puts it "Is that all there is?".
In some ways, I do know what he means. Often I feel like a pair of scales these days, talking of which I did feel moved to take up the "Big Challenge" offered by the BBC to a Fat Nation (www.bbc.co.uk/fatnation) last night after being horrified when I stepped on my own bathroom scales. I must have looked quite a sight afterwards, doing the recommended buttock-clenching exercises while watching the lovely series Doc Martin with the excellent Martin Clunes!
Since then I've had at least two of my five portions of fruit and veg, and have drunk more water. But how long can I rise to the challenge. I hope and pray I can- I know how much I need to lose weight really, but it's so hard with the enjoyable tastes of savouries, cheeses etc. etc. Unlike one of last night's volunteers, I can take or leave cake but show me a bag of crisps and it's a hard contest.
The scales I'm really talking about here, however are the determiners of spiritual equilibrium, and no judge apart from the Almighty- who I firmly believe does exist, does love us and does have a purpose for all lives- can ever balance those. In fact he has done, once and for all, set them back to "zero" if you like, through the death and resurrection of his only Son, Jesus Christ. Whatever has passed, however much excess baggage or sin we have taken on board, there is always the chance to shed those excess Kill-ograms, no matter how often we fall back into our old ways. Life does not begin at forty, but whenever you accept the living Lord into your life, however hard it may be to recognise Him in an often senseless worldl. In my case, live began at 25.
Even writing this is some form of re-assurance to my own soul, I think, sitting in a quiet flat in Eastbourne where I probably won't see a soul all day unless it's in a shop or out on the street. Actually, I'm not alone- God is Now Here- and times like this and my self-imposed "summer" break are an opportunity and a time to be savoured- to get to know him better, to share the never ending needs of the world and not least for offering the opportunity to write so regularly in this blog!
Lennon and McCartney were very perceptive with one of their saddest songs, though. How many others are there out there like Eleanor Rigby? This week I have heard of at least two others who I can only do my best to help. But my name's not Eleanor Rigby and I hope it's not conceited to say that I've believed for some years now that I have the seeds of greatness within me, but I'm still trying to work out exactly where I'm meant to plant them! Only when I have found that spot in the global garden ( Coupland alludes to the Garden of Eden in a rather strange way about animals- not sure I agree with him there) will I think I find that true happiness, or rather holiness, blossoming.
Last Sunday, at the baptism service at Christ Church I mentioned in my previous posting, I had one of those experiences I find increasingly common, of looking round at unknown faces in the congregation, complete strangers, and somehow seeing something of the image of God in them, which after all they are. God made man in his own image, and the very diversity of those images shows the incomprehensible beauty, wonder, creativity and possibilities of the God who is love, and hence of every precious life he has made. How many of those faces I looked at though really hide loneliness, anxiety, doubt, fear? How many of them have real friendships where they can completely open up? How many of them feel lost without a "road map", to use one of the buzz phrases of the moment?
Of course, in the joy of raising children, which so far life has not presented to me, many I think "find their reason, find their rhyme". There was a wonderful one-hit wonder in the seventies, or was it the eighties, which I think my own dear Dad, God rest his soul, brought back from Heathrow. I think he had the privilege of meeting the song writer boarding a flight. I'm sure we've still got it on a single somewhere. I'll check it out and maybe put a link or the words on here sometime.
Somehow, it's the simple things that often prove the most joyous, that give life its true meaning. For me, increasingly, I find it is in getting back to nature, from watching the flowers in the garden grow, to standing on hill or vale looking out over landscapes glued by the creator with the bond of eternity, to hearing the sweet soaring song of a lark or watching a butterfly or bee flit from stemen to stemen carrying their precious cargo of pollen. It's these sort of things which come naturally to a child, because they are meant to. The excitement of a new discovery seen through clear young eyes unblinded by jaded familiarity, the power of an imagination in which anything is possible and indeed, as many a parent used to say to their precious offspring "There's no such word as can't". These are the precious gifts which so many of us lose as we grow older, sadly.
Except novelists, of course.Imagination, the power to see and represent things differently and to have a vision of a different world (past, present or future) is the very life blood of that sort of creative writer. I'd love to be a novelist or a poet, and indeed when I was in the Lake District exploring Wordsworth's home territory last October a poet in my own soul maybe stirred. On the other hand, maybe there are different creative blood groups- mine feels like a journaller's blood rather than a novelist's. We'll see. Dare I hope to be the next Douglas Coupland?
