Back when I did my O’Levels, exam questions often began with a request that the candidate compared and contrasted one thing with another. To the examiners, it seemed, to do so had some merit. And I suppose they were probably right, as by analysing, for example, differing responses to seemingly similar events, we may be helped to see the important ways those two events differed.
So let me give you an example. Not so long ago, when I was still a frontline healthcare worker, I had a Covid booster. But it wasn’t just me who was jabbed that morning. Hector, my recently acquired Black Labrador puppy, was due a vaccination too.
But whereas the vet plied her patient with tasty liver paste and various other canine treats, all I got from the person sticking a needle in me was her tacit acknowledgment that I didn’t yet look 65, something which, given that I’m still a good few years off that particular landmark, I considered was obvious and not something that required her to comment upon.
I wondered why a dog should be shown such favouritism but, sure enough, comparing and contrasting the way in which Hector and I were treated, highlighted differences between us which might not otherwise have been obvious. One of us you see, was handsome, cute and simply adorable…and the other was a Black Labrador puppy!
Boom, boom! (Thank you, Basil!)
But there is another, more interesting, comparison to be made between the two individuals who, in Luke Chapter 1, are told by God’s angel that they are going to have a child in unlikely circumstances.
The first is Zechariah. He is the man who is told by an angel that his elderly, and seemingly barren wife, will have a son – one who will one day come to be known as John the Baptist. After receiving the news, Zechariah asks the angel how he can know that this will actually happen, and is rendered mute as a result of his lack of faith.
The second individual is Mary. She is a young woman who, despite being a virgin, is told she will have a son – Jesus. On hearing this she not unreasonably responds by asking how this will come about but, in sharp contrast to how Zechariah was treated, far from being reprimanded, she is commended for her faith.
So what is so different in the way that these two individuals responded to the news of their imminent parenthood?
Well I think it’s this. Whilst Zechariah isn’t convinced that what he has been told will actually come about, and seeks further confirmation that the word spoken by the angel is trustworthy, Mary, despite finding it difficult to comprehend how her pregnancy will come about, none the less believes what the angel tells her is true.
Whereas Zechariah doesn’t believe the authoritative word spoken to him by God’s messenger, Mary does believe what the self same angel tells her. Zechariah lacks what Mary doesn’t – faith. Sure she has questions but as has been suggested, Mary’s is a faith in search of understanding.
And I suppose there is a lesson for us all in this. If God says something, then we can be sure that it is true, irrespective of how much we might not want it to be. We might be confused by it and appropriately seek help to understand it better, but we should never question what God declares to be the truth.
Because it is God, not us, who determines what is true and false – just as it is he who determines what is right and wrong. And so the truth is the truth – irrespective of what we might think. Which is what Zechariah discovered. He may have doubted what God said was true, but reality didn’t change as a result, and Elizabeth had a baby boy whilst he looked on speechless.
Zechariah learnt the hard way. We on the other hand, if we are wise, will, on hearing God speak, humbly believe what he says. And respond as Mary did, with these words:
‘Behold I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.’ [Luke 1:38]
All of which is something we would do well to remember…well.
*****
Which is a particularly clumsy segue into today’s song which isn’t remotely Christmasy but is, instead, one from none other than Basil Brush himself – in his original 1970’s incarnation. Here he is duetting with Petula Clark.
Previously from ‘A Christmas Countdown’:
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 5’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 4’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 3’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 2’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 1’, click here
Other related posts:
To read “Hope comes from believing the promises of God”, click here
To read ‘Looking back to move confidently forward’, click here
In recent years our family has played a game in the weeks running up to Christmas in which the winner is the last person to hear the song ‘The Fairytale of New York’. Thanks to a poorly timed visit to the Exeter branch of ‘White Stuff’ on November 28th, I’ve already been eliminated and can only hope to do better in a similar game, one which, since I play it by myself I always win. This version of the game is won when one hears a version of the following phrase that is commonly heard at this time of year, :
‘Christmas – of course it’s really just a time for the children’
Every time I hear these words, like an enthusiastic member of a pantomime audience, I want to slap my thigh and scream, ‘Oh no it’s not!’ And the reason why I am tempted be so vociferous is simply this – that though Christmas is, of course, for the children, those who say as such invariably are implying it’s not for older folk like me and, perhaps, you.
But it is!
Because the angel who announced the news of Jesus birth to the shepherds was very clear. ‘Fear not,’ he said ‘for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for ALL the people.’
So whilst you may be looked at a little oddly if, in your late 50’s, you queue up at your local garden centre to visit Santa in his grotto (trust me on this one, you will), nobody is EVER too old for Christmas.
And that includes you!
*****
Today’s song is, inevitably, ‘A Fairytale of New York’ by The Pogues and featuring Shane MacGowan and Kirsty Kirsty MacColl, both sadly now dead. Anyone who plays the game that our family does, and hasn’t yet been eliminated, probably shouldn’t click to hear this Christmas classic!
Previously from ‘A Christmas Countdown’:
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 4’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 3’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 2’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 1’, click here
Other related posts:
To read ‘On approaching one’s sell by date’, click here
To read ‘Vaccinating to Remain Susceptible’, click here
A fanfare please, for the worlds greatest Christmas one liner…
‘For Christmas this year I’ve bought my wife a wooden leg. Don’t worry though, it’s not her main present, it’s just a stocking filler!’
I don’t know about you but there are only a few ‘main’ presents that I can still remember receiving as a child. There was the gerbil (obviously), the Wings LP, ‘Venus and Mars, (don’t ask) and a game called Logacta which was a football game played with dice designed for people who had no friends!
But despite my desperately wanting each and every one of them at the time, none of them seem very important to me now. Curiously though, the gift that was very much a part of every childhood Christmas, but at the time did not interest me that much, grows ever more precious to me as I get older.
It’s great to get presents and I still hold out some hope that this year I might finally be the happy recipient of the Scalextrix Set or Scooby Doo Shaker Maker kit that I never had as a child, but none of these will be the main present that will be offered me again this December 25th. In fact, were I to receive either of the aforementioned items, they would, whilst welcome, be nothing more than Christmas Day fillers and quite possibly a distraction from the greatest gift of all.
And so, if I am to be disappointed once more by the absence of these items from under the tree on Christmas Day morning, I will nonetheless be more than content with the good news of God’s inexpressible gift [2 Corinthians 9:15] – namely the birth of the Saviour, Jesus Christ.
Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from God above. [James 1:17]. And most wonderfully of all, because of his great love for the world, God gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life’ [John 3:16] ‘For [though] the wages of sin is death…the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord. [Romans 6:23].
And to my mind, main presents don’t any get better than that.
*****
In recent years Michael Bublé has been a regular part of our Christmas – so much so that our old dog Barney was once inspired by him to sing his own version of ‘Santa Baby’. I wouldn’t recommend it, but if you search hard enough you may find a video of his performance in the darker recesses of the internet. If I were you though I’d content yourself with this photograph of him in his Christmas garb…
… and stick with Michael Bublé’s significantly superior version. In it he lists all the things he’s hoping Father Christmas will bring him this year. But, I ask you, should anyone really refer to Santa Claus as ‘Dude’?
No, I didn’t think so either!
Previously from ‘A Christmas Countdown’:
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 3’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 2’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 1’, click here
Related posts:
To read ‘Something to feast your eyes on’, click here
As any punctuation pedant will know, the presence, or otherwise, of a comma is every bit as important as where it’s placed.
Let me explain. When my children were younger we had a pet guinea pig called Chestnut, as a result of which I was liable to upset my offspring whenever I sang along to ‘The Christmas Song’. This was not on account of my inability to carry a tune, but rather because, by dint of them having added a non-existent apostrophe, they were left imagining that their much loved pet was now roasting on an open fire!
A similar issue arises with one of my favourite carols. But before I tell you which one, let’s be honest about Christmas. For some it is not a happy time, and for many the forced jollity is unwelcome. Let’s face it, when life is characterised by sorrow and despair, few of us are up for a party, regardless of how many amusing Christmas jumpers are on display.
And because not everyone is ‘simply having a wonderful Christmas time’, I have heard it suggested that we should no longer wish others a ‘Merry Christmas’ as to do so risks being insensitive to those who are experiencing difficult times. But to suggest as much is to misunderstand Christmas, to consider it nothing more than an excuse for overindulgence as we try to deny the vicissitudes of life
Which brings me to that much favoured carol of mine that I referred to earlier – namely ‘God rest ye merry, gentleman’. Note the position of the comma.
For many years I misunderstood this Christmas classic imagining that the words were expressing the hope that God would give a bunch of already merry gentlemen a well earned rest! But this is not the point at all – as the position of the comma makes clear. What is being hoped for is that God would cause these souls, of undisclosed happiness, to be rendered merry.
And the reason that they should be left in such a state of merriment, the reason that, as the carol goes on, nothing should cause them to dismay, is that ‘Jesus Christ our Saviour was born on Christmas Day’. But why was he born? Well, as the carol makes plain, the answer to that one is ‘to save us all from Satan’s power when we had gone astray’.
This is news worth hearing, for it is very good news indeed – tidings, no less, of comfort and joy,
This is not to suggest that those who suffer do not do so significantly – on the contrary, their suffering may be severe and, what’s more, continue for longer than they feel they can cope with. Even so this good news, this gospel, has the potential to comfort those who have to face even the darkest of days, because it brings with it the certain hope that better days really are on the way. For ‘weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.’ [Psalm 30:5].
So then, irrespective of your current circumstances, may I wish you all a very Merry Christmas.
*****
Here then for your listening pleasure is one my favourite versions of ‘God rest ye merry, gentleman’, sung, on this occasion, by ‘Jars of Clay’.
‘
Previously from ‘A Christmas Countdown’:
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 2’, click here
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 1’, click here
WARNING: THIS POST MAY NEVER ALLOW YOU TO THINK THE SAME WAY ABOUT A MUCH LOVED POEM.
My favourite Advent hymn is ‘O Come, O Come, Emmanuel’. For many years, it was hearing a soloist beautifully singing its first verse at the start of the school carol service that marked for me the beginning of Christmas.
‘Emmanuel’ is a big Bible word. It is one of the names that we are told in scripture will be given to Jesus. [Isaiah 7:7]. It means ‘God with us’ and it confirms that we really are right to think of Jesus as, not only fully man, but also fully God.
The idea that God is with us is one that is repeated throughout the Bible. Back in the first book of the Old Testament we read in Genesis 5:22 how Enoch walked with God, the psalmist speaks of how the the Lord of hosts is with his people, [Psalm 46:7] and in the closing chapters of the last book of the New Testament we read how God will dwell with his people even as he himself will be with them as their God. [Revelation 21:3]
Little wonder then that this deeply comforting thought has inspired some to put pen to paper. Whilst there are a number of versions of the much loved poem ‘Footsteps’, this is the one that I find most affecting.
One night a man had a dream. He dreamed he was walking along the beach with the LORD. Across the sky flashed scenes from his life. For each scene he noticed two sets of footprints in the sand: one belonging to him, and the other to the LORD.
When the last scene of his life flashed before him, he looked back at the footprints in the sand. He noticed that many times along the path of his life there was only one set of footprints. He also noticed that it happened at the very lowest and saddest times in his life.
This bothered the man and so he questioned the LORD about it: “LORD, you said that once I decided to follow you, you’d walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints. I don’t understand why when I needed you most you would leave me.”
The LORD replied: “My son, my precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that we hopped!
OK, I admit that the original version seeks to be more uplifting and ends with Jesus explaining to the man that it was in the most difficult times of his life that he was being carried.
Even so, I prefer the above version by comedian, and Christian, Tim Vine. Because, not only does it make me laugh, but it also stops me from thinking that there is ever a time when I, prone to stumble as I am, don’t need to be carried. Personally I find it more comforting to read Deuteronomy 33:27 where I find the reassurance that ‘The eternal God is [my] dwelling place and underneath [me] are [his] everlasting arms’.
Life then can sometimes be hard – and when it is, it can be difficult to know which way to turn. No wonder that it is easy sometimes to feel lost.
But we needn’t feel that way.
Some years ago, whilst out on a walk, one of my children announced that they were lost. This was on account of said child not having a clue as to where they were. But the individual in question was wrong – they weren’t lost – because the one who held their hand, [me], knew exactly where they were.
And I knew the way home.
Perhaps you’re struggling at the moment, perhaps you can’t see a way through all that’s going on this Christmas time. But be assured, you’re not lost – not if you’re being held by the one who knows exactly where you are and who, even in the most difficult of circumstances, knows the way home.
And that ‘one’ is Emmanuel, the God who is with us, the one who knows ‘the end from the beginning’ [Isaiah 46:10].
Why not take his hand and discover that he already holds you – tighter than you could ever possibly imagine?
*****
I’ll end today with a particularly fine rendition of a traditional version of ‘O Come, O Come Emmanuel’ sung here by The St.Michael’s Singers, conducted by Paul Leddington Wright. As all good waiters/waitresses say, ‘Enjoy’!
Related blogs:
To read ‘A Christmas Countdown – Day 1’, click here
BOB DYLAN who, it seems, has ‘Christmas in the Heart’
Even at Christmas, not everyone in my family is a believer. Sadly my wife can’t see what is all too plain to me and if I ever try to speak to her about the wonder of it all she is want to roll her eyes or try and change the topic of conversation. And when it comes to my wanting to listen to his music then I will generally have to wait till I’m all alone in the house or out by myself in the car.
