Archdruid: At least God is more merciful than Mugabe was.
All:
Friday, 6 September 2019
Sunday, 1 September 2019
Liturgy for the First Day of Meteorological Autumn
Hymn: Last Day of Summer (MacColl)
Archdruid: Behold! The first day of Meteorological Autumn!
All: But isn't that a bit arbitrary?
Archdruid: Yeah. Obviously the Autumn actually starts at the Equinox...
All: So why do meteorologists say it's today?
Archdruid: Well, it's the first of the month...
All: And we base a serious weather phenomenon on an arbitrary date?
Archdruid: It's easier to calculate when it's whole months...
All: So this whole "Meteorological Autumn" thing is just because weather forecasters aren't very good at spreadsheets?
Archdruid: See you in three weeks or so?
All: Okey Dokey, Eileen.
Archdruid: Nights are drawing in.
All: Soon be Xmas.
Hymn: Forever Autumn
A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Archdruid: Behold! The first day of Meteorological Autumn!
All: But isn't that a bit arbitrary?
Archdruid: Yeah. Obviously the Autumn actually starts at the Equinox...
All: So why do meteorologists say it's today?
Archdruid: Well, it's the first of the month...
All: And we base a serious weather phenomenon on an arbitrary date?
Archdruid: It's easier to calculate when it's whole months...
All: So this whole "Meteorological Autumn" thing is just because weather forecasters aren't very good at spreadsheets?
Archdruid: See you in three weeks or so?
All: Okey Dokey, Eileen.
Archdruid: Nights are drawing in.
All: Soon be Xmas.
Hymn: Forever Autumn
A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Saturday, 24 August 2019
Not Green Belt - Morning 2
And the good news, we're starting the day with poetry from Melissa Sparrow. A lovely one called "The Festival is Nearly Over - on the Feast of St Bartholomew"
The Festival is two days through
And as, excited, we awake
to see what joys are brought today
we know that Time will, greedy, take
the minutes sweet we share today
the resting, glad, in sun-kissed leys
the thoughts, the hopes, the gladdening dreams
soon darkness falls, the daylight flees
and only two days are there left.
For half of one, we'll pack away
the tents, the cooking stoves and pans,
so only one day left, I'd say.
You've from Kettering or Poole
from Edinburgh or from Dover
but never mind how far you've come
this festival will soon be over.
Even a long weekend goes by
then next week, dull September calls
and children will go back to school
and watch outside as harsh rain falls.
Then Autumn circles like a wolf
as leaves go brown and woodlice creep
we'll shuffle through the dreary rain
instead of watching fields of sheep.
So make the most of what you have
and as you think of dark and damp
November morns, enjoy the sun.
Before forever taking down your camp.
Death death death
Death death death
Death death
Death.
"A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
The Festival is two days through
And as, excited, we awake
to see what joys are brought today
we know that Time will, greedy, take
the minutes sweet we share today
the resting, glad, in sun-kissed leys
the thoughts, the hopes, the gladdening dreams
soon darkness falls, the daylight flees
and only two days are there left.
For half of one, we'll pack away
the tents, the cooking stoves and pans,
so only one day left, I'd say.
You've from Kettering or Poole
from Edinburgh or from Dover
but never mind how far you've come
this festival will soon be over.
Even a long weekend goes by
then next week, dull September calls
and children will go back to school
and watch outside as harsh rain falls.
Then Autumn circles like a wolf
as leaves go brown and woodlice creep
we'll shuffle through the dreary rain
instead of watching fields of sheep.
So make the most of what you have
and as you think of dark and damp
November morns, enjoy the sun.
Before forever taking down your camp.
Death death death
Death death death
Death death
Death.
"A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Friday, 23 August 2019
Not Green Belt - Morning 1
The sun has staggered up over the dew-sodden Midsomershire grass of the #NotGB19 campsite. And once again we ask ourselves - if they must hold this event on a farm, why not one which deals in sheep rather than sewage?
It was, as ever, a fractured night. But then we are all fractured people. Mostly after the disturbances when the contingent from the Norbertine Monks fraternity had a food fight with the Vegan Cheese Collective. There's no better whey to settle an argument.
Burton Dasset has woken to discover that the dew soaked through the blanket that he was so optimistically using as a ground sheet. I think we was inspired by Bill Jo Spiers. But then, Billy Jo had someone to keep her warm, unlike poor Burton. So his tent is flapping on a branch, alongside the Young Adults group after their night asleep under it. They're hoping that by tonight, they'll have drunk enough WKD to be able to sleep in the car.
There's going to be a few good items today. The "We Are All Broken People" stand for instance. Where some straight fundamentalists will be explaining that we're all broken, but they're broken in more acceptable ways. I've heard that they've invited Ann Widdecombe - the poster-person of the "We Are All Broken" movement - to come along and scream about why only weird people love her. But not in that way.
Then "Chesney's Screaming Jelly Babies". The Chesney Hawks tribute band that got fed up just playing the same song over and over. So they migrated to death metal, then Christian Death Metal (better known as the Tuba Mirum Spargens from Berlioz's Requiem). Then ambient trip-jazz, and now they just sing Ralph McTell numbers while throwing jelly babies into liquid nitrogen. It's a gas. Actually, it's not initially. But it ends up as a gas.
But for now, I'm drinking additive-free soy-milk latte from a cup that's so environmental it's already composting in my hand. And munching this fake-bacon organic gluten-free breakfast bap with ethical tomato sauce. Over the hazy hills of Midsomer I can hear the terror of adulterous landlords being murdered by creepy vicars. It's good to be back.
"A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
It was, as ever, a fractured night. But then we are all fractured people. Mostly after the disturbances when the contingent from the Norbertine Monks fraternity had a food fight with the Vegan Cheese Collective. There's no better whey to settle an argument.
Burton Dasset has woken to discover that the dew soaked through the blanket that he was so optimistically using as a ground sheet. I think we was inspired by Bill Jo Spiers. But then, Billy Jo had someone to keep her warm, unlike poor Burton. So his tent is flapping on a branch, alongside the Young Adults group after their night asleep under it. They're hoping that by tonight, they'll have drunk enough WKD to be able to sleep in the car.
There's going to be a few good items today. The "We Are All Broken People" stand for instance. Where some straight fundamentalists will be explaining that we're all broken, but they're broken in more acceptable ways. I've heard that they've invited Ann Widdecombe - the poster-person of the "We Are All Broken" movement - to come along and scream about why only weird people love her. But not in that way.
Then "Chesney's Screaming Jelly Babies". The Chesney Hawks tribute band that got fed up just playing the same song over and over. So they migrated to death metal, then Christian Death Metal (better known as the Tuba Mirum Spargens from Berlioz's Requiem). Then ambient trip-jazz, and now they just sing Ralph McTell numbers while throwing jelly babies into liquid nitrogen. It's a gas. Actually, it's not initially. But it ends up as a gas.
But for now, I'm drinking additive-free soy-milk latte from a cup that's so environmental it's already composting in my hand. And munching this fake-bacon organic gluten-free breakfast bap with ethical tomato sauce. Over the hazy hills of Midsomer I can hear the terror of adulterous landlords being murdered by creepy vicars. It's good to be back.
"A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Thursday, 22 August 2019
Art, Life, Theology, and Badgers #NotGB19
Every year, the Beaker Folk make a special trip, to a virtual field in Midsomershire, to attend the annual Not Greenbelt festival, run in aid of the Big Issue Foundation by the wonderful Graham Hartland.