In the meantime, I go on worrying about the everyday things in a way which seems much more urgent and painful than it ever was in my pre-forty existence- here again, in the interview Coupland, although 4 years younger than me, seems to have discovered something of perhaps every forty-something's angst. These have been a very difficult five years, ever since Dad died just short of seeing in the new century. There are responsibilities and concerns I never really had to think about before too much. I worry about my Mum and the limitations of age on her activity levels and interest in the world. I worry about finding the right job, living in the right area, sharing all these things with the best of friends and daring to hope I may yet find my Miss Right. Reconciling all these seemingly conflicting interests certainly seems to demand the wisdom of Solomon. Yet the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. Maybe it is also the beginning of life, forty or twenty.
This is a challenging and thought-provoking interview with Douglas Coupland, he of Generation X, which first appeared in the Church Times about this time last year. One of my regrets is that I don't either find or make time to read intelligent fiction, or indeed as much non-fiction, as I would wish. His latest novel is called Eleanor Rigby- link on the right of this article- and certainly looks worth reading.
There's a distinct conflict between nihilist cynicism and redemptional optimism in this interview. Parts of it make me feel decidedly uncomfortable at 45, a half-decade beyond Coupland's assertions about reaching 40. Can I really have done all there is to do in this life or, as the song puts it "Is that all there is?".
In some ways, I do know what he means. Often I feel like a pair of scales these days, talking of which I did feel moved to take up the "Big Challenge" offered by the BBC to a Fat Nation (www.bbc.co.uk/fatnation) last night after being horrified when I stepped on my own bathroom scales. I must have looked quite a sight afterwards, doing the recommended buttock-clenching exercises while watching the lovely series Doc Martin with the excellent Martin Clunes!
Since then I've had at least two of my five portions of fruit and veg, and have drunk more water. But how long can I rise to the challenge. I hope and pray I can- I know how much I need to lose weight really, but it's so hard with the enjoyable tastes of savouries, cheeses etc. etc. Unlike one of last night's volunteers, I can take or leave cake but show me a bag of crisps and it's a hard contest.
The scales I'm really talking about here, however are the determiners of spiritual equilibrium, and no judge apart from the Almighty- who I firmly believe does exist, does love us and does have a purpose for all lives- can ever balance those. In fact he has done, once and for all, set them back to "zero" if you like, through the death and resurrection of his only Son, Jesus Christ. Whatever has passed, however much excess baggage or sin we have taken on board, there is always the chance to shed those excess Kill-ograms, no matter how often we fall back into our old ways. Life does not begin at forty, but whenever you accept the living Lord into your life, however hard it may be to recognise Him in an often senseless worldl. In my case, live began at 25.
Even writing this is some form of re-assurance to my own soul, I think, sitting in a quiet flat in Eastbourne where I probably won't see a soul all day unless it's in a shop or out on the street. Actually, I'm not alone- God is Now Here- and times like this and my self-imposed "summer" break are an opportunity and a time to be savoured- to get to know him better, to share the never ending needs of the world and not least for offering the opportunity to write so regularly in this blog!
Lennon and McCartney were very perceptive with one of their saddest songs, though. How many others are there out there like Eleanor Rigby? This week I have heard of at least two others who I can only do my best to help. But my name's not Eleanor Rigby and I hope it's not conceited to say that I've believed for some years now that I have the seeds of greatness within me, but I'm still trying to work out exactly where I'm meant to plant them! Only when I have found that spot in the global garden ( Coupland alludes to the Garden of Eden in a rather strange way about animals- not sure I agree with him there) will I think I find that true happiness, or rather holiness, blossoming.
Last Sunday, at the baptism service at Christ Church I mentioned in my previous posting, I had one of those experiences I find increasingly common, of looking round at unknown faces in the congregation, complete strangers, and somehow seeing something of the image of God in them, which after all they are. God made man in his own image, and the very diversity of those images shows the incomprehensible beauty, wonder, creativity and possibilities of the God who is love, and hence of every precious life he has made. How many of those faces I looked at though really hide loneliness, anxiety, doubt, fear? How many of them have real friendships where they can completely open up? How many of them feel lost without a "road map", to use one of the buzz phrases of the moment?
