Anglican Mainstream reports that Coronation St actors (unnamed) and one former actor(named) are unhappy with the number of gay plotlines. I have to say I don't watch it so I'm trusting my sources here. And I'm not sure what they mean by "gay storylines". Are these plotlines that are exclusively related to gay issues, or are they plotlines that happen to involve gay people?
Apparently there are two lesbians, four homosexual men and a transexual. And this does seem completely un-realistic. After all, If this really were the demographic of a small working-class street, at the very least you'd expect more variety in the shops, and soaring property prices. Come on, Corrie, get your act together! Surely there ought to be a decent wine bar opening, if nothing else.
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Pip 'n' Jim's Day
It's kind of St Philip and St James's Church in Great Sheeeping to invite us again to their annual patronal celebration.
It's a bit confusing this year, as it should have been 1 May only that was a Sunday, so it would have been 2 May but that was St George's so it would have been yesterday only that was St Mark's. Some kind of celestial pecking order, I dare say. After all, who's ever heard of Philip and James anyway? That's James as in - not the famous James, nor the second-most-famous James. No - the other one. This lack of famousness may be why you get him on a buy-one-apostle-get-one-free deal with Philip, and also explains why we committed such a faux pas last time we received this invitation.
You may remember that a few years ago, hearing we were going to a festival for Pip and Jim, we all dressed up as our favourite children's TV characters and brought loads of balloons with us. Made for quite a contrast as we walked into the church blowing those party blowers, to discover ourselves joining in with a solemn and reflective service to commemorate two martyrs. Which may be why it's taken so long for us to be invited again. So let's get it right this time. Being a serious feast day, we're going to wear orange hi-viz.
It's a bit confusing this year, as it should have been 1 May only that was a Sunday, so it would have been 2 May but that was St George's so it would have been yesterday only that was St Mark's. Some kind of celestial pecking order, I dare say. After all, who's ever heard of Philip and James anyway? That's James as in - not the famous James, nor the second-most-famous James. No - the other one. This lack of famousness may be why you get him on a buy-one-apostle-get-one-free deal with Philip, and also explains why we committed such a faux pas last time we received this invitation.
You may remember that a few years ago, hearing we were going to a festival for Pip and Jim, we all dressed up as our favourite children's TV characters and brought loads of balloons with us. Made for quite a contrast as we walked into the church blowing those party blowers, to discover ourselves joining in with a solemn and reflective service to commemorate two martyrs. Which may be why it's taken so long for us to be invited again. So let's get it right this time. Being a serious feast day, we're going to wear orange hi-viz.
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
The truth is out there
Another day, another set of insights into what passes for the collective human psyche. It seems to have been mostly a day of bizarre conspiracy theories. Conspiracy theorists depend upon pulling out the minutest threads of what I shall call, for want of a better word, "the truth", while ignoring holes the size of elephants in what the conspiracy theorist believes "really" happened. The great advantage of conspiracy theories is that they are so far from the truth that in fact normal standards of evidence cannot be applied.
Rodrick's theory is that Osama Bin Laden has been dead since 2001, but kept on ice ever since for no apparent reason. Then this week, realising that it won't be long till the presidential elections, Barack Obama had him removed from deep freeze and buried in a patch of Kenyan desert conveniently just down the road from where Barack Obama himself was born. The White House aren't really wondering about the wisdom of releasing photos of the dead Osama Bin Laden - in fact, they've got a crack team of Photoshoppers trying to come up with a realistic photo. And despite the fact that Osama was frozen under a Republican government, they can't point out that Osama was dead all along and Obama is making it all up, because the Republicans have all had their brains re-programmed by aliens from the Orion Nebula who look like Russell Grant. Mind, the last bit sounds plausible when you see the Tea Party.
But then, according to the Daily Mail, Osama was shot when waving an AK47 around with one hand, while holding his wife - who was shot dead - as a human shield. Which seems to be slightly contradicted by the report from the BBC, saying that Osama was unarmed, and his wife - who was not used as a human shield - was shot but not killed. How threatening an unarmed man in his fifties with a serious kidney complaint can be to a crack group of highly-armed and trained special forces is yet to be determined.