As well as being the day we start opening Advent calendars and making use of Christmas mugs, December 1st is also the day that we in the Aird residence dig out our Christmas CDs and begin to listen to them as part of the run up to December 25th. But, because of the aforementioned aversion to all things Dylanesque, one CD that is rarely played within earshot of the lady of the household is Bob’s 2009 album ‘Christmas in the Heart’.
Admittedly my wife is not this modern day troupadour’s only critic. One reviewer of his aforementioned compilation of festive classics suggested that Latin had never sounded more dead than when that ancient language was employed by Dylan to sing ‘Adeste Fideles’ – that’s ’O Come All Ye Faithful’ for those of you who, like me, had a classical education that was somewhat lacking!
Even so the words of this classic Christmas Carol are worth considering:
‘God of God, Light of Light Lo, he abhors not the Virgin’s womb Very God, begotten not created’
They are borrowed from the Nicene Creed of the fourth century which sought to make plain that the child who was born of Mary was, in very essence, God himself, something that John, an eyewitness of the life of Jesus, conveyed in the first chapter of his gospel when he wrote:
‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made.…And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.’ [John 1:1-3,14]
This is what is meant by the incarnation – that God became a man in the person of Jesus Christ. And this is what we celebrate at Christmas.
*****
So with that said I’ll leave you with a track from ‘Christmas in the Heart’ that I’m proud to say that even my children consider a Yuletide classic – well at least one of them does. There may be better songs about the man ‘who’s got a big red cherry nose’ and ‘laughs this way, ‘Ho, ho, ho’’ – but if there is, I’ve never heard it!
It’s not for nothing that Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2016!*
*It should be noted that ‘Must be Santa’ is not originally by Bob Dylan – but then there are those who say that neither was his Nobel Prize acceptance speech!
Yet more incidents from the life of our not yet 5 month old puppy Hector.
November 5th
Today I watch Planet Earth 3 and I am now looking forward to David Attenborough narrating an episode on this strange creature whose diet today has consisted of the sofa, earth from the garden and a Welsh cake. Carry on like that and he may well find himself on the endangered list!
I wouldn’t mind but he’s not even Welsh!
November 15th
Recently our back door has taken on a strange brown colour and we haven’t for the life of us been able to work out what might have caused it. Today though I think I might have caught the culprit…not red handed perhaps, but certainly muddy pawed!
November 21st
Whilst walking Hector in ‘The Peaks’, the rain it pitter-pattered, But to our canny canine friend, in truth it hardly mattered, For though a stream he’d not ‘ere seen, he showed no hesitation, And so got wet without the need of cloud precipitation.
Along the sodden paths he sniffed, his tail he held up high, And when the mud we bid him ‘Leave’, he could not fathom why, ‘Cos self respecting Labradors, will of their own volition, Stop to devour, all they see fit, for speedy deglutition*!
*Apologies for the use of the fancy medical term for swallowing but old habits die hard and it was kind of necessary for the rhyme to work. I will try to be less magniloquent in future!
November 22nd
‘I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with S’, said Hector, demonstrating to everyone how good he now is at spelling. But his direction of gaze did somewhat give the game away!
November 23rd
Disappointed by suggestions that his spelling ability was imagined rather than real, Hector challenged me today to a game of Scrabble. He won of course – establishing an unassailable lead with an impressive opening score of 106, I never stood a chance!
November 25th
Pausing to avail myself of the flask of hot coffee with which I’d had the good sense to set out this morning, Hector took the opportunity to seat himself on a rocky ledge positioned a little higher than the patch of grass where I myself had chosen to take my ease.
Exaggerating the degree of fortification that his present surroundings provided, he then announced himself to be the ‘King of the Castle’, before having the temerity to add that he considered me to be a ‘rascal’, and a not particularly clean one at that. All this despite the fact that it was he, not I, who had spent much of our ramble consuming what most would consider unfit for canine, let alone human, consumption.
‘A rapscallion I may be’, I countered, ‘but at least I don’t eat the egested material of a hundred hillside herbivores’. The pleasure afforded me by my alliterative put down lasted only a moment however, as, adopting a supercilious air, he fixed me with his deep dark eyes and suggested that now might be a good time for me to polish his crown.
Chastened, I rummaged through my rucksack and pulled out the tin of Brasso that I always carry with for just such an occurrence as this. And so, dutifully submitting to the task in hand, I became the ever so humble servant of King Hector the Halitotic.
Other dog related blogs:
To read ‘The Return of a Dog Called Hector’, click here
Well the last patient has been seen, the last blood sample has been taken, and the last prescription has been signed. Because today was my final day as a GP and it’s now time for me to say a fond farewell to medicine, the NHS and East Quay Medical Centre.
Recently several people have foolishly asked if I would be singing a song to mark my retirement from medicine – and sadly for you, the answer to that question is ‘Yes’! But before I inflict it upon you, can I first say how grateful I am to all those I have worked alongside these past 27 years. It has been a real privilege to be a part of East Quay, made up as it always has been by so many wonderfully supportive people. I have hugely appreciated the friendship of colleagues, both past and present, and the many kindnesses shown to me by the patients who have had to put up with me as their GP. Together they have made my time at East Quay a very enjoyable one and there will, therefore, be much that I will miss about the practice in the months and years after my departure. Thank you too for all those who have recently sent me cards, gifts and kind messages – you really shouldn’t have, but I’m glad you did! I am genuinely touched by your generosity. It is very much appreciated.
During my time at East Quay there have been many funny incidents. One of my favourites happened some years ago on a day that began with me performing a minor op. As I was administering the local anaesthetic. the syringe came off the needle and I ended up spraying a little of the anaesthetic into the eye of the HCA who was assisting me at the time. Perhaps inevitably, that HCA was Doreen.
Happily the procedure continued without further incident but an hour or so later I was calling another patient from the waiting room when, out of sight of everyone else, Doreen saw me and started pretending to have a problem with her vision. There she was, winking and grimacing at me in an exaggerated fashion, just like some latter day pirate.
‘Who do you think you are?’ I asked, loudly enough for everyone in the waiting room to hear, ‘Long John Silver?’
At which point the patient I’d just called, reached me…complete with his false leg and a very pronounced limp. Fortunately he saw the funny side!
Of course not everything that takes place in a GP surgery is as amusing. I am conscious of the many patients who have experienced great hardship and deep sadness in their lives. And I am aware that some still do. Sadly I have not been able to help all these dear people as much as I would have liked, and regrettably this has sometimes been as a result of my own failings. In my time as a doctor I have undoubtedly made many mistakes – and to those affected by them I offer an unreserved apology. Even so I hope that there will be others who, on occasions, will have found something I have done at least a little helpful. If that is the case, then I will be heartened by the fact, as it will mean that my work will not have been without some value.
Medicine is a wonderful thing – it is the means by which many have had their health restored and their lives extended and I myself am immensely grateful to those who ministered care to me when I had a prolonged stay in hospital nearly ten years ago. But despite its best efforts, medicine cannot deliver all that we would like it to – not only because of the inevitable fallibility of those who work in healthcare, but also because of medicine’s own inherent limitations.
If 32 years as a doctor has taught me anything it is that medicine ultimately fails us all. And so I can’t help thinking that we need something more than medicine, something that can deliver what medicine cannot. I happen to believe that there is such a thing – or rather such a one. Whilst recognising how invaluable doctors and nurses are, I am one of those peculiar people who call themselves a Christian, and so my ultimate hope is not in medicine but in the God who has promised that a day is coming when our every tear will be wiped away and death will be no more. And when that day finally does arrive, as it surely one day will, oh how wonderful it will be that nobody will ever be in need of a doctor again!
And so, as I now leave East Quay in the very capable hands of those who I am sure will, to the very best of their ability, continue to provide the good folk of Bridgwater with all the medical care that they need, I am absolutely delighted to be able to look forward to December 1st when I will, God willing, begin working with the Slavic Gospel Association [SGA], an organisation that supports the church in Eastern Europe, Central Asia and Far Eastern Russia. Furthermore, by partnering with those who live in such far off parts of the world, they also provide much needed aid through numerous relief projects whilst seeking at the same time to proclaim the gospel, the good news, of the salvation that I believe was won, for all who will receive it, through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
You can read more about SGAs work at www.sga.co.uk and more about the gospel in a blog I wrote earlier this year. Entitled ‘Foolishness – Law and Gosepl’, it can be found here.
And so to that final song that I hinted at earlier. As some of you will be all too well aware, I have in recent years gone public on Facebook with my woeful attempts at singing and playing the guitar, an endeavour made all the more foolish by my lack of any discernible ability in either of these two disciplines. Most who have experienced my pathetic efforts will have tried to erase the painful memory of them from their mind, but it does perhaps seem appropriate to reproduce here the lyrics of one which was written a year or two ago in anticipation of the retirement that is now upon me.
As one day I’ll retire when my working days are done, I’ve got a little list, I’ve got a little list, Of people I will want to thank, who’ve made my job such fun, They’ll all of them be missed, they’ll all of them be missed, There’s the patients who forgave me for mistakes that were my fault, The folk who every Christmas gave me smokey single malt, And those who every morning, at half ten knocked on my door, And brought me cups of coffee and those biscuits I adore, They’re none of them draconic, those kind receptionists They’ll all of them be missed – they’ll all of them be missed.
I’ve got ’em on the list — I’ve got ’em on the list; And they’ll all of ’em be missed — they’ll all of ’em be missed.
And then there are the nurses who were always sympathetic, I’ve got them on my list, I’ve got them on my list, When I got into a pickle managing a diabetic, They’ll all of them be missed, they’ll all of them be missed, The HCAs who helpfully squeezed in those ECGs, And never made me beg for one whilst down upon my knees, The times when I had issued drugs whilst just a tad distracted, And someone pointed out the way they may have interacted, Indeed I am so grateful to our helpful pharmacists, I know that they’ll be missed – I’m sure that they’ll be missed.
I’ve got ’em on the list — I’ve got ’em on the list; And they’ll all of ’em be missed — they’ll all of ’em be missed.
The team up there in admin, those who type what I dictate, I’ve got them on my list, I’ve got them on my list Who hear the words I mumble that they’ll first have to translate, Though I sent them round the twist, they’ll all of them be missed, The practice manager who I have driven up the wall, By not reading my emails and by changing my on call, My partners who I have been glad to have close by my side, Who’ve been there as I’ve laughed a lot, who’ve been there as I’ve cried, Well I am very sure now that you all have got the gist, They’ll all of them be missed, they’ll all of them be missed.
I’ve got ’em on the list — I’ve got ’em on the list; And they’ll all of ’em be missed — they’ll all of ’em be missed.
But in the unlikely event that this homage to Gilbert and Sullivan is not more than enough for you, I offer up below my last attempt at carrying a song, one that, should it not be apparent, is an adaption of ‘I am a cider drinker’ by Somerset’s finest agriculturally inspired folk band, the Wurzels.
Undoubtedly you all deserve far better than this but I’m afraid it’s the best I can muster. However, despite the poor musical quality, this ‘song’ comes with my heartfelt appreciation of and fond affection for each and every one of you. It has been an honour to have played a small part in your lives.
Thank you.
Goodbye to EQMC – links to other attempts at music making can be found below!
Other related posts:
To read ‘The way ahead – from EQMC to SGA’, click here
To read ‘On Approaching One’s Sell By Date’, click here
‘We all long for Eden and are constantly glimpsing it; our whole nature is soaked with the sense of exile’
J.R.R. Tolkien
‘If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.’
C. S. Lewis
Life is frequently hard. And for some it’s very hard.
Whilst the problems that I have to face are relatively small, I am, having witnessed it again this week, all too well aware that for many the hardships that they have to face are immense. The difficulties for such folk don’t just seem overwhelming, they are overwhelming – so much so that it is hard to imagine how anyone in their situation could possibly cope. And sadly, of course, there are some who don’t.
Suffering is everywhere – it is a part of what it is to be human, a part of what it means to be alive. But whilst it is never welcome and we should always do all we can to try to relive it, we have to accept that it is, to a greater or lesser extent, a part of all our lives. Even so, we all yearn for something better.
But what if our suffering had some meaning attached to it – what if it existed for a purpose? What if, on occasions at least, it was good for us, loosening our grip on what little we have and urging us to cling to something better?
Recently I have been reading the book of Genesis and this week I came to the part of the story where Jacob finally makes it back to Canaan. But Jacob only got to reenter the promised land after what can only be described as an extremely curious encounter with God.
Jacob is alone and we read of how he spent the hours of darkness wrestling with a stranger, an angel who is described as both man and God. Quite who it was that Jacob struggled with that night is not entirely clear. Whilst some consider the mysterious figure to be a pre-incarnate appearance of Jesus, others are less certain. But what does seem clear is that the stranger is somebody who is, at the very least, a representative of God.
During the struggle Jacob is wounded by the man. He has his hip put out of joint as a result of which Jacob is left clinging on to the man, refusing to let go until he has received from him a blessing.
Jacob then entered the promise land – but he did so with a limp. And so perhaps we should not be too surprised if we also have to journey through this life with something that troubles us. Like the apostle Paul who was given it to stop him from becoming conceited [2 Corinthians 12:17], we too may be given a thorn in the flesh, something that causes us pain that our loving Heavenly Father has purposefully administered to us for our good, something that he seen fit for us to endure as we make our own way towards the promised land as well.
