Same-sex marriage: ignoring the view from the pew

The YouGov poll showing that more Anglicans now support same-sex marriage in the Church of England than oppose it, will - unfortunately - have little if any effect in changing the rules any time soon. This is due to the fact that the CofE is anything but democratic when it comes to listening to, much less acting on, the views of its ordinary members. The Church long ago adopted a system of 'synodical government' that locks the broad mass of the laity out of any real decision-making. While each parish elects members to a parochial church council, election to the next level - the deanery synod - is down to the PCC members (in reality, the vicar's choice or buggin's turn). Depending on size of parish, this could mean 2-4 PCC nominees take a seat in the deanery synod. From there, the deanery synod elects members to sit in the diocesan synod. And it is this group that then gets to elect members of General Synod - the actual decision making body of the CofE. Now, one problem with General Synod lies with its structure. Here there are three 'houses' - one for the laity, one for the clergy and one for the bishops. And all have to agree before a rule change can be made. Even then, the matter isn't sealed, because - being the established church - the CofE's canon law is made for it by Parliament - the law is made in the same way as an Act of Parliament, only its called a Measure, to show that it only concerns the Church. A second problem with the General Synod is the narrow mind-set of its house of laity members. While Anglicans at parish level are broadly representative of wider society, General Synod members most certainly aren't. The synod meets for two weeks per year, usually once in Canterbury and once in York and has a far reaching committee structure. In effect, this means that lay members have to make a large time commitment, meaning that only the retired or those of 'independent means' need apply. The more reactionary do tend to float to the surface here, too (remember, it was a narrow vote in the house of laity that scuppered the first attempt to change to law to allow the consecration of women bishops in November 2012). Synod members at all levels also tend to accept the prevailing mood of the houses of clergy and the bishops, which can also restrict free thought and progressive decision-making. A personal example - and one of the reasons I left the Church after nearly 50 years - came in a conversation with a Canon (a senior priest in the then Diocese of Wakefield). Personally affected by what I saw as a high-handed and unaccountable decision reached by an Archbishop, I questioned the outcome with the Canon, who rather fatuously said: 'everything a bishop does is for our benefit'; I suspect to shut down the debate and silence dissent (and certainly not a line of argument Peter Ball's victims would ever agree with). Having an apparently greater understanding of Church history than the Canon, I disagreed - but challenging nonsense like this is hard for the more authoritarian-minded, who tend to sit on PCCs and synods. The CofE won't be allowing its clergy to marry same sex couples for quite some time. In the meantime, its also been granted a statutory power to discriminate by Parliament, which has legislated to deny the possibility of same sex marriages taking place in Anglican churches, even though other denominations already offer same-sex marriage or are far more likely than the dear old CofE to accept change in the not too distant future.

Trident and IS, a new strategy

Overheard a man walking past a peace vigil in Huddersfield the other day. He looked at the banners and anti-Trident slogans and then said out loud 'you'd let ISIS just kill us all'. Paying billions for US missiles won't make a blind bit of difference to IS, not that the pavement field marshall seemed able to grasp the finer points.

