Concert Review: The Akeman Voices - Deck the Halls

Many of my readers and follows will know that The Banbury Man does not enjoy the annual humbug of Christmas, with all its commercialism, insincere sentimentalism, and curious blend of Christian with pagan religion that invades the church for a few weeks each year. However, following a visit to a previous concert, I was persuaded to go to the Christmas concert of the Akeman Voices, a small local choir. Unpromisingly (from my point of view) entitled Deck the Halls, I caught the train down to Bicester (which is as charmless as I remember from when I worked there) so I could suffer saccharine songs, get annoyed by tinsel, eat a horrid mince pie, and affirm myself in my view of such annual confections.

I am pleased to say my expectations were thoroughly dashed. The lovely church (which has a wonderfully high arched ceiling with a brilliant acoustic) was candle-lit, and heady with the incense of a recent mass. As I perused the programme, I was pleased by the promise of some variety. We began with some chant of Hodie Christus Natus Est and this kicked off a variety of carols and songs from many centuries, all sung a capella. I was reminded once again just what a good choir this is - no hiding behind an orchestra this time. The tuning was almost impeccable, and only once did the tempo slip noticeably, and that was at least when the four parts were in the four corners of the church. One thing I particularly liked was the balance of the four parts, which gave a great clarity. When singing Taverner's lovely Lamb, each part sounded like one voice, which is very difficult to achieve.

There were a couple of pieces I did not know - a lovely carol (which sounded very heretical) by Poston, and one by Joubert, whom I only knew for Torches, which was a school favourite. The lovely Coventry carol made us all tearful and fearful, and the obligatory Adam Lay Ybounden was simply beautiful. They even managed (almost) to make It Came Upon a Midnight Drear sound appealing. Riu Riu Chiu, an old college favourite had faultless castellano pronunciation, and simply sparkled. Add to this some scalding (literally) mulled wine, and a piece of Christstolen, some amusing readings by the irrepressible Sunny Ormonde of Archers fame (I kept wanting her to say "oh, come on, Tiger", and I left the church feeling almost festive. A thoroughly enjoyable evening, and a great antidote to the usual trash of Cashmas.

I do recommend you attend these concerts. I shall not listen to the next one, as it is a Come and Sing Carmina Burana (which, incidentally, was the first thing I heard Akeman sing, together with the Warriner, some years ago); I have not sung this for nearly five years, so think it hightime I inflicted myself upon the tenor section.

For all my faithful readers: Bah. Not quite so humbug.

Film Review: 2012

On Thursday, I went to the picture house for the first time in quite a few months. I have generally been too tired to contemplate a cinema trip for a while, but felt unusually energetic and wanted to see the above film, being a fan of this type of disaster fiction. Nothing comforts me like seeing California disappear into an abyss, get covered in lava, shaken by earthquakes, or nuked by the Cubans.

The first thing to note is that I generally have a sense that a cinema ticket ought to cost £4 or £5. Why this is, I do not know; it has not done so for years. But I know that I am always a little shocked and hard-done-by as I hand over my money for the ticket (£8.10 in this case).

The premise of the film is that excessive solar flare activity causes neutrinos (I thought these were health food bars) to penetrate the earth, heating up the crust and causing it to break up, and shift. The catastrophe is worldwide. All the usual stock characters and situations apply - the maverick professional who has a pretty ex-wife who he still loves, and children who prefer their handsome even-more-professional father; the selfish blonde who turns out to have a heart of gold; Mr Corporate America who is more concerned with money than anything else; the scientist in an outpost who discovers the impending disaster, but gets no credit and is killed; the black president of USA (at least there is one now, which is a Good Thing). The special effects are spectacular, and I ended up getting special effect-fatigue - a car chase through LA was just laughable in the narrow escapes. As one of my comrades said, you had to leave your brains behind to enjoy it. Nonetheless, it was worth seeing, and not nearly as saccharine as American films of this type normally are. Naturally, America plays the leading role, and her sentiments are the ones we should feel, but this is what we expect.

Although I did enjoy the film, I also enjoyed coming out to find snow had fallen and settled. Our driver insisted on some handbrake turns in the empty car-park, and I arrived home traumatised not by watching six billion people die, but by the prospect of my own death in a north London cinema.

Sleep report......

Regular followers of my Farcebook nonsense will know that, for a while, I kept a daily sleep report update. I did this while I was keeping a sleep diary for the doc, as I have been having problems sleeping for some months now. There is something very odd about insomnia. My experience is that everything in life seems to evolve around sleep. Trying to sleep when I am in bed. Trying not to sleep when I am driving, or at church. Trying not to obsess about just how little sleep I am getting (it averages about 1-2 hours a night). Trying to get through the day.

