Coventry...

In Coventry now, ready to don my oldest clothes and help to transform a half-finished extension into a big kitchen: the heart of son Chas’s house…

Old and new bridges, spanning the River Aire at Ferrybridge...

An appetite for wonder...

To get the bitter, acrid taste of the Koran out of my mouth, I’ve been reading An Appetite for Wonder, a memoir by Richard Dawkins. It covers his childhood, schooldays and years at Oxford, ending with the publication of his first, ground-breaking book, The Selfish Gene. For a man who’s often called arrogant and strident, particularly by people of faith, the young Dawkins comes across as measured and restrained. He seems well aware of the advantages he enjoyed, and readily owns up to the mistakes he made. I was surprised to discover that, as a child, he wasn’t very interested in - or knowledgeable about - wildlife. Even today he admits to not being able to recognise the songs of more than half a dozen birds or know the names of many plants. He even admits to not being very observant!

I was particularly interested in the chapter on Oundle School. Dawkins went there, aged 13, in 1954 (I was the same age when I went there, but ten years later, in 1964, so our paths never crossed). The one common thread was a man called Ioan Thomas (He wasn’t Ioan Thomas to us. To his face he was Mr Thomas; behind his back he was ‘Tit’ Thomas. God knows why). I remember him as my housemaster: a rather distant figure, and a bachelor, who should never have been put in charge of seventy impressionable boys. Dawkins recalls him, more positively, as an inspirational biology teacher.

Dawkins remembers, with a shudder, the arcane rules and regulations of life at public school. They were administered by the prefects, who were allowed to wear a straw boater and carry a whip. Dawkins was a fag, at the beck and call of the deputy head of house; ten years later this arcane tradition was being dismantled (though the prefects were still entitled to carry whips). We both remember the bullying, the casual cruelties that seemed to be sanctioned - even encouraged - by the very people who were, in loco parentis, entrusted with our welfare. Along with rugby, cold showers and corporal punishment, it was no doubt supposed to be ‘character building’…

Ebenezer Row, Chesterfield...

Look, see, be, fly...

As a bit of a treat Helen and I attended a workshop in Leeds with Jonathan Kay, the Fool. I’ve attended his workshops before, without showing any particular aptitude for what JK seems to do so effortlesly, and Helen was in a mood to ‘try anything once’. Ten of us congregated in a big room, 16 stories up in an office block, with amazing views over the city.

It was a really enjoyable two days, getting out of our comfort zones and trying to tap into our more spontaneous selves… with varying degrees of success. Jonathan creates a supportive atmosphere, while retaining the right to chide and provoke. It’s difficult to describe the nuts and bolts of a fooling workshop, except to say that anything goes. The finale, on Sunday afternoon, had one woman assuming the character of an erect penis (she did it rather well, considering), while Helen was in the role of Angelina Jolie’s vagina. They came together in a climax of applause from a tiny audience. As I said to the woman sitting next to me, “That's not something you see every day”…

Granary Wharf, Leeds...

Leeds...

In Leeds, by the canal basin, having parked up the Romahome in a secure car park for a couple of days, while Helen and I do a workshop with Jonathan Kay, the fool…

Selby Abbey...

The Koran: a belated review...

Wanting to read what 1.6 billion Muslims around the world believe to be the infallible, unalterable word of God, I picked up a copy of the Koran. It started inauspiciously: “This book is not to be doubted. It is a guide for the righteous, who have faith in the unseen and are steadfast in prayer”.

This life, says God, is but a sport and a pastime. The righteous can look forward to the rewards of the next life, which reflect the desiderata of desert tribesmen living in the 7th century AD. Paradise is a garden watered by running streams and fountains, where believers can sit in shady groves of palms and vines, surrounded by “bashful, dark-eyed virgins”.

Non-Muslims, on the other hand, have less to look forward to. For the next 400 pages the torments awaiting unbelievers, infidels, apostates, idolators and evil-doers are described in revoltingly smug, lip-smacking detail. “The damned shall be cast into the Fire, where, groaning and wailing, they shall abide as long as the heavens and the earth endure, unless your Lord ordain otherwise: your Lord shall accomplish what he will”. Though Arabic has no word for what the Germans call schadenfreude, Muslims are obviously familiar with the concept.