As usual, due to a race memory going back to the real Greenbelt in 1985, we are already here. This gives us the chance to set up our tents, get in some early reading the Bible and looking serious, and - most importantly - release the dozen badgers we've brought with us specially to liven up the event.
Early signs are good. All the Beaker Folk, being assorted kinds of stereotype by definition, have fitted neatly into their allotted grooves. To wit:
Burton Dasset's tent has already blown away in a gentle breeze, and he has had to chase it across three barbed wire fences and two fields until it came to rest in a tree.
The Young Adults Group have packed so much alcohol into their borrowed people carrier that they had no room for a tent or food, and are currently begging for a few carrier bags to give them overnight shelter.
Charlii and Young Keith have already spent so much time trying to stop Celestine wandering off, that they've put their dog's satellite tracker on her dungarees strap and connected her to a tree by a length of elastic to be on the safe side.
We've had a row with the First Church of Trump the Redeemer next door, and won the battle by throwing tins of corned beef at them.
The Hnaef family have arrived in their Winnebago, planted a vineyard, built a patio, installed a Jacuzzi and started renting out Internet bandwidth.
Drayton Parslow has come along "for the atmosphere". Made it clear that he will not be attending any events or concerts, as he is merely to be "salt and light" for all the other, inferior, Christians.
Three mates who tagged along, who have no interest in spirituality or art, have been accidentally converted to the Elim Pentecostal tradition and have started an all-night prayer session.
Ranulf and Gerbriza have established a second tent for their larder, and are currently cooking themselves a selection of dim sum and a Mongolian barbecue.
Grinkle has got her guitar well and truly out of tune, ready for singing "Kum By Ah" at 3 am.
And me? Personally, I have been sitting around, looking thoughtful and jotting down some observations in the manner of Adrian Plass. Like I say, we've all very much hit our stereotypes already.
So get over to NotGB19 and support it!
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
As usual, due to a race memory going back to the real Greenbelt in 1985, we are already here. This gives us the chance to set up our tents, get in some early reading the Bible and looking serious, and - most importantly - release the dozen badgers we've brought with us specially to liven up the event.
Early signs are good. All the Beaker Folk, being assorted kinds of stereotype by definition, have fitted neatly into their allotted grooves. To wit:
Burton Dasset's tent has already blown away in a gentle breeze, and he has had to chase it across three barbed wire fences and two fields until it came to rest in a tree.
The Young Adults Group have packed so much alcohol into their borrowed people carrier that they had no room for a tent or food, and are currently begging for a few carrier bags to give them overnight shelter.
Charlii and Young Keith have already spent so much time trying to stop Celestine wandering off, that they've put their dog's satellite tracker on her dungarees strap and connected her to a tree by a length of elastic to be on the safe side.
We've had a row with the First Church of Trump the Redeemer next door, and won the battle by throwing tins of corned beef at them.
The Hnaef family have arrived in their Winnebago, planted a vineyard, built a patio, installed a Jacuzzi and started renting out Internet bandwidth.
Drayton Parslow has come along "for the atmosphere". Made it clear that he will not be attending any events or concerts, as he is merely to be "salt and light" for all the other, inferior, Christians.
Three mates who tagged along, who have no interest in spirituality or art, have been accidentally converted to the Elim Pentecostal tradition and have started an all-night prayer session.
Ranulf and Gerbriza have established a second tent for their larder, and are currently cooking themselves a selection of dim sum and a Mongolian barbecue.
Grinkle has got her guitar well and truly out of tune, ready for singing "Kum By Ah" at 3 am.
And me? Personally, I have been sitting around, looking thoughtful and jotting down some observations in the manner of Adrian Plass. Like I say, we've all very much hit our stereotypes already.
So get over to NotGB19 and support it!
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Wednesday, 21 August 2019
Ritual of Shooting Stars and Hedgehogs
Archdruid: I saw two shooting stars last night.
All: I wished on them. But they were only satellites.
Archdruid: It's wrong to wish on space hardware.
Burton Dasset: I wish, I wish, I wish you'd care.
Archdruid: I'm sorry, Burton. But I don't. You're a soulless get with the interest quotient of a slug.
Burton: One of those nice slugs? Or one of those boring gray ones?
Archdruid: Did we see the wonders of the heavens last night?
All: No, for it was too cloudy.
Archdruid: And shall we wonder at the sight of the heavens tonight?
All: No. We'll all be too tired after last night.
Archdruid: But do you not wonder that a shooting star, born in the furnace of the Big Bang, drawn from the icy womb of its comet by the warmth of the sun, should die screaming in its own heat as it crashes into the atmosphere that blankets our earth?
All: If a meteor burns up above a blanket of cloud, does it really burn up?
Archdruid: This isn't Zen, you post-modern numpties. This is science. Yes. It does. Of course it does. It indubitable does.
All: Did you see it?
Archdruid: OK. I'm off to get the flamethrower. If nobody sees the Beaker Folk burn up, is it really murder at the hands of a heartless religious leader?
All: Ah, yes...
Archdruid: I rest my case. What about the hedgehogs then?
All: No hedgehogs.
Archdruid: All eaten by badgers?
All: We reckon.
Archdruid. OK. Bring me the model badger and giant pins...
All: This is a bit dark for a light-hearted skit on post-modern religion isn't?
Archdruid: You're right. Bring me a very real badger and the flame-thrower.
All: Eileen, you're scaring us.
Archdruid: Then get out there and wonder at the shooting stars.
All: Right you are. It's still light, but we shall wonder at the miracles of the creation in the daylight....
Archdruid: I EXPECT TO SEE PHOTOS
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
All: I wished on them. But they were only satellites.
Archdruid: It's wrong to wish on space hardware.
Burton Dasset: I wish, I wish, I wish you'd care.
Archdruid: I'm sorry, Burton. But I don't. You're a soulless get with the interest quotient of a slug.
Burton: One of those nice slugs? Or one of those boring gray ones?
Archdruid: Did we see the wonders of the heavens last night?
All: No, for it was too cloudy.
Archdruid: And shall we wonder at the sight of the heavens tonight?
All: No. We'll all be too tired after last night.
Archdruid: But do you not wonder that a shooting star, born in the furnace of the Big Bang, drawn from the icy womb of its comet by the warmth of the sun, should die screaming in its own heat as it crashes into the atmosphere that blankets our earth?
All: If a meteor burns up above a blanket of cloud, does it really burn up?
Archdruid: This isn't Zen, you post-modern numpties. This is science. Yes. It does. Of course it does. It indubitable does.
All: Did you see it?
Archdruid: OK. I'm off to get the flamethrower. If nobody sees the Beaker Folk burn up, is it really murder at the hands of a heartless religious leader?
All: Ah, yes...
Archdruid: I rest my case. What about the hedgehogs then?
All: No hedgehogs.
Archdruid: All eaten by badgers?
All: We reckon.
Archdruid. OK. Bring me the model badger and giant pins...
All: This is a bit dark for a light-hearted skit on post-modern religion isn't?
Archdruid: You're right. Bring me a very real badger and the flame-thrower.
All: Eileen, you're scaring us.
Archdruid: Then get out there and wonder at the shooting stars.
All: Right you are. It's still light, but we shall wonder at the miracles of the creation in the daylight....
Archdruid: I EXPECT TO SEE PHOTOS
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Thursday, 15 August 2019
The Assumption of Mary
I blow out the light before the icon of Our Lady, and wonder.