Politeness in confined spaces

I traveled from Manchester to Huddersfield on the rather grandly named, but oddly spaced and capitalised TransPennine Express. The name is not borne out by the mundane layout of the carriages, which - although intended to convey passengers from Liverpool and Manchester to Scarborough and Middlesbrough - are cramped, with narrow aisles that frequently host standing passengers. In my case, I was carrying a rucksack and a small wheeled suitcase and a ticket with a reservation. The seat allocated for my exclusive use between Manchester Piccadilli and Huddersfield was stated on the ticket as being seat 1 in coach B. There were two problems, however, first I couldn't find seat number one, no matter how many people I squeezed past, with 'excuse me' falling frequently from my lips. The second problem was that seat number two, which I could find, was occupied by a woman who had only just realised that the seat was reserved - and that she wasn't supposed to be occupying it. Having found the seat, and seeing when she moved that number one was the aisle seat (she'd obviously bagged the window seat, as you do) I then had to find room to allow her to pass down the carriage, while the rightful holder of the seat number two reservation, who had just made her presence felt, took up her rightful occupation. The train was now moving, so we had to balance, push and excuse as the usurper removed herself and the holders of tickets with reservations for seats one and two heaved their luggage into the space where our legs should have been. This took up an interesting first five minutes of the journey, before myself and my window-seated companion unpacked a surprisingly wide selection of snacks and what looked suspiciously like student work, that she proceeded to mark. Between mouthfuls of crisp and sandwich she also bemoaned the lack of civility of those who take up seats they aren't entitled to. That's the great thing about the English: we are polite to each others' faces, no matter how uncomfortable the immediate circumstances, but once the annoying impediment is removed, we love to complain like hell about the cause of it. Huddersfield couldn't come soon enough. Massaging feeling back into my legs, I left the station and took the expensive option of a taxi home. The cheaper bus would have entailed a 30 minute wait - but more to the point, one public transport-located game of balance, push and excuse was more than enough for one day. Calder Valley Flood Appeal - please donate now.

Ziggy Stardust and the Confused of Leeds

One afternoon after school as we wandered around Woolworth's record department, my mate Carl tried to explain to me how David Bowie had 'killed' Ziggy Stardust, but that it was OK because they were the same person. And that Ziggy Stardust wasn't real anyway. He then took me way out of my depth by saying that Ziggy was from Mars and bisexual. How could he be from Mars if he wasn't real? I asked, not unreasonably in my opinion; think I used my follow up question to ask what a bisexual was. Carl got annoyed at this point and I think either stormed off or hit me, possibly both. I wasn't a fan, you see (we didn't even have a record player at home) and some kids even had Aladdin Sane by then. He probably didn't know what a bisexual was either. After all, he had also said he knew what condoms were for, but this turned out not to be for contraceptive purposes, rather to prevent you from catching a scary sounding (but entirely made up) disease called Red Knob. Memories of that conversation still make me want to crack up with laughter, which isn't appropriate today of all days because, over the intervening years, I've learned that David Bowie was a great talent in music and art and that he'll be sadly missed. China Girl and Heroes are my favourites and will be played in tribute when I do the ironing later. But what happened to the Spiders from Mars? Were  they despatched  by a huge rolled up intergalactic newspaper or humanely removed by interstellar transport under a tumbler shaped starship with a heavy-duty detachable cardboard safety deck...?

They need books at Ted Hughes' old school

The village of Mytholmroyd in West Yorkshire was badly affected by the Boxing Day floods, with homes, shops, businesses, schools and churches inundated by water when the River Calder and the Elphin Brook burst their banks. Burnley Road School, which is situated across the road from the river, bore the full force of the flood and everything in the school, including the library books and bookcases, have had to be destroyed. The school's most famous former pupil was Ted Hughes, the late Poet Laureate and children’s author; in honour of that link, and the inspiration the village and its surroundings played in Hughes' works, it would be great to have the school library fully restocked with donated children's books. Calder Valley Flood Appeal - please donate now.

Black hole burps - why science geeks will never be cool

Black hole 'burps' gas at nearby galaxy. Not a bad headline, 'black hole' and 'burp' have a degree of alliteration, but there's something missing, something that would have made the whole story immediately live click bait for non-science types. At school, the science geeks (we didn't call them that then, but language moves on and I'm happy to adapt to change - sometimes...) mainly sat at the front and got overly excited over writing up their experiments. They also seemed to understand algebra and knew how to use it, which marked them out as very different in my mind. But science is interesting and you need to engage with those who never got the bug first time round. After all, this is what Prof Brian Cox is for. Returning to the 'burp', how can we improve it, make it more relevant to the non-scientists? Well, off the top of my head, let's think about black holes: they're a long way away and on-one seems to know what they really look like. That much is common to scientists and non-scientists alike. However, the science geeks missed something else. Farts are funny (and that is much better alliteration, by-the-by). The behaviour of forcing gas into someone, or something, else's direction is more commonly associated with flatulence - it is, to employ a 'rule' of probability (and scientist like these) one of those instances of the law of 'who dealt is smelt it'; which, again by-the-by, is what we non-geeks were laughing at to the general disbelief and consternation of our far more lesson-engaged classmates at the front of the lab all those years ago. And if you still want some alliteration, try this: Black hole blasts botty-burp at next door galaxy. Now that's funny. And if you don't laugh, we'll get you at break time. Calder Valley Flood Appeal - please donate now.

