Friday, 15 April 2011
Thursday, 14 April 2011
Learn it, Live it,Lose it
Brothers and Sisters, Burton Dasset is getting on my pip. There, I've said it.
It is bad enough that he could not remember the theme of Mr Kris Kringle's sermon this evening. "Learn it, Live it, Lose it" is an approximation to what he said. But not actually what he said.
But merely missing the point of a sermon is forgiveable. What I found worse is the naked avarice - nay, marital opportunism - that Burton is showing. Not to mention his flagrant disregard of Godly Order when it comes to Female Ministry. When I asked him what he really wanted from his visit to Spring Harvest, he replied "a Lady Vicar". It turns out that Burton is really hoping to find - with a view to marriage - a single (or divorced) female minister. His view is that they will come with their own house, and an income which - although not substantial - will help with life's little luxuries. Burton's first wife, of course, is independently wealthy. Or she is now. That is what happens when you divorce an accountant.
It is bad enough that he could not remember the theme of Mr Kris Kringle's sermon this evening. "Learn it, Live it, Lose it" is an approximation to what he said. But not actually what he said.
But merely missing the point of a sermon is forgiveable. What I found worse is the naked avarice - nay, marital opportunism - that Burton is showing. Not to mention his flagrant disregard of Godly Order when it comes to Female Ministry. When I asked him what he really wanted from his visit to Spring Harvest, he replied "a Lady Vicar". It turns out that Burton is really hoping to find - with a view to marriage - a single (or divorced) female minister. His view is that they will come with their own house, and an income which - although not substantial - will help with life's little luxuries. Burton's first wife, of course, is independently wealthy. Or she is now. That is what happens when you divorce an accountant.
Life, the Twitterverse and Everything
I note Bryony Taylor's posting on "What would Jesus Tweet?" Interesting, useful and some good ideas for luring Christians onto Twitter. But I'd like to add some more. Mostly this is "don't only... but also".
I should point out that my Twitter activity is somewhat limited these days (to 1 tweet and 2 followers) but I'd hope that doesn't impinge in any way on my advice.
I should point out that my Twitter activity is somewhat limited these days (to 1 tweet and 2 followers) but I'd hope that doesn't impinge in any way on my advice.
- Don't just follow Christian leaders. Firstly because their lives tend to be fairly dull - hopping around from conference to conference, constantly telling everybody how blessed they are. Secondly because they'll never post anything really interesting on Social Networking unless they're certain bishops. If you follow lots of Christian leaders you're really replicating the "real" Twitter world, where everybody re-tweets anything posted by Stephen Fry or Jonjo Shelvey, and hopes that proves they're real friends.
- Don't just keep tweeting Bible verses, or how blessed you are. Unless you only wish to be followed by other boring Christians doing the same thing. And if all you want to read is Bible Verses, switch the PC off and get a Bible. Unless your Bible is on your PC, in which case switch the PC back on again and read it.
- Do tweet interesting opinions about things that aren't, or are only tangentially, connected to your faith. This is an electronic world, not a cyber-ghetto. If you want to be salt and light, it's no good staying in the salt cellar or the ...um... light cellar?
- Don't do complicated sums to work out your ratio of followers to people you follow, to work out how much more loved you are. Especially if you have 2 followers and you only follow 1 person. That's just sad.
- Don't get addicted to hashtag games. Or you may find you've not written your sermons/assignments/shopping lists when you need them.
- If you're a famous Christian leader, or even a small-town pastor, don't tweet complaints about the responsiveness of your congregation. Don't complain that the Organist is a psychopathic control freak with no people skills and the keyboards ability of a fruit-bat. Even if (s)he is. Don't tell everyone how much you dread the archdeacon's visits because his breath smells of Camembert when he's close up. Don't explain why you were that close up.
- Your spouse must appear to the world of Twitter to be affectionate, helpful and supportive. Don't post your hatred of your wife, or your husband's sexual failings.
- If you do, please don't post the details of your messy divorce.
- Don't tweet when drunk. Don't upload photographs of yourself when in this condition.
- Don't threaten to blow up airports (see notes on "irony", below).
- Don't tweet to everyone that you're on holiday. It's a public forum. You may as well put it up on the speed limit sign at the end of your road. Drayton is safe in this regard as last time anyone raided his house, Marjorie ended up with a caution for violent assault.
