Photos from the Angelic Pub

This afternoon I visited an O2 shop in London's West End to buy a new cable for my mobile phone. Looking at the accessories, I found what I needed for £30. Expensive, but as I had bent my cable out of shape, I knew that I was just going to have to take the hit. However, when I explained to the sales assistant what I had done, he disappeared downstairs and came back with a new cable that he gave to me - for free! How did that happen? I don't know, but I am grateful and come the time when my contract runs out and I decide to stay with O2 or not, I will definately remember this moment. So, having now successfully uploaded my photographs from the Angelic pub...

Here are the five Stations of the Cross. At the top is the tenth Station - Jesus is stripped of His garments. On the far left is the Eleventh Station - Jesus is nailed to the Cross. In the Middle, the Twelfth Station - Jesus dies on the Cross. On the right, the Thirteenth Station - Jesus is removed from the Cross following His death. At the bottom is the Fourteenth Station - Jesus is placed in the Tomb.

The tenth Station: Jesus is stripped of His garments.
We adore you O Christ and we bless you.
Because by your holy Cross you have redeemed the world

***
I love you Jesus, my Love, above all things;
I repent with my whole heart for having offended you.
Never permit me to separate myself from you again.
Grant that I may love you always, then do with me what you will.

The Eleventh Station: Jesus is nailed to the Cross.

We adore you O Christ and we bless you.
Because by your holy Cross you have redeemed the world
***
I love you Jesus, my Love, above all things;
I repent with my whole heart for having offended you.
Never permit me to separate myself from you again.
Grant that I may love you always, then do with me what you will.

The Twelfth Station: Jesus Dies on the Cross

We adore you O Christ and we bless you.
Because by your holy Cross you have redeemed the world
***
I love you Jesus, my Love, above all things;
I repent with my whole heart for having offended you.
Never permit me to separate myself from you again.
Grant that I may love you always, then do with me what you will.

The Thirteenth Cross: Jesus is taken down from the Cross

We adore you O Christ and we bless you.
Because by your holy Cross you have redeemed the world
***
I love you Jesus, my Love, above all things;
I repent with my whole heart for having offended you.
Never permit me to separate myself from you again.
Grant that I may love you always, then do with me what you will.

The fourteenth Station: Jesus is placed in the tomb

We adore you O Christ and we bless you.
Because by your holy Cross you have redeemed the world
***
I love you Jesus, my Love, above all things;
I repent with my whole heart for having offended you.
Never permit me to separate myself from you again.
Grant that I may love you always, then do with me what you will.

So there, we are - an altogether different spiritual experience in a pub! If you are in North London, the Angelic pub is just behind the Angel, Islington on Liverpoor Rd. Have a look at the Stations then go to the toilets where they have comedy shows on a constant loop. When I was there on Thursday they were playing Blackadder!

Going Back In Time

The dúnadan has been tagged by the Roman Miscellanist. If an angel could take one back in time, what five things or occasions would one like to experience? Off the top of my head, this is what I would choose. Like Fr. Nicholas, I am going to bypass Biblical events.

I. Shakespeare writing one of his major plays (e.g. Hamlet) or Sonnets.
II. King Alfred beating the Vikings in 878 in the battle of Edington. His victory here led to peace with the Danes.
III. A meeting of the Inklings during its heydey in the 30s and 40s.
IV. Armstice Day in 1918.
V. The death/ascension of Blessed Mary. Yes, I know that she is a 'Biblical character' but as this event is not described there I am sneaking it in.

Paul Burgin and Ignatius Paul (Yea, gettest thou to thy blog mine friend!) consider yourselves tagged!

Italia or Rome

I was reading about the Roman Republic last night and found an interesting little fact: but for the actions of a Roman agent, Italy could have been founded 2000 years earlier than it was. In 91BC, Italians came together to discuss what to do about Roman exploitation of them. They decided to replace Roman rule with a new federal statae, the name of which would be Italia. Unfortunately, a Roman agent discovered the plot when he saw hostages (i.e. pledges of good faith) being taken from the town of Asculum in southern Italy. The local Roman governer tried to quell the discontent but was killed, along with all the Asculum Romans. A revolt started - the first in many years between Roman and Italian forces. Velleius Paterculus (writing in the first century AD) says that 300,000 men were killed. Even allowing for exageration, that is alot of people. Unfortunately again the book did not give the name of Paterculus' opus, which would have been interesting to know. The Italian revolt was not put down for nearly a decade when the longest lasting of Rome's enemies, the Samnites, were defeated by Sulla in 82BC. By way of a concession, Rome gave most Italians Roman citizenship. A federal Italy would have to wait another 2027 years to come into being.

HNP Exercise Club: Running in the Rain (II)

I woke up at five o'clock this morning and was much pleased to hear the sound of rain outside. And not just rain but claps of thunder too! Hurrah! I hoped it would continue until first light so that I could have a taste of what it is like to go jogging in wet conditions. It wouldn't be the first time that this had happened but on the first occasion, the rain was not very substantial. Not that I remember this, but when I started this post by typing in the title, I found that I had used it before. Having completely forgotten that post, I am guessing that I would have remembered if the rain on that occasion had amounted to much.

Anyway, I digress. When I left the house at 7:30am, it was indeed still raining quite hard, though not so hard as to drench one. Funnily enough, the sky was quite fair, indicating (as indeed happened) that the shower had almost spent itself and would soon be passing. The run was a good one. I wore my waterproof for the first time since its purchase on 12th July and for added trendiness I unzipped the sleeves. No, I don't know how wearing a sleeveless waterproof is trendy, either, I guess I must be desperate.

Back to the run, as I have probably mentioned before, my jog takes place up and down two long roads next to where I live. At the far end, is where I tripped and fell on that now legendary day on 17th August this year (ever the mythologist I expect by this time next year I will be telling people that I had to amputate my own arm before stitching it on back home). This morning, a big puddle blocked that section of pavement. Now, if I had thought of it, I could have gone the long way round, round the outside of the raised green which is the home of a tree and on which I nearly bashed my head when I fell. However, I didn't think of it, and even if I had, I would probably have turned the idea down in favour of having a good splash through the puddle, which I did. My trainers won't have thanked me, but it was good fun! Indeed, there is much to be said for running in the rain as watching the raindrops explode in the puddle, having the sensation of the rain massaging oneself and hitting a puddle with one foot and striking the drops of water that are flung up with the other testify.

In fact, but for the stitch that came in the 18th minute, it would have been a really good run. On the plus side, my arm didn't get sore again and the stitch was less strong than on Thursday, but it was a shame to have happened anyway.

The Angelic Pub

This evening I drank with some friends called the Angelic in North London. It is a wonderful pub. On the second floor, the roof has been painted with a copy of the roof of the Sistine Chapel. Tapes of comedy shows plays in the toilets and there is a bust of Pan and a statue of Venus. Unfortunately, there is no statue of St Thomas Aquinas, however, which is a shame. Following a recent refurbishment what has appeared is five little sculptures of the Stations of the Cross (the last five). Now, quite why the pub has chosen to put these up is beyond me, but they are wonderful sculptures which are beautiful to see. I took photographs of them which I will try to post over the weekend. Alas, I can't do it now as I appear to have bent the head of the lead which connects the mobile phone to the computer out of shape.

On Fathers & Love, Actually

After concluding my morning jog, today, I watched the opening scenes of Love, Actually. Now, I know that this is an unsubtle, very manipulative film - but I don't care. If you do, this post will have little to commend itself to you so for your own sake go visit another more convivial bloga. For my part, I like all of Richard Curtis's films as they provide a welcome break to dull, kitchen sink dramas that British directors are so fond of. What touched me about the film today was the opening scene of the families and friends being reunited at the airport. One scene in particular caught my eye. It was this one:

The gentleman in this photograph reminded me of a waiter in a French shopping mall that I once saw. He was forty something and he looked harassed but remained professional. I know because he gave us a good service. And so did another forty something man who waited on L. and I (plus another) when we visited a restaurant in Prague three years ago. What these men had in common is that I imagined them as being the kind of people who would work hard for not enough money, go home and think themselves a failure because they had not succeeded in the profession that they would have liked to have succeeded in, not 'been there' enough for their families and generally have failed to make their mark on the world.

Of course, all this is a load of nonsense. True success does not come from having a great job and earning lots of money. It doesn't even come from having the respect of other people. What true success comes from is doing good. That is what the man in Normandy did for us, and it is what the man in Prague did too. The truth is not always easy to see. And nowhere is this more clear than in this kind of situation because all these men did was serve some customers who did not say much to them before going on their way. Maybe it is like this at home for these gentlemen. Maybe their families do not seem to appreciate what they have done for them. If so, that is wrong of their family, but I hope that they do not presume that they are not loved greatly, because, as I said, the truth is not always easy to see. The Truth, after all, is invisible.

HNP Exercise Club: Another Little Barrier Falls

When things are going well, one is very tempted to stretch oneself even further. So it was this morning that during my third jog of this week, having intended to do a 1/5 run I decided to see if I could do a 1/6 run instead*. For the first two thirds of the jog it was easy. In the final third, however, I did develop a bit of a stitch and sore shoulder. Both disappeared once I stopped. This mirrors what happened during my first 1/5 run, so come Saturday morning it will be interesting to see whether the same problem occurs or not.

*For those who don't know this refers to a one minute walk followed by six minute run. At the moment I jog for around 20 minutes.

Bletchley Park

Yesterday, L. and I visited Bletchley Park, home of Britain's code breakers during World War II. Before being bought by the Government in the late 30s, Bletchley was owned by the Lyon family which made its money in finance. The Patriarch built the mansion (left) in the 1880s. As our guide pointed out to us, it is a mishmash of styles - you can see Greek columns on the right; just behind the people is a large round doorway. This is actually a gateway, such as old churches have. We were told that the architectural style of the far left of the mansion is Dutch. Just beyond the house is the hut where Naval intelligence worked during the war.

Bletchley Park is the home of the Enigma machine and its decoder, the Turing Bombe - the reason for our visit. I first got to know about the Enigma when I saw the film of the same name in the late nineties. The submarine on the left is a scale model of the submarine (U-Boat) which tried to rescue Puck at the end of the film, only to be blown up by the sinister Mr. Wigram. I highly commend the film to you: Kate Winslett, Dougray Scott and Jeremy Northam all but in star turns. Esp. Mr. Northam!

Britain has very strict gun laws, but we found these just lying around! Neither L. or myself are experts on guns, but we recognised the sten gun (top left). These guns were laid out behind a barrier. To make sure no one got too close to them, there were some tommies sitting around just behind me in period army dress. As we strolled around Bletchley Park, we saw other people dressed up as soldiers (there was even a wren). More than this, however, there were some real veterans of Bletchley Park's war time work present as well, talking to people about their work.

We went on a tour of the Park and came here, behind the mansion. In the centre of the photograph, you can see a tower with a pole sticking out of the top. This is actually a fully functional ariel. If there is another war, Bletchley Park would be able to answer the call! In the centre-left of the photograph is a silver window. Our guide said that Winston Churchill slept here during his visits.

