Letters from Iceland

Am I K. In your blog?

Yes, you are, but now K. has his own blog - hurrah! It is called Letters from Iceland where his nom de plum is The Venerable Bede. Go check it out.

Oh, and a free slap on the back for anyone who can tell me where the above quotation has been adapted from!

The Inquisitive Cow on Chimneys and Follies before falling asleep!

inq. cow:... Instrument of Government, which was the first written constitution anywhere in the world. Based on the Heads of Proposals, it granted executive powers to the Lord Protector, in other words, Oliver Cromwell.
augustine squirrel: (whispering) It is hard to believe that Gerrie is still ruminating - after two days! And her eyes are closed!
dúnadan: Mmmmm... zzzzzzzz.
inq. cow: ... the Protectorate had no roots in English politics and so its effective death with Cromwell was no surprise....
jenny wren: Hello Gerrie?
inq. cow: ... following his son Richard's resignation? Hmm? Oh, hallo, Jenny. My, isn't the sky clear today? A very bright blue--- ah. Oh dear.
betty cow: What?
inq. cow: I appear to have answered your question.
betty cow: Did you? You know, I had quite forgotten what it was.
learned owl: Zzzzzzzzz
inq. cow: We can't confer with the Learned Owl until night fall. Let's withdraw till then!
augustine squirrel: Wake up, dúnadan! It's over! Gerrie answered the question!
dúnadan: Mmm? Did she she? (yawning) Hello Gerrie!
inq. cow: Hello, dúnadan. I am sorry to have kept you.
dúnadan: Not at all. Gosh. Congratulations on winning the game!
inq. cow: Well, only the referee can declare a winner, and he is asleep. When he wakes up and discovers what happened, I think he will declare a draw.
betty cow: I will put him right!
dúnadan: Anyway, shall we begin the interview?
inq. cow: Let's.
dúnadan: So, what was making you inquisitive this week?
inq. cow: (yawning) Please excuse me. Well then, I was eating some grass in the field when I took note of the chimney in Farmer Bill's house. It occured to me that I had never really paid attention to it before, so I decided to put that right. Unfortunately, none of the villagers know much about the science of chimneys and no sweeps are due to visit for a few weeks. Luckily, I met the Robbie the Piratical Robin (or one of them) who knows some crows who used to live in a disused chimney and he was able to help me.
dúnadan: I see.
inq. cow: I am most interested in the chimney effect. This is the movement of air into and out of a chimney, or indeed, a building. It is thanks to the movement of air down a chimney that smoke is drawn out.
dúnadan: Do you think there is a reason why some chimneys are short while others are long?
inq. cow: Indeed! The taller the chimney the more greater the inflow of air will be and so more dispersed the smoke will be when it comes out. Obviously a house can afford a short chimney as it will produce a relatively small amount of smoke, while a power station will need a longer chimney. The longest one in the world is in a place called Kazakhstan. Do you know where that is?
dúnadan: Er... oh dear, I'm afraid I don't. Is it near Russia? It sounds Russian-ish.
inq. cow: I must try to find out. Anyway, the power station is called the GRES-2. The chimney is 419.7 metres high. That is quite high! (Yawns heavily) Goodness gracious, I am a bit tired.

dúnadan: Let's move on quickly.
inq. cow: Very good. Some tall buildings have a purpose, but not all. They are called follies, and there are lots of them around the country. It seems amazing to me that men will build towers or castles for no good reason, but they do...
dúnadan: Ah, yes. I visited a folly once. It was in Birmingham - near the Oratory and was built by a fellow named Perrott and... Gerrie?
inq. cow: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
dúnadan: Oh dear, Gerrie appears to have fallen asleep. Gerrie, wake up! We are mid interview! Oh dear. This is embarrassing. (Sound of the dúnadan trying to shake an animal a lot heavier than him) Oh dearohdearohdear. She isn't moving at all... Well, in the meantime, let's have a look at some nice photographs of Gerrie related places.

dúnadan: Here is a rather rude man on a hillside just outside Cerne Abbas. I thought he was also a very old man, but Gerrie thinks the giant was created in the seventeenth century. It was a very wet day when I took that photograph and Gerrie slid all the way down the hill and over the giant's, well, feet as the Bible would say. I shall say no more and move quickly on.

dúnadan: Ah. This is much nicer. It is, of course, Lulworth Cove. Bertie Pig wants Gerrie to build him a ship to sail out of there while Tecumseh Squirrel wishes he could invade it during high summer. Gerrie has wisely resisted the attempts of both to help them in their schemes.

dúnadan: Ahhh, Little Wimple! Farmer Bill's farm is just on the other side of the hill, passed the third tree on the left. You can see the Norman church where Harriet lives and the two competing Manors in the foreground centre and right. We shall have to talk about the squires one day... oh well, it doesn't look like Gerrie is going to wake up. And I see Betty (on the left) has fallen asleep as well - and while eating too! Let's walk away quietly...

dúnadan:... and leave them to sleep off their ruminations! See you at the weekend for, hopefully, a full interview!

index of interviews with the inquisitive cow
Gerrie has a Facebook pro file! Search under 'Gerrie Cow' and become her friend

Against A Team With No Bite

Harlequins 49 Sale Sharks 0

The West (Lexus) Stand. My seat is just to the left of the
concrete cutting underneath the scoreboard

My goodness. What a game! You read the score correctly. The MIGHTY Quins Forty Nine - Sale NIL. How does a team go from winning the Premiership title one season to being absolutely hammered and humiliated the next? Well, by having an injury crisis throughout the season and deciding to rest those first XV players who are able to play so as to give your younger blades a chance to show what they are worth, that's how. Does this result mean that Sale have no decent players beyond the First XV? That is not for me to say, but having watched Harlequins pulverise them today, I can report that Sale played with the skill of a bad National Division One team. Either they did not have the skill or the heart for today's game. Perhaps it was the latter, after all, they had little to play for. Although, if they had beaten Quins, they could still have qualified for next year's European (Heineken) Cup - if indeed there is one. As it is, Quins are in that position. So, let's hope Bath lose the European Challenge Cup in a few weeks (as they will claim the 7th spot if they win it) and the RFU and Premier Clubs can sort their differences out.

Back to today, my 'match day experience' (as the club like to call it) got off to a most auspicious start just before kick-off when the Harlequins Hearts appeared from nowhere to enchant the crowd with their dance routine.

The young ladies were kept busy throughout the game as they popped up every time a point was scored. My personal opinion was that we would win this game, though it was bound to be close, but right from the start, Harlequins dominated the play. The points tally began with a penalty by outgoing Kiwi star Andrew Merhtens. Here he is getting ready to kick a conversion.

Merhts, as he is affectionately known, was signed to join Harlequins during their relegation season two years ago. To his eternal credit, and the club's gratitude, he chose to stay with the club despite its being relegated. This man was an All-Black so such a decision could not have been easy for him. Last year, however, he played a central role in ensuring that the club returned to the top flight. This year, however, his starts have been very restricted due to injury, and I guess that Harlequins decided that whatever his wage bill is, despite him being a damn good player, it is not worth the possibility that he could be out with more injuries in the future. What a shame. Since his return to the First XV two games ago, he has shown what a master-player he is. Today, he scored one drop goal, two penalties and five conversions and even scored a try. Only one conversion was missed. He leaves with the fans' benedictions and best wishes for wherever he ends up next. Let's just hope it is not in an opposing team!

Another player on the field at the Stoop for the last time today was Andre Vos. The former Springbok captain and Barbarian has played for Harlequins for the last 4 - 5 years and been a terrific servant to the club. After the game he, Merhtens and the other players who are leaving now had a little presentation from Mad Max the PA man.

Back to the game, everything that could go right, did. Harlequins defended beautifully and attacked with a hunger that made it seem like the first game of the season. I shall not forget a mazy run of Ugo Monye's late in the second half when he weaved this way and that past a handful of Sale players. It didn't lead to a try in the end but was indicative of his and the team's desire to score. Sale did not sit back, although they provided little danger to the Quins' tryline. The most unusual thing I saw all day was a penalty that they took in the second half. Usually, a player will either go for goal or kick to touch. This time, three Sale players stood in front of the ball - as if forming a wall in a football match - before one tapped and passed it to a fourth player who came sweeping past them. I can only imagine that they were trying to stop Harlequins from guessing which way they wanted to go. Of Sale I cannot say much that would give their fans comfort. It was a terrible performance by their youngsters and that was that. I am sure, however, that things will be better next season, especially when their best players return from the World Cup.

As for Harlequins, at the start of this season, I optimistically predicted that they would finish sixth. Like many fans, however, I just wanted them to stay up. Not only did they avoid relegation, but I now feel that they should have done better than their final placing of seventh. That is a sure sign of how the team came on this year. Next year, there is no reason why they can't aim for a top six finish. I suspect top four will be beyond them for a year or two yet - it is still a young side. Still, how wonderful it is to have a team of such promise. In the meantime, it is hard luck to Northampton Saints who were relegated. I think they will be promoted again next season and I think they will do so with minimum of fuss. If Quins and Leeds can do it, they definitely can. The Saints will go marching on.

Back to today, this is the image that I shall take with me through the wilderness of summer when no rugby is played:

Phew!

See you next season!

Gerrie's Rumination Continues

inq. cow: ... was the most widely read man of his age, and in fact, could be said to be the last man on earth who could rightly claim to have read every published book in existence - excluding foreign books and depending on what you mean by published, of course - as in his day, books were not published but hand written by monks. This is one reason why I, and lots of inquisitive people, reject the term 'Dark Ages'. While it is true that the Anglo-Saxon period suffered from the fall of Rome to the barbarians and from the loss of classical texts, what can we say of our own age where we have suffered the loss of Imperial Britain which did so much for the world and from the loss once more of the classics. It is true that the texts are still there, but who reads them? Academics and their students? Yes. Just as monks and their students read what texts did survive into the so called Dark Ages (For example, Aristotle). It could be pointed out that the 'Dark Ages' suffered greatly from being pre-scientific, but I don't think science has everything to do with how advanced a culture is. The arts has a great role to play as well. And the Anglo-Saxons were not short on arts. For example, in respect of illuminated manuscripts! Which brings me back to the Venerable Bede who, as I said...
dúnadan: (yawn!) Augustine, is Gerrie still going?
augustine squirrel: Oh yes. This is a captivating performance. She just completed a Loop - ending a paragraph as she began it. She is good.
dúnadan: I can't believe she has kept going all night. Wake me up when she is done.
augustine squirrel: Will do. Would you like another peanut?

to be concluded (finally)

index of (successful) interviews with the inquisitive cow

Smersh Strikes Back

A few days ago, Fr Tim Finigan published on his blog the draft text of the proposed new translation of the Mass. On Wednesday, however, he received an e-mail from an agent of Smersh* (aka ICEL) going under the name of 'Peter Finn' asking him to delete the text on the grounds that it had 'been produced without Smersh's permission and in violation of the Smersh copyright'. I may have altered the quotation slightly. I shall leave you to guess how.

