Nativity of Alan Turing (1912)

Today we remember that quiet hero of the Second World War, Alan Turing. A man who would often have caught the train between Cambridge and Bletchley on the "Varsity Line". And so, as he would have travelled through Husborne Crawley each time - possibly encountering my great-granfather, heading into Bedford or Bletchley for the Peasant-Hiring - I like to feel that he is a kind of honorary Beaker Person.

My great-grandfather, before that unfortunate accident with the hay-bailer, was apparently a man of what might be called traditional morals. In short, had he known of Turing's sexual preferences, he would have beaten him out of the railway carriage with a horse-whip. Indeed, he always carried a horse-whip with him specifically for this purpose. Family history records the frustration he suffered that, in fifty-five years of train-travel, he never manage to spot a "thorough-going, grade-A, plainly-identified nancy-boy" on whom to express his moral disapproval. But I may be sharing too much family history here.

Maybe Alan Turing was born half a century too early. Were he alive today, with his Cambridge education, quirkiness and fierce, alternative intelligence, he would have been a satirical comedian. Or maybe the country's finest tax accountant. Or he might have been the geeky keyboard-programmer in an 80s pop band.

But his generation helped preserve this country and Europe as a place where we could let tolerance - slowly and unsteadily - take root. We live in a country where gay people are not criminalised, locked away or chemically castrated. Where people of non-European origin are not regarded as second-class.

So maybe he was born at the right time. Maybe we have enough comedians and tax accountants. Maybe if it had not been for Turing and his colleagues, there wouldn't even be comedians and tax accountants in England today.

Thanks, Alan Turing. We hope that there are plenty of problems to solve where you are. And we'll light an artifical-intelligence, computerised tea-light in your honour.

RIP Jim Marshall

Sad to hear the news that the great Jim Marshall, founder of Bletchley's Marshall Amps, has gone to join the rock-group-accompanied-for-a-concept-album-by-a-choir invisible.

Rock music shouldn't be clean, precise, sharp. We had electro music, from Kraftwerk onwards, for that. Marshall's amps made guitars a bit graunchy.

God bless, Jim. I hear that in heaven the amps go up to 11.

Celebration of all things American

Struck by the co-incidence of three key birthdays, of people who had great impact on the American people, born on 26 February, we can't miss the chance to celebrate all things American.

9 am - In memory of John Harvey Kellogg, b 1852. There was a chance to sign up for one of two events - either the "Cornflakes of Fellowship" breakfast or Young Keith's Festive Enemas.  Oddly, or perhaps not, everyone has signed up for the cornflakes. This is probably good news for their health, but bad news for my budgetary forecasts as it means that Beaker People aren't quite as gullible as I'd thought. Still, on the bright side everyone can have extra natural yoghurt with their cornflakes as Young Keith won't be needing it.

11am - "Buffalo" Bill Cody, b 1846. Showman, soldier, legend and near-exterminator of bison. Born in an age when the West seemed to go on forever, and resources seemed inexhaustible, it was Cody that proved they aren't. In so doing he established the Ameican tradition - since extended to nearly every natural resource - of "when it's gone, it's gone".

In memory of Buffalo Bill, we've hired a mechanical rodeo bull, and everybody's got to have a go. Ir's not technically worship, but at least it should give us a laugh.

1pm - Service in Memory of Levi Strauss (b 1829) - inventor of Blue Jeans, and therefore Rock & Roll, Motorbikes, Teenage Rebellion, Baby Boomers in Elastic Waistbands and America

Introit: "I put my Blue Jeans On"

Confession - for those who wear stonewashed jeans.

Old Testament Reading: The Birth of Levi

Meditation: The Blue Danube

New Testament Reading: The Call of Levi

Regressional: "Forever in Blue Jeans"

7pm - Dinner - Buffalo Steaks. Dress: Fringed jackets and blue jeans (no stonewash)

Summer is i-kumen in

Much excitement around the Community as we celebrated the first time we've seen the Afterglow on the western horizon after 5 o'clock. Frankly I have my doubts as the sun's still setting in the south-west, and I reckon it was actually the glow from Milton Keynes' streetlights that we saw.

Still, an eventful day as we celebrated the Nativity of Rod Stewart and reckoned that he'd never get away with the lyrics of "Maggie" these days. Or at least, he shouldn't. But "Sailing" is a great song for liturgical responses, and even has its own actions. Great for the kids - if they weren't all at school - but we went ahead anyway. You don't want to suffer too much from self-consciousness if you're in the Beaker Folk.

And we were going to mark the Eve of the Death of Thomas Hardy by eating his final meal tonight. But a bit of research in Millgate has revealed that it was pheasant and champagn Sounds a bit luxurious during a troubled financial period, so we're going for lamb curry and cider instead. I like to think it's what he would have wanted.