This hut is now a pigeon coop but during the war, Alan Turing worked here and, if I remember correctly, broke the Engima code. Later on, he moved huts but carried on the good work. At its busiest, Bletchley Park had 10,000 people working on code breaking, but only one man turned traitor and he spied for our allies the Russians. Our guide informed us that the fellow (named Cairncross) felt that Britain was not sharing information fairly with the Soviet Union. After being caught, one might have thought that Cairncross would have been hanged or imprisioned for a very long time, but it was not so. He retired into obscurity and died in the 60s. Perhaps a reason why he was treated so leniently
is because information was shared at Bletchley Park on a need-to-know basis with only the men at the top of the tree having sight of all the information being collected by the codebreakers.
To the right is a monument that is dedicated to the people who made Bletchley Park possible - the Poles. Britain had known about Enigma since the 20s but had not bothered to investigate it. Poland, however, had more foresight, and spent the 20s and 30s analysing it. In 1939, on the eve of the Nazi invasion, British cryptanalysts visited Warsaw where the Poles told them about their research and handed over their Enigma machine. It is not only for John Paul the Great that we can say thank God for Poland!

After the war, Winston Churchill ordered the dismantling of the bombe machine. This machine, the Colossus, was also dismantled. For the last 12 years, a dedicated team has set about rebuilding it using photographs and such information as they have been able to glean from the files. The Colossus was built to break the Lorenz code. The Lorenz was a twelve rotor cipher machine (Enigma had three rotors) way beyond the capability of the bombe to break. The man in the white shirt on the right is Tony Sale. You can read more about his work at his website Codes & Ciphers.

Here is the Turing bombe. It was too difficult for the code breakers to break the Enigma in whole, so they tried to get a partial break and then set up the bombe to do the rest. Sorry, that is not a very clear explanation. I shall have to study the matter further!

Here is the other side of the Turing bombe, opened up especially for the visitors! When the bombe is switched on, the innards go clackety-clack and the drums on the other side revolve at different speeds.

And here is the famous Enigma machine! It is a relatively small and unassuming machine. During World War II, thousands of Enigmas were used in the battlefield by German army officers, all convinced that it was unbreakable. This confidence contributed to the Enigma's downfall. During the battle for the Atlantic, U-Boat officers sent formulaic messages to land regarding weather reports and the like. The code breakers were able to guess what they were saying and construct a crib to break all of the day's messages.

Quins not quite mauled

Harelquins 15 Leicester Tigers 21

Once more, Harlequins led at half time (9 - 5) only to concede the advantage during the second half. And, once more, the efforts of the team were compramised by a player being sin binned, Will Skinner being the culprit this time. Oh well, after two EDF Cup games (against Llanelli and Sale) the next Premiership game will be against a team who did not finish in the top four last year and who were predicted as relegation candidates this year - Bristol. Unfortunately for us they have had a good start this year and are currently in fourth place!

To finish on a positive note, I must say well done to the Quins for not letting last Sunday's demolition job upset them and for keeping the score tight against the Tiggers. As a result, they won a vital bonus point.

Biretta Tip

A little belatedly, but a biretta tip to Father Nicholas, Roman Miscellanist, and new assistant priest of my parish, for an enjoyable evening in the pub on Friday night. The conversation took in blogging (of course), books (wonderful things), the Church and different kinds of music. It was good fun. Father Nicholas mentioned that the two of us are the only bloggers in the Westminster Diocese which is incredible to think. If you are in Westminster, why not try this blogging lark out? A blog is easy to set up and need not to take up much time (though it can be quite addictive!) Anyway, thank you Father Nicholas for the evening.

The Inquisitive Cow on Hardy, Shijing poetry and the Reformation

dúnadan: Hello from rainy Dorset! This week, the inquisitive cow and I have moved from Sherborne to Dorchester where we are standing underneath a statue of that great - though not terribly happy - writer, Thomas Hardy. Hallo Cow!
inq. cow.: Good afternoon dúnadan.
dúnadan: Do you have any ideas as to why Hardy was so miserable?
inq. cow.: As incredible as it may seem - to a native of Dorset as much to a visitor - I think it is because Hardy spent his life looking into men's souls rather than out of the window. And what he saw, he did not find very beautiful. I remember the venerable Robinson Tortoise - Farmer Phil's companion - reading Hardy's works to me when I was younger and explaining 'All is grit. All is grime. All is muck in the human soul! It makes me glad to be a tortoise!'.
dúnadan: What a happy tortoise he was!
inq. cow.: Just before he died - aged 128 - he chose his own epithet: I knew it would happen this way. I like to think he said this with a sly grin.
dúnadan: This rain is getting heavier and heavier. Let's move on.
dúnadan:... so, as we walk, in looking at the heavy clouds above, I cannot help think of William Shakespeare. I long to see what lies beyond: an undiscovered country.
inq. cow.: How very poetical! However, in thinking poetically about the stars you are following in a long tradition. In the sixth century before Christ, Pythagoras talked of there being 'music in the spacing of the spheres.' In the fourth century, Plato used the now famous phrase, 'the music of the spheres' to describe what he thought was the 'melodious perfection of the heavens'. He also spoke of the 'celestial harmony' and 'the most magnificient choir.'
dúnadan: It makes one very sad that we live in an age which believes that all that exists are atoms bouncing off each other. It may be true but seems insufficient somehow.
inq. cow.: That is because your scientists have lost the ability to be poets. Think back to the Middle Ages. Mediaeval scientists built the most complex models of why the cosmos was the way it was. They knew that those models were not true but it wasn't their purpose to create a literally true account of things. Their mission was to 'save the appearance' of the universe. I think this is because they combined their poetic impulse with their scientific one.
dúnadan: Gosh.
inq. cow.: It lasted until people like Galileo came along and gave much more scientifically pure accounts of the movements of the Sun and earth. Poetry fled in the face of nascant scientism.
dúnadan: Can you imagine if Gerard Manley Hopkins was a scientist?
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
Oxygen will meet combustable materials, shining incandescent gas;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Hmm. Well. Maybe not.
inq. cow.: I can appreciate how the confining presence of total cloud cover would make one long to discover what lies beyond, however, being an animal, my thoughts are more earthbound. have you heard of the Chinese form of poetry called Shijing? It is very old - collected in the sixth century BC - and likens blessings to natural phenomena and describes the beauty of women in terms of plants of flowers. There is one poem that I am particularly fond of because it reminds me of the Song of Songs. It is called 周南 (The Odes of Zhou and the South):

關關雎鳩、在河之洲。
窈宨淑女、君子好逑。

參差荇菜、左右流之。
窈宨淑女、寤寐求之。
求之不得、寤寐思服。
悠哉悠哉、輾轉反側。

參差荇菜、左右采之。
窈宨淑女、琴瑟友之。
參差荇菜、左右芼之。
窈宨淑女、 鍾鼓樂之。

Guan-guan go the ospreys,
On the islet in the river.
The modest, retiring, virtuous, young lady:--
For our prince a good mate she.

Here long, there short, is the duckweed,
To the left, to the right, borne about by the current.
The modest, retiring, virtuous, young lady:--
Waking and sleeping, he sought her.
He sought her and found her not,
And waking and sleeping he thought about her.
Long he thought; oh! long and anxiously;
On his side, on his back, he turned, and back again.

Here long, there short, is the duckweed;
On the left, on the right, we gather it.
The modest, retiring, virtuous, young lady:--
With lutes, small and large, let us give her friendly welcome.
Here long, there short, is the duckweed;
On the left, on the right, we cook and present it.
The modest, retiring, virtuous , young lady:--
With bells and drums let us show our delight in her.

dúnadan: Cow, I didn't know you knew Chinese!
inq. cow.: Well, do you remember Herbert Goose? He was one of Bertie Pig's inspirations. Anyway, as you know, geese migrate to northern Canada. In 2004, however, Herbert got a knock on the head and decided to head off to China instead. He liked it so much that he stayed there. By the time he came back he was quite proficient in the various forms of Chinese language. He always was a literary goose and so I was glad to have him teach me all he knew!
dúnadan: Well, I'll be. Now then, Lola and I were speaking to each other via the most excellent medium of the Blog Comments box and she proposed that you buy a book for me. Unfortunately, you are an unpaid worker.
inq. cow.: It's true.
dúnadan: However, that does not mean you don't have an opinion to offer on the subject that we were discussing: the Reformation. What is a cow's perspective on it?
inq. cow.: For many years, the dissolution of the monasteries was regarding as being bad for Eating Animals as it was assumed that they were made unemployed. But, of course, Queen Elizabeth ate nobles out of their homes when she went on her tours, so if there were no more plump monks then there were plenty of plump noblemen. What was worse for all animals was the Protestant work ethic: it wasn't only humans who worked harder!
dúnadan: It must have been hard on your ancestors. I know animals are not fond of shifting owners. But if a cow was owned by a Catholic, he would have been sold to pay the various rescusant penalties.
inq. cow.: Yes, and if there were Puritan Cows in your new herd they would make sure that you got a rough ride.
dúnadan: Puritan cows?
inq. cow.: They don't believe in pasteurising their milk.
dúnadan: Silly things. Well, look where we are; after a nice walk we have come to Hardy's cottage. I visited here with some friends a while ago - when it was sunny

the dúnadan at Thomas Hardy's cottage

- so, let's finish things off with a quick look at the news. This week, let's see what is happening in Vladivostok in eastern Russia. The first headline warns that police were forced to fire into the air to ward off a bear that had strayed into the village of Sokol, 56 kilometres from the easternmost city of Magadan.
inq. cow.: Wild bears need to be careful. Less scrupulous people would have shot them for their fur. It can reach several hundred dollars.
dúnadan: Next up, a story of poaching. Russian border guards caught a Japanese vessel illegally fishing near the Kuril Islands.
inq. cow.: The story says that a fisherman was accidentally killed when the boat was fired up. Hmm! Have gun, will kill!
dúnadan: Finally, a pleasing story: a successful culinary festival has just opened in Vladivostok. Professionals will share their cooking secrets with amatuers and there will be tastings. Mmm!
inq. cow.: But you can't beat a bit of grass!
dúnadan: Indeed! Well, Gerrie Cow, it has been a pleasure speaking to you again this week. I hope you have a good week and I shall see you again in seven days time!
inq. cow.: Thank you dúnadan, and the same to you.

index of inquisitive cow interviews
shijing poetry at the university of Virginia

HNP Exercise Club: The Cost of Gadgetry

So there was the dúnadan in Nike World on his day off yesterday buying Stuff when he saw the little ipod-nike device that fits in your shoe and allows you to use your ipod to monitor your running performance. Not having any better sense, he says to himself Yes, I will buy that as it will be interesting to get read outs of whatever it is it, er, reads out. Away the dúnadan goes, well pleased with his purchase. But less pleased is he when he gets home and opens up the nifty gadget and discovers that said Nike device requires a special shoe so that it can be comfortabally fitted in!

The curtain comes down on Shadowplay

This is how it is. You live in a country with a long history - a thousand years plus more. In that time, the country has gone through some good and bad times. When reading books about the latter, you recognise the reality of the situation then but on some level you gloss over it: what was then is no longer now, thank goodness. Furthermore, you find the good that happened in those days before moving on. I have just finished reading Shadowplay, Claire Asquith's discussion on the coded Catholic messages in William Shakespeare's plays and such has been its impact I don't think I can gloss over the first Elizabethan age in England any more. In fact, for Catholics, it was an absolute disaster. For the soul of the country, it was an absolute disaster. The Church fell and tyrants and greedy money and power hungry men took over. To fit names on accusations, we look to the Queen herself and her refusal to grant toleration to Catholics. We also look to William and Robert Cecil, Elizabeth I's chief civil sevants who led the anti-Catholic persecutions. We also look to George Abbott, the bigot who became Archbishop of Canterbury.

