From the Guardian today: The Catholic church is telling newly appointed bishops that it is “not necessarily” their duty to report accusations of clerical child abuse and that only victims or their families should make the decision to report abuse to police.
My contempt for the Catholic church is cranked up another notch; it’s now approaching the level of disgust that church leaders seem to have about sex. Celibacy for priests can only ever create conflict and frustration, leading priests to have secret lives. Priests who abuse children have traditionally been relocated to other, quieter parishes (Craggy Island?), which suggests that the church cares more about the perpetrators than their victims. Today's story also suggests that the church is still not taking any real responsibility for their history of abuse...
Thursday, 11 February 2016
Conspiracy theories...
While taking pictures in Buxton, I saw a guy with a laptop, who was also taking pictures… with a tiny web-cam plugged into the computer. “I’d use a proper camera”, he said, “but I can never remember to charge up the batteries”. I should have taken that hint to say “cheerio” and be on my way… but I lingered a moment too long.
On a rise, where the war memorial now stands, there used to be a temple, the guy said. Pre-Roman. He had found some numbers nearby, which, when added up, proved that this was the site of the holy grail (though he seemed to think the holy grail was a well). He linked the grail to the Roslyn Chapel (mentioned in Dan Brown’s book, The da Vinci Code); the same people who built the Roslyn Chapel also built the war memorial, apparently. He mentioned ley lines, linking up other notable sites of antiquity. “Buxton is a very important place”, he whispered conspiratorially. “How come nobody knows about all this?”, I asked, feigning mild interest. He gave me a significant look: “Because they don’t want you to know”…
On a rise, where the war memorial now stands, there used to be a temple, the guy said. Pre-Roman. He had found some numbers nearby, which, when added up, proved that this was the site of the holy grail (though he seemed to think the holy grail was a well). He linked the grail to the Roslyn Chapel (mentioned in Dan Brown’s book, The da Vinci Code); the same people who built the Roslyn Chapel also built the war memorial, apparently. He mentioned ley lines, linking up other notable sites of antiquity. “Buxton is a very important place”, he whispered conspiratorially. “How come nobody knows about all this?”, I asked, feigning mild interest. He gave me a significant look: “Because they don’t want you to know”…
Wednesday, 10 February 2016
Impudence...
I watch the occasional football game, usually on a pub TV, though I’m not sure why. Pele called football “the beautiful game”, but I’m not convinced by that either. I watch players dive, cheat, dissemble, con the referee and try to gain an unfair advantage at every opportunity throughout the game. In a show of crowd-pleasing petulance, players surround referees in an attempt to make them change a decision. But referees don’t change their minds, not even when the players are swearing in their face. It’s an unedifying spectacle, not least because these antics can now be seen in grass-roots football. Children swear at their match officials, and so do their parents, standing on the touchline. Beautiful game? I don’t think so.
“Where are the role models?”, the pundits ask. Well, they’re not playing professional football, that’s for sure. I can only think of one player I admire, and he hung up his boots a few years ago. Niall Quinn donated the entire proceeds from his benefit match to a children's hospital in Sunderland, acting with a kind of grace and humility that football seems to have lost altogether.
Just occasionally I’m reminded why, despite everything, I still keep watching. Liverpool won a free kick against West Ham yesterday evening, just outside the penalty box, and Coutino prepared to take the shot. The West Ham players were lined up, ten yards away, between Coutino and the goal. They assumed Coutino would try to kick the ball over the wall, and make it dip down towards the goal, so as Coutino ran up to the ball, they all jumped in the air to block the shot. Without missing a beat, Coutino slid the ball along the ground, beneath them, and into the bottom left corner of the goal. The goalkeeper never moved. As a tactic it was clever, impudent and very effective. It gave me a smile. I think Coutino smiled too, which made a change from the usual goal celebration: the snarl of triumph and the fist-pump…
The River Nene - and Georgian buildings - in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire…
“Where are the role models?”, the pundits ask. Well, they’re not playing professional football, that’s for sure. I can only think of one player I admire, and he hung up his boots a few years ago. Niall Quinn donated the entire proceeds from his benefit match to a children's hospital in Sunderland, acting with a kind of grace and humility that football seems to have lost altogether.