My sympathy is with Smersh on this issue. I enjoy writing and would not want anything that I had authored reproduced without my permission. For this reason, I do not encourage you to visit this blog that has reproduced the proposed text. Remember, if you visit this blog you may be able to contact your bishop or Smersh itself to give it your advice as a son or daughter of the Church on where you feel it has gone right or wrong with the translation, and that would be evil. Another reason not to visit this blog is that even if you are a loyal son or daughter of the Church you are probably not in a position to criticise the proposed text, anyway. For as 'Peter Finn' indicated to Fr. Tim,

The leaders of Smersh are especially concerned that these texts be introduced with sufficient catechetical materials intended to aid the reception of the new translation.

Call me naive, but I reckon the publishing of the proposed translation (which can be found here though you shouldn't look at it) won't make a whit of difference to those who need catechetical materials to aid their understanding of it. They are the kind of people who are not into theology to this degree and so will not spend time searching out proposed translations on the internet.

Anyway, you have been warned. Read the proposed translation - at your peril! Instead, why not spent hours on the exciting and interactive Smersh website. It can be found here.

* Society for the Mangling of Everything Roman in the Seventies

Engleby - S Faulks

click on the picture to visit Amazon & read more about this book

Sebastian Faulks is one of my favourite contemporary authors. If the truth be told, he is the only one whose books I would always read. And it is all because of his Early 20th Century trilogy - Birdsong, set in the Great War; The Girl at the Lion D'Or set in the 30s and Charlotte Grey, set during World War Two. All three of these books are great reads. Birdsong is the famous one, but my personal favourite is The Girl (I love its ending, heartbreaking though it is).

Faulks' fourth major work On Green Dolphin Street was good though it took some getting used to - it is set in early 60s America. His fifth, however, was a disaster. Human Traces is a huge tome and did not read like it had been written for the reader but to show the world how good an author Faulks was. I have tried reading it twice and both times failed miserably. On Thursday I visited our local book shop to find a birthday present for someone, and I noticed Faulks' name on the display shelf. Underneath it was a title I did not recognise: Engleby. It turns out that this is his latest opus.

The Good News:
It is shorter than Human Traces.

The Bad News:
One of the recommendations (from The Times) on the back page say that Faulks can now be rated alongside 'the great Europeans'. Oh dear. It's nice that the Times says so but now I have the impression that Faulks and/or his publishers placed the quotation there to show us what a Major Writer he is - alongside the ranks of Hugo and the rest of them.

No writer should desire to do anything more than to please his reader. If his book transcends popular culture and becomes fine art then well done Mr. Author but he should not be writing with that intention. The blurb for Engleby says that it 'can be read as a lament for a generation and a country it failed'. We shall see if this points to Faulks' desire to be considered a Literary Giant or is actually justifiable in terms of the story to come.

If I can read this book, I will definitely go back to Human Traces and give it one more go. If I fail again, though, I think I will stick with the War books in the future.

What exciting times! I shall post updates on the book. For now, having read the first chapter there is not much to report. Engleby is written as by the eponymous hero himself and is a collection of diary like entries detailing his life at Oxford University. There is no story to speak of yet, though in his getting together with a girl called Jennifer seems to be the gateway to something greater happening.

The HNP Exercise Club

Back on the beat this morning. Afterwards, a shower and application of Lynx boost shower gel with stimulating guava and volcanic stone extract. Mmmm. This product was given to me as a Christmas present and it came with the guarantee (well, a picture, a kind of graphic sum) of a man + Lynx product = woman in bikini.

Albeit I have just recently started using this shower gel I have yet to see any sign of a woman in a bikini. Please don't leave a comment saying it is winter and what do I expect. If it was an issue for Lynx they would have given the bikini woman a scarf or such like. Or just not released the product until summer and said 'use by September for best results'.

Anyway, I continue to use the gel just-in-case and despite the fact that being red, whenever I apply it, I look like a character out of Macbeth. Out damn gel!

If the gel fails to live up to expectations, I shall, of course, send a strongly worded though polite letter to Unilever (owner's of the Lynx brand) asking for recompense.

The Inquisitive Cow and the Rumination Game

dúnadan: Hallo and welcome back to Dorset! It's the beginning of the weekend and that means I am here to interview the inquisitive cow. Now, the good news is that my train arrived at Dorchester Station a little early today so I have a little more time with Gerrie. Or so I thought. Because no sooner had I got to Farmer Bill's farm than I found Miss Cow deep in conversation with her friend, Betty. Augustine Squirrel, having recovered from drinking too much wine last week, tell us what is going on - this is not any old conversation, is it?
augustine squirrel: Indeed, no! Gerrie and Betty are playing that perennial gavourite of cows, the Rumination Game.
dúnadan: What does that entail?
augustine squirrel: Well, it is an extremely boring game, beloved only of ruminants like cows where you are asked a straight forward question and you have to ruminate on the answer for as long as possible. The winner is the person who can do so convincingly for the longest period of time. A referee judges the quality of the rumination and if he does not like what is being said, he can warn the contestant or simply order them to give the straight forward answer - that is the last resort.
dúnadan: Today's referee is the Learned Owl and by his nods and gestures it looks like he is enjoying himself. But Augustine, does all this mean I may not be able to interview Gerrie?
augustine squirrel: Well, the good news is that each game has a maximum of three questions. Betty has just finished her third answer, and I believe is about to ask Gerrie her last question. The bad news is that they started on Tuesday so the game could carry on for a while yet!
dúnadan: Let's go and listen in!
betty cow: .... my last question is: Gerrie, what colour is the sky?
dúnadan: (whispering) Ooh, what an easy question! That will be a tough one not to answer straight forwardly!
inq. cow: Ahhh... what a difficult question! Ab ovo usque ad mala a cow could ponder this question and still not come to a satisfactory answer...
augustine squirrel: (whispering) A Latin phrase! That is a typical defensive tactic! It gives the contestant time to think of something to say!
inq. cow:... the reason being that, of course, there is no answer.
augustine squirrel: (whispering) Ooooohhhh... this is high stakes, dúnadan. Gerrie is denying the validity of the question. If she is not careful, Learned Owl will warn her for dissembling.
inq. cow: ... Or so some cows would say. But when I look up into the sky I see - with my mind's eye - so many colours! Thanks to diffuse sky radiation being scattered from solar beams by suspensoids - fine dust and soot particles for example - all is definitely not what it seems. It is almost of as if the air is playing the role of magician, using sleight of hand to play a trick on us the audience. Indeed, you could call the interaction of air, short wavelength light and suspensoids the airy prestige. As Isaac Newton once said...
augustine squirrel: Quoting famous people! Gerrie has got into her stride now! We may be here for a while, dúnadan!
dúnadan: Well, let's sit down and listen. May I have one of your peanuts?

to be continued.

index of (successful) interviews with the inquisitive cow

Das Leben der Anderen (The Life of Others)

To the cinema last night with L., and Our Man Formerly in the Army to see this German language film. We are accustomed in the West to accusing our politicians of being rubbish, and may be they are, but what we do not do is spend any time thinking about how fortunate we are (a) to be able to accuse them of being so and (b) to be able to insult without fear of recrimination.

The Life of Others that can be used to get rid of him. Enter loyal agent Hauptmann takes us to East Germany in 1984 when the Communist Party was in still in power and dissension of any kind could lead to a spell in the Stasi - Secret Police - interrogation room and prison. It is a deeply scary and disturbed society. But not all people are too afraid to speak out, however, and one of them is playwright Georg Dreyman. Yet, he has a problem in that a Communist Party minister has designs on his girlfriend, Christa Sieland. The minister, Bruno Hempf, orders the Stasi to bug Dreyman's home to try and uncover something scandalous that can be used to get rid of him. Enter Hauptmann Wiesler, a forty something stoney faced agent who is the unbending, emotionless face of Communism. But this isn't a film about Dreyman's downfall, rather, Wiesler's redemption. For a start - at least to begin with - Dreyman is not nearly as politically indiscreet as some of his allies (he is friends with Erich Honecker, leader of the CP). And then Wiesler starts to be affected by the plays of Brecht and music of Beethoven. The game keeper turns poacher - and you should see what he poaches at the end of the bugging mission. It would make you cheer!

Wiesler's transition from Oppressor to human being is played with a wonderful minimalism by Ulrich Mühe. This should not be taken to read that he cannot act, but like the best actors, he can say so much with a glance here or a gesture there.

Alas, the film ends in tragedy for Dreyman and badly for Wiesler too, but there is a eucatastrophe that takes the picture beyond the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 and which gives it a most heart warming ending. All of the performances in this picture are impeccable. I am not fond of kitchen sink dramas of which this was one but I still found it a most compelling piece of cinema and recommend it most highly.

WWCS?

It is nearly nine o'clock and I should be watching Manchester United on the t.v. However, we are two - one down and I am far too nervous to watch the 2nd half so here I am in the Kitchen instead. What would Cally say?

To calm my nerves, let me mention a serendipitous thing that happened when I got home from work today. I opened a letter from the Student Loans body expecting it to say thank you for the latest repayment and tell me how much I still had to go on it. Instead, it actually informed me (in one and a half ever so sweet lines) that I had now paid my student loan off. Hurrah! I graduated from university ten years ago but only started paying the loan off five years ago. So, I can now say to Charles Thacker (Hugh Grant's character in Notting Hill) that I am now financially viable! No debts except what I happen to put on the credit card bill every month. Not bad. In case you are wondering, my custom was either to file these letters without opening them or give them a cursory look before putting them away.

Berrydict's Birthday

It was the day before 16th April, when Berrydict would be celebrating his 10th birthday. This meant that in human terms, he would now be 80 years old. Coincidentally, his owner celebrated his birthday on the 16th as well and he was 80 too! Like his owner, Berrydict sometimes found his age catching up with him, but it was strange how he always found the strength to get through the day. Even when he was so busy that he couldn't nap as often as he wanted to.
"Well, you know that that is God's grace." Monsignor Catswein told him, as they looked down at St Peter's Square from the basilica Loggia on the evening of the 15th.
"God's grace? I wonder what that is, exactly." Berrydict replied.
"I don't really know. That's both the problem and joy of being an animal. By our mere existence we bless and give God glory. Unfortunately, it means we have no need to intellectualise our faith."
"Does that bother you?" Berrydict asked, surprised.
"Not really." Monsignor Catswein said matter-of-factly, "In fact, it makes life far easier!"
Not long later, Berrydict left to return to the papal bed basket. But he felt a little lonely tonight. The thought that he had seen most of his life pass by and did not have too long left weighed heavily on him. So, as he always did when he felt down, he jumped up onto his owner's bed and snuggled up beside him. "Gute nacht, Berrydict!" his owner whispered, stroking him.