Everyone has their theories about why I am not sleeping - too much caffeine, too much stress, too little exercise, the lack of lavender in my room, and so on. I know everyone means well, but believe me, if there is a remedy, I have tried it. I am a master of sleep hygiene, as it is called. My bedroom is a palace of sleep. No other activity takes place there. I have hardly any caffeine, and none after lunch. I eat little in the evenings. I do calming activities in the evening. I do no stay in bed if I cannot sleep, but get up (and invariably stay up all night).

It is amazing the effect having very little sleep can have on one. I am constantly surprised I get through my day at work, but I do. Something in me keeps me going, even if I have had no sleep at all. But come the weekend, and when activity is no longer compulsory, and I find it hard to get out of bed, even though I am not sleeping there. Everything is magnified - if I feel happy, I feel very happy. If I feel stressed, I feel very stressed. I can either eat nothing, or feel ravenously hungry. Miraculously, I have not felt bad-tempered or irritable, despite being driven to it by the attitude of one or two people towards my affliction. Most of the time I am too tired to feel anything. While I wait for my treatment, I am not allowed to drive, and this is fine; I like using the train. But it does make me feel imprisoned at the weekend. I have become very inward-looking, as it is easier than looking outward.

But I do not like this. I am generally a laid back, contented sort of person. I am, at least, not depressed, but I want the old me back. I want to sleep. Roll on January, where there is hope!

Book Review: Gentleman's Relish by Patrick Gale

Once again, I have discovered a new author, and once again, the genre of short stories (a bit of a necessity for me in these insomniac days) is what I am reading.

I found this book in an independent bookshop in Marlborough. The cover intrigued me, and I was hoping for a short story collection. The author is English, and so captured the domesticity of daily life that is so often what pulls you into a short story, so that you can be captured by the twist. And the twists! Roald Dahl, with his Tales of the Unexpected, taught me to love short stories with a sting in the tale. But, so often, the twist is the focal point of the story. Not so with Gale - here the twist, although sometimes surprising or even shocking, does not dominate but adds a certain piquancy to proceedings - rather like the eponymous relish.

One tale is set in a prison environment, and conjures up wonderfully the harshness of life in Portland for those who worked in the gaol there. One tale has a curious magical element, hearkening back to the pagan heritage of these lands, but without becoming ridiculous or marvelous. One has a marvelous vengeance wrought by a waspish son.

These were great companions for me on the train, and in my room. I have already started reading another work by Gale; watch this space!

Mortivation

To mortivate someone means to make them wish to die:

The weekly sermons he inflicted upon his congregation were such that his parishioners always left the church feeling mortivated.

Farewell to two of my favourite institutions

It is a rare thing for me to have a coffee shop assignation lately. I don't have a car, I don't have the energy, and I don't have many friends around who can squander time over a latte. But on Saturday, I did have an unexpected opportunity to meet with a friend for coffee. We hurried off to my local independent coffee shop to find it had closed. I was utterly dismayed. Ever since I discovered the shop a year ago, I had been a faithful patron, at one time taking nine family members in there. Disconsolate, we headed back into the main part of town to fight for a seat at one of the major chain coffee shops. A sad day.

In other news, Borders Book Stores have collapsed. Bookshops generally have had a hard time in the face of cheaper and wider ranged stock on Amazon. Borders, with its American model of having out of town large stores, never really caught on over here. I loved visiting a large store that had plenty of space, a half-decent range, and music, and coffee shops. I often used to visit one nearby when I could drive. I went to the Charing Cross Road store today (sadly, not at No. 84) and sadly bought a few books I had had my eyes on, getting them for half price. Borders could be expensive, but its range compensated, and it did have good offers. Another sad day.

Book Review: Survivors by Terry Nation

I got this book from a bargain bucket at Borders. It was made into a tv serial recently, but I did not see this. The setting is in contemporary England. The plague has wiped out almost everyone. Those who are left have to battle with a the elements, with rotting supplies of food, with others who use violence, and with the knowledge that they must learn and pass on living wisdom.

I always love survival type scenarios (scenarii?) and this had an interesting take. I thought it was well imagined and the characters were nicely drawn. The timescale covered some years, and there was a good pace, and a superb ending.

This was an unusual sort of read for me, but I enjoyed it. It also got me back into Lost, which is no bad thing.

Flounge

My friend Duncan has just started a blog listing words he has invented. I have invented words myself from time-time, and he has encouraged me to share a word I have coined:

Flounge

To flounge is to sit or lollop around listlessly, too tired to do anything of purpose. It is to flounder on the sea of one's sofa or bed, overcome with ennui.

I flounged around all afternoon, hoping to be motivated to do the many things that must be done, but failed, overcome by lassitude.