In the end, it's hard to know who to believe. After all, a Jordanian tourist website has gone into great detail on the Royal Couple's planned honeymoon there. Which is quite exciting since they are simultaneously in Anglesey. Although apparently they may instead go to Kenya - but have postponed since they were warned about the Osama execution. Shame, as apparently they were quite looking forward to seeing the place in the desert where they filmed the moon landings.
Anyway, I've got to get back to sorting out the hoovering of the Lee Harvey Oswald suite. Shame that Mr Oswald died last year (we buried him in a patch of Kenyan desert - it's what he would have wanted) but we need to get the place cleaned up and some new medical equipment installed. Mr Presley's not getting any younger, and he needs special care these days.
Rodrick's theory is that Osama Bin Laden has been dead since 2001, but kept on ice ever since for no apparent reason. Then this week, realising that it won't be long till the presidential elections, Barack Obama had him removed from deep freeze and buried in a patch of Kenyan desert conveniently just down the road from where Barack Obama himself was born. The White House aren't really wondering about the wisdom of releasing photos of the dead Osama Bin Laden - in fact, they've got a crack team of Photoshoppers trying to come up with a realistic photo. And despite the fact that Osama was frozen under a Republican government, they can't point out that Osama was dead all along and Obama is making it all up, because the Republicans have all had their brains re-programmed by aliens from the Orion Nebula who look like Russell Grant. Mind, the last bit sounds plausible when you see the Tea Party.
But then, according to the Daily Mail, Osama was shot when waving an AK47 around with one hand, while holding his wife - who was shot dead - as a human shield. Which seems to be slightly contradicted by the report from the BBC, saying that Osama was unarmed, and his wife - who was not used as a human shield - was shot but not killed. How threatening an unarmed man in his fifties with a serious kidney complaint can be to a crack group of highly-armed and trained special forces is yet to be determined.
In the end, it's hard to know who to believe. After all, a Jordanian tourist website has gone into great detail on the Royal Couple's planned honeymoon there. Which is quite exciting since they are simultaneously in Anglesey. Although apparently they may instead go to Kenya - but have postponed since they were warned about the Osama execution. Shame, as apparently they were quite looking forward to seeing the place in the desert where they filmed the moon landings.
Anyway, I've got to get back to sorting out the hoovering of the Lee Harvey Oswald suite. Shame that Mr Oswald died last year (we buried him in a patch of Kenyan desert - it's what he would have wanted) but we need to get the place cleaned up and some new medical equipment installed. Mr Presley's not getting any younger, and he needs special care these days.
Trees
The Archdruid has a very healthy fascination with trees, and called me up this morning to ask me to do some research. Always one to see pecuniary advantages from current events, she asked me to "look into possible tie-ins with the wedding: you know, those trees and associated tack."
I had not previously been aware of the connection, but of course, now that she's mentioned it, I'm unsurprised by the interest of the "horsey set" in the marriage of the young Royal Couple.
A quick search on the Interweb revealed little of relevance, so I contacted my darling mother, who is a not inconsiderably talented wood-turner. She's promised to look into "bridle" opportunities (with thanks to George Herbert for that pun), and is even planning to create a nice maple stirrup.
I had not previously been aware of the connection, but of course, now that she's mentioned it, I'm unsurprised by the interest of the "horsey set" in the marriage of the young Royal Couple.
A quick search on the Interweb revealed little of relevance, so I contacted my darling mother, who is a not inconsiderably talented wood-turner. She's promised to look into "bridle" opportunities (with thanks to George Herbert for that pun), and is even planning to create a nice maple stirrup.
Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.8
Royal Wedding Druid Trees
The title above is what is known, mockingly in the blogging community, as a "blog search term". Someone found the varied record of Beaker wonders that makes up this blog, by typing those four words into Google (they actually added "Abbey" as well., but that would wreck the loveliness of my blog title, wouldn't it?)
One ends up trying to get into the minds of the people who entered these words into Google. One shouldn't - one has a life. Apart from anything else, one ought to get out of the habit of talking like Prince Charles. But still. What were these people trying to discover?
