Who'd have thought a judge in all his, or her, finery in London would be called upon to decide whether Bideford Town Council - motto: crap and proud of it (yes, I did make that up) - should be allowed to say prayers before meetings. The reason it has come to the point where a leading member of the judiciary is required to decide whether Bideford's finest brains (obviously, I exaggerate) should offer up a prayer to a supernatural being before settling matters of great import such as dog poop, double yellow lines and extra-terrestrial visitations is that the National Secular Society has intervened. Said society claims that it is not right that a body such as the town council should spend any of its time saying prayers. Presumably their argument revolves around the whole purpose of what the town council is for. Well search me, I don't know and I doubt that any member of the town council could give a coherent explanation.
As someone who has sat through many town council meetings - as an observer, not a participant - I have to say I would be at a loss to explain what it is the town council thinks it is achieving ever, let alone when its members say prayers. However, the question I would pose to the National Secular Society is what harm does it do for a bunch of "community-minded" citizens to offer up a prayer before spending up to three, or even four, hours talking drivel. The thing is, if saying prayers is an empty exercise does it really do any harm, on the other hand, if it works, then surely it should be encouraged.
Battle lines are being drawn and, as a Bideford council tax payer, I fear that the end result will be a greater demand for the already exorbitant amount of money I have to stump up for the town council. I suspect that both camps are so determined to win the fight that nothing will stop them doing battle. What a shame, then, that the town council did not pursue the suggestion of veteran councillor Peter Christie. Known in some quarters as "Hot Tub Pete" (for reasons which have no basis in fact or reality) Councillor Christie's idea was that prayers should not be included on the agenda but that any councillors wishing to offer up a few choice words to the Almighty could get together beforehand and do their thing.
It was a sensible suggestion - in my view - which had all the benefits of compromise, but surprisingly, even in this era of coalition government, it was not one which gained any support. Oh well, let battle commence.
Sunday, 6 June 2010
Wednesday, 2 June 2010
Wee will rock you
Bank Holiday weekends require activity so it was off to the North Devon real ale and food fair (or whatever it was called) on the Sunday. It was OK, because, let’s face it, anywhere with beer, food and live music has an above average chance of being at the very least OK. But – always a but – herself is not too keen on real ale, in fact, she doesn’t like it much at all, so it would have been a bit unfair to insist on staying for a session. And also, most importantly in my view, there were no loos.
Now, if you’re going to get people along to drink beer and eat food then it is an inescapable law of nature and hygiene that you need loos. However, owing to North Devon Council’s shortsighted policy of closing down a multiplicity of bog standard (ha ha) toilets and opening a very few super-loos, there was nowhere very close to the Pannier Market where the event was held, where people could drain their spuds and park their breakfasts. I hope the consequence was not a lot of al fresco micturition as the pints were sunk, but nature will take its course…
Anyway, no harm done, we just drank up and left, but not before noticing the huge number of people at the festival who bore a close resemblance to gargoyles, including one mature lady complete with Rolling Stones big tongue tattoo who insisted on having her top shelf on display (but you didn’t really want to look). The beer festival was not the only place at which to spot gargoyles etc as the next day we ventured to Westward Ho! for the potwalloping – an annual event held more in hope than expectation. Again this was only just OK, but no more. So we paid a quick visit to the beer tent, then had fish and chips and got the bus home. Proper grockles. On the plus side there were readily accessible toilets so no need for outdoor weeing.
Now, if you’re going to get people along to drink beer and eat food then it is an inescapable law of nature and hygiene that you need loos. However, owing to North Devon Council’s shortsighted policy of closing down a multiplicity of bog standard (ha ha) toilets and opening a very few super-loos, there was nowhere very close to the Pannier Market where the event was held, where people could drain their spuds and park their breakfasts. I hope the consequence was not a lot of al fresco micturition as the pints were sunk, but nature will take its course…
Anyway, no harm done, we just drank up and left, but not before noticing the huge number of people at the festival who bore a close resemblance to gargoyles, including one mature lady complete with Rolling Stones big tongue tattoo who insisted on having her top shelf on display (but you didn’t really want to look). The beer festival was not the only place at which to spot gargoyles etc as the next day we ventured to Westward Ho! for the potwalloping – an annual event held more in hope than expectation. Again this was only just OK, but no more. So we paid a quick visit to the beer tent, then had fish and chips and got the bus home. Proper grockles. On the plus side there were readily accessible toilets so no need for outdoor weeing.