All about me....

I am usually immune to memes but this one from Jackie (who has a great blog, go and read it) ought not to be ignored. I have to write six things about myself that people do not know, and nominate six others to write six things about themselves. To start with the end first, I could not find six bloggers who have not already done this, so I shall tag some people in farcebook instead, where these things are commonly done.

It is hard to think of six things to write. If I do not mind someone knowing something about me, I have probably told someone. If I have not told someone, I probably do not want anyone to know. Ah well, here goes:

1. I am very shy. I hardly spoke to anyone except my parents and grandparents until I was 5. I spent most of my teenage years blushing and squeaking at anyone who spoke to me. I still feel very embarrassed and shy when I meet someone new, but am learning to disguise it.

2. I did not wear jeans until I was 13.

3. I did not drink until I was 20, when I accepted a post-prayer meeting rum at Dalkeith House.

4. I am generally pretty lonely, but am generally ok with this.

5. I am a Dynasty fan (I am a bit ashamed of this).

6. I am pretty scared of dogs.

I think that is it. Some of you may know these things. Most will not.

How are you?

How are you? It is the classic greeting. We all use it. I get rather annoyed by people who use it when they are not interested. Sales-people with whom you have never spoken ring up and ask you how you are. They are not interested. They do not care. It drips with insincerity. I always feel tempted to say, well, not so bad, I had a bowel movement at last and feel much better; how are you? Sadly, I have never felt brave enough to say this.

It is a nice way to start a conversation with a friend. It shows concern. With a friend, the answer is cared about. They can answer that they feel unwell, tired, or unhappy. You can then talk with them about this. It is right and sincere.

But there is a time when this is a difficult question to answer. If you are unwell, or recently bereaved, people will ask you "how are you", with the emphasis on "are" rather than the "how". The person asking is sincere. But I always find I do not want to answer this. You are forbidden to say you are fine in these circumstances.

I have been suffering from insomnia lately, and suddenly, now I am not allowed to drive, and have been missing from some meetings, word has got around church. Everyone is very kind and asks me how I am. I know they care, and I know they are not prying. I was asked the question about twenty times yesterday. But I did not want to ruin any one's day. I did not want to explain how I was, or how I had slept to each enquirer. I just mumbled "oh, not so bad, thanks" or "getting there". What I really wanted to say was "I have had three hours' sleep in the last two days. I want to vomit, I have no energy, and I find it hard even to talk to you. I only came out of duty. I wish I was in bed." Not the sort of encouragement people are looking for!

What answer is the best? It is seen as indulgent not to be fine when people ask. Perhaps it would be better if they did not ask, but I was encouraged by all the genuine concern shown to me. No-one likes a moaner, but perhaps they now all think I am doing ok. Maybe that is best?

How are YOU?

Book Review: Adrian Mole and The Prostate Years by Sue Townsend

Adrian Mole used to be just a little older than me. I knew what to expect in my teenage years by reading about his experience. He was always just ahead, but in the latest book, he suddenly jumps a generation, and turns 40, whereas I am still in my upper middle thirties. Nonetheless, this, as the other books were, is a cracking read. There are the usual agonies of a misunderstood man who suffers at the hands of those in his life. He fails to catch on to what all can see. Like most of the other books, there is disaster, but a glimmer of hope at the end. Like the other books, his mother comes up trumps.

There must have been 10 or more books by now. All are enjoyable, and this takes its place in the series. It is alarming to see Adrian getting older, but he still thinks in much the way he did at the age of 13 and three quarters. A recommended read, but, if you have not read Adrian before, go for an earlier book - the Cappuccino Years, or even the Secret Diary.

Facebook for Christians

Lots of Christians feel rather ambivalent about Facebook. Many are on it, and take part in the usual festivities. Some use it as a ministry to those about them. Others appear every three months or so, accept their friend requests, and retreat again. Many are concerned about it eating up their time, and keep away from it altogether. Some think it is an instrument of Satan.

For all its faults, I like Facebook, and it is a useful way to keep in touch, share news and photos, and play scrabble. So I am offering some hints to the controllers of Facebook (FBI/CIA in USA and MI5 in UK):

1. Make the vocabulary more Christian friendly. Let's rebuke instead of poking, enter into fellowship instead of adding friends, and approve instead of liking a status.

2. Stop with the constant changes and upgrades. Christians don't like change. We really don't. If you must change things, at least keep us several versions behind.

3. Some Christians prefer to use very archaic language. Although they may not be using something as devilish as a computer, please, let us at least try to show them they are included. Instead of chat "call upon thy brethren". Instead of like "this verily doth gladden mine heart". But please make sure the programming for this is written in basic computer language from the 1980's, as most computers from this period used this language. Language after this date is wrong.

