The Folk and the Flame

I was fascinated to read Catriona's blog today. I'll be honest, I've not paid any attention to the progress of the Olympic Flame. But now I'm thinking maybe we've inspired the whole event.

Running the Race

"Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us" (Heb 12:1)

How often it is truly said that you cannot preach from a restricted view of the Gospel. And, brethren (and your womenfolk, to whom I expect you to explain the more complex parts of this sermon), I am therefore preaching from the whole verse this week. Last week's sermon, in which I preached from the word "quail" alone, may have been more suited to the theological specialist.

So we will see what we have in this verse from Paul's letter to the Hebrews. But first, if I may, a short diversion - the self-styled "Archdruid" next door claims that there is no evidence that Paul wrote the epistle. But she is clearly deluded. Because it says so in the Bible. Although not in hers, which is further proof of how far she has fallen.

But let us see what it says. We have a race set before us - and the end of that race is salvation. But there are hurdles - for truly it is an hurdle race. And Paul maketh it clear what some of the hurdles are. Being compassed about with a cloud of witnesses, saith the Apostle, let us lay aside every weight. Clearly the witnesses are that very weight of which he speaks.

And immediately we see what he means - imagine, if you will, the Olympic Stadium as it will be in just a few short weeks. Let us forget for one moment that the Olympics are part of the religion of idolization of the human body and spirit. And let us forget that the International Olympic Committee is part of that godless World Order that will put the Nameless Thing on the throne, as all bow down to the power of the sponsors, and none will trade without approval from the IOC that the product they are selling has indeed the symbol of the Olympics printed thereon.

But let us imagine a pure and noble race. And as the athletes wait at the start of the 400m hurdles, one of them becomes aware of the crowd or audience - that "great crowd of witnesses" with which he is compassed. And instead of viewing only the finishing tape - and the hurdles which he must overcome - he becomes aware that there exists a crowd - ostensibly to "cheer him on" but actually to distract, to confuse and to overwhelm.

Surely he will forget his objective, take his eye from the goal, and trip over the first hurdle. And as he lays there - his face a bloody mess and his feet still lodged on the top of the hurdle - he will know that the race is already lost.

But suppose in the next lane, there is a godly and focussed man - one who does not take account of the crowd of witnesses around him - one who hears only the starter's pistol and sees only the tape ahead (taking due account of the hurdles). And suppose as he runs along, he noticeth the man in the adjacent lane  tripping over the hurdle and smashing to the ground. Then what will that man do?

Surely, brothers and sisters, the answer is clear. He will ignore that fallen man and run on. For to stop, to bind up the fallen - that will mean that he himself loses the race. His job is to get to the end first - to win the eternal prize. For surely this is a race, and not a woodland dawdle, wherein one mayst attend to those companions that trip over holes and divots, or become attached to barbed wire while escaping rampaging bullocks or geese.

Surely, brothers and sisters - ploughing on, leaving the one that is fallen to his fate - for he has fallen already. This is the way forward. For there is no room for losers in the Kingdom of God.

And now we sing our closing hymn - "Over the Mountains and the Water Jump".

The Mythology of Cricket

Forgot to mention in all the excitement over that flame appearing in Cornwall yesterday, but I actually had rather a marvellous day at the Test. I say "marvellous". It was a slow old day's play - England quite cautious against a very average West Indies attack, taking a long time to get up to the Windie's score. It was an utter delight to see Strauss get a ton, though. The real resilience of a true fighter and sportsman. And a quite ferocious delight in the extended ovation he got.

Personally I was sat in an interesting position. In front of me were two posh boys, who consumed four bottles of champagne in between going off to see people called "Rupert", "Eliot" and "Tarquin". While behind me was sat a man who appeared to be channelling the spirit of Geoffrey Boycott. Although as the day wore on I realised that he was listening to TMS on the radio, and merely repeating every word that Boycott said. On the occasions that Geoffrey went off to be recharged, the chap behind e continued with his own dull comments such as "Trott always scores so slowly" and "with a right and left-hander we should be farming the strike". In some ways it was a relief to stagger off the train at Flitwick - although until up to the point when I realised that the "lift home" I'd been promised was Burton Dasset turning up with his tandem.