Mytholmroyd and Calder Valley flooding

Spent Wednesday 30 Dec as a volunteer with Calder Valley Flood Support in Mytholmroyd, helping to deliver cleaning gear to flooded homes, packing bedding for a person flooded out of her home who had secured rented accommodation and then helping to clean up at the Dusty Miller pub, which had been badly affected by flooding from the river Calder on Boxing Day. One theme that recurred throughout the day, from conversations with those affected by the flooding - and this was the third bout in a month - and from other volunteers, was the number of uninsured properties in the village. Some people had simply found that no insurer would offer cover for their homes, while others felt that premiums and excesses had been hiked beyond their reach to deter them from even bothering. A prime example were the couple I met who were forced from their small cottage on Burnley Road, the main road running through the village, on Boxing Day night. Their home has one room downstairs and a bedroom and bathroom on the first floor. From their bedroom window, which was then partially under water, they had watched mature trees and other large pieces of debris being swept downstream with such force that they were amazed there had not been loss of life. They are friends of the Dusty Miller's landlord and are currently staying at the pub as the guest accommodation has not been affected. For their small home, the most recent premium quoted was £1,800 per year, with a £5,000 excess. They had not bothered to insure and now, along with a sizeable proportion of other village residents, now face a costly clean up and repair bill. Calder Valley Flood Appeal - please donate now.

Short arms and deep pockets at Christmas

Last act of the day before finishing for the holiday? Checking to see if a very large corporate customer has paid an overdue invoice. The answer is, they haven't (despite an 'assurance' from an accounts wonk that it would be in my account by yesterday). So I'll be starting the new year in full on credit control/small claims threatening mode. Bah humbug. Happy Christmas - 'cheques in the post'

e-cards: pressies on planks

Received two business-type e-cards in past couple of days, one from customer, the other from a trade body - both using the image of either presents or holly superimposed on a background of planking. See both as evidence of lazy design that tends to creep in to certain images or products - think back a couple of years and there was a sudden plethora of book covers showing solitary figures in long overcoats standing amidst incomplete/fog-bound city scapes. This became so dominant that spawned a Private Eye feature that still occasionally runs in the Books/Library news section. So, designers, take some time off this Christmas, recharge the old batteries and stop looking over other peoples' shoulders in the studio. And please, no more planks...

Romanian sheepdogs and the rule of law

This story intrigued me. It seems the Romanian Government has passed a law that limits the number of sheepdogs that can work with a shepherd in some places during the hunting season. The law was passed after, what we would call 'lobbying', by hunters, who are concerned that the dogs frighten away bears. That's right, Romanian sheepdogs go after bears. And now the hunters and politicians have decided enough is enough. But the shepherds, and presumably their four-legged friends (dogs, not sheep), aren't happy about it. They're so pissed-off, in fact, that the shepherds flocked (sorry, couldn't resist) to protest outside the Romanian parliament. Now, while the rule of law is absolute - ie law should be upheld and respected everywhere by all - there are times when legislators need to realise there have to be limits to the laws they enact. Taking on a group of canine employees who embody a work ethic that is so developed as to be almost a death wish seems to me to be just one of those limits. Perhaps the Romanian parliament ought to try another tack - how about outlawing the Ursine practice of woodland defecation, see how far that gets them... PS: apparently there are 10 million sheep and 1.5 million goats in Romania, so the dogs are kept pretty busy. PPS: BBC Radio 4 Crossing Continents (or Cross Incontinents) has now taken an interest!