4. Get rid of fan pages. This really does speak of popularism. Celebrities are not recognised in the Christian world, except for Cliff Richard, The Doctor, and the Christian one off Blue Peter.

5. The structure of profiles on Facebook puts many Christians off. Quite simply, having to list the things you like is utterly foreign to most Christians. Instead, let Christians list the things they don't like. That is much easier, and will also help them to find other like minded Christians who hate the same things they hate.

These five simple steps could rescue Facebook from its moral and religious morass, and make it a safe place for Christians everywhere.

What other changes do you think could make Farcebook more welcoming?

Concert Review: BBC SO/Chorus at the Barbican 27/11/09

On Friday, I met up with a friend and we attended a performance at the Barbican. I had not been there since the 1980's, and was reminded what a splendid concert hall it has - one feels so close to the performers, and the warm woodwork gives a nice hue to proceedings. We also had a friend singing in the concert, so it was good to meet up with them both for pre-concert drinks, interval merlot, and post-concert drinks....

The concert, as usual for the Beeb, was quite a mix, and was broadcast on Radio 3. Josquin's Nymphes des Bois started us off. This was a short piece and very reminiscent of its period. There was no distinctive tune, but you could imagine listening to it for an hour and not objecting. It did not sound very sylvan, but was ably performed by a smaller sub-chorus replete with over-gesticulative tenor.

Next up: Boulez's Rituel. As predicted, this was sort of piece you only listen to as a B side for something else. A large brass section, and then seven mini-ensembles, each led by a percussionist, were place around the auditorium and crashed, walloped, bubbled, and slithered their way through the piece. It was atmospheric and impressive but I did not enjoy it. I do like Messiaen, but this seemed a step further.

The second half was the piece everyone had come for: Mozart's celebrated Requiem. This had a mixture of triumphs and tragedies, with a spot of comedy mixed in.
The tragedy was the orchestra; quite simply, they frequently drowned out the choir, and certainly the soloists. They forgot they were accompanying. The soprano sounded like a mezzo, and would have been better singing Brahms or Mahler. The bass was too Wagnerian, and none too loud. The alto had a lovely voice, but could not compete with the strings. The conductor raced us through faster than I have ever heard this performed. His lack of pause after the divine Lachrymosa left me quite lachrymose.
The triumphs, gladly, were many. I was alarmed to see an enormous choir seated, but it worked. They did not sound flabby, as large choirs often can, but crisp, and sensitive to the matter at hand. Their runs on the Kyrie were admirable with every note distinctly heard, and Quam Olim Abrahae thrilled. The tenor, who almost could not stand in his shrunk drain-pipe dress trousers, was absolutely superb. His voice rang out, and he was clearly a notch above the rest of the soloists.
The comedies were two. The soprano wore an enormous ball gown of black with autumn leaves on it. She resembled the curtain department of Laura Ashley. The other was the first bassoon player, who, although she sounded fine, completely over-performed; her constant distracting writhing over her instrument really ought to have been censored.

Add to this acts of merlot with two friends, and this was a most enjoyable evening. I even managed to stay awake all the way through, a major achievement in these ahypnic days.

Book Review: Too Much Happiness by Alice Munro

It is always nice to discover a new author, and a literary chum in the colonies suggested I would like this book. Alice Munro (England: Munroe) is a Canadian, and she has written many short stories. This is a collection of stories, together with a rather longer title story at the end. Munro reminds me of Carol Shields in the way she gets into the mind of the characters in her story. Quite simply, they go about their daily lives and think the things that I do. She gets in my head. I like that.

This is a splendid read - many of the stories have a slightly dark side, although all are realistic. Munro does not set out to shock, but to explore the reaction of normal people to events normal and otherwise.

My only disappointment was the title story, which I simply could not get into. I suspect this has more to do with my recent insomnia and inability to read, so I will go back to it. I shall certainly read more Munro, and indeed, have already purchased some cheap volumes.

London Underground Notice

I was obliged to go to work by train today. I joined the Northern Line at Euston (Bank Branch) and took my seat one one of the fold-up seats. I prefer these, as they are not so foolishly low. I looked around, observed my fellow passengers, and began to peruse the advertisements, maps (I can never resist a map) and notices, when I found a notice that deeply alarmed me. I was so shocked that I copied the text onto my 'phone, to make sure I got it right. Such a notice should never be permitted in England:

"Peak hours may necessitate that you let other people sit on your lap"

!!!

A break at Starbucks

Tonight, after work, I took a trip to the local starbucks, which is situated in a large bookshop. I needed to do some seasonal shopping for winterval, and, as I may not be driving soon, thought it was high time I made the excursion.

