A Break with Samhain Tradition

There's nothing like a well-celebrated Samhain. Especially the chickens in the Wicker Man. I hasten to add, to calm the most mimsy of hearts, that these had been purchased, frozen, from Waitrose. And, to calm the most Health and Safety-minded of hearts, we defrosted them before cooking. There's nothing quite flame-grills a chicken like being placed within the torso of a Wicker Man.

Still, I have to ask myself - just how traditional was it? In particular, I'm pretty sure the Ancient Beaker Folk didn't know about peri-peri sauce.

Dressing up for Halloween

And so we enter that time of year when the Beaker People agonise over what to do about Halloween. I don't know why they bother. The ritual for Samhain is exactly the same this year as it is every year, ever since the Great Liturgy was defined by Archdruid Arabica in 579BC, before the coming of the Red Haired Invaders. Simply put, we stand around the Wicker Person praying that light will one day come back to the land, while looking forward to the taste of the wicker-roast chicken and baked potatoes that we will fish out of the embers while trying not to get pin-hole burns in our Hi-viz.

But still they worry about whether the now-traditional Halloween rituals in this country are an incitement to children to dabble in the occult. And on the whole, without any serious statistical analysis available, I have to say I doubt it.

Let's consider the traditional Halloween costumes. A witch, for example. Said witch, in pointy black hat with evil ugly face, is pretty well an invention of the early modern era, when in a time of mutual distrust between Protestants and Catholics, everybody decided they needed someone else to blame. So they picked old ladies and other odd people. The genuine old English beliefs in Evil Eye (being "overlooked") and the insertion of pins in "poppets" - not a voodoo spell at all - don't feature that much in Halloween.

Then there's the red-clothed devils. Again, a post-Biblical invention. Middle Ages this time. Why do evangelical Christians insist on scare-mongering on the basis of a Catholic creation? Let's face it, if the Dark One really did appear, looking like Pan in a Man Utd replica strip, nobody would go near him. That's why he doesn't - instead sneaking up, whispering in your ear, making cunning suggestions, coming in the guise of things that are attractive, not repulsive. He's evil but he's not an idiot.

And then the skeletons and ghosts - maybe confused echoes of the association with All Souls' and its Catholic manifestations in particular. But again, nobody expects to be able to summon up dancing skeletons. Nobody confuses these silly outfits with anyone doing serious spirit-summoning. There are programmes on the telly that worry me, and mediums that worry me - but the mediums more than  the ghost-watches, as they  peddle a message of no judgement, no moral responsibility - and an eternity like a front-room in Morecambe on a rainy day.

If we really wanted to send people out to be scary, maybe we'd be looking at costumes representing the things that have really brought some evil into the world, or allowed it to flourish. How about the EU bio-fuel subsidy, which wastes energy and reduces food production so we can put inefficiently-produced diesel in our vans? How about the kind of commodity trading that thrives on food shortages as it pushes prices up? What about the kind of systems that fail those who should be protected - the organisational failures in social services, letting girls be exploited because the organisations are worried about being accused of racism, or because they're star-struck, or they just don't care about the children?

But to be fair, if we sent people out dressed as commodities speculators, bio-fuel technologists and failed social services and police chiefs, we really would terrify the neighbours. Perhaps we'll just stick to the pumpkins.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

Star Wars

Episode VII

The Disney Take Over

It was a time of civil war. Angry droids swarmed the skies, searching for the Lion King, who had ordered the destruction of the Death Star.

101 Dalmatians have been unleashed against the Jedi Knights. The Force has been felt, and these are not the dwarves you're looking for.

When you wish upon a star, makes no difference where you are - when you wish upon a star, your dreams turn into a hideous nightmare where the Sith warp the Force to compel Bambi's mum to run onto crossbow bolts.  Where are the clones? There ought to be clones. Send in the clones.

Across the sub-ether radio waves of the Federation, it is revealed that I fell in love with a starship trooper.

While a million voices cry out in terror:

There is just one moon and one golden sun 

And a Hutt means terror for everyone. 