It strikes me that it is better for us to cling to God than to wrestle with him. Furthermore, if it takes some form of suffering to change our attitude such that we recognise our complete dependence on God, then that suffering is not altogether bad for us – on the contrary, it is in fact good for us, irrespective of how painful a struggle it might be at the time.
And so we need not lose heart when we experience trials – for not only are ‘the sufferings of this present time not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us’ [Romans 6:18], our suffering is actually achieving something as it makes us more dependent on God. Far from being meaningless, ‘this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. [2 Corinthians 4:17-18]. The genuine sadness we know today may well be extreme, but it will one day pale into insignificance when compared to the immense joy we will go on to experience throughout all eternity.
Make no mistake, what man means for evil, is evil, But God can mean it for good [Genesis 50:20]
Apparent weakness is at the heart of the Christian faith. God chose the foolish things in the world to shame the wise, he chose the weak things in the world to shame the strong [1 Corinthians 1:27], and he chose a bloody cross and a dying saviour as the way of redemption. Jesus Christ ‘was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed’ [Isaiah 53:5].
Paradoxically then pain has a purpose. It is through obedience that we are blessed [Psalm 119:1-2] and it is through suffering that we learn obedience. If that was the way for Jesus [Hebrews 5:8], it should not surprise us if it is the way for us as well. When we, who love God and are called according to his purpose, suffer, we need not think that God has abandoned us – rather we can be sure that he is working all things for our good. He is only doing what is necessary to ensure that we will continue to cling to him and so eventually make it home to that place where every tear will be wiped from our eyes and death will be no more. [Revelation 21:4]
In difficult times this is a comfort to me. To know that ‘the steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, that his mercies never come to an end’ [Lamentations 3:22-23] is the reassurance I need. And all the more so in times of affliction.
So as for me, I will continue to cling on to the one whose everlasting arms will hold me tight forever. And though he slay me, yet I will hope in God. [Job 13:15]. For he is my refuge and strength, an ever present help in times of trouble. [Psalm 46:1]
***
Here’s a song, with some added words from John Piper, that I find helpful. Perhaps you will too.
Related posts:
To read ‘T.S. Eliot, Jesus and the Paradox of the Christian Life’, click here
To read “Why do bad things happen to good people – a tentative suggestion”, click here
To read “Luther and the global pandemic – on becoming a theologian of the cross”, click here
This week is Halloween – but irrespective of how ghoulish the costumes some may be looking forward to wearing might be, there will be nothing more terrifying this year than the nightmare that is currently being experienced by so many in the Middle East and, let’s not forget, Ukraine.
The word ‘Halloween’ is a contraction of All Hallows’ Eve, the day which proceeds All Hallows’ or All Saints’ Day, the latter being an annual Christian celebration dating back to the first millennia when loved ones who have died in the faith are remembered and comfort is drawn by those who remain from recognising that, because of the sure and certain hope of the resurrection, death holds no fear for those who, believing the Christian gospel, have put their trust in Jesus Christ.
Over time this day of solemn remembrance of those who had departed extended to include the night before and children would dress up as ghosts and such like in order to take part in a ‘Dance macabre’ to celebrate the victory Christ won over the forces of darkness. Far then from celebrating evil, the original point of Halloween was to poke a little fun at death in much the same way that the apostle Paul does in his first letter to the Corinthians when he taunts that last great enemy with the words ‘O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?’ [1 Corinthians 15:55]
And this is why I am not as entirely negative about Halloween as some of my Christian friends. Admittedly, whether it is by wandering the streets dressed as zombies or by attending parties in the guise of vampires, most people who mark Halloween these days do so without giving any thought to Jesus’ wonderful victory over death. But just because it has been so commercialised that it is now the third highest grossing festival of the year, that doesn’t mean that Christians should have nothing to do with Halloween. Far from it! For if that were the case, then Christians should surely also refrain from celebrating those other great Christian festivals which have been similarly secularised and today are enjoyed by many who do not find time to reflect on the glorious fact that ‘the word became flesh’ at Christmas and, having been crucified on Good Friday, rose to life again on Easter Day.
But of course, just as Christmas can become all about acquiring everything on your Amazon wish list and Easter nothing more than an opportunity to eat too many chocolate eggs, not everything about Halloween is to be commended. Evil should not be celebrated and the intimidation of vulnerable people by those who go trick or treating in such a way that some are forced to switch off all the lights in their house and pretend they’re not at home is, of course, totally unacceptable. Even so, it is nonetheless true that, done in the right spirit and remembering what Halloween is really all about, trick or treating can actually help bring communities together.
Furthermore, just as fairy tales serve the very useful function of allowing children to face up to the darker aspects of their lives and, through those stories, see that the things they are frightened of can be overcome, so too some appropriate recognition of the existence of evil can help children see that, with Jesus a reality in their lives, they have nothing to ultimately fear.
Because pretending that evil does not exist does not help our children. And all the more so when, as now, it is all too apparent in our world.
Rather then than being concerned about how Halloween may adversely affect our children, perhaps we should be more concerned about the very real harm Disney films can do with their continually insisting to our young people that everyone is awesome. Furthermore, their dishonest assurances that everyone can be whatever they want to be are conveyed whilst minimising the very real existence of the pain and disappointment that eventually marks all our lives.
So, whilst I understand why some Christians are uneasy about Halloween, concerned as they are that it may encourage an unhealthy interest in occult practices such as attempting to communicate with the dead, something which, incidentally, the Bible expressly forbids, for me Halloween is an opportunity to talk about Jesus’ sacrificial death on the cross, a death that paid the penalty for all our sin, and assures us that when we die, rather than it being the end, it will be but a gateway to eternal life with God, a never ending existence in a new heaven and a new earth where our loving Heavenly Father will wipe away our every tear and ensure that death and evil will be no more.
And so until then I will, on occasions, enjoy poking a little fun at death whilst never forgetting that my confidence for so doing comes only from knowing that ‘He who is in me is greater than he who is in the world’ [1 John 4:4].
Furthermore I will not be afraid to die confident as I am that at the cross Satan was so completely defeated that we can all be absolutely sure that ‘Death [really has been] swallowed up in victory’ [1 Corinthians 15:54].
Today, in far too many parts of the world, death may seem to have the upper hand. But the reality is very different.
And with that in mind I hope you all have a frightfully happy and ultimately wholly reassuring Halloween!
***
As will be clear from what I’ve already written, I am a Christian. Perhaps some of you are asking yourselves, if the God I say I believe in exists, why doesn’t He do something to stop the wars in the Middle East and Ukraine. This is, of course, a fair question, one to which I do not have the answer.
Others, no doubt, will be those who say that these wars are signs that we are now living in the last days. To a degree I believe that they are right – but only in the sense that the Bible speaks of the last days beginning some 2000 years or so ago. But whether we are now seeing those last days drawing to an end, or whether they will continue on for another 2000, 20,000 or 200,000 years, this is something I do not know either.
It would seem then that there is much that I do not know. Furthermore there is much that I do not understand and much that I wish was different to how it is. Even so, there remain some things that I do know, some things about which I believe we can all be certain.
1. God is still in control. Nearly 3000 years ago King Uzziah died, and the future seemed very uncertain for the people he ruled over. Isaiah, however, saw beyond the immediate political uncertainty. ‘In the year that King Uzziah died, [he] saw the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up; and the train of his robe filled the temple. [Isaiah 6:1].
Here is a picture of a God who is utterly in command. I believe he still is today. As in the year that Russia invaded Ukraine, so too in the year that war broke out in the Middle East – God remains on the throne.
2. What barbarically violent individuals mean for evil, God means for good – irrespective of how unable we are to see or even imagine what that good might be [Genesis 50:20].
God has a habit of working in mysterious ways and though it may sometimes grieve him to do so, we shouldn’t perhaps be too surprised if, on occasions, He is want to operate outside our way of thinking. It is after all He who is God, not us. ‘For as the heavens are higher than the earth so are [His] ways higher than [our] ways and [his] thoughts than [our] thoughts’ [Isaiah 55:9].
When Jesus was crucified most who looked on saw nothing but defeat. How, they thought, can a dead Messiah save anyone?
And yet there was one, the second thief who hung on a neighbouring cross, who saw that the bleeding, dying man next to him remained a King and, what’s more, one who, far from defeated was, even through his death, securing a victory that would last for all time. Similarly then, God can, and will, bring something genuinely good out of what is currently, self evidently, so dreadfully bad.
3. ‘God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble’ [James 4:6]. Make no mistake God is against all who seek to oppress – even if He is currently allowing those individuals to act in the way they are.
‘The LORD is a stronghold for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble’ [Psalm 9:9] ‘The LORD works righteousness and justice for all who are oppressed’ [Psalm 103:6].
Even if it takes longer than we would like, we can, therefore, be sure that ultimately those in the wrong will be defeated, righteousness will prevail and love will triumph over all that is evil.
4. God is with those who suffer. Even though there will be those who, even today, walk through the valley of the shadow of death, they need fear no evil, for God is with them, his rod and his staff will comfort them [Psalm 23:4]. God has promised to never leave us of forsake us and not even death can separate us from the love of God. [Romans 8:38-39].
Now don’t make a mistake. I am not offering here a platitudinous ‘Smile, Jesus loves you‘ to the people of the Middle East and Ukraine and suggesting that those facing such terrifying days should simply cheer up and not worry. On the contrary. Though it is most certainly true that Jesus does indeed love those caught up in the conflicts, I fear that their suffering will be huge, their sorrow intense, and their anguish all too real. Even so I believe that there is yet hope, a certain hope, because there is a God of love who cares for those who are currently being so dreadfully afflicted.
And neither am I suggesting that we in the West should simply ‘Let go and let God’. A high regard for God’s sovereignty does not mean we should stand back and look on from a distance, comforting ourselves by imagining we have no role to play ourselves. Just as my believing that God has set the day of my death does not mean that I no longer need to look both ways when I cross the road, so too my belief that God is in control of the situation in the Middle East does not mean that I should not act to help where I can.
And help we all most certainly can. We can both petition and support world leaders as they seek to undertake the near impossible job of trying to decide what best can be done to help those caught up in the conflict. Many of us will be able to offer financial support for the huge humanitarian aid effort that is already needed and some of us may find ourselves in a position to offer physical physical too.
And all of us can pray, really pray – to the God who is really there and who really does care.
I am of course very well aware that it is easy to write this from a distance, that it is easier sometimes to believe things theoretically than it is to do so in practice. But I hope and pray that I will both believe and count on all this being true when my time comes to die, be that comfortably in my bed at a ripe old age, or as a violent consequence of an escalation of the wars that we are now seeing play out in the Middle East and Eastern Europe.
For tonight though my heart breaks for the people of the Middle East and Ukraine with the news reports that continually emerge from these areas of the world move me to tears. And so until an opportunity affords itself for me to help in perhaps more tangible ways, my prayers are for the men, women and children whose future currently appears so uncertain.
Please do join me.
Related posts:
To read ‘T.S. Eliot, Jesus and the Paradox of the Christian Life’, click here
To read “Why do bad things happen to good people – a tentative suggestion”, click here
To read “Luther and the global pandemic – on becoming a theologian of the cross”, click here
More incidents from the life our new puppy Hector.
September 4th
He said he wouldn’t steal a piece of fake coal from the fireplace.
He lied!
September 24th
Last night we watched ‘A Quiet Place 2’. For those unfamiliar with the film’s premise it involves ferocious alien creatures who cannot see you but are liable to rip you to shreds if they hear you.
As I tiptoed silently across the landing last night I reflected on how life sometimes mirrors art!
Yes, Hector does still has those very sharp puppy teeth!
September 27th
Still, for the time being at least, a frontline healthcare worker, today I had my Covid booster. But it wasn’t just me who was jabbed this morning as Hector was due a vaccination too.
But whereas the vet plied her patient with tasty liver paste and various other canine treats, all I got from the person sticking a needle in me was her reassurance that I didn’t yet look 65, something which, given I’m a good few years off that particular landmark, I would like to think was obvious!
That a dog should be shown such favouritism doesn’t seem right to me but at least I came away with a sharps box which should enable the safe disposal of Hector’s baby teeth when they at last start falling out!
October 3rd
With tomorrow being the first day he’s allowed out, Hector has spent the day planning where he’d like to go for his first walk.
Sadly though, since he’s only allowed short excursions for a while, I’m going to have to tell him that his choice of a 10 mile hike taking in the Steart Marshes and Bridgwater Bay will have to wait ‘till he’s older.
October 4th
When in life you’re faced with a dilemma and you don’t know quite what course to take, do as I do and ask yourself this simple question:
WWHD – What would Hector do?
The answer will invariably be ‘Chew it’!
Hector would however like it to be known that he was absolutely NOT scared of the hoover this morning, it’s just that sometimes he likes being under the kitchen table.
He did enjoy his first walk up the field though.
October 5th
Hector enjoyed his interpretive dance class today. Asked by his instructor to convey the confining nature of the womb, he made imaginative use of his legs to represent the three blood vessels of the umbilical chord.
6th October
Next up in The Repair Shop is a man who has travelled up from Somerset with a rather ropey looking duck toy that has been in his family for literally minutes.