After purchasing some gifts (OK, and a book for myself), I wondered upstairs, ordered a venti gingerbread latte with cream and a slice of carrot passion cake, collected my order, and sat down to observe my fellow coffee-drinkers.

Daniel Spielemann was there, wearing his grey v-neck jumper, reading Chomsky and making notes. Bernice Anderson was there with her brown dress, alice-band, and a book on discovering the new you once you have expunged the men from your life.

Muriel Jackson-Smith and her newly married daughter Charlotte were sipping coffee and poring over the latest Heston Blumenthal cook book.

Two strictly dressed Muslim guys were there, poring over a London A-Z in a way that would truly have alarmed an investigative journalist for the Daily Hate Mail.

Felicia, Kezia and Precious were texting their friends, and wondering if they would get in trouble for putting beads in their hair.

Tracy Enthwistle was there with her son, being scandalised at paying £2.85 for a hot chocolate.

I was there, wishing I had gone for the dark cherry mocha, as my gingerbread latte was smothered in nutmeg and did not taste of ginger, and regretting not uttering that most important word "decaff" when I place my order with the barista. I just ate my cake in silence, and wondered if I would come though this time ok.

Concert Review: Finchley Chamber Choir

On Saturday night, instead of staying in and committing acts of merlot whilst enjoying the footspa (I need a life), I journeyed back down to London and went to a concert of the Finchley Chamber Choir. It was splendidly varied programme of Purcell, Haydn, Handel, and Mendelssohn, all of whom have various anniversaries in 2009.

The Purcell was a lovely verse anthem in his typical style, as well as a suite and a chaconny. All standard enjoyable fare. The orchestra for the occasion was a string quintet and, for some pieces, an oboe. the choir had 11 sops, 8 altos, 3 tenors, and about 6 basses, but had a fairly good balance, and a beautifully clear and precise sound.

Handel next, and one of the impossible Chandos Anthems. These are real favourites of mine, and the choir and soloists coped very well with the ridiculously difficult runs and jumps. Later in the programme, there was an organ concerto of Handel. Like all his organ concerti, there was no tune to stay in the head, and take home to elaborate later. But it was nonetheless a lovely piece, very characteristic.

For Mendelssohn, we had the rarely performed motets. I had heard these before and greatly enjoyed them. There is a Bachian quality, yet they look forward to others such as Bruckner. Very nice, and typically high tenor parts, as one would expect. This was followed by the Hear My Prayer - well-known and often performed, and most enjoyable.

Haydn's contribution was a Missa Brevis. In the short Mass, the words of the credo and gloria are performed all at once by different parts, to make things shorter (and, as the conductor explained, to allow the priests to get to the bar quicker). Although we were warned about the Gloria, nothing prepared us for the whole movement to be over in a little over a minute. Compare this to Beethoven or Bach! The whole mass was about 15 minutes long, most of which was devoted to the Benedictus.

As is customary for this choir, the soloists were drawn from its ranks, and very good they were too. One one failed to thrill, and this was because the piece she sang did not suit her voice, in my view - but she would be a treat at Brahms. It was a great concert, which thrilled, but also disappoints slightly, for I was investigating joining this group; however, I think they are beyond my modest tenor talents. Either way, I will look out for them again.

Emma

The BBC has kept up its tradition of fine costume dramas with its latest production of Jane Austen's Emma. The usual stunning scenery, delightful music, blushing low-cut maidens, brooding handsome gentlemen, and foolish eccentric women all exchanged fast-moving dialogue and lounged around on chaise-longues or green hill-tops. The utterly wonderful Tamsin Grieg put in an appearance, and stole the show, in my view.

What was a real treat for me is that it was filmed in Chilham in Kent. Jane Austen's brother had a farm at Godmersham, three miles away. His descendants live there still, and my own mother, nee Austen, is one of them. I well remember going down to Granny Austen's in the holidays. Chilham then was picturesque and typically English, but without the antique shops and the American tourists. It was especially nice to see the village square, and the church, where so many of my ancestors, for seven generations, are buried.

Good work, Auntie Beeb! Good work, Aunt Jane

Christians and Politics

You will not, my dear reader, be surprised to read that I am not only a Christian, but I also have political views, which I do express from time to time. The relationship between Christianity and politics is a difficult one. Some churches get very involved in political issues, and, for example in USA, one can see that Christians often have a voice. Some Christians choose not even to vote, and refuse to discuss political issues at all. A well-known Christian periodical in the UK recently found itself in hot water with its correspondents over its comment on political issues (notably some right wing Christian groups getting into bed with the Tories).

