tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80450327070316872662024-03-05T19:52:12.804+00:00Home ThoughtsPersonal perspectives on people, places, passions, and the preoccupations of a seventy something!Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.comBlogger272125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-31072131619739198002022-05-19T10:50:00.005+01:002022-05-20T09:24:04.578+01:00Through the Front Door<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhhK0eEJMnPKwNh2cQLU9LQz5PmrDBH57t5roVEw8Ep7OoUIwGcB_jUUoe3obGh_EckRHeGn6cevQKhDzxtEaSDYdzsd3CmVyz-qX__xFLyRH5Wjtb4B5Dtz-IVBlF8fTJaVAe28U20Zgz9PFOnKd-Rkk9apF2ui6KMzgo8mE4CxSfUTxgPpDHDEhq/s1371/Screenshot%202022-05-19%20104359.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="898" data-original-width="1371" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhhK0eEJMnPKwNh2cQLU9LQz5PmrDBH57t5roVEw8Ep7OoUIwGcB_jUUoe3obGh_EckRHeGn6cevQKhDzxtEaSDYdzsd3CmVyz-qX__xFLyRH5Wjtb4B5Dtz-IVBlF8fTJaVAe28U20Zgz9PFOnKd-Rkk9apF2ui6KMzgo8mE4CxSfUTxgPpDHDEhq/w400-h263/Screenshot%202022-05-19%20104359.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Yesterday I settled for a morning of
reading some philosophy in my favourite place, Bromley House Library.
Surrounded by books, silence and overlooking what is regarded as one of the
best examples in the UK of a Georgian garden Bromley House is one of
Nottingham's greatest treasures.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #050505; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="color: #050505;">Only a few metres away the great
Nottingham Market Square is its usual busy self. Trams and buses rattle by.
Nearby Nando's and Gregg's are filled with people buying their lunchtime
"Meal Deals" and as I approached the Library's entrance squashed
between a Barnardo's Charity shop and a newsagent and sport memorabilia outlet
I passed the Bell Inn where a homeless young man lay in his sleeping bag asleep
on the pavement oblivious that just a few metres further on four burly hi-vis
jacketed policemen were bundling another young man, this one flailing and
aggressive, into a police car. Nottingham on a bright spring Wednesday morning.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMVN-2mqH2VSxvTrPFX_eOAdn-v8-3PkMN8in2Bk0dwQOO75tEj7nAUu4k1YPBfwaIwkz34NJXPJIVu9KVb47HYVIleeZQwPdte2_O6L3IGJvaF1dX6V3hTNjPTzzv-KfEmtDClQ22h0oTjJSVIHJh1RvqzR-ijqHv3g5ZW1Dmi_1PBxibKU9h-ltL/s1144/Screenshot%202022-05-19%20093221.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="607" data-original-width="1144" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMVN-2mqH2VSxvTrPFX_eOAdn-v8-3PkMN8in2Bk0dwQOO75tEj7nAUu4k1YPBfwaIwkz34NJXPJIVu9KVb47HYVIleeZQwPdte2_O6L3IGJvaF1dX6V3hTNjPTzzv-KfEmtDClQ22h0oTjJSVIHJh1RvqzR-ijqHv3g5ZW1Dmi_1PBxibKU9h-ltL/w640-h340/Screenshot%202022-05-19%20093221.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />But pass under the unassuming
entrance arch and through the ancient front door of Bromley House Library and
one is instantly transported, Narnia like, from the ordinary and the humdrum and the woes of
city life to another world, a more attentive, comforting and certain time away
from the madcap 21st century streets outside. Here, as others have done for
over two centuries, I can soak up the silence and steadfastness of hundreds of
years of wisdom and great literature seeping from the thousands of volumes that
surround me and line every wall of its myriad of rooms, book lined passageways
and storeys. <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ancient books, much local Nottinghamshire history, the latest blockbuster novels, CDs, guide books, audio books and everything else in the literary spectrum is there. </span> No matter that I have been a member for many years, each visit is
a journey of discovery, an ever-exciting experience of finding my way, like
some bygone explorer, through the warren like jungle of rooms, doors,
passageways and staircases, each leading to a different and unexplored magical
trove of great works both ancient and modern. From the walls, old oil
paintings, fading photographs and marble busts of past Bromley House members
and Nottingham's great and good of yesteryear gaze down upon the winged
armchairs, the soft cushions, the polished tables, the reading lamps and the
engrossed silent, old and young literature lovers and academic researchers of
today.</span><div><span style="color: #050505; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #050505; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaZTFLGoKd-p0g9dNzQiA5WeuQD8OD_Dv88flbhjwUorDoAcIBwKGwXQRa-B3JQbxKCX-NbEy7k5h8-gB7fDepflID7n0hMDL0lbi3xifoBK2a-FWdLisRSfMHudQfJBKwZMYDzpPGB7SGBlbFZUZOgbOvStoeZgXsu8SLZuPJXBSU_DNxzn30nTfv/s862/Screenshot%202022-05-19%20104322.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="862" data-original-width="621" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaZTFLGoKd-p0g9dNzQiA5WeuQD8OD_Dv88flbhjwUorDoAcIBwKGwXQRa-B3JQbxKCX-NbEy7k5h8-gB7fDepflID7n0hMDL0lbi3xifoBK2a-FWdLisRSfMHudQfJBKwZMYDzpPGB7SGBlbFZUZOgbOvStoeZgXsu8SLZuPJXBSU_DNxzn30nTfv/s320/Screenshot%202022-05-19%20104322.jpg" width="231" /></a></div>A gentle spring breeze drifts from
the garden and in through the open window behind me and around the corner from
where I sit the smell of coffee from the Library's little refreshment room
fills my nostrils. A fellow member smiles as she passes where I sit in my winged armchair, the spring sun pouring through the window and warming my back. She is on her way to grab a coffee and as she passes she mouths a whispered "Good morning, isn't it a lovely day?" and then disappears to do silent battle with the coffee machine. I smile back in acknowledgment and mouth "Indeed it is", feeling warmed by her smile and courtesy; in Bromley House it is always thus - kindness and courtesy are almost written in as a requirement for membership. In this turbulent, uncertain, brash, shallow and often
despairing world Bromley House is an oasis of solitude and solace, a haven of
treasured certainty and continuity. It is, for me, the still small voice of
wisdom, tolerance and peace in the disturbed, distracted and intemperate world
that we now inhab</span><span style="color: #050505; font-size: large;">it.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmBenJcG9V8fvaGib9k9mqzS8m7mRo3JmVSgJ-ITRSVYRevBgCNgnx2NItXfrwkxjCjStxhCYAXdUq4-ZnMxDfB6L2ZmV7DcKP7JKP4NPi9VOBi6u-d029gB2_LSpI3YAtwkQhYwuh0Rg2KhMP6aOxCcEpXK9BxTZFH2D_lvXN8EvoPtcFtVSunYZF/s949/Screenshot%202022-05-19%20095258.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="643" data-original-width="949" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmBenJcG9V8fvaGib9k9mqzS8m7mRo3JmVSgJ-ITRSVYRevBgCNgnx2NItXfrwkxjCjStxhCYAXdUq4-ZnMxDfB6L2ZmV7DcKP7JKP4NPi9VOBi6u-d029gB2_LSpI3YAtwkQhYwuh0Rg2KhMP6aOxCcEpXK9BxTZFH2D_lvXN8EvoPtcFtVSunYZF/w640-h434/Screenshot%202022-05-19%20095258.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></span><div><p></p><p></p></div></div>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-56954941899788578382022-05-16T15:47:00.021+01:002023-09-15T13:46:06.322+01:00Rejoice in the Lamb: Ruddington & District Choral Society<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtey5s8G3CH3eBlTS5xTR6y3G13vsXLrgph8xG_JdN5XuVjyo280dnc3jL07MlI1LATFQteIF2XKz49Q6laSKsSgdAqBb915t93g7CiWztGF7Y1Mgx_mQqZPTpgOxw4JT5URyMcSnNGm00lDS30UdGmqglNreC-YUqE02oX9Z0NlYKfvpS8k7u0n-1/s1644/scan0580.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1644" data-original-width="1094" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtey5s8G3CH3eBlTS5xTR6y3G13vsXLrgph8xG_JdN5XuVjyo280dnc3jL07MlI1LATFQteIF2XKz49Q6laSKsSgdAqBb915t93g7CiWztGF7Y1Mgx_mQqZPTpgOxw4JT5URyMcSnNGm00lDS30UdGmqglNreC-YUqE02oX9Z0NlYKfvpS8k7u0n-1/s320/scan0580.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>In his programme notes Ruddington & District Choral
Society’s Music Director, Paul Hayward, explained that the programme for their
May 2022 concert had been carefully chosen as a response to the state of our
contemporary world. In the event, his comments could not have been more perceptive. Originally planned for the May 2020 concert, which had to be set aside as Covid first took hold, this evening of largely 20<sup>th</sup> century English choral works seemed even more prescient given that
Covid and its effects have disrupted the life of the planet for two years and
this nightmare has been compounded by the events in Ukraine and their dreadful
consequences. We live, as Paul Hayward suggests, in uncertain times and to
underline this, there were in the audience for Saturday night’s concert at St
Peter’s Church in Ruddington a family of Ukrainian refugees who have found
sanctuary in Ruddington from the present horrors of their own land.<div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Like all other organisations, Ruddington Choral
Society has felt the impact of two years of Covid led interruptions – practise
and rehearsal time, singers’ illness, and simply getting a large group of
singers back together and in the swing of things has meant that Paul Hayward, organ
maestro accompanist Michael Overbury and most of all the singers themselves had
to pull out all stops – organ and otherwise – to get the concert to performance
standard. But pull out all stops they did – and especially so when one
considers that the programme was a musically taxing one; there were no works
in which the choir could “coast”, every bar and note had to be worked at……and
it would not, I think, be inappropriate to suggest that everyone was asking
themselves the question on Saturday morning, would it be alright on the night!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgiH_VPUdHRC4l8lFil6ZlF-QWRwAf1Frz8wRRifabNLEwjFflIsZC0U4w3crDjG7S0kmKVCFKn4bOce9fs-WU-TY5HK9KF_zeMNEcafVEXuzedMR7BbrX0rnkk63BfRzsVoP47nxf0l8RD6Myz7HB23JMOklWD_eWdCvDhgtSAb0PTh8_NUR_QqQQ/s5184/IMG_0047.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgiH_VPUdHRC4l8lFil6ZlF-QWRwAf1Frz8wRRifabNLEwjFflIsZC0U4w3crDjG7S0kmKVCFKn4bOce9fs-WU-TY5HK9KF_zeMNEcafVEXuzedMR7BbrX0rnkk63BfRzsVoP47nxf0l8RD6Myz7HB23JMOklWD_eWdCvDhgtSAb0PTh8_NUR_QqQQ/w400-h300/IMG_0047.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>But all right it was! The choir, reduced in numbers
following the Covid effect, rose to the occasion magnificently from the very
first note. The concert began with the popular and haunting <i>Choral Suite </i>from
Karl Jenkins’ <i>The Armed Man</i> – surely something to cause us to reflect
upon given the events in eastern Europe in recent weeks. Jenkins’ work,
subtitled <i>A Mass for Peace</i> was originally commissioned for the
Millennium celebrations and dedicated to victims of the Kosovo crisis. The
work charts the growing menace of and a descent into war, interspersed with moments
of reflection; shows the horrors that war brings; and ends with the hope for
peace in a new millennium, when "sorrow, pain and death can be
overcome". On Saturday, the choir’s quiet and evocative rendering of the work<i> </i>was not only a gentle, solemn and above all reverential opening to
the concert but one which, I’m sure, caused every member of the audience to reflect deeply upon how thin is the gossamer thread that holds us all from falling into the abyss in our 2022 world.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg90W5wUyv5_12VOeBBcAjeJReE9uevzrbOL-yQ9vRLPvwglR95Vb_Sxj1J6BkaUV9yTti8941ztsyLX4nO55tfEu5SmYNnUqbowkWWTeJB1vk5wXiyjq-rioJ2Kaw86o60qcbnqrPErGuFvJnHfm2R58fx4WleRG0HGi7CRkzOLA2DdK37xAu5vUJT/s3147/IMG_0041.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3147" data-original-width="2652" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg90W5wUyv5_12VOeBBcAjeJReE9uevzrbOL-yQ9vRLPvwglR95Vb_Sxj1J6BkaUV9yTti8941ztsyLX4nO55tfEu5SmYNnUqbowkWWTeJB1vk5wXiyjq-rioJ2Kaw86o60qcbnqrPErGuFvJnHfm2R58fx4WleRG0HGi7CRkzOLA2DdK37xAu5vUJT/w270-h320/IMG_0041.JPG" width="270" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Musical Director Paul Hayward</i></td></tr></tbody></table>To take us up to the interval we enjoyed the talents of
Michael Overbury playing a Bach organ solo the Kyrie<i> Gott Heiliger Geist</i>
– a plea for God’s mercy upon us – Michael’s keyboard skills and sheer
musicality displaying all the intricacies, piety, magnificence and richness of Bach’s devotional
music to perfection. This was followed by three short choral works: <i>As
Torrents in Summer</i> by Elgar, Parry's <i>Music, when soft voices die</i>, and <i>The Long Day Closes</i> by Arthur
Sullivan. These profound and deeply reflective works were given a lyrical
and poignant quality by the choir – perfect for a May evening and for a world
looking for solace and certainty as it recovers from a deadly pandemic and a
world tormented by other ills, mostly man made.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Five Spirituals</i> from <i>A Child of our Time </i>by
Michael Tippett was a splendid opening to the second half of the evening.
Tippett’s famous and hugely popular oratorio written in the early years of the
Second World War was inspired by the events of Kristallnacht in Nazi Germany
and the subsequent violent Nazi pogrom against the Jewish population. As the programme notes rightly commented: “it is a work of profound sympathy
with oppressed people the world over”. The choir’s rendering of the spirituals
captured beautifully the essence, the humility and inner strength that we
recognise in all spirituals and within all oppressed people or whatever colour, creed or belief. The sheer musicality of <i>Steal
Away Jesus</i>, the humility of <i>Nobody Knows the Trouble I See, </i>the gentle
power of <i>Go Down Moses, </i>the sorrow and despair of <i>By and By </i>clearly
spoke to the audience and as the words
and the haunting music of the final spiritual <i>Deep River </i>gently
filled the St Peter’s evening air I doubt that there was anyone in the audience
not moved and humbled by the words and the music. The <i>Five Spirituals </i>was
a balm, a comfort, in these troubled times and a timely reminder to those of us
who sat in St Peter’s of how very fortunate we are to be able to sit quietly
and safely on such a spring evening to enjoy such music and ponder the power of the words.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_8Yr2T8J5VubyPDsvg5zYZETWLe7rYxm9J6tNdeIVGaEG58xk6cAY6Hs6_Bh7RKXLg87Ds2KFLgWUAcdVhs6jmC8aPV9Gin5S5kTebH4eyINnqt4rK7RxlFiDTrTYgWkWDKqYQWGi2UjKRpr5eWZj33md4hp3rdPNg03KOnnmt7v0w5BGhjbjDJaO/s1678/IMG_0185.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1678" data-original-width="1073" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_8Yr2T8J5VubyPDsvg5zYZETWLe7rYxm9J6tNdeIVGaEG58xk6cAY6Hs6_Bh7RKXLg87Ds2KFLgWUAcdVhs6jmC8aPV9Gin5S5kTebH4eyINnqt4rK7RxlFiDTrTYgWkWDKqYQWGi2UjKRpr5eWZj33md4hp3rdPNg03KOnnmt7v0w5BGhjbjDJaO/w205-h320/IMG_0185.JPG" width="205" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Organ Maestro Michael Overbury</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And so to the concert moved to its final works. Michael
Overbury gave a lovely ethereal rendering of his own arrangement of <i>Lamento
di Tristan & La Rotta </i>based upon 14<sup>th</sup> century Italian dance
music – a few minutes of innocence and beauty in an otherwise solemn evening, a
reminder perhaps, that in these times of dismay and disharmony our very souls need
the refreshment that goes with peace, beauty and gentleness. And finally, Michael’s work was
followed by Benjamin Britten’s <i>Rejoice in the Lamb </i>first performed in
1943 and commissioned for the 50<sup>th</sup> anniversary of the consecration
of St. Matthew’s Church in Northampton. It is based upon the poem<i> Jubilate
Agno</i> by Christopher Smart and
probably written between 1759 -1763. The poem, written while Smart was in an
asylum, depicts the idiosyncratic praise and worship of God by all created beings
and things, each in their own way.<span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #202122; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><span style="background: white; color: #202122;">While in the
asylum Smart was left alone, except for his cat Jeoffry. He felt lost and homeless feeling that his life was in a "limbo… between public and
private space", lost in his introspective and deeply religious thoughts. He had nothing or no one to turn to and thus inwards devoting himself to God and his poetry. He was released from the asylum in1763, but his
poem was not published until 1939 under the title <i>Rejoice in the Lamb: A
Song from Bedlam. </i>This, became the focus of Britten's composition and as with many of Britten’s works, is taxing; the choir had to be at their best – and they were! Under Paul
Hayward’s baton and with Michael Overbury’s accompaniment they dealt superbly with
the sheer musical variety and ever changing demands of the work. After negotiating </span>a
quiet beginning followed by a jubilant series of verses inviting man and beast to come
before the Lord, then a beautiful hymn of creation leading to a lament as Smart described in
his poem the difficulties he encounters in his life the choir responded perfectly to their
Director and Accompanist’s leadership.
The four soloists, Grace Bale, Sarah Atkinson, Simon Lumby and James Gaughan, too, were splendidly “on song” and perfectly at one with the choir.
The poem and Britten’s music speak of those who are in turmoil, who are struggling with their world and their own lives. It is a theme that Britten often returned to, most
notably in his great opera <i>Peter Grimes; </i>inner personal turmoil,<i> </i>mankind's potential for cruelty but also his capacity for goodness<i>.</i> <span style="color: #444444;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Rejoice in the Lamb</i></span></span> was a fitting work for this concert
concerned as it was with the uncertainty and turmoil of our current world and the famous line from <i>Peter Grimes </i><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px;">"I hear those voices that will not be drowned" would, perhaps, be a suitable subtext for not only this work but perhap</span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444;">s for the whole evening</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_jxDvXi6rfoT4V4BR7GAHMmUoKBh18mDT0TXa5OB3-ioTgbq44-lcaYBMyY09pJMRTVBDV0qCjVzZIITJMe8Z48xTb6RkITkIVgPbS51vB-VqY2dvjKvWzMVwj3SFvRLPvQ3xsoH6tB9QzWCYpX3i7xzRQqT2jSFaM6L0w7TUYMqC9HDHQRBNeXK/s5184/IMG_0172.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_jxDvXi6rfoT4V4BR7GAHMmUoKBh18mDT0TXa5OB3-ioTgbq44-lcaYBMyY09pJMRTVBDV0qCjVzZIITJMe8Z48xTb6RkITkIVgPbS51vB-VqY2dvjKvWzMVwj3SFvRLPvQ3xsoH6tB9QzWCYpX3i7xzRQqT2jSFaM6L0w7TUYMqC9HDHQRBNeXK/w400-h300/IMG_0172.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Britten’s work is not and was not an easy listen – but that, surely is the point. Saturday night’s programme was music for our troubled times. It
was music to prick our consciences, to make us reflect upon our times and the trials of others, to encourage us to strive to create a world more attentive and faithful than our own present and to make us realise our own great good fortune. But at the same time – and
perhaps more importantly – to give us some certainty in this ever changing world by reminding us that we are all part of humanity and God’s
creation. There were no standing ovations or rousing cheers at the end of the
concert, just a subdued and reverent applause – and that is how it had to be - the message of the evening and the music had got home. And that message, if indeed there was one, was of our humanity, our dignity and love and respect for our fellow man and woman, and how we must respond to that and them. It was music to reflect on, to take away in our hearts and minds and ponder
as the next 24 hour news broadcast reports of some other tragedy – big or
small, personal or international, man made or natural - in our ever changing turbulent world. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghK0NFVaLUf2PGQzwCtHUlh2Pzan743FjbSmVR7k17_g2Q1Gs0kbIBYq9a6I7qE0JUEBluglOpG1SG9tTRzREBWAHrBFkFDnC5yUZ01GkPMlgizPxVPYd9q8iwMX47X74mGxI-9731rYiYehnlqV3P2F15BQhmwk7q2Ev4C1weGrsc8zjyg4yKKE44/s3993/IMG_0090.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3128" data-original-width="3993" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghK0NFVaLUf2PGQzwCtHUlh2Pzan743FjbSmVR7k17_g2Q1Gs0kbIBYq9a6I7qE0JUEBluglOpG1SG9tTRzREBWAHrBFkFDnC5yUZ01GkPMlgizPxVPYd9q8iwMX47X74mGxI-9731rYiYehnlqV3P2F15BQhmwk7q2Ev4C1weGrsc8zjyg4yKKE44/s320/IMG_0090.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div>It has been said that all art – be it painting, music,
literature, dance or any other art form - should, if it is to be considered
worthy or perhaps even great, “comfort the disturbed and disturb the
comfortable” – and on Saturday night The Ruddington & District Choral
Society choir members, the soloists, Michael Overbury and Paul Hayward fully acknowledged and
met this criteria. Paul Hayward wrote in his programme notes that he hoped it would be "an evening to to find solace" - and indeed it was. The final words of the spiritual <i>Deep River</i> perhaps summed up this desire for some comfort and consolation both eloquently and humbly: "O children, don't you want to go to that gospel feast, that promised land, That land where all is peace. Walk into heaven and take my seat, cast down my crown at Jesus' feet". Many thanks to all concerned for a wonderful night.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsIPHKLKoCWrcna0DESjV0jAf0kw9vqRtRxaL3fIIyNpiS9pKlzaeMp2SWQawPIlVMGzgRMFj29IKenxM-I7yr1ayBWrjgWdCh0Nfx2TpObFiovoy2qwxpCxM_h41nQzhlt8s7_A_lwYz3wrt-SSchNJF39REbiabmjoXrSG2oLC6nLn64k3xTDuf/s1201/Screenshot%202022-05-16%20161726.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1201" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsIPHKLKoCWrcna0DESjV0jAf0kw9vqRtRxaL3fIIyNpiS9pKlzaeMp2SWQawPIlVMGzgRMFj29IKenxM-I7yr1ayBWrjgWdCh0Nfx2TpObFiovoy2qwxpCxM_h41nQzhlt8s7_A_lwYz3wrt-SSchNJF39REbiabmjoXrSG2oLC6nLn64k3xTDuf/w640-h364/Screenshot%202022-05-16%20161726.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p></div></div>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-73054325674429933942022-01-24T16:11:00.005+00:002022-01-24T16:22:15.805+00:00Derogatory, Demeaning and Damning - a sad verdict on our police force.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiwIFiUMX0NqbAR3810KDQuRH3BnrC0NaGgQpNhWP0iv3f6-OffEw9AtNhWq7mXeHfTpSHtsXXtPzTttk1F6Lqkx1O7z4BFjWvnCyKM8QS22RsKiMG7DAXP6OBOBpTdSVMUJHP896Nz_eqELkbhXVDN-viSRzRhKzNEyIXli0wDeYEXDXVi0_rI6i7=s594" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="594" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiwIFiUMX0NqbAR3810KDQuRH3BnrC0NaGgQpNhWP0iv3f6-OffEw9AtNhWq7mXeHfTpSHtsXXtPzTttk1F6Lqkx1O7z4BFjWvnCyKM8QS22RsKiMG7DAXP6OBOBpTdSVMUJHP896Nz_eqELkbhXVDN-viSRzRhKzNEyIXli0wDeYEXDXVi0_rI6i7=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">A quote variously attributed (or maybe mis-attributed) to
both George Orwell and Winston Churchill tells us that: “Men sleep peacefully
in their beds at night because rough men stand ready to do violence on their
behalf.” The message is brutally clear; society and we as individuals can only
be kept safe because of the actions by people in power – the police, the
military, MI5/MI6, etc – and these actions are both necessary and not to be
enquired into too closely for they are almost certainly illegal.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>I’ve often accepted the quote and its implications as an
unfortunate but sadly necessary aspect of the real world as it is:
“realpolitik” in its most brutal form. In times of war or when acts of
terrorism prevail it can, I suppose, be justified as being for the greater good;
actions sometimes have to be taken which we would not normally sanction or
approve of. It is the logic and the moral standpoint that “justified” the
waterboarding and other extreme punishments (or to use the correct word
“tortures”) in places like Guantanamo Bay.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">And then I read this article (</span><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2022/jan/24/met-apologises-to-academic-for-sexist-derogatory-language">Met apologises to woman for ‘sexist, derogatory’ language in strip-search | Metropolitan police | The Guardian</a> )<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"> and my view shifts somewhat.