But it has now seen better days due to the way its been treated by the most recent arrival in his household.
‘It’ll take a lot of work to restore it’ says Jay Blades eyeing the item in a concerned fashion, ‘and frankly I’m not sure it’s worth the effort. If, that is, you’re going to keep the dog?’
The Somerset man indicates his understanding before sloping sadly away muttering as he does so something about how a dog is for life, and not just for September.
It seems that some jobs are too big for even a dream team of master craftspeople.
October 11th
At puppy training this week Hector learned the difference between ‘Wait’ and ‘Leave’.
‘Wait’ is the command given for something he can have after a short delay, whilst leave is the command for something he can never have.
So, for example, he should ‘wait’ for a treat but ‘leave’ a friends very expensive leather bag.
Pity he didn’t learn that a day earlier!
October 25th
The dogtor will see you now!
We were delighted to have Hector locuming for us today at East Quay Medical Centre and proving that Dr Phil Hammond was right when he said that for 90% of symptoms you’re better off with a dog than a doctor. He further pointed out that, as well as being an antidote to loneliness and a great incentive to exercise, our canine friends are always willing to give encouraging licks – something which most GPs are reluctant to do!
And as well as providing excellent care, Hector’s fee for the day, consisting as it did of just a handful of treats and a copious number of tickles, was highly competitive when compared against the going rate.
My only criticism would be that he did, perhaps, order too many Lab tests!
I forget how many years ago it was but I can still recall the incident quite clearly. I was in the Taunton branch of Argos and having perused their catalogue and found what it was I wanted to buy, I wrote the products numerical code on a flimsy bit of paper with one of those tiny pens Argos have that are so obviously designed with their pinchability in mind. I then started to make my way to the payment point but was stopped by a young lady who asked if I’d like to try to use a new machine that they’d installed by which I could pay without having to queue for the tills. I remember saying to her that it seemed to me that she was being employed to do herself out of a job and I wondered what she thought about that. She just smiled and proceeded to talk me through the process of tapping my purchase details into the machine and paying by card.
This week I was back in the same store. I was there looking for skewers. I tapped my request into an electronic device and learnt that they didn’t have any. This was not a huge concern to me, but what did bother me was that the shop was as soulless as it was skewerless. As far as I could see the large open space had just the one person in it. He was pacing around like a bored caged animal, employed by an otherwise faceless corporation on the off chance that someone would need some assistance with one of the several machines that meant that tills were now no longer deemed necessary at all.
But it wasn’t just Argos. Earlier I’d visited one of the banks in Taunton. I would of course have preferred to have popped into one in my home town of Wellington but, like all but one of the major banks there, this has closed down because, it’s said, nobody needs to visit a bank these days. And so I joined a long line of people who hadn’t got that particular memo, each of us waiting our turn to be shown how to complete whatever transaction it was that we wanted to make on yet another machine.
But my reason for entering this once fine financial institution was, I thought, one that a machine wouldn’t be able to help me with and so I caught the eye of one of the skeleton staff who were there to attend to the bemused, and explained that I wanted to open a new account. I was asked to take a seat and for a moment I thought I would soon be interacting with a real person. Which I was of sorts but only to the extent of being told I could open a new account on the internet. And so I resignedly had to pull my phone from my pocket and, under her watchful eye, did what I was clearly expected to have done at home.
On this occasion, the process was admittedly straightforward – but frequently it isn’t. Such was my experience the previous week in the Post Office. Wellington is a sizeable town which as well as being almost bankless has, for some time, been without its own post office, the townsfolk having had to rely on the sterling efforts of a small branch in a convenience store in neighbouring Rockwell Green. Taunton, the county town of Somerset, appears to be heading in a similar direction as it has also lost its dedicated post office with what now passes as the post office being squeezed into a branch of W.H.Smiths. It is, and I use the word loosely, ‘served’ largely by machines. Machines which, on the day I was there, weren’t working and even when they were, were proving largely incomprehensible to the queue of increasing frustrated customers.
But irrespective of the efficiency or otherwise of all these machines, something very important is being lost as they become increasingly ubiquitous. Whilst they may save the companies who employ them some money, we who have to use them are paying a high price. Because it’s not only jobs that are being lost.
Partly as a result of an over reliance on technology and other artificial forms of communication, we are losing the opportunity to interact with one another and are being forced to live increasingly isolated lives. Thus we are currently living through an epidemic of loneliness in which 7.1% of the U.K. population are experiencing chronic loneliness, meaning they feel lonely ‘often or always’, a figure which is even higher amongst younger people. Given that loneliness is as bad for one’s health as smoking 15 cigarettes a day, perhaps we should be as concerned to do something about it as we are about our young people smoking.
In a world where the onus is on being authentic, it is odd that we have become so dependent on such artificial forms of interaction. And having lost the art of conversation, it is little wonder that we now seem increasingly unable to live at peace with one another. Because if we can’t talk to those we live alongside, how can we expect to talk to and understand those further afield. with whom we are prone to disagree? The answer is that we won’t. Rather we will inevitably become more isolated from and suspicious of such folk and ultimately run the risk of learning only how to hate them.
And just now I think we all know how that ends.
The last store I visited was Waterstones. And without a self checkout in site, what a contrast it was. I was one of numerous people who, as we browsed the bookseller’s shelves, enjoyed the accompanying sound of the conversation taking place between customers and knowledgable staff regarding all manner of subjects literary. When I enquired about the availability of one particular book – ‘Burglar Bill’ by Janet and Allan Ahlberg since you ask – no doubt one of thousands that the store sold, the friendly chap behind the counter knew immediately the title I was referring to and was able to help me in my search.
In the end though I bought Ade Edmondson’s new autobiography, ‘Berserker!’. He writes extremely well and in a conversational style and I for one am enjoying getting to know a bit more about him. His book is, of course, a far more reliable source than Wikipedia which, he recounts, contains many false statements, statements which he was, nonetheless, prevented from correcting because the ‘go to’ source of information for so many of us didn’t consider him a reliable witness about his own life!
And so we really do have to try and cease being so reliant on technology and learn once again how to interact with one another. We need to spend time with each other and take that time to talk. Not everything has to be done in a rush and there really is a place for doing things slowly.
Because all the best things in life take time, and living isolated lives is not a remotely good idea.
That any tree should be the subject of such wanton vandalism is distressing enough but it is more sickening still when the tree in question is the focal point of a nationally recognised area of outstanding natural beauty enjoyed by countless numbers of people every year. But the damage inflicted at Sycamore Gap this week pales into insignificance compared to the infinitely more grievous harm done when the one cut down is a fifteen year old girl from Croydon, heedlessly attacked and killed as she made her way to school.
And so it would seem that there are those who delight to destroy what others take pleasure in, those who, failing to recognise the value of those around them, see individuals as disposable, and who consider it acceptable to deny to others what they do not want themselves. But sadly it is not only they that I can point a finger at, for I see in myself the same destructive tendencies that are present in all too many others.
The problem of evil is one that is frequently raised by those who object to the idea of an all powerful God, for how, they not unreasonably ask, could one who purports to be good allow bad things to happen such as have occurred these past few days. But the problem continues to exist for those who reject the notion of a perfect arbiter of right and wrong since evil stubbornly remains a reality in a supposedly impersonal, mechanistic and amoral universe, a universe where any sense of right and wrong, of good and bad, would be nothing but a figment of our imaginations, the product of minds merely conditioned to think in such illogical terms.
Because only in a moral world do our tears make sense.
So why do bad things happen? Why would a coach overturn on a motorway, killing the driver and a teenage passenger and leaving another youngster with life changing injuries? Is it for us to ever fully know the answers to these questions? Probably not. In the book that bears his name, Job is never given a reason for why he has suffered unjustly. Even so, he is comforted ultimately by the vast ‘otherness’ of the God to whom he voices his complaint. And we can be comforted too. For Job’s experience points us to another whose life was similarly characterised by unjust suffering, to one who, though innocent was pronounced guilty and nailed to a cross.
As it is written, ‘cursed is everyone who is hung on a tree’. And so Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us. [Galatians 3:13]
Though sinless, Christ suffered in our place, bearing the penalty that we deserved for all that we have ever done wrong. He died so that we can be forgiven for all the harm that we have caused and so have the curse of death lifted from our shoulders. He was felled so that we, the fallen, might one day be raised to eternal life where every tear will be wiped away and death will be no more. [Revelation 21:4]
So there is hope in our often dark and sometimes sad world. There is a tree of life whose leaves are there for the healing of the nations. [Revelation 22:2]. It’s a tree that speaks of a better tomorrow, a tree that promises an end to all the darkness. a tree that guarantees the future.
And it’s a tree that will surely stand forever.
Related posts:
To read ‘T.S. Eliot, Jesus and the Paradox of the Christian Life’, click here
To read “Why do bad things happen to good people – a tentative suggestion”, click here
To read “Luther and the global pandemic – on becoming a theologian of the cross”, click here
Despite today’s anticlimactic end to Somerset’s final county championship game, we can look back on what has still been a very enjoyable season. So here, in no particular order, are 20 things we have learnt this summer.
1. It came home! And brilliant as Tom Banton (468 runs, SR 149.04, HS 84) and Will Smeed (523 runs, SR 175.5, HS 94) are at the top of the order, it’s clear that T20 trophy’s are won by an all round team performance, one that is characterised by superb fielding every bit as much as aggressive batting and tight bowling.
2. New Zealanders are our friends – Kiwi’s may not be the only fruit, but they might just be the best! Thank you Matt Henry, Ish Sodhi and Neil Wagner!
3. James Rew can bat, Tom Abell can bowl, and Craig Overton can catch. As well as keep wicket James Rew scored five championship hundreds this season, including one double hundred and equaled the record for the most scored by a teenager. It was great to see Tom Abell picking up wickets (4-54) against Kent and Craig ‘Bucket Hands’ Overton’s 22 catches in this season’s Blast was a tournament record.
4. But James ‘Butterfingers’ Anderson is only a mere mortal after all – even so, it’s probably best not to shout about it too much on social media platforms.
5. Andy Umeed likes to bat in one day cup games – 613 runs at an average of 87.57 with a HS of 172*.
6. You should never give up. Wins can come from the the least promising of positions – and even after the most disappointing of starts to a season you can still end up the match winner on T20 finals day. It’s been good to have you on board this year, Sean Dickson!
7. As well as being a 17th century theologian, Matt Henry is a mighty fine cricketer – and if he says he wants to play T20, you should just nod your head and give him a contract. Part of a devastating opening bowling attack with Craig Overton, he saved his best T20 performance for the final taking 4/24 to sneak past Ben Green and end as the competition’s leading wicket taker with 31 wickets at a strike rate of 10.13 and an economy of 7.83. And then there were his 32 wickets in the county championship at an average of 16.18 including 6-59 against Notts. A great overseas signing.
8. Irrespective of how much sand there is about the place, work is no day at the beach for the groundsmen. They’ve worked wonders this year. And so have those involved in delivering what must be the best livestream in the country. Great to have had Vic Marks, one of my childhood heroes, joining the always excellent Pete Trego and Sophie Luff this year.
9. Lammers and Golders have still got what it takes and we can look forward to lots more runs from both of them next season.
10. The future is bright with the likes of Shoaib Bashir and Alfie Ogbourne in the ranks and, given the chance, the youngsters in the squad can give Hampshire a run for their money – and very nearly beat them. As for Kasey Aldridge – his hand is still smarting from the brilliant and crucial catch he took to dismiss Adam Rossington in the T20 Final.
11. It’s easy for some to criticise – but easier still for everyone else to find things to praise in this Somerset squad – 350+ first class wickets for Lewis Gregory for example. And he had a baby too. Congratulations Louie G!
12. Stumpy’s efforts in the gym last winter proved ineffective in this year’s mascot race – which is disappointing in one sense but actually quite reassuring for all of us couch potatoes!
14. Decisions on when to declare and when to enforce the follow on can safely be left to the captain. Well led Tom Abell!
13. Jack Brooks (for his constant enthusiasm as well as his bowling) and Steve Davies (for his wicket keeping and elegant batting) will be sorely missed next year. Likewise George Bartlett, a youngster with great potential who will make Northants a stronger team next season. Wishing each one of them all the very best in their respective futures.
15. Party organisers at Surrey long for Somerset players to respond positively to the invitations that they constantly send them.
16. Predicting the weather for Edgbaston in mid July can be tricky.
17. Severe haircuts don’t prevent you taking trophy winning catches. ‘TKC take a bow’. The lad can bat too! (489 runs, SR 160.33, HS 72) Hearty congratulations on being called up to the England one day squad.
18. Enjoyable though hospitality is, it’s not a patch on watching Lewis Gregory (57*) and Ben Green (35*) secure the teams place at T20 finals day with an unbeaten 96 run partnership.
19. It’s all too easy to injury your finger playing cricket. Break one (Peter Siddle) and you’ll sadly be forced to return to Australia early. Dislocate one and you could always try to reduce it and play on – at least you could if you’re Roelof van der Merwe. And on the subject of injuries, with so many this year we know the team physios must be very busy people. It was good to have Josh Davey back at the end of the season and here’s to Craig O, Sonny Baker and Alfie Ogbourne being fully fit soon. And let’s not forget Jack Leach – hopefully we’ll see a lot more of him next year than we have this.