Presumably they were looking for the secrets that were concealed in the trees in the Abbey. The options being that either they were there so Prince Charles could have some intelligent conversation after the service, or they were symbolic of something. The Archbishop is, of course, also a renowned druid. So maybe they were sneaky Druidical trees? Harbouring mistletoe, for example? But they were English maples - not a tree renowned for its Druidic associations. They weren't oaks (which are so Druidic) or apples (which are good for mistletoe) or even ash or elder or willow or rowan. Come to think of it, maples are about the only tree with no folkloric, supposedly Druidic or neo-pagan association. It's almost a miracle they were chosen when you think about it. So I reckon they were there because they were pretty, and green, and spring-like. All good reasons for druids to celebrate, of course. But then reasons for everybody else to celebrate as well. Sometimes we can look too deeply.
One ends up trying to get into the minds of the people who entered these words into Google. One shouldn't - one has a life. Apart from anything else, one ought to get out of the habit of talking like Prince Charles. But still. What were these people trying to discover?
Presumably they were looking for the secrets that were concealed in the trees in the Abbey. The options being that either they were there so Prince Charles could have some intelligent conversation after the service, or they were symbolic of something. The Archbishop is, of course, also a renowned druid. So maybe they were sneaky Druidical trees? Harbouring mistletoe, for example? But they were English maples - not a tree renowned for its Druidic associations. They weren't oaks (which are so Druidic) or apples (which are good for mistletoe) or even ash or elder or willow or rowan. Come to think of it, maples are about the only tree with no folkloric, supposedly Druidic or neo-pagan association. It's almost a miracle they were chosen when you think about it. So I reckon they were there because they were pretty, and green, and spring-like. All good reasons for druids to celebrate, of course. But then reasons for everybody else to celebrate as well. Sometimes we can look too deeply.
Monday, 2 May 2011
400 today and still groovy
It has been a busy day at Bogwulf Funambulist Baptists. In preparation for our celebration of 400 Years of the King James Version we had strung a banner across between two of the sycamore trees - "400 today and still groovy". We thought a hip, modern, catchy slogan like that would help to attract some new and vibrant followers - ideally from other nearby Protestant churches, as these take less trouble to convert into proper Christians.
Unfortunately the self-styled "Archdruid" in the big house saw the banner and assumed we were having a sly jollity at her expense . She has always been a little tetchy and some would say inclined to over-react. Where others might have knocked at the door of the manse and requested - and received - the innocent and godly explanation, Eileen borrowed a chain saw, cut down the trees and burnt both them and the banner. She is not a woman to think before acting.
However, we had spent the first part of the day in fasting and preparation. So with our state of godliness secure, we were able to forgive her. Although only sporadically, as she was chasing some of my followers around with her cricket bat, reminding them that, as good Christians, if she hit any of them they were required to turn the other cheek.
Eventually Eileen went off to her own community, who looked like they were staging another of their battle re-enactments on her lawn. And we were able to get onto the important business of our three-hour Authorizathon. Combining the most beautifully-written of the passages with meditations of my own on the way in which heathen darkness had reigned from the 1st century all the way through until the glorious day in 1611 when true light finally shone on the English-speaking peoples.
And consider the power that is at our fingertips. For part way through the readings the answer to our benighted brother Robinson's musings on life expectancy were actually read out! For the years of a man are threescore and ten, or fourscore if we have the strength. There is no point in Simon wondering how things would be otherwise - there could be no otherwise.
Halfway through the readings, a thought struck me that I am sure I never had before. It was, I believe, prophetic. If the King James Bible - 400 years old today, in case you were unaware - is the perfect Word of God as we believe, what happens to those who are unable to read it? What about those African and Asian billions who, speaking only their own languages, have never had the opportunity to learn Jacobean English? Must they struggle by reading only sub-standard versions in their own tongues - or even in the original languages, defective as clearly they must be? (I exclude the French from this, of course. With typical Gallic arrogance, they simply refuse to speak any kind of English, despite the fact that we all know they can do it).
And so, spontaneously, I implored my Funambulist brethren. "Think, my brothers (and suitably instructed sisters)," I said to them. "Think of those living in darkness, unable to learn the simplest passage because they do not speak English - and think of those who do speak modern English, but are confused by the total changes in the meaning of words such as "prevent". We cannot leave this to the confused efforts of those who would translate the Scriptures into these people's native tongues. We must start a great new work that will send missionaries into the whole world - missionaries whose job it is to teach the language of Jacobean English to the nations that live in darkness, so they may read God's word, repent and be saved.