Berrydict's owner was a very prayerful man. For a cat, this had its disadvantages, for it meant that he was up even before the crack of dawn, praying. Berrydict remembered that John Purr had this problem with his owner, too. So it was that as the first shaft of sunlight broke over the Roman skyline and entered the Pope's bedroom, Berrydict realised that he was on the bed alone. He didn't like this, so after stretching and - admittedly - sleeping for just a little longer, he went in search of his owner. Well, I say 'in search of', but he knew where to find him: in his chapel. Once there, Berrydict sidled up to him and stroked his side with his body. "Ah, Berrydict. Are you hungry?!" his owner asked. Berrydict meowed. Finishing his prayers, his owner took Berrydict to the dining room where a plate of prime fish cuts had been laid out for him. But Berrydict was not interested in those. As the Pope sat down to eat his own breakfast, Berrydict jumped onto the table and watched him. That is what he wanted to do. He wished he could do so forever.

That morning, Berrydict met Monsignor Catswein in his owner's office (the monsignor's, that is) where he - Catswein - was admiring a calendar with photos of him on it!
"Is that really you??" Berrydict asked.
"It is. Apparently I am a fashion icon." Catswein said. "Maintaining one's coat weller than well has its benefits!"
"Catswein, I need to ask you a question. When we and our owner's are dead will we ever see each other again?"
"Goodness."
"What? Is it a silly question? Is it too deep for us?"
"No, I think they have touched up my photograph. I remember our trip to Val d'Aosta and my fur was not that shiny. It was a cloudy day. As for your question, I am sure that we will."
"But animals do not have souls."
"We have spirits, though."
"Do we? God never breathed 'the spirit of life' into us."
"In the first creation account, He never breathed the spirit of life into the first man or woman, either. And in the second creation account, He never breathed that spirit into the first woman. Oh, Berry, did you find the biscuits I left for you next to your basket?"
"I didn't. I am still bothered by this question."
"Well, remember what St. Paul said to the humans. They are the co-heirs with God, but it is the whole of creation that waits to be brought into the freedom of the sons of God! It's like this life is night time, Berry, and at the End it will be day: for ever. I don't know what is going to happen exactly, but the rumour is that it will be good not only for the humans but all of us! Cats, dogs, mice, slugs and all. We won't be as we were, but we will be there."
"Gosh."
"What about those biscuits?"
"Are you sure you placed some next to my basket? I never smelled any when I left the bedroom."

Of course, Monsignor Catswein had not left any there. It was a ruse to take Berrydict outside to the Catican Gardens where a cat choir and a host of catinals, bishcats and sundry dignitaries were waiting. There, His Furriness was greeted with a great, big, loud HAPPY BIRTHDAY! & BUON COMPLEANNO!! & ALLES GUTE ZUM GEBURTSTAG!!! & FELIX DIES NATALIS!!!!

The formal greeting was done by Catinal Pawdano. As soon as he had spoken, the choir broke out in Catgorian chant - Berry's favourite music. In the middle of the party was their present: a cake in the shape of Berrydict's basket. It was made out of biscuits and all kinds of delicious meats. As everyone who ate of it afterwards testified, it was yummy.

Before the eating began, however, Berrydict gave the required speech. In true cat fashion, it was short, complimentary and filled with invitations to taste the cake. If the truth be told, and mentioning no names catinal murphy o'catty, a few cats did more than that, but as there was more than plenty to go round, no one minded - too much. Afterwards, as the eating proper began, Berrydict took Catswein aside. "I am going to visit my owner and see how his celebrations go... but I just wanted to thank you for what you said, earlier." he told him.
"What did I say?" Catswein asked, a bit puzzled. When it came to intellectual matters, cats could be most forgetful. Remember, it was simply by being that they blessed and praised God. Berrydict smiled and rubbed the monsignor's nose with his own and Catswein somehow understood. Or rather, he never understood, he just knew.
"Happy Birthday, Berrydict. Ad Multos Annos. Here and in eternity."
"Amen, dear friend," Berrydict replied, "Amen."

index of Berrydict stories

C. S. L. and the Great War

In between of talking about Manchester United and Spike's wedding on Saturday, Kit and I got to discussing Tolkien. I had forgotten this, but I gave him a copy of the superb Tolkien and the Great War by John Garth.

click on the picture to read about this book at Amazon.co.uk

That got me to wondering: has anyone ever written about C. S. Lewis' World War I service? I am going to try and find out, but if you know of any books on the subject, I would love to know.

***

On another note, I took a look at Will Vaus' blog today. He is a Lewis author/scholar (not sure where the dividing line is. Does one have to be an academic to be a scholar?) but is writing a biography of his father who was a gangster. My experience of gangsters in literature is confined to the Godfather, Donnie Brasco and one or two other films so it will be interesting to find out gangster lingo in the 40s. Were there any Wise Guys or Made Men etc etc.

Finding Joy

I am being inspired left, right and centre today. After reading New House's post on being grateful to God I caught up with some of Fr Dwight's recent posts and their comments. There is lots going on there at the moment (especially in the combox for Evangelical Catholicism) but I especially enjoyed reading his post on joy.

... Christian joy is a tough, shrewd realism built on a bedrock of optimism. The energy and determination of joy is formidable. Joy is a steam engine that is unstoppable. Joy laughs quickly, but it also weeps quickly in compassion. Joy is an authentic clarity of vision, a simplicity of style and a direct way of speaking in total honesty, but without a touch of malice. It is honest, open, attractive and infectious. Joy is more than a lift of the heart or the buoyancy of spirit that comes from external circumstances. Joy springs up from the depths of a heart that has been truly converted by the power of the resurrection.

That is the best way to describe joy: it is a heart raised up and being raised up and forever being raised up. It is the everlasing lift of the heart renewed. It is tough, tender, hilarious and alive.

Right on! Fr Dwight says he has met a couple of saints in his life. I can think of one whom I have met. She is a Third Order Carmelite and so is the reason why St Edith Stein features at the top of the sidebar and on my desk at work. Pope John Paul the Great is a Saint too. Before Mass this evening, I was wondering to myself what name I would choose for myself if I was pope. Despite being more like Pius XII, I would go for John Paul III. He was so full of joy that it would be an honour to pay homage to him in this way. Another person who, if he is not a saint is jolly close to it, is Jean Vanier, the founder of L'Arche. I have read a few of his books, seen footage on the 'net of him speaking and seen him speak in the flesh and he just radiates holiness. Finally, one reason why I am so fond of blogging is the fact that there are some very joyful blogs out there. I have links to some, though not all, but all of them lift my heart when I read them.

After a very happy day

Thank you God for a lovely day.

New House New Job has a great post on being grateful to God. Yesterday, as I attended the wedding of a good friend, I had much cause to be. 'Spike' is a good and holy person - the grace of God is clearly evident in her - and it was wonderful to be present on this profoundly good occasion. The Nuptial Mass was celebrated at a beautiful church in Chelsea and was followed by a cocktail party in Piccadilly. To receive an invitation to even something as simple as a beer or coffee is good, but to be invited to a wedding is of a different order. Not only are you witnessing a friend's joy, but you are seeing creation change. Two people are becoming one. Yesterday, the intensity of what was happening almost got too much for Spike and she almost couldn't say her vows. But, she recovered herself and all went well. I must say a quick word about a unique feature to this wedding - the gospel reading was not any that you might expect but Luke 6: 36 - 38 - be compassionate as your Father is compassionate. A very mature reading for a couple about to be married.

The Inquisitive Cow on Wine Tasting, Feline Pesematology and Pìobaireachd music

dúnadan: Good afternoon everyone and welcome to a field somewhere north of Dorchester in Dorset. With me is Gerrie, the one and only inquisitive cow! Hallo Gerrie.

inq. cow: Good afternoon, dúnadan. It is good to see you again on another sunny day.
dúnadan: We are not alone today, for picnicking nearby is Farmer Bill and Mrs Farmer Bill.
farmer bill: Aye, get on wi' the wine!
mrs farmer bill: Ignore him, dúnadan! Hello Gerrie! Hello world!
dúnadan: Now, why are they here? Well, in fact, it is because we are standing behind a table upon which are a selection of wines. Gerrie has been wine tasting today.
inq. cow: As a cow, I do not drink alcohol very often. In fact, I don't drink it all, but I was prepared to make an exception to that rule to learn about wine tasting from the the master drinker himself! Moohh!
farmer bill: Tell 'em what I taught ye, Gerrie!
inq. cow: First of all, dúnadan, when you are in the restaurant with the mysterious 'L', what do you do to taste the wine?
dúnadan: Well, normally, I let 'L' taste it! But if it is me, then I take a quick sniff and down it. Unless I throw up, I consider it to be a good wine... you are giving me a funny look, Gerrie; I take it I am doing the wrong thing.
inq. cow: Yes! Goodness me, dúnadan, you can be vulgar! Although, to be fair, you are not far from the right track. This is what you should do. Firstly, look at the wine. This is important if it is a white wine. While they can range in colour, if it seems brown, it has probably gone off. Secondly, apply the rim test.
dúnadan: What on earth is that?
inq. cow: Take that glass of red wine there. Tip it slightly... that's right... and observe the rim.
dúnadan: It is brownish. Is that bad?
inq. cow: Not in a red wine. That indicates maturity.
farmer bill: Aye! As if I would have bad wine!
mrs farmer bill: Shhh! Let them speak, Bill.
inq. cow: The next thing you do is swirl the wine about. Does it have good legs?
dúnadan: Good legs??
inq. cow: Wine will often leave traces on the side of the glass when you swirl it about - they are called 'legs'. If they are thick or good then that means the wine probably has a higher alcohol content.
dúnadan: I see. Hullo, here is Augustine Squirrel. Have you come to taste the wine?!
augustine squirrel: Indeed I have, young man. Don't worry, I will jump onto the table...
inq. cow: We shall both taste this wine... >sound of sniffing then sipping noises<
augustine squirrel: You will notice, young man, that we sniffed quickly and then more deeply. This was so that we got a first impression of the wine's aroma before imbibing it more deeply.
inq. cow: This wine had a definite fruitiness to it, underpinned by a herbal tinge!
augustine squirrel: Of course, what we should have done was smell the wine and then bask in its flavour for a few moments. It is possible to overload the senses!
dúnadan: I see. Well, Farmer Bill has come over so let's leave him and Augustine Squirrel to taste the wines... not from the bottle, Farmer Bill! Moving on, a little bird told me - literally, it was Robin, one of the piratical robins - that you have been spending a lot of time this week in the field next to the village church.
inq. cow: That's right, on a very sensitive mission, you see, I have been trying to study feline pesematology.
dúnadan: Now, this has something to do with cats...?
inq. cow: Yes! In fact, it is the study of how cats fall. The curiosity of scientists know no bounds! Did you know, that American scientists once conducted a research into this activity. And they said that a cat would be more likely to survive a fall if it fell from a greater height - seven stories or over to be exact.
dúnadan: I don't understand it. How could that be possible?
inq. cow: Well, that is why I have been standing outside the church all week. Every morning, Harriet the church cat takes her walk along the roof and round Norman tower. It was quite windy this week so I wanted to see what happened if she was blown over. Fortunately, she was not, although that was not good for my studies. Anyway, the answer to your question - as given by the scientists - is that if a cat falls a short distance - six stories or less - it will be very stressed: naturally...
dúnadan: I should say. I think I would be.
inq. cow: But if it falls more than six stories it reaches its terminal velocity: sixty miles per hour - humans' terminal velocity is 130 miles per hour, by the way - which is the fastest speed it can fall at. At that point, the cat loses the sensation of falling, so it relaxes and in so doing spreads itself out, rather like a flying squirrel. The scientists' answer to why a moggie will be more likely to survive a big fall is that it lands in a more relaxed state leading to fewer injuries. Moo!
dúnadan: Hmmm. I'm not sure about all this!
augustine squirrel: Flying >hic!< shquirrels are real!
dúnadan: Augustine, how much have you drunk already!
farmer bill: Leave 'im be! We're 'avin' a competition!
mrs farmer bill: You men!
dúnadan: While waiting for Harriet to fall - or not - you have been listening to some music...
inq. cow: That's right. The Highland Coo sent me an album of songs, laments, as sung by himself.
dúnadan: Laments?
inq. cow: Pìobaireachd laments. This is a type of music that is performed on the bagpipes. Pìobaireachd literally means 'pipering' but refers now to traditional highland pipe music. As you will guess, this music need not be limited to laments. They can be salutes or for gatherings. The Coo, however, is enamoured of laments.
dúnadan: What does he have to lament about?
inq. cow: Oh, the lack of good grass, the way in which his hair gets in the way of his eyes... the usual things!
dúnadan: As luck would have it, we have Farmer Bill's record player on the table, so let's wind it up... and listen to the Highland Coo sing.
Highland Coo:

Where's me milk, mon!
I dinna ken!
I dinna ken!
I've trudged allaway o'er the countryside,
But I have nae milk!

Where's me milk, mon!
I dinna ken!
I dinna ken!
some wee scunner stole it,
some wee scunner stole it!

inq cow: Laments are normally about the great and good who have died. Coo has obviously opened up a new sub genre!
dúnadan: Interesting! Oh, dear. Augustine Squirrel have started fighting. And here comes the Honeybadger to join in! I think we ought to help Mrs Farmer Bill put a stop to this! Gerrie, as ever, thank you for your time. Have a good week, and happy drinking!

index of interviews with the inquisitive cow
Gerrie has a Facebook pro file! Search under 'Gerrie Cow' and become her friend

On tasting wine
The Straight Dope on falling cats
Pìobaireachd music

A bibliophile writes

One of life's more pleasant problems is being committed to finishing a book before you start a new one. As mentioned yesterday, my copy of The Children of Húrin arrived yesterday, but I am determined to finish my biography of the Barbarians rugby club before I start it.

To make matters worse, I only started it two days ago, immediately upon finishing a history of rugby union (A Game for Hooligans by Huw Richards). Fortunately, though the writing be small, the book is quite short...

With that said, I already know that I will miss this book once I finish it. The story of the Baa-Baas is a delightful one. All it is about is a group of men playing the game together for the sheer enjoyment of it. Not to win glory, not to lift cups - just because they love the game. There is something - in fact, a lot - to be said for the ideal of winning renown and glory, but I do love the idea of doing something for no other reason than love of it. It is, of course, the reason why I write this blog. In fact, it is the reason why I read and write at all. We who are not caught up in the rat race are very blessed. And I wouldn't exchange my life for that for all the money in the world. Or universe, for that matter.

Do You Know How...

... one creates and places a little graphic on the left hand side of the URL? I would love to try and make one for this blog but have no idea how it is done. Please leave a comment if you kow!

Galadriel and me

Cloak hood tip to Histor the Wise (pt 2)

Galadriel

Possessing a rare combination of wisdom and humility, while serenely dominating your environment you selflessly use your powers to care for others.

Even the smallest person can change the course of the future.

Between Mr Darcy, Pius XII and Galadriel I am, hopefully, on the right track.

Pius and me

Biretta tip to Histor the Wise (pt 1).

Which Twentieth Century Pope Are You?

You are Pope Pius XII. You're efficient and dedicated, but not very approachable.
Take this quiz!

Oh well. Time to work on my approachableness.

The Children of Húrin - J. R. R. Tolkien

Hurrah! I received my copy of The Children of Húrin today. I look forward to being depressed by the terrible story of Túrin Turambar and his family one more time (versions of the tale appear in The Silmarillion and the Book of Lost Tales). For those who do not know the story, just imagine the worst day you ever had and span it out to a life time and that is the story of the children of Húrin. At the end of The Silmarilion, it is prophecied that at the end of time, Túrin will return from death to kill Morgoth, the Arch-Enemy who is the cause of the children's misery. If that is the case, Morgoth will be in line for a mighty big shoeing because Túrin will have had a long time to get mightily peeved off by what happened to him. More on this book as I read it.

UPDATE: BBC On Line has a good article on the book. Make sure you see the video which features snippets from an interview with the master himself. Adam Tolkien, grandson and assistant editor to Christopher Tolkien who put the book together, is also interviewed. He has a very interesting and mature accent that makes him sound much older than he is.

Tessa after work

Cloth cap at the ready I headed into town for this month's Tessa union meeting. Today, we happy few comrades really pushed the boat out and kept it going for two and a half hours. Just what you want after a long day's work! Anyway, on this occasion we discussed amendments to motions for the upcoming TSSA conference. A She-comrade wanted to insert a paragraph onto the draft motion sheet asking the Government to assess the environmental impact of the military. And she wanted to link that specifically to the war in Iraq. I opposed this on the grounds that making such a link would lessen the impact of asking the Govt. to look into the army's environmental impact. I was also concerned that linking the motion to Iraq would cause potential supoprters to oppose it on those grounds. Anyway, my suggestion that this link be dropped was passed. Whether we take the paragraph to Conference (why do we drop the definate article when talking about conferences like this?) anyway is yet to be decided. I would be happy for it not to go.

Not a clash of civilisations - just a rugby game

Saracens 33 Harlequins 19

The penultimate game of the season saw Harlequins well beaten today by a confident and capable Saracens side.

My day started too early for a Sunday - at half past six in the morning. Yes, such a time exists. This gave me 90 minutes to complete the simple tasks of getting dressed and eating breakfast but I still managed to leave slightly later than I meant to. Fortunately, I arrived at Twickenham in plenty of time. Not alone, however, for at 'H.Q.' - i.e. Twickenham stadium - were gathering sundry Leicester Tigers and Neath-Swansea Ospreys fans as well as those from Exeter and Penzanze & Newlyn in Cornwall for the Premier League and all other league forms of the EDF cup. (For the record, Leicester and the Cornish Pirates ran out the winners).

Everyone but one person arrived at the Stoop before leaving time. The last man in set off without his car parking pass so had to turn round mid journey to go home and collect it. When he arrived, he was roundly booed. Having been there, I can testify to what that feels like!

Saracens play at Vicarage Road, the home of Watford FC. This meant a short journey on the coach. Along the way, we stopped at a wonderful pub called the Halfway House. I'm not sure where it was, but it appeared to be situated in a small town. It could have been a country pub, however, for that it was beside a meandering river and woodland. Under the April sun it was altogether idyllic.

Vicarage Road will not be my favourite away location. We were placed in one corner, which was fine. But I had the feeling of being very cut off from the rest of the stadium as I could not wander around as at proper rugby grounds. There was also the sign that said, 'Please remember that going on the pitch is an arrestable offence'. Well, durh! For the first time this season I also saw some police officers at the ground. What were they for? I have to admit, I felt quite put out at this treatment of rugby fans as football ones.

Saracens have a big screen but we had no incentive to use it!

The game itself from a Harlequins perspective was very forgettable. We lost by 14 points but if the home side had taken all their opportunities it would have been a lot worse. Perhaps it was because Harlequins no longer have anything to fight for this season whereas Saracens still have an eye on the play offs that gave them the edge. The worst thing, though, was seeing our Apollo, David Strettle, limp off with an ankle injury.

Today's game saw the last trip of John the Coach Captain. He was given an appropriate send off with lots of happy birthdays (today being the big day), chants and gifts. As ever, both before and after the game, there was a great atmosphere among the Quins' fans. As a side note, I shall add that as we strolled back to the coach from the pub, I walked right past our coach, the god-man Dean Richards, who was chatting to a couple of other fans. Rugby. The game where opposition fans get along and the boss isn't afraid to talk to fans even when his team loses.

The above sign was in the Vicarage Road pub which we retired to after the game. Please click on it to read properly and note what it says. I am particularly fond of 'no slap an' tickle o' the wenches' though I think it a rum thing that such a noble practise was prohibited.

Traddy and Libby

Have you seen the advert for Apple featuring the cool dude Mac and ever so slightly uncool P.C.? I think there should be a Catholic version.

Meet Traddy and Libby.

Traddy: Hi, I'm Traddy. I follow the one, true Apostolic faith---
Libby: Ooh, steady on there, Traddy. God speaks to everyone you know.
Traddy: Hi Libby, yeah, I know that.
Libby: Well, then, we better be careful about saying we are better than any other religion, shouldn't we?!
Traddy: Actually, I didn't say we were better than any other religion. But we do have the true one. Jesus said 'I am the way, the Truth and the Life... no one comes to the Father except through me.'
Libby: Listen to you! That's what I can't stand about you old fogey people... even you, though you are younger than me! Your minds are so closed. Me, however, my mind is open to everything. Why, this week I am will be attending seminars on explaining the miracles in the Gospels in the light of modern science---
Traddy: Explaining away more like.
Libby: ... 'How to pray like the a Yogi', 'Why Faith Schools Are Exclusivist And Should Be Closed' and on 'Sex: My God, My God, Why Have You Sexualised Me?'
Traddy: Mmm. Okay. You know what, I'll just stick to the Rosary, Quarant' ore and the Catechism.
Libby: Heaven - or rather the Pope - forbid that you read the Bible.
Traddy: Truth to tell, Libby, it doesn't sound like you'll read much of it, either.

