An Ill Wind....

Let me start by mentioning that I like cars. I don't lust after them, I wouldn't take food out of my children's mouths to buy a better one, but if the keys to a nice white Jaguar XKR just happened to fall through my letterbox one day, donated by a grateful admirer (huh!) I wouldn't ask too many questions.

My fellow Doorkeeper at the particular house of God that we try to keep nice bought himself his heart's desire when he retired a couple of years ago. It's big, it's black, it's German and it's got more gadgets than Harrod's Toy Store in November. He is a nice man in all other respects, but has he stopped raving on about this flippin' German monstrosity yet? No he has not.

My Vicar, who is a 12-year old boy despite having been walking the earth a bit longer than that, has also got this German creation with a removable roof and heated seats to compensate. Engine capacity is about 200 litres and it makes a noise like a jet fighter on afterburn.

Now me, I've just got an Astra Estate in fog grey. It's fine. However, I've been having a bit of bovver with it just lately. First of all, some poor woman rear-ended it when I had to stop alarmingly quickly to avoid hitting a learner driver who did something absurd in front of me. Then, when I should have been taking it to the body shop to have the damage assessed I couldn't because the battery died so I had to get it to a different garage for a transplant. Then I couldn't get it to the body shop for its refit because I was going on holiday - and so on.

Anyway, I got it there today. My assailant's insurance kindly offered to provide me with a hire car. Thank you very much. I was expecting a Ford Ka or something. Not on your life, mate! A young man turned up to collect me and drive me to the hire company in a very nice car. Kind, I thought. Where's my Ford Ka? It turns out that, because my car is an automatic, they undertake to provide similar, and the only automatic available was this thing -

a '10' plate Audi A6, no less. Just over 1000 miles on the clock. Huge!

All you have to do is point it in the right direction. It decides if it's dark enough for lights, wet enough for wipers, too close to another car for comfort. I'm wondering if it will change colour to match my next outfit.

Note to self - ring body shop & tell them there's no hurry for that repair.......

Yoof culture

- and that’s ‘culture’ as in petri dish – growing things – not ‘Culture’ as in NDUBZ or Plan B (am I ‘on trend’ there? Oh, sod it, who cares?)

I mis-spent a fair slice of my middle years helping with, and eventually running, our Church’s junior youth group. Every Wednesday evening, including school holidays so that the poor dears wouldn’t be bored, 7 – 9 pm, age 9 to 13, but if they wanted to stay past 13 that was OK too.

As if I didn’t have enough to do with a full-time job, a house full of kids and a weekly food bill to rival the National Debt. (who said “always ask a busy person…”? Shoot him!) I was caught off-guard by our very sweet, young curate (beware sweet young curates) and his partner-in-crime who were re-starting the youth club and really wanted, no, needed, a female of parent age to support them. Look around the congregation for potential candidates…. that’ll be me then. To be fair, they both became life-long friends so, with hindsight, it wasn’t an entirely stupid thing to do.

And, to be even fairer, we did share a vision. We all accepted the futility of trying to get teenagers into church on a regular basis. They have far more important things to do on Sunday mornings like sleep, eat and talk to their mates. But, we thought, if only we can get them at least to be familiar with the place and the stories, then there will be fewer barriers to their return, should they want to come back later. That was 27 years ago.

Our group was roughly equally divided between the children of ‘church’ families and those from families who did not regularly cross our threshold. (Let’s not call them ‘unchurched’. That’s another post for another day when I need a rant.) We used to treat them to a few minutes’ ‘teaching’ and then let them loose on the snooker table and tuck shop. One dad once told me that, although he didn’t go along with all that religious stuff himself, he could see that it kept the riff-raff out. That’s OK then.

I came across some photos the other day, which prompted me to do a ‘where-are-they-now’ exercise with interesting results. No less than three of them are police officers (how did that happen?), one is a nurse, one a midwife. One is a professional singer, one has created a big (really big) family. One got a degree in Geography and went off to teach in New Zealand. One late arrival eventually became a Roman Catholic and is now a monk. One is a priest in the Church of England (nothing to do with me – God did that all on his own!)

Those from the ‘church’ families still pitch up at the old place now and then; some have children in today’s choir, most drop in when they are visiting the wrinklies at Christmas. But we can announce a significant achievement and for this I claim my Indulgence please. Thank you. (That was such a good fund-raising idea until that German bloke messed it up.) One quiet little thing came from a family that never ever crossed our threshold. They didn’t even pick her up from club; she just came and went with her mates. Miracle of miracles, she reappeared last year – in her 30’s now - with a couple of littlies of her own. They go to Sunday School, she comes to Church and sometimes helps with the Sunday School herself.

You see, the strategy works – we did it, we got one!