It is Asquith's contention that Shakespeare wrote his plays with one eye on his audiance and another on the monarch. He himself was a Catholic and he sought to persuade the Queen and then King James to take the path of toleration and reconciliation. The latter really marks Shakespeare out. For all the persecution of Catholics that was going on in his day, you might expect him to be virilently anti-Protestant. But no, he thought that both sides could and should live side-by-side. Shakespeare's attempt to persuade would make an excellent film. I could imagine it: On the one hand, Shakespeare uses coded language and ideas to bring the Queen round to his way of thinking while at the same time still making his plays acceptable to Protestant ministers who would gladly fling him in gaol if they could. The Queen dies and James takes over. There is a brief respite for Catholics. Shakespeare takes great steps forward as James likes his works. But then, the Gunpowder Plot ruins everything. But there is still hope - James's son, Henry, is sympathetic to Shakespeare's cause. Unfortunately, he dies young, and when that happens, the Government finally catches Shakespeare out. He is given a choice: write Government friendly plays or stop writing. Shakespeare chooses the latter option. Asquith suggests that this is what happened. It certainly accounts for why Shakespeare stopped writing so suddenly.

Anyway, as you can tell, I enjoyed Shadowplay immensely and so recommend it to you. It is the story of Shakespeare told from a fresh and exciting perspective. Of couse, Shadowplay ends sadly. The story does not end there, however, beginning a new and wonderful chapter three hundred years later with the Catholic Emancipation Act.

HNP Exercise Club: Five minutes of glory!

Jogging progress has been much disrupted of late due to various aches and pains, however, this morning, I was back out there, ipod in hand giving the pavement what for. And, because I have the day off work today (the post times are accurate!) I was able to run in the sun. Very nice, indeed.

This morning, I managed a first: 1/5. Regular readers will know the drill, but for newcomers, this meant that I walked for one minute and then ran for five. How did it go? Well, whereas after a 1/4 run for 15 or 20 minutes, I really didn't feel at all challenged, after five I felt somewhat more so: dripping with sweat, deep breaths and an inner sense of 'that was a good run'. However, I dare to say that even after this morning's run, it did not take me long to recover myself and so I dare to say that after a few 1/5 outings, I will be looking to go to 1/6.

As for five minutes of glory, well, in the greater scheme of things, I know that the ability to run five minutes is notsomuch and come the day when I can run for an hour non stop, this post title will seem daft. However, glory exists not only in completing the job but in the doing of it as well so there's my justification.

The Flowerdog Set

Every so often one's working day is enlivened by funny or inspirational e-mails. Yesterday, I received these examples of the latter from my Überboss (although they are funny in their way). To put it diplomatically, the work that I do is not always of the exciting variety, so it is great that one has colleagues with a good sense of humour especially when they are the head of your office.

my favourite:

Antony and Cleopatra - W Shakespeare

Life is not enough, some men must have power too. So it is for Octavius Caesar and Mark Antony in Antony and Cleopatra which I saw tonight at The Globe theatre with L. As with Titus Andronicus, A & C was a minimalist production in terms of props but was not short of emotion and, indeed, histrionics. Nicholas Jones stars as a venerable Mark Antony - old and grizzled, quite unlike James Purefoy's portrayal of the man in Rome. The much younger Jack Laskey plays Caesar with an awful hairstyle beloved of certain trendy students when I was at school in the 80s - gelled and combed forward. The third member of the Triumvirate, Lepidus, was played by John Bett who reminded me very much of one of the RSC actors in Michael Woods's BBC series Searching for Shakespeare. In case you have seen it, he is the one who demonstrates the difference between Shakespeare's verse and Marlowe's (or am I thinking of an extra scene on the DVD? Hmm.) Cleopatra was played by Frances Barber. She was L's reason for going. I must say that Frances Thorburn who played Cleopatra's maidservant, Charmian, seemed best to me: between a very pretty face and wonderful Scottish accent, she could do no wrong!

So, back to the play. As everyone knows, Antony and Cleopatra covers the downfall of the triumvirate and Octavius's defeat of Antony at the Battle of Actium. Having seen the play just the once and not having a good knowledge of the text, I have to confess that I was playing catch-up throughout A&C. Shakespeare speaks English but in a sufficiently different fashion to demand all one's concentration during the production. Slack off for a moment and you lose the dialogue. That notwithstanding, I enjoyed the production very much. It was both tense and funny. Sometimes at the same time. For example, when Cleopatra is informed that Antony has married Caesar's sister, Octavia, she assaults the poor messenger. Apart from beating him up, she literally breaks a staff over his back and in a very well choreographed scene (I hope!) knocks his head into a pillar).

L. and myself saw the 2pm performance of Antony and Cleopatra today meaning that the audiance was more spartan than the evening performance of Titus Andronicus, which was quite packed. However, the poor groundlings were still abused, with a couple of drunk characters spilling their wine over them and one vulgar nobleman spitting his peanuts out towards them. Still, they took it in good stead and we who were sitting down were very amused!

In total, the play was about three hours long (including the intermission). The first half definately seemed to take longer than the second. Perhaps this was because the second cut to the chase - the fight for power between Antony and Caesar. That passed quickly indeed and with great emotion.

All-in-all, seeing Antony and Cleopatra was a great experience and my commendations go out to all the actors involved. I can't wait to see what the Globe has lined up for next year.

The Children of Hurin - Christopher Tolkien

A couple of years after J. R. R. Tolkien died his son and literary executor, Christopher, published The Silmarillion, the cycle of legends of the First and Second Age of Middle-earth. Throughout the 80s and 90s, he went on to publish the nine volume History of Middle-earth series, in which he traced the development of Tolkien's mythology from its humble beginning as a collection of fairy tales, written by Tolkien during the Great War to its later, more sophisticated incarnation. When the last volume came out, I thought that that was surely that; there was nothing more to be published. Christopher Tolkien had alluded in print to his father's philological writings as they related to his mythology before, but, if I remember aright, had said that they would not be published. However, it turns out that that is not that after all, for from BBC On Line comes very glad news indeed

An unfinished book by JRR Tolkien has been edited into a completed work by his son for publication next year. Christopher Tolkien has spent 30 years working on The Children of Hurin, which The Lord of the Rings author started in 1918 and later abandoned. Extracts from The Children of Hurin have been published before.
JRR Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings trilogy has sold more than 50 million copies and was adapted into three hugely successful films.
"It has seemed to me for a long time that there was a good case for presenting my father's long version of the legend of The Children of Hurin as an independent work, between its own covers," Christopher Tolkien said in a statement.
The story involves the elves and dwarves that feature in much of Tolkien's work.
He died in September 1973, aged 81.

The Children of Hurin has already been printed in two forms - poetic and prose. The poetic version was an alliterative poem that was published in Vol II of the History series: The Lays of Beleriand while the second was published in the Book of Unfinished Tales where it was given its elvish title: Narn I Hîn Húrin.

To be honest, I would rather Tolkien have rewritten any number of his other Silmarillion stories before touching anything to do with Húrin and his family - especially Turin Turambar. The Silmarillion is not a barrel of laughs but the tale of Turin really is depressing indeed. However, Tolkien wrote it and so I will be buying it.

As for Christopher Tolkien, he will be 82 this November - a year older than his father when he died. I hope very much that The Children of Hurin will be the crowning of a long and illustrious career of editing and publishing his father's works.

The Inquisitive Cow on Sherborne Abbey, Violins and Disegno

dúnadan: Hallo from Sherborne Abbey! The Inquisitive Cow and I are on an Autumn tour of Dorset. Cow, as we have discussed before, cow religion is still in its primitive state, but what do you make of the Abbey?
inq. cow.: I am fascinated by the imprint of history upon its walls.
dúnadan: Eh?
inq. cow.: You must have noticed the red scarring on the stone. Moo! You can be uninquisitive sometimes.
dúnadan: Now, I wonder how that happened. I imagine you know.
inq. cow.: Indeed. I consulted the guidebook on the way in. In 1437, the Benedictine Abbot decided to move the font. The townsfolk took exception to this and a fight ensured, during which - ironically, I think - a monk shot an arrow into some thatching. The resulting fire melted the abbey bells and scorched the walls. I can understand their annoyance. I would find it annoying if the shape of my fields were changed.
dúnadan: Then it is a good job you were not alive during the enclosures. Let's go outside...
dúnadan: ... so here we are, outside, and just a few feet away from us is a violin player. Cow, you were saying that if you went on holiday abroad, you would love to visit Cremona in Italy.
inq. cow.: Every so often, Farmer Bill has a phase when he feels the need to be 'cultured' so he switches Radio 3 on. I like violin music very much. And, as everyone knows, they were invented in Cremona in the sixteenth century.
dúnadan: By Stradivarius?
inq. cow.: I used to think so, but not quite! In fact, it was a man named Amato. You may or may not be suprised to know that it is said that he based the design of the violin on the female figure. Female woman, that is.
dúnadan: Of course!
inq. cow.: Stradivari, by the way, was Amato's pupil. He refined the violin, but not by much.
dunadan: Right, let's make our way to Sherborne Castle. As we walk, Gerrie, tell me again what struck you about the Pope's controversial speech last Tuesday.
inq. cow.: Well, it was the titles. The Rector was not just a rector but a magnificent rector! I wouldn't mind being a magnificent cow!
dúnadan: Hehe! In that case, I want to be the stupendous dúnadan!
magnificent inq. cow.: It's a deal!
stupendous dúnadan: Earlier on, I was in the local bookshop and I saw a lovely book on Michaelangelo. I would go to Rome at the drop of a hat to see his pieta again.
mag. inq. cow.: Michaelangelo is a favourite of mine too. He used yellow paper for his drawings. The Learned Owl and I have sometimes tried to recreate them on the stumps of felled trees. That aside, what I appreciate about Michaelangelo is the completeness of his vision from start to finish. He had mastery of the disegno.
stup. dúnadan: Disenyo?
mag. inq. cow.: Disegno. It is an Italian word that describes the creation of an idea, its design and then its drawing. During the Renaissance, the creation (or original concept) of the idea was foregrounded. Artists thought that their occupation should be part of the liberal arts, you see, so wanted to ground their art in the intellect.
stup. dúnadan: Is that so--- Hey, look! >bump!<

mag. inq. cow.: He did, thanks to his ears!
stup. dúnadan: His ears?!

mag. inq. cow.: Of course. Cats - like humans - have a special structure in their in their inner ear that allows them to maintain their balance.
stup. dúnadan: Hmm. I bet I couldn't twist like that, though. I wonder, what does that little sac at the bottom of the ear?

mag. inq. cow.: Now that I don't know! I shall try and find out.

stup. dúnadan:... we have now left Sherborne and are coming into sight of Sherborne Castle. Built in the twelfth century, bought by Walter Releigh and now owned by the Wingfield Digby family. That is a nice name.

mag. inq. cow.: You forgot to mention that the castle was ruined during the civil war by the Roundheads and that Capability Brown created the landscape gardens there after 1753. I am in two minds about landscape gardeners. I am rather of the opinion that they should be allowed to grow wild. If only more humans lived in fields and woods they would see the beauty of them.

stup. dúnadan: Hmm. I think you are a little biased. Well, time has flown by, Gerrie, and so we must wrap things up. What will you be up to this week?

mag. inq. cow.: Well, naturally, I must try and live up to my newly acquired magnificent status! Other than that, I am not looking beyond my next meal. I wonder if the quality of grass will be better here than back home.

stup. dúnadan: Hmm. Perhaps! Well, let's go and take a look - I will just watch, obviously - and enjoy the rest of the day.