The Inquisitive Cow on Cuban Cigars, Leopard's Bane and Slapstick Comedy

dúnadan: Hallo and welcome to Little Wimple in sunny Dorset! I am enjoying a picnic in the village church with my friend the inquisitive cow. Hullo Gerrie!
inq. cow: Good afternoon, dúnadan. Isn't it a fine day, today?
dúnadan: It is indeed. And for a graveyard, there is alot of life here. Bumblebee's are buzzing by, pollen is drifting on the air and butterflies are flitting to and fro. Wonderful. I almost feel like a rest, but instead, I shall light my weekend cigar. Mmmm!
inq. cow: Humans are funny. So much care and attention went into that fine, Cuban cigar - but only so that it might go up in smoke!
dúnadan: I wonder how it was made.
inq. cow: You like it so much, yet you don't know?
dúnadan: Too busy, Gerrie! Do you know?
inq. cow: Indeed. You may not know this, but my mummy has a twin. Farmer Bill was so happy when he discovered this that he helped grandmummy deliver them. Once mummy and auntie were born, Farmer Bill lit up one of his cigars. Helen the Vet, who was also helping, did not approve but when mummy told me this story I was most interested to see what the fuss was about.
dúnadan: So what is it about?
inq. cow: Let's take your Cuban cigar. It takes about three months for tobacco plants to grow to maturity. A good farmer will stagger the planting of his crops over several weeks so that he can devote more time to the leaf picking. This helps him to identify the best leaves for the production of tobacco. Once the leaves are picked, they are taken to a Curing Room to be hung up.
dúnadan: Where they are dried?
inq cow: Yes. It is this drying process that turns them from green to brown. I find this ironical because although the leaf now looks less healthy it will, in a way, be more so, because the curing process will have got rid of the various impurities in the leaf.
dúnadan: Where do the leaves go from the curing room?
inq. cow: Ah, just a different room in the same place where they can be stacked up and aged. This takes about two years. It is after that, that the leaves are taken and rolled up into the cigar that you have there, with a wrapper leaf acting as the outer skin.
dúnadan: How is it stuck down?
inq. cow: Both the wrapper and the label there are stuck with super glue.
dúnadan: WHAT?!!
inq. cow: Hee hee! Only joking! They are stuck with tree sap. Making a cigar is a very time consuming exercise. An act of love, really.
dúnadan: It feels it. Well, I have to say that while I am happy that this graveyard is well kept by the parish, I am glad that our corner of it has been allowed to get overgrown. For the reader - we are underneath a little Wych Elm tree that hangs over the wall and are embedded in the long grass. There is dandelions... and this sunny little flower.
inq. cow: That is Dorunicum: Leopard's Bane.
dúnadan: Leopard's Bane-? That is an interesting name. I wonder how it got that.
inq. cow: I have no idea. But I would be interested to know!
dúnadan: Let's make up our own reason. I reckon a leopard tried to eat it. He had been out all day chasing zebras and antelope but without success. 'I know,' he said, 'I will eat that miserable looking flower. It won't do me any harm.' But he didn't know that the dorunicum was poisonous to leopards. So, he ate it, choked, and died there and then.
inq. cow: That is not bad! I think the dorunicum was once a weedy little flower that no one paid any attention to. Then, one day, the Sun rose and said 'why are you all alone in the field?'. When the dorunicum told him that he had no friends, the Sun gave him a little sun ray and he turned yellow and brave. Now, leopards had been marauding the fields so that all the animals - even the elephants - were scared of them. So, the animals held a council to find out if anyone would be brave enough to fight against the leopards in a duel. But no one was. Except the dorunicum. His offer was not accepted, however, because everyone just laughed at him. So, off he went. And one night, he met the leopards. They did not know what he was - he had only just turned yellow, remember - so the dorunicum told the leopards 'I am a medal for your king to pick and wear'. So they picked him and gave him to the king. But that night, the dorunicum stabbed the king with his stem. The sun ray poisoned the leopard king and he died. From then on, the leopards kept well clear of wherever the Leopard's Bane grew!
dúnadan: Gosh, that is a good story!
inq. cow: Why, thank you!
dúnadan: Mmmm... this cigar continues to satisfy. And it makes me quite tingly.... >the dúnadan blows smoke out< Now, where was I? Ah, yes, this week, you have been learning about slapstick comedy. Or rather, its origins.
inq. cow: That's right. Earlier this week, Councillor Blenkinsop visited Farmer Bill to discuss the parish council elections. Their debate got a bit heated so to cool things down - so he said - Farmer Bill kicked Councillor Blenkinsop up the backside! It was very funny and got me to thinking about what is meant by 'slapstick' comedy.
dúnadan: I have never even thought about that term before.
inq. cow: Well, you will be pleased to know that it is medieval in origin. In the Fifteenth century, a form of comedy called the commedia dell'arte emerged in Italy. One of the props used by the players would be two pieces of wood nailed together at one end. When struck against something the sticks would slap together to make a loud noise! You probably know which character in the commedia most often carries the slapstick...
dúnadan: I declare, Mistress Cow, that I do not!
inq. cow: Why, the Arlecchino! The Harlequin!
dúnadan: Well, I never!

il arlecchino

inq. cow: Indeed. Another four hundred years passed before 'slapstick' came to refer to a type of comedy which remains popular today.
dúnadan: Especially when the one being humiliated is a figure of authority.
inq. cow: A fact that comedy genius Charlie Chaplin knew very well when he had his tramp kick the immigration official in the rear after being rounded up by him!
dúnadan: Ah, yes... wonderful stuff. Well, Gerrie, I feel very sleepy. Let me put the cigar in its box and then let's have a rest. It has been good talking to you, but... well... zzzzzzzzz
inq. cow: Oh dear, how quickly he falls asleep. Well, reader, thank you for joining us. We look forward to your company next week!

How cigars are made
Leopard's Bane photo: Digging in the Dirt

index of interviews with the inquisitive cow

If you are a member of Facebook become Gerrie's Friend. Look for her under 'Gerrie Cow'.

The Angelic Author (III)

My dear Uncle,

It is a truism amongst us spirits that when you live in eternity, it can be a very hard to appreciate the power of time over the younger children of the King. In not even the blink of an eye for us, six months have now passed since my charge was conceived. Much has happened. His mother has forgotten what it is like to live without pain. She lives in fear of losing her job after overhearing managers say that she will be sacked when she tries to return from maternity leave. His father has lost his job after taking the responsibility for the error of one of his staff, which cost the bank a vital contract. It is true that he has obtained new employment, but with his experience and qualifications, he deserves better than to be a cleaner. Yet such was the blow to his confidence by what happened that he can do no more right now. As a result of his dismissal, the family has had to move to a smaller flat in a poorer area of London where they now fight a war of attrition with their neighbours. Of them I must speak carefully for they do not know the suffering that they are causing with their loud music, violent quarrels and aggressive children.

But what of my charge? Ah, if only the Younger Children knew! Their physicians have long since discovered that the health of the mother can directly affect the health of the child, but not yet enough of the race of man know that his environment can affect his unborn's psychological health as well. Or, at least, they act as if they are ignorant. Yet, my charge grows anxious when he hears undue noise and quarrelling. I confess, I was ignorant and I did not think I would have to start praying for him in earnest until he was born, but from the moment of the formation of his senses, even before his body was not recognisably human, I sensed that he was disturbed and needed comforting, that he needed praying for. How blessed I have been to be able to provide that succour for I have taken my prayers, and the prayers of his mother and father who have invoked my aid, to the very altar of the King! Their prayers have needed to be strong indeed for the assault of the Tyrant's agents has been constant.

A word on this assault. It started when my charge's mother met a family through the charity for whichdespite her own pain and uncertainty at work, she does administration work. (That is how they came to take this flat, for the family were friends of the neighbours. Through the neighbours they learnt that the flat next door was free and so, when my charge's mother said they needed cheap accomodation quickly, they suggested this place to them. But this family:) They are Catholic. Also, very poor. The father spends all their money on drink. For ten years he has been an alcoholic. It has given him a jekyll and hyde personality. His wife loves him and their six children dearly. Yet she is hardly middle aged (being 38) yet is spiritually and physically exhausted already: by the effort of looking after their children, including A. who is severely disabled and by the effort of taking care of her husband. To the Fallen Ones this family is a delight. They have inpired their neighbours to hate and ridicule them - especially A. They have inspired their priest to look down on them, the wife not less than the husband. Every time she comes to confession he tells her to leave him. But every time she says she can make him better, even though she knows she no longer can. The Fallen Ones have so far failed to turn her love into hatred, but have succeeded in corrupting her soul with the posion of hopelessness. They mean to tempt her into ending her life before the King calls her home.

The agents of the Tyrant who assault my charge's mother and father hope that that hopelessness may be grafted on to them. Amrafel and Elrain pray constantly for them both as do I for my charge. I do not know how it will go except that it will end in glory for the King.

I must end here - My charge's mother has been called by this poor woman again. The hour is late but she has recently taken to calling at all times to seek solace. I sense strongly the presence of the Fallen Ones. I must start my prayers. I will write again at the conclusion of this warfare.

I pray for your blessing, uncle, and give to you my own.

Your nephew.

---

More promise than may be found in the east

Harlequins 34 London Irish 17

A wonderful defensive display and an ability to take such limited attacking chances as appeared to them gave the boys a brilliant victory over Irish today. I believe it is Notre Dame American Football team which is called the 'Fighting Irish', but the London variety could have claimed that title today. With some very big men (i.e. they looked like giants) in the team they dominated possession and territory throughout the game. Fatally, however, they lacked penetration and did well to win their 17 points.

London Irish are in white, the Quins in their usual quartered shirts

Saturday's game was a sell out 12,600 crowd. I saw a few empty seats here and there but it was great seeing even the normally unused south stand filled up. The Stoop will be similarly packed in three weeks time for the last game of the season against Sale. That will be a special day, seeing as it will, Jason Robinson's last game for the visitors.

The stand out players on Saturday were, for me, Andrew Merhtens, and for other Harlequin fans (over at Come All Within), Chris Hala'ufia. Merhtens, who has been sidelined by injury for large parts of the season, kicked wonderfully. And, according to coach Dean Richards, even made one or two tackles, something that hitherto has not been a part of his game!

When play kicked off, Harlequins needed three points to be mathematically safe from relegation. Practically speaking they have been safe for a few weeks now, but I have read that two years ago, when the team was relegated, they were believed to be practically safe before experiencing a nose dive in form leading to relegation with the last kick of the last game of the season, so nothing can be taken for granted. This five point win over London Irish (four points for the win, one for scoring four tries) takes the club over the required threshold. We can now afford to relax a little for the two last games against Saracens next weekend and Sale.

Easter Monday

So, after an unsettled day I actually managed to settle down last night to watch the Augusta Masters Golf tournament via the media of Radio (5 Live) and BBC On Line television. I'm not a particular fan of golf, but Augusta is such a beautiful place that it seems well worth the time. SisterHevs husband's love of gold has also been a major contributing factor. Unfortunately, I soon fell asleep and missed most of the evening's play.

However, I woke up at midnight just in time to see a golfer that I have never heard of before (name: Zach Johnson) thank his family et al for inspiring him to victory. I don't know about anyone else, but I am glad Tiger Woods and the other famous names didn't win. Not because I don't like them, but because they are so successful. Woods has won the Masters four times already. I am not anti-success story, it is just nice to see a new face wearing the green jacket, or should I say a new body wearing it. Johnson particularly impressed me because he made a witness to his faith, thanking Our Lord as well as his family, during his victory speech.

Another thing that struck me as I listened to his victory speech - which was more a victory conversation with, I presume the Chairman of the Augusta Club - was the politeness of it all. As everyone knows, Americans are very good at politeness, even to the point of slushiness. Zach Johnson almost got slushy, although he was nowhere near as bad as actors and actresses picking up their Oscar.