Today, the feast of the Dormition of the Theotokos. Or, as good Catholics put it, the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
And I believe in the Virgin Birth. Not because it suits any particular agenda of mine. I don't believe the God-Bearer is eternally virgin. Nor do I deny it. I don't want to say I don't care - because her relationship with Joseph was important to her, and her body was - well, hers. But it's an impertinence for me to demand anything of her - even to think of it. The Bible says she was a virgin when Jesus was born. I don't think that is critical to his being God or not. And because it is not critical - why shouldn't I believe it? But beyond that - that's her affair.
But today belongs to the other side of her pilgrimage. The girl who brought God into the world is now an old woman. She knows this place won't hold her any longer. But that doesn't worry her. Because she has seen beyond the Here and Today. Her womb has encompassed the universe. She has heard the carols of the angels that sang before Time. She has seen Life put to death - held Life's broken body - and then seen Death destroyed as Life broke back into the light.
She has carried the Word, given birth to the Word, held the Word and been filled by his Spirit.
And now, as her breath ebbs away, she sees. The sword that pierced her heart is finally withdrawn. As the apostles wonder, she fails. And, as she does, arms are held out. And she, who held him as a baby, she who held him broken at Golgotha - this time she is held in his arms. She falls, but is held up. She plunges into death, but soars upwards. She breaks through the waters of death, and she is safe on Jordan's shore.
And the arms that were stretched on a cross hold her. The one to whom she gave life, breathes life into her.
And the girl that was born to a broken race, is the Queen of Heaven.
Monday, 12 August 2019
Liturgy in Celebration of a Brexit 50p
This experimental liturgy has now been issued to the Beaker Liturgical Commission, who, after suitable consideration and a period of trial, will recommend it to the Liturgical Synod who may, or may not, recommend alterations and another period of consideration and a trial, before recommending it to the Bardic Bench who may, or may not, recommend alterations and another period of consideration and a trial, before recommending it to the Druidical Council. If all goes well, we may get it authorised before the countries that were formerly the United Kingdom rejoin the European Union.
Hymn: Buddy can you spare a dime? (about 11p at current rates)
Confession: We've no idea what the point of this coin is.
Reading: The story of when Jesus needed 50p to pay the Temple Tax but Peter wasn't allowed to catch a fish because it was in British waters.
Archdruid: Behold! This shiniest of things! The Brexit 50p!
Younger Beaker Folk: What's a 50p?
Archdruid: It's a coin.
Younger Beaker Folk: What's a coin?
Archdruid: It's like contactless, only made of metal...
Younger Beaker Folk: Why?
Archdruid: Why what?
Younger Beaker Folk: Just why?
Drayton Parslow: It is the reversal of the dark times! The hands of friendship of the 1973 coin are now the clenched fists of Brexiters at foreigners and the V-signs of the Conservative Party towards their own people! Rejoice! Rejoice! Truly the fogs of righteousness will sweep down upon the Channel and cut off the Continent! And the song of the turtle will be heard in the land! (Except, since turtles* are foreign, they will have to earn at least £36K per year to sing in the land.) Let us cast off the bonds of friendship and rejoice in loathing and blame-mongering!
Younger Beaker Folk: Isn't friendship a good thing?
Drayton Parslow: This is not about friendship! We are free from the Whore of Babylon - the evil empire with its seat in Rome.
Archdruid: Erm, Brussels?
Drayton Parslow: Good point.
Younger Beaker Folk: What is 1973?
Archdruid: Well, basically, we're going to be given a coin to reverse the message of a coint that nobody under the age of 50 can even remember, and it's all for....
Drayton Parslow: Freedom! Remember our great withdrawal from Europe at Dunkirk! Remember Agincourt! Remember Bannockburn!
Archdruid: Wasn't that a great victory for Scottish independence from England?
Drayton Parslow: Ye may take away my false view of history. But ye cannot take away my freedom!
Younger Beaker Folk: Can you eat freedom?
Drayton Parslow: You cannot measure freedom by its monetary worth. Brexit is the substance of things hoped for and the consistency of porridge.
Younger Beaker Folk: Well, what's a 50p coin worth?
Archdruid: About €0.40.
Offertory: Contactless and notes only. No vulgar silver coins.
Hymn: I fought Delors. And Delors (and all his successors) won
Beaker Folk file out to stockpile Brie
*Yes. We know it's not that kind of turtle.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Hymn: Buddy can you spare a dime? (about 11p at current rates)
Confession: We've no idea what the point of this coin is.
Reading: The story of when Jesus needed 50p to pay the Temple Tax but Peter wasn't allowed to catch a fish because it was in British waters.
Archdruid: Behold! This shiniest of things! The Brexit 50p!
Younger Beaker Folk: What's a 50p?
Archdruid: It's a coin.
Younger Beaker Folk: What's a coin?
Archdruid: It's like contactless, only made of metal...
Younger Beaker Folk: Why?
Archdruid: Why what?
Younger Beaker Folk: Just why?
Drayton Parslow: It is the reversal of the dark times! The hands of friendship of the 1973 coin are now the clenched fists of Brexiters at foreigners and the V-signs of the Conservative Party towards their own people! Rejoice! Rejoice! Truly the fogs of righteousness will sweep down upon the Channel and cut off the Continent! And the song of the turtle will be heard in the land! (Except, since turtles* are foreign, they will have to earn at least £36K per year to sing in the land.) Let us cast off the bonds of friendship and rejoice in loathing and blame-mongering!
Younger Beaker Folk: Isn't friendship a good thing?
Drayton Parslow: This is not about friendship! We are free from the Whore of Babylon - the evil empire with its seat in Rome.
Archdruid: Erm, Brussels?
Drayton Parslow: Good point.
Younger Beaker Folk: What is 1973?
Archdruid: Well, basically, we're going to be given a coin to reverse the message of a coint that nobody under the age of 50 can even remember, and it's all for....
Drayton Parslow: Freedom! Remember our great withdrawal from Europe at Dunkirk! Remember Agincourt! Remember Bannockburn!
Archdruid: Wasn't that a great victory for Scottish independence from England?
Drayton Parslow: Ye may take away my false view of history. But ye cannot take away my freedom!
Younger Beaker Folk: Can you eat freedom?
Drayton Parslow: You cannot measure freedom by its monetary worth. Brexit is the substance of things hoped for and the consistency of porridge.
Younger Beaker Folk: Well, what's a 50p coin worth?
Archdruid: About €0.40.
Offertory: Contactless and notes only. No vulgar silver coins.
Hymn: I fought Delors. And Delors (and all his successors) won
Beaker Folk file out to stockpile Brie
*Yes. We know it's not that kind of turtle.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Sunday, 11 August 2019
The Helter Skelter Church of England
I've been on a weekend away in Liverpool. Had a lovely look at the Catholic Cathedral. From the upper tier of the Main Stand. So I've missed the excitement about the helter skelter in Norwich Cathedral.
As usual, Bishop Gavin Ashenden, former chaplain to the Queen, pops up to tell us it's all terrible. I presume he's the only cleric the BBC religious correspondent has on speed dial. As mentioned previously, although he is indeed a former chaplain to Her Majesty, it's not like he was formerly the only one. Former Chaplains to the Queen are common sights in UK towns and cities, forming their own football leagues and dining societies.
 |
| Liverpool Catholic Cathedral, viewed by squinting over the Kop |
Bishop Ashenden's insight was also revealed when he quoted the fake "Kate Adie" tweet saying Tommy Robinson was only doing what many other "reporters" did when he was arrested. Then left his spurious tweet up, and doubled down on it, even knowing it was fake when "Kate" changed "her" name.