Just occasionally I’m reminded why, despite everything, I still keep watching. Liverpool won a free kick against West Ham yesterday evening, just outside the penalty box, and Coutino prepared to take the shot. The West Ham players were lined up, ten yards away, between Coutino and the goal. They assumed Coutino would try to kick the ball over the wall, and make it dip down towards the goal, so as Coutino ran up to the ball, they all jumped in the air to block the shot. Without missing a beat, Coutino slid the ball along the ground, beneath them, and into the bottom left corner of the goal. The goalkeeper never moved. As a tactic it was clever, impudent and very effective. It gave me a smile. I think Coutino smiled too, which made a change from the usual goal celebration: the snarl of triumph and the fist-pump…
The River Nene - and Georgian buildings - in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire…
Sunday, 7 February 2016
Whittlesey...
Drove on ruler-straight roads today, through flat fenland, ending up in Whittlesey. Feeling a bit rough, thanks to a cold, but it was still good to get the camera out today. I’d almost forgotten how to use it…
The Customs House, Kings Lynn…
The Customs House, Kings Lynn…
Friday, 5 February 2016
Normal for Norfolk...
Spent a couple of very enjoyable days with old friends in Norfolk. They own the village pub in Syderstone - more by accident than design - and, after a facelift, it’s looking a treat… like a village pub ought to be. The beer - Adnams - is good, even better if you can drink it in one of the armchairs next to the wood-burning stove. Plans are to start doing food and offering bed & breakfast accomodation, so we spent a morning at an auction in nearby Fakenham, looking for furniture to decorate the bedrooms.
Even though most of the lots were junk, they all sold (briefly interrupting their progress to landfill). I found a box full of Ordnance Survey maps and, with no other bidder, got them for £3. My chums bought chairs, rugs and pictures, and didn’t break the bank either. It was a really downmarket auction, with the clientele determined to prove that every cheap stereotype about Norfolk people is true. The auction happens every Thursday, at 11am; hopefully I’ll be back there sometime soon, with some loose change and a camera.
The sky may still be grey, but the weather is warm. Hedgerows are beginning to come into leaf, and trees are in blossom, alongside the snowdrops, catkins and daffodills. There may yet be more snow, and arctic temperatures, but right now, on the Norfolk coast, there’s a definite feeling of spring in the air. I’ve ended up in Holt this evening, a compact little market town. After a couple of beers, and some free wifi, an early night beckons. Tomorrow I’ll take a wander round the Cley marshes with my monocular, check out the birdlife and hopefully take a few pix…
Even though most of the lots were junk, they all sold (briefly interrupting their progress to landfill). I found a box full of Ordnance Survey maps and, with no other bidder, got them for £3. My chums bought chairs, rugs and pictures, and didn’t break the bank either. It was a really downmarket auction, with the clientele determined to prove that every cheap stereotype about Norfolk people is true. The auction happens every Thursday, at 11am; hopefully I’ll be back there sometime soon, with some loose change and a camera.
The sky may still be grey, but the weather is warm. Hedgerows are beginning to come into leaf, and trees are in blossom, alongside the snowdrops, catkins and daffodills. There may yet be more snow, and arctic temperatures, but right now, on the Norfolk coast, there’s a definite feeling of spring in the air. I’ve ended up in Holt this evening, a compact little market town. After a couple of beers, and some free wifi, an early night beckons. Tomorrow I’ll take a wander round the Cley marshes with my monocular, check out the birdlife and hopefully take a few pix…
Wednesday, 3 February 2016
The Great North Road...
Driving down the A1, to spend a couple of days with old friends in Norfolk. I remember when the A1 was called the Great North Road, which always sounded more romantic, more significant. When you were driving on the Great North North you felt you were really going somewhere.
One of the roadside garages has had a change of use, and is now an ‘adult shop’. How convenient - and discreet - to be able to add to your collection of books, magazines, videos and handcuffs without having to go into town and risk meeting someone you know. Disappointing that they didn’t have Cumshot Cavalcade vol 4 on widescreen DVD, but there you go…
One of the roadside garages has had a change of use, and is now an ‘adult shop’. How convenient - and discreet - to be able to add to your collection of books, magazines, videos and handcuffs without having to go into town and risk meeting someone you know. Disappointing that they didn’t have Cumshot Cavalcade vol 4 on widescreen DVD, but there you go…
Tuesday, 2 February 2016
Hell, fire and damnation...
