Tuesday, 7 April 2015

Only Heineken can do this...

On this day, April 7th, back in 1770 the iconic English poet William Wordsworth was born at Cockermouth in Cumbria.

Now we all know Wordsworth wrote that famous poem about daffodils, the one where he wanders 'lonely as a cloud'. In the good old days of English teaching children learnt it off by heart.

Wordsworth inspired a large-scale move to Romanticism in English poetry, making introspective meditations on the commonplace and on the world of nature fit subjects for great verse. He also inspired that most creative of literary genres, the modern ad campaign - none more so than this wonderful old telly ad for Heineken lager... refreshing the poets other lagers cannot reach!

I'm sure the old boy would have approved.

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

A letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury about Palestine

There's a whole lot of stuff I have to blog about at present (like product reviews, opinions, plugs, books and much more) but I can't, at the moment, consider writing about anything other than this:

Which is a tad tricky, when you think about it. Because, quite frankly, it leaves me speechless!

To give you some background, a friend of mine who worked for many years in the middle-east and is a regular church-goer (chorister, then lay-clerk as myself) wrote to the Archbishops of both Canterbury and York to ask what the Church was doing about the plight of the Palestinians.

Having received a helpful, sympathetic and supportive letter from John Sentamu he hoped for something similar from the nation's senior bishop, head of the Established Church and holder of the most ancient Christian office in this country.

And that (above) is what he got.

Quite apart from the fact that the Archbishop of Canterbury is a member of the British Establishment with a seat in the House of Lords - the utter lack of Christian charity, ignorance of the all-compassing nature of Christian involvement in world affairs and simple absence of love for one's neighbour is, quite frankly, astonishing.

I certainly am. (Astonished, that is!)

The Rt Rev Justin Welby clearly chooses to pass by on the other side, to 'wash his hands', and like Dives, keep the problems of the world at arm's length.

Meanwhile, in the real world...

Sunday, 14 September 2014

Time Flies!

... especially on this day in 1752 when Britain changed from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar.

If you'd gone to bed last night a little over 260 years ago it would've been September 2nd. Then, at dawn this morning, it's suddenly the 14th September and you're 12 days older than you were the night before!

Except you aren't, of course: not really. Only the names (in this case, the numbers) have been changed. 

And changed in order to synchronise our human written calendar better with the only one that really matters - the calendar of the skies and the sun and moon and seasons.

Even that isn't 'right' of course, given that the earth inconveniently takes 365-and-a-quarter days to orbit the sun (which is why we need a leap year every so often).

All of which brings home how artificial this human construct, 'time', is.

Tell that to the boss next time you're late!

Saturday, 6 September 2014

An eye for an eye?

This is neither going to be a popular post nor is it an easy one to write.

In the wake of the frankly mind-boggling abuse trials and inquiries recently, the jailing yesterday of a 26 year-old PE teacher for an affair with a 15 year-old pupil would be insignificant, were it not for the general hysteria that currently surrounds even the mere mention of sexual abuse.

But... (deep breath).

Unwanted sexual behaviour and unwelcome advances constitute assault. There's no doubting that. In fact, the effects of such abuse can be more devastating and longer lasting than from physical assault. Mental scars can be longest to heal, if ever. So the perpetrator in this and similar cases must be punished. No doubt.

But fifteen months in jail?

Let's put that into perspective. Baby P's mother Sharon Connolly, for example, received an indeterminate sentence. But with a tariff of just five years. (She has since been released from prison on parole.) Another defendant in that case received three years. And the main perpetrator of the death of the vulnerable two-year-old got life - with a ten year tariff.

Despite popular opinion, jails aren't an easy option. More especially, perhaps, for educated, middle class offenders. More to the point, perhaps, is the question of what purpose such a sentence serves in cases such as this?

Is the teacher being punished as an example to the rest of us?

Well, possibly. Although, frankly, I doubt there'll be many people out there reading their newspapers and immediately taking vows of celibacy. I've been a teacher long enough (twenty-plus years) to remember the days when affairs between members of staff and sixth form pupils weren't exactly unknown or even especially frowned upon, still less prohibited by law. Indeed, I can recall certain teachers discreetly keeping such relationships a secret and then, after a decent interval, marrying their former pupils. And as far as I'm aware remaining happily married to them for many years thereafter.

So is the idea to 'right wrongs' - to see justice done or, in other words, to get revenge? Well, maybe. Although its hardly a very civilised or noble motive. But if jail satisfies our taste for blood then surely a career (rightly) in ruins and a reputation tattered might be punishment enough? Why punish anyone further in a situation like this? The tragedy of the case alone will ensure that wrongs are not forgotten, still less forgiven.

Will it help the victim?