Thursday, 27 May 2010
Won’t get fooled again
Didn’t get the bus I normally catch this morning. No matter, I thought, the sun was shining and Bideford Quay would be as good a place as any to while away the time until the next one. That was a strategic error of no little magnitude. The reason for it being a blunder not to be repeated (hence The Who song title at the top of the posting) is that the next bus allows pupils bound for Park School in Barnstaple to get on board.
I should emphasise that letting these schoolkids on the bus is not akin to bringing the Trojan Horse within the city walls or just allowing the Visigoths to use your loo before they go on somewhere else to pillage, but…. I know this is going to make me sound all Meldrew-ish…. these kids just talked non-stop shite. They were also incredibly noisy and foul-mouthed beyond belief. The group of girls sitting closest to me would have been about 13 years old – no older – so to hear one of them constantly going on about “motherfuckers” was somewhat disconcerting. This is slightly hypocritical of me as I swear at will, but that does not generally include while I am on a bus.
Anyway, could have been worse, I didn’t have to fend off the little heathens with a rolled-up umbrella, gradually retreating to the door of the bus so I could escape, but I did breathe a sigh of relief when I stepped off the bus. How teachers can put up with that sort of stuff day in, day out is a mystery to me. Not much wonder so many of the teachers I have met are either incipient alcoholics or teetering on the edge of insanity, and in some cases are both. Lesson learned, don't miss the bus.
I should emphasise that letting these schoolkids on the bus is not akin to bringing the Trojan Horse within the city walls or just allowing the Visigoths to use your loo before they go on somewhere else to pillage, but…. I know this is going to make me sound all Meldrew-ish…. these kids just talked non-stop shite. They were also incredibly noisy and foul-mouthed beyond belief. The group of girls sitting closest to me would have been about 13 years old – no older – so to hear one of them constantly going on about “motherfuckers” was somewhat disconcerting. This is slightly hypocritical of me as I swear at will, but that does not generally include while I am on a bus.
Anyway, could have been worse, I didn’t have to fend off the little heathens with a rolled-up umbrella, gradually retreating to the door of the bus so I could escape, but I did breathe a sigh of relief when I stepped off the bus. How teachers can put up with that sort of stuff day in, day out is a mystery to me. Not much wonder so many of the teachers I have met are either incipient alcoholics or teetering on the edge of insanity, and in some cases are both. Lesson learned, don't miss the bus.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
50 not out, now for the back 9
Mixed sporting terminology there, which is doubly weird as I haven’t played cricket since school and golf is terra incognita and always likely to remain so. Anyway, there is a point to the cricket and golf language which is…
I had my 50th birthday earlier this month and enjoyed very much the celebrating of it. However, the birthday reminded me of two things I held to be absolute truths about adults when I was just a child. Truth one: adults go to bed at midnight. Well this adult doesn’t – if I can get away with it, it’s much earlier, but then I am an early riser.
And truth two? Well that was that adults live to be 100. Look, I was only a child. Let’s face it when you’re a kid you think people in their 20s are pretty decrepit. So this all led me to thinking that if I had been correct when I was a child then my 50th birthday marked the halfway point and therefore, in golfing terms, I am now on the back nine. Seeing as I know most people do not live to be 100, in reality I am probably quite a long way through the back nine, but as I have pointed out before I am very aware of our fragile mortality so it’s not really anything to worry about.
Earlier this week I dusted off the bike and rode to work and then back again at the end of the day. All told a distance of slightly under 20 miles. The only trouble is I hadn’t ridden my bike since last autumn (what a slacker) and the next day my knees mounted their own protest at the unexpected exercise by giving me gyp every time I went up stairs. Now that’s definitely a sign of being grown-up.
I had my 50th birthday earlier this month and enjoyed very much the celebrating of it. However, the birthday reminded me of two things I held to be absolute truths about adults when I was just a child. Truth one: adults go to bed at midnight. Well this adult doesn’t – if I can get away with it, it’s much earlier, but then I am an early riser.
And truth two? Well that was that adults live to be 100. Look, I was only a child. Let’s face it when you’re a kid you think people in their 20s are pretty decrepit. So this all led me to thinking that if I had been correct when I was a child then my 50th birthday marked the halfway point and therefore, in golfing terms, I am now on the back nine. Seeing as I know most people do not live to be 100, in reality I am probably quite a long way through the back nine, but as I have pointed out before I am very aware of our fragile mortality so it’s not really anything to worry about.