- Don't tweet stuff you wouldn't shout out in the office. Your PC is not a confessional - it's the mystic portal to a huge world, many of whom are scary.
- Do block and report as spam anyone called kirsty543223. Do not flirt with her. Do not send her money. Do not fall in love with her.
- Feel free to campaign. Just bear in mind that for everyone campaigning Yes2AV, there's an equal sad person campaigning No2AV. For everyone campaigning for Equal rights for Puffins, there's someone who enjoys deep-fried puffin. For everyone campaigning against abortion there's someone else who supports the right to choose. Don't let this stop you campaigning, just remember that someone's going to argue with you. And remember that many of the people in Iran who used Twitter during the demonstrations are now in prison or dead. Say a prayer for them. And then remember that before you build a castle, you have to consider whether you have the materials.
- Don't argue with people. It only attracts the scary ones.
- If you give up Twitter for Lent, don't keep popping back on to see what's happening.
- Finally, most of all. For all Britons in particular - remember that 140 characters is not always enough to convey irony. You may think that your dead-pan writing style is hilarious. Someone else may think it's terrifying, or disrespectful, or deserves a virtual punch on your virtual nose. My advice would be, in Social networking in general - avoid irony. It only gets you in trouble.
Harvest Home
It has not been the greatest journey. Although, Praise be! It is almost at an end.
Although Burton Dasset has given up train-spotting for Lent, he has convinced himself that travelling by train does not, of itself, count as train spotting. And so, faithful brethren, we see the way in which the carnal mind, allied to the legalistic attitude of an accountant, leads to sophistry and cant.
Burton assured me that he had an exciting route planned for us, and it started with the 17.04 from Ridgmont. Just half an hour later we had reached Bedford. We had half an hour "to kill" as Burton put it - but time is a precious gift from the Giver! Not a victim to be killed! And so I spent the time in condemning the people of Bedford for their savage treatment of John Bunyan.
By 7.30pm we were in Nottingham. And in was here that I discovered the low cunning that is sometimes so evident in Burton. For truly, truly, I believed that Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem must be a museum of the last weeks of the pre-Resurrection life of Our Lord. I was expecting something instructive, uplifting and yet chastening. I did not expect a pub carved into a hill. But Burton was adamant that he must visit.
Would you believe that there is a ship in a box in the Old Trip, which it is claimed is dogged by a curse? Surely I read the label on the ship, and was going to defy the curse and clean the cobwebs - until I found myself being dragged backwards down the stairs by Burton on the grounds that "we don't want any trouble".
After a few hours in the lower bar Burton told me that it was time to go back to the station - "we don't want to miss the train".
Beloved friends, have you ever spent 5 hours on Nottingham station?
It is, beyond doubt, a depressing experience. Especially when Burton insists on singing his raunchy accountancy songs all night. But eventually we made our escape and finally, finally, we arrived in Skegness. Now, just an hour later, we have walked to the Butlins camp. We are all ready to join in Godly fun and teaching, In three hours, when we are allowed in. Truly it is like knocking at heaven's door.
Although Burton Dasset has given up train-spotting for Lent, he has convinced himself that travelling by train does not, of itself, count as train spotting. And so, faithful brethren, we see the way in which the carnal mind, allied to the legalistic attitude of an accountant, leads to sophistry and cant.
Burton assured me that he had an exciting route planned for us, and it started with the 17.04 from Ridgmont. Just half an hour later we had reached Bedford. We had half an hour "to kill" as Burton put it - but time is a precious gift from the Giver! Not a victim to be killed! And so I spent the time in condemning the people of Bedford for their savage treatment of John Bunyan.
By 7.30pm we were in Nottingham. And in was here that I discovered the low cunning that is sometimes so evident in Burton. For truly, truly, I believed that Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem must be a museum of the last weeks of the pre-Resurrection life of Our Lord. I was expecting something instructive, uplifting and yet chastening. I did not expect a pub carved into a hill. But Burton was adamant that he must visit.
Would you believe that there is a ship in a box in the Old Trip, which it is claimed is dogged by a curse? Surely I read the label on the ship, and was going to defy the curse and clean the cobwebs - until I found myself being dragged backwards down the stairs by Burton on the grounds that "we don't want any trouble".