I think there are faults in both issues. The prospect of candidates in USA only being supported on the basis of their take on the latest hot issue (which usually seems to be abortion) is distasteful to me. Equally distasteful if the spectre of Christians refusing to vote (or more often, not bothering) which can help extremists like the BNP to prosper.

I think the purpose of the church is to preach the gospel, and to show the love of Christ to its community (which may mean defending the vulnerable and needy, rather than standing by in self-preservation). For this reason, the pulpit should not be used for politics. I was somewhat mortified in recent months to be "outed" from the pulpit as a socialist. Predictably, I have had some stick over this, and I am dismayed that some people now filter what I say from the pulpit through what they now know about my political beliefs. But I do passionately wish that Christians would get involved in politics as general citizens. Christian belief does shape political belief, but political Christianity is unattractive (and usually far-right and full of hatred). However, Christian politics is no bad thing - it is all about being salt and light. I am well aware that many Christians are right-wing (a matter of some bemused amazement to me) but I still say - get involved. Discuss the issues of the day. Vote.

Some Christians say our rights are being taken away day by day. They usually mean their right to criticise. But I say, if you have a right, it is to have a voice, and to be salt and light. Exercise it!

Autumn

Many say that autumn is their favourite season. It surely does have some highlights. I like the fresh cold mornings. The autumn colours have been especially beautiful this year, and have greatly enhanced my long journey to work. I love an autumn wind - vigorous, but without the bite of winter.

But I do not like autumn - nights draw in, and the sickening festivities of yuletide threaten. It is the harbinger of winter. However, I have decided to see autumn as a farewell to summer. I look back on warm days and long evenings. Trees shed their summer decoration. Warmer days remind us of days gone. As spring is a welcome season, bringing us the chance to look forward with hope to the summer, and the departure of winter, so autumn gives us a chance to look back and reflect, take stock, and cement memories in our minds to carry us through the winter. The most romantically named season (I will not suffer the dreadful "fall") is a season for the mind.

The Pope offers a deal to Anglo-Catholics

Dominating the news this week is the Pope's unilateral offer to give a home to disaffected Anglo-Catholics, allowing them to keep certain minor practices to leave the Anglican Communion and come to Rome. Leaving aside the fairness and rightness of such an invitation being made, without due consultation, I have been somewhat bemused by the coverage this has been given.

According to the news, this will appeal to those who are concerned about the prospect of women bishops, and the C of E's stance on homosexuality. Now, both of those issues are not unimportant. Different people will have different understandings on them, and feel very strongly. But this is not the issue for consideration. Nor is the issue about high church ritual. The actual issue is much deeper than this.

I have, rightly, I believe, examined some of my more sectarian beliefs lately, and am no longer about to Catholic-bash, as was once my wont. However, it seems to me that the choice for Anglo-Catholics is not merely about changing masters, and finding a place where you are not in the minority. It is about deciding how we can become right with God, and what we think about the work of Christ on the Cross. The Mass, and its insistence on the continued sacrifice of Christ is diametrically opposed to Protestant (and I don't just mean evangelical) belief. This is the central issue. If anyone accepts that belief, then they will find a home with Rome, and that, of course, is fine. However, people should not concentrate on other, more secondary issues, and blindly enter a church that has a very different religion, even though the outward trappings may appear similar.

I think it is up to each to decide - although I hope people decide for the right reasons. However, although I am of the evangelical persuasion, and would rather the Anglican Communion moved in an evangelical direction, I think the C of E would be harmed if many Anglo-Catholics do move to Rome - the balance of the C of E would be tipped in favour of the liberals, and that really would lead to the end of the C of E.

A new cd.....

It is always exciting to discover a new singer, a new composer, or a new author. There is the enjoyment of listening or reading for a first time. The feeling that here is someone you can explore in the future. But every once in a while, you discover something that will stay in your life - so that when people say "what music do you like?" you will include it in the answer.

This has happened to me this week. On my way home from work on Friday, I listened, as is my wont, to The Last Word which, as ever, was interesting. It looks at the lives of those who have died in the past week. There is always the enjoyment of hearing about someone significant, but previously unknown to you, as well as those you know. This week, it was the last queen of Libya, Ludovic Kennedy, and Robert Kirby.

Robert Kirby was a music arranger, most famous for his work with Nick Drake. I had heard of neither of these two gentlemen, but the piece was introduced with the track Way to Blue. The string arrangement came at the start of a haunting song, sung with an unaffected melancholy. I was immediately hooked. I was in Marlborough today and there is a super independent record shop there, wittily called Sound Knowledge, where I purchased a cd of Drake. I played it on the way home, and found that many songs on this will be part of my listening repertoire. There is a melancholy, a gentleness, and yearning with which I connected. It is good to discover a new friend.