Index of Inquisitive Cow interviews

Sherborne Abbey
Read about the history of Sherborne Abbey
Sherbourne Castle

19 Down and 3 Off

Wasps 42 Harlequins 23

If the BBC On Line report is anything to go by, Harlequins were put to the sword this afternoon by a powerful Wasps performance. I had a ticket to go to this game but ended up not doing so as I have not felt so good this weekend. I am glad, because if I had seen the team have three players sin binned during the game, I am sure I would have felt a lot worse! Three players! One can only imagine what they were thinking of. Not that they were playing one of the best premiership teams who would punish any and all errors made by the Quins if given the chance. I hope Dean Richards gives them what for afterwards.

Next Saturday, Harlequins are at home to Richards's previous club - the one with whom he won all his major trophies during several years of unrivalled success (which is why he is still going to get the best out of Harlequins) - Leicester Tigers. Another beating awaits unless (a) our players can stay on the pitch (b) Leicester do one of their away game choking acts. Both scenarios are eminently possible.

Berrydict and the Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

After leaving Germany, Berrydict the papal cat had looked forward to a few quiet days to get used to being back in Rome again. No such luck. On the evening of his return, was visitng the Spanish Steps - just down the road from where the popes crowned the statue of the Blessed Virgin. Actually, it wasn't them who did it, but members of the Rome fire service, but it was a very affecting service all the same.

Anyway, Berry was at the top of the Spanish Steps, looking down at the tourists who were sitting on the steps towards the bottom, and having a good clean when he saw a strange and disconcerting figure approach him out of the shadows. It had white fur and a nose like a sheep but seemed bigger and more menacing. Seeing Berrydict, the sheep stopped short and, in a very unsheep like fashion, growled at him. Berrydict wondered if the sheep was a dog and was a member of the Russian Orthodogs Church. "Good evening," he said, politely. "Dare I say you have come to talk?"

"Baaa," the sheep said, throatily, "do you not recognise me, Your Furriness?"

"I'm afraid I don't." Berrydict admitted.

"I am an Islamb." Berry did not immediately reply for he was very suspicious. He had met another Islamb not long ago and this lamb did not look like him. In fact, now that he had had a good look at the sheep, he thought he looked more like a wolf.

"Well, welcome!" Berrydict said, "Would you like to drink some milk with me?"

"Grrrrr--- baaa... I am the Islamb!" the wolf said, "And I have a bone to pick with you about that speech in Germany."

"Now, come, let's be honest. There is no such thing as the Islamb. You are one of many of your name. I grant, however, that you are an authentic expression of your kind. I have read the Koran. Speaking of which, did you read the speech?"

"Grrrrrrr!"

"A growl speaks a thousand words."

"I demand an apology from you!" the islamb said, "Or I will tear you to pieces!"

"But look at you," Berrydict said, soothingly, "you have no muscles. When did you last eat? I think you never eat. You feed off your anger, but that only ever takes you so far. And it will take you nowhere against me. Stop embarrasssing yourself, wolf, and go home."

This did not please the islamb at all and he crouched forward and ground his front paw on the pavement. "Muslambs do not believe in violence! Islam was never spread by violence. Not like you Catians!"

"Indeed. And that was the whole point of the speech! Religion should never be forced upon people! You silly wolf, because you have so much hatred in you, the way you see the world has become skewered. I wonder if that is what happened to your prophet later on. I shall ask my owner tonight. I may be the papal cat but I have my limitations."

Berrydict was modest to admit to his shortcomings, but the islamb had had enough. He pounced at Berrydict, claws out and mouth slavering. But Berrydict had not been known as the Panzer Katinal for nothing. He dived out of the islamb's way and then jumped onto his back as the wolf passed him. The islamb howled as Berrydict dug his claws into him. He staggered about, and, I am afraid to say, fell down the Spanish Steps. Imagine the surprise of the tourists when they saw a fighting cat and wolf in sheep's clothing tumbling towards them, scratching and hissing, howling and swiping. When they got to the bottom of the Steps, the islamb puffed and panted heavily. His energy was gone. Berrydict was right. His hatred did not take him far. Berrydict swiped him with his claw across the body, cutting the string that held the sheep's clothing in place. It fell off and there were gasps of astonishment from the tourists as the skinny, pathetic looking wolf was revealed in all his haggard and evil inglory. Having been comprehensively beaten, the wolf suddenly felt ridiculous and out of place. He thought about making one last attack so that he might be a martyr, but when he saw several black cats running across the plaza towards him, suddenly thought better of it. The wolf's kind of martyrdom could only be achieved when he was in a particular frame of mind and feeling stupid and shamed was not it. So, he lifted himself up and limped back into the shadows from whence he came. Monsignor Catswein and several cats from Opus Dam came up to Berrydict. Always ready to defend the papal cat, come what may, the cats of St Josemoggia, were all ready to chase the wolf but Berrydict called them back.

"If we kill him, he will never have the chance to repent." he said.

"I don't know how we are going to explain this to your owner." Monisgnor Catswein said to Berry, "the reaction to his speech has made him very sad. He doesn't want to fight people."

"The wolf attacked me first. It was a just catfight." Berrydict said, and they went back to the Vatican to have a well deserved rest.

Index of Berrydict stories

Who is Berry(dict)?

Berrydict Returns Home

Berrydict was enjoying a nice dream about chasing birds when he became aware that someone was touching his front paw. He opened a lazy eye and, to his sleepy delight, saw his owner wiggling the tip of his finger in the little gap between the pads of Berry's paw. This was a game of Berrydict's and his owner's which both enjoyed greatly as it was intimate and did not require great effort to play. Berrydict gave a great big yawn, stretched and extended his claws.
"Guten Morgen." whispered his owner, "Wie gehen Sie, mein Freund?" Berry said up and rubbed his nose against his owner's face. His owner took Berrydict onto his lap. "Today will be a very sad day for us both," he said, "But I cannot wait to visit our home town. Georg will be there and we will be able to visit the graves of our dear mother and father, and Maria our sister."
Berrydict remembered Maria well. Back when he was a catinal, she kept well fed and supplied with strokes. The only thing that she did not do was give him licks - that was the honour of his own sister, Moggia, who, along with their mother and father, was buried at the bottom of the garden of the Catzinger family home in Marktl-Am-Inn.

It was a thoughtful and quiet day on the way to the Pope's hometown. Berrydict didn't like travelling in cars because he could never get properly settled - the roads were either too bumpy or too twisty. So, he took turns between sleeping on the seat next to his owner, or on his lap (the papal soutaine was very comfortable) or on the lap of Cardinal Friedrich Clouter. Ironically enough, given his surname, the cardinal preferred the company of dogs to cats but did not argue when Berrydict jumped on to him.

So, it was a sunny day when the papal limousine arrived in Marktl-Am-Inn. And it was a good job that it had a police escort because the narrow streets of the town were crammed with people enthusiastically waving German and Bavarian flags as well as those of Munich and Marktl-Am-Inn and, of course, Vatican city state flags and those displaying Berrydict's coat-of-arms.

The papal entourage (for other bishops and dignitaries had travelled to Marktl as well) arrived first at Berrydict's owner's home. While he remained in the house, Berry and Monsignor Catswein ran out into the garden. And what a surprise they got! For lining the garden were all the Marktl cats and those from very many from miles around - even some Protescats. The Catolic Church. And, half way down the garden was Berrydict's brother, Fr. Georg Catzinger. He was even older than Berrydict and had an aide with him who stayed very close to his side for when he needed a side to lean on, but when he saw his brother, he smiled a big, big smile. All the cats up and down the garden purred loudly as Berrydict ran towards his brother and started to lick and paw him gently and playfully.

Cats are not known for their ability to sing well, in fact, they can hardly sing at all (hence the popular book, Why Catolics Can't Sing by Tabby Day) but there was one female moggy who was a stupendous singer and was popular all over the world. Her name was Anna Maria Catmann. She sung Amazing Grace and Mozart's Alleluia and everyone agreed that she had the voice of an feline angel. You may be wondering why Berrydict did not travel to Marktl with his brother. The truth is, catolics are a solitary kind and are not naturally good at forming societies. Those that do so are filled with a very special grace that God affords only to cats.

"Guten Tag, Georg!" Berrydict said, "It is good to see you again." Cats may be solitary, but not isolationists. Berry turned to Fraulein Catmann, "You sing wonderfully well." he told her, "If you are not doing anything else, I would love to have you in Rome next year."

"My diary is busy until 2010, Your Furriness," Fraulein Catmann said, curtsying, "but if you will do me the honour of letting me sing for you on your birthday, I will come!"

"That is a deal!" Berrydict said, enthusiastically. He turned back to Georg. "I still say you do not look a day older than me." he said, referring to a longstanding joke between them. Fr Catzinger smiled, happily but wearily.

"I now feel many days older." he replied, "How do you feel, Berry?" Berrydict paused.

"If the truth be told... I too feel old indeed. I am glad that I do not have to go on so many foreign trips." Georg nodded, and then he said something extraordinary.

"Berrydict, I cannot tell you how I wish John Purr had lived longer. Then you would have retired and we could have lived in peace together here." This was extraordinary, not because Georg Catzinger didn't like Pope John Purr the great, but because cats were, a a rule, sparing in their praise of other cats.

"God had other ideas!" Berrydict replied.
At the mention of God, both cats knew instinctively that the time had come to stop talking and pay homage to their dear departed mother, father and sister. They walked together to a secluded spot among the trees and bushes at the end of the garden just out of sight of the cats that now watched them walk by with absolute silence.

There, they came to three graves, side by side, each marked with a wooden cross, built by Berrydict's owner. Berrydict and George closed their eyes and remembered the blessed days of their childhood when they played with their mother and father and were lifted up by the scruff of their neck and moved out of danger. They remembered Maria's jokes, her thoughfulness and loyal service in Rome. They remembered so much and tears fell from their eyes and upon the graves.

It is said that cats do not cry. That is not true, they are simply very proud and diffident. But not when they experience sadness. Then, they become like humans. Or, perhaps humans become like them. Berrydict and Fr. Catzinger stayed a little while at their family's grave. They said prayers in silence and then talked about their family memories with each other. I would write what they said down, but all the bandwidth in the world could not contain the heartfeltness of their words.

Of the two, Berrydict was in a way the more sad. Georg knew that he did not have much longer to live. But he knew that when he died, he would be buried here. Berrydict, however, knew that his final resting place would probably be in Rome, at the Vatican. Of course, for a Catolic, it shouldn't matter where one was buried, but if he had had the choice, he would have much preferred to be laid to rest here. But, as he had said to Georg earlier, God had other ideas.