It no longer seems so clear cut for in reading the article I am reminded that one
or two other considerations appear which, for me at least, are unsettling.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>To start with let me make my position clear. Having read the
article and done a little bit of research I do not know whether the strip
searching of this young academic, Dr Duff, was justified. Maybe she was
unreasonably unhelpful. Maybe the police were properly operating within their
remit, maybe they had very genuine concerns which, in their view, prompted and
perhaps even justified their actions. Maybe there were other factors which this
article does not make clear. Lots of unknowns.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>What is not unknown, however, for it was recorded, are some
of the things that were said by the police officers concerned as they carried
out their strip search:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #121212; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What’s that smell? Oh, it’s her
knickers,”….“Is she rank?... her clothes stink”….</span><span style="color: #121212; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Didn’t find anything
untoward on her, ladies?”…….“A lot of hair,” one of the female officers
replies. The others laugh….<span style="background: white;">“Ugh, I feel
disgusting; I’m going to need a shower</span></span>”….“You need fumigating.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>Maybe many might find these sexist and grossly derogatory comments
humorous or even justifiable in the given situation. I’m sure that many will
simply suggest that “she got what you asked for”. Well, maybe. Maybe this is Orwell’s alleged comment made
real in all its brutality – comments planned and intended to demean, degrade
and “break” someone in custody.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>Mmmmmm?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>But I’m wondering what sort of person would feel it
appropriate to utter these words whatever the justification? Do they not see
that in doing so they are demeaning themselves in treating another human being
so? Are they not embarrassed by what they said? If these words are justified by
the rules and regulations under which our police operate in these circumstances,
then we are all culpable in allowing them to be so. Given the Met’s apology and
payment of compensation one can only assume that the words and phrases were not
appropriate or justified. That leaves only one option – they were the language
and everyday responses of the very people who are supposed to uphold our
society’s fabric and protect the individual from attack and harm – be it
physical, verbal or mental. I cringed, embarrassed when I read them – am I
unusual, naïve in not being able to laugh as the police did. Maybe I’ve led too
sheltered a life, maybe I should ”get out more” – well, maybe, but deep down
something tells me this is not acceptable in our society – ever.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>Sadly, I don’t believe that these officers switch on to
“interview and strip search mode” and leave these darker aspects of their
personality outside the police station. This is the real them. These are the
jokes and one liners that make up much of their day to day conversation. One
only has to sit in a pub for a few minutes, walk through a town centre, skim
through the comments on Face Book or other social media platforms, watch many
of the foul mouthed “comedians” on our TVs or listen to the crowd at a football
match to know that foul, abusive, and derogatory language is part and parcel of
everyday life for many. And, of course, in being so, those who use it as part
of their everyday communication display the real “them”. It is not a pretty sight nor is it something we should ever seek to justify or explain away.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-36684925672539816122022-01-20T14:24:00.012+00:002022-01-21T09:39:44.718+00:00On My Honour<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgABwCn5BFOZMRj2cciaiKLzwiF1ndlBkkl_zxGOh65o1pJK1kx7WrR-N1nwyb4EKbwpYpGtZonw_PuQbfmKQWPiK0e_dCaxdvANlBvEIkHme-NJSoaFP_Wbr3Oe4tgBscEy8Z0YDKVc6hpK_TXUZyFGnuM0ULJ7lhR2zPbAL25rEop6LqqARQjm1tx=s811" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="811" data-original-width="463" height="383" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgABwCn5BFOZMRj2cciaiKLzwiF1ndlBkkl_zxGOh65o1pJK1kx7WrR-N1nwyb4EKbwpYpGtZonw_PuQbfmKQWPiK0e_dCaxdvANlBvEIkHme-NJSoaFP_Wbr3Oe4tgBscEy8Z0YDKVc6hpK_TXUZyFGnuM0ULJ7lhR2zPbAL25rEop6LqqARQjm1tx=w219-h383" width="219" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Stan in uniform in 1943</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">When I was a child it was common to hear other kids (and me!) say “On my honour” when we were trying to convince others – usually an adult – of the truth of our actions or of events in which we had been involved. Another much used phrase with a similar meaning was “Cross my heart and hope to die”!</span></span><p></p><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I mention this because today Pat and I have been scanning some old photographs and letters into our computer. The photographs and letters belonged to Pat’s parents and date from the war years and just after. They are old black and white photos of Pat’s childhood and the letters are those sent by Pat’s Dad to her Mum when he was serving abroad during the war. As we looked at the images and read the letters we were struck by the story they told of war time/post war Britain. The poignant and loving contents of the letters were a humbling tribute to the stoicism and matter of fact way that Pat’s Dad – Stan – told her Mum of his daily army life as he and his colleagues fought their way from North Africa and through the length of Italy making no reference to the dangers he must have been in and telling her how much he missed his wife and was looking forward to coming home safely at the end of the war so that they could get on with their lives.</span></div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The letters were written on pre-printed and pre-stamped sheets, tissue paper thin. Dad’s neat, tightly written script filled every little space and the sheet was marked so that it could be folded in the right place and sealed so as not to require an envelope. The army had clearly thought of everything! When folded correctly and sealed the address appeared on one side of the letter and on the reverse was a space for a statement that had to be made by the sender. As it was wartime the statement was important to ensure that no important information about the war or the army was written in the letter - military information, if included, could be valuable to the enemy. The statement on each of Stan's letters said: “I certify on my honour that the contents of this letter refer to nothing but private and family affairs” – and then Dad signed his statement underneath. </span></div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4CA-qrlhDJ20QXMl5FnEjqRRc8QnIdjI0O-N5imDuqPParOkP_WA0DEygs2MH1MeYGimErwGd94nKjsJ8K9_okIZC7DMBNwFF6zfUXBtqVgEE8zIK8dhCq_VYZCz2yor2G8N_fGk_6qJRgEbaReeh6DaDHKhJK0scB1tkFjs9dL0tvaRw79JKUDkS=s708" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="429" data-original-width="708" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4CA-qrlhDJ20QXMl5FnEjqRRc8QnIdjI0O-N5imDuqPParOkP_WA0DEygs2MH1MeYGimErwGd94nKjsJ8K9_okIZC7DMBNwFF6zfUXBtqVgEE8zIK8dhCq_VYZCz2yor2G8N_fGk_6qJRgEbaReeh6DaDHKhJK0scB1tkFjs9dL0tvaRw79JKUDkS=w379-h230" width="379" /></a></div><br />“On my honour” – how terribly old fashioned and twee those three little words sounds today in our 21st century world - but what human qualities do they conjure up and what profound principles they demand of us when we utter them. Stan died about a quarter of a century ago, a much respected, decent and above all honourable man. I have absolutely no doubts that if he were alive today he would be horrified by the lack of “honour” and “honourable behaviour” that has become part and parcel of our everyday lives. We now live in a world where pragmatism rules and the end result is all that matters and in being so qualities such as integrity or honour are easily side-lined in favour of "getting the result I want" whether it be on the sport's field, in the work place or in Parliament; the end justifies the means, not what is right or good or decent or honourable.</span></div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> Our leaders, despite many being referred to as "The Right Honourable" – and especially our PM – seem to have forgotten what it is to act honourably. Or maybe in the case of Boris Johnson it seems to me more likely that he never got the gene that implants (or should implant) within us all some shred of decency and honour. It is for that reason we have lost faith in those who represent us and act on our behalf - they are no longer decent or honourable; in short, they are no longer to be respected or trusted. </span></div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDfSRVJHKGH4lUV1_JNZAR2Ml4TBg3toC0-7Z6zv2njLEXPf4CVeyt0lGboPBWt2h1-nH6TEFCyI0wYcXmTrFlRx7gQk1zhbfZYQZj466CBaRmdBjT9_i-1ZLE8UQHqyeQfmmpZnl6hCfLUO6ZOzAXuAoVOXbh__4dguON5IrVcfERkZMht-kFJGGf=s748" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="748" data-original-width="595" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDfSRVJHKGH4lUV1_JNZAR2Ml4TBg3toC0-7Z6zv2njLEXPf4CVeyt0lGboPBWt2h1-nH6TEFCyI0wYcXmTrFlRx7gQk1zhbfZYQZj466CBaRmdBjT9_i-1ZLE8UQHqyeQfmmpZnl6hCfLUO6ZOzAXuAoVOXbh__4dguON5IrVcfERkZMht-kFJGGf=w217-h272" width="217" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Stan and Winnie with their <br />family in 1951</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">But being honourable is not an old fashioned concept and of no further use in our brash modern world for without it all society and we as individuals are much weakened. Acting honourably is not just about grandiose action or great moral principles and promises such the knights of old abided by. Nor does it only apply to the great and the good such as our politicians. It is far more to do with the simpler qualities of living a "good life": being honest, telling the truth, doing the best job you can, being a good neighbour, colleague or friend, being fair, acting correctly on behalf of yourself and others.......the list is endless. When we visit the doctor I guess most of us hope and expect that he/she will act in our best interests - be thorough, abide by the rules and standards expected to make us well. When we climb on a bus we hope that the driver will take care and do his best to drive us safely to our destination. When we send our children to school we demand that the teacher acts in our child's best interest and does the very best he or she can for our son or daughter. And when we turn to the police, the ambulance driver, our MP, our neighbour, our local vicar, or a myriad of others and seek their help and advice we trust them hope they will give us good advice, be honest, be fair, do the right thing - in short, act honourably. When we stop acting honourably, decently or honestly all trust disappears; the law of the jungle takes hold, and society is on a slippery slope down. It is the human quality and principle that men like Stan went off to war to fight for. </span></div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />Maybe I’m just a grumpy old man – but I still think that when I’m dead and gone I’d prefer to be remembered as an honourable man rather than a famous man or a rich man or a good looking man or a successful man. All these shallow and inconsequential qualities that so many aspire to in our celebrity obsessed world of today are false gods ; Stan's letters and his life bore witness to that.</span></div></div>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-51617656761694623442021-12-13T09:52:00.010+00:002021-12-13T14:21:08.754+00:00A time to feel comforted and reflect<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgycKElhAdS7FHG-Cb-sFTxeTlEXFTgWyhVdLiihAmuawmbe8V9mHm-J9ZZXoA3CU8E9LvBAl002pwiozQVjT89x-VALf6Hksiy6kVfqA3OJm82kaM73iYhbmXMNYd-BEFN3sf1kZp-X_ZTNZy7EWOEVoBGMD2RiPpacyk93_wNB5HZh2Gg1HNFnr3U=s868" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="868" data-original-width="609" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgycKElhAdS7FHG-Cb-sFTxeTlEXFTgWyhVdLiihAmuawmbe8V9mHm-J9ZZXoA3CU8E9LvBAl002pwiozQVjT89x-VALf6Hksiy6kVfqA3OJm82kaM73iYhbmXMNYd-BEFN3sf1kZp-X_ZTNZy7EWOEVoBGMD2RiPpacyk93_wNB5HZh2Gg1HNFnr3U=w281-h400" width="281" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">After a two-year Covid enforced hiatus Ruddington & District Choral
Society once more took to the concert platform in St Peter’s Church Ruddington
last night (Dec 11th, 2021) – and what a return it was! Under the leadership of
choir director Paul Hayward, the choir, the superb Ruddington Chamber Ensemble
and the splendid young soloists from Nottingham University gave us a wonderful
evening of glorious Baroque Christmas Music.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The Choir returned after an eighteen month break to socially distanced rehearsals in September to
prepare for this concert and a few minutes before last night’s performance was
due to begin Paul led the choir out of the Church and into the cold night air.
Covid restrictions meant that they could not carry out their usual “warming up”
exercises in the confined space of the Church vestry so it had to be done
outside! I sat in the Church foyer handing out programmes to latecomers and
listened as the al fresco practice drifted into the Church and out across the
streets of Ruddington. So, the big question before last night’s performance
was, would it all come off; the difficulties of rehearsing and putting on this
performance under ever changing Covid rules were taxing for everyone, it was a
step in the dark; but come off it did – magnificently!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Paul Hayward’s planned programme was a joy and a triumph, the chosen
works and their performance absolutely right, not only for the Christmas season
but equally importantly, perhaps, for the zeitgeist of our Covid times when for
two years mankind has been chastened by the events of the pandemic and forced
to ask questions about ourselves and our world. Any trepidation that Paul
Hayward or his singers and musicians might have felt were dismissed within
minutes of the first notes being struck! Paul’s chosen programme was not a
brash, triumphalist celebration of the Christmas story but, rather, spoke of a
gentler Christmas message and of the humility and reverence of the Christmas
stable. And, this choice was portrayed beautifully by the Choir and orchestra:
warm, sincere, a thing of beauty and conveying the haunting mystery of the
Christmas tale.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKTlNvXmlm5EFriepFVownknlHDNl6XyEb9bkz76FUTKiTnlLY4ikJ6tFPlO-4XQ1wr1iXCrtLOJV5MJLwaZUsWIolxf5r0unG3zD-jYR0nLUFVbyglWU17kzTPIjE3MLIslA4Li62_TWrfIr0tNu8ZYF0dH-QlWAn9RW6-QP6MP3orpYJz-x7yIP1=s2048" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKTlNvXmlm5EFriepFVownknlHDNl6XyEb9bkz76FUTKiTnlLY4ikJ6tFPlO-4XQ1wr1iXCrtLOJV5MJLwaZUsWIolxf5r0unG3zD-jYR0nLUFVbyglWU17kzTPIjE3MLIslA4Li62_TWrfIr0tNu8ZYF0dH-QlWAn9RW6-QP6MP3orpYJz-x7yIP1=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">A lovely and accomplished rendering by the Ensemble of Charpentier’s
<i>Prelude to Te Deum H146 </i>opened the concert and set the scene for what was to
follow and then we were taken back almost four centuries to the world of 17th
century Paris, to the age of Louis XIV, the Sun King. The haunting voice of the
soprano soloist opening Charpentier’s <i>Mess De Minuit pour Noel </i>a “mixture” of
ancient French folk carols interwoven into the words of the Mass – the soloists
providing the carols while the Choir sang the Mass. This, work has hidden
complexities – both musically and logistically, given the current Covid
restrictions - but Choir, soloists and Ensemble were flawless giving an
interpretation which like the work itself was full of both joy and compassion
and creating in the Church an atmosphere of gentle serenity.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">As I listened I pondered what it must have been like three hundred plus
years ago when those French people of old, or perhaps even the Sun King himself
first heard this work – for that is what music allows us to do, it allows us to
hear what others, hundreds of years ago, heard and through that to perhaps feel
what they felt. And that, for me, is humbling; it asks questions of our very
humanity – and last night this work, and the concert as a whole, allowed us to
experience and be enriched by that. At the interval, a friend who was attending
a Ruddington concert for the first time commented how much she was enjoying the
performance – “it’s so professional”, she said. She was absolutely right but it
was more than just professional, the works and the performance had an
integrity, they were from the heart, they were not simply “entertainment” but
spoke to us as human beings.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigKwfQ5mRlsscx6bGEWyO2RCJcE-zqs32H5Y6G18FxtVCR30nUXjpyYKW_8EgbMHv8cmcTUikgifX2zSTenVyr-9dK5Kt12IfMOJbBOtNiQdGp00k_q6EHNXAdvfSH-_EvMq0Eh3Wrv3d7ZzpAuOmgt5Y533ri4ETP_QgcJRFoSgP_7OcNGyPCIdOY=s2048" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigKwfQ5mRlsscx6bGEWyO2RCJcE-zqs32H5Y6G18FxtVCR30nUXjpyYKW_8EgbMHv8cmcTUikgifX2zSTenVyr-9dK5Kt12IfMOJbBOtNiQdGp00k_q6EHNXAdvfSH-_EvMq0Eh3Wrv3d7ZzpAuOmgt5Y533ri4ETP_QgcJRFoSgP_7OcNGyPCIdOY=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The second half of the concert opened with Dietrich Buxtehude’s
<i>Magnificat</i>, a short but sumptuous work by the great Baroque organ maestro – the
piece was beautifully performed, the soloists exquisite and the Choir and
Ensemble a delight. It was no surprise at all to hear the applause from the
audience after this offering. A thing of great beauty and comfort it was as
warm and luxurious as Christmas Pudding and Custard and as I listened, I
recalled the famous story of Johann Sebastian Bach and Buxtehude and reflected
how our world has changed - yet the wonderful music of Charpentier, Buxtehude,
Bach, Vivaldi and other great musicians remains, across the years to inspire
and enrich us. Bach, aged 20 and “learning his trade” as a organist/musician in
Arnstadt requested permission from his employers for leave to visit Buxtehude
who was considered the greatest organist in Europe, perhaps the world.
Unwillingly the permission was granted and the young Bach then walked over 300
miles through the German Autumn to Lubeck. He stayed with Buxtehude (it is said
that the great man offered Bach his daughter’s hand in marriage!) and then in
the early Spring Bach walked the 300 miles back to Arnstadt – where he was
severely chastised by his employers for being away so long! <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvpfj1IpW66tIqtXs_40BT_so1TK1X7eMf73wKr00A-7a-fO_Da9SYD4tK73d_SzPbUZwhaVPt1uYQ0clxztnB2nFzKKs9iQ4gT6Y2eStb4vCRLf8RCZBVctuVkKXY7cDdpFIpcAJqeh47vAmO1OFmRirHNW4yr2b0u8Phmu30nA29wxZZhduVtF1B=s2048" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvpfj1IpW66tIqtXs_40BT_so1TK1X7eMf73wKr00A-7a-fO_Da9SYD4tK73d_SzPbUZwhaVPt1uYQ0clxztnB2nFzKKs9iQ4gT6Y2eStb4vCRLf8RCZBVctuVkKXY7cDdpFIpcAJqeh47vAmO1OFmRirHNW4yr2b0u8Phmu30nA29wxZZhduVtF1B=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The rest, as they say, is history, Bach became the great gift that he is
to all music and last night we had the privilege of listening to a work by
Buxtehude, one of his teachers – how marvellous is that? But this is not an
idle, lighthearted point. Paul Hayward’s programme took us back not only to the
Baroque era but it also took us, like Bach on his walk to and from Lubeck, on a
Baroque musical journey across Europe: From Charpentier’s Paris, to Buxtehude’s
northern Germany, to Handel and Dublin, and finally to the glories of Vivaldi’s Venice
– La Serenissima, the serene Republic. A Christmas feast indeed!<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUSgxm63RxDCFaLYaVoe8kCGye5jDXVi_Jnk9k2Q6Nnw9UfhlCGFYCFgUR91nMxP7Yszb-FvFlaxlpJEZBxZkl-twjAxgEPwR55DNfoeWbR2I7LyJ2wMmcOOAQGhF-MHRdfhdAANu9LAOE1aWjAsYdB8ALyD1BElEajcIzMI-1RIO_ahYifAhkvdft=s2048" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUSgxm63RxDCFaLYaVoe8kCGye5jDXVi_Jnk9k2Q6Nnw9UfhlCGFYCFgUR91nMxP7Yszb-FvFlaxlpJEZBxZkl-twjAxgEPwR55DNfoeWbR2I7LyJ2wMmcOOAQGhF-MHRdfhdAANu9LAOE1aWjAsYdB8ALyD1BElEajcIzMI-1RIO_ahYifAhkvdft=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">After Buxtehude the Ensemble rewarded us with a splendid playing of the
<i>Pastoral Symphony </i>from Handel’s <i>Messiah</i> first heard in Dublin 280 years ago
this year. This well known part of the mighty Messiah forms a gentle and
peaceful interlude in that great oratorio and the Ensemble’s interpretation
captured the tranquillity and reverence of that moment in the <i>Messiah</i> exactly.
And following the Symphony we were rewarded with three unaccompanied and
beautifully executed traditional Christmas works from the Choir: the “great and
mighty” harmonies by Baroque 17th century German composer Michael Praetorius of
the carol <i>A Great and Mighty Wonder</i>, the arrangement by JS Bach of
the German carol <i>O Little Sweet One</i> and to end with the arrangement
by George Ratcliffe Woodward of the 16th century <i>Piae Cantiones</i> the carol <i>Up, Good
Christian Folk</i> – an ancient mediaeval work with its roots in Scandinavia
– this latter short work one of the many high spots of the evening, its light,
joyous harmonies raising spirits and smiles throughout St Peters! <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPbePslDIaCKOxt_qIgQFa1o011_BWBYFBvUCYhxMYxCEX5s6cu8QdkxS4vr4SgWeX-GE4Cv4V7dFzPUKmX9Nyf9070CGJClhbXt3JAGz_E1CuTW4wkSlDFj7chE8tZz3nCic4srUNVVtsOByiZgvYgKzsY81OO4dGD0z_is4RFBdaIHuRHbCAOERK=s2048" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPbePslDIaCKOxt_qIgQFa1o011_BWBYFBvUCYhxMYxCEX5s6cu8QdkxS4vr4SgWeX-GE4Cv4V7dFzPUKmX9Nyf9070CGJClhbXt3JAGz_E1CuTW4wkSlDFj7chE8tZz3nCic4srUNVVtsOByiZgvYgKzsY81OO4dGD0z_is4RFBdaIHuRHbCAOERK=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">And so to the final offering: Antonio Vivaldi’s magnificent <i>Magnificat</i>!