Brothers (I will not address our sisters here, as I am about to mention filthy lucre) - Brethren, I say, after my appeal the Bogwulf Baptists right there and then held a heap offering unto the Lord. And the £4.55 we raised is but the mustard seed that will become a great oak tree of the forest. We will go into all the world, and preach the Gospel to all nations, and we will do it in King James English!
Unfortunately the self-styled "Archdruid" in the big house saw the banner and assumed we were having a sly jollity at her expense . She has always been a little tetchy and some would say inclined to over-react. Where others might have knocked at the door of the manse and requested - and received - the innocent and godly explanation, Eileen borrowed a chain saw, cut down the trees and burnt both them and the banner. She is not a woman to think before acting.
However, we had spent the first part of the day in fasting and preparation. So with our state of godliness secure, we were able to forgive her. Although only sporadically, as she was chasing some of my followers around with her cricket bat, reminding them that, as good Christians, if she hit any of them they were required to turn the other cheek.
Eventually Eileen went off to her own community, who looked like they were staging another of their battle re-enactments on her lawn. And we were able to get onto the important business of our three-hour Authorizathon. Combining the most beautifully-written of the passages with meditations of my own on the way in which heathen darkness had reigned from the 1st century all the way through until the glorious day in 1611 when true light finally shone on the English-speaking peoples.
And consider the power that is at our fingertips. For part way through the readings the answer to our benighted brother Robinson's musings on life expectancy were actually read out! For the years of a man are threescore and ten, or fourscore if we have the strength. There is no point in Simon wondering how things would be otherwise - there could be no otherwise.
Halfway through the readings, a thought struck me that I am sure I never had before. It was, I believe, prophetic. If the King James Bible - 400 years old today, in case you were unaware - is the perfect Word of God as we believe, what happens to those who are unable to read it? What about those African and Asian billions who, speaking only their own languages, have never had the opportunity to learn Jacobean English? Must they struggle by reading only sub-standard versions in their own tongues - or even in the original languages, defective as clearly they must be? (I exclude the French from this, of course. With typical Gallic arrogance, they simply refuse to speak any kind of English, despite the fact that we all know they can do it).
And so, spontaneously, I implored my Funambulist brethren. "Think, my brothers (and suitably instructed sisters)," I said to them. "Think of those living in darkness, unable to learn the simplest passage because they do not speak English - and think of those who do speak modern English, but are confused by the total changes in the meaning of words such as "prevent". We cannot leave this to the confused efforts of those who would translate the Scriptures into these people's native tongues. We must start a great new work that will send missionaries into the whole world - missionaries whose job it is to teach the language of Jacobean English to the nations that live in darkness, so they may read God's word, repent and be saved.
Brothers (I will not address our sisters here, as I am about to mention filthy lucre) - Brethren, I say, after my appeal the Bogwulf Baptists right there and then held a heap offering unto the Lord. And the £4.55 we raised is but the mustard seed that will become a great oak tree of the forest. We will go into all the world, and preach the Gospel to all nations, and we will do it in King James English!
The Beautiful Game
So once again the dust settles on the latest in the series of post-picnic football matches.
It's a long and hallowed tradition. Whenever we have a Community picnic on the lawns, the more athletic, youthful, stupid and/or aggressive like to have a kick around afterwards, while the rest of us shelter in the relative shade of the immemorial sycamores (the immemorial elms having sadly bought it in the 70s). On this afternoon's occasion the sides were lead by Hnaef and Grundii. Grundii being 67 years of age, and not having played in about thirty years, we tried desperately to stop him getting too carried away, but he tells us he used to be a midfielder in the Southern League in his youth. He says that he played with George Best on one occasion, but as we said that doesn't necessarily bode well for his footballing longevity.
The formations were unusual, as is often the way on these occasions. Grundii and his team were in the rigid 2-3-5 formation that he swears they used in his youth. Whereas Hnaef cunningly went for two holding midfielders, in a 4-2-9-3-1 formation. The "9" in that formation being all the community kids under 12 years of age, who requested to be in the same team.