Is there an agenda?Kate Adie demonstrates her own courage & integrity by asking”And when the last law was down,& the Devil turned round on you,where would you hide, Roper?This country's planted thick with laws and if you cut them down —d'you really think you could stand upright?” https://t.co/8sXO6nALTU— Gavin Ashenden (@gavinashenden) July 6, 2019
Which is not to play the man, not the ball - nor to suggest Bp Ashenden is one of the people that go on "Free Tommy" marches. But is just a suggestion that the BBC shouldn't just go asking the nearest celebrity former Bishop to the Queen every time they want a mildly reactionary view on the modern Church.
To Mr Ashenden, there is no evidence that tourists become Christians, and, "For such a place, steeped in mystery and marvel to buy in to sensory pleasure and distraction, is to poison the very medicine it offers the human soul," he said.
Well, you can't have it both ways. If the place is steeped in mystery and marvel then it must mean something to tourists to go into cathedrals. Unless he's just asking that every cathedral in the country stays open on the off chance that a former Chaplain to the Queen should wander in and have his soul distracted. And if you aren't to buy into sensory pleasure and distraction you shouldn't hang out with a church that burns incense to the glory of God, and eats bread and drinks wine to remember what God has done.
The thing with cathedrals is, they are alive, from floor to ceiling, with architectural and artistic interest. These lift up the soul, and bring the faith to life.
And the thing about a helter skelter is, it gets you up really high, and then swings you gradually round as you descend, so you get a really good view of the wonders around you.
The other thing about a helter skelter is that it is easily dismantled when the summer is over. Leaving the cathedral back as it was, with nothing permanently changed. Apart from a few hearts that have seen something lovely from an unexpected angle. And a few children that remember the day a cathedral went from being a lump of stone to a place of wonder and interest.
When I was a child, and a member of the Extremely Strict Methodists, I was terrified of Anglican churches. Their age, the yews, the graves, the half-lights, led me to think they were haunted by ghosts. If I had been down a mat-slide in St Peter's Dunstable, or St Mary's Luton - perhaps I would have thought otherwise.
To Mr Ashenden, there is no evidence that tourists become Christians, and, "For such a place, steeped in mystery and marvel to buy in to sensory pleasure and distraction, is to poison the very medicine it offers the human soul," he said.
Well, you can't have it both ways. If the place is steeped in mystery and marvel then it must mean something to tourists to go into cathedrals. Unless he's just asking that every cathedral in the country stays open on the off chance that a former Chaplain to the Queen should wander in and have his soul distracted. And if you aren't to buy into sensory pleasure and distraction you shouldn't hang out with a church that burns incense to the glory of God, and eats bread and drinks wine to remember what God has done.
The thing with cathedrals is, they are alive, from floor to ceiling, with architectural and artistic interest. These lift up the soul, and bring the faith to life.
And the thing about a helter skelter is, it gets you up really high, and then swings you gradually round as you descend, so you get a really good view of the wonders around you.
The other thing about a helter skelter is that it is easily dismantled when the summer is over. Leaving the cathedral back as it was, with nothing permanently changed. Apart from a few hearts that have seen something lovely from an unexpected angle. And a few children that remember the day a cathedral went from being a lump of stone to a place of wonder and interest.
When I was a child, and a member of the Extremely Strict Methodists, I was terrified of Anglican churches. Their age, the yews, the graves, the half-lights, led me to think they were haunted by ghosts. If I had been down a mat-slide in St Peter's Dunstable, or St Mary's Luton - perhaps I would have thought otherwise.
Monday, 5 August 2019
The Sacred and the Soccer
Nice little piece on the question "Can football grounds be sacred" from Peter Crumpler.
And obviously the answer is "yes". A football ground is a place where people are brought together as a community, to share their hopes and to believe in something better. I have in the past heard people say that supporters "worship" the players, but you know what, I reckon that's not true. I remember Nick Hornby's wise words in "Fever Pitch" whereby he basically said that footballers aren't, for most fans, heroes - they're representatives. In a way, they're more like priests than demigods. When they're playing well - as in a fantastic little piece of a dribble I saw from Mohammed Salah yesterday - they are the way in which we are taken out of ourselves. But when they're doing badly, they know all about it.
And personally, having been present at one of the times the anniversary of Hillsborough has been marked with a minute's silence, there's nothing quite so like 50,000 normally extremely noisy people standing perfectly quiet. There's a haunting nature to the silence, as you hear sounds from outside the ground, the flap of the occasional flag, even a bird on the pitch.
And who can't be impressed by "Abide with me"? A hymn about death, and yet one that is so redolent of the Resurrection. And sung every May at the FA Cup Final.
But a sport played by the young is always a reminder that things pass. The sprightly youngster becomes the seasoned veteran, then the failed manager, and finally becomes another person remembered once with a minute's silence. As Melissa puts it in "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air":
But youth will pass. Men, growing old
approach a different kind of goal
and though they're now so brave and bold
They won't be, as the years turn cold.
Supporters, in this stadium vast
one day will also breathe their last.
Football grounds, like churches, can become places where people want to spend all eternity. And I'm speaking literally here, not metaphorically about having to endure a goalless Birmingham derby. That just feels like it. There's a story about Bill Shankly (of course) who was asked if someone could have his ashes scattered on the pitch at Anfield. Someone suggested scattering them on the penalty spot. But Shankly said, not there - he could jump up and stop a goal. So he was scattered on the wing instead. And many people have chosen to have their favourite team run over their mortal remains for the winter months. Truly "hallowed turf".
All this causes problems, of course, when we remember that football grounds are actually much more temporary than we like. As Melissa continues:
The flags will be brought down the mast
And time will every feature blast.
And every brick and stanchion strong
Will be brought down before too long
And weather, age, or warring throng
Will bring an end to football song
500 people had their ashes scattered at Highbury over the years. So when the ground was redeveloped and the Gunners moved to Emirates, those ashes were respected. Apparently you can't have your ashes scattered at the Emirates. Which is ironic, because it's as quiet as the grave on match days.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies... And one for just a quid for a Kindle download!
And obviously the answer is "yes". A football ground is a place where people are brought together as a community, to share their hopes and to believe in something better. I have in the past heard people say that supporters "worship" the players, but you know what, I reckon that's not true. I remember Nick Hornby's wise words in "Fever Pitch" whereby he basically said that footballers aren't, for most fans, heroes - they're representatives. In a way, they're more like priests than demigods. When they're playing well - as in a fantastic little piece of a dribble I saw from Mohammed Salah yesterday - they are the way in which we are taken out of ourselves. But when they're doing badly, they know all about it.
And personally, having been present at one of the times the anniversary of Hillsborough has been marked with a minute's silence, there's nothing quite so like 50,000 normally extremely noisy people standing perfectly quiet. There's a haunting nature to the silence, as you hear sounds from outside the ground, the flap of the occasional flag, even a bird on the pitch.
And who can't be impressed by "Abide with me"? A hymn about death, and yet one that is so redolent of the Resurrection. And sung every May at the FA Cup Final.
But a sport played by the young is always a reminder that things pass. The sprightly youngster becomes the seasoned veteran, then the failed manager, and finally becomes another person remembered once with a minute's silence. As Melissa puts it in "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air":
But youth will pass. Men, growing old
approach a different kind of goal
and though they're now so brave and bold
They won't be, as the years turn cold.
Supporters, in this stadium vast
one day will also breathe their last.
Football grounds, like churches, can become places where people want to spend all eternity. And I'm speaking literally here, not metaphorically about having to endure a goalless Birmingham derby. That just feels like it. There's a story about Bill Shankly (of course) who was asked if someone could have his ashes scattered on the pitch at Anfield. Someone suggested scattering them on the penalty spot. But Shankly said, not there - he could jump up and stop a goal. So he was scattered on the wing instead. And many people have chosen to have their favourite team run over their mortal remains for the winter months. Truly "hallowed turf".