After a few hours in the lower bar Burton told me that it was time to go back to the station - "we don't want to miss the train".
Beloved friends, have you ever spent 5 hours on Nottingham station?
It is, beyond doubt, a depressing experience. Especially when Burton insists on singing his raunchy accountancy songs all night. But eventually we made our escape and finally, finally, we arrived in Skegness. Now, just an hour later, we have walked to the Butlins camp. We are all ready to join in Godly fun and teaching, In three hours, when we are allowed in. Truly it is like knocking at heaven's door.
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
I write like..
Thanks to Clayboy and Steve Tilley for this. I think. There is a deep irony here, although I'm not sure Hnaef will be so pleased. In summary:
Burton:
Hnaef:
Drayton:
And as for me:
Burton:
Hnaef:
Drayton:
And as for me:
Burton's Beer Tasting Notes - Olde Trip
Named after the beautiful, historic and rather pleasant (hic) surroundings of the Olde Trip to Jerusalem - allegedly the oldest pub in England - although I suspect Ye Olde Fighting Cocks in St Albans may have as good a claim.
I have a strong link with the Olde Trip. For my many-greats grand sire, Sir Guillaume de Burton-Dassett, was the accountant at the court of King Richard, and followed him on his Crusades, counting the shields and assessing the damage to suits of armour. However, it is unlikely that Sir Guillaume would have travelled to Nottingham on his way to the Crusades. More likely he would have taken the Akeman Street down through Aylesbury, and joined up with the Nottingham contingent at St Albans (change at Luton Parkway).
the beer named after the inn is a well-balanced, darkish, medium-strength best bitter. Tastes better in the Olde Trip than elsewhere, I suspect. But will never re-create the glories of the days when it was actually brewed in the Nottingham area. How often is that the case? Old Speckled Hen tasted better when it was from Abingdon than now, from Bury St Edmunds. Ruddles County never recovered from being brewed in another county. And Carlsberg tastes just the same, wherever it's brewed.
I have a strong link with the Olde Trip. For my many-greats grand sire, Sir Guillaume de Burton-Dassett, was the accountant at the court of King Richard, and followed him on his Crusades, counting the shields and assessing the damage to suits of armour. However, it is unlikely that Sir Guillaume would have travelled to Nottingham on his way to the Crusades. More likely he would have taken the Akeman Street down through Aylesbury, and joined up with the Nottingham contingent at St Albans (change at Luton Parkway).
the beer named after the inn is a well-balanced, darkish, medium-strength best bitter. Tastes better in the Olde Trip than elsewhere, I suspect. But will never re-create the glories of the days when it was actually brewed in the Nottingham area. How often is that the case? Old Speckled Hen tasted better when it was from Abingdon than now, from Bury St Edmunds. Ruddles County never recovered from being brewed in another county. And Carlsberg tastes just the same, wherever it's brewed.
Dangerous Cyclists
Of course, you can't help but feel sorry for the family of Rhiannon Bennett.
She was killed in 2007 by a cyclist who was riding on the pavement and refused to slow down. And his sentence was too short for the death he caused, his stupidity, thoughtlessness, recklessness and arrogance. And there are existing laws that could have been used more strongly there.
Unjustly bereaved parents, understandably, campaign against the things - cancer, stupid cyclists, HGVs - that have taken their children. Where a tragic death was caused by lack of regulation, or could be perceived as being so, they will campaign for more regulation. It's natural and understandable.
But you've got to look for a bit of perspective here. Even a car as little as a Fiat Panda weighs getting on for a ton, and can travel at 90 mph. Whereas Burton, at full speed, does 30mph and weighs 150lb if he's caught out in the rain. There's no comparison. A car's a deadly weapon, a bike - in most collisions - is awkward and a bit painful.
In 2009 - there were no pedestrians killed by cyclists.There were 2,222 deaths on the roads. 40 a week. 426 pedestrians killed by motorists - more than one a day. Let's see where the changes would really help. And it wouldn't be by more rigorous punishment of cycling on the pavement.
She was killed in 2007 by a cyclist who was riding on the pavement and refused to slow down. And his sentence was too short for the death he caused, his stupidity, thoughtlessness, recklessness and arrogance. And there are existing laws that could have been used more strongly there.