Though the X-wings we shoot 

And the Ewoks are cute 

It's a small small world. 

A Safe Jerusalem

Burton has been watching events unfolding in New York with increasing concern. Not for the poor souls struggling in the cold and wet, but for us.

It is folly, says Burton, to build a large city where its underground can be flooded. There must be a better way. Not for the New Yorkers, but for the Beaker Folk. We must find, says Burton, a safe place. Somewhere that is a long way from the sea, a safe distance from nuclear power installations and not too close to airports. A place that is seismically inactive, and a long way from volcanos.

Furthermore, says Burton, the safe place will have large towns nearby - for supply - but not actually be in a large town - in case rioting breaks out. There should be a supply of water - but it must not be on a river flood plain. Indeed, the soil should ideally be a free-draining, light sandstone. Transport links must be good - but we should not be right next to a motorway junction or a railway station, lest we suffer in some crash.

In this haven of health and safety, says Burton, we shall build a new Jerusalem!

I've pointed out to Burton that he's just pretty well described Husborne Crawley. Which is as safe as they come, as long as you rule out the marginal risk of rampaging lions and wolves from the Safari Park, should the End of Civilisation break out. Should we build a new Jerusalem here? I asked him. Because if so it's a bit dull.

And isn't that the problem? The big cities of the world are built in dangerous places. This isn't because their inhabitants are inveterate thrill-seekers. Rather it's because next to the sea is where to put a city if you want to move goods in and out. People live at the feet of volcanos because the soil's good.

Maybe it comes down to being made in the image of One whose great creative activity created a universe of brightness and brilliance, and yet of great dangers. The carbon of our bodies was forged in the heart of now-long-dead stars, and the seeds of life themselves are fed into our world throught the cataclysms of volcanic and seismic action. All human activity has risk attached, and the greater the activity, generally, the greater risk. You can't go putting yellow tape around entire villages to keep the danger out.

I would have pointed this out to Burton. But he has gone out. I'm told he's putting yellow tape around the village. When he comes back I'm gonna force him to light a tea light for the people of the eastern seaboard and Haiti.

Total Internet Deprivation

They're starting to scream now. That was bound to happen. Once they realised the existential horror of their plight, they were bound to start screaming.

But I never made them sign up for the Total Internet Deprivation retreat. Oh no. It was a totally voluntary agreement.

You see, the concept of "retreat" has become blurred in the Community lately. The idea of "retreat" was about getting away from all external stimuli. Shaking loose all social ties. Withdrawing from mundane and quotidian considerations. Freeing oneself up to be and be known.

Yeah, well. That was then. The mobile phone was the first crack in the edifice, of course. Suddenly you were able to ask God to hang 5, while you checked on Gertie's bunions, the results of the Church Committee elections, the progress of the new marketing material in selling the new range of tea bags and so on. At most retreat centres that just involved popping outside, although I believe inmates at Launde Abbey had to indulge in a certain of moutaineering to achieve this.

And then along came the Smartphone, and smashed the whole "alone with God" concept to pieces. I mean, who's not going to have a quick peek? I bet even old Simeon Stylites, armed with a smartphone and a wireless connection, would have been checking out the timeline of St Ephraim the Syrian and throwing a cow at Augustine, just in case anything had been going on in the last fifteen years. In fact, Simeon would've probably been in pole position for 3G - what with being positioned, as it were, on a pole.

And so we introduced the Internet-free retreat. Three days in the South Wing. Of course, they all think "one little android's not going to do any harm." And they think they've evaded our security screening when they are presented with the same level of rigour as Belgian customs - just a bloke saying, "Got any phones?"

But that's because we know the heart of a retreat isn't the giving up of material objects. It's the electronic white-noise generator that blocks all phone signals. And the way you can't get out of the building. And the way we "accidentally" wired those ethernet connections to the mains.

They go through what we call "The long dark dead-spot of the soul" for about three days. After which we let them out. And the minute they're out, they're straight onto Twitter and Facebook telling all their mates how terrible it was.