Of course, in the joy of raising children, which so far life has not presented to me, many I think "find their reason, find their rhyme". There was a wonderful one-hit wonder in the seventies, or was it the eighties, which I think my own dear Dad, God rest his soul, brought back from Heathrow. I think he had the privilege of meeting the song writer boarding a flight. I'm sure we've still got it on a single somewhere. I'll check it out and maybe put a link or the words on here sometime.
Somehow, it's the simple things that often prove the most joyous, that give life its true meaning. For me, increasingly, I find it is in getting back to nature, from watching the flowers in the garden grow, to standing on hill or vale looking out over landscapes glued by the creator with the bond of eternity, to hearing the sweet soaring song of a lark or watching a butterfly or bee flit from stemen to stemen carrying their precious cargo of pollen. It's these sort of things which come naturally to a child, because they are meant to. The excitement of a new discovery seen through clear young eyes unblinded by jaded familiarity, the power of an imagination in which anything is possible and indeed, as many a parent used to say to their precious offspring "There's no such word as can't". These are the precious gifts which so many of us lose as we grow older, sadly.
Except novelists, of course.Imagination, the power to see and represent things differently and to have a vision of a different world (past, present or future) is the very life blood of that sort of creative writer. I'd love to be a novelist or a poet, and indeed when I was in the Lake District exploring Wordsworth's home territory last October a poet in my own soul maybe stirred. On the other hand, maybe there are different creative blood groups- mine feels like a journaller's blood rather than a novelist's. We'll see. Dare I hope to be the next Douglas Coupland?
In the meantime, I go on worrying about the everyday things in a way which seems much more urgent and painful than it ever was in my pre-forty existence- here again, in the interview Coupland, although 4 years younger than me, seems to have discovered something of perhaps every forty-something's angst. These have been a very difficult five years, ever since Dad died just short of seeing in the new century. There are responsibilities and concerns I never really had to think about before too much. I worry about my Mum and the limitations of age on her activity levels and interest in the world. I worry about finding the right job, living in the right area, sharing all these things with the best of friends and daring to hope I may yet find my Miss Right. Reconciling all these seemingly conflicting interests certainly seems to demand the wisdom of Solomon. Yet the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. Maybe it is also the beginning of life, forty or twenty.
God Spare Channel 4
Netscape.co.uk - Entertainment
This is one of the main stories on Netscape this morning; I couldn't believe the crassness of whoever at Channel 4 chose the working title Priest Idol for a new series due on air late next year which aims to find a new vicar for a flagging church in Barnsley.
Whatever the merits of the show, in the case of "Priest" and "Idol", surely ne'er the twain should meet? According to the Torygraph the Bishop of Wakefield has misgivings about the title: I'm not surprised! I think even Channel 4 would have more sense than to use that as an actual on-air title. It's surely a very sad sign of the times, of our society which while claiming not to be Godless, has so little knowledge of the basics of the Ten Commandments, at least if this unknown individual's choice of heading is anything to go by. Please God they will garner some understanding and even faith as they put the programme together- and that the eventual "winner" is His choice, not that of the TV ratings. May this opportunity prove to be, as the bishop has suggested, "a gift"
Yes, everyone wants a minister, pastor or priest with personality and a way with people. It's probably a pre-requisite of the job, though I must admit I've met a few ladies and gentleman of the cloth whose pewside manner left something to be desired. A growing church is an inspiration, and a service is all the more to be savoured if the minister knows how to put the gospel across in an interesting and relevant manner. This was particularly the case at Christ Church on Sunday when it was wonderful to see the church filled with all ages for the baptism of triplets and another precious child. John did a great job and a great illustrated "sermon" wearing a whole variety of hats from a Rolf-Harris type get up to a disco dancing tinsel wig. At least he's not afraid of looking silly and it got the message across well I thought. He certainly makes a good children's entertainer. But make idols of God's servants? Mmm, it's a very slippery slope.
This is one of the main stories on Netscape this morning; I couldn't believe the crassness of whoever at Channel 4 chose the working title Priest Idol for a new series due on air late next year which aims to find a new vicar for a flagging church in Barnsley.