But I realise that to our American cousins (among whom I count several readers), cricket is a bit of a mystery. A test match can last five days and end in a draw - how can this possibly work as a sport, they may ask? And the answer is that cricket is actually not so much a sport as a religion. The accountants, restaurant workers and motor mechanics who throw leather balls at each other of a Saturday or Sunday afternoon on a dog-dropping-covered municipal rec are as the village churches to the cathedrals of Headingley, Lord's or The Oval. The figures of past cricketers are as the great demi-gods and heroes of the pantheon of Cricket, while the great god Earnshaw watches over those of the Chosen People that are born within the ancient boundaries of Yorkshire. So I hope this explanation may help.

Cake - The food of the gods. The people of Tunbridge Wells, Chippenham and Droitwich hope to achieve blessings on the England cricket tea by sending offerings to the priests of the Cricket religion, the "TMS". The offerings are consumed by the priests, who must all have adopted names such as "Aggers", "Jonners" or "Bumble".

"All in white shall wait around" - Mrs Alexander was inspired to write "Once in Royal David's City" by the realisation that the experience of heaven will be like watching a Test Match. Only shorter.

Old Ladies with Sticks of Rhubarb - Cricket can be played by men and women, of course, with appropriate modifications to the protective equipment. However the ancient Wise Women of Yorkshire needed no such namby-pamby equipment. Using a stick of rhubarb they were able to ward off all evils, including head-high full-tosses and bouncers. The last of these Wise Women was old Mrs Boycott, who so memorably saw off Lillee and Thomson at the Oval in 1975.

"Beefy" - mythical hero in the line of Cu Chullain and Samson. Wielded a tree-trunk as a bat and bowled exploding cricket balls. "Freddie" was a latter-day hero who was never quite so good, incapable of pedalling the simplest pedalo.

DRS - Proof that video technology doesn't necessarily help get decisions right in sport.

"Not cricket" - Given a sport that includes illegal tampering with the equipment, rigged betting and occasional attempts physically to hurt the opposition it's hard to imagine what this might mean.  

Gower - An angelic being cursed, as all such are, with one great weakness. In his case, outside the off stump.

The Bodyline Series - An example of relative morality, given the whingeing from the Poms when the Windies and Australia learnt how to bowl fast.

Farming the Strike - A ritual in which the "tail-ender" always ends up facing 5 balls an over. A kind of meditation on our fallen nature.

Jonners - Ancient sage of great wisdom and immense ability to eat fruit cake.

Middle-Order Collapse - The Fall of Civilisation between the Ancient and Modern worlds, which the England cricket team ritually recreates 20 times a year. 

"The batsman's Holding, the bowler's Willey" - ancient spell of laughter-making. Still used as a counter-spell to rain during boring periods when the covers are on.

Nine-Ten-Jack - People whose ritual role is to be "knocked over". If they "wag" this means they aren't happy with the allotted fate.

Reverse Swing - Witchcraft.

Uncovered Pitches - Proof of how we have fallen from our true nature since early times. In the 1960s, cricketers would trust the gods to give the good weather. Today, we trust in metal and plastic to keep the pitch dry.

The Yorkshire team of the early 60s - a race of super-heroes, incapable of weakness of any kind. 

Pigeons - The spirits of old cricketers are still believed to hover around their former homes in the form of pigeons or seagulls . I reckon. That's the only reason I can think of why they are considered so important.

Blofeld - Evil arch-villain. 

A Flame Arrives

I'm not quite sure if we'll be prosecuted for mentioning what this has to do with, but a flame has arrived in Great Britain. Because of the economic situation, it's the first time that Greece has asked for a receipt. The torch relay from Olympia is of course a venerable tradition, going all the way back to Nazi Germany. At the time, people wondered why the route was unexpectedly taking in parts of Poland, Czechoslovakia and Belgium. They found out why in due course - but Adolph thankfully never took the hint from the problems they encountered when trying to take the flame to Paris and Moscow at the same time.

On this occasion, in an attempt to evoke summertime visits to Greece back in the days when they had the drachma (and in the hope of summer holidays to come when the drachma returns) the torch itself appears to be designed on the basis of an ice-cream cone.

Or possibly, suggests Young Keith, it's actually a retro-torch, reminding us of the "Horn of Plenty" desserts that were popular in Harvester restaurants in the 1980s? Inspired by this thought, he has created the Don't-Mention-What's-Happening-This-Summer-Cornucopia - carefully branded for legal reasons. It's a foot-long cornet made of brandy-snap, filled with fruit and ice cream and with the top two inches soaked in supermarket own-label whisky. You light the whisky and run round the garden holding the cornet aloft. If you're lucky it's a marvellous evocation of this summer's celebrations, followed by a festive pudding. Whereas if you're unlucky the burning whisky runs down your arm and sets your sleeve on fire.