It was one of those fascinating games. Grundii's team were trying to play some expansive football, while Hnaef's were playing a pressing game. When I say "pressing" - what happened was that whenever any of Grundii's team got hold of the ball, they'd suddenly have nine kids buzzing round them like hornets, kicking them in the ankles. At one point Willibrord tried shielding the ball from them, only to receive repeated kicks in the back of the legs till he fell over. I tell you, it was like the soccer chapter from Gulliver's Travels.
Nor was the dealing out of physical damage reserved to the littlies. Hnaef having, once again, mislaid his trainers was playing in those walking boots. There were some severe lacerations dealt out. And at one point when Hnaef went into a tackly two-footed, Marston went down like a felled tree. Of course, the consequence of playing without a referee is that people have to self-police to an extent. Which is why eventually a couple of Grundii's team wrestled Hnaef to the ground and stole his shoelaces.
The danger from Hnaef and the kids early on meant that after twenty minutes or so, Hnaef's guys were 12-4 up. And failing in his aim to be a stopper centre-half, Grundii realised he was, after all, not as fit as he used to be. At this point some would have retired quietly into the shade with a long drink. Not an old semi-professional like Grundii. Oh no. He stole Agnet's mobility scooter and switched to playing right-wing, on the reasonable grounds that he would have been dangerous in the centre of midfield.
The balance of the game swung at this point. The kids got bored and wandered off to climb trees, and suddenly the rump of Hnaef's team was being over-run. It's pretty tricky, after all, trying to tackle a mobility scooter. Suddenly the score was 13-17 to Grundii's team. So Hnaef's team decided a better defensive formation was needed.
I've got to give it to them. It was a clever tactical switch. But I still reckon digging a trench across the edge of the penalty area is technically against the Laws of the Game. And, if it's not, then it properly ought to be. It was a bit of a surprise for Grundii, suddenly disappearing into a hole like that just as he rounded the left-back. Or, as he more accurately might be described, "pike-man". I know that electric scooters are against the Laws - but so, surely, is knocking them off with broom handles equipped with boxing gloves?
So by mid-afternoon, as usual the game had descended into a brawl. About five minutes after the handbags broke out, I nipped on and stole the ball. They're still kicking each other now, and nobody's noticed any different. I guess I'm going to have to call time soon and then we can ferry the survivors back to the First Aid room. That's what Community picnics are all together, team-building, recreation and togetherness.
It's a long and hallowed tradition. Whenever we have a Community picnic on the lawns, the more athletic, youthful, stupid and/or aggressive like to have a kick around afterwards, while the rest of us shelter in the relative shade of the immemorial sycamores (the immemorial elms having sadly bought it in the 70s). On this afternoon's occasion the sides were lead by Hnaef and Grundii. Grundii being 67 years of age, and not having played in about thirty years, we tried desperately to stop him getting too carried away, but he tells us he used to be a midfielder in the Southern League in his youth. He says that he played with George Best on one occasion, but as we said that doesn't necessarily bode well for his footballing longevity.
The formations were unusual, as is often the way on these occasions. Grundii and his team were in the rigid 2-3-5 formation that he swears they used in his youth. Whereas Hnaef cunningly went for two holding midfielders, in a 4-2-9-3-1 formation. The "9" in that formation being all the community kids under 12 years of age, who requested to be in the same team.
It was one of those fascinating games. Grundii's team were trying to play some expansive football, while Hnaef's were playing a pressing game. When I say "pressing" - what happened was that whenever any of Grundii's team got hold of the ball, they'd suddenly have nine kids buzzing round them like hornets, kicking them in the ankles. At one point Willibrord tried shielding the ball from them, only to receive repeated kicks in the back of the legs till he fell over. I tell you, it was like the soccer chapter from Gulliver's Travels.
Nor was the dealing out of physical damage reserved to the littlies. Hnaef having, once again, mislaid his trainers was playing in those walking boots. There were some severe lacerations dealt out. And at one point when Hnaef went into a tackly two-footed, Marston went down like a felled tree. Of course, the consequence of playing without a referee is that people have to self-police to an extent. Which is why eventually a couple of Grundii's team wrestled Hnaef to the ground and stole his shoelaces.
The danger from Hnaef and the kids early on meant that after twenty minutes or so, Hnaef's guys were 12-4 up. And failing in his aim to be a stopper centre-half, Grundii realised he was, after all, not as fit as he used to be. At this point some would have retired quietly into the shade with a long drink. Not an old semi-professional like Grundii. Oh no. He stole Agnet's mobility scooter and switched to playing right-wing, on the reasonable grounds that he would have been dangerous in the centre of midfield.