Earlier this week I dusted off the bike and rode to work and then back again at the end of the day. All told a distance of slightly under 20 miles. The only trouble is I hadn’t ridden my bike since last autumn (what a slacker) and the next day my knees mounted their own protest at the unexpected exercise by giving me gyp every time I went up stairs. Now that’s definitely a sign of being grown-up.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Dead cat, definitely no bounce
I found a dead cat this morning, or rather the dog did. I had seen a rather shapeless white thing on the ground in the middle of the small park where I was walking the dog, but it was not until I realised she was approaching said shape with very cautious interest that I thought I ought to investigate. And there was a cat looking for all the world as if it was sleeping, except that it wasn't. Dead things give off a dead vibe. I don't mean things like smelling horrible and so on, it's more a complete absence of life. Duh, you say, of course a dead thing isn't a live thing. But there is more to it than that. I've only once ever properly seen a dead person. It was someone I knew who died unexpectedly and the last time I had seen this person alive would have been no more than 48 hours before. Neither of us would have had any inkling that one of us would be dead before long, but there's no doubting it when you see it. By the way I am not a doctor and I do know that the medical profession do not go around saying: "Yep, he's dead. You've only got to look at him." But sometimes - the cat and the person I'm talking about - that's all it takes, just a look.
I made sure my dog did not interefere with the cat's body and left it where it lay. Aside from burying it myself, I couldn't think of what else to do. The poor old puss looked forlorn in the drizzle, but I expect it will be missed sooner or later. Maybe its owner lives in one of the houses near the park, will find their pet and take it home for a proper burial. And that's it really, a memento mori in the drizzle, in the park. That old clock is ticking for us all.
I made sure my dog did not interefere with the cat's body and left it where it lay. Aside from burying it myself, I couldn't think of what else to do. The poor old puss looked forlorn in the drizzle, but I expect it will be missed sooner or later. Maybe its owner lives in one of the houses near the park, will find their pet and take it home for a proper burial. And that's it really, a memento mori in the drizzle, in the park. That old clock is ticking for us all.
Sunday, 16 May 2010
The coatpeg coalition
I've been a bit busy the last week turning 50 and celebrating my half century while at the same time watching the Mother of Democracies (their words, not mine) twist and turn. It seems the dust is beginning to settle, but for how long? I was pondering this while walking the dog through the early morning mist on Saturday and, somewhat bizarrely, it brought to mind woodwork lessons I had at school.
Being judged too dim for Latin lessons, I was assigned to woodwork instead. Big mistake, but never mind, it's all in the past. Anyway, one of the projects in woodwork was to design and make a coatpeg. This I did and then our long-suffering teacher, a real gent called Mr Jackson, mounted all the coatpegs on a long piece of wood so that we could compare them side by side. Mine looked as if it ought to be a coatpeg, it was on a plaque with a piece sticking out on which, in theory, you could hang a jacket. Mr Jackson then tested the capabilities of our hooks by the simple method of taking his own jacket and hanging it on each peg. I suspect you can see where this is leading. Sure enough, most coatpegs were more than adequate for the task, indeed some had so much bracing on them you could have hung a suit of armour on them. Then Mr Jackson reached mine, put the loop of his jacket over the little peg thingy on my coatpeg and let it take the weight. Or rather, watched his jacket fall to the floor as my coatpeg disintegrated.
What does this have to do with the Lib-Con Con-Dem whatever it's called coalition? Well my coatpeg was bodged up. Being an idle feckless type (Mr Jackson never complained, but I must have tested his patience) I just used nails to assemble the various bits of wood until they resembled a coatpeg. Clearly such a method was entirely unsuitable for the task and the whole thing fell apart. I know it's obvious where this coatpeg metaphor is going, but I have to admit that I'm wondering whether the coalition might just as easily fall apart. Are the Tories and Lib-Dems suitable materials for bonding into one thing which will be strong enough to lead the country back to less stormy waters?
I suppose putting aside my own prejudices, which suggest that, broadly speaking, all politicians are twats, I ought to be hoping that the coalition will deliver us from evil and yet I feel uneasy. I suspect that neither side will ever really trust the other and that if things get tough it will always be someone else's fault. Even so it's early days and they ought to be given a modest period of grace to try to stop Great Britain plunging into the abyss. In greater North Devon we can now say that both our MPs are on the Government side. Will that make any difference? Well, what do you think? I know, I know, cynicism is unhealthy, but then so are repeatedly dashed hopes.