The Grand National

Don't get me wrong. I've nothing in principle against horse-racing, or even steeple-chasing. And I admire the bravery of the jockeys.

But imagine you've brought a horse - a great, beautiful, daft thing like a horse - to the peak of its condition. You've worked with it as trainer for years. It knows who you are.

Then you pack it off on four and a half miles of jumps, knowing there's a 5% chance within the next twenty minutes that it will be dead.

I wouldn't. I really wouldn't. There's some real work needs doing on that course, or the race should stop.

You can see also: RSPCA official statement; LLM Calling.

Women are from Venus, Men are from Mars Hill

I've just been catching up on the latest Internet and media storm around the relationship between men and women. Once again someone has come out and made some surprising comments on the vexed subject of the respective roles of men and women. But it strikes me that the concept of "complementarity" is very important here.

Paul Jewell, I suspect, has just said something off the cuff and amusing. A journalist remarked about the penalty decision that  Amy Fearne didn't give for Ipswich that the crowd "to a man" would have given the penalty. Mr Jewell's response was to remark that - to a man, yes - but to a woman, no.

Now it could be argued that Jewell was just using a convenient way of picking out the assistant referee. It could be pointed out that when he referred to "the lineswoman, or whatever she's called" he was struggling in exactly the same way as every other person involved in football in the country as they say "linesman", then remember it's an "assistant referee or whatever they're called". For myself i'd suggest to FA two alternatives - either take a leaf out of the Fire Service and refer to them as "line-runners", or follow the universal and gender-neutral term that is actually used  across the country, and call them "lino".

But I digress. The whole argument, as I say, ignores the concept of complementarity. There are roles that must be held in such a way that they complement each other - not that one is more important and the other lesser (although they are) but that society may function in an orderly way. I refer, of course, to the relationship between referee and lino.

In the beginning it was ordained that the referee is the head of the team of officials, while the lino is subject to the ref's authority. We do not allow the lino to be in authority over the ref, for the referee's decision, no matter how wrong, is final. And we do not know the secrets of the conversations that take place between ref and lino. For all we know it had been ordained by Robert Lewis, the referee at the game, that the linos were to make no decisions other than offsides and whose throw-in it was. Some refs do this, and they are within their rights - though we may disagree with their views. But it does ensure that everyone knows their place. And if that were the case, then the responsibility for the non-penalty was thoroughly with the ref. The linos (both of them, male and female) were mere adornments on the side of the pitch in this case.

Now I like to think the best, so I'm going to assume Paul Jewell wasn't being sexist. I'm going to choose to believe that, like Diane Abbott tweeting, he fires off his thoughts without them actually going through the "thought" process. I'd like to think if the lino had been in possession of a Y chromosome then Paul's response would have been "obvious to a man - but not that man." For if history has taught us one thing, it is that  football managers are bad losers no matter who the officials are.

Wasting Money on Ceremonies

Local hero Paula Radcliffe criticises the Conservative Government for wasting money on medal ceremonies, the BBC tells us.

And she's right. For goodness' sake, we're British after all. Not for us the American-style 5-hour speech in which we thank everyone from God to our life coach and the great-great-auntie we never knew we had for what we still manage to make clear is our own, unaided success.

No, we're British. In a truly British medal ceremony, the winner would shamble, shame-faced, up to the podium. There would be no national anthems as we don't like to make a song and dance about things. Embarrassed by having won without at any point having had to face insuperable odds, they would mumble shyly as they refused to accept the medal on the grounds that "I don't really deserve it. Give it to that plucky Swede who came fourth." Then, shocked by being thrust into the limelight, they would retire from public view and spend the rest of their lives doing good works or running a pub in Tarporley.

The exception of course would be in 2016 if one of the British nations won the Rugby 7s. In which case the captain of the winning team would exultantly celebrate their love of their native country. Probably New Zealand.

Holding up Banners in crowds

Bless Timoon. He's worthy but slightly gullible, and has a hobby of going to sporting events and holding up a banner saying "John 3:16". Which I thought for a while was a message to his mate, indicating the time to pick him up, but it turns out not.