All this causes problems, of course, when we remember that football grounds are actually much more temporary than we like. As Melissa continues:
The flags will be brought down the mast
And time will every feature blast.
And every brick and stanchion strong
Will be brought down before too long
And weather, age, or warring throng
Will bring an end to football song
500 people had their ashes scattered at Highbury over the years. So when the ground was redeveloped and the Gunners moved to Emirates, those ashes were respected. Apparently you can't have your ashes scattered at the Emirates. Which is ironic, because it's as quiet as the grave on match days.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies... And one for just a quid for a Kindle download!
Saturday, 3 August 2019
The Breaking of Modern Britain
I love the concept of Telegraph Premium. The way you can read the news, but have to pay extra for the Opinion pieces. It means I get all the useful bits of the paper - the journalism - but none of the sunlit uplands of the new country of Brexitania. Where you can breathe the fresh air of freedom while queuing for the insulin and bread that is now rationed in the name of national destiny, and Janet Daley tells you we are better off out of the failing EU, with its nanny-statish obsession with clean water, and happier iving in a country where the fields are full of burning sheep.
So I can just read the cheerful headlines of some piece of drivel by Charles Moore or Zoe Strimpel, and skip straight onto the important stuff which is free, like the sexting vicar.
When you consider the vigour with which the Telegraph campaigned for Boris Johnson 's election as leader of what used to be the Conservative Party, you have to conclude that the Telegraph has realised the same thing. The Telegraph is now 700K per annum better off. And still nobody is paying to read Johnson's columns.
And so today my eye was caught by a headline on an Iain Duncan Smith article entitled "The Reformation was the making of modern Britain. Brexit is a similar opportunity." And I don't need to read it. Because you can imagine what is in there. And what I can imagine is probably still better that what was actually written by the least memorable Tory leader since that other bloke.
I will merely note that the English Reformation was not a single, quick, decisive break from the Roman Catholic Church. After the chaotic end of Henry VIII's reign, and the hateful destruction of church life by Edward VI's advisers, it was then reversed by Mary before being reintroduced by Elizabeth. And then, a few years of peace punctured only by the disembowellment of Catholic priests. After which the ratbags of the ERG of the day - the Roundheads - got very anti-Charles I because he wasn't really Protestant enough. And we got the Civil War. And then after Christmas and maypole dancing and just, frankly, happiness was banned, we got Charles II. Who may have been keen on floppy wigs and spaniels and mistresses, but at least he wasn't Oliver Cromwell. And then when James II was getting too Catholic, he was replaced by William III.
And I know that the real Brexiters will say, well we made it through the Reformation so we can cope with a Foreign Secretary that didn't know we traded with France across a narrow stretch of water between our two countries. And they'll happily eat piles of rancid lamb rather than be paid to export it tariff -free to the rest of Europe. And they'd much rather be ruled by a system of government involving someone who got the job because she's descended ultimately from Woden, and the House of Lords, than suffer from unelected officials. I mean, monarchy based on descent from a mythical Germanic figure is such a rational system.
But consider. The period of the Reformation and its unwinding lasted from when Henry VIII thought Ann Boleyn looked like she might produce boys, arguably through to the failure of Bonnie Prince Charlie in 1745. It brought us the slaughter of the Pilgrimage of Grace. 300 burnings in Mary's reign. The judicial murder of hundreds of Catholics. 200,000 English dead in the Civil War - and more in Scotlsnd. The slaughter and suppression of the Irish by Cromwell, sowing the seeds for the Troubles of centuries to come. And the Skye Boat Song.
And after all that, we ended up being ruled by Germans.
So the Reformation may have been the making of modern Britain. But do you know what, all the unreformed countries have made it to the modern era as well. I tell you what, I'd rather the country didn't go through that again.
And no I don't want Telegraph Premium.
Also from the Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley...
Friday, 2 August 2019
Lament for the Closure of a Waitrose
Woe is me! For my Waitrose is closing.
The supermarket for the comfortable middle class is no more.
People from less affluent neighbourhoods say "where now is their Waitrose?
But it is become a Lidl.
Folk come from Oadby and Blaby, from Wollaton and Ashbourne
but the Waitrose is not.
In vain do I wander the aisles of Aldi
seeking "Essentials" pimento-stuffed olives.
I weep as I look for the gravadlax
and the self-service salad bar
but they have been taken down from their place
and now there are tins of vegetables with strange brand names
and I do not recognise them.
Our house prices are in decline.
Soon shall they be as low as Newark or even Retford.
And the press prowl around like lions in the Negev
or wolves on the hills
concentrating on the good schools in the area
with a passing mention for those who lose their jobs.
But I comfort myself that the Internet shall provide
I shall take me to the Waitrose website
and there buy my organic milk
and my Scottish Heather honey.
I shall be glad in the finest of 2014 Bordeaux wines
and the purest of extra-virgin olive oil.
And I shall invite my friends to dinner parties
all the Saturdays of my life.
Want to support this blog? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies. It's a bit like GoFundMe. Except you get a book.
The supermarket for the comfortable middle class is no more.
People from less affluent neighbourhoods say "where now is their Waitrose?
But it is become a Lidl.
Folk come from Oadby and Blaby, from Wollaton and Ashbourne
but the Waitrose is not.
In vain do I wander the aisles of Aldi
seeking "Essentials" pimento-stuffed olives.
I weep as I look for the gravadlax
and the self-service salad bar
but they have been taken down from their place
and now there are tins of vegetables with strange brand names
and I do not recognise them.
Our house prices are in decline.
Soon shall they be as low as Newark or even Retford.
And the press prowl around like lions in the Negev
or wolves on the hills
concentrating on the good schools in the area
with a passing mention for those who lose their jobs.
But I comfort myself that the Internet shall provide
I shall take me to the Waitrose website
and there buy my organic milk
and my Scottish Heather honey.
I shall be glad in the finest of 2014 Bordeaux wines
and the purest of extra-virgin olive oil.
And I shall invite my friends to dinner parties
all the Saturdays of my life.
Want to support this blog? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies. It's a bit like GoFundMe. Except you get a book.
Thursday, 1 August 2019
In Memoriam: Barrington Pheloung, Composer of the "Morse" Theme Tune
.-. . ... - / .. -. / .--. . .- -.-. . .-.-.- / -.-- --- ..- .-. / -- ..- ... .. -.-. / ..-. --- .-. / -- --- .-. ... . / .-- .- ... / .- / -... .-. .. .-.. .-.. .. .- -. - / . -. -.. . .- ...- --- ..- .-. .-.-.-
Mystery Worshipper: St Jude-in-the-Marsh
Mystery Worshipper: Brampton Valley
Church: St Jude in the Marsh
Location: Banburyshire,UK
Date of visit: Sunday, 28 July 2019, 10:00
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Church: St Jude in the Marsh
Location: Banburyshire,UK
Date of visit: Sunday, 28 July 2019, 10:00
What was the name of the service?
Parish CommunionHow full was the building?
7 people, not counting the vicar. In a church built during the great Wool boom, that would hold 500.Did anyone welcome you personally?
Someone waved vaguely at the pile of service and hymn books, and went off to put a bucket under the drip in the Lady ChapelWas your pew comfortable?
Obviously not.How would you describe the pre-service atmosphere?