Of course, that's still two days away. They're at the screaming point now. From there they will try throwing the furniture through the windows, and discover the glass is unbreakable. Then, if we're lucky and cannibalism doesn't set in, just after they stop dragging their fingernails down the doors, they may get 10 seconds of enlightenment.

Overall I'm not sure what spiritual good we're doing. But on the bright side, it pays quite well.

Geeky Methodist Hymn-book

Thanks to Burton for his kind donation of the Geeky Methoist Hymn Book.

It's actually exactly the same as the standard "Hymns and Psalms". Except that it's missing one hymn. "It is God who Holds the Nations in the Hollow of his Hand".

Infected by the Daily Mail Virus?

It's not been a great day, on the whole.

It all started around lunchtime, when I accidentally came into contact with the Daily Mail. Now I'm not saying that anyone could catch a virus from the Daily Mail. But my immune system's been a bit low. I've been taking the Vitamin Cs and fish oil. but all this working too hard has worn me down. You can't be too careful, that's all I'm saying. You've got to be very careful when handling the Daily Mail. 12% of all UK inhabitants "could be suffering from Daily Mail Virus."

That's the first symptom, of course. Putting implausible claims in quotes to distance yourself just enough to avoid embarrassment if the claims are as complete a pile of foetid dingo's kidneys as they always appeared to be. Anyway, I wandered out for a walk round the village. Saw two men getting out of their car outside the White Horse. Clearly, in my opinion, going in to ask if they could arrange the reception for their gay marriage in there - after such things are legalised by David Cameron. They were driving a large old thing - Landrover Freelander or some such. Big enough to have - oh, three or four asylum seekers in the boot, I reckon. Especially if one is smuggling gay party drugs in from Holland, and stopping off near Calais at the special 5-star hotel in which the French put up Afghan drug-lords and terrorists, as long as they promise to cause no trouble until they get to England. And one of the men looked a bit foreign.

Naturally, I rushed into the pub, shouting out "Stop! You are betraying our country by allowing foreigners to arrange same-sex marriages so as to obtain residency. Are you sure he doesn't have distemper? "45% of foreigners have canine distemper," claims health expert."

There was a nasty silence. I thought, on the whole, it was best to leave them to their turbo-shandies, "shots" and other such deadly drinks, purchased out of their dole money, but paid for by the tax I work so hard to avoid*.

Walked back up School Lane and past the school. Obviously, it's half term, and the weekend. But I bet even though they're not there, and definitely not working (having enormous holidays as they do), the teachers were busy planning the additional dumbing-down of lessons. In a proper school, each day's curriculum would be three hours' Shakespeare, three hours' adding-up and a two-hour cross-country run - through the snow - to make men of the little blighters. Instead of which they're probably getting a few hours of Tolerance Cross-Training and some Bowdlerised nursery rhymes. IT MAKES ME MAD.

Obviously, on a Saturday afternoon in an English village, there should be a fete in the grounds of the Church. (I drop the accent on the first "e" as it is clearly an effeminate foreign innovation). But no, there was nobody at all in the churchyard. Another example of Health 'n' Safety GONE MAD. The vicar - in all probability a female liberal who is converting to Hinduism and living with a same-sex partner who has brought ash  tree fungus disease into the country -, has obviously stopped all fetes occurring in the graveyard until the gravestones have all been put back to perfectly straight lines, and each one surrounded by safety tape and a "Beware of Falling Gravestones" sign. She's probably locked up in the church now, pulling the pages containing "I vow to thee my country", "Jerusalem" and "Land of Hope and Glory" out of all the hymn books before having A BONFIRE OF PATRIOTISM.

Perfectly safe churchyard from which fetes are clearly banned

I noticed that I was getting over-excited. Several veins were throbbing in my forehead. Was I, perhaps, entering the third and terminal stage of Daily Mail Virus? I wasn't sure. The irony is, of course, that Daily Mail Virus makes you convinced you've got various illnesses - maybe including Daily Mail Virus itself. I knew I needed to settle down in my best reclining chair in the conservatory, and dab the old temples with Cologne.