Unjustly bereaved parents, understandably, campaign against the things - cancer, stupid cyclists, HGVs - that have taken their children. Where a tragic death was caused by lack of regulation, or could be perceived as being so, they will campaign for more regulation. It's natural and understandable.
But you've got to look for a bit of perspective here. Even a car as little as a Fiat Panda weighs getting on for a ton, and can travel at 90 mph. Whereas Burton, at full speed, does 30mph and weighs 150lb if he's caught out in the rain. There's no comparison. A car's a deadly weapon, a bike - in most collisions - is awkward and a bit painful.
In 2009 - there were no pedestrians killed by cyclists.There were 2,222 deaths on the roads. 40 a week. 426 pedestrians killed by motorists - more than one a day. Let's see where the changes would really help. And it wouldn't be by more rigorous punishment of cycling on the pavement.
The art of the Out of Office message
Dear Readers, the Out of Office message is such a fraught event! Drayton and I - at the Archdruid's express and slightly threatening instruction - are off to Spring Harvest tomorrow. A week away from the Community - unless, of course, Drayton gets into all the trouble he did a few years ago, when he picketed a Celtic Worship Celebration on the grounds that it wasn't really Celtic, he didn't think it was proper worship, and he wasn't celebrating.
So with only 24 hours until we set off I'm putting some serious effort into ensuring that I put on the right Out of Office message. The tone of the message is so important, don't you think? For example, Albert my old boss used to use the following:
"I will be out of office from 19.44 on the 21 April until 05:32 on the 26 April. However since this means I won't be in any meetings, and will be on the beach or in a bar with nothing to do, I will be responding to emails more promptly than normal. If you need an urgent response, please do not contact anyone in my team. I wouldn't let them deal with anything important in my presence and would rather they didn't in my absence either."
You see the subtle message there - firstly the dedication to clearing up everything outstanding before he left, and hitting the ground running when he got back. Then the subtle inference that the team aren't much use, and he alone is the one keeping the show on the road. He had even more time to himself after his wife fell in love with a Cypriot waiter while Albert was on a particularly long conference call, and she refused to come back to England in time for the 26 April.
I tried this type of message last time I went for a train-spotting holiday in Cuba, but my implication that the Community would go to rack and ruin if I wasn't there was spotted by the Archdruid. She got Young Keith to hack my account and changed my out of office message to:
"I am currently out of the office on a rather boring old train with a bunch of vile accountants. Especially Roger, who's the most obnoxious man I've ever met. If you need any urgent assistance, please contact Hnaef who at least knows the difference between his bottom and the people who made "Build a rocket, boys". In fact, this applies when I am in the office as well."
I've generally found it safer since then not to take holidays. And Roger poured his lager shandy-and-black over my head when he checked his blackberry.
So with only 24 hours until we set off I'm putting some serious effort into ensuring that I put on the right Out of Office message. The tone of the message is so important, don't you think? For example, Albert my old boss used to use the following:
"I will be out of office from 19.44 on the 21 April until 05:32 on the 26 April. However since this means I won't be in any meetings, and will be on the beach or in a bar with nothing to do, I will be responding to emails more promptly than normal. If you need an urgent response, please do not contact anyone in my team. I wouldn't let them deal with anything important in my presence and would rather they didn't in my absence either."
You see the subtle message there - firstly the dedication to clearing up everything outstanding before he left, and hitting the ground running when he got back. Then the subtle inference that the team aren't much use, and he alone is the one keeping the show on the road. He had even more time to himself after his wife fell in love with a Cypriot waiter while Albert was on a particularly long conference call, and she refused to come back to England in time for the 26 April.
I tried this type of message last time I went for a train-spotting holiday in Cuba, but my implication that the Community would go to rack and ruin if I wasn't there was spotted by the Archdruid. She got Young Keith to hack my account and changed my out of office message to:
"I am currently out of the office on a rather boring old train with a bunch of vile accountants. Especially Roger, who's the most obnoxious man I've ever met. If you need any urgent assistance, please contact Hnaef who at least knows the difference between his bottom and the people who made "Build a rocket, boys". In fact, this applies when I am in the office as well."
I've generally found it safer since then not to take holidays. And Roger poured his lager shandy-and-black over my head when he checked his blackberry.