There was clearly an "atmosphere" between the vicar and the church warden, probably over the altar having been moved against the wall during the week.What were the exact opening words of the service?
‘Hello. Can you hear me? I'm not sure how this radio mic works...’What books did the congregation use during the service?
Hymns Ancient and Modern, (New Generation that Will Definitely Last till the Parousia) (1921) and the Book of Common Prayer.What musical instruments were played?
A badly tuned harmonium. As the organist (harmoniumist?) suffered from a dust allergy, we often ground to a halt in the third verses of hymns.Did anything distract you?
The dripping into a tin bucket in the Lady Chapel. The organist passing out after "One More Step Along the World I Go" and the vicar's obscene gestures towards the church warden.Was the worship stiff-upper-lip, happy clappy, or what?
Best described as "beaten down Anglican".Exactly how long was the sermon?
7 minutes. It felt longer.On a scale of 1-10, how good was the preacher?
2 — it was basically just complaining.In a nutshell, what was the sermon about?
The pastor spoke told a couple of jokes, then complained that the diocese hadn't fixed the leaking toilet in the vicarage. He referred to the diocesan office as "bastards" and told us that Jesus would have had much the same opinion, and would be settling affairs at the end of time.Which part of the service was like being in heaven?
When I passed into a kind of trance during the notices.And which part was like being in... er... the other place?
When I woke up and realised that, after 30 minutes, the notices were still going.What happened when you hung around after the service looking lost?
One of the worshippers said "You aren't from round here, are you?" and told me to get out of the village before the local farmer decided I'd make a good coffee table.How would you describe the after-service coffee?
Non-existent.How would you feel about making another visit (where 10 = ecstatic, 0 = terminal)?
0 - I didn't go under 100 mph until I reached civilisation.Did the service make you feel glad to be a Christian?
NoWhat one thing will you remember about all this in seven days' time?
Waking up on Monday morning and realising that these were good, Christian people who are keeping the church going under incredibly difficult societal and financial conditions. That I was judging people from my liberal, oh-so-clever perspective without engaging in just how bloody hard it is to follow Jesus' teaching when every second is spent on raising funds to replace the lead that was stolen off the roof. That I am basically a dilettante, mocking other Christians in their attempts to worship God in the circumstances they are in, while taking no responsibility for any such sacrificial mission in my own life. And the lack of coffee.Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Wednesday, 31 July 2019
An Expert on Retail and Christianity Writes: Selfridges and the Decline of Christianity
Ignore the vicious bit at the top of Sarah Vine's article. Indeed, if you can't face the Daily Mail, don't follow the link either. But in amidst her moralizing drivel is a lovely bit of whingeing. I've read it so you don't have to.
First up, complaining that Selfridges are opening their Christmas shop.
Linking that to the crazy golf in Rochester Cathedral. Saying Christianity "seems to be giving up all pretence of a spiritual dimension."
And concluding, "What is it Matthew says in the Bible? ‘Ye cannot serve both God and Mammon.'"
Well, firstly I don't think Rochester are claiming the golf is is primarily a fund-raising exercise. They are viewing it as mission. Our Lord didn't quite say "go into the world and knock little white balls through windmills" but then he really wasn't very specific about how we should do mission. Cobbling it together from various passages it would seem we should wander around in pairs, without food or extra clothing, shaking the dust off whenever we meet a frosty reception. And there's not many people complaining about the mini-golf actually do that very often. So we can assume the mini-golf is just Vine's way of yanking the chain of assorted all-round reactionaries of this country. Let us put this to one side and look at Selfridges.
Selfridges are opening their Xmas shop. Five months before Xmas.
Same as they did last year.
And the year before.
Now, I know everyone complains that shops start early for Christmas. But it's logistical. I'm sure Sarah Vine yearns for the good old days when rosy-cheeked urchins ran down to the shops on Xmas Eve. But that's not when people want to buy. They want Christmas sorted in November. And that means Christmas stuff starts trickling out to the shops in August. Because you can't invest in the supply chains and storage space to just chuck the whole of Christmas in a week. And if you have it in the stores you want to sell it.
So of the people that are going into Selfridges, many won't be buying holiday attire because they are already wearing it, having bought it before going on holiday. They don't need summery frocks and sun hats.
But, given this might be their only trip to London this year, they may well be interested in picking up something a bit Christmassy, to give to family members in Baden Baden, Cadiz, Stoke or wherever. Or maybe a nice decoration to hang up in the depths of winter, to remind themselves of the nice time they spent in the town which swings like a pendulum do. What could be nicer, on a drizzly December day in Utrecht or Wrexham, than remembering the place where bobbies go on bicycles two by two?
And if those visitors have come from foreign parts, then thanks to what we must now call the Boris Pound, those mighty Euros and Dollars will be burning holes in their pockets. So Selfridges - whose main offering, by the way, is confusingly not fridges - is doing everything it can to make as much money from these good people as it can. And good luck to it.
Let's go on to Sarah Vine's next non-sequitur. The conflation of Selfridges with Christianity. Apparently their Christmas shop opening in the summer is Christianity giving up all pretence at a spiritual dimension.
I don't know who the vicar of Selfridges is, or whether they have their own bishop or they're part of the Diocese of London or even a Royal Peculiar. But I suspect the real reason that Selfridges isn't worried about a Christian spiritual dimension is because it is, not to put too fine a point on it, a department store not a world religion.
And finally, rhetorically, Sarah Vine concludes, "What is it Matthew says in the Bible? ‘Ye cannot serve both God and Mammon.'"
Matthew doesn't say it. Jesus does. Matthew quotes him. Very important to know who said what, if you're a journalist.
Please support the Beaker Folk by buying one of our lovely books....
First up, complaining that Selfridges are opening their Christmas shop.
Linking that to the crazy golf in Rochester Cathedral. Saying Christianity "seems to be giving up all pretence of a spiritual dimension."
And concluding, "What is it Matthew says in the Bible? ‘Ye cannot serve both God and Mammon.'"
Well, firstly I don't think Rochester are claiming the golf is is primarily a fund-raising exercise. They are viewing it as mission. Our Lord didn't quite say "go into the world and knock little white balls through windmills" but then he really wasn't very specific about how we should do mission. Cobbling it together from various passages it would seem we should wander around in pairs, without food or extra clothing, shaking the dust off whenever we meet a frosty reception. And there's not many people complaining about the mini-golf actually do that very often. So we can assume the mini-golf is just Vine's way of yanking the chain of assorted all-round reactionaries of this country. Let us put this to one side and look at Selfridges.
Selfridges are opening their Xmas shop. Five months before Xmas.
Same as they did last year.
And the year before.
Now, I know everyone complains that shops start early for Christmas. But it's logistical. I'm sure Sarah Vine yearns for the good old days when rosy-cheeked urchins ran down to the shops on Xmas Eve. But that's not when people want to buy. They want Christmas sorted in November. And that means Christmas stuff starts trickling out to the shops in August. Because you can't invest in the supply chains and storage space to just chuck the whole of Christmas in a week. And if you have it in the stores you want to sell it.
Moaning that Christmas happens early is the same magical thinking that gave us Graham Brady's "Other arrangements " amendment to the Brexit Bill. That leading right-wing columnists and the Parliamentary dim right-wing don't understand what is actually the most critical industry in our nation, logistics, is unsurprising, given the evidence of Brexit. But it's also terrifying.
But Selfridges are doing it stupidly early, I hear you choking over your cornflakes. And in a sense, yes. But I would like you to consider where Selfridges flagship store is.
Oxford Street.
And I realise that I need at this point I need to step back and explain some things to any of the people whose chain Sarah Vine has been yanking.