20. Cricket’s only a game – but what a truly wonderful game it is. And as is clear from reading about young Bodhi Atterton, the good it does is both on and off the field. If you haven’t done so already, you can read 6 year old Bodhi’s story here. We wish him well.
So thank you to all at Somerset CCC who have been involved in giving us another six months of terrific entertainment. I look forward to doing it all again next year.
Until then, enjoy the Cricket World Cup and winter well!
On Wednesday it rained in Taunton. So much so that not a ball was bowled at the County Ground which was a little disappointing for me as I had hoped to spend my day off watching Somerset build on the strong start they had made in their match against Kent. But it was not to be – the covers remaining on the square throughout the day, something I saw for myself as I stole a glance through the Vivian Richards gates as I drove along the Priory Bridge Road late that morning.
I was in town to do a bit of shopping and having failed to find what I was looking for on the virtually empty shelves of Wilco I found myself in a coffee shop looking down from an upstairs window on the boarded up and increasingly tatty frontage of Debenhams, yet another victim of the economic downturn. And all the while the rain continued to fall from an unrelentingly cloudy sky.
The world seemed a rather grey place that morning. It was all a far cry from the blue skies and warm sunshine I’d enjoyed when I had last made it to the county ground for a championship game at the end of June. Since then work, life and a certain franchise competition had meant I’ve not seen as much four day cricket as I’d have liked.
Much has already been said about the squeezing out of what really should be the jewel in the crown of county cricket to the least suitable months of the season for playing what is, after all, a summer game, but it does seem to me a shame that the slow burn satisfaction of the longer format has been sacrificed on the alter of instant gratification supposedly provided by manufactured teams sponsored by potato based comestibles, a packet of which you barely have a chance to consume in the limited time afforded by the truncated games duration.
And so I sat and wondered if this ‘must have it now’ attitude, so ubiquitous in the ‘Amazon Prime’ world in which we live, is the one that drives the discontent that too frequently manifests itself in the criticism that pours out of those who seemingly cannot wait for good things to develop.
This week I experienced another example of such complaining after posting something positive on the Somerset supporters Facebook page. On Day One of the game against Kent, Tom Lammonby, somebody I described as ‘a fine player who has had more than his fair share of criticism this year’, scored a century in difficult conditions and under what must have been intense personal pressure. I was rash enough to suggest that his had been a superb performance.
Tom Lammonby on his way to making 109. Photograph used by kind permission of Matthew Cleeve.
As previously, I had not expected this to be a controversial point of view on a forum for Somerset supporters but once again I was wrong because, apparently, I had failed to understand that Tom Lammonby isn’t as good an opening bat as former Somerset players like Jimmy Cook and Marcus Trescothick.
What a sad world we live in if we can only praise those who are the very, very best. This is the attitude that leads to instances such as occurred a few years back when an athlete who had just missed out on a place in an Olympic final felt it necessary to apologise for letting everyone down. How tragic when being ninth or tenth best in the world is considered failure.
Who knows if Tom Lammonby will one day be remembered as one of the very, very best but currently he is just 23 years old and is, I imagine, somebody who would readily accept that he has a way to go before being classed as one of Somerset’s greatest. But let’s give the lad a chance, let’s give him and others like him the time it takes for genuine class to emerge. And let’s give credit where credit is due because withholding any encouragement until someone reaches legendary status isn’t going to motivate anyone to keep on trying.
In the afternoon, with no prospect of the covers at Taunton being removed, I took the opportunity to visit a small show put on by three local artists in a village hall just a short drive away from Taunton town centre.
The most striking piece on display was a self portrait of one of the artists wearing her mothers wedding dress, the bright white of the gown a vivid contrast against the painting’s pitch black background. But there were many other fine pieces to enjoy – a herd of cattle huddled together in the corner of a field, a scenic representation of rural Dorset and an impressionist depiction of a gentle game of village cricket. Each painting, all no doubt the result of many hours work, enriched my day and I was glad to have been able to see them.
Now there will no doubt be those who, had they been there with me, would have seen fit to complain that the standard wasn’t that of a Pierre-August Renoir or a Leonardo da Vinci but to have done so would have served only to discourage those who had tried to create something of worth.
And how we need such folk today, those who keep on trying to make this grey old world a little more colourful. We need those who play, be it with a paintbrush, a cricket bat or with some other means, and in so doing bring about a little happiness in the lives of those who are sometimes sad. We none of us need to be the best to do something of value and we must not allow others to discourage us from doing the best we can by raining on our, or anyone else’s, parade.
And so my watching cricket is over for another season but there will be more games to enjoy next year. Rain or shine, I for one, am looking forward it, confident that it’ll be well worth the wait.
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Leaving all that aside and on an altogether lighter note, somebody who seemingly is always ready to play is Hector, our new Labrador puppy. Even so, rain does dampen even his enthusiasm for outdoor activity as you’ll see in the clip of him below:
Still unvaccinated he can’t yet accompany me to Somerset games but in preparation for next season, I thought that, with the weather forecast for Taunton being what it was, I could usefully spend some time explaining to him how you can be given out LBW. He seemed keen to learn, understandably, I suppose, given how he’d be vulnerable to a ball pitching in the ‘ruff’!
He still lacks full understanding of the command ‘Wait’ so I suspect he may also be liable to getting himself run out. More concerning still, however, is his long tail – something which may also prove a problem in the future.
Even so, as this next video shows, he was wholehearted in expressing his delight at the news of Tom Lammonby’s century!
This is an extended, theologically minded, version of last week’s blog entitled ‘Only a game’.
Last week I posted on the Somerset cricket supporters Facebook page. I said a few, admittedly optimistic, words about Somerset’s prospects for the upcoming day’s play and said that, win, lose or draw, I was looking forward to seeing them play Kent this coming week adding that, for me at least, there are few more enjoyable things than watching Somerset play at the county ground in Taunton.
You would have thought that this would have been an uncontroversial view to express on a forum specifically set up for Somerset supporters – but you’d be wrong! Alongside those who ridiculed my suggestion that, given past batting performances, the team might yet do well, others presumably disenchanted by the teams recent batting performances and who clearly think Somerset are only worth watching if they win, responded by suggesting that I should ‘get a life!’
Which got me thinking about what ‘a life’, for some, entails.
As a doctor I regularly sit with those whose mental health is so poor that all they want to do is die – and those who mourn the death of those who meant the world to them.
I spend time with those whose cognitive functioning is declining – and those whose chemotherapy hasn’t delivered the cure that had been hoped for. Furthermore I speak to those whose cancer is so far advanced at presentation that an attempt at curative treatment isn’t even an option for them.
I visit those, some of whom are just a few years older than me, who, having suffered a stroke or the progressive effects of some other debilitating disease, find themselves in a nursing home – and I console those who, having geared themselves up for surgery only to have it cancelled at the last minute, have to endure their pain or anxiety for even longer than they already have.
And then there are the events like those that have recently occurred in Morocco and Libya.
Such, to a greater or lesser extent, are all our lives and so, in a world characterised by suffering, we all sometimes feel the need to be distracted by something we enjoy. So yes, because of the life I have, spending a day watching Somerset playing cricket at Taunton is one of the things I like doing most.
It saddens me then when a small minority seem to find it necessary to spoil the pleasure we have in supporting the teams we do by denigrating individuals who have entertained us so wonderfully for so many years. Do they not know how fortunate they are to watch what many are denied the pleasure of because of their life situation? And in a world where we are constantly told we have to be better, where the pressure to prove that we are a success is a constant burden, it’s a shame that they can not enjoy sport for what it is, an opportunity to play, to take part in what is after all just a game, without having always to win.
Of course there’s disappointment when results don’t go the way we might have hoped – but unkindness and rudeness are never justified. And they make the world, cricketing and otherwise, an even sadder place than, for some, it already is.
But having said that, watching cricket is, of course, only a distraction – at close of play, the problems remain. And so, whilst I am grateful to God for the pleasure I get from watching cricket, if I, or anyone else, wants any lasting comfort it is to God that we must turn. For he is the God of all comfort – the God who comforts us in all our affliction. [2 Corinthians 1:3-4]
Notice though that it doesn’t say that God will always act to immediately remove our affliction. No, for now at least, he comforts us IN our affliction. The writers of the psalms recognised that this was the case. As King David famously penned, ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. [Psalm 23:4] And the less well known writer of Psalm 119 is even more explicit when he says, ‘This is my comfort in my affliction, that your promise gives me life…Let your steadfast love comfort me according to your promise to your servant. [Psalm 119:50,76].
Here then is hope for the afflicted. A hope that comes from believing God when in Revelation 21:4 he promises that a day is coming when he really will wipe every tear from our eyes and death will be no more. A promise which, as all the promises of God, finds its ‘Yes’ in Jesus Christ and is, therefore, guaranteed to be kept. [2 Corinthians 1:20].
To continue on a cricketing theme, on July 15th a man caught a ball. I’ve watched that catch dozens and dozens of times. Why? Well the man who took the catch was Tom Koehler-Cadmore and every time I see it I marvel at both his agility and superb eye-hand coordination. ‘TKC – take a bow’, the commentator intoned recognising the catch was one that was worthy of praise. But I watch it most because of what that catch achieved. For with it Somerset won this years T20 competition.
How much more then should we all continually look to the cross. For every time we consider what took place at Calvary we see something of the character of Jesus who hung and suffered there. We see his amazing bravery, we see his great humility and we see his overwhelming love for those he came to save. And we recognise what his death achieved – our reconciliation with God. For by dying for us, paying the penalty for all that we have ever, and will ever, do wrong, Jesus secured the forgiveness of our sins. Furthermore it brought about the death of death itself. As such Christ’s obedience to the point of death, even death on a cross, is worthy of our everlasting praise.
The cross then demonstrates how seriously the Christian faith takes, not only sin, but suffering too. It provides the solution to both the cause and the consequences of the fall.
And so it is at the cross, that we find real comfort – even in our affliction. It is at the cross we are made right with God and where we truly ‘get a life’. More than that it’s where we get ‘eternal life’.
And so I am grateful that in the Garden of Gethsemane when Jesus, mindful of where he was heading, was greatly distressed and troubled, so much so that his soul was ‘very sorrowful even to death’, [Mark 14:33-34] he did not waver from obeying the will of the Father. Because when the going got tough, Jesus kept on going – to the cross – to die, for you and for me.
Some people tell us that we need to step out of our comfort zone. And maybe sometimes that’s true. Even so, as Jonny Bairstow recently discovered as he wandered out of his crease, our comfort zone is exactly where we need always to stay. For it is in Christ that we are safe. God is our comfort zone – he is our refuge and strength, an ever present help in times of trouble. [Psalm 46:1]. Hear his words:
‘Comfort, comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that her warfare is ended, that her iniquity is pardoned. [Isaiah 40:1-2]
‘Sing for joy, O heavens, and exult, O earth; break forth, O mountains, into singing! For the LORD has comforted his people and will have compassion on his afflicted. [Isaiah 49:13]
In these troubled times therefore, come and be comforted – trust in the atoning death of Jesus and know that each and every one of your sins is forgiven and that the sufferings of this present time are but temporary – for they are light and momentary compared to the eternal weight of glory that is being prepared for you. [2 Corinthians 4:17]. And without minimising in any way your current sadness, if you are grieving today take heart – ‘The LORD is near to the broken hearted and saves the crushed in spirit’ [Psalm 34:18] – ‘a bruised reed he will not break, and a faintly burning wick he will not quench’. [Isaiah 42:3].
For if you mourn your indwelling sin and the consequences of living in this fallen world, there is hope because ‘blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven, blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted’ [Matthew 5:3-4].
And hear too what the Book of Common Prayer calls the ‘comfortable words’ of our Saviour Jesus Christ who says to all who truly turn to him, ‘Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. [Matthew 11:28]. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. [John 3:16]
What a comfort it is to know that our sins are forgiven. And what a comfort it is to know that though our weeping may tarry for the night, joy will come with the morning. [Psalm 30:5]
Related posts:
To read ‘T.S. Eliot, Jesus and the Paradox of the Christian Life’, click here
This week I posted on the Somerset cricket supporters Facebook page. I said a few, admittedly optimistic, words about Somerset’s prospects for the upcoming day’s play and said that, win, lose or draw, I was looking forward to seeing them play Kent the week after next commenting that, for me at least, there are few more enjoyable things than watching Somerset play at the county ground in Taunton.
You would have thought that this would have been an uncontroversial view to express on a forum specifically set up for Somerset supporters – but you’d be wrong! Alongside those who ridiculed my suggestion that, given past batting performances, the team might yet do well, others presumably disenchanted by the teams recent batting performances and who clearly think Somerset are only worth watching if they win, responded by suggesting that I should ‘get a life!’
Which got me thinking about what, for some, a life entails.
As a doctor I regularly sit with those whose mental health is so poor that all they want to do is die – and those who mourn the death of those who meant the world to them.
I spend time with those whose cognitive functioning is declining – and those whose chemotherapy hasn’t delivered the cure that had been hoped for. Furthermore I speak to those whose cancer is so far advanced at presentation that an attempt at curative treatment isn’t even an option for them.
I visit those, some of whom are just a few years older than me, who, having had a stroke find themselves in a nursing home – and I console those who, gear themselves up for surgery only to have it cancelled at the last minute meaning that their pain will continue for longer still.