A sense of justice, achieving closure and moving on are all essential if the life of any victim, whatever the crime, isn't to be eternally blighted. But after the headlines and the brou ha ha, who will even remember the victim? And what help will she receive? It costs money to send people to prison and if there isn't an urgent need to protect the rest of us I'm not convinced that the money shouldn't be better spent on counselling for both victim and offender and on training or on programmes of re-educating or any number of more healing and forgiving and caring options and sanctions.

After all, as Ghandi famously said, an eye for an eye and we will all be blind.

Sunday, 24 August 2014

A Shropshire Lad

This time last week we were eagerly anticipating our annual visit to the Royal Albert Hall for the BBC Proms. Thanks to major engineering works on the West Coast Main Line we were unable to travel to London by train. No matter. On a Sunday, parking and other restrictions are often lifted and traffic is relatively light. Look how close we managed to park!

The concert itself was moving, amazing and utterly captivating. It made an immediate impact with a profound and original piece by a little-known German, Rudi Stephan. Stephan was killed in the First War just a few months later. And war, and loss, and tragedy, were the themes of this commemorative Prom, never more so than in the pre-war settings by George Butterworth (killed on the Somme, 1916) of six poems from A.E.Housman's cycle, A Shropshire Lad.

That book was - after the Bible - the most carried volume in the trenches. It's not hard to see why. The words evoke the timeless beauty of the English landscape but seem to hint darkly of the darkness and tragedy to come.

Roderick Williams (baritone) was the soloist on Sunday evening with the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra conducted by Andrew Manze. You can catch the performance on BBC iPlayer for the next four weeks and I'd urge you to do so, especially if the setting is unfamiliar. You'll probably not hear a better performance, ever. Here's the link: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p025616k/bbc-proms-proms-extra-butterworth-six-songs-from-a-shropshire-lad-orch-p-brookes

'The lads in their hundreds...' Ludlow, seen from the castle.

Thursday, 24 July 2014

He is not missing...

I'm writing a book on the first war. (Who isn't... or hasn't?) But - and it's a big but - mine is about the aftermath, the immediate aftermath, when France and Belgium were slowly rebuilding and first the Army followed by the (then) Imperial War Graves Commission were burying and reburying thousands and thousands of bodies and slowly creating the vast memorial cemeteries that are now such a universal symbol of the human cost of war.

My protagonists - a group of soldiers eager for demob but kept on in Flanders after the Armistice - form one of the many companies whose unenviable task it was to search the shattered land for the missing, to exhume hasty battlefield burials and then to establish the now famous concentration cemeteries like the largest of them all, Tyne Cot.

It was a grim task. But many such men volunteered for the work (and not merely for the extra 2/6 a day). Some even remained in Belgium after demob and found work as IWGC gardeners. A sizeable British  community in Ypres between the wars had its own school and church and remained there until the Germans once again invaded in 1939. Then came a hastily arranged and hazardous evacuation.

In the meantime, the monuments to the missing had been built. Massive structures like Thiepval, the memorial wall at Tyne Cot and, of course, the famous Menin Gate which was inaugurated by Field-Marshal Sir Herbert Plumer ('Daddy' Plum, one of the few high-ranking officers to have escaped the 'donkey' epithet and to have been universally respected by the troops) on this day, July 24th, 1927.

In one chapter of the book I'm writing the men - by now ex-army IWGC gardeners and labourers - gather at the Menin Gate for the ceremony (as actually happened - medals, but not uniforms, were worn). They listen as Plumer delivers his speech:

One of the most tragic features of the Great War was the number of casualties reported as 'Missing, believed killed'... It was resolved that here at Ypres, where so many of the 'Missing' are known to have fallen, there should be erected a memorial worthy of them which should give expression to the nation's gratitude for their sacrifice and its sympathy with those who mourned them. 

At home in England, at the same time on that July Sunday morning, congregations gather in churches up and down the land to listen to one of the very first BBC outside broadcasts - a live relay from Ypres - and, perhaps, to follow the service in the specially-printed feature in the Radio Times.

You're not, perhaps, meant to be moved by your own words. (Although Dickens cried at the death of Little Nell.) But I find even my own modest description of that event, culminating as it did with the playing by buglers of the Somerset Light Infantry of the Last Post (the start of a tradition that continues, famously, to this day) followed by pipers of the Scots Guards playing the Flowers of the Forest lament as the men who fought there remember their comrades who died and are commemorated on those walls quite unusually affecting.

But then, that's down to the event itself, the memorial, and the men it commemorates. Just to see the 'intolerably nameless names' - almost 55,000 - filling the walls and arches of Reginald Blomfield's great edifice is moving enough.

It takes but a little imagination to appreciate the impact it must have had on those present that day, those for whom the countless names were living people, comrades, friends and of whom, at last, in the words of Herbert Plumer, the world could now say:

He is not missing; he is here. 


You can read an extended extract from the beginning of this book on the Authonomy website.