Thoughts on last night's QT....

Well, its has been on now. Not many thoughts. I was pleased to see that, as expected, Griffin could not cope with being asked questions, or dealing in debate with seasoned politicians. He was exposed as a racist, anti-Semite, homophobe and revisionist who repeatedly denied things he had said.
He now claims he was not treated fairly - he certainly had no friends on the panel, and few in the audience. That is because not many people share his views. Those that do would rather engage in different tactics than participating in a televised debate.

The BBC was wrong to ask him, but, in some ways, clever too. They have been seen to do the democratic duty, and, by putting up effective opposition, have ensured that many will have been made wise to the beliefs of the BNP. At last their views have been under scrutiny. I hope this marks the end of their electoral success, and that they return to the hinterland.

Nick Griffin of the BNP on Question Time

There is a lot of controversy this week as the BBC has invited Nick Griffin, the holocaust-denying leader of the far right British National Party to appear on Question Time. Much has been said, and much has been argued. I myself have been torn in two about the whole matter. Here are the pros and cons:

For
It will give people a chance to see how extreme and wrong his views are
It prevents BNP from having a martyr complex and complaining that they are being censored
It is true that they are a political party, and did get over a million votes in the recent European elections (demonstrating the failure of democracy, which, although being the least bad option open to us, always favours the majority opinion, irrespective of whether it is right or wrong - Hitler came to power democratically - which is more than can be said for GW Bush)

Against
It might give an appearance of legitimacy to a man who advocates drowning immigrants (see my previous blog) and who heads a party that supports repatriation of immigrants and bars entry to non-white members.
The BBC is almost certainly breaking the law in allowing a racist party to have a voice in this way - a recent judgement found them in breach of race laws.
It might actually win some people over to the BNP. For all Nick Griffin is a thug at the head of a thuggish organisation, he knows how to market himself and has removed the skinhead image from his extremist party.

I had been unsure whether to watch or not. I believe he should have been invited by the BBC. I only hope he is shown up for what he is. I am pleased that Jack Straw and Bonnie Greer (a black woman, shock horror) are on opposite him, as they are both robust contenders who will not give him an easy ride. Also on are Chris Huhne, a Liberal Democrat, who is openly gay, which will also cause problems for Griffin, and a lady from the Conservatives, who is Asian. Good luck to them all.

For me, this demonstrates that although democracy is in itself a questionable thing, if people had only exercised their vote, instead of "staying at home to register their discontentment with the establishment" (for which read laziness) then the BNP would never have succeeded in recent polls. Low turnouts only profit extremists. Even a Tory vote is better than no vote.

Google problems.....

Your search for "American History" did not return any results. No web pages could be found to match your search.

Did you mean "American Hysteria"?

Concert Review - The Akeman Voices

On Saturday night, I went, with a friend, to the charmless town of Bicester, where, in a splendid church, we heard the Akeman Voices singing Haydn's Creation. I have sung this piece before, and am practising it again for a concert in February, so was most interested to go along to it. It was, simply, a splendid performance. There were 18 singers, which worked much better than the enormous numbers that trouble the choir I normally sing with. Their standard was a bit better than ours, but the orchestra was not so good, which did let them down a bit.

However, the real highlight was the soloist section. The soprano was the best soprano I have ever heard. You could hear every single note, even in the more coloratura passages, and her voice was clear as a bright winter's day. The bass was also good, hamming up some of the passages about the animals, and raising a light laugh here and there. Only the tenor disappointed - he had a good voice, but no power - this is frequently a complaint I have to make about tenor soloists. In the trios, he was simply unheard, which was a real pity.

Unusually, Adam and Eve were drawn from the choir. They performed well, and had lovely natural voices that gave an intimacy to the performance.

A great concert, and I am determined to hear this choir again, although not perhaps their next concert, the obligatory Christmas confection, the bane of all choirs every winter.

I don't have a hangup.

Two weeks ago, I purchased a Harris Tweed jacket. My other one, which I bought from a charity shop in 1990, when it already appeared pretty old, no longer looks as smart as it once did. It was high time I invested in a new one, and I found a nice one, in a colour I like, and in the right size, at the Edinburgh Woollen Mill shop in Sherborne in Dorset.

A Harris Tweed is a substantial investment, even if you do get it for a vastly reduced price. The jacket cost over £100, at about half price.. However, if carefully looked after, they last for many years. It is the custom of clothes shops to ask if you wish to keep the coathanger. I always consider this, and keep it if it is a thick hanger (such as you get with a jacket), or a special trouser hanger. Otherwise, I decline the hanger, as I have plenty of regular hangers at home.