Such are all our lives to a greater or lesser extent and so, in a world full of suffering, we all sometimes need to be distracted by something we enjoy. So yes, because of the life I have, spending a day watching Somerset playing cricket at Taunton is one of the things I like doing most.
It saddens me then when a small minority seem to find it necessary to spoil the pleasure we have in supporting the teams we do by denigrating individuals who have entertained us so wonderfully for so many years. Do they not know how fortunate they are to watch what many are denied the pleasure of because of their life situation? And in a world where we are constantly told we have to be better, where the pressure to prove that we are a success is a constant burden, it’s a shame that they can not enjoy sport for what it is, an opportunity to play, to take part in what is after all just a game, without having always to win.
Of course there’s disappointment when results don’t go the way we might have hoped – but unkindness and rudeness are never justified.
And they make the world, cricketing and otherwise, an even sadder place than, for some, it already is.
There’s a saying that goes, ‘New house, new baby’. Less well known is the one that goes: ‘New job, new puppy’!
A dog, as we all know, is for life, not just for August Bank Holiday Mondays when no county cricket is being played, a day which, though considerably less joyful than the one that marks the pinnacle of the festive season, appears now to be a date fixed in the calendar just as surely as Christmas Day itself.
Even so, with the One Day Cup semifinals unaccountably being played the day after the Bank Holiday, when many supporters would, regrettably, have been back at work, I took the opportunity afforded by a Monday without gainful employment to pick up our new puppy. And so, in one fell swoop, I foiled the nefarious plans of those who seemingly wish to bring about the demise of county cricket by their bizarre scheduling of this year’s fixtures.
Meet Hector!
Because, of course, my action means that, in addition to the countless men, women and children who, with or without canine accompaniment, have enjoyed county cricket this season, there’ll be at least one more man and his dog enjoying the simple pleasures of the summer game when April comes around again next year.
So ha!
But leaving all that aside, here are some other things you need to know about Hector.
1. The son of King Priam and Queen Hecuba, he was, apparently, the least annoying of all Greek heroes and the greatest of all the Trojan warriors. He was eventually killed by Achilles. In Greek mythology he was famous for wearing a particular sturdy helmet, so he shouldn’t be fazed by any short pitched bowling should Somerset, or any other team significantly depleted teams by The Hundred, ever come calling.
Butter wouldn’t melt…
2. His middle name is ‘Watching the gathering crowds’ – a reference to Debden Jubilee, the erstwhile news reporter from ‘On The Hour’, that wonderful radio comedy of the early 1990s. Though the moniker is, perhaps, a bit of a mouthful, it is still considerably shorter than that of our last dog, Barney, whose middle name was ‘Don’t drive that Rhino up a tree, it’s fallen death will shame your people’. Chris Morris, Steve Coogan and Armando Iannucci have a lot to answer for!
It may be a flowerbed, but that’s no flower asleep in it!
3. He’s the third dog that we’ve owned since getting married, and he thus fulfils the promise strangely omitted from our marriage vows that stated that we would have a dog for every child that was born to us. Our son, the youngest of our three children is now 25, so it’s taken a bit of time to make good on that particular pledge!
In the correct bed – well very nearly!
4. 14 months on from when we said ‘a farewell to Barns’, Hector has very big paws to fill – even so, as the newest member of our family, we think he’ll be every bit as lovely.
The always smiling Barney.
So far Hector has settled in extremely well. True he needs to be reminded not to help when it comes to picking the flowers in the garden, and does, when excited, have the occasional accident – but hey isn’t that true for all of us as we get a little older! He has also been the much needed incentive to kickstart the decluttering of our home – this is on account of how adept he is at commandeering sundry items we’ve left lying on the floor and then finding them more helpful than the teething toys we’ve bought him, at some expense mark you, to cope with that particular issue.
I’ve heard of read, learn and inwardly digest but this is taking it too far!
For all that though he’s a happy, playful soul who is great company and a joy to have around.
Another ‘jolly old Hector’ – this one from the children’s TV series of the 1960s ‘Hector’s House’ though I recently discovered that the original was in French and called ‘La Maison de Toutou’
I shall enjoy taking him to watch Somerset play. Sadly he won’t be fully vaccinated in time for their final game of the season against Kent next month – but at least, having already mastered the rudiments of the game, he’ll be able to watch the match via the livestream on YouTube!
Already expressing a preference for red ball cricket!
Mind you there have, of late, been some strange things taking place in the town where I live. Crime has plummeted this past week with reports coming in that a caped vigilante has been seen patrolling the mean streets of Wellington throughout the hours of darkness. Furthermore, contrary to our expectations, our sleep has NOT been disturbed by the sound of a puppy crying because he has been left alone in the kitchen overnight. It’s like he’s not even there.
Coincidence? I think not.
By day, the mild mannered Hector, by night… Batdog™ !
Hanging upside down – as every good Batdog™ should!
*******
The problem with black Labradors is that they don’t show up terribly well in the dark. That’s why we’ve supplied Hector with these rather natty occular accoutrements. Not only can we now see him at reduced lighting levels but he’s also in with a chance of winning ‘The dog with the most appealing eyes’.
*******
And then, looking down at the sinister creature that she had once again been forced to drag from the very much out of bounds settee, Little Red Riding Hood said:
‘Oh what wild staring eyes you have Hector!’
‘All the better to strike fear into the hearts of those upon whom I fix my gaze, my dear’
‘Oh what inky black fur you have Hector!
‘All the better for lurking in the shadows, my nefarious deeds to pursue unnoticed, my dear’
‘And oh what tiny sharp teeth you have Hector!’
‘All the better to rip the flesh from your invitingly exposed upper limbs, my dear’.
Little Red Riding Hood paused a moment to reappraise her feelings on the issue of canine couch convention and then, having plumped up the two soft cushions of the aforementioned three seated sofa, proceeded to invite the hound to make himself comfortable.
And that, she knew, as she curled up in the long since abandoned dog basket in the corner of the room, was the beginning of…
THE END.
Little Red Riding Hood subsequently took ill – you can find out how she got on seeking medical attention by clicking here
To read ‘The Return of a Dog Called Hector’, click here
Other dog related blogs – several featuring Barney our much loved old Labrador who died last summer.
This is an updated version of a blog which first appeared in January 2023.A link to the original, entitled ‘Whither tomorrow’ along with other related blogs, can be found below.
‘The heart of man plans his way, but the LORD establishes his steps’ Proverbs 16:9
I don’t know if it’s because of my ever greying hair or simply the result of wishful thinking on the part of those who are posing the question, but for the last year or so a day hardly seems to go by without one of my patients asking me how long I think I’ll remain a GP. Recently, and for a number of reasons, the idea of retirement has grown increasingly appealing, so much so that it now feels right to seriously consider the possibility of moving on.
When I think of how many times in my career I have considered giving up medicine, it is in some ways remarkable that I have lasted as long as I have! The first time I thought about chucking it all in was about a month into my A Levels. Back then I was hating Physics so much that I decided to give up studying science and with it the idea of one day being a doctor. But after a few wise words from my Dad I dropped Physics in favour of Biology and so continued to pursue the career I had set my heart on ever since the couple of weeks I’d spent in hospital at an impressionable age. And for a time things got better.
And so I clambered aboard the conveyor belt of medical education and got a place at Bristol. After a wobbly first couple of terms during which I again considered ending my medical career before it had even begun and I was briefly prescribed ‘prothiaden’ which, back then, was a fancy new antidepressant, I eventually settled into university life. But after failing to enjoy the third year which brought with it my first experience of clinical medicine, I intercalated, unconventionally late, in Psychology with the specific intention of leaving university with a degree that would offer me the possibility of a job outside of medicine. For a while I flirted with the idea of accepting the offer I was made to do a PhD but returned instead to Medicine and eventually graduated in 1991.
My year as a houseman wasn’t a happy one either and my wife will tell you how low I was during what, purely coincidentally you understand, was also our first year of marriage. She sometimes had to literally feed me breakfast in the morning, and put my shoes on to get me ready to leave for work. I even temporarily opted out of the NHS pension scheme, so convinced was I that I would not remain a doctor for long, But in time things got better again and I somehow survived my first year as a doctor.
GP training was also an initially miserable time, so much so that, before completing my training, I lined up a job in Psychiatry thinking I might follow this as an alternative career path. Six months of that though was more than enough and so, with my MRCGP now safely under my belt, I became a GP locum. One practice I spent three months at asked me to apply for the partnership that they were then advertising and, having done so, I was fortunate enough to get the post.
And so, in January 1997, I began what thus far have been 26 largely happy years at East Quay Medical Centre, the practice at which I still work. Initially I hated it though, and was genuinely convinced that, as well as being useless, everybody regretted taking me on a partner. But then things got better once again proving that, at least on occasions, things can, and do, improve over time.
That said, I’m not sure that medicine is getting better. On the contrary, I am concerned that the world of medicine has lost it’s way. I’ve been writing about this for well over a decade now but the situation only seems to be getting worse with every passing year. With the medicalisation of normal life and the overemphasis on clinical parameters rather than the individual to whom those parameters refer, modern medicine has begun to diminish what it is to be human. And it has diminished too what it is to be a doctor. What’s more, medicine has, for far too long, arrogantly acted as if it believed it had the power to bring about eternal life and never ending happiness. It spends far to long trying to do what it can’t and too many of those charged with that particularly task have been killing themselves and making themselves unhappy in the attempt.
And perhaps as a consequence, whereas once doctors were considered their patients’ advocate, it seems now that patients are too often perceived as problems, made up of those who have to be managed rather than those who ought to be cared for. But whilst I like to think that I and my colleagues at East Quay have tried not to fall into this way of thinking, it remains the case that doctors in general have, in recent years, been forced to work more remotely from their patients and, as an inevitable consequence of this, have, I believe, found themselves beginning to care for patients less, even as their patients have begun to care less about them.
Because absence does not always make the heart grow fonder.
It also seems to me that medicine has priced itself out of the market – with all that medicine can potentially do, it is now simply too expensive, not only in terms of the burden it imposes on the tax payer but also in terms of the personal cost paid by those who work in healthcare. The toll is too high and something really does need to be done about it.
I’ve been writing on a regular basis now for a little over four years. I find it helpful – so much so that this website is far too cluttered with posts. In his essay ‘Why I write’, George Orwell gave four reasons, suggesting that, to a greater or lesser extent, each one is present as motivating factors in all those who put pen to paper.
The first reason he gave, was SHEER EGOISM. I don’t deny it. I enjoy writing for writing’s sake but if occasionally someone likes what I write, if perhaps I manage to raise a smile or somebody finds something I’ve written helpful, I find that that brings with it a little extra satisfaction.
Next came AESTHETIC ENTHUSIASM. And once again I put my hand up to that one. I enjoy writing because I enjoy writing, even when no one else enjoys reading what I write! I like playing with words, finding an arrangement of sounds that rolls off the tongue and which is pleasing to at least my ear.
Thirdly on Orwell’s list, was HISTORICAL IMPULSE – the simple desire to write about how things are, to record for others what the truth is. Again mea culpa! I feel a responsibility to write about the state of the world, or at least that part of the world that I inhabit. And writing helps me think about what is going on around me, it helps me understand the realm in which I operate.
And the last reason Orwell gave for why writers write was POLITICAL PURPOSE, by which he meant a desire to influence others, to move others to think in ways that the writer themself thinks. And I suppose that’s true of me too, at least to some extent. Indeed it would, I suspect, be odd if it were not the case.
But there is, I think a fifth reason for why I write, one which is, perhaps, at least slightly different to those given by Orwell. And it’s this. The NEED TO BE HEARD.
There are some things that are so important to us, that we need them to be important to others. And for that to happen our concerns have to be heard, and felt, by others.
In an indifferent world it’s important that we listen to those we care about, to make a real effort to hear what they are saying. We may not be able to do much about what is spoken, not in any practical sense at least, but caring enough to recognise it matters to the one who is saying it is, at least, a start. Because to share a little in the experience of others, perhaps even shedding a tear ourselves as others express their sadness, draws us a little closer to the one who suffers, and makes a connection with the one who grieves, a connection that, too often in this frequently contactless world, we fail to make.
And so I write about the things that matter to me most.
I write about cricket – is there anything more important than the domestic cricket season and the violence being done to it by the introduction of franchise cricket? I doubt it, but even so, now is not the time for me to get back on that particular soap box once more.
I write about medicine – of how the NHS is broken and breaking the people who work within it. I write of how it bothers me immensely that patients aren’t getting the treatment they need, not, at least, in a timely fashion. And I write about how it bothers me immensely that people who I care about, people with whom I work, are too often close to tears because of what the job now demands of them.
And I write about other, more general, concerns that trouble me because it’s not only in relation to the world of medicine that people suffer. And irrespective of the reasons for that suffering, and especially when, rather than getting better things seem to be getting progressively worse, I find it helpful to express in what I write some of the sadness I am sometimes prone to feel.
And I write too about my faith – because if it’s everlasting life and infinite joy we want, we will need to look for it somewhere other than medicine. Without the faith which sustains me in difficult times, I really don’t know how I’d be able to cope with all that life sometimes entails. Because like the psalmist I believe that, though weeping may tarry for the nighttime, joy comes with the morning – holding this to be true irrespective of how long and dark the night may be or how far off the day still seems.