I read the Koran in a translation by N J Dawood. Some Islamic scholars insist that the Koran can only be understood properly in the original Arabic, but, frankly, the book is so boring that I doubt if it would have made much difference. This is the problem with an “unalterable” text: it has never received which it needed most, a comprehensive edit. I read in the translator’s introduction that the sections can be read in any order, which should have rung warning bells that I wouldn’t find a cohesive narrative. There is only a seemingly endless catalogue of promises, threats and imaginative variations on the theme that “God is great”. The judicious use of a blue pencil would have reduced those 400 dreary pages to about a dozen… without losing anything of significance. The Koran has nothing to teach us about morality. Behaving well, merely to avoid the fires of hell: what kind of morality is that?

The book is “not to be doubted” because it is the authentic word of God, as revealed to an illiterate warlord, Muhammed, in what we used to call - during a brief lull in hostilities - the Holy Land. The voice is God’s own, revealing him to be sadistic, vengeful, dogmatic, unforgiving, tyrannical, small-minded, pedantic, insecure and narcissistic. He rules through fear, threats and promises, and demands to be worshipped constantly. God is probably the least attractive character in all fiction, and he says the same things… over and over and over again.

Islam is a man-made religion. Women are mentioned - though not addressed directly - along with slaves, camels, sheep, goats and the other chattels that were of monetary value in a desert economy. The “bashful, dark-eyed virgins” are rewards for the righteous. Men can have sex with their wife, or wives, or a favourite slave-girl. The punishment for a woman taken in adultery is death.

God knows everything. God sees everything. God knows what you are thinking. God knows the day of your demise. He made the heavens and the earth, the fish and the flowers. He made the rain that waters the crops, and he created man… from a germ and a clot of blood. And all he asks from his followers, in return for all this bounty, is that they praise him ceaselessly, obey his every instruction and smite his enemies at every time of asking. I was reminded of George Orwell’s definition of totalitarianism: “a boot stamping on a human face - forever”. The Koran manages to be both dull and terrifying at the same time… and that’s a bad combination.

The claims to have unique access to the “one true God” are not exclusive to Islam, of course. And if your God is the only true God then it follows that all other gods must be false. Islam isn’t the only religion to wish ill on those who worship other Gods and ‘golden calfs’. But Islam makes one unique claim for itself: that it is the last revelation. God will have nothing further to say to mankind. This is it. 

The tone of the book is an incitement to violence, but the judgements go much further than that. With the Koran still believed to be the unalterable word of God, the 7th century violence has transferred into the 21st. These are no empty threats. The penalty for apostasy - leaving the religion - is the same today as it was 1,400 years ago. Death. That fact alone should dispel any notion, suggested by ‘moderate Muslims’, that Islam is a peaceful religion. Extreme muslims haven’t ‘misinterpreted’ the holy texts; the calls for violent reprisals are embedded in every page.

Revelations? Hardly. The Koran is 400 pages of white noise and nonsense, book-ended by the sincere hope that the end-times are at hand. For those who believe in paradise, the apocalypse can’t come soon enough. Islam is inviolable. God must not be mocked. The punishment for blasphemy is a small fine or a few hours of community service. Just kidding. It’s death, of course…

Doing the chores...

I’ve had a day at my favourite campsite in the Yorkshire Dales, so I’ve been busy editing, uploading and keywording pix. It’s also a good opportunity to wash all my clothes. I did one load last night, and just put in another load this morning. Unfortunately, I neglected to add the sachets of detergent liquid, so my clothes probably won’t have the ‘April freshness’ I crave...

Grassington hosted a 1940s weekend (I missed it; if I wanted to go back to the 1940s I'd spend the day in Morecambe). I met a couple on the campsite who were dressed up in army unforms. I asked them how the war was going. "Very well", the woman answered, without missing a beat, "and we heard Winston Churchill on the radio last night"...

The ticket office at Bolton Abbey Railway station...

Otley folk...

It’s the folk festival weekend in Otley, so I spent yesterday afternoon with Howard, my oldest chum. We managed to avoid the music altogether for the first two pints, sitting in September sunshine, but the lure of a badly-sung sea-shanty eventually proved too strong. The highlight was a group of about twenty ukelele players who tackled pop hits of the 1980a with infectious enthusiasm: the Bangles, Belinda Carlisle, Human League, etc. Impossible to watch without a smile on your face. Finished off with a curry and an early night…

The River Nene at Peterborough...

Sports Direct...