But Selfridges are doing it stupidly early, I hear you choking over your cornflakes. And in a sense, yes. But I would like you to consider where Selfridges flagship store is.
Oxford Street.
And I realise that I need at this point I need to step back and explain some things to any of the people whose chain Sarah Vine has been yanking.
I suspect, if you're the sort of person who's wandered into this blog having typed "Sadiq Khan's Islamic Secret Police" into Google, that you'll have a certain view of London, but won't have been there in a while.
And maybe you believe that, should you ever venture into London, you will be stabbed to death on the platform at Euston before being arrested by Sadiq Khan's Islamic Secret Police and sent to Lewisham to sell crack cocaine to people in retirement homes.
Now, of course this is true. But somehow, despite this, Oxford Street in London's trendy West End™ carries on just as it ever did. It's a massive tourist destination. And it is currently, across great swathes of the world and UK, the summer holidays.
So of the people that are going into Selfridges, many won't be buying holiday attire because they are already wearing it, having bought it before going on holiday. They don't need summery frocks and sun hats.
But, given this might be their only trip to London this year, they may well be interested in picking up something a bit Christmassy, to give to family members in Baden Baden, Cadiz, Stoke or wherever. Or maybe a nice decoration to hang up in the depths of winter, to remind themselves of the nice time they spent in the town which swings like a pendulum do. What could be nicer, on a drizzly December day in Utrecht or Wrexham, than remembering the place where bobbies go on bicycles two by two?
And if those visitors have come from foreign parts, then thanks to what we must now call the Boris Pound, those mighty Euros and Dollars will be burning holes in their pockets. So Selfridges - whose main offering, by the way, is confusingly not fridges - is doing everything it can to make as much money from these good people as it can. And good luck to it.
Let's go on to Sarah Vine's next non-sequitur. The conflation of Selfridges with Christianity. Apparently their Christmas shop opening in the summer is Christianity giving up all pretence at a spiritual dimension.
I don't know who the vicar of Selfridges is, or whether they have their own bishop or they're part of the Diocese of London or even a Royal Peculiar. But I suspect the real reason that Selfridges isn't worried about a Christian spiritual dimension is because it is, not to put too fine a point on it, a department store not a world religion.
And finally, rhetorically, Sarah Vine concludes, "What is it Matthew says in the Bible? ‘Ye cannot serve both God and Mammon.'"
Matthew doesn't say it. Jesus does. Matthew quotes him. Very important to know who said what, if you're a journalist.
Please support the Beaker Folk by buying one of our lovely books....
Tuesday, 30 July 2019
Nativity of Kate Bush
Beaker Folk Assemble on a Wiley, Windy Moor
All: Wiley?
Archdruid: Yeah I know. Go with it. It's atmospheric.
Haunting Piano Music
Cathy: I'm so cold.
Archdruid: It's Young Keith making all that rain. I told him to stop.
Wilhelm Reich: I still dream of Orgonon.
Archdruid: Get back in your box, Wilhelm.
Ceremony of Running up that Hill
Archdruid: So after that bit of unexpected exercise, let us focus on our breathing. In.... out.... in.... out....
Wilhelm Reich: In.... out...
Archdruid: REICH! WILL YOU STOP THAT! THIS IS A SERIOUS RELIGIOUS CEREMONY
Druidic Disciplinary Council Convenes
Charlii: Wilhelm Reich, you have been found of being, frankly, a bit pervy and disgusting. We therefore sentence you to...
Archdruid: The Hounds of Love!
The Hounds of Love are set loose. Unfortunately for Reich, one of them is Rosebud the Rottweiler. Who is older but no less vicious.
Wilhelm Reich: Is this any way to treat a dead, disgraced genius? It's enough to make me go back to the spirit world!
Archdruid: Don't give up!
** BANG **
Archdruid: What was that?
Hnaef (entering) : Another kanga on the bonnet of me van.
Archdruid: Must have escaped from the Safari Park. Bernie, dinner's arrived.
Bernie: Excellent. I'll whip up a sauce.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
All: Wiley?
Archdruid: Yeah I know. Go with it. It's atmospheric.
Haunting Piano Music
Cathy: I'm so cold.
Archdruid: It's Young Keith making all that rain. I told him to stop.
 |
| Cloudbusting, Daddy |
Wilhelm Reich: I still dream of Orgonon.
Archdruid: Get back in your box, Wilhelm.
Ceremony of Running up that Hill
Archdruid: So after that bit of unexpected exercise, let us focus on our breathing. In.... out.... in.... out....
Wilhelm Reich: In.... out...
Archdruid: REICH! WILL YOU STOP THAT! THIS IS A SERIOUS RELIGIOUS CEREMONY
Druidic Disciplinary Council Convenes
Charlii: Wilhelm Reich, you have been found of being, frankly, a bit pervy and disgusting. We therefore sentence you to...
Archdruid: The Hounds of Love!
The Hounds of Love are set loose. Unfortunately for Reich, one of them is Rosebud the Rottweiler. Who is older but no less vicious.
Wilhelm Reich: Is this any way to treat a dead, disgraced genius? It's enough to make me go back to the spirit world!
Archdruid: Don't give up!
** BANG **
Archdruid: What was that?
Hnaef (entering) : Another kanga on the bonnet of me van.
Archdruid: Must have escaped from the Safari Park. Bernie, dinner's arrived.
Bernie: Excellent. I'll whip up a sauce.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Lament for Standing Up All the Way to London
(A sequel to the Train Commuter's Psalm)
My heart sinketh within me
And my courage faileth.
My heart is as water, poured away
And my spirit shriveleth like a prune on the beach.
For I have climbed onto this train at Luton Airport Parkway
To find it is already full.
People from Wellinborough stand in the vestibules
The Ketteringites are standing in the aisles
While those from Market Harborough sit smugly.
"Aha," say the tribe of Snotta (that come from the great City of Lace)
"My annual fair may cost more than all the camels of Midian
"But at least I can always get a seat."
Hordes from the back of the train wander to the front
And those from the front to the back
To find a seat. But there is none.
Not even one.
In vain do I look for my reserved seat
But the reservation system is out of order.
I wait for an apology but it does not come
Even the tannoy must be out of order.
How long, O Guard?
How long will we be stuck at a signal just south of Belsize Tunnel?
So shall I lean here on the bar
And rest my weary bones
And avoid that bloke that keeps nudging into me
And try to not get too close to the kid with the snotty nose
And gaze at the trolley
(Which moveth not for all the tribes of Wellingborough and Kettering are in the way).
And reflect it's a bit early for a gin.
Though it may not be by the time we make St Pancras.
Monday, 29 July 2019
Scoville Spirituality
And what a great Spirituality of the Chilli we had yesterday.
The heat of chillies, we are told, triggers a pain reaction. In order to deal with the pain, the body floods the brain with endorphins - giving a kind of spiritual experience. In many respects a similar effect to jogging but without the side-effect of enduring smugness.
And, do you know, it works? That gentle prickle of heat on the tongue, the cooling effects of a nice Camden lager, it all combined to give the community a more relaxed, gentler feel. Everybody at peace with the world. And all without anyone needing to use a bodhran.
A lovely closing act of worship as we sang "Light up the Fire and let the Flames Burn".
Though I'm reserving judgement in the case of the "Rees Mogg" chilli that Daphne bred, by crossing a Scotch Bonnet with a Scorpion. With its ill-fitting skin and twisted shape, it appears to be mildly ridiculous. But it tastes bitter and has a terrible effect on the body as it works its way through.