Whatever the merits of the show, in the case of "Priest" and "Idol", surely ne'er the twain should meet? According to the Torygraph the Bishop of Wakefield has misgivings about the title: I'm not surprised! I think even Channel 4 would have more sense than to use that as an actual on-air title. It's surely a very sad sign of the times, of our society which while claiming not to be Godless, has so little knowledge of the basics of the Ten Commandments, at least if this unknown individual's choice of heading is anything to go by. Please God they will garner some understanding and even faith as they put the programme together- and that the eventual "winner" is His choice, not that of the TV ratings. May this opportunity prove to be, as the bishop has suggested, "a gift"
Yes, everyone wants a minister, pastor or priest with personality and a way with people. It's probably a pre-requisite of the job, though I must admit I've met a few ladies and gentleman of the cloth whose pewside manner left something to be desired. A growing church is an inspiration, and a service is all the more to be savoured if the minister knows how to put the gospel across in an interesting and relevant manner. This was particularly the case at Christ Church on Sunday when it was wonderful to see the church filled with all ages for the baptism of triplets and another precious child. John did a great job and a great illustrated "sermon" wearing a whole variety of hats from a Rolf-Harris type get up to a disco dancing tinsel wig. At least he's not afraid of looking silly and it got the message across well I thought. He certainly makes a good children's entertainer. But make idols of God's servants? Mmm, it's a very slippery slope.
Thursday, 16 September 2004
Sailing by, bloop, bloop, bloop.
Dangerous thinking, the blog from David Rosam: Sailing By
And here are the thoughts of the guy who simply loathes both Sailing By and the Radio 4 UK theme! Ah well, you can't please them all all of the time.
And here are the thoughts of the guy who simply loathes both Sailing By and the Radio 4 UK theme! Ah well, you can't please them all all of the time.
Tunes help you wake more easily
Not In Production: Medleys and Marches
Not everyone shares my enthusiasm for the Radio 4 start-up theme, but the webmaster of this site does. Ah, don't start me on that subject or I will wallow in a nostalgia fest featuring Salute to Thames, Perpetuum Mobile, etc etc- all of which you can read more about on this site among others.. The contrary view follows
Not everyone shares my enthusiasm for the Radio 4 start-up theme, but the webmaster of this site does. Ah, don't start me on that subject or I will wallow in a nostalgia fest featuring Salute to Thames, Perpetuum Mobile, etc etc- all of which you can read more about on this site among others.. The contrary view follows
Norwegian Sailors
What shall we do with the drunken sailor
Getting into this search for the lyrics of the various tunes on the Radio4UK Theme right now has produced some interesting curiosities. Should you feel so inclined, grab some chime bars- chords provided- and sing along to this Norwegian version some helpful troll has posted. I suppose they got to know the tune while Sailing By North Utsire, South Utsire or even South East Iceland through merciless North Sea gales and waves as high as a Fjord transit.
Ah the good old shipping forecast: like the ravens of the Tower of London, should it ever disappear from the airwaves then Britons will be slaves and Britannia will have given up her command from Heaven to rule the waves. How long can I keep the metaphors flowing this morning, I wonder: until Rome in Tiber melt? Wrong country, wrong writer [ Shakespeare, but which play?]- sorry. I must still be thinking of the gorgeous Umbrian scenery the Anglican vicar of Rome enjoys from the wonderful garden he now has thanks to Ground Force, which lulled me off to sleep during a repeat last night.
The pillars of British national life have been taking a pounding this week though every bit as frightening in this post 9/11 world as anything nature can throw at us. Although mercifully no terrorists were involved, a "Fathers for Justice" protester dressed as Batman managed to scale a wall of Buck House on Monday -equipped with nothing but a ladder-while yesterday the very foundations of parliamentary democracy were threatened when five activists burst into the chamber of the House of Commons as the bill to ban foxhunting was in its final stages. Meanwhile, outside riots reminiscent of the anti- Poll tax skirmishes of the early 90s made a sickening sight in Parliament Square.
If all this were not so serious, it would be comical: the media have likened the commons fiasco, with scenes of 'men in tights' attempting to arrest the protagonists, to the Keystone Kops. What a sad world we now live in: if the week started with the BBC asking what it means to be British, is this now it? Some have even likened the happenings in Westminster yesterday to a civil war- the battle of town against country. Maybe with UN statistics showing the world has now become more urban than rural that is the crux of it, and how tragic it is that it should come to this. Man started as hunter-gatherer: we ploughed the fields and scattered the good seed on the land. And God said kill-eat (with apologies to any of my vegetarian friends). Typical man perverted this: God did not say kill-sport, though of course I'm aware that the fox is potentially a very nasty pest in farming communities.