Vivaldi, a composer whose vast output and brilliance are often marginalised by the
overplaying of his <i>Four Seasons Concertos</i>, contrasted beautifully
with the gentler, more reflective, reverential and mysterious Charpentier and
Buxtehude. Vivaldi’s soaring opening to the work, dazzling and jubilant, showed
the Ensemble’s strings to perfection and the soloists and Choir wove a wonderful
musical tapestry which took us, as Vivaldi so often does and in celebration
mode to 17th century Venice and to its misty and mysterious canals, to its fashionable
palazzi filled with bewigged Venetian gentlemen and and masked and gowned ladies,
to the world of Casanova, and to the gold leafed magnificence of the Doge’s
Palace and St Mark’s. This was Vivaldi and Baroque music at their most
sumptuous with the Choir, the soloists and the Ensemble weaving a sublime, warm but crisp, mellow but multi-layered sparkling, celebratory sound. A
magnificent <i>Magnificat</i> indeed!<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBv0eapqOfcIj2iGEWQkANDQ9EWIyvhqDft0q8NbJX4wFBnTfD5m8ETDllOolvw2JGfoDviTL9niJjY14N9u6w_y6q91jSFQn3gMxUk5DeLCT4b-rCuDh5KwfAP6RjIG9aZLkAq_ZXdh04InB_YW00eTFoeduiB5pyDDurkkVe3ZPHepZDw0e2WnWm=s2048" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBv0eapqOfcIj2iGEWQkANDQ9EWIyvhqDft0q8NbJX4wFBnTfD5m8ETDllOolvw2JGfoDviTL9niJjY14N9u6w_y6q91jSFQn3gMxUk5DeLCT4b-rCuDh5KwfAP6RjIG9aZLkAq_ZXdh04InB_YW00eTFoeduiB5pyDDurkkVe3ZPHepZDw0e2WnWm=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">It was absolutely no surprise that as Paul Hayward’s baton fell for the
last time the socially distanced audience, as one, showed their appreciation
for not only what had gone before and which they had so much enjoyed but as a
mark of appreciation to all concerned for providing, against all the
difficulties, such a rewarding and joyous occasion in these strange and worrying times.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Under Paul Hayward’s splendid stewardship and the excellent supportive musical
brilliance of Michael Overbury the Choir continues to develop – despite
everything that Covid has thrown at them. Great leaders in any walk of life may
have different qualities which enable them to inspire their followers: technical
skills, knowledge, charisma, presence, enthusiasm, rigour, discipline….the list
is endless. </span></span><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In Paul Hayward and Michael Overbury there is no shortage of
technical skills, musical knowledge or profound musicality – and certainly,
enthusiasm, sparkle, industry and a host of other praiseworthy qualities are in
ready supply. </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana;">But, there is something else that Paul and Michael bring to the Choir and which was shown to full
effect in last night’s concert and which we have seen so often before. It is something to which the choir members (and audience) can relate -
namely, a simple but powerful empathy. Let’s call it humanity, a deep understanding
of the works being sung and equally importantly of the people singing and playing them. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivqiLKUjxdwwIJgSOkMXYeNIsF7R5mxhK8wdbpH9H2p04MgVcxqELUVejUkoQCGYDlutp91XcnkthPSxI9enY-3t5xDliqU9Ukw0Hmy_0rCyXy2Zu0HJxLfNkKfV4Ad0hjjBV3w83UJBMnAkh3lPhJDd2ARcbpYFbpvcB42q9ePnaGnn56F5e1L0QT=s2048" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivqiLKUjxdwwIJgSOkMXYeNIsF7R5mxhK8wdbpH9H2p04MgVcxqELUVejUkoQCGYDlutp91XcnkthPSxI9enY-3t5xDliqU9Ukw0Hmy_0rCyXy2Zu0HJxLfNkKfV4Ad0hjjBV3w83UJBMnAkh3lPhJDd2ARcbpYFbpvcB42q9ePnaGnn56F5e1L0QT=s320" width="320" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana;">To watch
and listen to the great Herbert von Karajan was to see a man at the peak of technical
brilliance and musicology leading unarguably the greatest musicians in the
world – the Berlin Phil. But Paul Hayward and Michael Overbury perhaps offer a
different musical reality and leadership – they are in tune not only with the
music but with the people and the occasion and last night’s performance
displayed those qualities to perfection. At a time when humanity might feel
crushed by and in fear of the plague which continues to beset us, at a time
when our newspapers and social media are so often filled with bitterness and
dismay, and at a time when the world and our day to day life seems threatened
on so many fronts – global warming, austerity, inequality, violence on our
streets and all the rest – it was not, last night, technical brilliance that we
sought (although we got it in bucketfuls!). Nor was it soaring sweeping, explosive musical grandness or
the life changing musical experiences of mighty works or great musical
celebration. It was - for me, and I suspect for many others in last
night’s audience – a beautifully chosen programme which allowed us the time to reflect, to feel comforted, to enjoy the quiet
mystery and contemplative beauty of the music and the gentle awe and wonder of the Christmas story that we sought. And the Choir, the Ensemble and the soloists gave us all that in
abundance. </span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlNv5HD3RLSMfJo0bzZZ3xOZqwnfDHfOKCTryqJKlv13DRq9Rlf-wLHodpTAk0_AVEZslI1kNTLTswTfBfcsUBy4-uWDvx0AQu8kwRm_jl7QGxy4LPf6TGv1hth0cerJ7AxwffQ2Mw2lUIbuS151EkD-rmWFO4hglFXeExsHg8CXfRDmlxkpY9T9Or=s2048" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlNv5HD3RLSMfJo0bzZZ3xOZqwnfDHfOKCTryqJKlv13DRq9Rlf-wLHodpTAk0_AVEZslI1kNTLTswTfBfcsUBy4-uWDvx0AQu8kwRm_jl7QGxy4LPf6TGv1hth0cerJ7AxwffQ2Mw2lUIbuS151EkD-rmWFO4hglFXeExsHg8CXfRDmlxkpY9T9Or=s320" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The choice of programme, the manner of its performance and the
sincerity of the whole occasion ensured that everyone, it seemed to me, smiled, restored a little perhaps as, at 9.30, they passed by me in the Church doorway
and quietly stepped outside into the cold Ruddington air. A time to reflect, to feel
comforted, and to enjoy the quiet mystery and wonder of the Christmas story, a time to wrap ourselves in the gentle sublime beauty of the music and a time to hear and ponder what other humans over the centuries have heard and pondered at this time of year are perhaps qualities that might not figure high in the music purist’s list but they are, and for last night’s Covid dictated concert, were vital – for they reminded us of our humanity and our small place in the great scheme of things and they recharged
everyone’s batteries both musically and emotionally. These were the gifts that Paul Hayward and Michael Overbury and all the performers brought and were in such plentiful
supply in St Peter’s Church on Saturday night. And there were many on Saturday night, like me, who thanked all those concerned for it.</span><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-51164892499586358352021-05-07T10:50:00.004+01:002021-05-07T10:50:44.249+01:00When Oafs and Barbarians Decide "Strategic Priorities"<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4zLImi-z3HUSaz3wCLaWcfCy9QYihHPOhEsHJOnFeMR0yT2uKOyi9cUwuWwhb6WFFKBXxTHIzLuJKNXu-0Uk1z_LdAv4A2r7PpsXIzKnPtB7nNJmJzhmKNpp9dqfB6z5bOk12PmJH_A0/s263/ScreenHunter_03+May.+07+10.47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4zLImi-z3HUSaz3wCLaWcfCy9QYihHPOhEsHJOnFeMR0yT2uKOyi9cUwuWwhb6WFFKBXxTHIzLuJKNXu-0Uk1z_LdAv4A2r7PpsXIzKnPtB7nNJmJzhmKNpp9dqfB6z5bOk12PmJH_A0/s0/ScreenHunter_03+May.+07+10.47.jpg" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">So, our illustrious Education Minister Gavin Williamson says that arts
subjects in universities will have their budgets slashed and suggests that they
are "not strategic priorities". Presumably what is laughingly termed
the "core" subjects - maths, the "hard" sciences,
technology etc. are priorities and will not be similarly treated. Mmmmm?</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">No-one disputes the absolutely critical importance and value of the
sciences, they deserve whatever funding is required for they are the backbone
and provide the facts upon which our modern world, interconnected, global world
operates; they underpin our medicine, our science, our technology our
businesses and the rest. Without them every aspect of our modern lifestyle
would soon crumble.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">But, and it's a big but, whilst maths, science and technology etc. might
tell us how much it costs to fly or how the engines on the jumbo jet work and
keep the plane high in the sky all the way to Australia, they will tell us
little about what Australia is like, or why English is the language of
Australians, nor will they help me to understand the spiritual beliefs and
sacred nature of Uluru</span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">to the Aborigine peoples.
They might produce wonderful technology that streams music instantly around the
world but they won't tell us about the beauty of a Bach concerto or a great
love song. They might help to build great concert halls or provide sound
systems for a great theatre but they won't help us to appreciate a stunning
performance of Swan Lake or to empathise and weep when we hear an actor declaim
some great lines from Shakespeare or to understand the characters and their
world in a musical like Les Mis. They will give me the technology to view my
bank account at the click of a mouse button but they won't give me any guidance
or understanding to ensure that I spend my money wisely for the good of not
only myself but my family and for the world. They might give me a complex
mathematical equation or algorithm to calculate what my chances of catching
Covid are or whether my granddaughters will get their required grades in their
exams but they won't be any help at all in helping me to understand and to have
the emotional maturity to sympathise when an old friend dies of Covid or when
teenagers struggle with mental health issues, as they did last year, because
the algorithm went up the spout and the exam system became a fiasco. They might
give me a knowledge of numbers so that I can understand and make meaningful
sense of a date like 375BC but won't explain to me that in that year Plato
published his great tract The Republic in which are rooted many or most of our
modern day views of justice or morality nor, when I read the number 1819 and
understand the numerical place values in that number - thousands, hundreds,
tens and units - will mathematics or science help me to understand that the
Peterloo Massacre occurred in that year and that it had a profound effect upon
upon the political life of the nation and upon the very great political and
social rights and freedoms that I enjoy today</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I could go on. Yes, science, maths and technology are vitally important
but they are not greater priorities than the arts - history, dance, archeology,
music, literature, foreign languages, philosophy and the rest. Science and
maths give us the knowledge, to create the world that we want but the arts
enable us to make sense of our world, to understand our fellow man and woman
and recognise what makes them tick, to learn to be empathetic, to see the other
guy's point of view, to appreciate beauty in whatever form it takes, to think
complex thoughts, to be able to appreciate the beauty of a small flower in the
hedgerow or a bee buzzing over a garden plant but at the same time be overcome
and overawed at the mighty spectacle of the Grand Canyon or the serene majesty
of the Taj Mahal, to be moved and inspired by a profound piece of poetry or,
because of one's knowledge of the nation's proud history, to be stirred and
proud when our country wins the World Cup or we stand in silence on Remembrance
Day, to know what is worthwhile and understand what is decent, just, right or
fair or to be able to recognise, feel, or perhaps understand our own and wider
mankind's spiritual aspects and needs. Equations and theories, wonderful and
often magical though they are do not pass on these deeper aspects of our
existence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #050505; font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">In short, and to put it another way Gavin Williamson's "strategic
priorities" - maths, science, technology etc.- give us knowledge and teach
us facts but those areas that he tells us are somehow less valuable and
"not strategic priorities" give us so much more, they give us that
most precious commodity - it's called wisdom - and they teach us how to be, and
what it is to be, human. The man is an oaf - in keeping with the rest of the
political rabble that is the modern day Tory party and their outriders. In days
gone by the ancient Greeks or the Roman's would have recognised this and he and
they would have been condemned as "barbarians" - uncivilized, without
wisdom, lacking in any sort of culture</span></p>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-59531206435213092762021-05-03T15:52:00.002+01:002021-05-03T15:54:10.654+01:00The Colonel: Memories of a Wonderful Teacher<p> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: justify;">In our frenetic,
24 hour news, hyperbola filled world the quest for the next big story to fill
our newspapers, TV screens, social media platforms and, thus, our hearts and
minds, is only nanoseconds away. In bygone days there was truth in the saying
that today’s news is tomorrow’s fish and chip paper but today mobile phones,
social media, online browsing and the instant gratification of the internet
mean that we can satisfy our urge for continual titillation, stimulation and
trepidation each and every waking minute. Whether it be packs of pit bull
terriers, rampant rapists, parades of paedophiles, invasions of immigrants,
mobs of Muslim</span><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify;">terrorists, streets full
of stressed student snowflakes or</span><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify;">a
pandemic threatening the population of the planet the reason and result is the
same;</span><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify;">humanity constantly seeks the four
horsemen of the apocalypse to sate its drug like desire for a fresh vertiginous
high and to occupy its anxious and angst addled attention. For the past year plus it has been the
ghoul like Pestilence, in the guise of the Covid pandemic, who has ridden rough shod through our manic media and our
worst nightmares and wildest imaginings.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSiodD76Pe23chCIiDtcekkSI3QDGG9PThzWRCWRPmA1udBsrvqAwDU85IkNawR1Xtn7AWYqPO6PK0h54dDqb33410EEufOflASE2CLHLGn5h0XHAJvekZ1UnXROmnPxWHUK8qlIegjJA/s485/ScreenHunter_02+May.+03+15.36.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="368" data-original-width="485" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSiodD76Pe23chCIiDtcekkSI3QDGG9PThzWRCWRPmA1udBsrvqAwDU85IkNawR1Xtn7AWYqPO6PK0h54dDqb33410EEufOflASE2CLHLGn5h0XHAJvekZ1UnXROmnPxWHUK8qlIegjJA/w386-h293/ScreenHunter_02+May.+03+15.36.jpg" width="386" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">The synagogue where we sat taking in all that<br />Mr Parkin, the Colonel, had to offer. Our "classoom" was<br />at the rear of the synagogue on the extreme left of the <br />picture - we looked out through the two upstairs windows.</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">But as the media
maelstrom rages and the destruction of society as we know it looms I find my
mind wandering to another age, a life time ago when I first heard the word
“pandemic”. Whenever I hear or read it even today, I do not initially imagine
some dreadful plague spreading and laying waste to my family and friends but
instead think of "the history man", or “the Colonel” as we callow teenagers secretly
called him; a man who opened up a world for me and without any doubt changed my
life.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He sat opposite
me first one early summer evening in 1963 in a room above the United Hebrew
Synagogue in Leamington Road Blackpool. When I left school I became a trainee
draughtsman at a Preston engineering company but having obtained my ONC – the
baseline qualification for my work – the small company for which I worked
closed its Preston office and I was offered the opportunity of moving, with the
company, to its head office in the midlands but at that time I was unsure about
leaving my home town. I also knew that if I was to progress in that line of
work I would need to get further qualifications – an HNC and then an AMIMech.E
- and I wasn’t sure that this was where my future lay. The result was that,
after much thought, I decided to follow another path – one that I had often
considered – namely to go into teaching. So, I made enquiries and eventually
found myself invited for an interview with a view to studying for A levels, in
order to gain entrance to a teacher training college. That was why I sat above
a synagogue in Blackpool that night – being interviewed for a place on the A
level course at Blackpool Technical College and School of Art.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Blackpool “Tech”
in the 1960s was a huge and highly respected establishment catering for a vast
range of students and qualifications from technical/industrial to commercial,
to fine art, to GCE and A level subjects and especially catering and hotel
management – for which it was internationally acclaimed. Its many departments were
spread throughout Blackpool and the A level “arts” subjects were based in what
had once been the old Blackpool Grammar School on Raikes Parade. More or less
adjacent was the Jewish synagogue on Leamington Road. The College rented two
or three rooms above the Synagogue as private study rooms for the A level
students and for administrative use by A level staff, and it was there where I
sat that summer evening.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The “Colonel”
was Alan Parkin who, as well as teaching A level history was in charge of A level
studies. He was a quietly spoken, pleasant, middle aged man who I immediately
took a liking to and at the end of the interview he offered me a place to study
history, geography and economics. I had passed a geography O level at school
and enjoyed all things historical but had not studied either history or
economics before and so as I left to catch the bus back to Preston, Mr Parkin
gave me reading lists for all three subjects with the advice that I should
prepare as much as possible before starting in September.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the first of many good bits of advice
that he gave – and I will be forever thankful for it. Many of the students, he
explained, would be straight from school and would have studied these subjects
before so I needed to put in a bit of work<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>if I was to keep up with them. When September came I discovered that he
was right – several in the group had already passed A levels at their schools
but were doing the course and exam again at Blackpool Tech. to get better
grades in order to get into top universities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was very much the plodder but as I walked out of the synagogue that
night clutching my reading lists it wasn’t anxiety I felt but a real buzz – it
was something new to look forward to, a new start, perhaps a new life, and I
couldn’t wait to get started.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That summer was
one of the happiest of my life. I bought most of the books on the list and
spent day after day at home, in the local park or most often in the town
library reading and making notes, following Mr Parkin’s guidelines to the
letter. Local authorities in those days awarded grants (remember them!) to
students and I got a grant for books plus something towards my basic living
costs and the payment of college fees. I also had some savings from my work as
a draughtsman which helped but mostly I lived off the pockets and good will of
my parents, a thing for which I will be forever grateful as they were not well
off and my studying must have been at some considerable cost to their own lives
and ambitions.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And so September
came. An early morning bus to Blackpool each day meant that I was always
sitting above the synagogue before eight working at my latest essay, or reading
up on some piece of history or economics or geography; it wouldn’t be untrue to
say I was in heaven! The work was hard but every evening as I sat on the
Preston bound bus I felt that an exciting door had been opened for me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>For the next two
years, as our history teacher and the man in charge of A levels, Alan Parkin
was our guide, mentor and assessor. I can still see him today standing in front
of our motley group of would be teenage historians in his tweed jacket and grey
trousers with knife edge creases – his demeanour unapologetically professional
and very correct. His blue striped regimental tie, shining brown leather shoes, quiet
voice and precise spoken English gave him an old fashioned authority and marked
him out as someone to respect. Each lunchtime, as we brash teenagers sipped our
coffee in sea front coffee bars, the juke box blasting out the Beatles, the
Stones, Roy Orbison or Cilla Black it wasn’t long before the colonel featured
in our conversations. It was Les Levett who had first coined the nickname “the Colonel” and it stuck; it made complete sense. Mr Parkin’s clipped speech,
upright stance, short cropped hair, dead
straight parting and grey pencil moustache gave him a military bearing and
encouraged us all in the belief that he was an ex-officer - a conclusion that
proved correct when he told us of his war time experiences in Germany when we
studied the rise of Hitler.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>Alan Parkin –
both visually and in the way he taught had “presence”. He did not praise often
or easily but praised well when it was merited. We quietly mocked his clipped
speech and his outward formality but we all respected him hugely both for what
he gave us and how he gave it. He didn’t set out to impress but even to us
rebellious sixties teenagers he did. He had high expectations of himself and
the way he presented to the world and made it clear that he had high
expectations of us – referring to us always as “ladies and gentlemen”, as Mr
Beale, Miss Hudson, Mr Levett or Miss Williams. Above all he gave time and was
ever aware of individual students – asking, as he passed us in a corridor how
things were going, how had we found a particular essay or piece of reading,
could he help with any applications for college or university – and like all
good teachers he made you feel good and the best, even when you knew that you
weren’t. Ask a question in lesson and he could make it sound as if you had
asked the most important question in the world when really you were just
showing your own dismal ignorance. And it is here where I come back to
“pandemic”!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>As, one day, we
studied the origins of the First World War, the Colonel, upright, soldier like,
chalk in his hand was briskly explaining to us the many interwoven causes of
that terrible conflict. We sat scribbling notes in our files – me hoping that I
would be able to make sense of them later on the homeward bound bus that night!
As I scribbled, Mr Parkin began to talk of the 19<sup>th</sup> century
pan-Slavic and pan-Germanic movements and my pen stopped in mid-scribble. Hesitantly I put up
my hand to ask what he meant – feeling that I must be the only one in the room
that didn’t understand (I wasn’t!). The colonel stopped and without speaking
wrote on the blackboard:”pan-Slavic, pan-Germanic, pandemonium, pantheon,
pandemic, panarchy, panacea, pancratic, panistocracy......” and so the list
went on and on. “Mr Beale”, he asked “what do you notice about all the words” –
the answer being obvious. He then asked if anyone knew what any of the words
meant. There was a sound of pocket
dictionaries being hurriedly dug out of bags and flicked through. Eventually a
couple of hands went up and without actually telling us, pied piper like, he brought us to the point
where we came to understand that the prefix “pan” meant “all”. Slowly, but
surely, the Colonel prodded our wits, put two and two together, so that we
gradually came to understand these linked words: a utopian government where all
rule equally; all the German speaking peoples; a cure for all; a temple for all
the gods; a row of all the demons let loose; the rule of all..............and
of course, pandemic: a disease across all the world.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When the time
came, in 1964, for me to apply for teacher training college he supplied me with
prospectuses and suggested that I apply to Nottingham as my first choice. The
history man was not wrong and the rest, as they say, is history – my history. Without his support and guidance I would not
have left the Hebrew Synagogue two years later clutching my three scraped
through A levels. Without them and the Colonel I would not be sitting here in
Nottinghamshire today. In my own classroom career I often found myself thinking
of the Colonel: his mannerisms his military bearing, the respect he gave his
students, the way he presented himself each and every day. I never forgot the
green ink that he used in his fountain pen (he would have no truck with ball
points!) to mark our work, explaining that green ink was much less intimidating
and more respectful to a hard working student than “aggressive” red ink. Years
later this became government advice to teachers and I shook my head as I read
this “new idea” from the DfEE. The Colonel had been ahead of his time! Alan
Parkin was what we would call today a role model. He was one of those people
that one remembers for what they were and that is why now, almost 60 year
later, when I read each day of the pandemic threatening to sweep the world I think
back to that lesson so long ago when the Colonel opened another door for
me. And that seems a much more important
and worthy than the latest hyperbolic, apocalyptic media soundbite. </span></p>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-80496021878163920822021-04-22T11:48:00.005+01:002021-04-22T14:43:33.447+01:00Football's Hearts & Minds: Bringing Colour to Humdrum Lives<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiATT8-8KhEDXpWeTkktWEFOlrVYfkrl67ltJSk-XsZTLmmOuk8e62cwZFfj_tVeZGSFhsNQVzyGrbk-FhZsyZuDJe74rvJoFMiLxGohPiC2aTShGf4iTU37CsnrjaE74POkfJetAV56rs/s575/ScreenHunter_01+Apr.+21+19.41.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="277" data-original-width="575" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiATT8-8KhEDXpWeTkktWEFOlrVYfkrl67ltJSk-XsZTLmmOuk8e62cwZFfj_tVeZGSFhsNQVzyGrbk-FhZsyZuDJe74rvJoFMiLxGohPiC2aTShGf4iTU37CsnrjaE74POkfJetAV56rs/s320/ScreenHunter_01+Apr.+21+19.41.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">The plans by twelve of the big European football clubs to
form a breakaway “super league” have, it seems, gone down the proverbial pan –
for now! In my opinion, however, and despite the criticism from fans, players, clubs and politicians, it is only a matter of time until something of
that format becomes a reality. Whatever the rights and wrongs (and there were
few rights and many wrongs!) of the proposal that Manchester United, Real
Madrid and 10 other top clubs were trying to get away with this week at the
expense of lesser footballing mortals in the shape of smaller clubs and
millions of fans, the fact is that it is now just as easy for a club like
Manchester City or Juventus to fly across Europe for a fixture as it is to play
in their own country.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Times have changed. Manchester United will be aware of that
probably more than any other English club. Sixty three years ago I remember as
a child watching in distress as the tragedy of the Munich air disaster unfolded
on our little black and white TV screen and my childhood heroes in the Busby
Babes – Edwards, Charlton, Colman, Taylor and the rest lay on the snow covered
tarmac of Munich airport. United were one of the first English clubs to take
tentative steps into European football (against the wishes of the English FA
and Football League) in the 50s but today, of course, big clubs fly off on a
regular basis to far flung places. It’s all part of the day to day life of the
modern club and player but in those far off times it was a rare and special
event – and for United a tragic one.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was thinking of this as I followed the many reports this
week about the ill fated and ill thought through European Super League. Today,
players live in mansions and behind security walls set apart from the world of
paying fans and living a life that players of the Busby Babes era could never
have imagined. I often wonder what the “value” and the life style of the late
Duncan Edwards would be today had he survived Munich – in my view and the view
of many of my generation, Edwards was, and by a long way, the finest English
player ever and possibly the finest player ever. Today he would live in a huge
mansion and live a life so far removed from that of the fans that it truly
would be difficult for us lesser mortals to comprehend.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">And as I wonder about all this I remember the story often
told by Sir Bobby Charlton which is perhaps worthy of retelling this week when
these giant financial enterprises that are the modern football club are accused
of greed and forgetting the interests, needs and dreams of their fans. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0kqW7eXW0E3-WsMe9p9oWXTjxSxcR0_R8Um2eO1veDvtuHw2jMPumhKZ9_HNsa1peeumNCdrPlOl8SKwAgTMgKB9JFWrTR1QjMmd7P5sngfmiXsJwHjL5sUBRUgPtWDOS0zHVyiRRDT4/s2048/licensed-image.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2045" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0kqW7eXW0E3-WsMe9p9oWXTjxSxcR0_R8Um2eO1veDvtuHw2jMPumhKZ9_HNsa1peeumNCdrPlOl8SKwAgTMgKB9JFWrTR1QjMmd7P5sngfmiXsJwHjL5sUBRUgPtWDOS0zHVyiRRDT4/s320/licensed-image.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sir Matt Busby</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">Charlton tells the tale of when he joined Manchester United
as a young player soon after his seventeenth birthday and arrived at Old
Trafford, young, raw, excited and anxious that he could “make it”. Young
players like Charlton would be taken onto the car park outside the ground by
United Manager Sir Matt Busby and there given a homily on “the duties” of a
professional footballer and his expectations for players at Manchester United.