In terms of pure Scoville units consumed, Young Keith and Hnaef were clear winners after that Naga-eating competition. They should be the most spiritual people in the Community. But we'll only find out when they emerge from their respective en-suites. That howling some people heard in the night wasn't, as some claimed, the Wild Hunt passing overhead. It was Hnaef having a thoroughly un-spiritual experience.
Sunday, 28 July 2019
Games in the Nave
Great wailing and gnashing of teeth (assuming the usual suspects still have teeth, what with all the gnashing they do) over the announcement that Rochester Cathedral is launching a crazy golf course in the nave for the summer holidays. Incidentally, the course only has 17 holes. Boris Johnson promised a "Garden Bridge" hole but it hasn't arrived.
These people have short memories, is all I can say. As it's well known that places of worship have been used for sporting activities since the earliest time. And that's even if we ignore that in the Napoleonic Wars, church towers were used to store weapons ready for if Boney's men arrived on the South Coast. Not a sport. But then what is sport, but a proxy war? And who could angered by choir boys playing leapfrog in the cloisters? Or....
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle.
Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
These people have short memories, is all I can say. As it's well known that places of worship have been used for sporting activities since the earliest time. And that's even if we ignore that in the Napoleonic Wars, church towers were used to store weapons ready for if Boney's men arrived on the South Coast. Not a sport. But then what is sport, but a proxy war? And who could angered by choir boys playing leapfrog in the cloisters? Or....
- Climbing up Salisbury Cathedral spire
- Badminton and table tennis in modern estate churches, when you've pushed the chairs back.
- Easter egg hunts in churches all over the country.
- The time they put an indoor ice rink into Southwark cathedral, the year the Thames failed to freeze over.
- Vicar-baiting
- The use of St Paul's as an alternative location when the third day of a particularly important Ashes test was suspended due to smog at The Oval. Although the game ended with a "6 and out" after somebody put the ball through a stained glass window.
- St Albans Cathedral hosting a cross-country event after heavy rains caused the River Ver to break its banks.
- Pinging hazelnuts at Mother Julian's nose.
- Flooding Glastonbury Abbey for the 2012 Olympic water polo.
- Bingo!
- The impromptu "Rollerball" in Westminster Cathedral, after which 6 monks were suspended.
- The pole vault in Peterborough Cathedral, which had to be stopped after one of the poles got stuck in a heating grate and the vaulter went straight into a pillar.
- Rugby union at Whipsnade Tree Cathedral.
- The 200m Umbrage-taking.
- Racing from Chester.
- The tradition Trinity Sunday "just a minute" sermon trying to avoid deviation, hesitation or Manicheism.
- Fox hunting in Ripon, after the fox went to earth in the crypt.
- Boxing in churches on Boxing Day throughout the Middle Ages.
- The "Ely Grand Prix".
- Paper darts in the choir
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle.
Kermit's Hermits
You know, sometimes I start to think that maybe, just maybe, the entire Beaker community are a bunch of muppets.
The latest wave of religious enthusiasm to roll over us is the "New Eremetism". This idea is being promulgated by Hnaef. In fact, he's really just making a virtue out of a necessity. Daphne threw him out for playing Messiaen at 2am after a few glasses of port, and now he's living in the Doily Shed till she'll take him back in.
But the trouble is, he's cutting such a romantic figure, with his windblown hair, tatty hiking boots and bits of doily chad in his hair. And he's started encouraging the others to follow his example.
Like Ranwulf. Who is now living up a tree in the Orchard, and eating nothing but the mushrooms of the field. Which is a bad idea with the mushrooms in that field, where Young Keith planted those "special spores" many years ago to give him something to take his mind off sermons. Ranwulf is currently soaking wet, holding onto the branch in what looks to be quite a fresh breeze, and screaming that a badger is climbing up after him.
I originally put the badger down as a hallucination caused by the mushrooms, but we've been to check and yes, there's a badger. And obviously it's not very good at climbing tree trunks, with those big clumsy paws. But who knew they were so good at using ladders?
Then take Gredley. He said he was going to live in a cave. And we pointed out that we don't have any caves. So he said what about the tunnel that, they say, leads from the Great House to Woburn Abbey? So we let him live down there.
He's not having a great time down there. I forgot to mention that my brother is still down there. And he's not happy. Well, you can't blame him. You'd be grumpy too, if your sister locked you into a maze of tunnels in 1994 to stop you claiming your inheritance. So Gredley's not happy either. My brother's been living on the broccoli and Stilton quiches we drop down to him, and the sight of fresh meat seems to have awakened his appetite. We reckon Gredley's all right, because every now and then we hear footsteps and screaming. I suppose we'll have to let him out should he get anywhere near the grating.
And then there's Riddli. Who's declared his intention to be a pillar saint. But so enthusiastic was he about the new role, he couldn't wait to build a decent pillar. So he's sitting on the door step. Which is neither particularly hermit-like, since we walk past him every few minutes, nor all that impressive. And it's raining. And the porch leaks. So he sits there with his umbrella, saying hello as we walk past, and muttering passages from Ecclesiastes under his breath.
Still, I think we can honestly say all three of them have learned wisdom. And they wisdom they've learned is, don't be so bloody stupid.
Want to support this blog? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle.
Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, there's "Writes of the Church". The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
The latest wave of religious enthusiasm to roll over us is the "New Eremetism". This idea is being promulgated by Hnaef. In fact, he's really just making a virtue out of a necessity. Daphne threw him out for playing Messiaen at 2am after a few glasses of port, and now he's living in the Doily Shed till she'll take him back in.
But the trouble is, he's cutting such a romantic figure, with his windblown hair, tatty hiking boots and bits of doily chad in his hair. And he's started encouraging the others to follow his example.
Like Ranwulf. Who is now living up a tree in the Orchard, and eating nothing but the mushrooms of the field. Which is a bad idea with the mushrooms in that field, where Young Keith planted those "special spores" many years ago to give him something to take his mind off sermons. Ranwulf is currently soaking wet, holding onto the branch in what looks to be quite a fresh breeze, and screaming that a badger is climbing up after him.
I originally put the badger down as a hallucination caused by the mushrooms, but we've been to check and yes, there's a badger. And obviously it's not very good at climbing tree trunks, with those big clumsy paws. But who knew they were so good at using ladders?
Then take Gredley. He said he was going to live in a cave. And we pointed out that we don't have any caves. So he said what about the tunnel that, they say, leads from the Great House to Woburn Abbey? So we let him live down there.
He's not having a great time down there. I forgot to mention that my brother is still down there. And he's not happy. Well, you can't blame him. You'd be grumpy too, if your sister locked you into a maze of tunnels in 1994 to stop you claiming your inheritance. So Gredley's not happy either. My brother's been living on the broccoli and Stilton quiches we drop down to him, and the sight of fresh meat seems to have awakened his appetite. We reckon Gredley's all right, because every now and then we hear footsteps and screaming. I suppose we'll have to let him out should he get anywhere near the grating.
And then there's Riddli. Who's declared his intention to be a pillar saint. But so enthusiastic was he about the new role, he couldn't wait to build a decent pillar. So he's sitting on the door step. Which is neither particularly hermit-like, since we walk past him every few minutes, nor all that impressive. And it's raining. And the porch leaks. So he sits there with his umbrella, saying hello as we walk past, and muttering passages from Ecclesiastes under his breath.
Still, I think we can honestly say all three of them have learned wisdom. And they wisdom they've learned is, don't be so bloody stupid.
Want to support this blog? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle.
Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, there's "Writes of the Church". The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)