Nativity of Severus Snape / Full Moon

Sometimes there's a problem with a religion where you make it up as you go along, feelings are treated with respect, wishful thinking counts as much as dogma or logic and you daren't give offence.

And that is that, no matter what someone comes up with, you can't come up with a knock-down reason why what they're saying is tripe.

Take this evening. One of the more bookish of the Moon Gibbon folk noticed that today is Severus Snape's birthday. For those of my gentle readers, whose evangelical sympathy would mean they have never opened the deeply-suspect covers of the Harry Potter series, I should explain that Snape is a deep and complex character, a man of many sides and - at the last - a great hero. But he has a sinister and austere side to him, as befits a member of Slytherin. Combining this with the evident fact that it's full moon, a whole new and scary mythological conjunction has arisen.

The Moon Gibbon people have decided that, when it's Severus Snape's birthday of a full moon, Snape redivius haunts the land, savaging those muggles that have not held fast to the old true Gibbon Moon faith. But the Moon Gibbon people are a fundamentalist and basically pessimistic people, constantly convinced that they have failed the Gibbon himself - not least because they have no idea what his requirements actually are. They should be out joining with us howling at the moon - instead they've broken for cover early this evening and are lurking in the spinney calling for the mountains to fall on them before they receive the lash of Snape's satirical tongue. It's gonna be a long night.

(For the calendrical liturgists among you, I'm sure you'll be interested to know that, given Snape's birthday only rarely coincides with the full moon, on other years the Gibbon Folk plan to move it to the first Saturday between Snape's Day and the nearest Full Moon. That means they can have the whole of Sunday to get over being terrified to death by an angry wizard in league with a giant lunar primate. If any of this makes any sense, you may like to consider starting your own religion).

Nativity of Bernard Cribbins (1928)

You see, Thomas Becket (no "a", which is an a'ffectation) is all very well, but not a terribly sympathetic guy to celebrate. He was a trouble maker, inclined to excommunicating people at a moment's notice. And more associated with Northampton, rather than Bedford.

So we thought St Wilf the Doctor's companion a better secular saint for this evening's festivities. But the liturgical dress gave us the problem.

It's all very well dressing all the Beaker Folk dressing up as wombles - they were quite attractive, as it goes - but instead of staying in the Moot House they wandered off into the countryside to clear up rubbish and make useful things from it. I've no idea when they're going to be back.

Death of Emily Brontë (1848)

The Beaker Folk may gather on a Blasted Heath (Aspley Heath will do)

Archdruid: Heathcliff, it's me, Cathy, I've come home.

All: I'm so co-o-o-old.

Archdruid: Ooh it gets dark. It gets lonely.

All: I'm so co-o-o-old.

Archdruid: On the other side from you.

All: I'm so co-o-o-old.

Archdruid: Too long I roam in the night.

All: Too bloody right. It's dark. It's freezing cold. The only suffering from consumption you understand is too many mince pies. And you clearly don't know any of Emily Bronte's work, except via the medium of Kate Bush. We're off.

Archdruid: But the Brontes were so significant! By the time Hardy was barely in short trousers, they'd invented the whole concept of senselessly killing off all the interesting characters in rural surroundings!

All: OK, Eileen. Skip to the authentic ending.

Archdruid: [I] wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers.

All: In that quiet earth.

The Beaker Folk quit the blasted heath. A lone figure, romantically-dressed, floats across the heath pining for her lost love, and speaking in an inauthentic Yorkshire accent.

Global Warming Fraud Exposed

I'm sure there's nothing in it.

The claim that there exists the following footage  of Sir David Attenborough's new series:

"And we can see how global warming results in this kind of tragedy. This polar bear has been swimming across open water for three days, looking for food."

The camera pans out to show Sir David, on a boat, hanging a fish on a string six inches above the nose of a polar bear. The boat is slowing circling round in a large pool in a zoo. Some baffled penguins keep well out of the way, aware that their presence in-shot would be anatopistic.

As I say, I'm sure there's nothing in it. But I'm keeping my eye on YouTube, just in case.

In Memoriam - Basil D'Oliveira

When "Dolly" first played Test Cricket he was 33. So, as a batsman, the world lost probably 8 years of a test career that was still long and - in batting terms and as a backup bowler - very effective.

By racism and stupid injustice South Africa lost a fine player. By trying to impose its hatred on another Test country it drove itself into the cricketing wilderness.

God bless you, Dolly, and all that you achieved. An average of 40 and a decent bowling record tells you for who you were - a decent Test player. Your race should never have determined your career, and your determination rose above the hate and the system.