The Hair of a Saint
The Archdruid has lately been musing, it seems, on holy relics. Mrs Hnaef and I once attended a local history talk on a "Weligious Weliquawy from Wheims" about which neither of us can remember very much, mainly because we had to leave halfway through as we were tittering so hard. However, I feel that this exposure to the subject makes me something of an expert, and I was therefore most excited when approached in the White Horse the other night by someone of similar height and build to Young Keith, and with a similar voice, too, come to think of it, but who was sporting a very bushy red beard, so must have been someone completely different. Though he was wearing a t-shirt just like one of Young Keith's. Odd.
"Hello, Hnaef," he said to me.
"Um, hello," I said, "how do you know my name?"
"Err - you look like a Hnaef," he replied.
"Do I? There aren't many of us about."
"Erm, yes, you do. Look, would you like a pint?"
"Ooh, I wouldn't say no."
"Your usual?"
"How do you know what my ...?" but he had proceeded to the bar. When he returned, he had three pints. It transpired that only one of them was for him, and that the other two were for me. He sipped his beer slowly (on which evidence he wasn't even related to Young Keith), while I finished off my two, regaling him with stories of pre-Lent knitting adventures and the pains of withdrawal. I noticed him glancing over at the cigarette machine wistfully. When I got to the end of my second pint, I was casually holding the glass in his direction when he kindly offered to buy me another.
"That's very kind," I said.
"Oh, don't think anything of it," he said, and headed off rather quickly to the bar. I can only assume that he was so interested in my knitting stories that he wanted to reward my story-telling abilities with another pint. Imagine my surprise when he came back with three more, all for me!
"Look, this is most kind, um, what should I call you?"
"My name's, err, Heath. You can call me Old Heath. Nothing like Young Keith."
"OK, Old Heath. This is very kind. Would you like me to tell you the story of the Beanie Hat with the Mysteriously Dropped Stitch? It's one of my best."
"That would be fascinating, I'm sure. But why don't you concentrate on your pints?"
And so I did. And after the three pints, he bought me another two.
At some point in the evening - and I'm a bit hazy on the details, Old Heath explained to me about the wondrous properties of the body parts of saints. Although I explained that I'm a Protestant with liturgical leanings, and that sort of thing is anammet - amathenna - annagram - taboo to me, I mentioned that the Archdruid had recently shown an interest in such things.
"Really?" he said. "That's a coincidence. Because I have here some very holy hair."
At this point I must admit to having had something of a giggling fit, due to my childhood obsession with the adventures of Batman and Robin - who, as I explained at length to Old Heath, might well have used a phrase exactly like that. "Holy hair!" It still makes me chortle.
He went and bought me another pint. I drank it, and was calmer, though slightly less able to focus.
"This," he continued, "is the hair of a saint. One of the few saints that even your Archdruid will recognise. A saint whose works are so great that he can work miracles even in this day and age. His power, like Samson's, is in his hair. And I have a lock of it here, in this box."
"Wow," I said, "is that a weliquawy, only I can tell you a story about ...?"
"No", he said, "it's just a box. You can have a look if you like."
I had a look.
"It looks a little like horse hair."
"Well, it isn't. Not at all. Would you like to buy it?"
"The box, or the hair?"
"Both."
"Oooh!"
And so, for only £70.00 (and that's _including_ the box!), I have a gift for the Archdruid. She will have her own reliquary, containing a lock of the hair of the sainted Andy Carroll. She's going to be thrilled (and think of the income from all the pilgrims!).
"Hello, Hnaef," he said to me.
"Um, hello," I said, "how do you know my name?"
"Err - you look like a Hnaef," he replied.
"Do I? There aren't many of us about."
"Erm, yes, you do. Look, would you like a pint?"
"Ooh, I wouldn't say no."
"Your usual?"
"How do you know what my ...?" but he had proceeded to the bar. When he returned, he had three pints. It transpired that only one of them was for him, and that the other two were for me. He sipped his beer slowly (on which evidence he wasn't even related to Young Keith), while I finished off my two, regaling him with stories of pre-Lent knitting adventures and the pains of withdrawal. I noticed him glancing over at the cigarette machine wistfully. When I got to the end of my second pint, I was casually holding the glass in his direction when he kindly offered to buy me another.
"That's very kind," I said.