The wind got up this morning. It was so gusty, as I skirted Ilkley Moor, that I stopped and parked facing directly into the wind, so the gusts wouldn’t hit the vehicle side-on. Even then it was rocking. No great privation: I had articles to write and two buttered scones to keep me going. I’ve finished the St Kilda book, though the hiistory of the islands, post-evacuation, wasn’t as interesting as the earlier chapters.
The author, Tom Steel, was dismissive of the churchmen who periodically came to the islands. He reserved particular scorn for the Reverend John Mackay, whose mission lasted from 1869 to 1889 (the longest of any minister). Mackay disrupted the islanders’ traditional patterns of work, by requiring them to attend three services every Sunday, which added up to about six and a half hours in church.
Mackay demanded the full attention of his flock, during his long sermons, as he preached “hell, fire and damnation”. No-one could work on the sabbath - or sing, or laugh - and “all but the recitation of the Bible was thought sinful”. Another writer observed the islanders as they went to church. “They did not appear like good people going to listen to glad tidings of great joy, but like a troop of the damned whom Satan is driving to the bottomless pit”.
Life on St Kilda remained harsh and precipitous, right up to the evacuation of 1930. Islanders were susceptible to disease (with no doctor on the island, and little hope of getting help from the mainland). Anyone falling ill between September and May would be treated on the island - probably with a poultice and bed-rest. The islanders were told - and believed - that the high incidence of infant mortality was God’s will. One woman gave birth to twelve children, of which only one survived. By 1930 the traditional way of life had become unsustainable. There were too many old people, too few young men to venture onto the cliffs for gannets and fulmars, and not enough children to keep the population viable.
On the mainland the islanders were split up. They had little concept of money, had never seen a car or a bicycle, and had no idea about wealth or social status, because everything on St Kilda was shared and held in common. “They were unaccustomed to motor cars. Instead of stepping aside when a car came along, they would simply run in front of it”.
In the postscript to the book’s most recent edition, the story is brought - almost - up to date. In 2011 only two St Kildans were still alive, aged 89 and 86. I had to look online to find that one died in the meantime, leaving just Rachel Johnson, aged 94, as the last link with St Kilda.
The author, Tom Steel, was dismissive of the churchmen who periodically came to the islands. He reserved particular scorn for the Reverend John Mackay, whose mission lasted from 1869 to 1889 (the longest of any minister). Mackay disrupted the islanders’ traditional patterns of work, by requiring them to attend three services every Sunday, which added up to about six and a half hours in church.
Mackay demanded the full attention of his flock, during his long sermons, as he preached “hell, fire and damnation”. No-one could work on the sabbath - or sing, or laugh - and “all but the recitation of the Bible was thought sinful”. Another writer observed the islanders as they went to church. “They did not appear like good people going to listen to glad tidings of great joy, but like a troop of the damned whom Satan is driving to the bottomless pit”.
Life on St Kilda remained harsh and precipitous, right up to the evacuation of 1930. Islanders were susceptible to disease (with no doctor on the island, and little hope of getting help from the mainland). Anyone falling ill between September and May would be treated on the island - probably with a poultice and bed-rest. The islanders were told - and believed - that the high incidence of infant mortality was God’s will. One woman gave birth to twelve children, of which only one survived. By 1930 the traditional way of life had become unsustainable. There were too many old people, too few young men to venture onto the cliffs for gannets and fulmars, and not enough children to keep the population viable.
On the mainland the islanders were split up. They had little concept of money, had never seen a car or a bicycle, and had no idea about wealth or social status, because everything on St Kilda was shared and held in common. “They were unaccustomed to motor cars. Instead of stepping aside when a car came along, they would simply run in front of it”.
In the postscript to the book’s most recent edition, the story is brought - almost - up to date. In 2011 only two St Kildans were still alive, aged 89 and 86. I had to look online to find that one died in the meantime, leaving just Rachel Johnson, aged 94, as the last link with St Kilda.
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