Slushiness is another thing I am not against - I love Richard Curtis films, after all - but when it is done by an American I have to admit it can get a bit much. For example, I recently saw a beer advert (possibly Budweiser?) which showed some American soldiers arriving home at the airport and said airport breaking out in applause for them. Whether this was spontaneous or, as is more likely, set up, I could only watch a little of the advert before having to switch off.
Of course, one should expect politeness at Augusta as it is in the deep south of America. The impression I have of the southern states is that you are either a hillbilly or very-polite-in-the-southern-fashion-indeed. Perhaps there are people who are somewhere in between, but they have probably moved there from New York. The best example of southern politeness is really a paean to friendship and that is the book/film Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Café. If you have never seen it, do so, as it is an absolute gem of the film.

After watching Mr Johnson claim his jacket I switched off and am happy to say had a good night's rest. This morning, I was up early updating the parish church website (www.olsj.net) and eating breakfast which was more than I managed yesterday. Maybe later I will finally begin Easter properly and eat an Easter egg!

Thank you for any and all prayers said. Also, Benning, if you read this, can you advise on what Matzoh is, so that I might know how to obtain it?

Happy Easter All!

Last night was the Easter vigil, and where was I? At home. No, not in protest at the antics of noisy children, but because when I got home from the rugby at tea time, I had my first bout of diarrhoea. It continued through the evening and night and is still not gone yet. What a miserable state of affairs. I hummed good hymns to myself, offered it up and attempted to do a little reading but I am afraid to say my attention wandered a fair bit. Still, I did get to see what night time television is like: films and silly quiz shows.

I was very much disappointed to not be able to attend the Vigil - I think it is only the second time in ten years that I have done so - for it was at the Vigil at St. Andrew's Cathedral in Dundee 11 years ago that I was received into the Church. Still, through our pain we unite ourselves to the sufferings of our Lord, so that is worth remembering and holding on to. Despite this, I feel at the moment as if I am stuck on Godd Friday and not properly able to enjoy Easter yet.

Happy Easter to you and please say a prayer for me.

Bury The Chains - A Hochschild

One of my favourite past times at work is compiling a list of all the jargon that my employer puts out. I have been updating it for a year or two now and the file is about ten pages long. The example that I have collected are, amusing and, I think, fairly harmless. Other organisations have engaged in afar more dangerous and deceitful twisting of language. The habit of the (American) Army calling the killing of civilians 'collateral damage' is one such example.

Reading Bury The Chains The British Struggle to Abolish slavery, however, I found that it is not only our age that has misused language in order to hide the truth of something.

"The vulgar are influenced by names and titles," [said] one proslavery writer... "instead of SLAVES, let the Negroes by called ASSISTANT - PLANTERS; and we shall not then hear such violent outcries against the salve-trade by pius divines, tender hearted poetesses, and short-sighted politicians."
Bury The Chains p. 160

Back in the 30s, the Soviet Union made fools of clever men who wanted to believe that Socialism held the answers to society's ills. People of such stature as Bernard Shaw visited Russia and, 'declared that all the stories of a famine were slander after a carefully managed short tour of the country' (wikipedia). A hundred and fifty yearsearlier, slave owners were using similar tacts.

James Stephen noticed how they gave Potemkin village tours to naive visitors. If a traveler asked to see the slave quarters, he or she was ushered through homes of the elite "drivers, carpenters, masons... [or] chiefs of the gang," who usually lived only one family to a hut, not the far more crowded homes of common field hands.
Bury The Chains p. 160

Bertie Steals The Show

bertie pig: Hurrah! Hello, everyone! I am Bertie Pig and today I will be interviewing Gerrie Cow! The dúnadan isn't in Dorset today - he has had to stay in The Very Big City because it is Good Friday. What can be good about a Friday when you are forced to stay in a city, no matter how big it is, rather than coming to the countryside? I don't know, but then again I am just a pig who has never visited any big cities so don't pay attention to me.... Ooooh, I shouldn't have said that because now you won't read the interview. But don't worry, Gerrie will speak as well, and all her inquisitiveness makes her Very Clever Indeed. Hallo Gerrie!

inq. cow: Hello Bertie, how are you?

bertie pig: Well, I am just fine. According to my script, I have to tell everyone about myself, but then I will come back to you.
inq. cow: That's fine. I shall munch some grass.
bertie pig: Jolly good! Well, as I said, my name is Bertie. I have several brothers and sisters, although you will only know my elder brother Percy who is Very Sensible. As far as pigs go, we are quite a posh family as we are an offshoot of the Piglington Hall Pigs near Sherborne, but how we ended up in Farmer Bill's pen is another story. The best thing that you will know about me is that I enjoy escaping from my pen. I don't know why, I just do. And since my attempts invariably fail, well, I get to try again and again! How is the grass, Gerrie?
inq. cow: >Mmph< style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">bertie pig: I forgot to mention that I am in love with Helen of Troy.
inq. cow: Oh, never mind. Always leave your audience wanting more.
bertie pig: Hee hee! Right-io, let's start the interviewing. Gerrie, have you ever escaped from anywhere?
inq. cow: No. We cows do not have the same boundless energy of hyperactive pigs like yourself.
bertie pig: Well then, if you could escape from anywhere, where would it be and what method would you use?
inq. cow: Hmm. I hadn't thought about that before... well... I would most like to escape from an empty library by writing lots of books to place on the shelves. Then I wouldn't have to move at all.
bertie pig: Oh, what a super idea! See, readers, I told you Gerrie was clever. Let's talk about great escapes in history.
inq. cow: Now, why am I not surprised that this subject has come up?!
bertie pig: When I was a little piglet, my mummy used to read me stories. That is how I first learnt about escaping. Exempli gratia, the escape of the Israelites from Egypt.
inq cow: That was some escape. Not just one person, or two or three, but a whole nation.
bertie pig: Yes. Of course, having God on their side no doubt helped, but Pharaoh was a Big Menace!
inq. cow: Of course, some scholars think that because they can find no trace of the Israelites in the desert that the exodus never took place.
bertie pig: Gosh, well, they ought to try harder then, shouldn't they? It's all in the Bible. They have no excuse.
inq. cow: Well... that is one response.
bertie pig: My next favourite escape is Mary, Queen of Scotch. She is the founder of whiskey.
inq. cow: Eh... did your brother Louis tell you this?
bertie pig: How did you guess?
inq. cow: Do remember, Bertie, that he is a practical joker! Mary was Queen of Scots not scotch!
bertie pig: Why that---!! Cheeky pig! Well, anyway, Mary, Queen of whatever, was being held captive by her nobles at Lochleven Castle in Scotland. I wonder if Highland Coo has been there. She escaped but she was so beautiful - though not as beautiful as Helen of Troy - the boatman recognised her. Undaunted, however, she escaped again, this time succeeding.
inq. cow: Only to end up in the hands of Elizabeth the First.
bertie pig: That must have been a let down. Let's whizz forward two hundred years and go to bella Venezia where the Very Famous And Competent Romantic Casanova escaped from his prison after being found guilty of loving one too many women!
inq. cow: You mean, adultery? Don't blush, Bertie, that's what happened.
bertie pig: That was awfully naughty of him, wasn't it!
inq. cow: I'm afraid to say he made a career of such naughtiness.
bertie pig: I would never adulterise Mabel Pig. She is the Next Most Beautiful person after Helen of Troy!
inq. cow: Ah, that is very sweet of you! Perhaps one day you will stop escaping and settle down.
bertie pig: Oink!
inq. cow: Do you have any more favourite escapes, Bertie?
bertie pig: Oh, yes! During World War II, lots and lots of Allied soldiers were kept prisoner at a prison called Stalag Luft III. The Nazis took lots and lots of precautions against anyone escaping, but if you will put lots and lots of talented men together - engineers, miners and even geologists - then you are just asking for trouble. And that is what the Nazis got. Led by a very heroic man named Roger Bushell, an Escape Committee was formed and a secret tunnel built. On 24th March 1944, 76 men escaped. Unfortunately, only 3 got away. Those Nazis were not very nice people.
inq. cow: No, indeed.
bertie pig: Well, there we are! I think it is time we brought an end to the interview. How did I do, Gerrie?
inq. cow: I think, hmm, Moooh! I think you did splendidly, Bertie. If I was worried beforehand - which I wasn't - that you might get tongue tied, I had no need to fear.
bertie pig: Hurrah! Well, thank you for having me! Thank you to the dúnadan and to all our readers. If they know of any more exciting escapes, feel free to let me know!

more (proper) interviews with the inquisitive cow
If you are a member of Facebook become Gerrie's Friend. Look for her under 'Gerrie Cow'.
**Highland Coo has spoken to Arathorn. Read all about it here**

Good Friday

The Good Friday Mass is the busiest of the year at my parish - standing room only. This year, I think it will for me have been the most trying. Every Sunday, I attend the evening Mass (or go to the very early one) to avoid the mid morning Masses and the squealing children. But with only one service, there was no getting away from them today.

God bless children; I know it is better that their parents bring them than do not; I know I ought to be patient and offer it up; I know all that and more, but my goodness, when you are at one of the most solemn services of the year and you have to endure a constant noise from the young things you want nothing more than for the parents to shut the stupid brats up or take them outside or anything to make them Be Quiet.

I have read a few blog posts in the Catholic blogosphere about the issue of children and they have all been on their side. Rightly so. Despite this, however, I am not on their side tonight. Because of their noise, the silent solemnity of the Good Friday Liturgy was torn asunder for me today. What made it worse is the sense that they were carrying on without requests from their mother or father to be quiet. There was a couple with children just behind where I was sitting and I only heard one request for them to Shhh during the whole service.

There were problems in other areas as well. The first reader had no presence at the ambo. He read well, but 'distantly', as if the microphone was not switched on. With the noise of children in the background, I really had to try hard to concentrate on what he was saying. And the truth is, I didn't much succeed.

The Good Friday gospel is a dramatic reading of the Passion, this year according to St. John. Today, the parish priest spoke the part of the crowd with two of the altar servers. It was an interesting experiment but, unfortunately, not for me a successful one. He and the servers spoke in perfect harmony. But that just made them sound like a single, rather strangely pitched voice.

One good thing that happened this year, which helped speed matters up, was that there were two crosses for the veneration. As the parish priest pointed out at the start, last year there was one and the veneration had taken over an hour.

Despite the down sides of the day, I am still glad I was able to attend the Liturgy. I hope that time will dull the memory of the children and leave me with the grace that comes from commemorating the death of Our Lord.

Maundy Thursday

The most important three days of the year began this evening with the Maundy Thursday Mass. Fr. Nicholas was the chief celebrant tonight and got to wash the feet of twelve parishioners.

The Mass this year was quite different for me as for the first time in a couple of years I was not among the twelve; neither was I required for reading or eucharistic ministering duties. Instead, I got to sit and observe. It was good. What I will remember most about the Mass is the anecdote that Fr. Nicholas told at the start of his homily: A journalist once visited a leper colony in Africa and saw a nun wash the body of a leper. Afterwards, he said to her, "Not for a million dollars would I have washed that man." To which the nun replied, "Not for a million dollars would I. I would only do it for love."