So as working in the NHS becomes evermore difficult, have my recurrent thoughts of wanting to leave medicine finally be realised? Have I decided to retire a couple of years earlier than the average age that GPs now hang up their stethoscopes? Well the answer to that question in ‘Yes!’.
But the reason for doing so is not the same as the one that caused me to consider giving up so many times in the past. Then my thoughts of quitting were largely linked to my feelings of being an inadequate doctor. Now, however, though still inadequate to meet the needs of all that is demanded of me, I have become resigned to my inadequacy. In his 2014 Reith Lectures, American surgeon Atul Gawande spoke of our ‘necessary fallibility’ – of how we all now inevitably make mistakes because it is simply not possible for us to know all that there is to know or be able to do all that we are asked to do.
Medicine has, in some respects at least, become something that I have lost faith in. I don’t want to work in an environment which forces those in it to be more concerned for their own welfare than the welfare of others. There’s a lot of talk these days about being kind, generally accompanied with the caveat that our kindness should extend to ourselves. But if we’re to be kind to those we interact with, that is inevitably going to mean that sometimes we will need to be unkind to ourselves, to sometimes make sacrifices for the sake of others. But here’s the thing – when we do, I believe that, rather than suffering, we are enriched by our actions. Sometimes real success comes as a result of our losing everything. Given what once took place on ‘a green hill far away’, there is, I believe, historical precedent for holding such a view.
And I’ve seen a little of this in my own life too. Some years ago, on my day off, a parent phoned the practice regarding their 8 year old son who had been experiencing diarrhoea and vomiting. He was given wholly appropriate advice for home management and advised to call again in the event of any deterioration. The next day the father did indeed call back but proceeded to inform me that all his son’s symptoms were improving. But there was something about the fathers tone of voice that unsettled me and so, at around 6.30 that evening, I called him back and learnt how the child had subsequently significantly deteriorated. Though I was not on call, I offered to do a home visit, an offer that was gladly accepted. When I eventually arrived, the lad had the most obvious meningism that I had ever encountered and I duly gave him a stat dose of iv benzyl penicillin and called for an ambulance which, as they did in those days, duly arrived and whisked him off to hospital in good time.
Now as it happened, that evening I had been invited to a party of a friend who was celebrating her 80th birthday. Inevitably I was very late. When I arrived, several guests expressed their concern for me, imagining, given my tardiness, that I must have had a bad day. I hadn’t though. Though entailing an interruption to my plans, being where I was genuinely needed was hugely rewarding, it was a joy to have been able to help that evening. And today the lad is a young man, one who is still my patient, and always thanks me every time he sees me, foolishly imagining that it was me who saved his life rather than the clever bods at the hospital who did all the hard work.
I’m not sure though that modern general practice is conducive to that sort of doctor-patient relationship anymore. If it isn’t, not only is it a great shame, but it also makes losers of us all, irrespective of whether we are doctors or patients. Sadly the way General Practice used to be is now over. Whilst I would like to think we could abandon medicine by rote and return to a simpler and more thoughtful way of working, I fear that there is now no going back. The horse has bolted and the stable door has been left flapping in the wind.
But more positively, and far more importantly, my retiring from medicine is because the opportunity has a risen for me to do something that I would far rather do. And so I am delighted to announce that, as from December 1st, I will, God willing, take up the position of South West Regional Representative for the Slavic Gospel Association (SGA), an organisation which, as well as delivering vital aid to those who need it, shares my very great desire to bring the good news of Jesus Christ to the people of Eastern Europe.
Furthermore, now that the colorectal screening that I recently had the dubious pleasure of undertaking hasn’t resulted in a spanner being thrown in the works, I am at 56, of an age when I may yet be able to give 10 good years to this new chapter of my life – significantly more than I’d have remained in medicine.
Inevitably there are downsides to my moving on – I will of course miss my patients but, because of the way medicine is heading, the sad truth is that I already feel somewhat less connected to them than I once did. And I will miss those who I have worked alingside, colleagues who I am pleased to count amongst my very best friends.
Back in January I wrote of my concern that, were I to leave, I might prove difficult to replace, not because of anything special in myself, but because of the ongoing and deepening GP recruitment crises. Providentially though, after months of trying, recent attempts by the practice to find new clinicians have been successful. And so I am confident that my leaving now will not destabilise the practice which has been such a large part of my life, the practice that has cared for the many patients of whom I have become so very fond, and the practice which remains and is made up of colleagues who I am sure will continue to provide an excellent service to the good folk of Bridgwater.
So I will miss working at East Quay but I am, at the same time, tremendously excited by this next chapter of my life, one which I hope will, with God’s help, prove to be every bit as worthwhile as the years I have spent in medicine.
And perhaps even more so.
For those interested in learning more about SGA, there website address can be visited here
Furthermore, please feel free to get in touch or share this blog if you or a church group you know might be interested in me popping up at a Sunday service or midweek meeting to tell you more in person. I would be delighted to come and meet with you.
Related blogs:
To read ‘Whither tomorrow?, the original version of the above blog, click here
To read ‘Lewis Capaldi – Retired Hurt: The Need for Kindness’
In the preface to his book critiquing the effect of television on our culture, Neil Postman compares the concerns of George Orwell in ‘1984’ with those of Aldous Huxley in ‘Brave New World’. He writes:
‘What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture’
What is particularly astonishing is the fact that Postman’s book was written in 1985, long before the exponential rise in the number of TV channels and the dawn of Social Media which together have served to confirm Postman’s view that Huxley, not Orwell, was right. It is not religion, as Marx asserted in 1843, that has become the opium of the masses, but rather it is entertainment that numbs us to what is real and valuable.
It was then for good reason that Postman’s book was entitled, ‘Amusing ourselves to Death’.
Recently I heard a view being expressed that the changes being made to cricket seemed to be designed to appeal to those who had no interest in the game. Whether, as was being suggested, that is the expressed intent of those who are making the changes is up for debate, but one can’t help thinking that Postman would have recognised in the dumbing down of cricket for the benefit of a hitherto disinterested audience the same tendency towards trivialisation that he had documented so cogently in his book. Indeed, if Postman’s book was ever revised and updated, one can’t help wondering if room would be made for a chapter on how ‘The Hundred’, left unchecked, will ultimately reduce cricket to just one more meaningless pursuit, one barely distinguishable from the myriad others that seek to do nothing other than distract us from ever having an original thought ourselves.
Because, to be rendered ‘absent of thought’ is, after all, what ‘to be amused’ means.
It is of interest to me as one who walks in ecclesiastical circles, that some churches have in recent years made the same mistake that cricket is making today. Indeed, Postman rightly criticised how the church in his day was already becoming obsessed with entertaining the congregation – or should that be audience – by prioritising ‘fun’ over faithfulness to its core message. Now don’t get me wrong, the motivation for such a change of emphasis may have been well intended, but the problem is, whilst it may have swelled numbers attending services for a time, such superficial treatment of what, for many, are considered matters of deep significance, not only failed to maintain the interest of those they were designed to attract, but also alienated those who had been churchgoers for years and who longed for something of substance on a Sunday morning.
Might not the trivialising nature of ‘The Hundred’ have a similar effect on cricket?
But, you might be thinking, going to church and watching cricket are totally different pursuits. And I would, of course, agree with you. Even so there are perhaps some comparisons that might be usefully made.
As cricket races to find more ways to entertain the crowds it hopes to attract, how often do those methods provide evidence that those employing them have lost confidence in the game itself by suggesting that simply being a spectator is not a sufficiently enjoyable way to spend one’s leisure time. Because it now seems that not even reducing the number of deliveries in what was once called an over in a patronising attempt to make it easier for those who it’s presumably believed can’t count to six, is enough to guarantee that your target audience have a good time. For that, it would appear, it’s now necessary to have a merchandising T-shirt thrown in their face and the opportunity to gurn mindlessly in front of one of the TV cameras that are forever being pointed at them rather than the game itself.
Andy Warhol was wrong – it’s not that everyone will one day have their fifteen minutes of fame, now a mere fifteen seconds of infamy would appear to be enough.
It’s been said elsewhere that whatever it is that you use to draw your audience, you’ll need to continue to provide if you want that audience to remain. And so I believe that if cricket wants to survive it needs to captivate people with cricket – it needs to entice people in by displaying the games intrinsic beauty and not detracting from it glories with those superficial and ubiquitous fripperies that, whilst briefly amusing to some, will inevitably fail to ensure the game’s long term survival. And that’s the problem with ‘The Hundred’ – ‘It’s cricket Jim’, as Bones might say to a bemused Captain James T, Kirk, ‘but not as we know it’. As such it will never protect the future of the game we know and love.
This last week I’ve been holidaying in the Yorkshire Dales. It’s a beautiful part of the world which is made even more so by the many village cricket grounds that dot the landscape. But whilst I’ve taken great pleasure from walking through countryside protected by the National Trust and visiting buildings preserved by English Heritage, I’m sure that both those organisation would say that their endeavours are not merely to maximise my enjoyment. More than that there is something inherently important about these places that needs to be held on to.
Wouldn’t it be great if there was an organisation that sought to similarly preserve cricket for the good of the nation because, whilst one would like to think that there was such a body in place already, some of those in positions of power seem to be behaving like whoever it was who thought it was a good idea to build a set of tacky entertainments at Land’s End. Such amusements may have their place, but it’s not where they detract from the splendour of such a wonderful part of the British coastline.
And it’s not at Lord’s or the Oval either. Still less at the County Ground in Taunton!
This afternoon I found myself in the Wharfdale village of Hubberholm. There I took the opportunity to visit the church of St Michael’s and All Angels in the graveyard of which the ashes of J.P. Priestly were once scattered. I was reminded of some words he wrote about the Grand Canyon. He said
‘It is all Beethoven’s Nine Symphonies in stone and magic light. Even to remember it is still there lifts the heart’
For me something similar could be said about the game of cricket. Because come close of play, cricket isn’t just about being entertained. It’s far more than that. Because even when you’re not watching it yourself, and despite your team losing to your arch rival to the tune of 198 runs, it’s somehow reassuring to know that the game is still being played.
And if one day it’s not, if one day the game dies, I for one will not be in the least bit amused. Because I can cope with Somerset losing, but not with losing Somerset.
And now a couple of cricket blogs with a theological flavour
To read ‘Somerset CCC – Good for the soul’, click here
To read ‘Longing for the pavilion whilst enjoying a good innings’, click here
And finally, to read ‘Something to feast your eyes on’, a theologically minded blog unrelated to cricket but which reflecting further on Postaman’s book, click here
‘I went to the doctor, guess what he told me Guess what he told me He said, “Girl you better try to have fun, no matter what you do” But he’s a fool’
Sinéad O’Connor was found dead on July 26th. I was saddened when I heard the news – like me she was just 56 years old.
Her best known song is without doubt ‘Nothing compares 2U’. In it there is a line when she describes her doctor as a fool for not appreciating the depth of her distress and imagining that she could climb out of her sorrow by simply having herself some fun. I can’t help but feel the pointedness of those words every time I hear them.
Tragically one can’t help wondering if life has mirrored art in the case of Sinéad O’Connor. Did the depth of her distress go similarly unnoticed? Either way, I just hope that I haven’t been so insensitive myself with the words I have spoken to those who have brought their sadness to me.
Because whilst I’m pretty sure that I’ve never told somebody that the answer to their problems was to simply to go out and enjoy themselves, I do wonder if I have sometimes been guilty of imagining I do have an answer to an individual’s genuine distress when the truth is that I don’t – not in any medical sense at least – not by way of a wholly inadequate and oftentimes inappropriate prescription for an antidepressant, nor in the form of an overly optimistic recommendation for a too highly valued psychological technique.
Well I remember witnessing a young woman who was experiencing a panic attack being encouraged to think of four things she could hear and then being helped to do so by her therapist tapping his feet! Irrespective of how well intended the advice was, rather than somehow lessening the sufferers very real anxiety, it was, in actuality, as embarrassing as it was woefully ineffective.
Because the truth is that sometimes nothing we have to offer ourselves comes close to being able to benefit those who come to us for help. Sometimes the sadness can not be just medicated or rationalised away.
As I write the cause of Sinéad O’Connor death has yet to be determined* but if, as many suppose, it was by her own hand, it will no doubt have come on the back of the years of poor mental health that the singer had been open about having suffered, an openness that extended to how she had, on more than one occasion, attempted to kill herself. Furthermore she has spoken freely about how impossible she found having to somehow come to terms with her son’s suicide last year. Her’s then was an undoubtedly difficult life. What, I wonder, would I have suggested to her had she come to me for help? And would my words have proved that I too was a ‘fool’?
Leaving aside medicine’s ineffectiveness, it was heartening to see the outpouring of affection at Sinéad O’Connor’s funeral. I won’t pretend that I loved her – of course, I never knew her – I simply enjoyed her music, but it would appear she was remembered fondly by the thousands of people who lined the streets along which her funeral cortège travelled. I wonder though if Sinéad O’Conner herself knew the warmth of the affection in which she was held. And if not – why not? Was it that the traumatic experiences of her past were too painful for that affection to penetrate, or was it perhaps because too often, the kind words that could have been said to her, simply weren’t?