Now, I was busy paying and talking with my friend. When I got home (I was staying 30 miles away), I was cross to find that the hanger was not in the bag! I had not been asked, and would certainly have asked to keep it, as it was a wide hanger for jackets; I do not have a spare one like that. I know there is a credit crunch, and I know we must all save the environment so that industry need not cut its emissions. But I do consider that a hanger ought to be supplied with the purchase of a jacket!

I am not impressed. I would like to say I shall not patronise EWM again, but they do have the cheapest authentic tweeds around. But next time I shall ask for a hanger!

The God who whispers

A wise friend sent this to me last week. I have been "shouted" at a lot lately, and it was a timely comfort:

"I think sometimes people feel like they're demonstrating loyalty to God by being strong with their opinions and expressing them forcefully, and forget that our God is gentle. He whispers, he doesn't shout"

:-)

Now is the winter of our discontent

At the weekend, the pine cones were removed from the fireplace and packed until next winter. The chimney was swept as far as a hand-brush could reach, and the chimney sweep hastily booked to come in next week (forgetting to book the sweep is an annual tradition). A fire was laid in preparation for the coming cold evenings, and was duly lit on Sunday night.

There has been a fire on one or two nights since too. It really makes it feel like winter when the fires start, and the nights are drawing in quickly now. I do not like the thought of winter, with its short days and Christmas, but it is nice to have the fire to sit around once again. It is nice to have warm water to wash with in the mornings. It is nice to shut out the cold, and watch the flames. It is the spoonful of sugar to help the winter go down.

It was 20 years ago today....

On 1st October 1989, I struggled out of the house with a suitcase, a kettle, an iron, and three large boxes of books, and loaded them into Anne's (a family friend) car. We drove down to Egham on the newly built stretch of the M40 motorway, and disgorged the contents at New Halls reception in Athlone Hall. Minutes later, Mother left me to contemplate the unpainted breezeblock glory of C223 and to pore over the various registration documents I had to complete.

Yes, I went to University 20 years ago. Some of the new Freshers were not even born them. I guess this makes me old.

Uni was a wonderful place for me; I enjoyed the course, found God (or rather, got found by God) again, and met some wonderful people, some of whom I am still in touch with. I was presented with a grant cheque that kept me going (on a shoestring) until the next term, and had to pay no tuition fees. I was born at the right time.

Now, 20 years later, I have, for five months, been doing the job I always wanted to do after uni. Life deals out many surprises. I am not sure I would change it.

Communication Across The Great Divide

Here is an account of a conversation with my mother tonight:

Scene: I am sitting at the dining table, just finishing work. Mother is sitting in her chair reading a book and watching the Weakest Link on television.

Mum: Oh. He has been voted off.

Me: Who?

Mum: Richard Dunwoody.

Me: Oh. Who is he?

Mum: I don't know.

Me: Oh. Off Weakest Link?

Mum: No. Oh, he is a jockey or some sort of sportsman, I think.

Me: Oh.

Me: Off what then?

Mum: Off Strictly Come Dancing.

Me: Oh. Is that on again?

Mum: Yes. It was on the other day when you were down here.

Me: Oh. I forgot.

I returned to my work none the wiser.

Ouch!

Yesterday, I was busy being super-efficient, and I was setting things up for the start of term service at work. I checked there were enough out, and moved the partition so everyone would be able to come in alright. This is when disaster struck, as it often does when you are doing things in a hurry. I caught my finger in the partition, so it was squeezed between to large wooden panels.

Have you ever had something happen when time seemed to stand still? I felt the pain, and realised it was happening. For an age, the partition moved in slow motion and continued to squeeze my finger. At last, the message from my head got to my hands, and I moved the partition. As I stood there, everything went white and cloudy, and I hastily sat in a chair, lest I fainted.

It was the ring finger of my right hand, and it was the nail that was caught. A large purple spot instantly came up under the nail which began to swell. I hurried off and ran it under cold water. That made it hurt. I stopped and raised my hand, which did improve things, and tried to remember what the first aid book said to do, and wondered if my nail was going to burst, so tight did the swelling get. I am afraid, dear reader, the Banbury Man lost his normal fortitude and was sick. So distressed was I that I forgot to put water out for the preacher, and check whether the organist had the hymn numbers.

Surprisingly, although it is very tender to the touch, and still rather swollen, the finger does not hurt or throb unless I forget about it and use it. Sadly, there is no dramatic marking either - just a purple blob and some streaks under the nail. I half hope it all turns black, and the nail drops off, as a suitable demonstration of how painful this is, but I suspect it will all calm down, and I shall wonder what the fuss was in a week's time.

Nevertheless, I have learnt that partition doors are to be handled with the greatest of caution. Take heed!