• For the Biblical basis of the Maundy Thursday Mass and some good pictures too, visit Just Doing My Best here

A Just War

Army 0 Barbarians 14

the army band strike up

Wednesday evening of Holy Week usually means a trip to the London Oratory for the wonderful Tenebrae service. This year, it meant a trip to the Stoop to see the Army play the Baa-Baas in a match that is part of the former's 100th anniversary celebrations.

Who plays for the Army? Looking at the programme, it is clear that the ARU draws its players from where ever in the forces they are. The Barbarians are similar in respect of rugby union. Indeed, they are quite the anomaly. In the first place, the Barbarians are (or is?) a multi national side. Secondly, one can only play for them by invitation. I don't know much about their history, though I have a book still to read on that subject, so in the meantime if you would like to learn more, I shall direct you to their wikipedia entry here.

Playing for the Barbarians last night were no less than four Harlequins - Miall, Guest, and two others who must have joined at the last moment as they are not named in the programme. Players from other big teams also turned out - Cornwell from Leicester Tigers, Stuart-Smith from Llanelli Scarlets and Maggs from Ulster. Smaller teams were also represented - Hallett from Esher, Hodge of Exeter and Dalgleish from Newbury. 'Wallaby legend' Joe Roff captained the side (the Baa Baas coach, Zinzan Brooke is an ex-All Black and Quins coach). While I was happy to see all the players, I did wonder how Harlequins managed to get four players there and how the minor team players got their places. I suspect that this has much to do with the fact that in the professional era of rugby union the big clubs are not keen to release their players for friendlies during the season - especially at a sensitive time like this. This is such a shame. The Barbarians aren't any old side. They are a coming together of the best. They are a link to rugby's amateur past.

The Army XV are in red and Baa Baas in black and white

Despite the low score, the game was played in an open and expansive style with the emphasis more on entertainment than tight, efficient play. Given that the Barbarians would only have had a few training sessions together before the game this ran the risk that mistakes would be made - and so it was. But, because this was a friendly, that really didn't matter so much.

With me was Our Man (formerly) in the Army, YMJ and Canning of the Press. CP only recently left my office so it was good to catch up with him again to see how he was getting on in his new job. In fact, no doubt to the chagrin of the people sitting in front of us, we talked about work all through the second half of the game!

Back to the game. It was worth every penny. The Barbarians dominated it, but the Army were by no means disgraced. They defended well, did not fail to probe the Barbarians line for a break through and kept their discipline all the while. This could be said for both sides - not one penalty was given away all night!

During the game, there was a little bit of fisticuffs - par the course for a rugby game - but as soon as it ended, the players shook hands and then came together to pose for the cameras. It was a wonderful, sporting occasion.

From the Angel to Cathedral

One of the delights have having time off work is not having to do anything very quickly. Yesterday, I decided I would go to Westminster Cathedral for Mass as I would not be able to go to the Oratory for Tenebrae in the evening (see here for the reason why). Instead of taking the tube, however, I decided that I would work. It was a good ninety minute journey but I saw some interesting sights along the way (If you type "Angel, Islington" into Google Maps you may be able to follow my journey).

Not least among them was this piece of work at the Angel, Islington. Can you guess what it is? No, it is not an oversized polo mint but a war memorial. Up until a year or two, Islington Green had a traditional obelisk style memorial. That was taken away when the Green was redesigned and this design put in its place. I have no idea what it means. The Green lies at the northern end of the Angel and marks the point where Upper Street and Essex Road start (or finish). At the heart of the Angel is the N1 Shopping centre, another recent development. At one end of the centre we find a pair of angel's wings:

While if we turn around (this is not a large shopping centre) we find at the other, a halo:

So much modern art is incomprehensible (with the war memorial being a case in point) so it is nice to find two pieces that you can actually make sense of. And for them to have implicitly Christian meanings is all the better.

Leaving the Angel behind, I entered Roseberry. At its head is the venerable Sadler's Wells Theatre:

Sadler's Wells of the tight chairs! I have been to the theatre only a very few times in my life and the seats are my chief memories. The theatre as we see it above is, like the N1 centre, very modern, although the earliest theatre dates to the eighteenth century. Behind it (i.e. up the road to the left of the photo) is a little pub called the Harlequin where a couple of friendly dogs reside and a beauty shop called Charis which is, of course, Greek for 'grace'. And indeed, there is a sticker of the Christian fish in the window.

I don't know how many classical statues London has, but I reckon any number of them must be of Nike, the goddess of victory. Here is one in the park behind where I stood to take my photograph of Sadler's Wells.

As you can see, she is well beloved of the local pigeon community! Half an hour's walk back through the Angel and up Upper Street brings you to Highbury Fields. There is another statue of Nike there and it is a war memorial. I did not enter Roseberry Park to see what the inscription read but I suspect it was of the same nature as its sister at the Fields.

Bloomsbury Road follows a downward path into central London, passing on its way Mount Pleasant sorting office, one of the biggest in London, with its own underground railway, and the ITN building with various satellite dishes on its roof. Somewhere in the same vicinity is the rather more humble office and studios of 18 Doughty Street. Passing them all, we come to the top of Theobalds Road where it meets Southampton Row where this interesting sight greets us:

Is the Vatican in the middle of a cash crisis? Has it been forced to sell its embassy off in favour for this rather more humble dwelling?? I shall fire a letter off to the Pope immediately.

Behind the tent is the sloping entrance to I don't know what. I shall have to ask Arathorn. I think it is might be the underground home of trams, when London still had them. Nowadays, I think that they are disused or used as storage centres of somesort. I have also heard that one or two of them are haunted. Moving on hurriedly, I passed Sicilian Avenue where in the past I have enjoyed a nice meal with the Cantankerous Priest (who, after a sabbatical in the USA is now back in town. Hurrah!) and friends. I then walked down Charring Cross Road, past Leicester Square and into Trafalgar Square. There, I took a photograph of a memorial that has long impressed me. It is of Edith Cavell, the nurse who was executed by the Germans for helping allied soldiers to escape occupied Belgium during World War One.

On Cavell's statue there are carved her famous words, spoken on the eve of her execution: "Patriotism is not enough, I must have no hatred or bitterness towards anyone." Here is a close up of her statue:

Edith Cavell, the martyr for peace, looks towards Trafalgar Square. I followed her line of sight before turning right into Pall Mall. Doffing my cap to the Queen at Buckingham Palace, I then turned into Buckingham Palace Road. At the opposite end of the road is Westminster Chapel.

Back in the days when I listened to Premier Radio, I used to listen to the preaching of its famous minister, R. T. Kendall on Sunday mornings. His theology, insofar as it broke from Catholic theology, was, of course, all wrong, but that was the case of most of the preachers on that station. I still listened to it though as it was always good to hear some one talk about God. Westminster Chapel was made famous by a predecessor of Kendall's, Dr. Martin Lloyd-Jones whose long reign lasted from 1939 to 1968. Kendall retired a couple of years ago and the church is now led by someone named Greg Haslam about whom I know little. As for the church itself, I visited it once for a Premier Radio Christmas Carol event and have the recollection that, as with all evangelical churches, only the pulpit gives away the fact that it is a church at all. There are no icons, no stained glass windows etc etc. I have had a quick look at its website to see if my memory is correct but unfortunately they do not have a photographs page. Perhaps that is an answer to my question.

Just round the corner from Westminster Chapel is Victoria Road and so I was only a few minutes away from Westminster Cathedral. Stopping to take photographs had, of course, added to my journey time, but I was still in time for the One PM Mass. It was celebrated by an American priest who bears an uncanny resemblance to Fr Dwight Longenecker, so during the service I did start to wonder if they might be related.

Before the Mass started, I visited one of the side chapels to pray to this wonderful servant of God.

Santo Subito!

300

To the cinema last night to see 300, the bloody retelling of the Battle of Thermopylae where 300 Spartan soldiers (plus several thousand other Greeks, athough just a handful here) held the eponymously titled pass against the vast army of Xerxes I, king of the Persians.

As I mentioned in this post, I was not intending to see this film but having read one or two extremely negative reviews, which went so far as to claim that 300 was racist, misogynistic, fascist etc etc I thought well, now, I think I will go and see it to see what it is really like because these reviews sound very over-the-top.

And indeed, 300 is a very over-the-top film. Every Spartan man looks like he has just come out of the wrestling ring. Their oracles are mutants. Xerxes is an eight feet tall heavily bejewelled gay club bouncer who leads a force of increasingly improbable and ridiculous monstrosities, ranging from giant rhinoceroses and elephants to ninja-esque warriors and trolls. These fantastical elements would have added to the enjoyment of The Lord of the Rings (and, in the case of the trolls and elephants did. The pseudo-ninjas did not look unlike the southrons in Return of the King) but in a historically based film they detract greatly from its credibility as a historically based epic.

Leonidas and Xerxes

The presence of the fantasy creatures in 300 is indicative of how the film sacrifices character for battle. In fact, characterisation in the film is virtually non existent. We see the Spartan king Leonidas grow up, but only from the point of view of his initiation into Spartan society, which means beating up and being beaten up. Before he goes off to war, he shares a few moments with his wife Gorgo, but the conversation is short and broken up by an unnecessary sex scene. Of the Persians, we see nothing. They are there to kill and be killed (mainly the latter). The orcs had more humanity than them. Most of the soldiers are hooded so we do not even see their faces. A couple of the emissaries of Xerxes are fully visible and they are represented as buffoons. Xerxes himself is a massive let down. How anyone can imagine such a person as he as being capable of commanding an empire, I do not know. But perhaps he was an effete man in real life. I would be surprised if so. Still, it might be a good excuse to dig out my copy of Herodotus' Histories to find out.

Further to the lack of characterisation, I mut say that I was very disappointed that the film made no attempt to place the battle of Thermopylae in its larger historical context. Thermopylae was a victory for Sparta because it held up Xerxes' army long enough for Athens to assemble its navy which went on to destroy the Persian invading force (albeit after further setbacks). But no Athenian appears in the film and there is hardly a mention of them except as the butt of crude jokes. All that stops 300 from being one long battle scene is a cack-handed sub plot involving Gorgos, Leonidas' wife attempt to persuade the Spartan senate to send an army to help the king in the face of opposition from the traitorous politician, Theron.

300 has a contempoary resonance as the Spartans are fighting for freedom against a Persian enemy that would enslave them. It is hard not to imagine that this film as anything but the writers' response to the current war on terror. But just as not all the freedoms that the West enjoys today are, quite frankly, worth saving, one has to wonder about those of Sparta: the freedom to expose your child if he looks puny? The freedom to beat up children? The freedom to drag them away from their mothers for initiation into warrior society? I'm not sure about those freedoms. Still, it is to the credit of 300 that it does not shirk the truth about Sparta.