Busby would point to the surrounding area of Trafford Park - in those days one
of England and indeed Europe’s great industrial landscapes filled with tall
factory chimneys belching smoke, heavy engineering factories, cotton mills and
warehouses, and a thousand other industrial concerns, and rows of grimy
terraced houses where United's fans lived in walking distance from the stadium.
Busby would kindly but sternly tell the young player how lucky he was to be
starting a career playing football where day in day out he would be doing what he
had always dreamed of, and doing what the fans who came to watch on Saturday
afternoon would give their right arm to be able to do – to pull on a United
shirt and play on the turf of Old Trafford. But, Busby would add, that
opportunity that Charlton and his peers were being given came with
responsibilities. Players and Manchester United Football Club must, Busby
stressed to the young Charlton, </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">always
give something back – that was the price of playing for United. They must
provide what he called “the spark”, bring what he called “colour” into the lives
of the thousands of men and women who came at the end of each working week to
Old Trafford and spent their hard earned wages at the Saturday afternoon
turnstiles. It was the players’ and the club’s duty to lighten their humdrum,
hard working lives. “People”, Busby would say, “want something to carry them
through the next drab and backbreaking week of daily grind and get them away
from the dark days of winter”. They wanted, said Busby, “excitement and thrills
that would send them home smiling and full of hope and expectation” and it was,
the manager went on, “every Manchester United footballer’s duty to always
produce as much of that as he could”. Busby knew that a football club is
nothing if it does not serve and remember its fans. In short, it’s just a bunch
of blokes in their underwear kicking a bag of wind around a field for 90
minutes no more, no less.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />The world has come a long way since then – and perhaps not
always for the better. It seems in this modern world rather twee and old
fashioned to talk as Busby did of things like “duty” – especially with regard
to the multi-billion pound world of professional football. The world of “duty”
and “responsibility” and of Matt Busby and the young Bobby Charlton <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(and me!) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is a long way from today’s billion dollar SKY
contracts or the hospitality boxes of our big stadiums. It’s a long way from
the mansions of Cheshire wherein reside the star players of the big north
western clubs. And it’s a very, very long way from the ill considered and
devious plan for a “super league”, seemingly cobbled together on the back of a
fag packet by financial whiz kids and absent owners with little or no interest
in football – men who live in places far removed from the communities that
surround our great stadiums and who see a club like United or City or Chelsea
or Spurs or Arsenal, or Liverpool as just an investment that must be maximised
and milked. I cannot help adding that in my view, and given their long and
proud (and with the Munich tragic) history, Manchester United above all clubs
should have understood this. It is to their shame they did not; Busby would
have appalled.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">I do not believe that any of these far flung owners and
merchant bankers, venture capitalists, hedge fund managers and the like could
begin to comprehend the sentiments that Sir Matt Busby passed on to all his
young charges those many years ago. Maybe we have lost something along the way
– I certainly think so.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Now, well into my eighth decade I can look back and thrill,
as I did all those years ago at the heroics and great deeds of players and
clubs – Charlton’s thunderbolt goals, Edwards’ powerful drives into to the opposition
penalty box, Jimmy Greaves and the great Spurs teams of the 1960s, the glories
of Arsenal’s illustrious footballing past and the magnificence of the marbled
halls of Highbury, Shankley’s great Liverpool sides or, most of all, week after
week being privileged to watch the supreme footballer and sportsman the great
Tom Finney play at Deepdale for my beloved Preston North End and after the game
standing outside the players’ entrance for him and his team mates to come out
and sign my autograph book and then as he did so often pat me on the head and
ask if I’d enjoyed the game. Those are the things that make football what it is
– the “contract” between the club, the players and the fans; Busby understood
that well when he gave his little homily to young players, but it seems that
today’s club hierarchy at United, City, Spurs, Arsenal, Chelsea and Liverpool
did not – it was pound notes that filled their dead, glazed eyes. That was
their only criterion for action.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">But I wonder, is all lost? Maybe not. I’m sure that my
football mad Grandson, Sam, will when he is my age, remember the great
footballers of his generation - Kane, Messi, Salah, Rashford, de Bruyne.......
– and the great teams of today: Guardiola’s Manchester City, Klopp’s Liverpool,
Solskaer’s United and the rest. That is how it should be. And I’m sure that he
will remember, as I do now and when he is, like me, a grumpy old man he will
recall the “buzz” he felt as he went through the turnstile at his club Reading.
He will remember what it felt like and the dreams that one has before each game
– and of course the dejection when the result is not what he hoped for. He will
remember all this for that is the very essence of the club/fan relationship
that Busby spoke of to the young Charlton. And what I also know with absolute
certainty is that while names like Kane, Rashford, Klopp, Messi, Guardiola and
the rest will stay with my grandson he will, too, fondly look back upon to
remember their great footballing deeds.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">But there is something else which I am equally sure of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my grandson looks back on his lifetime
love of football he will not remember the authors of the plan for the “European
Super League”. Manchester United’s Ed Woodward and the American owners the
Glazer family, Liverpool’s owner American billionaire <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John Henry, Spur’s absentee owner Joe Lewis
sitting on his Caribbean island, Arsenal’s mysterious and dubious owner the
American Stan Kroenke, Real Madrid’s President Florentino Perez Rodriguez,
Juventus’ Andrea Agnelli and the rest will all be yesterday’s men – forgotten
both in the mind of the football fan and indeed by the world as a whole for
they have no claim to our affections; their only claim is to their own wealth
not our hearts. And that of course, was at the root of the gross folly that
was the European Super League and is something that Matt Busby when he spoke to
the young Charlton, Edwards, Best and the rest all those years ago would have understood
very well.</span></p><br />Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-59230319062597472832021-04-05T16:43:00.010+01:002021-04-07T19:23:38.661+01:00"Nothing Is Forever: This Too Shall Pass.<span style="font-size: medium;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUHz341pSdLUyYntVhZs2wTnKi3Jip1bWbvlKVdj__y1vKeyL4TH9BPBdW3Z56OuTPPfY2WnTMdkbo2lwPx6kGVp8qGceyMFk9D8fgfTpz2mfRVH4k_yZ7uRF-z5Fg2hfXskll-Ev6u1g/s293/download.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="190" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUHz341pSdLUyYntVhZs2wTnKi3Jip1bWbvlKVdj__y1vKeyL4TH9BPBdW3Z56OuTPPfY2WnTMdkbo2lwPx6kGVp8qGceyMFk9D8fgfTpz2mfRVH4k_yZ7uRF-z5Fg2hfXskll-Ev6u1g/w247-h382/download.jpg" width="247" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">My copy of The Aenied</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">The ancient </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span>Persian</span><span> Sufi poet Attar of Nishapur told the tale of a powerful king who asks his assembled wise men to create a ring that would make him happy when he was sad. After deliberation the sages handed him a simple ring with the Persian words "This too shall pass" etched on it, which had the desired effect to make him happy when he was sad. It also, however, became a curse for whenever he was happy he knew that that too would pass.</span>
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span face=""Tahoma","sans-serif"" style="background: white; color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">We would do well to heed this tale in these </span><span face=""Tahoma","sans-serif"" style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">momentous and troubling times. In our 21<sup>st</sup>
century Covid world, where locked down nations, faltering economies, young
people missing their education, global warming threatening the planet,
inequality, great social movements such as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Black
Lives Matter, Occupy, Extinction <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>&
Me Too </i>vent their anger, increasing divisiveness permeates our politics, poverty
and malnutrition stalk many lands, civil war and strife is present in countries
across the world and increasing sabre rattling by the world’s superpowers are
witness to the disturbing times in which we live. But we should, too, remember
something else: that in the great span of history and of mankind they are but tiny
events which will, in the fullness of time, be replaced by other great concerns
– but also great joys; as the tale tells us “these too shall pass”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-themecolor: text1;">I was reminded of this last night as I lay
reading in bed. I am currently working my way through the magnificent translation by Princeton
Professor Robert Fagles of Roman poet Virgil’s epic work <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Aeneid</i> written in about 30 BC and telling the story of the
Trojan hero Aeneas and his passionate but ultimately tragic love affair with
Dido the beautiful and powerful Queen of Carthage, and his travels and battles
to fulfil his destiny, ordained by the Gods, to found the city of Rome and the Roman civilization. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Aeneid</i> was written by Virgil in
order that the Romans could celebrate their city’s origins and the creation of
their great and mighty Empire in the same way that the Greeks celebrated their
civilization through Homer’s poems <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Illiad</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Odyssey</i>. It is not
overstating the importance of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aeneid</i> to say that the great poem has
shaped the political and cultural landscape of Europe and the western world as
much as the Bible has shaped Europe and the west’s spiritual landscape – and still
today it explains much of our current world. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-themecolor: text1;">As I read the glorious words of Book 9 of the
poem (only three more books to go!) I came across these few lines describing
the Rutulian and Etruscan Latium armies flooding out onto the plain where a
great battle is to be fought against Aeneas and his invading Trojans:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-themecolor: text1;">“.......And
next his entire army<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-themecolor: text1;">Moving
out across the plain,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-themecolor: text1;">Rich
in cavalry, rich in braided cloaks, purple plumed gleaming helmets, bright
gold.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-themecolor: text1;">A
force like the Ganges rising spreading, fed by seven quiet but mighty streams<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-themecolor: text1;">Or
the life giving Nile ebbing back from the plains<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-themecolor: text1;">To
settle down at last in its own bank and bed.........”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span face=""Tahoma","sans-serif"" style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i><span face="Tahoma, sans-serif">Could it be, I wondered as I read of the great battle</span><i> </i><span face="Tahoma, sans-serif">that the Virgil and his fellow Romans
knew of the existence of the mighty Ganges River in India? Did they ever go to
India in those far off days over two millennia ago? I could accept that they
knew of the Nile, after all, that mighty river flows into the Mediterranean Sea
and the Romans were a Mediterranean people – but India and the Ganges was
another thing, a far off world. Did the Roman knowledge and influence spread
that far?</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-themecolor: text1;">But immediately I wondered this I also knew the answer for I was taken
back to another wonderful book I read recently, Colin Thubron’s magical and
powerful <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>travel book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Lost Heart of Asia </i>in which he
vividly describes the peoples and cultures of that remote region. The city of Merv (once known
as Antiochia and one of the largest cities in the world in ancient times, with a population of over half a million) sits on the Silk Road in
Turkmenistan, central Asia. The Silk Road in ancient times brought silk and
spices, paper, gunpowder and other exotic items from the East – India &
China – and was the route taking gold and silver, wool, animals, pottery and
other wares from the west to far away China and India in the east. But, the Silk Road, carried other things; even as
early as 300 BC <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> it took</span> ideas,
religion, philosophy and culture from east to west and west to east – and more
worryingly it spread diseases across the two continents, most notably the
Black Death. Although it is unlikely (but not impossible) that Romans actually
ever visited China (and vice versa) those two mighty civilizations <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>certainly knew of each other’s existence and
power; they were ancient trading partners via the myriad of merchants who
travelled the Silk Road carrying and trading their wares as they went. The results
of those trades eventually ending their journey in the markets of Rome and
China’s ancient capital Xi’an</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-themecolor: text1;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuQNU6KERlA2Fc0UYBD9VHKlq5XJANBgl1dZzi4mdEwaBz9hM6kDO3zTL3QkzbPukxj9MPuzx_E-7NO1CP8az_dZducEXhMpuYzPV5JWZtywfHTXXjIs11bB24FeL0AcC7PPaESZNRCE/s912/Augusto%252C_denario_di_p._petronius_turpilianus_con_soldato_partico_in_ginocchio%252C_19_ac..jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="869" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuQNU6KERlA2Fc0UYBD9VHKlq5XJANBgl1dZzi4mdEwaBz9hM6kDO3zTL3QkzbPukxj9MPuzx_E-7NO1CP8az_dZducEXhMpuYzPV5JWZtywfHTXXjIs11bB24FeL0AcC7PPaESZNRCE/w232-h243/Augusto%252C_denario_di_p._petronius_turpilianus_con_soldato_partico_in_ginocchio%252C_19_ac..jpg" width="232" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><i>Roman coin found at Merv</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-themecolor: text1;">In Thubron’s book he records how, on visiting the area around present
day Merv, he was struck by the people of the area, many of whom had a very
definite olive skinned Mediterranean appearance. He was struck, too, by the
number of Latin sounding words in the local vocabulary and even street
names frequently had a Latin “feel” about them. He discovered, too, that it was
not uncommon for ancient Roman coins to be dug up in the fields and for homes
to have shrines dedicated to Gods with clear connections to the Gods of ancient
Rome. How could this be, that in place far from Rome, in the
heart of what was once the mighty Persian Empire that there is this oasis of
Latinate people, artefacts, language and culture amongst the endless deserts, mountains
and peoples that dominate central Asia - the lands of those other mighty and feared warrior rulers, Genghis Khan and Tamerlane.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-themecolor: text1;">The answer was both simple and thought provoking. In 53 BC, at about the time that Virgil was writing his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aeneid</i>
the Roman army under Marcus Licinicus fought the great Battle of Carrhae
against the armies of the mighty Parthian (later the Persian and then the
Iranian) Empire under the command of General Surena. The Romans were routed, even humiliated, and
Marcus Licinicus fell in the battle. Thousand of Romans were slain and at the
conclusion of the battle over 10,000 of them were taken prisoner and sent as
slaves to the city of Merv. It is recorded that to humiliate the Romans even further General Surena ordered that a Roman prisoner be found who looked like the dead Marcus Licinicus and when such a prisoner was found the young Roman soldier was dressed up as a woman and paraded tied to a horse and facing backwards through the streets of Merv as the crowds mocked him. But, those terrible scenes were not quite the end of the story, the world moved on.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span face=""Tahoma","sans-serif"" style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">The years passed and with each passing year the Roman “slaves” slowly
became part of the Merv society: as they diligently fulfilled their slave duties and their knowledge and skills were appreciated and understood by their owners they slowly but surely were given more freedom from their slavery and they
prospered, they married local women, had children, settled down and became part
of the life, culture and economy of that great city. Others, on gaining their
freedom, moved on travelling further east to China where many settled and prospered in the
City of Liqian and yet others took up arms again, but this time in the armies
of the Chinese Xiongnu tribes and fought against the Han Dynasty at the Battle
of Zhizhi. The result of all this is that still today, those echoes of those
far off times <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>impact on the streets and
lives of Merv and its surrounding areas – the past empires, the battles and the
killing are long forgotten, “</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span face=""Tahoma","sans-serif"">These too have passed<i>”,</i></span></span><span face=""Tahoma","sans-serif"" style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;"> and are replaced by everyday life of marriage, birth, everyday life and prosperity and
death. In short the world moved on.</span><span face="Tahoma, sans-serif"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span><span face=""Tahoma","sans-serif"" style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">In the final few minutes of Shakespeare’s great play <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tempest </i>mighty Prospero reflects
the transient and ephemeral nature of mankind and his world by speaking some of the most famous words from all Shakespeare, indeed from
all literature, and in doing so he confirms </span>Attar of Nishapur</span><i>’</i><span>s</span><span><span face=""Tahoma","sans-serif""> tale of the ring upon which was
etched “This too shall pass”:<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">“Our
revels now are ended. These our actors,<br />
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and<br />
Are melted into air, into thin air:<br />
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,<br />
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,<br />
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,<br />
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,<br />
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,<br />
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff<br />
As dreams are made on; and our little life<br />
Is rounded with a sleep”.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span>Quite, and today, as I
think of the many and worrying present discontents that scream from our 24 hour
TV News and are splashed in large print across our newspapers– Covid, divisive
politics, global warming and the rest – it is very easy to be worried, angry, upset and fearful of the world in which we live. But we would all be well advised to also be hopeful because for each and every one of us, “These sadnesses, worries and anxieties too shall pass”. Of course, once these have “passed” there
will without doubt be others to concern us but as my little brief excursion
into ancient history via Virgil’s </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Aenied </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span>and Thubron’s wonderful book
reminded me we are all just tiny specks in the great sweeping and moving sands of time; the mighty Roman and Persian armies of three millennia ago are long gone, the majestic and once all powerful Empires and Emperors of Rome, Persia, and the rest are swept away, all dust, and the ancient Trojan, Greek and Roman heroes so
magnificently described by Virgil are no more. That is the nature of all humanity it is never still, "all things will pass".</span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHDJ_rCN7U80nfmRCrva_9oOmqwyk64qQNb4X5451rPaoIGxqdHzyQn6D2BNmmaWK_QYDym3Z9hBwXKmkYbN-rNj51P5GrN9oKmwB0iDuVwozkWKoGVxkmy_tCbhHj2pVXnw80z7MZVo/s2048/images.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1603" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHDJ_rCN7U80nfmRCrva_9oOmqwyk64qQNb4X5451rPaoIGxqdHzyQn6D2BNmmaWK_QYDym3Z9hBwXKmkYbN-rNj51P5GrN9oKmwB0iDuVwozkWKoGVxkmy_tCbhHj2pVXnw80z7MZVo/w210-h269/images.jpg" width="210" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Sara Teasdale</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span face="Tahoma, sans-serif">A century ago in 1918 during the final months of
the 1</span><sup>st</sup><span face="Tahoma, sans-serif"> World War Europe lay in ruins, there were millions dead and the whole world was reeling from four years of intense trench warfare the like of which the world had never before. It was all witnessed by the young American poet Sara Teasdale who reflected upon her ruined world but also upon its rebirth and the inconsequence of we,
mere mortals, in that rebirth. The result was</span><span face="Tahoma, sans-serif"> her famous
poem of hope </span><i>There Will Come Soft Rains, </i><span face="Tahoma, sans-serif">a
work that perfectly encapsulates the ephemeral world that mankind inhabits. It is, perhaps, apposite for these Spring
days of rebirth as we struggle to move forward, remake our post Covid lives, and hope our many present discontents “will
pass”. Like the tale told by the Sufi poet, or the rise and fall of great empires such as those recorded by <span>Virgil and Homer, or the story of the once great city of Merv the poem is a fitting reminder in these momentous and worrying times of our transitory world and the transitory lives that we all lead.</span></span></span><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">There
Will Come Soft Rains<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">There
will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,<br />
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">And
frogs in the pools singing at night,<br />
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Robins
will wear their feathery fire<br />
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">And
not one will know of the war, not one<br />
Will care at last when it is done.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Not
one would mind, neither bird nor tree<br />
If mankind perished utterly;<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And
Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,<br />