Who can know how this will all end? Please God that it won't be in anarchy. The commemorations of the third anniversary of the Twin Towers atrocities this week were somewhat muted, with enough new horrors and worries to occupy the minds of the great and the good, let alone the common man. Hurricane Ivan is terrible indeed. New Orleans has become like a ghost port, Grenada has been devastated, and the archetypal laid back attitude of the latitude has had to give way to desperate preventive measures and heading for the hills. I've had particular concerns for folk I know in Mobile, Alabama, where tornadoes and floods made landfall last night.
I don't think I've known a September like this for so much worry and grief. Beslan's living nightmare has passed from the headlines, but it will remain vivid and horrific for many a month, years even to those who survived. And yet yesterday saw signs of hope, as other Beslan little ones returned to school. However awful this world seems,despite it all the oft-quoted remains a truism: life must go on. To do otherwise is to give in to despair , rather than to see the beauty which still permeates this awesomely complex world and universe,and the amazing works which many committed to the betterment of society carry out every day. Last night while watching Corrie, there was an ad for Philips which drew me to their website http://www.simplicity.philips.com. Take a look: it features some fascinating glimpses of new developments the Dutch giant are involved in, particularly in Medicine. There is an awe-inspiring 3D image of a foetus in the womb, a home de-fibrillator to re-start the heart and remarkably detailed images of the inside of the human body in the latest in CT scanners. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy returns to Radio 4 next Tuesday evening; I can't wait, but meanwhile I think the way the TV version ended, with Louis Armstrong singing What a Wonderful World remains true.
Staying with the happier side of life and those morning melodies, I was surprised by how many other verses are available for What Shall we Do with the Drunken Sailor, but as some of them might offend sensitive tastes I have spared you those. The shanty does have a fascinating history though. Find out more, and those alternative versions, at http://www.geocities.com/Yosemite/Trails/2625/song1.html
Next time, more on Early One Morning. It's warming up here in Eastbourne although the gorgeous Caddy Lee Preston tells us there's not much weather to talk about! Staying dry, bright and warm for the whole of next week as well, which has to be good news, at least
Getting into this search for the lyrics of the various tunes on the Radio4UK Theme right now has produced some interesting curiosities. Should you feel so inclined, grab some chime bars- chords provided- and sing along to this Norwegian version some helpful troll has posted. I suppose they got to know the tune while Sailing By North Utsire, South Utsire or even South East Iceland through merciless North Sea gales and waves as high as a Fjord transit.
Ah the good old shipping forecast: like the ravens of the Tower of London, should it ever disappear from the airwaves then Britons will be slaves and Britannia will have given up her command from Heaven to rule the waves. How long can I keep the metaphors flowing this morning, I wonder: until Rome in Tiber melt? Wrong country, wrong writer [ Shakespeare, but which play?]- sorry. I must still be thinking of the gorgeous Umbrian scenery the Anglican vicar of Rome enjoys from the wonderful garden he now has thanks to Ground Force, which lulled me off to sleep during a repeat last night.
The pillars of British national life have been taking a pounding this week though every bit as frightening in this post 9/11 world as anything nature can throw at us. Although mercifully no terrorists were involved, a "Fathers for Justice" protester dressed as Batman managed to scale a wall of Buck House on Monday -equipped with nothing but a ladder-while yesterday the very foundations of parliamentary democracy were threatened when five activists burst into the chamber of the House of Commons as the bill to ban foxhunting was in its final stages. Meanwhile, outside riots reminiscent of the anti- Poll tax skirmishes of the early 90s made a sickening sight in Parliament Square.
If all this were not so serious, it would be comical: the media have likened the commons fiasco, with scenes of 'men in tights' attempting to arrest the protagonists, to the Keystone Kops. What a sad world we now live in: if the week started with the BBC asking what it means to be British, is this now it? Some have even likened the happenings in Westminster yesterday to a civil war- the battle of town against country. Maybe with UN statistics showing the world has now become more urban than rural that is the crux of it, and how tragic it is that it should come to this. Man started as hunter-gatherer: we ploughed the fields and scattered the good seed on the land. And God said kill-eat (with apologies to any of my vegetarian friends). Typical man perverted this: God did not say kill-sport, though of course I'm aware that the fox is potentially a very nasty pest in farming communities.