Index of Berrydict stories

On The Tablet

In answer to Joee Blogs, yes, I read The Tablet - and you should too. You could say that it is always good to know what the enemy is thinking or, more charitably, that it is only by reading what others of a different persuasion are thinking can we hope to understand and talk to them. With that said, I don't always read every article (I confess, some weeks I have bought it and not touched it again) and my patience can be worn thin by the wishywashy nonsense in the letters page. But, if nothing else, it's good to have one's mind broadened by writings from without one's circle of influence. To refuse to do so turns one into an über-ultramontane or squeeling muslim - mind closed, wits departed.

Wither The Comrades?

This morning, I attended my first Union meeting. Too bad no one else did. Well, I speak a little harshly for there were four of us there. Unfortunately, neither Mr Chair or Mr Vice Chair were able to make it. It turned out that Mr Vice Chair was on annual leave and Mr Chair was stuck in another meeting! So, the most senior member among us pointed out a couple of union do's that we might be interested in and, half an hour after our arrival, we departed.

Say hello to Mr. Chair

Since the meeting was just down the road from Victoria Station, I withdrew to Benjy's nr. Vicky St. to eat some healthy type food. While doing so, I was treated to the sight of a young man outside, one minute drinking a can of Special Brew, and then the next throwing up the contents of his stomach against the wall. But, he had a heart, for he then went and covered the puke with a sheet of newspaper. Beyond the silliness of the moment, it really was sad - I would bet any money that this man was not out of his twenties and there he is drinking the beer of dyed in the wool alcoholics. It should not be.

HNP Exercise Club: Meeting Mr. Physio

As yesterday was dominated by the fifth anniversiry of the attacks on the World Trade Centre, I thought I would leave off posting on other matters until today. So, I come belatedly to my appointment with my work physiotherapist to discuss the matter of my back.

The meeting went well. He took a look at exhibit 'A' (i.e. my back) and the scar that, er, scars it and said that he thought that the scar tissue could be a reason for its relative weakness. Mr. Physio then suggested a few stretches and exercises that I might do in order to strengthen it. During our meeting, while I had my top off, one of the women physios popped into the room. Cur embarressment? Well, kind of, but I figure that she has probably seen worst physiques than mine and is grown up anyway so I just kept relaxed and brazened it out.

As I said, all went well, so it was a real shame that I arrived in such a sweaty state - having walked all the way to the physio centre from home, a walk of nearly one and a half hours. But it was that or getting horrible and sweaty on the underground so I thought that I would walk and make it a good and honest sweat.

But enough sweat. This morning, at 6am, I took myself out and did my first 1/4 run, stopping at the 15 minute mark. It went really well with no significant ache in my back. I shall be continuing like this for two weeks before going back to Mr. Phys to report on how I feel. All being well, I shall then make enquiries into joining a gym as I do not want to make a habit of going out in the morning dark.

In Memoriam: James Francis Quinn (1977 - 2001)

The 2996 Project is a way of bloggers honouring the victims of the 11th September attack. How does one honour someone whom one has never met? I have chosen a poem. It is ill written but hopefully not so much that the sentiment behind it is compramised. If, however, you find it impossible to read, please accept my apologies, ignore it, and look upon this photograph of James Quinn. Pictures speak a thousand words, and there is much to say here: mainly, I think, along the theme of love.

To read tributes to James Quinn at the website of his employer, Cantor Fitzgerald, click here.

I have not the words to say what I feel,
I am shamed by your smile.
And I have not the will to look in your eyes

for I knew you not in life.

I have not the heart to draw close to you,

though you were the best of friends.

And I have not the strength to sleep like you sing

beyond the gentle, glorious end.

But I am given the grace to tell of your love,

for your smile does not lie.

Indeed, it is the smile of a man who loved,

a man who did all things well.

And the twinkle in your eye has its source, I deem,

in the love of family and friends.

So I tell of the grace that ran through your life,

father and mother to son.

Yet 'given' I say? But not 'given' I mean,

for it was transmitted to them from on high:

By the One who transcends the moment of death,

in whose power you live tonight.

For truly, you live a fuller life now,

than ever, ever before.

And it is we are left more dead,

as we mourn your passing forth.

So remember your mother, you father too.

Remember your grieving friends.

Remember your family, close and far,

Though the party above will never end!

For in heaven it is given to the Saints

to commend those here on earth

to the Lord of Life, the Lord of Peace,

the Lord who turns tears into Joy.

So that when he decrees in utmost truth

that our exile is now to end,

We may cross the sea that separates,

Life from Life again.

This ragged collection of tear kissed words,

are given in tribute, my friend,

though truly I know that they cannot hope

to come close to the truth of you.

Thus do I pray your forgiveness,

will you commend me last of all?

To the Love that shines in heaven

and on earth upon all who call.

James Francis Quinn. Requiescat in pace.

Mass This Evening

To Mass this evening and my first meeting with Fr. Nicholas Schofield, the new assistant priest for my parish. We had a very nice chat before I went to take my place among the congregation. In case you don't know, Fr. Nicholas has a blog called Roman Miscellany which is very good and worth a look. Read it here.

Among the congregation tonight were the friends and family of a young member of the parish (just twenty years old) who died recently. Many of them were wearing T-Shirts in his honour. On the front was a photo of the young man with the legend 'Sunrise' and his date of birth underneath. On the back was the slogan 'Love me or leave me alone' followed by 'I [heart] J.' and 'Sunset' followed by the date of his death. I liked the sunrise / sunset motif. J. S. Requiescat in pace.

Fr. Nicholas mentioned that Catholic writer Joanna Bogle now has a blog. You can read it here. A couple of years ago I saw Mrs. Bogle speak at an event at Westminster Cathedral, which was supported by the Milles Jesu order (?). Such was her gusto that it was like listening to a mini hurricane! This is a woman who knows what she believes and would probably burst if she did not say it.

On Joanna Bogle, a friend once suggested that I sent a few chapters of my opus The Snapdragon Wall to her. This is the book I have been writing since forever which is set in an alternative reality where the democratic powers of the West have been replaced by businessmen. It is a cross between Tolkien / E M Forster / George Lucas with a touch of the Catholic Church and pagan Rome for good measure. Mrs. Bogle very kindly wrote back suggesting that, since the story was plainly influenced by history (true, esp. the 18th cent.), I should let go of the alternative reality and give it an historical setting. It might have been easier if I had done so, however, since I am wedded to be alt. reality, I had to do what Tolkien did whenever someone (C. S. Lewis, probably) made a suggestion that he didn't like and that was simply ignore it.

Right, last night I started watching the film Lost In Translation. I can't decide whether I like this picture or not so I shall quit this post to finish it off and make my mind up.

Berrydict meets Leo the Priory Cat

Berrydict was getting ready for his Owner's visit to their old home in Bavaria. This meant, lots of long rests (as befitting a papal cat) and pleasant dreams about the good old days when they actually lived there. This was not to say that Berry did not like Rome, but he liked home more. Berrydict smiled at himself when he thought of this nice turn of phrase and it helped him fall asleep in a record time of about 2.1 seconds.

Unfortunately, Berrydict's commitment to getting ready for his homecoming lead him to missing the official departure from the Catican of his Owner. To make matters worse, because the Apostolic Palace was such a quiet place, it took him a while to realise that no one was there. No one, that is, except for a young Swiss Guardsman, who, when he saw Berrydict, blanched.
"Your Furriness, why are you here?" the Guardsman, resplendent in his red and yellow striped uniform, exclaimed, "You should be in Germany!" Without further ado, the Guardsman gathered Berrydict into his arms and into the back of one of the papal Mercedes cars and sent him off to Rome's Ciampino Airport. It was here that a second mistake - Berrydict's driver and the Airport officials misheard each other, and before Berry knew what was happening, he had somehow ended up in Cambridge, England.

The shock of being not only in the wrong city but wrong country was a little diluted by the fact that it was a very sunny September afternoon in Cambridge when Berrydict arrived. There were lots of tourists strolling around and what looked like gondolers on the river Cam. Berrydict wondered if Cambridge was built on a lagoon like Venice, but as he began to wander up and down the high street and its tarred trbutaries, he saw that it was not so.

Afternoon moved on and although Berry was enjoying seeing a new city and being petted by tourist and local alike (some even shared their ice cream with him, which was most pleasing), he fancied another rest. So, giving the old American couple with whom he had eaten (most of their) shredded duck his apostolic miaow, Berrydict took himself down a street to find somewhere quiet to rest. It was not long before he found a high wall. This was a good sign as behind high walls there were, generally speaking, secluded gardens. And it turned out to be no different here. So, Berry jumped onto the roof of a car, then onto the top of a post box and from there onto the top of the high wall. He walked along it for a moment before seeing a shed just ahead of him. He jumped onto its roof and thence into the garden.

The garden was lush and well manicured. This did not meet with Berrydict's approval. How could a cat hunt in short grass? In the far corner of the garden, however, there was a clump of bushes that afforded the discerning cat a wonderful place to carry out the two Ss - sleep and survey. So, Berrydict walked across the garden to the shaded spot. When he got there, however, he found that curled up in the shadiest spot of all (next to the trunks of the bushes) was another cat. And, potentially very awkwardly, he was eyeing Berry with those slitted eyes that made a moggie look mean even to another of his kind.
"Pax Christi," Berrydict said, politely. The other cat yawned. He had long white fur with a dusty brown face, tails and ears. "Are you Berrydict?" he asked.
"I am."
"Goodness. What are you doing in Cambridge? You should be in Germany."
"I know, but a slight misunderstanding has brought me here. I hope you don't mind."
"Of course not, you are the Holy Feline." Reader, you will notice that I have not said that the cat did not at any time stand up to greet Berrydict. This was a little rude of him, but despite the advancing hour, it was still very warm and he very sleepy. He regretted what he did not do, afterwards, but Berry had no airs about that kind of thing and in their future correspondence, they laughed about it together.

Having been given the all clear, Berrydict sat himself down next to the cat and started to clean himself. "May I ask your name?" he said, as he pulled a little bit of matted hair from his haunches.
"My name is Leo. I am the Priory cat."
"I am in a priory?"
"Yes. This is Blackfriars, the home of the Dominicans. My owner is Aidan Miaows. Well, the humans say Nichols, but I prefer the translation."
"Ah. He is the theologian. I recall he wrote Christendom Awake. I would have preferred Christendom Asleep. So many problems can be solved by sleeping."
"I agree." said Leo, "but thoughts come flowing out of his head more forcefully than water from snowcapped mountains. I don't know how he does it. I suppose it is the Holy Spirit."
"God works in mysterious ways." Berrydict said. Leo agreed and, seeing Berrydict pick at his claws, graciously offered to help clean him as he did so. That way, Berrydict was able to finish his toilet more quickly and get a few more minutes rest in.

Leo the Priory Cat
(Picture from the Blackfriars, Cambridge website)

And that was the end of Berrydict's adventure because that evening, he and Leo were woken by a whistling and calling of Berry's name. It was Aidan Miaows and Monsignor Catswein searching for them. Giving a big, big yawn to formally end their sleep, Berry and Leo came out from under the bushes to meet the two.
"Your Furriness!" Monsignor Catswein cried, "Thank the Lord we have found you!"
"Hello!" said Miaows, "I hope Leo was polite!" Much to Aidan Miaow's delight, Berrydict purred loudly in response.
"How did you find me?" he asked the monsignor.
"Well, we knew you had come to Cambridge. Once here, we just followed the trail of people who said that he had seen a papal looking cat to the garden wall. Your Owner has been very worried about you. He will be so pleased."