Would scarcely know that we were gone.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-85920819663594383462021-03-12T16:07:00.022+00:002021-03-16T11:39:31.892+00:00"The Tyranny of Self"<p><span face="Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The email in my Inbox this morning was clear. From a national holiday tour company which I have used before it informed me in bold headlines “We all deserve a little luxury”. It went on to explain that following the events of the past 12 months a little luxury is something that we all – and here it named me specifically – both need and deserve. Mmmmmm? But, I cannot help wondering, upon what basis is this assertion made? Do I – or does anyone else for that matter - <i>deserve</i> a little luxury? A “little luxury” would be nice, it’s true, but upon what premise or reasoning do I <i>deserve</i> it I ask myself? Is there some great universal truth that says that “a little luxury” is my rightful entitlement – for that is the implication of my <i>"deserving"</i> a little luxury - or is it, as I suspect, simply a vacuous assertion which not only has little worth or meaning but which has become part of our modern contemporary popular culture to be repeated and accepted as a great truth and a potential justification for dubious action? These are not flippant questions nor is this an isolated message; it is a message that we are exposed to incessantly in some form or another in the adverts on our TV screens, in our newspapers and in glossy magazines. It is also something that we have increasingly told our children in the past half century – that we, and they, are fully entitled to and deserving of whatever “luxuries” or dreams or desires they might have. In the words of the cosmetic advert “Go on – you know you’re worth it”; it is the cult of self that tells us that we have some kind of God given right to pleasure, luxury and self interest. It is also a very worrying trend. <br /><br />It is, in terms of humanity, a relatively new phenomenon. Whilst parents throughout the ages have probably hoped and wished that their children would have better, easier, more fulfilling, more economically safe lives than themselves it is only in the last couple of centuries that these wishes have been widely met. In the past 50 years or so, however, things have almost certainly changed. We live today in an age when parents don’t just hope that their offspring’s life will be better than their own but where people are actively encouraged to maximise self interest and self advancement, when the young are advised from their earliest years that their personal happiness is paramount and that they can and should seek to fulfil their every dream; it is their birthright to be happy. It is the age of the self entitled and, sadly, the self righteous; an age where personal desires dominate, where little or nothing should stand in the way of our desires and happiness, where only our opinion is right, where only we are the holders of the truth; and if you disagree and seek to thwart or limit my desires, my self advancement, my entitlement and my self interest then you should be silenced, usually, by the power of social media.</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">But, in the face of a world where self advancement, self entitlement and self righteousness increasingly prevail the grounds for altruism or even good behaviour become obscured. If we enthusiastically support the propensity of people - especially the young - to look exclusively to their own needs and desires and where they are the sole guardians of “the truth” – their truth - we should not be surprised when their self advancement, self entitlement, self righteousness and their “truth” leads to the toppling statues, "no platforming" in our Universities, "trigger warnings" to preface academic lectures and tutorials or breaking the law by having public demonstrations which are in these Covid times forbidden. They might be quick to denounce perceived racism, sexism, homophobia, inequality and all the other real or perceived ills that affect our world but in reality their quickness to take offence is the only quick thing about them. <br /><br />We are entering an age – termed by many as the Woke age - where a new breed of extremists who champion what they see as compassion and understanding yet are feral to those who disagree. It is an age which might also be described as the “tyranny of self” where, if you are not with these champions of self advancement, self interest and self entitlement you are against them for they have been brought up to believe nothing is their fault and that their cause comes before all else, including, sometimes, the law. It is a zero sum game in which the baying mob seek to remove all nuance and shades of opinion – always the first objective of any would be dictator or tyrannical regime. <br /><br />But all this has consequences. We should not be too surprised today in this age to find a falling away in terms of civic engagement, public decision making and indeed distrust and lack of engagement with public and political institutions and affairs. We should not be surprised when this leads to a wider rejection of those elected to be in charge of our affairs or indeed those, like the police, mandated to uphold the law. We should not be surprised that the very health and nature of our democracy is at stake. <br /><br />But at the same time, nor should we be at all surprised when this personal and civic disappointment and disengagement becomes an issue of personal well being and mental health. In short, we have made our young a promise that in most cases cannot be delivered; they have been promised the earth and that nothing is out of reach but the University of Life so often disappoints: harsh reality kicks in and disappointment, disengagement, anger or personal anxiety too often become features of life both individual and societal. They have been led to believe and expect that the world is theirs, that their truth is the only truth; that their happiness, success and beliefs are the only things that matter and to which they are entitled – and that is a thin gruel indeed upon which to build a life and offers no protection when their “truths” are found wanting, and their needs, desires and expectations are disappointed. <br /><br />Much of our present impasse can be traced back to the 1960s but although its roots are there the cult of the individual, of self interest, self entitlement and self righteousness is more linked to the late 1970s and 80s. One of the moderating constraints of the ’60s was the widespread impulse to enter public service or the liberal professions: education, medicine, journalism, government, the arts or public sector law. Few—very few—graduates before the mid -’70s sought out a ‘business’ education; and the numbers applying to law school were far lower than they are today. Instrumental self-advancement conflicted with the acquired habit of working with and for one’s fellow citizens. In a survey of English schools in 1949 it was discovered that the more intelligent the child the more likely he or she was to choose and interesting career with a reasonable wage, job security and personal satisfaction over a job that simply paid well. <br /><br />Recent surveys – and especially those dating from the 1990’s – however, are conclusive, and tell us that today’s young increasingly can imagine little else but the search for a lucrative career. They, and we, are fast losing the ability to even imagine a society or a career based upon anything other than personal gain and self satisfaction and self entitlement. Both at an individual level and a societal level we are losing a sense of purpose – other than our own short term advantage. Political scientist the late Albert Hirschman spoke of “the need for all societies to develop and ensure their ability to satisfy and promote a higher purpose and meaning in the lives of its men and women”; that is an ideal that is in the 21st century under severe strain. In the face of rampant globalisation, the consumer society, social media, a culture of self interest, self advancement, self entitlement and celebrity obsession we are in danger of losing completely. <br /><br />And when it is gone, what is left? Margaret Thatcher’s comment that “There is no such thing as society” takes on a powerful and worrying resonance. In such a culture where the old ties, hopes, fears, realities and aspirations that once bound us together have been replaced with self interest, self advancement, self entitlement and self righteousness, where the young are advised from their earliest years that their personal happiness is paramount, and where the consumer society, the media and social media scream out to all “Go on – you’re worth it, you can have it all”, we inevitably will have increased difficulty in comprehending what we have in common with others, for our self is all that matters. We lose touch with the affinities, the hopes, dreams, hopes and fears of our neighbours; we are in danger of losing empathy and understanding with those around us and in the wider world; we have become an “I” society replacing what was until the last 40 years or so a “We” society. And as that happens the very fabric of our moral as well as our democratic landscape is in danger of falling apart in the face of the "tyranny of self"</span></div>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-29966731955350400452021-01-29T14:39:00.004+00:002021-01-29T18:55:11.390+00:00"Don't worry about it, nobody died" - But they did!<p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;">With the brashness and confidence of youth my son, many years ago, would often say if either my wife or I came home from work with some problem or other that was causing us anxiety "Don't worry about it, nobody died". We always had a laugh about his flippant comment but accepted that he probably had a point and in a way, I suppose, it all helped to keep things in some kind of perspective.</span></span></p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7wJdHohSYp0GkE3saHJspuyGpDhyphenhyphengzmW0oVjTgYdvCGbLuf1wPjFIhR35t6B0y6W9bT2ntt_mEoBnY96NEFOEJ3DZkFJeZ_q0TWDbPE01ExYRxLHT7fNalXwzoLzID8nbkEPcf6bzr0o/s300/1.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7wJdHohSYp0GkE3saHJspuyGpDhyphenhyphengzmW0oVjTgYdvCGbLuf1wPjFIhR35t6B0y6W9bT2ntt_mEoBnY96NEFOEJ3DZkFJeZ_q0TWDbPE01ExYRxLHT7fNalXwzoLzID8nbkEPcf6bzr0o/w352-h197/1.jpg" width="352" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A grim faced Boris Johnson - <br />regret but no responsibility</i></td></tr></tbody></table>I've thought much about his "words of wisdom" in the past day or two as I have kept up with the news. Firstly, earlier this week a suitably grim looking Boris Johnson told us that the 100,000 UK Covid deaths landmark was a great source of sorrow to him and "difficult to compute" but, he added, that his government "truly did everything they could". And then yesterday we residents of Nottingham read the Coroner's Report following the suicide of a young Nottingham mother Philippa Day. She had committed suicide following grave and accepted errors by the DWP in the payment of her various benefits resulting in her getting seriously in debt and this leading to her suicide. I listened horrified as the TV news played her last pleading and harrowing phone call asking for help. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Both of these bits of news have one thing in common - people died; it doesn't get much graver and more serious than that - as I'm sure that my son would agree!</span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Both Boris Johnson and a "spokesman" for the DWP expressed their respective sorrow and condolences at these events but whilst they expressed sorrow and regret, neither took responsibility. And so, our world moves on. Apologies like Johnson's and that of the DWP are given to paper over the cracks and provide a modicum of "decency"; honour (if there be such a thing in our modern world) is satisfied. But two days later these easily spoken and cheap words of sympathy, accompanied with grave faces and sombre words, are forgotten - like yesterday's news they become today's fish and chip paper and the day after that they are forgotten as they fill our paper recycling wheelie bins - gone, blown away, unheeded in the maelstrom of our frenetic world. </span></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">So, I ask myself - following my son's youthful pearls of wisdom that the death of someone (or in Boris Johnson's case 100,000 Covid "someones") is of some grave significance and therefore a legitimate cause for concern and anxiety - shouldn't something serious happen to ensure that these grave matters are treated with due seriousness, that justice is served and that full and appropriate action is taken in respect of the deaths these almost certainly "innocent" people? Or will it, as I fear, be allowed to just pass like water under the bridge - a bit of unfortunate rather sad and messy collateral damage arising out of the world in which we live? Something that is regrettable but not a matter to get "out of perspective" or (to use a modern phrase) that we should "beat ourselves up with". Maybe we should just follow the advice in another clichéd bit of contemporary vapid and vacuous popular street culture posing as profound wisdom and "move on, get over it". I think not.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">From what we read and know, both of these tragedies in their different ways could have been avoided or at least minimised with a different set of priorities and decisions. The crocodile tears of our PM and the weasel words of the DWP are, in my view, not acceptable. For years now successive Tory governments have promoted the policy of "naming and shaming" when people in other walks of life doctors, teachers, social workers, police officers and the like fail in their perceived responsibilities - so why not governments and their ministers and government departments? But no-one is named and shamed, no-one resigns, no-one falls on their sword as a matter of personal and professional "honour". The reason for this is simple, namely that naming and shaming would not work for governments and ministers because that policy only works if those who are being vilified have any personal or professional "shame" - in other words they care about how well they do their job and so do feel shamed if they fall short or are accused by their superiors of falling short. In contrast, our current government and its ministers - and most of all our PM, have no shame or indeed honour - if they had then they would have gone long since.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lUx0i5h5yafLxQLFLFbGQ1LGuW0DFB2tg0ia4sIzsgYxI510ncm3dmWNzFh9JLbnyHhqv3DKB11ziSku8D6OEf6VtIWx_jqZHESEsmOiorsbmDTmCeITuh6wmOIWzqweZkSAq1Rc6M0/s284/2.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="284" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lUx0i5h5yafLxQLFLFbGQ1LGuW0DFB2tg0ia4sIzsgYxI510ncm3dmWNzFh9JLbnyHhqv3DKB11ziSku8D6OEf6VtIWx_jqZHESEsmOiorsbmDTmCeITuh6wmOIWzqweZkSAq1Rc6M0/w327-h204/2.jpg" width="327" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Philippa Day in happier times; her<br /> tragic and unnecessary death was proof<br /> of the truth of Camus' comment.</i></td></tr></tbody></table></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The whole episode reminds me of a famous point made by French author/philosopher Albert Camus who said "Every wrong idea ends in bloodshed, but it is always the bloodshed of innocent others". Quite; the wrong ideas of successive Tory government austerity policies meant that we were woefully and criminally unprepared for the effects of this pandemic, the wrong ideas of Boris Johnson and his cronies in managing our national response to the pandemic then made that situation immeasurably worse. And in the case of poor Philippa Day (and almost certainly many others) the wrong ideas of successive Tory governments and ministers (most notably Iain Duncan Smith) in respect of protecting and supporting the most vulnerable in our fragile society have been both directly and indirectly at the bottom of these many and tragic events.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">We should be very, very worried at the failure of those in power and those charged with making potentially life and death decisions to recognise the profound moral requirements associated with their role and equally worryingly their reluctance to accept the ultimate responsibility for their actions and decisions.</span></div></div>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-10251654477759066722021-01-14T17:14:00.003+00:002021-01-14T22:14:43.945+00:00When False Belief Bumps Into Reality<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhruMyMJXJpolVVesCisTpDGcaquCR3dOUZfM6IIfwI1rq4QC_oNjEsYfiYTI9zjtMZsjFUpETyn6Ru2Mr6b8zMOhhqsUVpnFl_g5duGFgu0x6Iq2NLQ4IvPkKQWaq6noBSvCLIXy_mIss/s328/ScreenHunter_05+Jan.+14+15.06.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="328" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhruMyMJXJpolVVesCisTpDGcaquCR3dOUZfM6IIfwI1rq4QC_oNjEsYfiYTI9zjtMZsjFUpETyn6Ru2Mr6b8zMOhhqsUVpnFl_g5duGFgu0x6Iq2NLQ4IvPkKQWaq6noBSvCLIXy_mIss/w400-h286/ScreenHunter_05+Jan.+14+15.06.jpg" title="Washington January 2021" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Washington 2021</td></tr></tbody></table><p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: arial; font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">The pandemic under which we are all currently living has brought the nation to its knees and caused suffering and distress quite unimaginable just a few months ago. It is unlikely to get significantly better any time soon. Having said that I am increasingly of a mind to suggest that there is another aspect of our national life that in the long run might have even more disastrous and distressing consequences.</span></p><p></p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In the past five years in this country we have seen a rapid and insidious growth in lying by those in power. We have a Prime Minister who casually and unashamedly lies to both Parliament and the electorate. He is ably assisted in this by other senior <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbfHM2E7DIebwTIbGam9FO_323hz-k-SBE2lLrYGOw0uzU3_zcqfoi0vdealRwoPLNdlyfTfb2D78HRwCC2Q4__M1tIw9xgvbhvu8kqeDHhh5uQ1AyCnDk_NUVNoMDKXKR1SFDJeZAd8/s0/ScreenHunter_01+Jan.+14+14.21.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Priti Patel Brexiteer and government minister<br />promising what cannot be delivered to the NHS</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Tory politicians. The Brexit campaign was based upon and ultimately won on a strategy of lying - most obviously in the lie emblazoned across the Brexit bus promising £350 million pounds each week for the NHS once we left Europe. The lying continues, like Pinocchio's nose it grows and grows - so that now every other aspect of our political life is tainted by the the knowledge that we are almost certainly not being told the truth by those in power. "Fake news" - a euphemism for lying - has become the buzz phrase of our times and the most worrying and appalling aspect of the whole charade is that no-one seems to care; Joe Public now casually accepts that this is reality and we should just accept the fact. It's just what politicians do. And Joe Public now takes it further - rather than being appalled too often he jumps on the bandwagon and repeats lie, spreads the fake news even when it is manifestly an untruth. In short we have lost our moral compass.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj10k-TZRI7ed7Voe66ImkMP79DU5z1iES9tSG0LY_XMYBIWLB4wrBz0Grf70rcsADiFMZJFWnplQ3d3fH6qs6lZ9T2QXbK8HVfptGykmsvauFqXbfb6L-a7ux_HGMqaWZqgmUrINyEByY/s239/ScreenHunter_04+Jan.+14+14.26.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj10k-TZRI7ed7Voe66ImkMP79DU5z1iES9tSG0LY_XMYBIWLB4wrBz0Grf70rcsADiFMZJFWnplQ3d3fH6qs6lZ9T2QXbK8HVfptGykmsvauFqXbfb6L-a7ux_HGMqaWZqgmUrINyEByY/s0/ScreenHunter_04+Jan.+14+14.26.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Trump - a man who spreads lies<br />quite unlike anyone else on Earth</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table>We are not, of course, alone. Across the Atlantic the once great USA is politically on its knees following the 4 year presidency of Trump and his henchmen. We should watch America and learn. When governments become tainted and corrupt because they lack integrity and when the electorate refuse to acknowledge the obvious - that truth and integrity matter - then things can get nasty very quickly. It is the starting point for unrest and insurrection - a condition that ultimately, and unlike Covid, there is no quick fix vaccine for. It is very easy for nations to slip into civil unrest and civil war - one only needs to look at other nations around the world throughout history and in our own times to see the truth of this.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Seventy years ago - at a time when integrity actually meant something in the political and social life of the nation writer George Orwell eloquently reminded us of this in his essay "In Front of Your Nose". He didn't use the phrase "fake news" and his main point was that people are often in denial about what constitutes truth and how we react to it. This is what he said:</span></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>"We are all capable of believing things which we know to be untrue. And then, when we are finally proved wrong, impudently twisting the facts so as to show that we were right. Intellectually, it is possible to carry on this process for an indefinite period of time: the only check on it is that sooner or later a false belief bumps up against solid reality, usually on a battlefield.”</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKvq1z8YzfZfmejKaFbq_akRrDYzdAf0_MH4Fs8aZBby7AN0ftSEtX3KmZ9ApxaMgxgbGqaXm1Tk9lRMWiHnvm8JkP0V60FewO84TU9gc7N94IJIA-aO5FcoF4f98EVA0gvYgNRHwVew/s236/ScreenHunter_02+Jan.+14+14.24.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="178" data-original-width="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKvq1z8YzfZfmejKaFbq_akRrDYzdAf0_MH4Fs8aZBby7AN0ftSEtX3KmZ9ApxaMgxgbGqaXm1Tk9lRMWiHnvm8JkP0V60FewO84TU9gc7N94IJIA-aO5FcoF4f98EVA0gvYgNRHwVew/s0/ScreenHunter_02+Jan.+14+14.24.jpg" /></span></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The arch villain Dominic Cummings<br />a man who gleefully spreads deceit and<br />misrepresentation to further his own ambitions </span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Orwell, as usual, was not wrong - the truth of his statement is to be seen on the "battlefield" streets of Washington and other US cities where "false belief" has indeed bumped up against "solid reality". It is a scene that can very easily (and I suspect will) come to this nation sooner or later unless we bring back to our political and social life some semblance of integrity and truth. </span></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fiye16ePqQXgnaMrRaIMdPRvsCDW3QYaxcjjv01Lik73ZL0YwrGrzeQoGVmG_cV0tPH2O8RGjc-Z6JWoU7SALMXkwNSei9HDiJEE1EApVZiqOCFBpuSIJKWffPFzXCpzyP7gMdeb2MM/s231/ScreenHunter_03+Jan.+14+14.26+-+Copy.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="178" data-original-width="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fiye16ePqQXgnaMrRaIMdPRvsCDW3QYaxcjjv01Lik73ZL0YwrGrzeQoGVmG_cV0tPH2O8RGjc-Z6JWoU7SALMXkwNSei9HDiJEE1EApVZiqOCFBpuSIJKWffPFzXCpzyP7gMdeb2MM/s0/ScreenHunter_03+Jan.+14+14.26+-+Copy.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Boris Johnson - a serial liar - a man who has<br /> built his whole career on lies and is probably<br /> unaware of when he is lying so deeply is it <br />ingrained into his psyche</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The solution is not easy nor is it quick. To do this every single member of the electorate must win the first battle - the battle of the ballot box - by voting for those with integrity and commitment to the common good rather than the quick fix, glib solutions of snake oil salesmen like Donald Trump and Boris Johnson. They must then win the second battle - by being well informed, taking a pride in their civic responsibilities, and holding to account those that they have voted for. It is only in this way that the political pandemic of deceit, fake news and lack of moral compass which is sweeping the world and is at its most prevalent in the USA and the UK can be overcome.</span></div></div>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-66057058224836928642020-12-20T11:48:00.003+00:002020-12-20T12:50:33.678+00:00A Christmas Carol or "To Give and Not to Count the Cost........."<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7OFrlEbnp5mX-l2henzrTOpet3FXGnuxmKsyXYqbWdLr4eeF2LGq-QvSpg7HADVQM-052y1c7FHuNY-4hXqeVDOb8Ax0H8Cu5BCIGOMCbl8UlGb0IPYfz3IICN5rIkdvJg_jLvxX1bwU/s405/ScreenHunter_01+Dec.+20+09.50.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="309" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7OFrlEbnp5mX-l2henzrTOpet3FXGnuxmKsyXYqbWdLr4eeF2LGq-QvSpg7HADVQM-052y1c7FHuNY-4hXqeVDOb8Ax0H8Cu5BCIGOMCbl8UlGb0IPYfz3IICN5rIkdvJg_jLvxX1bwU/s320/ScreenHunter_01+Dec.+20+09.50.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">At the beginning of 1858 Charles Dickens became
President of the Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital Appeal and on February
9th of that year he read his great book “A Christmas Carol” to
an assembled audience of social reformers and potential donors. Before the
reading he gave what is often regarded as one of his greatest and most powerful
speeches about the social conditions of his time. The whole, very long, speech
is recorded The Nursing Record of that time. In it he told of an
experience he had had whilst on one of his many – almost nightly - walks around London’s poorest areas. Dickens frequently walked the streets of
London at night – on his walks he got ideas for many of his plots, his
characters (in books such as Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby and, of course, A
Christmas Carol) and to fuel his vivid descriptions of the great city of Victorian London. Dickens
described in that speech to his audience of a powerful and telling scene that
he had witnessed on one of his walks:</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">“There lay, in an old egg-box, which the
mother had begged from a shop, a little feeble, wasted,
wan, sick child. With his little wasted
face, and his little hot worn hands folded
over his breast, and his little bright
attentive eyes, I can see him now looking steadily
at us. There he lay in his little frail
box, which was not at all a bad emblem of the little body,
from which he was slowly parting, - there
he lay quite quiet, quite patient, saying
never a word. He seldom cried, the mother said;
he seldom complained; he lay there seeming
to wonder what it was about. “God knows” I thought, as
I stood looking at him, he had his
reasons for wondering - how it could possibly come
to be that he lay there, left alone, feeble
and full of pain. There he lay looking at us,
saying in his silence, more
pathetically than I have ever heard anything said
by any orator in alI my life, “Will you
please to tell me what this means,
strange man? and if you can give me any
good reason why I should be so soon
so far advanced upon my way to
Him who said that children were to come
into His presence, and were not to be forbidden,
but who scarcely meant, I think, that they
should come by this hard road by which I am
travelling..........”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">Great Ormond Street Hospital <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>was established in 1852 after a long campaign
by Dr Charles West, a personal friend of Dickens, with just 10 beds and on that
night when Dickens spoke to the little group of potential donors he read to his
audience “A Christmas Carol”. This was not an idle or little thought about
choice – Dickens was no fool and on this matter he was both angry and
determined to make people think so he chose his great Christmas tale to point a
finger at the excesses of the City and at the gradgrind world of the
accountant and selfish Scrooge-like figures that haunted it. But, he
also knew that people mattered when it came to care and compassion and so in
telling the story of the baby in the egg box he was unapologetically pricking
consciences and appealing to ordinary people to pay up, to be responsible for
the health and welfare of their fellow men. Together, the two stories were
intended to plant a moral question into the minds of his audience and to ask
them to shoulder the responsibility – not hand it on to some management
accountant or venture capitalist or private equity company. In short – and as
Dickens posed the question first set out in the Book of Genesis - to his
audience: “Am I my brother’s keeper?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">At the end of his reading of "A Christmas Carol" Dickens appealed directly to his audience and put the ball squarely in their
court: " Now, ladies and gentlemen,
such things [the sick child in the egg box] need not be,
and will not be, if this company, which
is a drop of the life-blood of the great compassionate
public heart, will only accept the means of rescue and
prevention which it is mine to offer and make a donation to this
worthy cause and if every grateful mother who brings a child to the
hospital will drop a penny into a box placed on
the wall of the hospital, the Hospital funds may
possibly be increased in a year by so large a sum
as forty pounds. I will not believe that in a Christian
community of fathers and mothers, and
brothers and sisters, the hospital can fail to be
well and richly endowed". <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">As Dickens concluded the records tell us, that there
were great cheers from the audience. It worked - the appeal was very
successful. Dickens acknowledged , it was a small drop on the ocean – he was
originally looking for only thirty beds (an increase on the 10 beds that the
hospital had started its life) but by 1865 there were 75 beds available.