Who can know how this will all end? Please God that it won't be in anarchy. The commemorations of the third anniversary of the Twin Towers atrocities this week were somewhat muted, with enough new horrors and worries to occupy the minds of the great and the good, let alone the common man. Hurricane Ivan is terrible indeed. New Orleans has become like a ghost port, Grenada has been devastated, and the archetypal laid back attitude of the latitude has had to give way to desperate preventive measures and heading for the hills. I've had particular concerns for folk I know in Mobile, Alabama, where tornadoes and floods made landfall last night.
I don't think I've known a September like this for so much worry and grief. Beslan's living nightmare has passed from the headlines, but it will remain vivid and horrific for many a month, years even to those who survived. And yet yesterday saw signs of hope, as other Beslan little ones returned to school. However awful this world seems,despite it all the oft-quoted remains a truism: life must go on. To do otherwise is to give in to despair , rather than to see the beauty which still permeates this awesomely complex world and universe,and the amazing works which many committed to the betterment of society carry out every day. Last night while watching Corrie, there was an ad for Philips which drew me to their website http://www.simplicity.philips.com. Take a look: it features some fascinating glimpses of new developments the Dutch giant are involved in, particularly in Medicine. There is an awe-inspiring 3D image of a foetus in the womb, a home de-fibrillator to re-start the heart and remarkably detailed images of the inside of the human body in the latest in CT scanners. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy returns to Radio 4 next Tuesday evening; I can't wait, but meanwhile I think the way the TV version ended, with Louis Armstrong singing What a Wonderful World remains true.
Staying with the happier side of life and those morning melodies, I was surprised by how many other verses are available for What Shall we Do with the Drunken Sailor, but as some of them might offend sensitive tastes I have spared you those. The shanty does have a fascinating history though. Find out more, and those alternative versions, at http://www.geocities.com/Yosemite/Trails/2625/song1.html
Next time, more on Early One Morning. It's warming up here in Eastbourne although the gorgeous Caddy Lee Preston tells us there's not much weather to talk about! Staying dry, bright and warm for the whole of next week as well, which has to be good news, at least
Tuesday, 14 September 2004
Early one morning..
BBC - Religion & Ethics - Prayer For The Day
... just as the sun wasn't rising. More like the cloud emptying and the wind blowing this morning, but nevertheless I enjoyed my comforting start to the day with the Radio4 UK theme, which includes this old English folk tune. I really must learn the words properly, so that I can properly discover the fate of the "maiden singing in the valley below", and perhaps find out why she is so grieved at the departure of her loved one. I'm sure I'll find the lyrics on the web somewhere, and will perhaps add a link when I do.
However, for the moment the link in this blog will take you to the far more important and often helpful "Prayer for the Day" on the bbc.co.uk website. What you see if you follow it will probably depend on the date you are reading this,as I think it always points to the current date's prayer and no others are archived, unfortunately. Usually worth a read anyway, though can occasionally be a bit too obscure and intellectual for 05.43 British time! But then, that's good old Radio 4 for you.
This morning's pray-er though was delivered by Rev Dr Leslie Griffiths, a fine old Methodist preacher in the Donald Soper tradition. With his lovely Welsh accent and warm, down to earth thoughts, he's always one of my favourites, rather like Dr Colin Morris, a fellow Methodist, who has much influenced me in my own style I think- indeed both of them have. Should I end up moving to Reading, or getting back into the Staines and Feltham circuit, maybe at long last I can train properly as a lay preacher. But maybe I need to learn this virtue, like Leslie....
Tuesday 14 September 2004
Revd Dr Leslie Griffiths
Patience isn't my longest suit. I have the same sorts of virtues and vices as most people - compassion fights its daily battle with selfishness, courage vies with cowardice, and good struggles against evil for possession of my soul. When all's said and one, I'm a pretty average specimen. I tend to be as virtuous (and as vicious) as those around me. But when it comes to patience, I have a hunch that I'm a sad case. My attention thresholds are too low, my fuses are too short, I'm far too eager for things to happen now, right now. I'm lousy at waiting for anything or anyone.