The Little Red Chairs - Edna O'Brien

This story sees a 90s Serbian war criminal turned new-age healer (an obvious Karadzic manqué) turning up in a rural Irish backwater. Once established as a massage oil doling sex therapist, he impregnates the wife of a failed draper before the long-arm of an Garda Siochana whisks him off to stand trial in the Hague. Retribution is then visited on Fidelma, the woman he leaves behind by the wagging tongues of her neighbours and the altogether more terrifying hands of her erstwhile lover's former bodyguard. Forced to flee to London, Fidelma is transformed into that Irish every woman who leaves home under a cloud of disapproval or common or garden poverty, who then works in any menial job she can find, becoming strong in the process. O'Brien weaves a tale of violence and male weakness and female empowerment that is compelling and yet strangely tender. Mna na Eirean  have probably never had a more telling or powerful advocate.

The bigot in the changing room

Just had the following conversation at the gym. A stranger asked me if it was still raining. When I said it was, he responded by saying he was 'fed-up with this country' because it's 'crap now, always wet and full of foreigners'. His answer? Emigrate to Cyprus!
I wanted to point out that that would make him a foreigner too, but for some reason words failed me...

Johny Foreigner and the Spirit of the Blitz (Reversed)

Strange how we are so often told that the Blitz brought out the best in the British, how we refused to be cowed in the face of air attack on these islands, yet our Middle East policy is now - apparently - based on the total opposite. Could it be that Cameron actually believes, as per Mainwaring/Jones, that IS 'don't like it up 'em'? That, contrary to how the Brits took it on the chin from the Luftwaffe, that the assorted nasties ranged against us will crumble at the first rumble of RAF bombing? When Kenny Everett (yes, he was a Tory supporter, don't forget) put on his 'bomb the bastards' personna he was joking. But Cameron/Fallon and crew seem to have missed the punchline and enshrined the principle into foreign and 'defence' policy...

Art at the Brewery

Spent the afternoon at the Tetley, the art gallery and community space housed in the former Tetley brewery office in Leeds. The brewery was controversially closed by parent company Carlsberg a few years ago but the imposing main office, complete with wainscot panelled boardroom and portraits of late Tetleys, remain surrounded by art installations and community event spaces.
Shame the beer served in the cafe is now brewed in Northampton, as opposed to the traditional, but sadly now demolished brewery that dated from the early nineteenth century that until recently stood next to the office. The smell of malt and hops filled the air for generations of loiners.

The train now standing at Peterborough...

Returning from London by rail the other day, the train slowed noticeably as it neared Peterborough. Pulled by a diesel engine as we were, the speed reduction, we were told, was due to high winds - which reduced the speed of electric engines to 85 mph. As one of these was pulling the train ahead of ours, this was the reason for our own reduced speed. We weren't due to stop at Peterborough, but we soon did. After the guard was asked to contact the driver - never a good sign - an announcement was made, telling us that the unscheduled stop was due to a report that a tree had fallen on the line. The staff member serving drinks in my carriage seemed to wince slightly as he listened to the announcement. After a 20 minute wait, we started moving again. It was only then that he told us the reason for his trepidation: 'last time that happened, I ended up spending the night on the train' he said. Fortunately, the total delay was only an hour this time.