But of course Sinéad O’Connor is only one of the many, many people who find their daily life too hard. And, as well as those who struggle, there are those who have given up, those for whom the fight has gone on too long, and who now, with still no end in sight, find everything just too much. And many of them aren’t the recipients of even unspoken affection. Unlike Sinéad O’Connor, nobody knows of their unhappiness. And nobody cares. So alone are they that no one will even ever have the chance to add to their distress by advising the impossible.
So what is to be done about the huge issue of the nations worsening mental health that we all too often try to conceal beneath an imaginary veneer of everything being OK? I won’t make the mistake of the doctor referred to in the aforementioned song but suffice to say that medicine must at the very least stop pretending to have the answer. Not only because it hasn’t, but because by doing so it absolves the responsibility of society as a whole of being a part of the solution.
In short we need to learn how to love and be loved. The plight of those who are desperate needs to be recognised – by all of us. And since ‘nothing can stop lonely tears from falling’, we need to find not only a way to come alongside those who find themselves downcast, but also a way to allow others to come alongside us when it is we who are struggling most.
Because a sorrow shared is a sorrow shared. And though no less sad, it is surely better than one that is encountered alone.
*On January 9th 2024 a coroner judged that Sinéad O’Connor died of natural causes. Though in some ways this changes nothing, it is nonetheless heartening to know that her death was not a result of poor mental health. Even so, poor mental health is a present reality for many that needs to be better understood by all of us.
Related posts:
To read ‘Eleanor Rigby is not at all fine’, click here
To read ‘Professor Ian Aird: A Time to Die?’, click here
A man enters a shop, in the corner of which an accordionist is inexplicably playing ‘I am a Cider Drinker’. Several members of the Nempnett Thrubwell Young Farmers Club are also present. Dressed in the traditional attire of the Morris dancer they are waving their handkerchiefs and sticks in the air. The man, who is the chair of the selectors [CS] for the Somerset cricket team, approaches the counter behind which stands a shop keeper [SK].
CS: Good morning
SK: Morning, sir. Welcome to the Somerset Cricket Players Emporium.
CS: Thank you my good man.
SK: What can I do for you sir?
CS: Well I was sitting in the top tier of the Marcus Trescothick Pavillon, skimming through the latest edition of Wisden when suddenly I came over all perturbed.
SK: Perturbed, sir?
CS: Discomfited
SK: Eh?
CS: Aye, I was roight worried loike.
SK: Ah, worried.
CS: In a nutshell. And I thought to myself, I’ll ease my anxious rumination as to how I might make up a full team of players for Somerset’s next outing in the Metro Bank One Day Cup by visiting your establishment. So I curtailed my scrutinisation of the aforementioned Almanack, executed a quick single and and took up my guard in your place of purveyance to enquire upon the availability of a individual distinguished in the art of either batting or bowling.
SK: Come again?
CS: I want a player for an upcoming cricket fixture.
SK: Oh, I thought you were moaning about the accordion player.
CS: Oh, heaven forbid, I am one who delights in all manifestations of the Adge Cutler benefaction.
SK: Sorry?
CS: Ooh ah, I loike the Wurzels my lover!
SK: So he can go on playing, can he?
CS: Most certainly, now then, a cricketer my good man.
SK: Certainly, sir, who would you like?
CS: Well, how about a Tom Banton.
SK: I’m afraid we’re fresh out of Tom Banton, sir
CS: Oh, never mind, how are you on Will Smeed?
SK: I’m afraid we never have Smeedy at this point of the season sir, he’ll be back in next year.
CS: Tish tish, no matter, well stout yeoman, a full portion of Tom Lammonby if you please.
SK: He’s been on order, sir, for two weeks. Was expecting him to be made available this morning.
CS: T’s not my lucky day, is it, aah, Roelof van der Merwe?
SK: Sorry sir.
CS: Lewis Gregory?
SK: Normally, sir, yes. Today, though, no.
CS: Ah, Tom Kohler-Cadmore?
SK: Sorry.
CS: Jack Leach?
SK: No
CS: Craig Overton? Ben Green?
SK: No.
CS: Josh Davey perhaps?
SK: Ah we have Josh Davey, yes, sir.
CS: You do? Excellent.
SK: Yes sir, he’s ah, not entirely match fit.
CS: I’ll be happy if he has two legs and a willing spirit.
SK: Well, ah, he is rather a long way from being fully fit actually.
CS: No matter, fetch hither the all rounder from Aberdeen, mwah.
SK: I think he’s more unfit than you’ll like, sir
CS: I don’t care how unfit he is, hand him over with all speed.
SK: Oh!
CS: What now?
SK: He’s suffered a side injury and is unfit to play.
CS: Has he?
SK: Yes, sir.
CS: Kasey Aldridge?
SK: No.
CS: You do have some Somerset cricket players, do you?
SK: Of course, sir, it’s a Somerset cricket player shop, sir. We’ve got…
CS: No, no, don’t tell me, I’m keen to guess.
SK: Fair enough,
CS: Alfie Ogbourne?
SK: Yes.
CS: Ah well, I’ll have him.
SK: Oh I thought you were talking to me, sir. Mr Alfred Ogbourne, that’s my name.
CS: Sonny Baker?
SK: No.
CS: Aah, how about Matt Henry?
SK: We’ll, we don’t get much call for him around here sir. Not these days.
CS: Not much call, he’s been Somerset’s stand out overseas player this season.
SK: That’s as maybe sir. But he’s sadly returned now to New Zealand. So he’s no longer available – not round these parts at least.
CS: Tell me then. Who is the most sought after player round these parts?
SK: Tom Abell.
CS: Is he?
SK: Oh, yes, he’s staggeringly popular in this neck of the woods.
CS: Is he?
SK: He’s our number one most reliable player
CS: I see, Tom Abell, eh?
SK: That’s right, sir.
CS: All right, okay, ‘Have you got him?’ he asked, expecting the answer ‘No’.
SK: I’ll have a look, sir…[the shopkeeper has a good look round]…um, No.
CS: It’s not much of a Somerset Player shop is it.
SK: Finest in the district.
CS: Explain the logic underlying that conclusion, please
SK: We’ll it’s so clean.
CS: It’s certainly uncontaminated by Somerset players.
SK: You haven’t asked me about Peter Siddle, sir
CS: Is it worth it?
SK: Could be
CS: Have you Peter Siddle?
SK: No, suffered a nasty hand injury and was only ever contracted till the end of July anyway. Back home in Australia now I’m afraid.
CS: That figures, predictable really I suppose. It was an act of purest optimism to have posed the question in the first place. Tell me?
SK: Yes, sir
CS: Have you, in fact, got any Somerset players here at all?
SK: Yes sir.
CS: Really?
SK: No, not really, sir.
CS: You haven’t?
SK: No sir, not a single one. As well as a number of unfortunate injuries, it’s the consequence of so many players being drafted to The Hundred, sir – nine at last count.
CS: Well, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to complain about the state of county cricket.
SK: Ah, yes, county cricket… What’s wrong with it.
CS: I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it. It’s dead. That’s what’s wrong with it
SK: No, no, sir…it’s resting.
CS: Resting? Then why is red ball cricket being sidelined to that part of the year when the weather is at its least agreeable for playing the summer game? And why has the much loved one day competition been downgraded to a development competition to make way for a dumb-downed and wholly unnecessary second competition in the shortest format of the game?
SK: Ah, that’s to ensure a ‘strong, high performing, domestic game the fans will love’.
CS: A domestic game the fans will love?! The domestic game is no more. It has ceased to be. It’s expired and gone to meet its maker. It’s bereft of life, it’s kicked the bucket, it’s shuffled off its mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible. It is now an ex domestic season.
SK: Sir?
CS: What is it?
SK: We appeared to have slipped into a different sketch
CS: So we have. I’m sorry.
[The chairman of selectors turns, tells the accordionist to stop playing and, with head bowed low, leaves the shop. Behind him the shopkeeper opens the iPlayer app on his phone and out of curiosity starts watching coverage of The Hundred.]
SK: What a senseless waste of human life.
With apologies to life long Somerset supporter John Cleese and all the other members of Monty Python’s Flying Circus.
This is an updated version of a blog first posted last year and is meant only to highlight the adverse effect of ‘The Hundred’ on what was once a highlight of the domestic cricket season – namely the one day cup. It is in no way meant to criticise those players taking part in ‘The Hundred’ or indeed undermine the efforts of those who remain available to play for Somerset.
And for any unfamiliar with Monty Python’s original, you can view it here
Today sees the end of our Austrian adventure, one in which Christopher Plummer has proved as elusive in Mayrhofen as Julie Andrews was in Salzburg! Still, though we may not have climbed every mountain, we are exceedingly grateful for the many happy memories we can look back on. Here then are some more of our favourite things…
Views from high altitudes that are amazing, Cattle in meadows contentedly grazing, Austrian homes that to mountainsides cling, These were a few of our favourite things.
Rafting a river replete with white water, Eating more kuchen than one really oughta, Dining al fresco on sunny evenings, These were a few of our favourite things.
Walking upstream in a valley that narrows, Practicing Austrian accented ‘Hallo’s, Seeing a cow with a neck bell that rings, These were a few of our favourite things.
Visits to places where welcomes were real, Glasses of schnapps at the end of a meal, Birds overhead with their fine feathered wings, These were a few of our favourite things.
Searching for clues with a GPS thingy Climbing a tree on a rope ladder swingy Die Tasse Kaffee die Kellnerin brings, These were a few of our favourite things
Austrian Spätzle – it’s like macaroni, Drinking red wine on our top floor bal-co-ny! Sounds that a yodeller makes when he sings, These were a few of our favourite things.
When it’s time to, say farewell to, Tyrolean skies, We’ll simply remember our favourite things, And then say our last goodbyes.
Related autobiographical blogs, some more tongue in cheek than others:
To read ‘Salzburg: some favourite things’, click here
Early in our stay in Mayrhofen, we took a cable car up a mountain whereupon we came across a man whose job it was to look after goats. His was a solitary existence, a consequence, at least in part, of the curious way he spoke and the excessive volume of his utterances.
But it was from him that we learnt of a significant improvement in the health of the hills on which he stood. The hills have apparently benefited enormously from melody based therapy and so it appears that earlier reports of their death have been greatly exaggerated.
And as you’d expect, so excited was I by this heartening news, I couldn’t help but share it with others!
The hills are alive with the sound of music!
*****
‘Zwei adler bitte’
Imagining that I had by now developed a degree of proficiency in the German language, it was with some confidence that I said these words to the young lady who was sat in the mountain top kiosk outside where yesterday’s open air falconry display was about to take place.
But despite the politeness of my request, she handed me the pair of adult tickets I had wanted rather than the two eagles that I had, I realised later, erroneously just asked for!
Which was probably just as well. For not only would I have struggled to squeeze them into my suitcase, close as I already am to my 10kg baggage allowance, but they’d also have posed a problem when it came to passing through airport security as some overzealous officer would, likely as not, classify their talons as a disallowed sharp object and then insist that they somehow flew themselves home instead!
Steppe EagleSiberian Eagle Owl
Just garnering opinions. Does anyone else think that the ticket machines for Austrian ‘Pay and Display’ car parks shouldn’t be located quite so close to bus stops?
I only ask as I can conceive of a situation whereby a hapless non-German speaker thinks he’s bought a couple of tickets for a trip, let’s say from Ginzling to Mayrhofen, only to find that, when the bus eventually arrives, he’s actually paid to park his nonexistent car.
Twice.
Just a thought!
A Mayrhofen bus.
If my time in Austria has taught me anything it’s just how much Mozart and me are alike!
Here then are three things we have in common:
Both short in stature – Mozart is estimated to have been just 152 cms in height.
Because of our appearance, both best viewed in dim lighting – Mozart is said to have believed his nose looked like a potato, hence his apparent preference for being painted in profile
Both past our best by 35 – the age at which Mozart died.
But despite the last of these similarities being particularly striking, it was nonetheless a little disappointing to be asked by a bus driver this morning whether I was a senior citizen! Unless of course I misunderstood, and ‘pensionär’ is the German for musical genius.
No, I didn’t think so either!
W.A. Mozart Parsley, apparently, in case you were wondering!
Related autobiographical blogs, some more tongue in cheek than others:
To read ‘Salzburg: some favourite things’, click here
Today was our last full day in Salzburg, the city where the Sound of Music was filmed. As yet we’ve not bumped into any of the cast but…
Flute playing buskers, pleasing to the ear, One litre flagons of Austrian beer, Fresh drinking water from high Alpine springs, These are a few of our favourite things.
Visiting places discovered on Google, Anywhere serving their own Apfelstrudel, Mountain top castles for bishops not kings, These are a few of our favourite things.
Finding out what from the menu we’ve chosen, Locals out walking in their lederhosen, Hearing the bell that on each hour rings, These are a few of our favourite things.
Oversized pretzels and cool river cruises, No time to spare for those afternoon snoozes, Scenes from the movie in which Julie sings, These are a few of our favourite things.
Grand architecture with fine art augmented, Viewing the houses that Mozart frequented, Music performed on piano and strings, These are a few of our favourite things.
When it’s time to, say goodbye to, Salzburg city streets, We’ll simply remember our favourite things And smile as our trip completes.
So its ‘so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye’ to you and it’s ‘Adieu to yieu,’ Salzburg too!
Related autobiographical blogs, some more tongue in cheek than others:
Some musings 