Yesterday I persuaded him, as he got himself ready for his big day at Headquarters, that if John 3:16 was a good message, then 2 John 3:16 was gonna be twice as good.

I'm feeling bad now. After all, I am meant to be his spiritual leader. But at least someone pointed it out to him. At some point during the Lunch interval, the "2" was crossed out. And emphatically replaced with a "1". Timoon meanwhile is really humpty with me. He says it's all my fault that no-one was saved all yesterday morning.

Lamentation for the State of English Tennis

I regret to say that our Celebration of British Tennis has had to be cancelled, to be replaced by A Lamentation for the State of English Tennis.
Our Annual Lamentation, as we seek inspiration for what has gone wrong, will be held as usual at our state-of-the-art Beaker Tennisdrome. Members only at this event, please. Fees £3,000 p.a. I am afraid there is currently a six year waiting list. No tattoos or poor people.

Badminton jumps the shark

News from the world of minority sports. The authorities for Badminton have back-tracked over their desire to insist that their (female) players wear skirts or "dresses". Apparently this was with the aim of "glamorising" the game.

Dear badminton authorities, whether your players wear skirts, dresses, Capri pants or bikinis, it's still badminton. It's still middle-class girls running around in a sports hall wearing squeaky trainers, while their male partner (if mixed doubles), an unexpectedly aggressive French teacher or local government official, tries to still his Inner Beast by hammering a feathery cork around the court. I believe men (and for that matter women) play the game in singles and doubles formats as well, but I daresay that's much the same except without the frustrated male partner. And if the women should be wearing skirts, what should the men be wearing? Village People outfits?

It's an interesting message to send. That they believe their sport needs "glamorising" suggests they don't think it's very good. Because Barcelona attracted a massive audience to their dissection of Man Utd yesterday, just by the simple process of turning up in baggy shorts and stripy shirts and being very good at a sport that is interesting. Sir Steve Redgrave never rowed, as far as I'm aware, in sequins. Paula Radcliffe never felt the urge to run in high heels. Basically, if your sport needs glamorising, it's not pandering to stereotypes you should be playing with. Maybe you should be wondering why, if you think it's boring, anybody else should find it interesting.  Even if the competitors are wearing skirts.

Livening up Formula One

Bernie Ecclestone has proposed, it would seem, that the F1 tracks should have artificial "rain" to make them more interesting. Which seems to me (though I would hate to affect our neighbours up the road in Silverstone) to suggest that Bernie finds the traditional GP of 30 or so blokes driving cars round corners in procession for a couple of hours just as boring as I do.

So why not, Bernie? Why not liven it up with fake rain?
Or why not put freezers under the track and create ice patches?
Or have people throw oil on the track? That should be exciting.
Or a giant wind machine blowing back up the track during the last lap?
Or insisting that the drivers have to push the car the last 200 yards?
Or put in a bike lane?
Or someone scattering drawing pins?
Or introducing a slot system like in Scalextric, so that rows about team orders can truly be a thing in the past? (Although the hand-held controllers would have to be bigger than Bernie himself)
Or why not drive herds of sheep across the track at random? That would test the drivers' abillity.
Or why not move the Bahrain GP to Tripoli? Then we'd all watch.
Or take away the engines and make the drivers pedal themselves along like Flintstones?
Or have Max Mosley, dressed as Marilyn Monroe, running down the side of the track throwing gladioli to the drivers? That'd test their concentration.
Or introduce the "Pace Tractor", which came out every four laps and just held everybody up?
Or change the format so that the drivers had to cook a three-course meal in front of those two shouty blokes from "Master Chef" before they could start their cars?
Or demand that all cars be jumped-started by the drivers' mate, Martie, from Basildon, who's got a white Capri that he's just done up?
Or introduce a randomly-opening draw bridge?
Or have Jeremy Clarkson shouting insults at the drivers instead of their having a radio feed from their team?
Or put in a random speed-regulator, which will suddenly slam the brakes on or shove the accelerator down when they're least expecting it?
Or make them all drive in reverse?
Or run the Grand Prix at night, under UV lighting, with cars without head lights but painted in Day-Glo colours?
Or introduce a slalom with concrete blocks?
Or ban brakes? Or gears? Or both?
Or put traffic lights at Stowe?
Or make machine guns legal?
Or make the drivers sit in the passenger seats map-reading, while their girlfriends drive?
Or make them drive on grass? Or glass?