It was very small stuff with which to tackle the giant health and social
problems of the time; the hospital had to depend upon the goodwill of well
wishers and patrons - but work it did. People put their hands in their pockets,
not necessarily for themselves but for their fellow man and woman – Great
Ormond Street Hospital was born. Today, of course, Great Ormond Street is one of the great hospitals of the world, one of the "jewels in the crown" of our nation, but it was born of a small acts of giving from well intentioned but ordinary people.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I wonder,
today, as 2020 nears its end and when Dickens’ great Christmas tale is in many
minds, what the author would say of a country that almost 200 years after he
wrote his great works and despite being one of the richest nations the planet
has ever seen still needs food banks, campaigns from high profile people like
Marcus Rashford, and hand outs from international agencies such as UNICEF to
feed its poorest. I wonder, too, what Dickens would write of the wealth and
excess that typifies the City of London and many of those (like Jacob
Reece-Mogg) who benefit from its wealth and excess or work in its gilded towers
when contrasted with the lot of people who live in places like Southwark –
within walking distance of that great financial centre – and other similar
deprived areas throughout the land? Almost two centuries have passed since
Dickens took his midnight walks through the gas lit streets of Victorian London
where beggars, poverty stricken children and ill health amongst the poor was
common place. Sadly, however, as the report by Sir Michael Marmot “Fair Society, Healthy
Lives” published last week showed with frightening clarity, little has really changed for many in those two centuries. I think that our current discontents would have
depressed and angered the great writer – as would the facile and offensive comments
by Reece-Mogg, who is himself one of the great beneficiaries of the wealth,
excess and accountancy world of the City of London. It would also have offended Dickens to hear that a well respected world
institution like UNICEF in trying to help the most needy in society, was condemned by a receiver of great wealth, as just “playing politics.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGUf44hLjDBmA5hBMleX25oC3cVcOGq_wfn0zGYBdHfxNIoco6jAVfORsssRkbqFpqloVsHIjZ5cHwmWXYeo70seDetRXts2MzXQnA8WIDFcSIZjCYfcsI2sOR68HP9_YVwoIIC02FKC4/s935/ScreenHunter_02+Dec.+20+11.21.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="935" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGUf44hLjDBmA5hBMleX25oC3cVcOGq_wfn0zGYBdHfxNIoco6jAVfORsssRkbqFpqloVsHIjZ5cHwmWXYeo70seDetRXts2MzXQnA8WIDFcSIZjCYfcsI2sOR68HP9_YVwoIIC02FKC4/w461-h289/ScreenHunter_02+Dec.+20+11.21.jpg" width="461" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">And there
is another point which in many ways is the most telling – both of Dickens’
efforts to raise money for the fledgling<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>hospital and the reaction of Reece-Mogg to the UNICEF act of giving in
2020. It is this; The Nursing Record of February 1858 in recording the events
of that night when Dickens appealed for donations ended its report with these
words: “.....the ladies and gentlemen of the audience afforded Mr Dickens great
and rousing cheers as donations and endowments were pledged....”. Clearly they
were applauding the man and his great story and his appeal but were they not
also applauding something else – namely the very act of giving? When these
wealthy Victorians had pledged and donated did they not simply feel good about
it and a little more human – so they cheered and applauded. That is true of
most of us – when we give it makes us feel better about ourselves, we feel that
we are making a contribution to someone’s happiness – be it a birthday or
Christmas gift to a friend or relation or a donation to a favourite charity
- the result is the same. The act of giving to someone else gives us some kind
of personal dignity and a feeling that we have contributed to the community, to
the greater good, to the common good. We might be cynical and say that if Bill
Gates donates millions to some cause he is merely easing his tax burden<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- and it might be argued that he is – but
that does not alter the fact he can still feel good about his actions, he has made a difference to the life of someone else. From my perspective if that is, to use Mogg's words "playing politics" then I say bring it on"! It is a basic
aspect of the human condition that most of us wish to feel good about
ourselves, to have a high level of personal esteem, to feel that others look up
to us – and when those feelings are not there it can impact upon our mental
health – it is the consequence of being a social animal. So it is no surprise
that those long gone Victorians cheered and applauded when they had done their
good deed – had we been in that room we would have probably done the same – and
given ourselves a pat on the back and thought how virtuous we were. It’s called
being human.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Sadly,
however, Jacob Reece-Mogg, the MP for North East Somerset and bizarrely the man
appointed by our present PM as the Leader of the House of Commons has no such humanitarian
feelings. Presumably had he been in that room that night in 1858 he would have
left before the end muttering about Dickens being some kind of “leftie
anarchist playing politics”. He would have kept his hand firmly on his wallet,
unmoved by the pictures that Dickens painted of life for the poor in what, at
that time, was the greatest and wealthiest city on the planet. It is a damning and moral indictment on Mogg who is a devout Roman Catholic, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that this Scrooge like millionaire is so
scathing on those who seek to help the poor – UNICEF, Marcus Rashford and
others – when one of the great prayers of the Church – and especially the Roman Catholic Church - is that of St Ignatius of Loyola; a prayer which reminds us
all of our personal and Christian responsibilities, and the moral imperatives which ought to guide our actions as human beings – especially in the act of giving:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white;">"Teach me good Lord to serve thee as thou
deservest</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">To give and not to count the cost,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">To fight and not to heed the wounds,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">To toil and not to seek for rest,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">To labour and not to ask for reward</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Save that of knowing I do Thy Will"</span></span><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-25039712733874980732020-12-18T14:47:00.008+00:002020-12-18T16:10:09.996+00:00A CHRISTMAS CAROL 2020<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Over the past decade while the Tories have been in power we have seen an exponential growth in poverty – however it is defined; that is not opinion, it is fact. We have seen a rise in what is known as the gig economy where workers are often paid no more than survival pay with a lack of any other benefits from their employment such as sick pay. We have seen increasing numbers of people sleeping rough, sofa surfing or in hostels. We have seen an exponential growth in the numbers resorting to food banks. Schools and other institutions report increasing numbers of people having to choose between putting a meal on the table for children or heating the home. We have seen an exponential growth in the number of people needing to apply for various kinds of benefit – and at the same time we have witnessed successive Tory administrations tightening the purse strings.</span></span></p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8oMtmyTIC9Q8LbV1GXIk8orK-8-4FUFPibH_6dDGNYKISn0xu1b-bfAEvKd1ZBcZRHSsTgPlh4uds5XJ23l6mOSiv2-gluywkQW6n_tr4xV0YdgmKq3pXwUAtJJT9OW80cTsOcCMinM0/s574/ScreenHunter_04+Dec.+18+11.51.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="340" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8oMtmyTIC9Q8LbV1GXIk8orK-8-4FUFPibH_6dDGNYKISn0xu1b-bfAEvKd1ZBcZRHSsTgPlh4uds5XJ23l6mOSiv2-gluywkQW6n_tr4xV0YdgmKq3pXwUAtJJT9OW80cTsOcCMinM0/s320/ScreenHunter_04+Dec.+18+11.51.jpg" /></a></div>Only a few days ago Sir Michael Marmot published his long awaited report “Fair Society, Healthy Lives” which is scathing about the growing inequalities in this country and their impact upon the most vulnerable. Earlier this year a professional footballer, Marcus Rashford, himself born into poverty, named and shamed the government and had to drag them kicking and screaming to acknowledge the growing problem made worse by the economic effect of Covid 19 and pay for meals for school children. A week ago I watched an item on the BBC news about two Burnley vicars: Father Alec Frost and Pastor Mick Fleming who vividly and distressingly described the lives and problems – especially in relation to putting a meal on the table - facing many in that town. So, powerful was the message of the broadcast that over a quarter of a million pounds has been raised by donations to help these men in their endeavours in supporting those in the front line of poverty in England 2020. And finally, earlier this week it was UNICEF that recognised what our own government could not or were unwilling to recognise; namely, we do indeed have a problem of poverty in the UK. The organisation launched its first domestic emergency response in the UK by setting up various funding projects aimed at helping children and their families in need of help.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">That was the final straw for Tory Jacob Rees-Mogg – a man so far removed from any kind of reality, so lacking in understanding, empathy and compassion it is difficult to comprehend or attach to him any of the usual descriptors of the human condition. (Remember, Reece-Mogg is the same gentleman who after the Grenfell Tower fire disaster said those who perished only died because they did not show his - Mogg's - common sense!).When questioned about the UNICEF project in the Commons he was scathing in his response saying that UNICEF should be “ashamed of itself” for “playing politics” by (for example) offering to provide breakfasts for some of the poorest in society in Southwark, London. Presumably Reece-Mogg also believes that the two Burnley vicars should cease “playing politics”, as should Marcus Rashford – and clearly, the Marmot Report will not be on the Reece–Mogg reading list this Christmas.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">As I watched Reece-Mogg protesting about UNICEF’s actions I did not see the gaunt, almost Dickensian like second rate politician who has somehow managed to become one of the many unacceptable faces of not only the Tory party but of England 2020. Instead of Mogg I saw another Dickensian character, a man who Mogg can be very easily mistaken for both in looks and opinions. As I watched, it was Mogg's lips that moved but it was Ebenezer Scrooge's voice that I heard in one of the great extracts from Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">On Christmas Eve two gentlemen enter Scrooge’s counting house, their mission to raise donations to help the poor in the area at Christmas time. The conversation that follows tells us all we need to know about Ebenezer Scrooge in Dickens' great tale, but it also reflects with frightening accuracy Jacob Reece-Mogg and Tory Britain. If you substitute the name Scrooge and insert Reece-Mogg in its place Dickens’ main thrust still holds perfectly true!:</span></span></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPo6HcA0iiqi9kYmgHBKOgLE5hej0Id9wvaJi3EqfpGI744kjD5Jsdw230DorQKWurH8CB4wo23Pl7Z4sSjVrS45dcAf0Cp90yk614zgbeZJc0LvJqX_mUHnnhUTi1s5wX0sROlvqkRDg/s435/ScreenHunter_03+Dec.+18+11.50.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPo6HcA0iiqi9kYmgHBKOgLE5hej0Id9wvaJi3EqfpGI744kjD5Jsdw230DorQKWurH8CB4wo23Pl7Z4sSjVrS45dcAf0Cp90yk614zgbeZJc0LvJqX_mUHnnhUTi1s5wX0sROlvqkRDg/s320/ScreenHunter_03+Dec.+18+11.50.jpg" /></a></div><i>“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge (Reece Mogg),” said one of the gentlemen, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.”</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“Are there no prisons?” asked Scrooge (Reece-Mogg).</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“Plenty of prisons,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“And the Union workhouses?” demanded Scrooge (Reece-Mogg). </i></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“Are they still in operation?”</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.”</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?” said Scrooge.</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“Both very busy, sir.”</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Scrooge. “I’m very glad to hear it.”</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?”</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“Nothing!” Scrooge replied.</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“You wish to be anonymous?”</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned: they cost enough: and those who are badly off must go there.”</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“Many can’t go there; and many would rather die.”</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>“If they would rather die,” said Scrooge (Reece-Mogg), “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. It's not my business, it's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!".</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium; white-space: pre-wrap;">Welcome to Tory Britain 2020 - as foretold by Charles Dickens in 1843. It is perhaps worth noting that the Tories were in power in 1843 (Prime Minister Robert Peel) when Dickens published his great tale - little it seems has changed in Tory ideology or compassion in the intervening 177 years. St Paul preached that:</span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #222222; white-space: normal;"> “Now abideth </span><span style="color: #222222; white-space: normal;">faith</span><span style="color: #222222; white-space: normal;">, </span><span style="color: #222222; white-space: normal;">hope</span><span style="color: #222222; white-space: normal;">, </span><span style="color: #222222; white-space: normal;">charity</span><span style="color: #222222; white-space: normal;">, these three; but the greatest of these is </span><span style="color: #222222; white-space: normal;">charity</span><span style="color: #222222;">” - clearly none of those virtues applied in the world of Ebenezer Scrooge but today, nearly two centuries, later they are receiving short shrift still in the Tory party, in the world of Jacob Reece-Mogg and in the hearts and minds of the Tory faithful. Now, in my eighth decade on the planet, I often today wonder if society has moved on at all in the intervening years? Sadly, I fear that society and we haven't.</span></span></div></div>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-36619239790984695632020-12-01T16:52:00.006+00:002020-12-02T14:22:36.266+00:00 UNDER THE JOLLY TODGER: A YEAR CRUISING WITH CAPTAIN BORIS<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4H8xxZU8debJr-suw0EbTRG71uuLsQdpe6OwI2XOghSQmn8VnIxdGi6pI9roE8RG2aj6dIz7_n0glM1dqJdNOD8u7YQQhEAaAljzRmpV1ZkK3ZEt83QTXSgPa8-faoZksYJxZ11FiGnY/s398/ScreenHunter_03+Dec.+01+16.53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4H8xxZU8debJr-suw0EbTRG71uuLsQdpe6OwI2XOghSQmn8VnIxdGi6pI9roE8RG2aj6dIz7_n0glM1dqJdNOD8u7YQQhEAaAljzRmpV1ZkK3ZEt83QTXSgPa8-faoZksYJxZ11FiGnY/s320/ScreenHunter_03+Dec.+01+16.53.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I read today that our stumbling, bumbling Prime Minister, Boris Johnson,
has been given a new nickname by many of his Tory MP “supporters.” With
delightful timing, bearing in mind today’s date, he is increasingly referred
to, I understand, as “Advent Calendar” because his days are, apparently,
numbered! Ah! December 1st, Advent – from the Latin “Coming”. Children
throughout the world will be opening the numbered doors and windows on their
Advent Calendars and dreaming of the coming Christmas Day and all that it
promises. In my street several houses are already decorated with bright fairy
lights and Christmas trees. Yesterday we began to write our Christmas cards and
wished our family and friends happiness during the coming Christmas and New
Year.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But what a long way we have come since we expressed those same
sentiments during Advent 2019. Then, only 366 days ago, the good ship HMS
United Kingdom was steaming ahead across an almost serene sea with its newly
appointed captain Jolly Boris assisted by his first mate Dubious Dominic and
his crafty cabinet crew of scurvy sea dogs. We passengers on HMS United Kingdom
were all looking forward to the usual excesses of the Christmas season – office
parties, City bonuses, our credit card debt mounting, city centre pubs and
clubs awash ensuring that emergency services were kept busy and a thousand
other fantasies, dreams and desires which were stoked up by Jolly Boris for, as
he often announced over the loud hailer, our magnificent ship would soon reach
the shores of the magical kingdom of Brexitland where our every need would be
met and every dream fulfilled. There would be jobs, money and joy for all; the
years of austerity, misery and pain would be over so spend, spend, spend. And
in the casinos, the shops and the pubs and restaurants of HMS United Kingdom we
spent what we liked and what we did not have - for we were, Captain Boris told
us, on the greatest ship ever created, full of riches, luxurious and quite unsinkable
and on course to a magical land of plenty.</span></span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #050505;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="color: #050505;">No one, however, thought too hard about the passengers in Economy Class
decks deep down in the bowels of the ship. For them office parties,
restaurants, maxed out credit cards, huge bonuses or even Christmas joy were a
far off dream. They lived off the crumbs from the overflowing tables above and
Captain Boris told us that this was good and called it "trickle down
economics" so we should keep partying so that our crumbs would trickle
down to the poorest passengers below decks. These Economy Class passengers
passed the journey in the oil and the dark near the the engine rooms of HMS
United Kingdom whilst above them the rest of us in Tourist Class, 2nd Class and
1st Class, cheered on by Captain Boris, enjoyed the sun light, the bright
lights and the excesses of the Advent Sea and the Brexit Ocean beyond. But as
we made merry no-one, especially captain Jolly Boris, took any notice of the
lookout high above in the crow’s nest who daily shouted “Danger, Brexit iceberg
ahead prepare for a crash”. The good captain laughed his jolly laugh and said
“Full steam ahead my hearties, nothing can stand in our way, we are unsinkable,
I'll get you to Brexitland easily”. And in the coming weeks Captain Boris and
his crafty crew took no notice either when the lookouts called from their lofty
perches “Covid Mists ahead prepare for a plague”. Captain Boris and his First
Mate Dubious Dominic said “Don’t worry it’s a storm in a tea cup, you’ll hardly
feel the ripples in our mighty ship – we’ll send the Covid Mist packing”. So,
no preparations were made as the HMS United Kingdom steamed on through Advent
and the New Year towards the Brexit Iceberg and the Covid Mists. And – just
like on the unsinkable Titanic a century before – on the upper decks the band
continued to play while the passengers, Captain Boris, and his scurvy crew,
like the jolly Jack Tars of old, danced the hornpipe under Captain Boris’ own
flag – the Jolly Todger – a personal standard emblazoned with the names of the
many offspring that he had fathered each time he had dropped his anchor in fair
old London town. But as Captain Boris danced and made merry, below decks in the
darkness the Third Class passengers, the Economy Class passengers, the Gig
Economy Class passengers and lowest of all, in the very bilges of the ship, the
passengers with no cabin or bed to lie on - the Homeless passengers - struggled
on, getting food where they might and sleeping on the cold iron floor when they
must. And, uncaring, the good ship HMS United Kingdom with its wealthy
passengers and crafty crew cruised on towards Brexitland when, Captain Boris
told us passengers, our great journey would soon be done.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And the days and weeks passed. Another year, and here we are. Advent
2020. The good ship HMS United Kingdom is still afloat – just - limping along,
lost and alone on a vast sea. Its sails are in tatters, its sick bays full. Its
glossy shops are all closed and its restaurants and bars empty. Passengers who
once enjoyed the sun and the excess of the upper decks now peer out from their
cabins their faces haunted and fearful – thoughts of casinos, bars and revelry
all gone. Great dents and gashes mark the hull of the ship following the many
crashes with the Brexit Iceberg, and icy waters leak in to the great hull and
making the ship list dangerously. Below decks the Economy Class passengers are
fewer now – many have died as the Covid Mists drifted through the dark spaces
in the bowels of the ship and along corridors and slipped under cabin doors.
The Covid Mist overtook the ship, crept into every corner and in the bowels and
bilges the Economy Class passengers, already suffering from poor health
following years of harsh labour and poverty fell ill in great numbers; their
poor diet and cramped conditions making life difficult to sustain. And once the
virus mist crept amongst them it spread like wildfire. Captain Boris however
stayed jolly – and many loved him for it – he could not bear to see the
terrible truths that people were dying because the look out in the crow's nest
had not been heeded and no preparations had been made. And, because of the
quest for Brexitland the ship had lost its bearings zig-zagging and going in
circles over the endless Brexit Ocean. But still Captain Boris did little; he
didn’t like work or worry. Life was for living not worrying or planning and
preparing, he and his crafty crew of sea dogs were too busy for boring stuff
like planning a good course or paying attention to advice and detail instead
they spent their time dancing and singing under the Jolly Todger. And some of
the passengers began to mutter and complain but Captain Boris took no notice.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #050505;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="color: #050505;">Now, however, no one today, in this 2020 Advent, aboard the once
unstoppable and unsinkable HMS United Kingdom dreams of Christmas excess, huge
bonuses or office parties – most of us passengers would be happy with a quiet
and safe Christmas spent in our cabins with our loved ones. Captain Boris no
longer cheers people on with his loud hailer promising them riches beyond belief
– he appears only rarely, his face haunted and haggard. His trusty First Mate
Dubious Dominic walked the plank and many other of the scurvy crew are now food
for the fishes. But Captain Jolly Boris, not now so jolly, lives on like some
21st century Captain Ahab emerging only from his cabin only when it is safe.
Ahab scanned the oceans for his nemesis Moby Dick, the great white whale, and
Captain Boris scans the ocean for his own twin nemeses Brexitland and
Covidvaccineland. He still hopes that the magical Brexitland will bring him
salvation and that Covidvaccineland will, by some scientific miracle be avoided
if scientists come up with a cure. If not, Captain Boris knows that like the
Advent Calendar his days are numbered. Like Captain Ahab, he will be swallowed
up by his nemeses – it will be political oblivion.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But as he scans the ocean through his telescope looking for some
salvation Captain Boris sees only a sea of floating bodies wrapped in their
Union Flags – the dead victims of the Covid Mist that swallowed up our
unprepared ship and are now buried at sea. And below Captain Boris’ feet in
Economy Class the surviving poor scramble for what little food, water or warmth
there is, fighting for daily handouts. And as they sleep, cold in the bowels of
the hulk they dream that one day they might find themselves on dry land where
they can feel the sun, till the soil or build a rough cabin to call a home of
their own – anything, to survive and escape from the floating nightmare that is
the HMS United Kingdom under the captaincy of Jolly Boris and his scurvy crew.