He hath shewed strength with his arm :

he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.

He hath put down the mighty from their seat : and hath exalted the humble and meek.

He hath filled the hungry with good things : and the rich he hath sent empty away.

The Feast of St Pudsey

And so the Beaker timetable moves on to St Pudsey's Day.  And St Pudsey's Day brings to an end the early-November cycle of remembrance, as we see entertainers on telly whom we had assumed dead years ago.

Solwey is having his ears waxed later on. Hnaef will be having a sponsored sing from the Methodist Hymn Book (the 100 year-old red one).

The Beaker Car Wash will be smearing cars with grubby water for charity once again. And Charlii will be wearing her Giant Squirrel suit. She's not doing it for charity - it's her job.

Have a good Feast of St Pudsey. And be careful with that generosity - you may find it becomes a habit.

Ian Hislop is OK

I was facinated by David Keen's comments on Ian Hislop. In the Beaker Common Room, the Private Eye is the only allowable reading material. Apart from the Bible of course. And the Book of the Dead. And the Road Less Travelled. And the Hitch-hiker's Guide trilogy. But still - it has the great advantage over all these that it can be re-used when past its sell by date, and offered for sale as authentic Beaker toilet paper.

We like Ian Hislop. Because he doesn't just laugh at people. He does it with moral purpose. There's real indignation in the humour. The Eye can be misguided, cruel, public-school and silly and sometimes plain wrong. But when you consider some of the people who've sued it over the years, you've got to reckon they've done a lot of things right. I've not bothered to look up Ian Hislop's birthday, so we're lighting a tea light for him and 50 years of the Eye right now.

Nativity of Frida from ABBA

Liturgical Dress: Spandex, Big Hair - Roller Skates and Ruffled Shirts optional

Archdruid: Voulez-vous?

All: Ah-ha.

Archdruid: Flying high, high - I'm a bird in the sky.

All: I'm an eagle.

Commination

Archdruid: You're a tease and you turn 'em on Leave them burning and then you're gone Looking out for another, anyone will do You're in the mood for a dance.

All: The judges will decide. The likes of me abide. Spectators of the show. Always lying low.

Ritual of not wanting to share the "hug of peace" because you need a quiet moment to yourself

All: I don't wanna talk if it makes you feel sad. And I understand You come to shake my hand.

Recessional ("Abba,  Father")

Borrowed 1970s Dad: "Who are that on Top of the Pops? Even the men look like girls."

All: Abba, Father.

The Inevitable Dismissal

Alan Partridge: Knowing me, Archdruid Partridge - knowing you, the Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley.

All: Ah-ha!

Round the World in 80 Days

Celebration of Nellie Bly, pioneering journalist and businesswoman.

Hnaef: I shall commence by journey from Hoboken by boat.

Hnaef punts into the middle of the Duck Pond. Being a Cambride man he stands at the wrong end, and inevitably falls in.

Burton: And I shall continue the journey on donkey.

He disappears into Top Meadow, desperately clinging onto the donkey's neck.

Charlii: I shall get from Paris to Berlin by pogo-stick. Although I shall be hampered by this squirrel outfit I'm wearing once again as part of the Little Pebbles' "Let's go Nuts in Autumn Week".

She bounces off to her latest humiliating assignment. Far away across the field a bunch of small children collect their bags of hazelnuts and elastic bands, and get ready to improve their aims.

Marston Moretaine: I shall celebrate Nellie Bly's groundbreaking investigative journalism - by looking into conditions in the Doily Shed.

Archdruid Eileen may beat him with Hnaef's punt pole or, if it is available, the pogo stick.

Eileen: And I shall make the final stage by hot air balloon.

She climbs into the balloon and, casting off the guy rope, discovers it is not as "tethered" as she thought. Phone contact is lost as she floats over Olney.

Hnaef: Do you think we should "investigate" where she is?

Burton: Sure. Maybe this afternoon?

All: And we're right with you. 

Invisible Forces

Google's doodle today celebrates the great scientist Marie Curie.

She and Pierre, her colleague and husband, first got to know each other through a shared interest in the powers of magnetism. Which I suppose goes to prove that magnetic Poles attract.

Nativity of Dylan Thomas

Time enough it was then - and I remember so long, deep long, rolling waves of time long ago when childhood struggled into confused teenage years when one English lesson was much the same as another in that fading car-making town, and I never remember whether it was that Macbeth was taught to us by Mrs Dickens or Dickens was taught us by Lady Macbeth.