All these things are available to you, Bernie. Go ahead. But just remember - there are people who like your sport. I'm not one of them. But then it's not my sport. And I'm not going to start watching just because you turn on the sprinklers.

Superbowl Sunday

Superbowl Sunday, Wimbledon Fortnight and the Boat Race. Three events that have in common that a number of people in the United Kingdom suddenly start watching a sport they've no interest in, for no obvious reason.

For those that have missed it in the past - well done. But if you're daft enough to want an explanation:

It's a little like the old Japanese game show Endurance. Before the game, and at half time, the competitors have to endure extreme psychological torture. This can involve the singing of somebody called Timberlake, or people from Glee, or the unexpected revealing of parts of the anatomy of the Jackson family that nobody really wanted to see. After this the "footballers" run out onto the pitch.

Their main job is to stand around while people throw "flags" (coloured hankies) onto the pitch. Every now and then they form two rows opposite each other, and then run into each other.  It's essential that everyone wear enormous amounts of body armour, as underneath it they're all about 4 foot 3 and weedy, and the cameras wouldn't be able to pick them up very well.

The game is non-stop. Or, at least, the television is. The game itself stops all the time while people look at all the flags that were thrown around last time, or somebody explains the rules, or there's an ad break, or Celine Dion makes yet another attempt to sing a song before being wrestled to the ground. If  Celine actually sings a song, this is called a "down" as that's how everybody feels.

Sometime after the Superbowl starts, it ends again. Someone will have won. Nobody will care, as they will have filled themselves with low-calorie, low-taste American beer that is comprised almost entirely of rice. And also as, while the fault-lines of tribal allegiance run deep in Britain over such matters as proper football, in America the teams are soul-less franchises like MK Dons.  The male of the household will go to bed and explain to his sleep-befuddled and indifferent partner the difference between a linebacker and a tight end, like it matters.

For a few days before and after the event, normally sane middle-aged men walk around talking about the Packers' "shotgun" and the Steelers' "Hail Mary" as if they know what they mean. Just ignore them. It will only be a few months before they start lambasting Andy Murray for "foot faults", or complaining about no-balls as if they understand the change from the back- to the front-foot law.

The offside rule explained

After all the fuss over the Sky commentators, and their rude comments about women's understanding of the offside rule: It's quite simple. Let me explain.

If the ball is passed forwards by a member of your side, and you are in your opponent's half, and are "active" in that you are involved directly in the play, and there are fewer than two opponents closer to your opponent's goal-line than you are, and you are in front of the ball when it is played, then.... it doesn't matter. It's just a silly game.

Late Football Result

The dust has finally settled on this afternoon's Traditional Beaker Football match. We believe (or at least we strongly assert) that this is the latest outbreak of an annual event going back to 2421 BCE.  A run broken only by the invasion of Britain under Claudius and the Black Death.

Hnaef once again played in a pair of hiking boots that we thought were outlawed by the Geneva Convention.  However I'm pleased to say that the casualty list is only three injured and - as of sundown - two missing.  A vast improvement on last year.

As ever the Folk divided into two groups - the Corded Wear Folk and the Rounded Bottomed Folk (referring to their beakers, not their anatomies).  It was a challenging match.  The Corded Wear Folk's left flank was always the stronger, and pushed the right side of the Rounded Bottomed people back throughout the game.  However the centre of the Rounded Bottomed midfield held very strongly, with Young Keith once again very effective in the "hole" between the holding defenders and the strikers.

At the end of 127 minutes of total carnage the score was 0-0.  You know, just a thought - but maybe next year we could introduce a ball?

The annual charity mixed rugby match

Well the pitch was just about playable for the annual Charity Mixed Rugby Match against the Guinea Pig Worshippers of Stewartby, thanks to the thaw.  Although it's fair to say everyone was exhausted after dragging themselves through all that mud.  But we were glad to have achieved a narrow 12-5 victory.  On a pitch like that, kicking was always going to be better than trying to run the ball in.

Every year we have people querying whether it's right to allow woman to take part in such a traditionally rough and violent game.  And I suppose now that argument's going to start all over again.  I can only say that Edith Weston is very sorry about that stamp she put in on the Great Guinea Pig.  And there's no way I deserved sending off for that so-called "eye gouging" incident.  And on top of all that, they've now complained about the dirty songs that Stacey Bushes was singing in the bar afterwards.  Honestly.