If people are polite to me, when I’m taking pix, then I’m polite to them. But if they come out ‘all guns blazing’ then I change tack. I was photographing this Sports Direct shop, with its closing down sale (a saleable pic given the recent developments at the company), when a woman rushed out of the shop and demanded to know what I was doing. I said it seemed pretty obvious what I was doing. Well, you can’t photograph the shop, she said. I can, I said… watch me. “I’m going to phone head office”, was her parting shot, as she rushed back into the shop. I hope she gets through to Mike Ashley, and tells him there’s some old geezer taking pictures of the shop… so what should she do about it?…

Titchwell...

Ate outside last night, on the hottest September day I can recall, with old chums Colin and Mandy, in the little Norfolk village of Syderstone.  The sky was still full of swallows and house martins.

This morning I headed to RSPB Titchwell, on the North Norfolk coast, for a lazy day watching birds and seeking shade. The highlights were a flock of spoonbills, some golden plovers and half a dozen sanderling dodging the waves on the beach. The day ended with a sighting, I think, of a little stint. Was it or wasn’t it? Thankfully, it doesn’t really matter. In Hunstanton now, uploading pix and rehydrating with pale ale…

A quiet corner of Kings Lynn...

"Next pigeon"...

After taking pix in Peterborough yesterday, I had a wander around where I used to live. Windmill Street is still there, and Gladstone Street, but my local boozer, the Gladstone Arms, is now a Portugese restaurant. There’s not much need for a pub any more, as the area is now almost totally Asian in character, and there are two mosques on Gladstone Street alone. Through the window of one mosque I saw lines of men prostrating themselves on the floor. Having read the Koran I have a better idea of what they are saying, and who they are saying it to. Instead of a mosque I now see a Trojan horse.

The Gladstone Arms was run by Luigi - Lou - and his “mom” and “pop” (that’s how they were known to the customers), and any of Lou’s brothers who weren’t in prison at the time. As you walked into the pub Lou would look at your feet, search behind the bar and produce a pair of shoes. “Try these on”, he’d say, “just your size”. Pop spent most of his time playing pool, and generally won. As he potted the black, he did a little dance of pleasure. “Next pigeon”, he’d say and the next mug would put his money in the slot and rack the balls…

Coventry...

Had a relaxing weekend in Coventry with son Chas, in his new house. He was telling me that the city is on the up, and so it seems to be. In Peterborough today, taking pix, before heading east into Norfolk to see some old friends…

The canal basin, Coventry...

Carnforth...

Still feeling a bit rough but, thanks to the ministrations of Dr Winter-Barker (crazy name, crazy guy), I now have a course of antibiotics which will hopefully clear up my chest infection. In Carnforth this morning, parked up next to the station where Brief Encounter was filmed, doing a few chores before heading south…

Bardsea...

Furness Abbey...

Busy doing chores today, including the editing of pix I took yesterday at Furness Abbey, near Barrow…

Lying Eyes...

Had a day in Ulverston, mostly writing and reading while the rain hammered down. In the evening I ventured out to one of the town’s quieter pubs, to find a guy playing guitar and singing songs. When he’d sung one Jim Webb classic made famous by Glen Campbell - Witchita Lineman - I asked him if he knew the other. I always sing my own version of Galveston, whenever I’m driving to Ulverston, but guitar guy didn’t know it. I still enjoyed the session, though it was slightly surreal to hear some of Elvis Costello’s angrier torch songs reinterpreted as easy listening ballads.

He played an Eagles song, Lying Eyes. Many years ago, when I was a youth leader in Peterborough, I called in at the youth club to find a band rehearsing. A guy said “Have you come to audition?” and, on the spur of the moment, I said yes. He handed me a list of the songs they knew, which included Lying Eyes… so that’s what I sang. Halfway through the song I glanced behind me where the bass player was holding his nose and pulling an imaginary toilet chain. That’s as close as I’ve ever come to musical stardom…

Morecambe Bay...

Pub attractions...

I watched some of the England v Pakistan one-day game yesterday, in a pub in Kendal, where there were a couple of other attractions. The barmaid was flying a tiny drone helicopter - it would fit in a matchbox - around the bar. It looked like fun… for an hour or two, at least. And a guy with a VR headset, which cradled a smartphone, was treating fellow pub-goers to ‘immersive’ films. I experienced a big dipper fairground ride, a surreal landscape and a sort of horror film, without ever finding the effects very convincing (of course, having only one working eye probably didn’t help in maintaining the 3D illusion). Had a few games of pool as well. Though I’ve barely picked up a cue in the last 15 years, I’m finding the game is coming back to me - a bit - and beating the locals was more fun than a tiny helicopter or a virtual reality headset...

A phonebox in Leyburn, with a functioning phone: something we may not see in a few years time...