And all the lessons run together now - the day I fell asleep on the dream-dark desk after the previous night's School Passion Play Production when Pilate was late on stage because his servant was round the back of the toilets, drinking,eyes cold, lager from the bottles they'd smuggled in under the hawk-sharp, hook-shaped nose of Mr Challis the Drama teacher.

And I dig down deep, through the decaying detritus of dark days of Dickens and the yellow-stockinged steward, iambic pentameters and cross-dressimg couples and rhyming couplets and put in my thumb and pull out a peach.

Or Peaches. Child-viewed, bright-hued, breathing another's idyll of the long-ago dream-days when you knew the specialness of being you, long hidden through the days of struggle and work and the day-long, dazed, long days of the office stole away the tastes and smells and scrapes and yells of being a child.

And through the haze of days the shady, shallow figure of Gwilym swims through - subliming sex into spiritual sonnets, scribing hymns to girls then changing the names to "God".

And I wonder... would Gwilym be a famous Christian song-writer these days? Only I think I've heard a lot of his songs.

Liturgy for the Birthday of Antonie van Leeuwenhoek

We left this liturgy as late as possible so that people didn't get all itchy and antsy about the various "animalcules" that this great man discovered. Leeuwenhoek was father of Microbiology, expert lens-maker and a devout Christian who could see the wonders of Creation in the little beggars crawling around on his microscope slide. And showing in his dialogue with the British Royal Society a case study in doing proper science - repeating the experiments to confirm the validity of the experiments, peer-reviewing - it's all great stuff.

Sadly we never really got to the liturgy itself. Just spent an hour trying to work out how to pronounce his surname. And now nobody wants to go to bed, because they'll be suddenly so aware of all the munchkin mini-beasts that will be awaiting them. Could be a long night in the Common Room.

Losing my Religion

I'm setting up a new group, to support a growing group of people in the United Kingdom.

Ten years ago, many people believed in Ricky Gervais. His comedy of embarrassment in The Office, representing a bungling buffoon who does not understand his own crassness, seemed to be a comedy classic.

It has now become clear that in fact Gervais had merely wandered onto the set under the impression he actually worked in that office. When the other actors came out of character and cleared off at the end of the series, he just carried on regardless.

I realise that for many people, losing your faith in Gervais can be hard. But help is at hand. In our support group you can come to grips with your new knowledge that Gervais does not really exist - it was just a name we gave to David Brent. You can discover that in fact "Gervais", "Bernard Manning", "Jim Davidson" - they're really just names we give to the unknown fear that other people might be as valuable as we are. You can meet other people who've stopped believing in Gervais, and in time you can find a real freedom.

Living Without Gervais - you really can do it.

The Great Irony of Graham Dilley

So deeply saddened by the passing of Graham Dilley. In his era all English cricketers either sported dodgy car-salesmen moustaches or looked like they'd wandered straight out of the bar to have a bash at going in at Number 4. Or else they seemed so old that only direct injections of Deep Heat stopped them standing immobile at Third Man indefinitely. But Dilley strode around the pitch like some blond minor deity.

The irony is that his career is defined by a match early on. And that he is remembered best for a match in which he was only the third most important contributor. He made 56 in that wonderful mad partnership with Ian Botham that stopped the '81 Headingley Ashes Test being a rout. And he was the bloke bowling from the other end while Bob Willis, every arthritic joint replaced with titanium, creaked in to bowl the Aussies out. And I remember how the joyous freedom of his batting in that Test - his lesser skill - contrasted with the odd, deliberate, almost ponderous way he bowled.

And given the choice - cricket being the team game that it is - of your most notable performance being taking 10 wickets in some forgotten win over Bangladesh on a rain-soaked Old Trafford - or of being the third most remembered player the most exciting cricket match ever played - then even when that Test is so often remembered by another player's name - I know which I'd choose. That wild, happy afternoon in Leeds, every time.

God bless you, Graham. May you now have a pair of boots that you will never wear out.

None taken

Alerted from  Phil,  New Humanist mag here.

Has Bean

Worshippers all over the country are outraged at Rowan Atkinson's recent comments about Church of England clergy. Those, that is, that haven't been thinking he's been Archbishop of Canterbury these last few years - after all, if he's been wearing a fake beard, wig and eye-brows and making deeply theological comments we can't understand, that would explain why we've not seen him on the telly much lately.

A Church Warden, Ivor Madeup-Name (132) said "It's an outrage, what this Edmund Blackadder has done. Accusing vicars of being smug, arrogant and conceited is clearly the job of the PCC. I will be writing to the Right Reverend Baby-Eating Bishop of Bath and Wells to see what he's going to be doing about it."

Mr Madeup-Name told me that his local vicar has one things in common with Rowan Atkinson, however. They were both last funny in 1997.