"According to experts", 45% of the population could have Daily Mail Virus within the next ten years. Will the Government take action? Or is this country to be over-run by reactionary hypochondriacs, convinced that Islamic fundamentalists are sneaking into this country to spread homosexual equality and exotic diseases? Let some Christian couple ban me from their bed and breakfast on the grounds that I'm not married. I'll sue their bottoms off.

* Thanks, Erika

A Radical Structural Rethink

So to deal with the over-commitment on committees, I've decided that the problem is with the whole organisational structure. I mean, since I re-organised last time, I've had what's known as a "flat organisational structure". Which, on the bright side, keeps the assistants in their places. But on the down side it does tend to over-emphasise my position at the top of the tree. And it means that the Music group is a long way from discipline - and you know that's not a great idea.

Old-fashioned organisational hierarchy

So I figured what we needed was a more post-modern, less patriarchal (or even matriarchal) organisation. Something where everybody feels they have their place - and the whole subordination thing is removed. So in future, I'm going for the following, radically different organisational structure. I'm sure you'll agree it's a vast improvement.

Vastly-improved, post-modern organisation losing all that hierarchy business

Death by Committee

When I sacked the Druidic Council the other day (replacing them with themselves), I decided to ensure that things were going correctly in the various aspects of Beaker Life for which they are responsible. I thought I'd better take a more detailed interest, in other words, in the private empires of my direct report underlings.

It's not that I started chairing all the meetings, deciding all the agendas, deciding strategy. Oh no. That would be serious control-freakery. I see myself as being in more of a holding role. Basically I come along to all the meetings, see how things are going and then just gently correct things if I see they're going down the wrong lines. I'm the one with the overall vision for the Community in my head.  (I'd rather not write it down as it may not stand up to public scrutiny and I'd only have to resort to sulking and taking my ball home.) So it behoves me to ensure that all the streams of activity flow as one river.

Of course, this involves attending a lot of meetings. 48 at the last count, this week alone.

And then there's the pre-meeting meetings to ensure the group leaders know what the right form of grass-roots decision-making and individual inspiration is.

And the post-meeting debriefings, where we discuss just what the group leader allowed to go wrong this time, and the candidates for their replacement.

Frankly, I'm shattered.

I've found myself falling asleep in meetings. Sometimes, as Justin Hayward put it, in the gray of the morning, my mind becomes confused. Which is real life - the Committee or my dreams of fleeing romantically across the border into Buckinghamshire?  The subject-matter being discussed in the real world starts infusing my dream-world. At the Outreach, Mission, Fund-raising and Cake-Baking Committee meeting, I woke up and announced that we were going to have to convert the people of Woburn to Manicheism at the point of the sword. Rather worryingly, three people swore allegiance to me there and then, and went off to arm themselves. And then I proposed to the Worship and Godly Order Group that "smurfs are nice. We should have some robotic, life-size smurf acolytes". The smurfs are now on order.

At night, I'm not sleeping at all - just turning over in my mind all the things that have happened during the committee meetings of the day, and fretting that I've not got the time to do anything about it. I've formed a Committee for the Streamlining of Committees, but they've immediately decided to have five weekly sub-committees, and I'll have to attend those as well now.

Although there is one bright side. At least if I attend the Streamlining (Process) sub-committee, the Streamlining (Governance), Streamlining (Downsizing), Streamlining (Paperclips) and Streamlining (Strategy) sub-committees, I may get a bit more sleep.

It's better to be a Politician than a Scientist

I note that Silvio Berlusconi has been sentenced to four years, reduced to one (thanks to a law he passed), which he'll never serve (thanks to a law he'll pass).

Meanwhile the scientists who tried to predict earthquakes and failed, get six years

Which just goes to show. If you want to get on in life and stay out of pokey, don't be a scientist. Hire some stripping housewives, commit some serial fraud and just make sure you get to be Italian President. It's certainly what my old nan told me when I was young.

Sexist Man Complains About Ageism

'Nuff said. I'm sure the "Booby" is pleased he'll be around the house more.