The balance of the game swung at this point. The kids got bored and wandered off to climb trees, and suddenly the rump of Hnaef's team was being over-run. It's pretty tricky, after all, trying to tackle a mobility scooter. Suddenly the score was 13-17 to Grundii's team. So Hnaef's team decided a better defensive formation was needed.
I've got to give it to them. It was a clever tactical switch. But I still reckon digging a trench across the edge of the penalty area is technically against the Laws of the Game. And, if it's not, then it properly ought to be. It was a bit of a surprise for Grundii, suddenly disappearing into a hole like that just as he rounded the left-back. Or, as he more accurately might be described, "pike-man". I know that electric scooters are against the Laws - but so, surely, is knocking them off with broom handles equipped with boxing gloves?
So by mid-afternoon, as usual the game had descended into a brawl. About five minutes after the handbags broke out, I nipped on and stole the ball. They're still kicking each other now, and nobody's noticed any different. I guess I'm going to have to call time soon and then we can ferry the survivors back to the First Aid room. That's what Community picnics are all together, team-building, recreation and togetherness.
A dead murderer
A couple of verses quoted this morning:
"Do not gloat when your enemy falls; when he stumbles, do not let your heart rejoice" (Ps 24:17).
"When the wicked perish there are shouts of gladness" (Proverbs 11:10).
Which proves, if nothing else, that the way to respond to complex matters is not to pick individual verses from the Bible. And if one book of all in the Bible was not designed for proof-texting, it would be Proverbs, which also advises us that we both should and shouldn't answer a fool in his folly, and we should give poor people plenty of alcohol to help them get over it. I'm going to have to go with "love your enemies" if I want a proof-text in this instance.
I can't be too sad that Osama Bin Laden is dead. Not because we should rejoice over any death. Nor because of some hope that it may remove Bin Laden's inspirational effect. A martyr is more powerful than a hiding, ageing fugitive and dead men can move millions. But because it may - may - reduce the strategic vision of his organisation. The "expert" I'm currently watching on telly is telling me that he wasn't still in charge of Al Quaeda strategy. But he's clearly not expert enough to have known where Bin Laden was hiding out.
It would be better, in an ideal world, if Bin Laden had been captured and put on trial properly - and it would have been better if that had been in a state without the death penalty - but if that had ever happened who knows how many hostages would have been taken to demand his release.
But any premature death is a tragedy. Once upon a time, the little Osama was somebody's baby boy. I don't know what his parents' hopes and fears for him were, but they probably didn't include being hunted down to a reinforced hideout in the Pakistan countryside. They probably didn't involve sponsoring others to fly planes into skyscrapers. He was made in the image of God, tarnished as it is in all of us to a degree. And he will never have known faith in his Saviour.
So we've pulled all the bunting down from the Community. We're waving no flags and certainly putting up no scoreboards. Osama Bin Laden is dead. Let's pray there will be fewer premature deaths from now on. That's all.
"Do not gloat when your enemy falls; when he stumbles, do not let your heart rejoice" (Ps 24:17).
"When the wicked perish there are shouts of gladness" (Proverbs 11:10).
Which proves, if nothing else, that the way to respond to complex matters is not to pick individual verses from the Bible. And if one book of all in the Bible was not designed for proof-texting, it would be Proverbs, which also advises us that we both should and shouldn't answer a fool in his folly, and we should give poor people plenty of alcohol to help them get over it. I'm going to have to go with "love your enemies" if I want a proof-text in this instance.
I can't be too sad that Osama Bin Laden is dead. Not because we should rejoice over any death. Nor because of some hope that it may remove Bin Laden's inspirational effect. A martyr is more powerful than a hiding, ageing fugitive and dead men can move millions. But because it may - may - reduce the strategic vision of his organisation. The "expert" I'm currently watching on telly is telling me that he wasn't still in charge of Al Quaeda strategy. But he's clearly not expert enough to have known where Bin Laden was hiding out.
It would be better, in an ideal world, if Bin Laden had been captured and put on trial properly - and it would have been better if that had been in a state without the death penalty - but if that had ever happened who knows how many hostages would have been taken to demand his release.