Berrydict's Owner was indeed pleased and relieved to hear that Berry had been found. As the hour was late, he gave permission for Berry to stay overnight at Blackfriars. With the upmost graciousness, Leo offered Berry his usual place at the foot of Fr. Nichol's bed. It was an ideal arrangement because Fr. Miaows spent half the night playing theological games with the pope and then his staff and so did not come to bed, legs and all, until the early hours.

Index of Berrydict stories

HNP Exercise Club: on the come back trail

Two weeks ago a twinge in my lower back (behind a childhood scar) obliged me to take a rest from jogging until the twinge had got better. For a week, it didn't, or at least, didn't to my satisfaction, however, the second week made the difference and so yesterday morning I got back out to do some pavement pounding. All went well. For whatever reason, I can still feel a little something behind part of the scar area, but nothing so serious as to make me want to pull up or stop altogether. However, to make sure that I am not doing damage to myself, I have booked an appointment with the physiotherapy dept of my work on Monday morning. They are really back specialists (as opposed to being a sports injury clinic) so I don't know what they will make of me, but, I felt that it was worth going to the work physio first if only because doing it privately will cost £££.

Regarding the times, I did a 1/3 jogging routine (one minute walk followed by three minute run) for 15 minutes on Saturday. This morning, I went for 1/3 for 20 minutes. I am pleased to report that I was well within the limits of my lungs and legs. On Tuesday, I might see if I can up the run to 1/4.

Regarding Tuesday, unless I am told not to run at all by the physio people, that run will be in the evening. My custom so far has to be to get up at 5:30am and do the run before work. However, I am not keen to run in the darkness now. Ideally, I should like to join a gym and train there during the week, and that is something I shall be looking into doing.

Thumped at the Stoop

Harlequins 21 Gloucester 31

Oh dear! The disappointment after this game was not so much that Harlequins lost but that they lost so badly. The ten point defecit in the scoreline hides the very uncomfortably truth that for the first half an hour of the second half, the Quins were blown apart by Gloucester. At half time, the score was 16 - 6. Glos. then came out and scored 26 points without reply before Harlequins got a consolation try. The last ten minutes of the game saw Quins get back into the game (and come very close to scoring again) but the truth is, they were undone (a) by an effective though not brilliant Gloucester team and (b) by themselves, that is, by their own bad playing. Of these two factors, (b) was the most damaging. Ah well. Next week, it gets harder as Harlequins travel to High Wycombe to play Wasps. As I will not be able to attend the next home game (for reasons that will be revealed on this blog on the day), I have bought a ticket for the Wasps game. I can't wait to go though I fear that it will be our stiffest test yet. I would prefer a thumping great victory but please let us get at least a bonus point!

Andrew Merhtens kicks a penalty goal for Harlequins

We can always rely on Harley and Charley (R & L) to keep supporter
spirits up

The Inquisitive Cow on Socrates, Cheese & Robin H & Arthur P

dúnadan: Hallo, hallo this is Dorset calling. For new readers, welcome to a field somewhere in central Dorset. I have come to visit my friend Geraldine, who is more commonly known as the inquisitive cow because that is what she is. And here is a photograph of her:

dúnadan: Cow, hallo to you. People from all round the world read the Cally's Kitchen blog. Have you a message for them?
inq. cow.: Yes: Drink milk and eat cheese!
dúnadan: That is a rather stereotypical thing for a cow to say!
inq. cow.: I hadn't finished. I meant to say, drink milk and eat cheese while reading the Socratic dialogues of Plato. It is a very rewarding experience.
dúnadan: When I arrived this morning, Farmer Bill told me you and he had had an argument this week. I was astonished to hear this as you normally get on so well. But I was really surprised when I heard that you had argued over the philosophy of Socrates. You contended that Socrates could be called the first enlightenment philosopher insofar as he advocated free thought in the discernment of the truth. Farmer Bill thought he has a sponger who was so workshy that when he was found guilty of corrupting the youth of Athens, suggested that he be given free meals as a reward.
inq. cow.: I am still trying to find out if that story is true. If so, it will go into my file of philosophical absurdities. In fact, I would place it alongside Rousseau who thought he would teach children about survival by dumping them in the middle of a wood and tell them to find their own way home! Not even a lion would do that do his cub.
dúnadan: Well, I hope you both made up with each other.
inq. cow.: We did by doing what we always do when coming to blows - by laughing and crying over the inpenetrableness of M Derrida's books. The England football result also helped as well.
dúnadan: Now, then, we don't usually talk about the 'blogosphere' together. Being a cow, you don't have too much time for the internet, however, I must mention a sad thing: Lola, a reader of our interviews (possibly the only one apart from me and you), has discontinued her blog. I shall miss her posts and their Bridget Jones style of delivery.
inq. cow.: Her ability to call her friends 'vile birds' is also to be respected. If I called the Learned Owl, Jenny Wren or the Tiercel Eagle triplets that, I could expect reprisals! Moo!
dúnadan: Ah, well, times change and people move on. We wish Lola well and hope she continues to visit Cally's Kitchen.
inq. cow.: And Dorset! We like visitors here.
dúnadan: Jolly good. So, what shall we talk about now? I know: cheese. I said you do not use the internet, but this week, you enlisted Ralph the Red Squirrel (friend, naturally enough, of Rudy the Wooden Reindeer) to sneak into Farmer Bill's house and print some pages off the West Country Farmhouse Cheesemakers website that we mentioned last week. It seems to me you have a soft spot for cheese, Miss Cow.
inq. cow.: Oh, look, there is Jenny Wren flying by!
dúnadan: Where?! [sound of the dúnadan puffing and panting as he runs about in style of headless chicken in search of J.W.] Waitaminute! You are just trying to distract me!
dúnadan: >sigh<
dúnadan: No, so let's get back to the cheese.
inq. cow.: Mmmmm! Not such a bad prospect!
dúnadan: So then, what is this week's Top Cheese Tip, according to the WCFC?
inq. cow.: Well, it concerns storage. I quote: "West Country cheeses are best stored as they are on the farm - in a cool, damp environment. For most of us this simply means the refrigerator. Keep it in the warmest part of the fridge - if it’s kept too cold the cheese will lose flavour. The warmest part of your fridge is usually the top shelf unless it has a freezer compartment, in which case use the salad drawer at the bottom." Of course, if you are an animal, this is not so useful as fridges are few and far between in the wild. Fortunately, I have pondered this matter and tried out a couple of solutions with great success. Thus, I can say that if you an animal, a good substitute for a fridge is a tree with a hole in it: cool and damp.
dúnadan: The Farmhouse Cheesemakers say that the best part of the fridge to use is the warmest. What part of the tree is the warmest?
inq. cow.: Ah. Well, at this point, I had to enlist a little help in order to keep my sample cheese in the best place.
dúnadan: And...?
inq. cow.: I am happy to say that Ralph Squirrel doesn't mind sleeping with a cheese under his bed, although he does so it pokes him in the ribs a little.

Ralph the Red Squirrel at home (cheese not in view)

dúnadan: That poor squirrel! So, thanking the Farmhouse Cheesemakers for their advice. Let's move on. Robin Hood. Did he exist?
inq. cow.: I have no idea. I have been thinking about King Arthur and whether he existed or not.
dúnadan: Oh dear - I don't write very good notes, do I! Oh well, what do you think about Robin Hood, anyway. Saviour or do-gooder?
inq. cow.: Well, clearly he is both as these terms are not mutually exclusive.
dúnadan: I wonder if he really wore tights.
inq. cow.: I have heard it said that they are a nineteenth century invention - to allow the female actresses who played the part of Robin the chance to show off their les.
dúnadan: Mmm. Most sensible...
inq. cow.: dúnadan! on't be so sexist or I shall swish you with my tail.
dúnadan: It isn't too late for Mary Stuart Masterson to play that role. What about King Arthur, then. Did he live?
inq. cow.: Not in the form we know him by. I discussed this with Auntie Wellingtonia when I was in Devon and she informed me that the first reference to Arthur came in the 800s AD by a writer named Nennius who mentions him briefly in his 'Historia Brittonum'. He was referring to a series of battles ought three hundred years earlier by the Celts against the Saxons. Arthur may have been the leader of the Celts. There is no mention of the Roundtable, Merlin, not even Guineviere.
dúnadan: One person we do know existed is the Venerable Bede who lived in Jarrow. To round things up for this week, can you tell me what his great claim to fame is?
inq. cow.: Of course I can! Such knowledge as this is a staple part of an inquisitive cow's diet. The Venerable Bede is the last Englishman who can claim to have read every book ever published. We must allow, of course, that England had not been formed when Bede lived (in the seventh century) and that there were alot fewer books, but it is still an interesting 'fact'!
dúnadan: Indeed it is, so from Jarrow to Dorset, we must close things there. Cow, thank you for your time.
inq. cow.: And you for your gullibility!
dúnadan: hmph! Reader, I hope we shall have the pleasure of your company again next week when this column might be renamed the Cheeky Cow.

West Country Farmhouse Cheesemakers

Mary Stuart Masterson at the Internet Movie Database

index of inquisitive cow interviews

Where Relativism Takes Us

The religion of pagan Rome was syncretistic. When the Romans invaded a foreign country, they would not destroy its religion, but adapt it to their own. For example, the temple of Sulis Minerva in the west country city of Bath draws together the celtic goddess Sul and the Roman goddess Minerva. Christianity, on the other hand, has always resisted such practices. Until now. Well, that is a little exaggerated because I am talking about one Church of England vicar, the Reverend David Hart, who has converted to hinduism. You may think that this would mean he would no longer wish to continue in his Christian ministry. But the vicar concerned does not think he should stop.

“I have neither explicitly nor implicitly renounced my Christian faith or priesthood,” [the Rev Hart said. He]believes that his change to Hinduism would be “read in the spirit of open exploration and dialogue, which is an essential feature of our shared modern spirituality”. He also said that he would continue to celebrate as an Anglican priest... but he would also visit a Hindu temple... “My philosophical position is that all religions are cultural constructs,” he said. “I am acting out God’s story in local terms.”

In an earlier interview in India, the former University of Cambridge chaplain said that he was planning to immerse his idol of the four-armed Ganesh in the ocean.
“In England, the idol of Ganesha is more popular than Krishna or any other Indian god and many households have Ganesha in the living room,” Mr Hart said.
“The modern world is no longer dominated by any single form of belief. It is a world of religious pluralism. The Anglican Church firmly believes in engaging itself fully in inter-faith dialogues. God is the same irrespective of whether you pray to him in a temple, church or mosque.”

Contrary to what he is quoted as saying above, the Rev David Hart has rejected his Christian faith. He is an apostate; a syncretist and relativist. I cannot see any justification for him to be allowed to continue as a vicar. He obtained his ecclesial licence under false pretences (by not telling his bishop that he had converted to hinduism) and should be laicised forthwith.

To read the full story at The Times On Line, click here.