So it's odd, to say the least, that one of my favourite biblical passages is the verse with which one of the songs in the world's oldest hymn book, the book of Psalms, begins. "I waited patiently for the Lord," it announces, a statement that should be an immediate turnoff for someone like me. But I've come to understand these words in an entirely new way. Waiting patiently doesn't mean being passive or empty of initiative; rather, in the way the Bible uses it, it suggests expectancy, hope, anticipation of something about to take place or be experienced. We wait with eager expectation and, the verse goes on, this leads to the recognition of a God who inclines towards us and hears our cry. Our very waiting is filled with the possibility of fulfilment. That makes waiting an active state and eminently worth practicing even by someone like me.
Dear Lord,
Help us to expect to see signs of your presence in the lives we live and the people we meet. Keep joy in our hearts, we pray, and fill our whole being with your love.
Through Christ who is the Light of the World. Amen.
Thank you, Leslie, or rather thank you Lord, for reminding me that I'm no different to any other human being with those faults and failings I sometimes loath so much in myself. I need patience right now for the right job, which may or may not be with BBC Monitoring, to become mine-but I wait expectantly and very eagerly for your will to be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.
And so, after another quick e-mail, it's time for bed, said Zebedee. Now, I wonder how they are coming along with the big screen Magic Roundabout. Robbie Williams as Dougal or Dylan, I believe? The mind boggles!
... just as the sun wasn't rising. More like the cloud emptying and the wind blowing this morning, but nevertheless I enjoyed my comforting start to the day with the Radio4 UK theme, which includes this old English folk tune. I really must learn the words properly, so that I can properly discover the fate of the "maiden singing in the valley below", and perhaps find out why she is so grieved at the departure of her loved one. I'm sure I'll find the lyrics on the web somewhere, and will perhaps add a link when I do.
However, for the moment the link in this blog will take you to the far more important and often helpful "Prayer for the Day" on the bbc.co.uk website. What you see if you follow it will probably depend on the date you are reading this,as I think it always points to the current date's prayer and no others are archived, unfortunately. Usually worth a read anyway, though can occasionally be a bit too obscure and intellectual for 05.43 British time! But then, that's good old Radio 4 for you.
This morning's pray-er though was delivered by Rev Dr Leslie Griffiths, a fine old Methodist preacher in the Donald Soper tradition. With his lovely Welsh accent and warm, down to earth thoughts, he's always one of my favourites, rather like Dr Colin Morris, a fellow Methodist, who has much influenced me in my own style I think- indeed both of them have. Should I end up moving to Reading, or getting back into the Staines and Feltham circuit, maybe at long last I can train properly as a lay preacher. But maybe I need to learn this virtue, like Leslie....
Tuesday 14 September 2004
Revd Dr Leslie Griffiths
Patience isn't my longest suit. I have the same sorts of virtues and vices as most people - compassion fights its daily battle with selfishness, courage vies with cowardice, and good struggles against evil for possession of my soul. When all's said and one, I'm a pretty average specimen. I tend to be as virtuous (and as vicious) as those around me. But when it comes to patience, I have a hunch that I'm a sad case. My attention thresholds are too low, my fuses are too short, I'm far too eager for things to happen now, right now. I'm lousy at waiting for anything or anyone.
So it's odd, to say the least, that one of my favourite biblical passages is the verse with which one of the songs in the world's oldest hymn book, the book of Psalms, begins. "I waited patiently for the Lord," it announces, a statement that should be an immediate turnoff for someone like me. But I've come to understand these words in an entirely new way. Waiting patiently doesn't mean being passive or empty of initiative; rather, in the way the Bible uses it, it suggests expectancy, hope, anticipation of something about to take place or be experienced. We wait with eager expectation and, the verse goes on, this leads to the recognition of a God who inclines towards us and hears our cry. Our very waiting is filled with the possibility of fulfilment. That makes waiting an active state and eminently worth practicing even by someone like me.
Dear Lord,
Help us to expect to see signs of your presence in the lives we live and the people we meet. Keep joy in our hearts, we pray, and fill our whole being with your love.
Through Christ who is the Light of the World. Amen.
Thank you, Leslie, or rather thank you Lord, for reminding me that I'm no different to any other human being with those faults and failings I sometimes loath so much in myself. I need patience right now for the right job, which may or may not be with BBC Monitoring, to become mine-but I wait expectantly and very eagerly for your will to be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.
And so, after another quick e-mail, it's time for bed, said Zebedee. Now, I wonder how they are coming along with the big screen Magic Roundabout. Robbie Williams as Dougal or Dylan, I believe? The mind boggles!
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