But any premature death is a tragedy. Once upon a time, the little Osama was somebody's baby boy. I don't know what his parents' hopes and fears for him were, but they probably didn't include being hunted down to a reinforced hideout in the Pakistan countryside. They probably didn't involve sponsoring others to fly planes into skyscrapers. He was made in the image of God, tarnished as it is in all of us to a degree. And he will never have known faith in his Saviour.
So we've pulled all the bunting down from the Community. We're waving no flags and certainly putting up no scoreboards. Osama Bin Laden is dead. Let's pray there will be fewer premature deaths from now on. That's all.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
Henry Cooper RIP
Gord bless yer, Son.
'ard as nails. Tuff as ol' boots.
But a good bloke. 'art ov gold. Bit of a larf. Salt of the erf. 'enry's ammer even knocked darn ol' Cassius.
'enery, we're gonna miss yer. Counted out, but there'll be a Lonsdale waitin' for yer where they last forever.
'ard as nails. Tuff as ol' boots.
But a good bloke. 'art ov gold. Bit of a larf. Salt of the erf. 'enry's ammer even knocked darn ol' Cassius.
'enery, we're gonna miss yer. Counted out, but there'll be a Lonsdale waitin' for yer where they last forever.
May morning
It's the same every May morning.
Let's light the Wicker Man, stay up all night, watch the sun rise in the morning we say.
But the hand-fasting celebrations meant we never got to have any pre-emptive sleep yesterday afternoon. So we went straight from the reception to the Wicker Man to the Beltane Fire to howling at the tiny crescent moon as it rose. And now it's been 24 hours awake solid and we've all got a bit grumpy. Not least because the crescent is now so slender that it rose to a chorus of despair from the Gibbon Moon people who are convinced that this time, for certain, it's curtains for the moon.
That's the trouble with special religious occasions with related sleep deprivation. You start off all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and full of the excitement of the unusual time of day - knowing this is a special moment. But half a day later, the hours are dragging by and you're getting so tired you haven't even got the energy left to throw empty beer cans at the morris dancers.
I don't know whether the sunrise was pretty or not, or even whether it was cloudy or clear. Frankly I was so bleary and tired I was passing in and out of sleep all the way through the whole sunrise event. So apologies for the confused liturgical responses. Yes, I actually I meant "Beltane" when I said "Samhain". And I meant "We have come through the darkness of night" when what I actually said was "Kill the Silence on sight". I've no idea why we do this to ourselves every year.
Now, if it's OK by everyone, I'm off to bed. I know you've got a big day's partying ahead of you and there's maypole dancing and the Queen of the May to elect and you're going to be recreating the Oxonian tradition of falling off a punt after too much Pimms. But I need to recover. See you all round about, I don't know, Autumn?
Let's light the Wicker Man, stay up all night, watch the sun rise in the morning we say.
But the hand-fasting celebrations meant we never got to have any pre-emptive sleep yesterday afternoon. So we went straight from the reception to the Wicker Man to the Beltane Fire to howling at the tiny crescent moon as it rose. And now it's been 24 hours awake solid and we've all got a bit grumpy. Not least because the crescent is now so slender that it rose to a chorus of despair from the Gibbon Moon people who are convinced that this time, for certain, it's curtains for the moon.
That's the trouble with special religious occasions with related sleep deprivation. You start off all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and full of the excitement of the unusual time of day - knowing this is a special moment. But half a day later, the hours are dragging by and you're getting so tired you haven't even got the energy left to throw empty beer cans at the morris dancers.
I don't know whether the sunrise was pretty or not, or even whether it was cloudy or clear. Frankly I was so bleary and tired I was passing in and out of sleep all the way through the whole sunrise event. So apologies for the confused liturgical responses. Yes, I actually I meant "Beltane" when I said "Samhain". And I meant "We have come through the darkness of night" when what I actually said was "Kill the Silence on sight". I've no idea why we do this to ourselves every year.
Now, if it's OK by everyone, I'm off to bed. I know you've got a big day's partying ahead of you and there's maypole dancing and the Queen of the May to elect and you're going to be recreating the Oxonian tradition of falling off a punt after too much Pimms. But I need to recover. See you all round about, I don't know, Autumn?
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