More on the Transferred Holy Days

The issue of the transfer of Epiphany, Ascension Day and Corpus Christi Holy Days of Obligation to the nearest Sunday refuses to go away. A few weeks ago, The Tablet published an editorial which was critical of the Bishops' decision. There has been a steady correspondence on the subject on the letters page of the Tablet and Catholic Herald too. One letter in the Herald this week (8th Sept 06) that I was particularly interested in was written by J. M. Chadwick, chairman of the Latin Mass Society. He writes,

I am happy to report some good news. While the obligation to go to Mass on these holy Days has been removed [by the bishops]. the 1962 Calendar, as used in the Traditional Rite and which is an integral part of the Rite, is unaltered. This means that where there is a Mass celebrated in the Traditional Rite on Epiphany, Ascension Day, and Corpus Christi that Mass will still celebrate the feast day.

The issue is also discussed by Pastor Iuventus on the same page. Like me, he is against the transfer of the Holy Days. Indeed, I am wondering if the good pastor read my post on this subject on 22nd July because the title of his article: Our faith isn't meant to be easy is very similar to a comment I made: the Catholic Faith is not easy. It was never meant it (sic) to be. Well, I can but dream.

Pius XII: Shepherd of Souls

A trip to Westminster Cathedral to purchase this week's Catholic newspapers (i.e. The Catholic Herald and The Tablet) results in me also coming away with a splendid picture book called Shepherd of Souls: A Pictoral Life of Pius XII. As with kings and other dignitaries, popes of old generally look very serious in portraits of themselves. Up until I bought Shepherd of Souls, Pius XII was no different. However, I was delighted to find some photographs with a great big smile on his face. To read more about the book at Amazon.co.uk, click on the picture below.

"disloyal, discourteous and wrong"

... This is what Tony Blair called Tom Watson, one of his junior ministers, for singing a letter calling on him to quit as party leader. I agree with Tony Blair that this is exactly what Mr. Watson, and all those that signed the letter, have been. Tony Blair has been the most successful Labour Party leader ever. Bar none. He has lead his party to three election victories - never before achieved by a Labour Party leader - and presided over a successful economy during that period. It might also be added that he has presided over a very peaceful period of British society as well - more than be said for the Conservative Party during the 80s. Of course, the Iraq conflict stands against him, but it appears to me that although there are plenty of people who have talked and marched against it, nevertheless, it has not polarised British society in the way that the poll tax did at the end of the 80s. In short, Tony Blair deserves better, much better, than he has received these last couple of days from his party. Typically, however, either through smelling the main chance or as a result of mindless panicing, they are trying to get rid of him. Not long after Julius Caeser was assassinated, he was deified. No doubt, not long after he is forced from office, Mr. Blair will be given a place in the House of Lords. Not quite deification, but a salve to the soul of the Labour Party. Shame on it.

And in case any gloating Conservatives read this, I hope that they remember that if David Cameron wins his election, the only way for him will be down.

To read Tom Watson MP's letter and the Prime Minister's response, click here.

From the Sanctuary to the Finish Line

Fr. Nicholas has just joined the dúnadan's parish. I look forward to meeting him this coming weeekend, but before then, let me mention two very interesting posts that he has written. Click on the numbers below to go to the original post.

1. Catholic Action have put up a petition on the internet calling on the bishops of England and Wales to reinstate the Holy Days of Obligation that it has transferred to their nearest Sundays. To see why I support this cause, click here. 2006 is a year in which Catholicism should be asserting its identity, not hiding it. I want to know what opportunity I have to gain indulgences for myself and the holy souls in purgatory, not that I have to worry about attending Mass that little bit less.

2. Tomorrow (Thursday) at 3:20 a horse named St Philip will be running in a race at Southwell. Talk about auspicious. St. Philip Neri... Robert Southwell... surely it can only end in victory? We shall see!

A good result

Good news on the rugby front last night as Harlequins beat Wasps 50 - 40 in the first A League game of the season. For the uninitiated, the A League team is the rugby equivalent of the football reserves. Last year, Harlequins got to the national final before losing to Leicester Tigers A. By-the-way, the Harlequins play Wasps in the Premiership a week on Saturday so let's hope for a similar result to last night!

On on the Quins!

Wise Words

Especially for SisterHevs!

"If you wanna win big, you gotta lose big, and what are we doing...? "
"We're losin' big!"

Jesuits in Chicago

The Jesuits have a reputation for being intellectual and, these days, liberal. Whether the latter is a strength or weakness depends upon your viewpoint, but one area where I think it can be said that they are definately strong is in dealing with the poor. In England (or rather, abroad) the JRS (Jesuit Refugee Service) does sterling work helping those with no home to find one.

This morning, I was listening to the BBC World Service when I heard a report from Chicago, USA. Like many inner cities the world over, Chicago has a major problem with its disaffected youth turning to violence. Enter the Jesuits with an amazing - and simple - plan of action.

The power of faith - coupled with a down to earth approach to the business world - has been harnessed by Jesuit priests in the US to send thousands of the poorest black and Hispanic children from deprived inner city areas to university.

The Jesuits have set up a network of schools which take students from neighbourhoods beset by gangs, drugs and crime, and give them an intensive high school education costing $10,000 (£5,300) a year.

Read the full report here

And what's more, the school even sends pupils to work in the city. Well done those students. And well done the SJs!

St. Egidio in Uganda

It is a common refrain of anti-religionists and people who ought to know better that religion has been the cause of so many wars. It does not take a historian of the quality of Niall Ferguson to realise the wrongness of this view. Nevertheless, it is always good to see positive examples of religion in war torn regions. And it does not get much more positive than that of the 'Italian lay apostolate' of Saint Egidio, which has helped bring an end to the civil war in Uganda. Catholic News reports:

Aug. 28 (CWNews.com) - The government of Uganda has reached a historic ceasefire agreement with rebels of the Lord's Resistance Army, brokered by mediators from the St. Egidio community.

Representatives of the Italian lay apostolate announced that the ceasefire was signed on August 26, crowning the success of talks held in Juba, in southern Sudan. The St. Egidio community has been intensively involved in mediation efforts, especially in African nations.

To read the good news in full click here.

Can China Change?

A quick (and rough hewn) point arising out of my reading of Shadowplay.

Last night, it occured to me that there was to be found a certain similarity between England in the sixteenth century and China today. Both were under the grip of totalitarian regimes. Both regimes persecuted members of the Catholic Church. Both set up a national religion - the Church of England here and the Patriotic Church in China.

Over the course of the next four centuries, however, the political situation in England evolved to the point where Parliamentary democracy replaced absolute monarchy and the Catholic Church and Church of England found peace with one other. Could this happen in China? Could Communism eventually give way to a form of democracy and could the Catholic Church and Patriotic Church find peace, or better still (since the peace that exists between the Catholic Church and Church of England still involves division), be reconciled?

In regards the former, I like to think that the signs are that it will. By signs, I mean the willingness of the Communist Party to allow a certain capitalism in the running of its markets. All under the aegis of the party at the moment, of course, but I suspect that capitalism will speak with increasing vibrancy and strength to the Chinese people in a way that communism never could and so eventually forment and bring about political change.

In regards the latter, my ignorance of the theology of the Chinese Patriotic Church stops me from being able to give a firm answer. What I do know is that the Patriotic Church exists to allow the Communist Party to control it. Therefore, as far as I am aware, it is doctrinally correct in all things except the matter of the authority of the pope. The PC believes (outwardly, anyway) in the authority of the General Secretary. If this is the only point of separation with Rome, then come the day that the persecution of the underground Church ends, the reconciliation with the Patriotic Church can begin. However, it may also happen - as it has done with the Church of England - that time will go by, and the Patriotic Church will develop its own theology. And though, just like the Church of England, it may believe them to be correct, they will prevent a full reconciliation happening. I hope it does not come to that.

Bl. Henry Walpole & William Byrd

From Shadowplay,

The Campion affair was one of the great unmentionable subjects in Shakespeare's England. Guarded references turn up in marginalia; but it was treason merely to possess the poem about his death, 'Why do I use my paper, ink and pen', written by another Jesuit missionary, Henry Walpole, and still little known in spite of its outstanding quality. (p.75)

Here is that treasonous poem:

Why do I use my paper, ink and pen,
And call my wits to counsel what to say?
Such memories were made for mortal men;
I speak of Saints whose names cannot decay.
An Angel's trump were fitter for to sound
Their glorious death if such on earth were found.

How sad that England had fallen to such a level where owning a poem could bring a death sentance upon oneself. But it was not any old poem and those were deadly times for Catholics. Henry Walpole himself was caught by Elizabeth I's agents and executed in York on 7th April 1595. In 1588, composer William Byrd put Why do I use my paper, ink and pen to music and published it as part of his Psalmes, Sonnets & Songs. He added two more verses to Walpole's original stanza:

That store of such were once on earth pursued,
The histories of ancient times record,
Whose constancy great tyrants' rage subdued
Though patient death, professing Christ the Lord:
As his Apostles perfect witness bare,
With many more that blessed Martyrs were.

Whose patience rare and most courageous mind,
With fame renowned perpetual shall endure,
By whose examples we may rightly find,
Of holy life and death a pattern pure.
That we therefore their virtues may embrase
Pray we to Christ to guide us with his grace.

source of poem: ChoralWiki

Some Kind of Wonderful re-release

Exciting news from America! My most favourite film of all time, John Hughes's Some Kind of Wonderful has been rereleased in time for the 20th anniversary of the release of the picture. For those not in the know, Hughes wrote and / or directed some of the best teen films of the 80s, including Pretty in Pink (on which Some Kind of Wonderful is based), The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller's Day Off. As one review which I have just read says, a reason why Hughes was so successful is because he took the lives of teenagers seriously. Anyway, SKoW is not in the A-league of Hughes's hits, probably because it is actually a reworking of Pretty in Pink, but it is my favourite. By way of a quick precis, the film is about shy Keith Nelson's (Eric Stolz) attempts to get a date with the popular Amanda Jones (Lea Thompson). However, he does not realise that his best friend - tomboy Watts (Mary Stuart Masterson) - is also in love with him. As well as trying to understand why Watts no longer hangs out with him, Keith also has to contend with Amanda's jealous ex-boyfriend Hardy Jenns (Craig Shaffer) and the troublesome skinhead Duncan (Elias Coteas).

If you are American then consider it your patriotic duty to watch this film and the extras. Regarding the latter, it seems that there are not that many. I cannot describe my disappointment with that. Mind you, if there had been extras to make the hours provided by the Lord of the Rings films brief that would not have been enough for me. As things stand, it seems that this Collectors' Edition of SKoW has only been released in Region 1, which I understand to be North America, but I will be keeping a close eye on Amazon and my local music/video shops to see if it appears here too. Let's see if I don't come back to this subject during the week!

• Read DVD Town's review of Some Kind of Wonderful here

J. R. R. Tolkien - on the 33rd anniv. of his death

With all the excitement over the rugby yesterday, I quite forgot that 2nd September was the anniversary of J. R. R. Tolkien's death. He died in Bournemouth in 1973 and is buried in the same grave as his wife (Edith. d. 1971) at Wolvercote cemetary in Oxford.

One of the more unfortunate aspects of Tolkien's fame is the way in which some of his fans choose to express their love of his works. I once saw a documentary where a group of them paid their respects on the anniversary of his death by singing an Evish lament over his grave - in costume! There is a little bush that is grows on Tolkien's grave which is used by fans to leave trinkets for him - pagan and kitsch.