Goodbye Old Friend

I can remember the last Daily Mail London-New York Air Race when I was at University in London in 1968/69. The idea was to get from the Post Office (now Telecom) Tower in London to (I think) the top of the Empire State Building in the shortest time. People competed on scheduled flights, in private jets, you name it. The highlight of the whole gig for me was the participant who took off in a Harrier 'Jump' Jet - he had parked his Harrier in a coal yard somewhere in London and took off from there, inevitably covering half of London in coal dust. Magnificent! I can't remember if he won or not but it doesn't really matter.

Today, at the hands of the cost-cutting bean counters in Whitehall, the Harrier took its last flight in the service of the RAF and Navy, ahead of time - the Harrier had some good life left in it.

Aircraft buffs used to sat that the UK had at least 3 things to be wholly proud of - Concorde, the Harrier and the Red Arrows.

Anybody want to buy an 'aircraft' carrier, one careless owner, might come in useful as a floating football pitch.....

Old Age Ain't For Sissies!

With apologies to the Old Geezer - and to The Revd. Acular who has already plagiarised him - but the title suits the thought of the day to a T.

I am delighted to announce that, as of yesterday, I am officially an OAP! Why yesterday? Well, the Department for Work & Pensions, the great Palace of Plenty in its infinite wisdom and beneficence, finally put some money into my bank account yesterday. I am actually tickled pink about that!

Yes, I know, intellectually I am aware that I have been putting big chunks of money into that pot since God & I were in our teens, but emotionally it feels a bit like they are giving me free money just for being old-ish. I like that.

I am now officially an Old Dear, so don't mess with me or I'll fetch you one round the earhole with my walking stick. (I've got one somewhere!)

Seriously, though, what IS the problem with getting old? I don't understand. Why do so many deeply misguided people subject themselves to quite unnecessary nips, tucks, fillers, toxins, in the vain attempt to stay young. I am certainly not wishing my life away but I enjoy the milestones. 30 was better than 29 because you can aspire to elegance at 30. 40 was good because it lends a gravitas that eludes a mere 39-year-old. 50 was the best one because I could retire at 50 - beat that, botox-fodder! AND I got to go on SAGA holidays.

And at 60? Free money, free bus pass, concessionary fares, exemption from paying National Insurance. Respect, maybe? It's great so far and I have no complaints.

Now I can't sit here chatting away for your amusement. I've got stuff to do. My ipod needs charging and I'm teaching myself to create a photo-DVD to give a presentation about my trip to Oberammergau (I have yet to convince them that they need a digital projector but I'm working on it).

Speak to you again when I've got a minute.....

Flying Bishops....?

I've been thinking about Flying Bishops. I don't really approve. I mean, does Ebbsfleet really need a bishop? I don't think so. What is the point? Does the episcopal derriere keep warm the big chair in Ebbsfleet Cathedral? No. Does the episcopal presence direct operations in the Diocese of Ebbsfleet? No.

I got on to this odd and seldom travelled (by me, at least) road after reading Bishop Alan's blog. (No there is absolutely NO connection there!) But I got to thinking, if the mysogynists can have their very own bishops, can we not all have our very own bishops. The Flying brigade are there to give succour to those poor souls who are put out by having a General Synod that disagrees with them (a bit simplistic, maybe, but it covers the ground sufficiently for this purpose). I need similar succour.

Now I have a bishop - a nice man and a good man - but whose idea of what the dear old CofE is all about is as far removed from mine as it is possible to be. It's a bit like F in F having to report to Bishop Brenda but the other way round.

So I got to thinking, why can't I have my own nominated bishop? I don't need my personal bishop to fly but in the geographically neutral world of the web I need him to blog. Bring on Bishop Alan. I sneakily read the Bishop's blog every day these days and there is much that speaks to me. (And you've got to respect a man who's got the full Hebrew Bible on his ipad - already!)

So, no Flying Bishops for me (not now, not ever!) but I humbly submit my application to nominate Bishop Alan as my Blogging Bishop.

OK Bish?

Hello World...

This is my 'Hello, World' post - I have bowed to the pressure and started my own blog rather than just commenting on those I follow.

It is Corpus Christi - the day of Thanksgiving for Holy Communion. That probably means more to Roman Catholics than to the majority of those who put 'CofE' as their religion on official forms, but we do not ignore it. We have celebrated this in some style in recent years with processions over scented strewing herbs and rose petals (it's all about hitting all the senses...)

We celebrate differently this year. We are taking a 49-seater coach-full of people plus a few cars 20 miles down the road to visit our last-Vicar-but-one (now a Bishop) who is visiting to preach. They are all very keen to go. Did we mention that it was going to be a Pontifical Concelebrated High Mass? Maybe, maybe not. They might just be able to see the Old Vic through the smoke.... (It's all about hitting all the senses!)

I confess, I have not told the whole truth. You see, the mention of 'smoke' would have deterred several of my fellow-travellers, and yet they haven't seen the much-loved Old Vic for a couple of years and really really look forward to seeing him. So, I have not told the whole truth. So, they can have an outing, a coach trip, see their old friend, celebrate the feast, enjoy. If they don't like the smoke, they can moan tomorrow, but tonight, we feast!