"Oh, don't think anything of it," he said, and headed off rather quickly to the bar. I can only assume that he was so interested in my knitting stories that he wanted to reward my story-telling abilities with another pint. Imagine my surprise when he came back with three more, all for me!
"Look, this is most kind, um, what should I call you?"
"My name's, err, Heath. You can call me Old Heath. Nothing like Young Keith."
"OK, Old Heath. This is very kind. Would you like me to tell you the story of the Beanie Hat with the Mysteriously Dropped Stitch? It's one of my best."
"That would be fascinating, I'm sure. But why don't you concentrate on your pints?"
And so I did. And after the three pints, he bought me another two.
At some point in the evening - and I'm a bit hazy on the details, Old Heath explained to me about the wondrous properties of the body parts of saints. Although I explained that I'm a Protestant with liturgical leanings, and that sort of thing is anammet - amathenna - annagram - taboo to me, I mentioned that the Archdruid had recently shown an interest in such things.
"Really?" he said. "That's a coincidence. Because I have here some very holy hair."
At this point I must admit to having had something of a giggling fit, due to my childhood obsession with the adventures of Batman and Robin - who, as I explained at length to Old Heath, might well have used a phrase exactly like that. "Holy hair!" It still makes me chortle.
He went and bought me another pint. I drank it, and was calmer, though slightly less able to focus.
"This," he continued, "is the hair of a saint. One of the few saints that even your Archdruid will recognise. A saint whose works are so great that he can work miracles even in this day and age. His power, like Samson's, is in his hair. And I have a lock of it here, in this box."
"Wow," I said, "is that a weliquawy, only I can tell you a story about ...?"
"No", he said, "it's just a box. You can have a look if you like."
I had a look.
"It looks a little like horse hair."
"Well, it isn't. Not at all. Would you like to buy it?"
"The box, or the hair?"
"Both."
"Oooh!"
And so, for only £70.00 (and that's _including_ the box!), I have a gift for the Archdruid. She will have her own reliquary, containing a lock of the hair of the sainted Andy Carroll. She's going to be thrilled (and think of the income from all the pilgrims!).
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
Opposition Football Formations - as seen by Fernando Torres
Damping down the urge to laugh, you've got to have some sympathy for Fernando Torres. Getting paid all that money to mope around and look sulky. Makes you wonder how he can raise the motivation to pick up his pay packet of a Friday.
But psychologists tell us that much of sport is in the mind. And we've tried to get into the mind of Fernando Torres to understand what the opposition looks like to him. After unscrambling the brainwave patterns, and translating out of Spanish, I can now exclusively reveal the discrepancy that exists between reality, and the view of the world that poor old Nando now has.
But psychologists tell us that much of sport is in the mind. And we've tried to get into the mind of Fernando Torres to understand what the opposition looks like to him. After unscrambling the brainwave patterns, and translating out of Spanish, I can now exclusively reveal the discrepancy that exists between reality, and the view of the world that poor old Nando now has.
4-4-2
As seen by Fernando Torres
4-3-3
As seen by Fernando Torres
4-2-3-1
As seen by Fernando Torres
The Nails That Crucified Jesus
Will Cookson gives the answer to the question "Are these the nails that crucified Jesus?" And it's a "No". Shame, really. But if Simcha Jacobovici wants to post them down to Husborne Crawley, I'll stick them in a drawer with all the others. That's the drawer above the one that contains the teeth of St Apollonia. Or, at least, ninety-three of them. And below the big cupboard with all the heads of St John the Baptist. The one we made out of fragments of the True Cross.
I think I'll hang my nice photo of Jesus's tomb on the wall as well. Or maybe this tomb. Or better still, both. They'd make a nice collection, wouldn't they?
Wikipedia notes that the belief that 3 nails were used in the Crucifixion is called "Triclavianism", and was condemned as a heresy. Which makes one wonder how slim a hair can be split, and just how big a pin you need to get angels to dance.
I think I'll hang my nice photo of Jesus's tomb on the wall as well. Or maybe this tomb. Or better still, both. They'd make a nice collection, wouldn't they?
Wikipedia notes that the belief that 3 nails were used in the Crucifixion is called "Triclavianism", and was condemned as a heresy. Which makes one wonder how slim a hair can be split, and just how big a pin you need to get angels to dance.
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