Remembrance

Tonight I'm readying myself to stand at the war memorial in the morning. I used to go with my grandad, a WWI veteran, and my dad, who fought in WWII. I went with them as a boy because they told me it was important to remember their mates who were wounded and killed. Later, I learned it was also to honour all victims of war. But dad and grandad are gone now, so it can seem lonely, except I go in their memory, sometimes even carry one of their medals so I can remember when we stood together.
It can also feel lonely for other reasons, too. Mainly because I remember when a poppy was a symbol of suffering and loss, not something you felt compelled to wear for the sake of appearances, or to show 'respect' to a far right group that my dad would have raged over.
He was a proud Legion member. And I remember when the Legion didn't go in for a self-appointed guardian role, or or accept sponsorship deals from arms dealers, but existed to look after those who fought, as it did when they helped secure dad's war pension for hearing loss.
So remember tomorrow, remember the lost and maimed, the fatherless and orphaned, the bereaved parents, the widows - from all sides. Yes, that's another lesson I learned from my grandad: there are no 'winners' in a war - no matter what politicians, of all shades, tell you. He knew it for real: on a road leading from Macedonia into Bulgaria at the end of September 1918, he saw the Bulgarian Army surrender:

To us they looked to be either young boys or old men, starving, dressed in rags. They just threw their guns on a pile at the side of the road and shuffled off into the distance.

That was war to him, a cruel waste of life, of people and land. War was fear, suffering and loss - he taught me and I remember. Tomorrow, I will remember.

On a gold autumn day - Calderdale, not Orangefield (apologies to Van the Man)

Cycled from Brighouse to Sowerby Bridge and back on the Calder Hebble Navigation towpath (that's a canal, for the uninitiated). Anyway, here's some Autumn gold, hope you enjoy as much as I did taking the photographs.

Keeping to the script

Had to buy a new router yesterday, owing to its predecessor packing up without warning. The replacement, a Netgear     AC1600, ticked all the techie boxes, including streaming and gaming. But it resolutely refused to accept my ISP's login settings, so I called Netgear technical support.
After several minutes listening to loud muzak, a female operative answered the phone and proceeded to take my details. After a short while, I was asked if I would like to join Netgear's mailing list (hint to Netgear marketing: technical support calls might not be the most fruitful source of future sales, if the caller can't get their present purchase to work).
I was then taken through an obviously scripted sequence. When this didn't resolve the issue, we went through it twice more. An hour and a half later, the operator admitted defeat and we ended the call with her telling me to contact my ISP and ask them to 'reset the Internet connection and refresh my username and password'. The ISP's tech support dept took some getting through to ('unexpectedly high call volumes'). But eventually a guy traced the problem and the router connected. At this point, I asked about resetting the Internet, only to be told that this was impossible (the request actually reminded me of the IT Crowd episode where Jen 'breaks' the entire Internet by dropping the box that Chris and Moss have told her contains the world wide web as a joke).
The router works, but Netgear tech support didn't help bring this about, and the scripted approach prevented the problem being identified sooner.

Stylish, with small cups and cold showers

Spent the weekend in a 'contemporary hotel' but didn't give much thought to what it meant until I took a shower and then ordered breakfast.
The reception area, corridors and rooms were all clean lines, bold feature walls with contrasting lighter tones. But ''contemporary" has its limits, as I discovered in the shower. This was an old fashioned mixer affair, with the intending showeree trying to gauge flow and temperature from the bath, before turning a third tap to switch the water from bath to showerhead. All of this effort could soon be undone, however, as anyone drawing water elsewhere could either send a stream of scalding water cascading from the shower, or turn the temperature to a level that would be more appreciated by polar bears or penguins.
As I experienced the latter twice during the shower, I went down to breakfast craving hot coffee. But, here again 'contemporary' had its limits. The cups were small and guest seemingly not to be trusted with a cafetiere. Leading to a situation where every sip was followed by a scan of the restaurant, in the hope of securing a refill from a passing and suitably equipped waiter.

The Dentist will see you now

Just back from having a filling. The dentist had to get the dental nurse to place a finger on my chin - seems I was showing signs of wanting to 'chew the drill', not, as she helpfully pointed out 'a very good idea'. It must be novocaine that unleashes a reckless streak in and around my jaws. Her predecessor told me off for trying to bite her just after the jab took effect.