Like The Last King of Scotland, 300 is shot on a very grainy film that gives it a very earthy quality that is wholly appropriate for the kind of picture that it is. I must also commend the director on the quality of the camera work. 300 started life as a graphic novel and the camera work reflects this.

Regarding the above mentioned charges - one could certainly see 300 as being racist towards Persia if one was so inclined but I would suggest that the film makes no suggestion about the quality of Persia (or Persians, for that matter) only about Xerxes. The film is not mysognistic. Women do not feature heavily in the film and, being the kind of film that it is, there is no reason why they should, but where they do feature - in the role of Gorgos - it is a very positive portrayal. Fascist: The militaristic aspects of Spartan society could be labelled so but one really cannot labour this point as it would be anachronistic.

Can I recommend this film? I have reservations about its quality and violence. 300 is very violent although in a very comic book kind of way. I think perhaps I would recommend it for anyone who had an interest in classical drama. They don't come along very often so it would be a shame to miss out. For the reasons mentioned above, the film is an inferior example of the genre though. Also, I think it glorifies war far too much. In terms of its attitude, 300 is what The Lord of the Rings would have been like had its author not served in World War One.

As an end note, we talked about 300 in the pub last week and one of our party suggested that it was thanks to the Spartans at Thermopylae that the West is not a Persian culture. The line of argument was that if Xerxes had not been held up at Thermopylae he would have defeated Athens and conquered Greece destroying in time Grecian culture which is, of course, the joint foundation of western civilisation along side Judeo-Christianity. It was an interesting conversation that proved that even if a film has shortcomings, it can start something positive.

The Angelic Author (II)

Dearest Uncle,

You asked if at the moment of my charge's conception I saw sin enter his soul. Yes, I did, and it was painful to behold. The light that burst forth should have been pure and whole; instead, it was rent and stained with a dark shadow that moved not from my charge's soul but stuck to it like glue. We know the intention of the Tyrant: to corrupt and destroy. So, I prayed for my charge, keeping in mind the words of the Saint, Paul: 'where sin abounds, grace abounds all the more'. As my charge's guardian, I am in a manner of speaking, grace to him, or at least, a conduit for it. This is my life now and it is exceedingly good!

When our King taught me about his chosen people, I wondered why he suffered them to grow so slowly. He spoke us and we came into being fully made, but humans spend nine months in the wombs of their mothers before they enter the world. Now, however, I am beginning to think that the King made this so for our benefit! I know all that is good for me to know about the created order but watching --- makes me wonder if I have not learnt even a little more. Humans are amazing creatures. Even the holy ones (such as my charge's mother) suprise one. They turn this way when one expects them to go that; they stand still when one expects them to move; they cry, they laugh, they hold firm, they fall... --- has been a fount of wisdom in explaining to me the 'vagaries' of human behaviour. Praise to the King for these months in which I may learn about humans from senior guardians!

Speaking of my charge's mother, you were right to warn me that the agents of the Tyrant would waste no time in acting upon her 'morning sickness'. I sensed the presence of one of the agents of the Lowerarchy within a week or two of her pregnancy beginning. Uncle, is it right to feel pity for one of the Enemy, our friends of old who fell? For that is what I feel. Anger, but pity at their miserable, wretched wickedness. They think they act in secret but their shadow is a blazing light of sin that I could see with my eyes closed! Oh, that the king would let us end their woe with one blow of our swords. But his will be done.

As for these particular agents, one of them has been trying to tempt my charge's mother into despising her baby for the illness it is causing her. Another of the Fallen Ones has come to his father trying to breed jealousy towards the new member of the family. But as soon as --- and --- saw what was going on, they guided mother and father to their bedside Bible where (just concidentally!) they felt inspired to read the story of Mary's visit to Elizabeth. But time was against them and they only had time to read up to where John the Baptist leaps for joy in his mother's womb. I once questioned John about this. Oh, what a moment it was! He said, I knew nothing except that the Lord had come! But how did you know, I asked him, I didn't... yet I did! And I thought Thomas and Newman were the worst for trying to get straight answers out of! Of course, my charge's mother and father immediately saw the relevance of John's leap for joy to their own lives. As a result, his mother now understands that her illness is not in vain and his father that jealousy is needless: their child is a gift from, a pointer to and blessed by the King. The agents of the Fallen Ones reeled when they realised this. And such is the faith of my charge's mother and father that the evil ones will not recover from the blow quickly.

Well, dearest father, I have detained you from your work long enough. In the name of our Lord I bless you and pray for your blessing!

Your nephew,

---

Lord, in your mercy-

I have just received news that Fr. K., the priest whose friendship was very dear to me in the period up to and following my reception into the Catholic Church in 1996, is critically ill in hospital. Further to this, M-C, a dear friend who lives in the Netherlands is going into hospital next week for a big operation. Please remember them in your prayers this week.

Berrydict on Palm Sunday

Msgr Catswein & Berrydict

Berrydict the papal cat was wondering through the Apostolic Palace looking for someone to give him some biscuits when, in a side room, he noticed a vase lying on the floor, on its side. What happened next is best explained by the fact that Berrydict had only woken from a long sleep a few minutes earlier and so was still rather tired.

What did happen? Well, in the vase was what to Berry looked suspiciously like a very long dusty yellow tail. And not just one, but several! They could only belong to rats or mice. With admirable speed, considering his tiredness, Berrydict crouched down excitedly and started to flap his tail about. Goodness, they were long tails - about two feet - so how big were the rodents at the other end of them? Well, the vase was quite long but Berrydict, being a cat, did not really care as to what this meant. Rodents meant hunting meant food.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Berrydict crept right up behind the rodent tails. They must be asleep, he thought, for the tails were utterly still. All the easier for me! Licking his lips, Berrydict poked his nose forward and sniffed the tip of the tails. They smelt very fresh. Not rodent-like at all. Well, that didn't count for much as everything in the Catican was clean and well kept. Just to make sure that the rodent was asleep, Berry stuck out a paw and padded the tail cautiously. The vase rolled slightly. In his excitement, Berrydict mistook this for a sign that the rodent was moving, so with claws unsheathed he jumped forward into the vase.

Nothing! Where were the rodents? They were all tail and no body! Berrydict sniffed around just to make sure that the crafty animals weren't hiding, but though the vase was large, it was not that large. Realising that whatever these tails were, they weren't rats or mice or even guinea pigs, Berrydict humphed. And all that energy wasted, too. So, what to do? Well, have a rest, of course. So, Berrydict curled up and went back to sleep.

And so deep was his sleep that he did not notice when his owner's M.C. hurried into the room a few minutes later and said to the (seminarian) altar server who was with him. "Look, here is the Holy Father's Palm Sunday vase! If we hurry up, we can put it in front of the altar just before the Mass starts. You carry it in to San Pietro's while I get everyone ready."

Now, the seminarian was a well built young man (he was from the mid west of America where they ate big steaks from a very young age) but he did struggle with the vase a bit. And he couldn't understand why. Yes, it was quite big and heavily ornate, but there were only palms inside and he had been lifting weights since he was a youngster. Oh, well, he thought, not to worry. Let's just get the job done. So, resting the vase against his chest, he carried it into St. Peter's Basilica and placed it in front of the altar as the M.C. and told him too.

From the point at which the vase arrived at the altar to the beginning of the papal Mass, an hour passed (the M.C. was a natural worrier and so had greatly over-estimated the speed at which the vase needed to be delivered). When it did begin, a further couple of hours passed before it drew to its end. As it did so, Berrydict awoke. The first thing he did was smell the incense. That was nice. Then he realised that he was in a different position to when he had gone to sleep. Interesting. Then he heard someone speaking: how nice, it was his owner! Let's go and visit him. So, Berry stuck his head out of the vase and was pleasantly surprised to see lots and lots and lots of people looking at him! Oh dear, he thought, I have stumbled into something.

In a quiet corner at the back of the church, Catinal Furtone saw him.
"Monsignor," he said to Monsignor Catswein, Berrydict's secatery, "would that be Berrydict in the papal vase in front of the altar?" Monsignor Catswein looked up.
"Yes. Yes, it would. Oh dear, what is he up to?"
"I expect he was sleeping. I can't imagine that the vase was very comfortable."
"Hmm."

... In nomine Patris, et Fìlii, et Spiritus Sancti .... As the organ struck up a powerful dismissal, the Pope left his seat and walked to the front of the altar. As he bowed down, his face met Berrydict's. "Berrydict!" Miaow! Berrydict replied and rubbed the Pope's face with his own. Benedict smiled. Cats! He thought, They do the silliest things but still remain so lovable. Just like us humans, really. Pleased by this insight, Berrydict's owner decided to leave Berrydict where he was, "Although," he said, "you may wish to stay there until everyone has left. It would be a shame if everyone went home speaking about cats rather than the fact that it is Palm Sunday." Berrydict agreed and hid himself away once more. So, the tails were palms all along---!

more Berrydict stories
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Dearly Beloved

I have bedside clock which actually resides on my bed. According to my niece, that makes it my wife. The full splendid story is at my sister Evs blog. Brilliant.

Sunday Recommendation

Observant readers will have noticed that the sidebar has been increasing in length recently. Liberal readers may also have noticed this. Ahem. Anyway, this is because I have been discovering lots of good new blogs and websites which I heartily commend to you. And speaking of which, via the comments section over at Mulier Fortis, I found today a blog called Just Doing My Best which has a well written mixture of the funny and serious. Being shallow, my attention was naturally drawn to the former:

My Great-Uncle Bernard used to have a car which was known as Majesty. He received it as a gift from his parishioners on the Golden Jubilee of his priesthood.

The car was presented to him after Mass on Palm Sunday - during which the final hymn had been "Ride on, ride on in majesty".

Pay JDB a visit here!

Motu Proprio Abandoned

Bad news from the Zenit blog:

Rome - In a move that will shock traditionalists within the Catholic Church, Pope Benedict XVI is expected to announce in his annual Letter to Priests on Maundy Thursday that contrary to popular rumour, there will be no relaxation of the current restrictions on the celebration of the Tridentine Rite of the Mass. The decision comes after negotiations with the Bishops' Conference of France. Vatican sources have indicated that the French Bishops have had such an influence on Benedict that it is possible he may even cancel the 1989 Ecclesia Dei compromise which allowed priests may celebrate the Tridentine Mass with the permission of their Bishop. "We are exceedingly happy with the Holy Father," one French Bishop told Zenit, "he has listened to the truth and acted upon it, and the truth is that the old rite Mass no longer has relevance to Catholics. It belongs to an age that has passed. It was a fussy, incoherent liturgy that insulted rational minds. We are happy indeed."

Some Vatican observers predict that this volte-face could lead to civil war within Europe's smallest state, as only a few days ago, Cardinal Bertone, the Secretary of State, gave an interview in which he indicated that the pope was about to issue a motu proprio granting priests the right to say the Tridentine Mass without the permission of their bishop. Others are more cautious, pointing to a recent statement of the British Latin Mass Society in which it acknowledged the superiority of the Novus Ordo Mass.

For more information, click here