As the sun sets HMS United Kingdom lists a little more and parts of it begin to
break off and the passengers on the Scottish Deck talk of taking to the
lifeboats and seeking safety elsewhere, perhaps on the good ship EU. But on HMS
United Kingdom the old hull creaks and groans as Captain Boris, his eyes
blinded by the constant searching for the sunny uplands of Brexitland, scans
the horizon whilst behind him the band plays on; playing again, as it plays every
day when another burial at sea takes place, the same hymn that it did on the
Titanic when that mighty unsinkable ship sank a century before: “Nearer my God
to thee”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #050505;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OXJkt9jITYISNgIGr2-5_jhlHkv-tdTw5wPJuIwNXCCROzKP-q8G1gau2-QSbZB4tJzlQH-X_4f4bMAlAb6NeRfMzp3niwEMz2rNl-fa_aQK_F3ByPwbnHKBMxxrSgwpA8K8jr2BW-o/s475/ScreenHunter_02+Dec.+01+11.59.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="287" data-original-width="475" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OXJkt9jITYISNgIGr2-5_jhlHkv-tdTw5wPJuIwNXCCROzKP-q8G1gau2-QSbZB4tJzlQH-X_4f4bMAlAb6NeRfMzp3niwEMz2rNl-fa_aQK_F3ByPwbnHKBMxxrSgwpA8K8jr2BW-o/w356-h214/ScreenHunter_02+Dec.+01+11.59.jpg" width="356" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ah, Advent. How times have changed in just one year, 366 days. We
dreamed last Advent of the excitement, promise and joy of Christmas and New
Year excess and wrote “a happy New Year” on our Christmas cards. Who could have
guessed? Who could have forecast? In all truth, no one – but we ignored all the
signs, we allowed Captain Jolly Boris and his scurvy crew to grab control and
to continue powering full steam ahead when all sense and wisdom said slow down,
take notice, make preparations, check the life boats. We thought we were
invincible and believed Captain Boris when he laughingly told us that the HMS
United Kingdom was great and unsinkable – but we were not invincible and HMS
United Kingdom was not unsinkable. From Advent 2019 when we thought we sailed
supreme in a glossy impregnable marvel on a serene sea of pleasure and plenty
we have discovered in twelve short months that we are actually a rather
miserable lot, not exceptional or great or invincible as Captain Boris so often
told us. We are just a very ordinary set of passengers - foolish, pathetic even
- and kept afloat, our heads just above water only by luck on an increasingly
frightening sea in a rusting, leaking hulk where survival, and not Christmas
excess and a happy New Year, has become the realty of the game of life.</span><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-55681461282638603792020-11-29T16:24:00.014+00:002023-09-15T09:03:40.056+01:00Serendipity!<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I love the word “serendipity”. I don’t think I’ve ever actually used it in my life but just love the sound of it and its meaning. According to the OED serendipity means “finding interesting or valuable things by chance” and this week I did, I think, experience “serendipity” and have thoroughly enjoyed the experience! Let me explain.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: justify;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvWfPkTtRbWmklfd7A4aLQpHOpwOTHG7EdydJ38-uqgXPxwHKUAlkARQGbAxeoVExHqRZ0vF8cYaEHsVroCk3xPkDjDM3sFJ9HFgIXywlpBacIkDxyGMohrCVgAdFUsedq7hI83yuLww/s357/ScreenHunter_02+Nov.+25+18.36.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="266" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvWfPkTtRbWmklfd7A4aLQpHOpwOTHG7EdydJ38-uqgXPxwHKUAlkARQGbAxeoVExHqRZ0vF8cYaEHsVroCk3xPkDjDM3sFJ9HFgIXywlpBacIkDxyGMohrCVgAdFUsedq7hI83yuLww/s320/ScreenHunter_02+Nov.+25+18.36.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mr Bolton as I remember him</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When I was 11 I, like most of the boys in my junior school class, failed my 11+ exam and so was destined for Fishwick Secondary Modern in Preston Lancashire. It had a reputation of being a tough place but in those far off days – and especially for kids like me from a working class background - you just accepted your lot. In the end places like Fishwick had largely one purpose – producing “factory fodder” for the cotton mills and heavy industry of northern England. It was what they did and did very successfully.</span></div><p></p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was there between 1956 and 1961 and it was undeniably a school of its time subject to the legal requirements and the social/historical context in which it had to operate. It is true that there were many short comings which we can recognise with the benefit of hindsight from 2020 but despite this my time there was a happy and productive 5 years . The hard working staff and excellent leadership of Dr McEwan provided us rough and ready kids with opportunities that in those days many secondary moderns did not offer. Dr McEwan (we called him Batman because he wore his doctoral gown as he moved around school!) was a quiet and gentle man who arrived shortly after I began my life at Fishwick and reversed many of the "discipline policies" that had ruled under the previous head, the tyrannical Dr Pickard, who ruled with, if not a rod of iron, certainly a fearsome cane. Under Dr McEwan the school began to change rapidly for the better. For me the most important change was that he introduced the opportunity for kids like me to sit O levels – something quite new in most secondary moderns. In the end I came out with my "O" levels and a positive view of education that gave me not only a good start in my career but a desire to "learn for life".</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">But there was another thing that Dr McEwan did. He appointed a new English teacher and deputy head – a man named Gavin Bolton (see photographs). I was lucky enough to be taught by Mr Bolton and for that I will be forever thankful; he lit a flame which has given me a life-long love of the spoken and written word which now, in my eighth decade, burns even brighter. He exposed us to great literature and wonderful writing opportunities; I can remember sitting enthralled as we read long extracts from </span></span><i style="color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;">Great Expectations</i><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> by Dickens - the fearsome Magwich and the mysterious Miss Havisham and the rest of the great Dickensian characters of that novel leaping off the page at me. I was thrilled, inspired and the seeds of social awareness and justice were planted within me when Mr Bolton indulged us with Hardy's </span></span><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Jude the Obscure - </i>still today, in my view, the greatest English language novel.</span></span><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> Brilliant images and high excitement flashed through my young mind as we ploughed through Buchan's </span></span><i style="color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;">Prester John</i><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> and John Meade Falkner's tale of smuggling and derring do </span></span><i style="color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;">Moonfleet; </i><span style="color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;">later when I had my own class I often relived those classroom hours with Gavin Bolton by using Falkner's great work in my own classroom</span><i style="color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </i><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> A year or two ago I reread, for the first time since leaving Fishwick, Herman Melville's </span></span><i style="color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;">Moby Dick</i><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> – regarded by many as the greatest novel ever written – and as I turned its 600 pages I could still hear Mr Bolton’s voice from that long ago Fishwick classroom; my pulse again raced - as it had all those years ago - as I pictured the mighty struggles with the great white whale, the maniacal Captain Ahab, the drama of the chase across the high seas and the strange friendship between the story's narrator Ishmael and his friend the tattooed cannibal harpooner </span></span></span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #202122; text-align: left; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Queequeg</span></span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I already knew from my own career as a teacher that Mr Bolton's real love was the teaching of drama in schools and I also knew that he became internationally known for his work in drama education; he wrote the biography of probably the most famous drama teacher of all, the late Dorothy Heathcote a lady who I came across on a number of occasions in my own teaching career. And as a young teacher, Mr Bolton's and my own path crossed again in later years. As I climbed the career ladder I attended summer holiday residential courses run by Her Majesty's Inspectorate where eminent inspectors and educationalists lectured and on two of those a guest speaker was Gavin Bolton. The times that I spent during those courses sipping a cup of coffee or a pre-dinner glass of sherry chatting to this charismatic and brilliant man about our time at Fishwick are still treasured memories; he did not know it but not only did he influence my teaching through his lectures during these in-service courses but the visions that he planted, the doors and interests that he opened for me as scruffy 15 year old at a tough secondary school in a northern industrial town have stayed with me and made me what I am to this very day.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">All this, of course was just “stuff” in the far reaches of my mind until earlier this week when a bit of serendipity leapt into my life. I was surfing the net carrying out some completely unrelated research when I suddenly came across Mr Bolton's name - and to my delight and surprise – or rather shock - saw the word "Fishwick" leap off my lap top screen! A few more clicks of the mouse and I was reading a Ph.D thesis completed in 1995 by a Canadian student named Laurie Jardine at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, Canada. By 1995, I discovered from the thesis, Mr Bolton was a senior lecturer and visiting Professor at that university - and a world renowned figure in the teaching of drama and Ms Jardine was undertaking research on Gavin Bolton, his life and his teaching. Fishwick Secondary Modern was never one of the great schools of the world so to see it mentioned in Ph.D thesis written on the other side of the world was to me quite wonderful. It brought back so many memories, events and names.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiq9g0AM3r4F0dv-JkTUoKn8owbUOsRwp7mfvv_zQ09QnFJ8G8PdlToAxvf0iG1R-FdlksF5wxSMYfL_279RWaGfLmhHuhAM6_S1RaHT278235XB0YF_AADgVG4peWIk3Q6cK5PbEbSZZW1rHZmxpD2pqPoYHLYnyZ3DTbuc9w6c3aFN0Usa1SUP7Di=s1384" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="807" data-original-width="1384" height="367" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiq9g0AM3r4F0dv-JkTUoKn8owbUOsRwp7mfvv_zQ09QnFJ8G8PdlToAxvf0iG1R-FdlksF5wxSMYfL_279RWaGfLmhHuhAM6_S1RaHT278235XB0YF_AADgVG4peWIk3Q6cK5PbEbSZZW1rHZmxpD2pqPoYHLYnyZ3DTbuc9w6c3aFN0Usa1SUP7Di=w628-h367" width="628" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Fishwick Prefects 1961: Mr Bolton sits 4th from the left on the front row, Dr McEwan the HT sits at the side of him and next is Miss Bisbrowne the lady DHT. I'm on the third row, third from the right</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>This is what Ms Jardine wrote:</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"An offer came and Gavin became Deputy Headmaster of Fishwick Secondary School, Preston, Lancashire. The move to the Northwest had its problems. The school itself was tough, with a student population quite accustomed to being in the hands of the police - not exactly a fertile ground for the kind of teaching with which Gavin had become comfortable. Pre-war notions of education which called for rigid discipline and non-interactive teaching styles would not ease for some time; for young Bolton, bursting in with respect for students and for learning, the progress seemed very slow. The customary discipline for misbehaviour was caning. The staff had adopted a stiff disciplinarian policy, viewing their role defensively. When Gavin arrived as Deputy Head, he was told, "the only way to deal with these kids is to clip them over the ear", which presented difficult administrative choices for Gavin. Many of the staff were sceptical and outwardly unsympathetic to the idea of introducing drama into the school. Of course, Gavin was convinced that the only way to attack the problems would be through drama and plenty of it. So, in addition to his administrative responsibilities, which included the school timetabling, Gavin made sure that every class in the school had drama, which he taught. Gradually, everyone was won over, and the school developed a positive bias toward drama. Teachers, administration and students began to value the place of drama in their community. The same unmanageable tough kids became drama festival winners, showing up at Drama Club even if they’d been truants for the rest of the day."</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: justify;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfu1yycSpIIzlzRWSRB0OWRGxB-P5lJchvKFI536o6Zu3E3p_osO1GDf9DBy0AqkM5TwMEU-Ikbv1hTTNK9dXgR79qXvn2bKEvKjc6qUB0d6EnCPPRONjTBiuLr5tsfBPPlNBffVMHq4/s465/ScreenHunter_01+Nov.+25+18.31.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="465" data-original-width="305" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfu1yycSpIIzlzRWSRB0OWRGxB-P5lJchvKFI536o6Zu3E3p_osO1GDf9DBy0AqkM5TwMEU-Ikbv1hTTNK9dXgR79qXvn2bKEvKjc6qUB0d6EnCPPRONjTBiuLr5tsfBPPlNBffVMHq4/s320/ScreenHunter_01+Nov.+25+18.31.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mr Bolton in 1995 at the <br />University of British Columbia in <br />Canada - a long way from Preston!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm not sure if I agree totally with all Ms Jardine says (I know Fishwick was not Eton but I don't remember it being quite so "tough" as implied here, although we did have some tough kids and at least one stabbing incident that I remember well!) and I would add that Mr Bolton arrived at a time of change for the school in general following Dr McEwan’s appointment as head teacher a couple of years previously. But overall Ms Jardine is correct; it was a tough place and Gavin Bolton made a huge impact.</div></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The seeds that he and Dr McEwan planted in my young mind stayed with me giving me not only a love of the spoken and written word but of learning in general prompting me to first gain my Master’s Degree (M.Ed) in my mid-thirties and then an M.Phil a year or two afterwards and to continue studying throughout my career and still now in my mid 70s. There is rarely a day goes by without me thinking fondly of the Fishwick teachers who taught and inspired me: Gavin Bolton, Harry Helm (maths), Mr Seed (Art), Mr Calderbank (Technical Drawing), Mr Davies (English), Mr Edmundson (Geography), Mr Bamber (PE), Mr Addison (Science), Mr Wolstenholme (Geography) and many many more. These wonderful teachers and my time at Fishwick and the arrival of Dr McEwan and Gavin Bolton not only opened up career doors that a few years before would have been unthinkable for a kid from the narrow terraced streets of Preston who had failed his 11+ but also opened up life doors and gave me a love of learning which I have absolutely no doubts fuelled my desire to become a teacher myself.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;">My little brush with serendipity has kept me busy all week trying to track down Ms Jardine (no luck so far) to perhaps see if she has any more bits of information about Mr Bolton but beyond that it has done so much more. It has brought many happy memories of another time and another life and the opportunity to reflect upon the people, places and events that have made me what I am. It has also confirmed my long held belief that it is only by looking back at where you have come from that one can understand who and what you are and what you believe in - and from that what your ultimate goal in life should be.</span></div></div>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-39263597968506307672020-10-14T17:07:00.000+01:002020-10-14T17:07:30.765+01:00"A House Divided Cannot Stand"<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">As the virus spikes again I am reminded of two ancient verses that we would all do well to remember in these times. The first is believed to have emerged during the Great Plague in London of 1665 and is known to all children – "Ring a ring a roses":</span></span></p><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Ring-a-ring-a-roses</span></i></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> A pocket full of posies</span></i></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Atishoo, Atishoo</span></i></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> We all fall down”</span></i></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></i></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The second, written about 40 years before the Great Plague is by the, poet, cleric, politician, scholar and philosopher John Donne one of the greatest minds not only of his generation but of any generation in British history – we ignore the words of Donne at our peril. In 1623 in his “Meditation XV11” Donne famously wrote:</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>“No man is an island entire of itself; every man</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>well as any manner of thy friends or of thine</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>own were; any man's death diminishes me,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>for I am involved in mankind.</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>And therefore send to know for whom</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana;">As we – and the rest of the world - fumble in the dark against Covid 19 we would do well to remember these two verses, for they have message of particular relevance for we British.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7n7i4cYZBBaGbF7Zto4To-GNLOm2zIwzcmz9R7TMQoJzfI_90u25WHltPFS3Ws0JB0EtuRoQm5bCPpvNna6QPD4na6aZxAyx_yOhFtOWnOz4BQru-Jf0EbKI1nD0AUFRJTzZjOIF8ItE/s624/ScreenHunter_01+Oct.+13+16.54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="624" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7n7i4cYZBBaGbF7Zto4To-GNLOm2zIwzcmz9R7TMQoJzfI_90u25WHltPFS3Ws0JB0EtuRoQm5bCPpvNna6QPD4na6aZxAyx_yOhFtOWnOz4BQru-Jf0EbKI1nD0AUFRJTzZjOIF8ItE/w360-h224/ScreenHunter_01+Oct.+13+16.54.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>Their message is simple and unarguably correct. It is a message that if we, as individuals or as a nation, are to survive the next few years we have no alternative but to take on board a simple truth: we are all interconnected, we are all part of the same thing; what happens to one, can befall another. In the children’s verse “We all fall down” an illness, such as bubonic plague or modern day Covid, is not only a symptom but by a sneeze we receive or pass on that illness to others. And this happens because we are all part of the whole, closely involved with one another; people in Stuart England didn’t understand the exact causes of the plague but they did know it was allied to people living closely together and that those who lived in the poorest conditions, where they were squashed close together and in the poorer areas - most notably in the east end of the capital - were most at risk. If our experience with Covid 19 has taught us anything surely it is that the virus is the same and it passes amongst us because we are so interconnected and interdependent. To deny our oneness – as, for example, many anti-maskers do - with the rest of humanity is to deny reality. If we are to survive as a species we need to recognise this – stand united as a society, understanding the need to protect ourselves in order that we can protect others; put simply, “Atishoo, Atishoo, We all fall down”. And, John Donne puts the same message across in a different way. We cannot distance ourselves or remove ourselves from the wholeness of humanity – we are all part of the same great spectrum of life – “every man a piece of the continent” and as such each of us has a responsibility to not only ourselves but to others because we are all “involved in mankind”; the Bible put it another way we are “our brother’s keeper” – responsible for all and to all. It is what is called “the common good”.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This “oneness” or “common good” is, I believe, important and it is an idea that has been increasingly lost in recent years. As we have increasingly struggled through the last few months as the virus has taken hold its impact has, in my view exposed our society's weakness; we have been found wanting.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In 1858 on the run up to the Presidential election Abraham Lincoln made one of his most famous speeches in his bid for the presidency. He was talking of his country’s great divisions on the matter of slavery and famously quoted Gospel of St Mark (3:25): <i>"And if a kingdom be divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. And if a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand”. </i>Lincoln and St Mark were not wrong and if we in the UK are to come through the existential threats of Covid and Brexit we must remember those words and the words of John Donne and “Ring a ring a roses” – we are all part of the whole and once we lose sight of the common good and become divided our “house” will surely fall.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We in the UK, however, do not in recent years have a good track record so far as working and standing together for the greater good. Our Prime Minister likes to extol the virtues of a time when perhaps we did stand together – the Dunkirk spirit, the Blitz generation and so on – but I wonder if that is still true today? </span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sadly, it is my view that, as a nation we have in recent years consistently failed to understand the message of these verses. From the time of Thatcher we have increasingly opted – through the ballot box and as a society – for division and inequality. The Thatcher era and the years following promoted the “I society”, the individual and his wants rather than the “We society” and “the common good”. The get rich quick society based upon individual acquisition and status rather than industry and cooperation has increasingly been the defining feature of our national life. The result has been increasing economic, educational and social inequality so that today we have one of the most unequal societies in the world and also one of the most divided. We have a society in which although we are all at risk some, as in London’s Great Plague, are more at risk than others because of their relative poverty or place in society. This lunch time I read that one of the major charities providing for the homeless and especially rough sleepers has criticised the government for suggesting that night shelters should be reopened as winter approaches. At first glance this seems bizarre but the charity, “Crisis”, has a point – they know that the homeless and rough sleepers are very vulnerable to Covid and putting them together in a night shelter is a highly dangerous policy. The charity, not unreasonably, want vastly increased government spending to address the problems and ensure safe accommodation for these people. The government, of course, are reluctant to go down that costly avenue. For as long as I can remember, as we and our politicians have chosen cheapness and popular policies such as low taxation as vote winners we have seen hospitals in crisis over each winter, we have seen ambulance call out times lengthen, police and fire brigades being put under enormous pressure as resources have been cut back. And now as Covid sweeps the world, we are reaping what we have sown; we have been found out. To coin that well known aphorism or cliché (choose your descriptor) the virus has caught us unprepared, with our proverbial “trousers down”. As a society we should be ashamed to have our faults shortcomings exposed in such a way – showing to the world that for the past 40 plus years we have chosen the quick buck, the easy fix, the cash in our pockets, the “I want” rather than the “We need” society and all can now see the consequences. Our basic services were already running on empty through years of underfunding and crisis management; and the consequence now is that we do not have enough PPE, or ICU beds, or safe accommodation for the homeless, parts of our nation are more heavily subject to the ravages of Covid than others because of relative poverty, and our key workers are being subjected to trials and expectations that are quite out of order in the sixth richest country in the world.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana;">There is, too, a paradox in all this. Since the time of Margaret Thatcher and as the individual wealth of the few has grown so the need for the very institutions that the many - our fathers, mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers - dreamed of and fought for: a decent welfare system, health care, close ties with other nations in order that peace as well as prosperity would reign have been increasingly marginalised. We have forgotten, and many (especially in the Tory party) often actively disparage, those policies and institutions – high quality local government, taxation to fund high quality health care and social welfare, well funded local and national provision for good infrastructure etc. – in favour of lower taxes, profit, everything on the cheap, and the nebulous and vacuous buzz word “choice” as if this was the most important virtue or ideal in the world. In the post Thatcher years as the square mile of the City of London became the richest place on earth, young Oxford students David Cameron and Boris Johnson, who would both become our Prime Ministers, burnt £50 notes in the front of Oxford street beggars as part of their student "fun", and "the family silver" - our great institutions and companies - were sold off to private investors and hedge fund managers while the money rolled in........ and unforgivably, rolled out. But our profligacy left a tainted legacy - we didn't put aside anything for a rainy day; we spent and borrowed but didn't invest, rebuild, restock and prepare; we wasted the years of the good harvests and when the virus struck the metaphorical granaries have been found empty. All was well for both us as individuals and for the whole nation while the money kept rolling in and palms were greased but then the financial crisis of 2008 came, austerity bit, a virus cut through society and in three months Brexit will be upon us - and we have and will be found out. The virus has shown Thatcher's economics and the post Thatcher financial world to be a failed policy and a failed idea; buzz words like “choice” or “outsourcing” are scant consolation when there is no place in an ICU for your Covid suffering grandparent or your own critical cancer treatment is put on hold because resources have to be devoted elsewhere or your children cannot be in school or you are unable to pay respects at the funeral of a loved one.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In short, what we are witnessing is exactly what Abraham Lincoln and St Mark suggested - the falling apart of the “divided house” and it is not a pretty sight. Since the time of Margaret Thatcher we have lost the notion of the common good and preferred instead the individualistic, get rich quick, vacuous and celebrity driven society and Covid 19 has found us out. In 3 months time Brexit will be upon us and that too, will, I have absolutely no doubts, find us out still further. We will discover in the harshest of ways two things of which John Donne reminded us. Firstly that we cannot cut ourselves off from the “continent”, the oneness of society, be it politically, socially, economically or metaphorically and secondly the dread awful implications of Donne's final sentence will, with absolute certainty, come to fruition: "send not to know for whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee" - because we are part of the whole, indivisible with the rest of mankind as individuals we cannot escape the consequences of our individual and communal actions. As the impact of Brexit and Covid 19 combine, quite frankly, those consequences do not bear thinking about. I have often mused over the past few months that some good might come out of our current woes - that as a society we might be brought to our individual and communal senses and that we can reimagine a better way of doing things where the common good is the sole justification for action. But in truth I am pessimistic; I am swayed more by the words of 18th century poet and social campaigner Oliver Goldsmith whose poem “The Deserted Village” was a devastating critique of the attitudes, excesses and inequalities of his day when he prophesied <i>”...ill fares the land the land To hastening ills a prey When wealth accumulates, But men decay.”</i></span></div></div>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-42779162413523106962020-10-08T11:41:00.005+01:002020-10-08T11:51:49.288+01:00"Arrant Knavery"<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In Shakespeare's Henry V, at the height of the Battle of Agincourt, the King, on learning that the French had attacked and killed the boys and women attached to his army to carry baggage, cook and so on, loses his temper and famously says: "I was not angry since I came to France......" he then threatens to overwhelm and destroy the French army for their "arrant knavery" which was "expressly against the law of arms" (the Mediaeval rules of war). Well, that's how I feel this morning having read Boris Johnson's latest dreadful piece of theatre and "arrant knavery" in his speech to the Tory Party Conference yesterday.</span></span></p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have learned to live with and expect no less from Johnson that he will hitch his wagon to any crackpot idea or to any individual who will, knowingly or unknowingly, assist him to rise up the ladder. I am well versed in Johnson's casual lying, his unreliability, his penchant for making promises that he has no intention whatsoever of keeping, and his total lack of any moral scruple; in short, he is a man with no moral compass, unfit for any office, let alone high office. It is a sign of what contemporary Britain has become that we have allowed this man to rise to the top of our political life. But yesterday, even by Johnson's low standards he excelled himself.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In suggesting that he and his rag bag, ethically challenged party and its supporters will bring about "a new Jerusalem" in the aftermath of Covid - a disaster much of which is attributable to his own inadequate handling of the situation - he has gone too far. Having tried hitching his wagon to the Churchill mantra and suggesting that, to use Churchill's words (as Johnson so often does), we Brits would easily overcome Covid by our "Dunkirk Spirit" where, to again quote Churchill, we will "fight [it] on the beaches, on the landing grounds, on the streets......" he has now moved onto Clement Attlee for some new inspiration. Fighting Covid on the beaches with our Churchillian Dunkirk Spirit appears to have been a signal failure so in true Johnson fashion he now moves the goalposts and find a new "hero" - Clement Attlee, who truly did build the "new Jerusalem" for this country - to emulate, quote and to fraudulently model himself and his party upon. Johnson will do anything, quote anyone and adopt and idea to further and ingratiate himself; he is a charlatan, a man who thieves ideas and policies, a man who will always sink one step lower than it can ever be thought possible. But in trying to take on the garb of Attlee Johnson has overstepped common decency by some considerable degree.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwEWdf5NDeaOGMfGdp9w-bI-kyTfn-T4oDU6V2S82rQx1lHXN0hNAr4lj883EUzpSrJaU2vep-wlrgqyJ8LqZJGBwgY4DtUMg4ZQcnQZnZyoJRMAZ5DgoHTzgoSF_8XahcgNDwckp0bDI/s259/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwEWdf5NDeaOGMfGdp9w-bI-kyTfn-T4oDU6V2S82rQx1lHXN0hNAr4lj883EUzpSrJaU2vep-wlrgqyJ8LqZJGBwgY4DtUMg4ZQcnQZnZyoJRMAZ5DgoHTzgoSF_8XahcgNDwckp0bDI/w221-h295/download.jpg" width="221" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Attlee: Unassuming, humble,<br />unimpeachable integrity - and <br />Britain's greatest Prime Ministe</b></span></i>r</td></tr></tbody></table>Clement Attlee was everything that Johnson is not: quiet, unassuming, a master of detail, from a privileged background but with true humility, of unimpeachable integrity and moral conviction, a man to respect and honour (there's an oft forgotten or ill used idea in contemporary GB), a man who did not seek fame, fortune or leadership but who became our nation's greatest leader - to use Kipling's words a man who could "walk with Kings, nor lose the common touch". </span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Attlee was, unarguably, this country's greatest Prime Minister and left a legacy from which we all benefit today and which Johnson and his party have, over recent years, made every effort to run down, defund and destroy as privatisation, austerity, a free market culture and cynical criticism from Tories like Johnson, Gove or Duncan Smith have eaten in to our NHS, education service, welfare arrangements, emergency services and the like - all the things that were part of Attlee's "new Jerusalem" and his great legacy to us. It is beyond contempt that Johnson should quote Attlee by using the phrase "new Jerusalem"- when his party have spent so much time and effort destroying the very real "new Jerusalem" that Attlee gave us. When Attlee used those words in the late 1940s and quoted from William Blake's great poem he did so from a spirit of making the world a better place; today when Johnson uses them he does so from a position of his own self aggrandisement; as I said above he is a charlatan. </span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kipling's great poem "If", for me, sums up all that Attlee was and all that Johnson isn't; perhaps it is worth all of us reflecting, in these dark times, which may well get a lot darker yet, on the sort of leadership - and indeed the sort of GB, we want:</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"If you can keep your head when all about you</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>But make allowance for their doubting too;</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>And treat those two impostors just the same;</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>If you can make one heap of all your winnings</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>And lose, and start again at your beginnings</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>And never breathe a word about your loss;</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>To serve your turn long after they are gone,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>And so hold on when there is nothing in you</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>If all men count with you, but none too much;</i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>If you can fill the unforgiving minute</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Has Johnson not a shred of decency in his body? I believe not. For him to try to steal the cloak of Attlee is, for me, unforgivable; to paraphrase Henry V, it is "arrant knavery" and like King Henry "I was not angry until this day".</span></div></div>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-13761028591679559422020-03-01T16:43:00.000+00:002020-03-02T08:13:25.309+00:00Sixty Six Minutes & Forty Eight Seconds.......<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sixty six minutes and forty eight seconds! My
stop watch recorded the exact time, as around me standing audience members
cheered and applauded. Sixty six minutes and forty eight seconds. In half a life
time of attending concerts at Nottingham’s Royal Centre I can only ever recall
one other concert when there was a full throated standing ovation for a
performance – and that was for the same work many years ago. The usually
reserved Nottingham concert going public are a pretty staid and sober lot;
where in other venues a performance of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mahler’s
1<sup>st</sup></i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brahms’ 1<sup>st</sup></i>,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No 2 </i>or
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tchaikovsky’s 4<sup>th</sup></i> are
always likely to bring the audience to its feet, here in Nottingham a more
restrained atmosphere pervades our concerts. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBYFN04uRGabJoygmOmauie3y6Gm_QuH4PskW2i9E_MCubSJU_7pF_mXaMb2y0YNv0JSWAioKr6Ei9SEuJKYTraR2J8VmB3MR5LYNNNSKpdNVFaLr9N2iBP31m0TpUnuSfrJhYPzG62Y/s1600/ScreenHunter_13+Mar.+01+16.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="615" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBYFN04uRGabJoygmOmauie3y6Gm_QuH4PskW2i9E_MCubSJU_7pF_mXaMb2y0YNv0JSWAioKr6Ei9SEuJKYTraR2J8VmB3MR5LYNNNSKpdNVFaLr9N2iBP31m0TpUnuSfrJhYPzG62Y/s320/ScreenHunter_13+Mar.+01+16.30.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the back at Nottingham's Royal Centre</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="tab-stops: 248.1pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">But not so last night when under the
wonderful direction of Mark Elder, The Halle gave a glorious performance of
unarguably one of the world’s greatest works (if not the greatest symphonic
work), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beethoven’s 9<sup>th</sup>
Symphony</i>, more usually referred to as the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ninth</i> or the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Choral</i>. Beethoven’s
final symphony is one of the defining works of all music and indeed, it can be
argued with much justification that it is one of the defining works of history
and society. From the date of its first performance almost 200 years ago it has
been accepted as not only Beethoven’s greatest achievement but to rank equally
with the other crowning musical achievements of our culture and history: Bach’s
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">St Matthew Passion</i>, Bach’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">B Minor Mass</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mahler’s 5<sup>th</sup> Symphony</i>, or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beethoven’s Late String Quartets</i>. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ninth</i>, however, has another dimension – it speaks of mankind and
our very humanity. Where Bach’s great works are in essence spiritual in nature
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Choral</i> is about mankind and our
capacity to love each other and unite as fellow travellers in time and space.