Being judged too dim for Latin lessons, I was assigned to woodwork instead. Big mistake, but never mind, it's all in the past. Anyway, one of the projects in woodwork was to design and make a coatpeg. This I did and then our long-suffering teacher, a real gent called Mr Jackson, mounted all the coatpegs on a long piece of wood so that we could compare them side by side. Mine looked as if it ought to be a coatpeg, it was on a plaque with a piece sticking out on which, in theory, you could hang a jacket. Mr Jackson then tested the capabilities of our hooks by the simple method of taking his own jacket and hanging it on each peg. I suspect you can see where this is leading. Sure enough, most coatpegs were more than adequate for the task, indeed some had so much bracing on them you could have hung a suit of armour on them. Then Mr Jackson reached mine, put the loop of his jacket over the little peg thingy on my coatpeg and let it take the weight. Or rather, watched his jacket fall to the floor as my coatpeg disintegrated.
What does this have to do with the Lib-Con Con-Dem whatever it's called coalition? Well my coatpeg was bodged up. Being an idle feckless type (Mr Jackson never complained, but I must have tested his patience) I just used nails to assemble the various bits of wood until they resembled a coatpeg. Clearly such a method was entirely unsuitable for the task and the whole thing fell apart. I know it's obvious where this coatpeg metaphor is going, but I have to admit that I'm wondering whether the coalition might just as easily fall apart. Are the Tories and Lib-Dems suitable materials for bonding into one thing which will be strong enough to lead the country back to less stormy waters?
I suppose putting aside my own prejudices, which suggest that, broadly speaking, all politicians are twats, I ought to be hoping that the coalition will deliver us from evil and yet I feel uneasy. I suspect that neither side will ever really trust the other and that if things get tough it will always be someone else's fault. Even so it's early days and they ought to be given a modest period of grace to try to stop Great Britain plunging into the abyss. In greater North Devon we can now say that both our MPs are on the Government side. Will that make any difference? Well, what do you think? I know, I know, cynicism is unhealthy, but then so are repeatedly dashed hopes.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
X could finally mark the spot
Barely 24 hours to go and we can all get busy voting and exercising our democratic rights and that kind of thing. Won’t it be grand? However, as I have droned on already, don’t expect some radical transformation. Instead of waiting for some motormouth gimp in a suit to restore the gaiety of nations why not get out there and sort things out for yourself? Take control now.
First of all stop watching television at least some of the time and preferably all of the time. Even better, destroy your television. Never mind the garbage it pumps out in to your home, a television will suck the life out of you. You have been warned. Secondly, stop buying stuff. You might argue that there are some things you need and cannot do without – food I’m thinking of here. I won’t dispute that. But at the very least, buy real food and then cook it, with love, lots of love. Most other things you can do without. You really can. In a way, I’m trying to bring down capitalism but I really don’t want to have to go around shooting people. In fact, can I just make clear that shooting people is not an option at all? It’s a bad thing to do.
Basically we all need to withdraw our support from the massive edifice that is global capitalism and then gradually watch it collapse under its own weight. While we all suffer huge anxiety over trying to acquire a new and shiny thingumajig we are ignoring the fact that life is literally passing us by and we should get on with loving our nearest and dearest, smiling at the trees and counting the stars. Broadly speaking none of those things need the backing, financial or otherwise, of a gonk in the City setting up leveraged buy-outs, whatever they are, or selling short, whatever that means. It’s times like this I wish my dog was in the office with me, she'd know what to do.
First of all stop watching television at least some of the time and preferably all of the time. Even better, destroy your television. Never mind the garbage it pumps out in to your home, a television will suck the life out of you. You have been warned. Secondly, stop buying stuff. You might argue that there are some things you need and cannot do without – food I’m thinking of here. I won’t dispute that. But at the very least, buy real food and then cook it, with love, lots of love. Most other things you can do without. You really can. In a way, I’m trying to bring down capitalism but I really don’t want to have to go around shooting people. In fact, can I just make clear that shooting people is not an option at all? It’s a bad thing to do.
Basically we all need to withdraw our support from the massive edifice that is global capitalism and then gradually watch it collapse under its own weight. While we all suffer huge anxiety over trying to acquire a new and shiny thingumajig we are ignoring the fact that life is literally passing us by and we should get on with loving our nearest and dearest, smiling at the trees and counting the stars. Broadly speaking none of those things need the backing, financial or otherwise, of a gonk in the City setting up leveraged buy-outs, whatever they are, or selling short, whatever that means. It’s times like this I wish my dog was in the office with me, she'd know what to do.
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