It must be admitted, however, that these fans are, in a sense, reflecting the seriousness with which Tolkien took his legendarium. This seriousness lasted until the end, for the inscription on their gravestone reads:

EDITH MARY TOLKIEN
LUTHIEN
1889 - 1971
JOHN RONALD
REUEL TOLKIEN
BEREN
1892 - 1973

Beren and Lúthien are two characters from The Silmarillion. The first version of their fateful love story was written in 1917 while Tolkien recuperated from injuries suffered during the first world war and - like the Silmarillion in general - continued to occupy his creative thoughts during the course of his life.

Here is my favourite photograph of Tolkien. I think it was Humphrey Carpenter who said, in his splendid little biography of JRRT, that it was one of the last ever taken of Tolkien. Here, Tolkien is standing underneath his favourite tree (pinus nigra) in the Oxford university botanical gardens. I wonder if it is still there?

J. R. R. Tolkien Requiescat in pace.

Debaptism

This morning I listened to Reporting Religion on the World Service (which you can hear here). One of its reports was about the efforts of an Italian gentleman to have himself debaptised. Now, I am not a theologian, but my understanding of baptism is that it effects an ontological change in us, that is to say, it changes our spiritual DNA and so cannot be undone. And yet, R.R. suggested that this is what the Italian man did. Listening to the report, however, I doubt very much that this is what really happened. By the sounds of it, after writing to the parish, he was told that (in accordance with his wishes) he is no longer counted as a member of the Church. I wonder if this means he was simply taken off the parish register (perhaps so that he doesn't have to pay a Church tax?). Hardly a debaptism. It could be that Reporting Religion was dressing the story up to make it sound more interesting, but this is obviously an issue which demands further investigation.

A Close Run Thing

London Irish 20 Harlequins 19

Back home safe and sound after an exciting day of rugby. As you can see by the score, Harlequins lost, but how close they were to victory! Before the game began, my greatest fear was that London Irish would thrash them, however, the game was every bit as close as the score suggests. In fact, if memory serves, before taking the lead that would give them the win, Irish were behind on all but one occasion during the game. It was a sterling display by Harlequins. In the end, they lost because of indiscipline - Irish kicked a vital penalty after one of our players was sinbinned for upending an Exile and a certain clumsiness which saw our players drop the ball on one too many occasions. September is going to be a very tough month with Quins playing all the top teams (Gloucester at the Stoop next week, then Wasps away, before Leicester Tigers at home) and it wouldn't surprise me if they go into October with nil wins, but if they can improve upon today's showing, they may well run one or two of the aforementioned clubs close and - if the opposition have an off day - grab a win. We'll see.

In the meantime, here are some piccies from good old Twickers:

We have come for rugby but we desire beer-
the Gunness 'village' (Merchandise/beer fan
trap outside the stadium).


The ball goes loose during the Saracens/Wasps
game (won 19 - 21 by Wasps). Don't be fooled
by the empty seats. That is the south stand
which is currently closed for rebuilding work.


The south stand more fully visible in all its
unfinished glory.

As you have probably noticed, the game photos come from the Saracens/Wasps game! This is a result of being too tense to take any photos during the Harlequins one !

Harlequins vs London Irish

So, today is the big day. At 2pm this afternoon, at Twickenham stadium, Harlequins kick off the new Premiership rugby season against London Irish. Irish finished third last year so a win against them will be some result. We may get thrashed. We may get soaked. But as long as it is a good game, I shan't mind. Look for a report on all that happened this evening.

On on the Quins!

Magdalen Montague

The name of Magdalen Montague is not one that will be widely known in England. She is a national hero, however, for her brave defiance of the totalitarian Elizabethan state in the sixteenth century. At a time when Catholics were being forced to pay crippling fines if they did not attend Protestant church services and priests were being martyred for their calling, Magdalen Montague was not only refusing to join the new national religion but openly living out her own. She was an icon of her faith and such was the respect that the Government gave her that, even after the exposure of the Gunpowder Plot, and when it was found that Guy Fawkes had served in her house, the inevitable search of her property was conducted by just four people who were to be chosen by - herself. She sounds like an amazing woman and I wonder that she has not been put forward for canonisation.

The above comes, of course, from Shadowplay, the book about William Shakespeare's secret Catholicism. A couple of chapters in, the author has given a very interesting account of the Catholic background to A Winter's Tale, which, she suggests was a tribute to Magdalen Montague. As a Catholic, I can't be too excited about the idea that the bard was a fellow traveller in the barque of St. Peter, but whether or not one agrees with this theory, Shadowplay is proving to be a goldmine of ideas and thoughts that should appeal to anyone who is interested in learning about the past.

An Arty Advert

It is a truth universally acknowledged that there is no beating a good book. An unknown artist, however, has taken their love of the printed word to a new level. Just round the corner from the dúnadan's workplace, this interesting piece of art has recently appeared.

And here is a close up:

Is this really art or a piece of advertising on the cheap by Penguin? Well, a busy company works behind that sliding door and absolutely no attempt has been made in the last couple of weeks to remove the poster so if it is the latter, they clearly do not have a problem with it. I suspect it is an advert, however, given that the spines of real books are divided in one or two places by fake titles ("The best subversives ever written") which clearly want us to go to bookshop to buy these tomes. I do have a problem though, in that of the books mentioned, I have only read one - Orwell's 1984 - and that was many moons ago in school.

The Inquisitive Cow on Accents, Holidays & Capitalism

dúnadan: Hallo from sunny Dorset! On the eve of exciting events in London, I have come to visit my friend, the inquisitive cow: newly returned from her holiday in Devon. Hallo cow!

inq. cow.: Hallo dúnadan. Moo!

dúnadan: How is your great aunt Wellingtonia doing?

inq. cow.: Oh, she is fine. As you know, she is a keen historian and has a particular interest in the Raj. I think she just fancies Lord Mountbatten though. Great Aunt Wellingtonia actually quivers at the knees when any of Farmer Hobble's posh friends come to visit her.

dúnadan: Ah. That gives me the chance to mention a very interesting report that was published not long ago, namely, that the West Country Farmhouse Cheesemakers claim that Somerset cows moo with a west country tang - "moo -arrr!".

inq. cow.: I understand you tried and failed to catch up with Jenny Wren last week. Come the day when you do finally meet her, you will find that she has an accent that could cut a blade of grass in threes and fours. Of course us cows have accents - why would we not?!

dúnadan: Next you will be telling me that you drink cider!

inq. cow.: Mmmm.

dúnadan: Alright, our first topic tonight is that of holidays. When was the first holiday taken. This was the subject most on your mind when you travelled to Devon. Did you find an answer?

inq. cow.: It took much research and a trip to several fields, but eventually I found a wise old cow by the name of Deuteronomy who informed me that the first holiday was taken in England following Henry VIII's break with Rome. This reflects the fact that the word 'holiday' comes from holy-day, which were days when Christians stopped work to attend special Masses.

dúnadan: So for thousands and thousands of years there were no holidays at all. And people talk about the Protestant work ethic! It looks like the pagans were the really hard working ones.

inq. cow.: By-the-bye, did you know that pagan means country dweller? Christianity first spread through cities, only reaching those in the countryside afterwards.

dúnadan: Is it Greek in origin?

inq. cow.: No, Latin. Oh, and paganus is derived from pagus which means a rural area.

dúnadan: Did Deuteronomy tell you this?

inq. cow.: Yes, although Exodus chimed in as well.

dúnadan: I must say, they have very interesting names.

inq. cow.: We must invite them here. Bertie Pig would love Exodus. Well, with a name like that, it is easy to see why! Deuwy, as his family call him, is the field elder and so is the one who lays down the law. Hence, his name.

dúnadan: Oh for a time machine to go back to when the books of the Bible were named. I would say to the namers 'one day, these titles will be applied to a herd of cows somewhere in Devon.' Obviously I would have to tell them where Devon was.

inq. cow.: I wonder if they would believe you! Perhaps they had never heard of England! Anyway, I would be interested to know on what day the Bible books were named! It is easy to imagine those books with authors being known by the author's name from the moment they were written, but what about those books that have other names?

dúnadan: Further research is required. In the meantime, tell us about your little capitalist venture while on holiday.

inq. cow.: Certainly. As everyone knows, cows live in fields and do not buy clothes or food. We die but we do not pay taxes. Hence, our overheads are very low. However, my cousin whom I shall call capitalist cow even though he is a bull - his real name is Algernon - persuaded me to join in his clotted cream enterprise. Have you ever made clotted cream?

dúnadan: I confess I have not.

inq. cow.: Well, it is very easy. Take a cow. Milk cow. Leave milk in a pan for twelve hours so that the cream rises to the surface. Heat the milk but don't boil it. After an hour, place the pan in a cool place overnight. The next morning, you can skim the clotted milk from the surface.

dúnadan: You speak like an expert!

inq. cow.: Would you believe that until I asked Farmer Bill what he did with the milk I had no idea of anything that happened! It is hard to believe that I have not always been inquisitive. Nowadays, it only happens in extremely hot weather and heavy rain.

dúnadan:Heh heh. So, how did your experiment in capitalism go?

inq. cow.: Well, I'm afraid to say that Algie cow is a little too smart for his own good. Before becoming a capitalist cow he studied political and economic history and now insists that before cows can share in the profits of such businesses we have to pass through the patrician period where bulls make all the money and keep it. Like I said, we cows have no use for money, but there is a principle at stake.

dúnadan: Of course.

inq. cow.: So, until I began a revolutionary movement, Algie didn't give us anything. Afterwards, however, well, what can I say - in order to keep pace with Algernon's theory of political and economic progress, our revolution became corrupt very quickly and we cut him out of the business!

dúnadan: Oh dear...

inq. cow.: Oh, don't worry, we let him back in again, eventually!

dúnadan: That is good to know. Well, it is getting dark now so let's finish things off. My notes tell me that you have a linguistic joke for us.

inq. cow.: The Learned Owl is teaching me Latin. Thus, there was a Roman soldier who walked into a bar and said, "I would like to order a martini." The barman looked at him quizzically before saying, "Where is your partner?"

dúnadan: Oh my goodness. I think I have stomach cramps. Well, Gerrie, it is good to see you again. Let us embrace! I will see you again next week.

the dúnadan embraces the inquisitive cow who gives him a slurp of the tongue in return.

dúnadan: Eurgh!

Farmhouse Cheesemakers
Report on cow accents

Index of Inquisitive Cow stories

'Tache Update!

Further to my exciting 'tachepost, my good friend L. informed me today that in his opinion, the dividing line between being hard and camp while sporting a handlebar moustache is a little growth under the middle of the lower lip. Apparantly, as long as this is in evidence, a man cannot be classed as camp. However, Newport Gwent Dragons' star Colin Charvis, tests this theory to the limit:

If the truth be told, however, I think Charvis's problem is not so much being regarded as camp but as a throwback to the 70s with that big afro. Anyway, I like Charvis because he has been a great player for Wales - particularly in the exciting game against England in the 2003 Rugby World Cup.

From Everton to Rome

Hot on the heels of my exclusive revelation concerning the similarity in appearance of Fidel Castro and Geoffey Rush (strangely not picked up by anyone else), I can once more reveal another uncanny pair of lookalikes. This time, it is Everton football manager, David Moyes, and actor Kevin McKidd, best known for his role as Catonian Lucius Vorenus in the series Rome. What do you think?

Kevin McKidd as L. Vorenus



David Moyes, Everton FC manager