And as such, in recent months it has assumed an even greater prominence and
place in the hearts and minds of men and women. As the anthem of the European
Community the words of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ninth</i>
have, in the past half century as the EU<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>has grown, developed and been the agent for friendship and cooperation
between the countries of Europe, epitomised the ideal to which all Europe has
aspired. In the past three years since the UK, unwisely, ungraciously, ungratefully and unforgivably,
decided to reject the friendship and cooperation of our European compatriots by
leaving the EU, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beethoven’s 9<sup>th</sup></i>
has become the anthem of all those who reject Brexit and its crude, unthinking, nationalistic populism. As the reaction of last night’s audience showed the ideals
and beliefs of the EU are still very much alive here in Nottingham.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9a5q9hxmRN5ag718nMQ6GRBc9FJ1UUTnaGP4qDOquqww70q9DN_3pr566JaiLCLthzh0lqJjJmXOp3A5ZjCApQSLLmcTFpSHm34Uhsb9TJSOevAEBpA5EAFEhdGwjpiHNixXYU0uip0/s1600/ScreenHunter_08+Mar.+01+16.19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="601" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9a5q9hxmRN5ag718nMQ6GRBc9FJ1UUTnaGP4qDOquqww70q9DN_3pr566JaiLCLthzh0lqJjJmXOp3A5ZjCApQSLLmcTFpSHm34Uhsb9TJSOevAEBpA5EAFEhdGwjpiHNixXYU0uip0/s320/ScreenHunter_08+Mar.+01+16.19.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark Elder as we saw him last night</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="tab-stops: 248.1pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">From the first muted reflective notes of the
opening movement and through the movement’s driving rhythms<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the power of the work was tangible. Mark
Elder dragged every bit of passion, power and joy from Beethoven’s score. The
opening movement gave way to the much loved and lyrical second movement and
thence to the achingly beautiful and almost spiritual third movement<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- surely one of the world’s very great
movements. And then......and then.....the fourth movement was upon us,
heralding in the majestic and glorious choral sections of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ninth . </i>The four soloists declaimed the
opening words of Schiller’s great poem and the choir, sitting high above the
Halle answered them; powerful, ethereal, spiritual, joyous, overwhelming, Beethoven’s music and Schiller’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>mighty
words united everyone sitting in<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nottingham’s Royal Centre. Was I the only one – I think not, judging by
the expressions and body language of those sitting around us – to feel humbled
and overcome but at the same time excited and exhilarated at what I was seeing
and hearing? Was I the only one to wipe a tear from my eye as I heard once
again the glorious words of Schiller’s poem and heard again the majestic music
of Beethoven. I know this work as well as I know the lines on my own face and
hands and yet it still has the power to overcome and to make even the greatest, most confident and most brash amongst us feel small and insignificant.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKogKUI9FokiqcGxSs__Z2ilsieqt60F7ZXGyQtBWdL-p0SGNcuf_7GoAVMizLx1qnsjglMjdc536FNE3pUfjjiSygDZDfh_MIvlfQ37PB3TEKn7urOuyFLvE9j_kI5LHN67jZczvh9gA/s1600/ScreenHunter_10+Mar.+01+16.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="588" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKogKUI9FokiqcGxSs__Z2ilsieqt60F7ZXGyQtBWdL-p0SGNcuf_7GoAVMizLx1qnsjglMjdc536FNE3pUfjjiSygDZDfh_MIvlfQ37PB3TEKn7urOuyFLvE9j_kI5LHN67jZczvh9gA/s320/ScreenHunter_10+Mar.+01+16.26.jpg" width="235" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="tab-stops: 248.1pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">And that was why, after sixty six minutes and
forty eight seconds the sell out audience erupted as they did. They knew that
they had heard a wonderful performance of a work that spoke to them both as
humans and as spiritual beings – it was, in short the very essence of their humanity.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="tab-stops: 248.1pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">And, sixty six minutes and forty eight
seconds – why on earth did I set my stop watch as the first wistful notes
echoed through the Royal Centre and stopped it as the final notes died away and the ringing cheers rang out around the Royal Centre!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To find out read the piece below. Almost
exactly a year ago the Writers’ Group which I lead were tasked with writing a
piece on the theme of <i>“The Life of ..........”</i> I chose to write about the life
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beethoven’s Ninth </i>and the answer
to my question is there! You can read what I wrote 12 months ago below:</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="tab-stops: 248.1pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u>You millions I
embrace you......”</u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></i></span></b></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></b><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Like all children I
was born out of love, but my genesis was not from physical love but mankind’s
desire for brotherhood, love and peace. My father had many offspring and some
who were still born or died before entering the world – their beauty and sound
never witnessed by mankind. Those however, like me, who survived their creation
came into the world strong and complete and were received well by the world,
many becoming household names. But I, it is said by many, am the greatest of
his offspring. I know not if this is true – who am I to judge? – but I cannot
escape the fact that since the very day of my first appearance I have been
lauded and praised. Even today – though two centuries have passed since my
birth, people flock to me, often moved to tears in my presence. And now, though
I am old and my father long dead, I, like my brothers and sisters, go on, perhaps
for as long as there is mankind.</span></i><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBHFZmxonXaF4UmQrCTVqaQc9oygGlQSNDn_-hAHMrsTJiLu4qV4H9LQsrTUoJQFiRQSoSNb0UVu_PvgC11FuDUtj12qpLRS-LfBHY6wDyi6LdBWIJ28weAcdGSKXXURD2V4pkmLgDxq0/s1600/ScreenHunter_18+Mar.+01+16.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="527" data-original-width="671" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBHFZmxonXaF4UmQrCTVqaQc9oygGlQSNDn_-hAHMrsTJiLu4qV4H9LQsrTUoJQFiRQSoSNb0UVu_PvgC11FuDUtj12qpLRS-LfBHY6wDyi6LdBWIJ28weAcdGSKXXURD2V4pkmLgDxq0/s320/ScreenHunter_18+Mar.+01+16.56.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A page from Beethoven's original manuscript</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Before I was
conceived I was but isolated fragments, thoughts in my father’s mind;
unconnected, swirling, as he laboured in his silent Viennese world. But these
unformed ideas slowly took shape and, I can still well remember the day, when
came my conception; my form set for all time, even though I was yet still no
more than ideas. My father sat by candlelight reading the works of the great
Schiller and reading those mighty words from Schiller’s pen transformed my father.
He was inspired, overcome, ecstatic; and his ideas, my very essence, was that
day in 1822 created; I was conceived into what I would become:</span></i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">“O friends, no more
of these sounds! Let us sing more cheerful songs, More songs full of joy! Joy!
Joy!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">........Whoever has
created an abiding friendship, Or has won a true and loving wife, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">.........All who can
call at least one soul theirs, then join our song of praise........</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">You millions, I
embrace you, this kiss is for all the world!......... </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Brothers, above the
starry canopy there must dwell a loving father.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">
Do you fall in worship, you millions? World, do you know your creator? </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">.......Seek Him in
the heavens above the stars must he dwell.”</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrtsD4iHyjsXp87XM_VS5gSCjmJNoxf_uBA0uT2bu5sHrmaZcq7MzmUVdjqw5ixRpkQCbsAJMC8c80tGduYMP5XPmvuhliHpQ7vAbyhYo3kzuOvFcMPUorCCoapBA8uJFLX7wYlHWYa6s/s1600/ScreenHunter_16+Mar.+01+16.52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="295" data-original-width="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrtsD4iHyjsXp87XM_VS5gSCjmJNoxf_uBA0uT2bu5sHrmaZcq7MzmUVdjqw5ixRpkQCbsAJMC8c80tGduYMP5XPmvuhliHpQ7vAbyhYo3kzuOvFcMPUorCCoapBA8uJFLX7wYlHWYa6s/s1600/ScreenHunter_16+Mar.+01+16.52.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friedrich Schiller</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">My father had
wrestled with his ideas of Schiller’s poem for several years but in 1817 he
received a commission from the </span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Philharmonic Society of London<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> to write a new symphony celebrating the
great peace after the wars of Napoleon and Schiller’s words spoke to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The commission had requested a symphony to
celebrate </i>“the love, friendship and brotherhood of all Europe’s mankind and
the desire for the peace of all nations”;<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
it was with this, and Schiller’s words, that I was conceived. But my father –
the greatest musical name in Europe no longer taught, performed or conducted;
his deafness had robbed him of all contact with the world, so on accepting this
commission he was forced to request an advance payment which was agreed. He
received £50 and later £100 from the Philharmonic Society of London. A century
later, that great Englishman George Bernard Shaw described the payments as “the
only honourable and creditable acts in the whole of English history”.</i></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_MEHYO7RbInO4o97OEZsk_5jIV0mzCZEbuM4a-80K6kSCuYE4V77DGKbHksE6pFeBsejwcPK1NerMdAXpPg-zZ9hVALnSj1-RKBpszqvVsp2hrT-MgNJ4f8yfkyBV-Us1Ui1N5jp6_A/s1600/ScreenHunter_14+Mar.+01+16.32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="247" data-original-width="638" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_MEHYO7RbInO4o97OEZsk_5jIV0mzCZEbuM4a-80K6kSCuYE4V77DGKbHksE6pFeBsejwcPK1NerMdAXpPg-zZ9hVALnSj1-RKBpszqvVsp2hrT-MgNJ4f8yfkyBV-Us1Ui1N5jp6_A/s400/ScreenHunter_14+Mar.+01+16.32.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The First Edition of the Score - held by the Philharmonic Society of London</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">For seven more years
I germinated in my father’s mind, his pen scratching out my form on manuscript
paper – I, however, was still unheard, unseen, not yet of this world. As he
wrote his mind was filled, too, with other of his children, my exquisite and
small brothers and sisters, the </span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Late String Quartets <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thought by many to be the defining works of all string music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But slowly, as the months passed I emerged
until, at last, excited whispers spread through Vienna’s Kaffeehauses and
salons, Master Beethoven has a new work, one that will use voices as well as
instruments; what manner of music is this, the people asked in wonder?</i></span><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">And the word spread.
So thrilled and expectant was the whole city that the greatest players and
singers of the age and from all of Europe flocked to be given a part in the
first performance. And as excitement gripped Vienna, my father was reluctantly
persuaded that he must be the musical director for the occasion, his first time
at the podium for more than twelve years. So new and complex was I that my
father re-wrote and amended me until hours before the performance; leaving no
time for rehearsal or for the players and singers of the largest orchestra and
choir ever to be assembled to come together – and all for a work that no-one
had heard, not even my father who knew me only in his mind and not in his ears.</span></i><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhV_yG6vGlNnzPHKOloNUaELswweirIG9bZQeBhyLVtcnHMUCcPCMFboJYdx9CMrEKTJswFsCgQwEDir6vh-FOZSTRSw1-QTgBmjacPSWImpaY50IUpuZlnrs-4rNi2F88uzVt2VeDS_Q/s1600/ScreenHunter_12+Mar.+01+16.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="1195" height="108" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhV_yG6vGlNnzPHKOloNUaELswweirIG9bZQeBhyLVtcnHMUCcPCMFboJYdx9CMrEKTJswFsCgQwEDir6vh-FOZSTRSw1-QTgBmjacPSWImpaY50IUpuZlnrs-4rNi2F88uzVt2VeDS_Q/s400/ScreenHunter_12+Mar.+01+16.29.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Halle in their home concert hall - The Bridgwater in Manchester</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">The great night
arrived. The Corinthian Theatre had not an seat empty and the aisles and even
the corridors were crushed with excited guests who had travelled from all over
Europe. All fell hushed and silent, as my father, now an ailing man, was helped
onto the stage and the baton placed in his hand. And at last was I born,
brought into the world, a fully formed child. The </span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Wiener Zeitung<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> newspaper was correct, for I witnessed it,
that my father </i>“threw himself back and forth like a madman. At one moment
he stretched to his full height, at the next he crouched down to the floor, he
flailed about with his hands and feet as though he himself wanted to play all
the instruments and sing all the chorus parts”</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">. </span><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">For seventy long
minutes the audience sat transfixed, overwhelmed at what they heard; but my
father conducting knew nought but silence, hearing me, his child only in his
mind. As the final movement opened there were gasps and cries of surprise and
wonder from the audience as the soloists and choir declaimed Schiller’s mighty
words: </span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">The Ode to Joy.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Such music had
never before been heard; the words they knew, for they knew and loved Schiller,
but never like this, speaking of a new world of love of life and mankind, of
friendship, and of God’s great plan for all men and all nations. My birth had “</i>brought
a new world”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> proclaimed the news sheets
and the table gossip of the Kaffeehauses and salons of Vienna and of all
Europe.</i></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUvXSRuRAwPZwvGYLAjzRtD4C918RhT3negaTEVk5ogmTpcc0AH5M0br9zL9JbjKKOUN7Opih5BDYtmGJLCrkL4GJKrvgAd03b51B9lrQHv-_zh4aLadHyFg3kE7ZkBmwhTEysEfLid0/s1600/ScreenHunter_17+Mar.+01+16.55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="394" data-original-width="293" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUvXSRuRAwPZwvGYLAjzRtD4C918RhT3negaTEVk5ogmTpcc0AH5M0br9zL9JbjKKOUN7Opih5BDYtmGJLCrkL4GJKrvgAd03b51B9lrQHv-_zh4aLadHyFg3kE7ZkBmwhTEysEfLid0/s320/ScreenHunter_17+Mar.+01+16.55.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
Beethoven conducting the<i> Ninth</i> from a </div>
<div>
contemporary sketch</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">As my last triumphal
notes rang out the audience burst into feverish applause; the reporter from </span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">The<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Times of London<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> ran, wild eyed from his seat, pushed through the crowded aisles and
out onto Vienna’s dark streets shouting “</i>I have heard the voice of God, the
world is renewed, never has such music been heard.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The </i>Theater-Zeitung<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> newsheet, told the whole of Vienna that </i>"The
public broke out in jubilant applause acclaiming Master<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beethoven through five standing ovations and
many ladies were overcome; there was crying out and handkerchiefs and scarves
thrown into the air, hats raised, gentlemen cheered so that Master Beethoven,
who could not hear the applause, could at least see the ovations.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It was
true, my father heard not the applause and the love of the crowd; as my final
note died he rested his baton and stood, still facing the orchestra and choir.
All was silent and unknown to him until the kindly young solo contralto
Caroline Unger stepped forward and gently turned him around to witness Vienna
and all Europe’s mighty cheers and approval.</i></span><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">It has always been
thus and I am now two centuries old - I make mankind both weep and cheer in
equal measure as I remind them of the love of their fellow men. Mankind turns
to me when he is lost or is joyous, feels threatened or he wishes to celebrate
peace; I was performed in joyous celebration following the fall of the Berlin
Wall, and to bring hope following the dreadful attacks on New York’s twin
towers. I was performed too, to remember the centenary of the end of the Great
War. In Germany, Austria and Japan I am performed every year in the last hour
of the old year as the clock ticks to midnight to remind those nations of
mankind’s love of his brothers and the peace of nations in the coming New Year.
</span></i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghibA2N3jxw0gJmwpONPMQQT4BX1C-8g3jWH2f1bWVnSlx3-huQjADvnDqy6wHLIZllsCwhVqZcd6th3CBkyFIrr0qF1KbxF5UtXJ9Bzq9EGKTfHW-g4ubQJrwbPgpH9qCfgJKxKhNG3Q/s1600/ScreenHunter_11+Mar.+01+16.27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="510" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghibA2N3jxw0gJmwpONPMQQT4BX1C-8g3jWH2f1bWVnSlx3-huQjADvnDqy6wHLIZllsCwhVqZcd6th3CBkyFIrr0qF1KbxF5UtXJ9Bzq9EGKTfHW-g4ubQJrwbPgpH9qCfgJKxKhNG3Q/s320/ScreenHunter_11+Mar.+01+16.27.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">I am played often
each year as the anthem of the United Nations and of the European Union – an
honour that I know my father, Schiller and indeed the good members of the </span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Philharmonic Society
of London <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would have greatly approved
since the love and friendship of mankind and the peace of Europe was why I was
first commissioned. It is a sadness to me that many in England, the country
that first commissioned me, now reject me as they reject the European Union,
the organisation whose anthem I am and whose quest is the peaceful brotherhood
of Europe. It is a sadness too, that as all men must, my father died only a few
years after I was born. I was his last major work so he did not live to see my
fame spread but he would have been proud to know that many call me one of
mankind’s supreme achievements. </i></span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinXRC_uXxLSGqN_7vdKB00O5p4sV_ktscKjiLxbQpOtus9_zKrYxYptTB6FEZZqnSG3pJNPxLcBGb1_i0H6DdrYjzTgo1rkcFbyIyfFJ7IFlLp2vysfbQ0ciRr2zb_7iTqGAzNRT27Nc0/s1600/ScreenHunter_15+Mar.+01+16.38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="513" data-original-width="468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinXRC_uXxLSGqN_7vdKB00O5p4sV_ktscKjiLxbQpOtus9_zKrYxYptTB6FEZZqnSG3pJNPxLcBGb1_i0H6DdrYjzTgo1rkcFbyIyfFJ7IFlLp2vysfbQ0ciRr2zb_7iTqGAzNRT27Nc0/s320/ScreenHunter_15+Mar.+01+16.38.jpg" width="291" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Von Karajan conducting the <i>Ninth</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">I live on, immortal;
and just as mankind grows from infant to adult I too, have grown and changed.
Since that balmy May 1824 Vienna night I have become the most performed
symphonic work in the world’s concert halls. For the world’s greatest
musicians, conductors and singers to perform me is often the pinnacle of their
careers. But I have spread beyond the concert platform and now exist in the
homes of man. I travel the radio waves to the furthest corners of the world and
was, in my past, grooves on plastic vinyl records, my father’s music and
Schiller’s words being scraped out by a needle and pushed through gramophone
horns. In 1982, when the Sony and Philips corporations developed the compact
disc I was crucial. These mighty companies wished that the new CD would be
exactly 60 minutes long but they also knew that the first discs to go on sale
would be expensive – only the wealthy would be able to afford to buy them. The
only artist who would be able, because of his popularity amongst wealthier
purchasers of music, to sell enough of the new discs and the necessary
equipment to play them and thus make the whole venture commercially worthwhile
was the legendary conductor Herbert von Karajan; he would be vital to the
success of the first disc. When he was approached however, the Maestro had one
unalterable stipulation: that the first CD produced for sale, must be of me, my
father’s Ninth Symphony, and I must be heard in my entirety without
interruption. </span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Only the 9<sup>th</sup>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> said
Maestro von Karajan </i>“has the range and dynamics to show off the new
technology and the great qualities of the Berlin Philharmonic and the singers that
I will use; and only the 9<sup>th</sup> is the only work worthy of such a
venture”.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> And so it was; Von Karajan and
the Berlin Philharmonic performed me and the event was timed – it lasted 66.9
minutes. My longest ever performance had been that of the greatest of conductors
Wilhelm Furtwängler who had stretched me to 74.6 minutes – thus, from that day
it was agreed that all CDs produced must have a standard recording time
available of at least 74 and 33 seconds so that I amongst all of mankind’s
music, might always be heard without interruption. </i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixrEfjwMSwpW1QXeDuLFB1Sxon71ckb62WFaj-RVmHeeLj-vNLV8acwBok63ttbJA4urrHlS6TSrwkcZUreG3oD5tMylmNkWz9fYe0J7r2fhfVVFKtD2jjOSLy_Ng0xJrZ0zUvzKu4Www/s1600/ScreenHunter_07+Mar.+01+16.18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="211" data-original-width="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixrEfjwMSwpW1QXeDuLFB1Sxon71ckb62WFaj-RVmHeeLj-vNLV8acwBok63ttbJA4urrHlS6TSrwkcZUreG3oD5tMylmNkWz9fYe0J7r2fhfVVFKtD2jjOSLy_Ng0xJrZ0zUvzKu4Www/s1600/ScreenHunter_07+Mar.+01+16.18.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
The <i>Ninth</i> still today dictates</div>
<div>
the industry standard for CD </div>
<div>
manufacture</div>
</td></tr>
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<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Of course, since then
I have changed and changed again, now I am streamed in digital code via
computers and have even become ring tones on telephones – my father would be
truly overcome. He wrote in one of his conversation books, kept so that he
might converse with visitors to his silent world:“</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">You can resist an
invading army but you cannot resist an idea whose time has come”. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I was that idea whose time had come and was
first set out in the commission from the </i>Philharmonic Society of London <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to “</i>speak of the love, friendship and
brotherhood of all Europe.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let it be so: </i>“You millions, I embrace
you, this kiss is for all the world!”</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sixty six minutes and forty eight seconds of the world's most sublime music which speaks of what it is to be human; sixty six minutes and forty eight seconds...…<i>"<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">You millions, I
embrace you, this kiss is for all the world"!</span></i></span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><i></i><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-84057828689514846282019-12-15T15:02:00.000+00:002019-12-16T18:59:53.419+00:00“Think on these things”: A night of mystery, profundity and exquisite music in Ruddington <br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqqSRkOtmshLqveUButCDvuaa5HHWX4sQwRcOTIR2EwCgtp9h4hS33CkhbVWQhqdCP0y9z1ZUgBxBII_A2nPNjJ-fONwAu8jxo51yiKj36ZULVUZBCrY5SUGyb06jvmP-FCc00FmL5D8/s1600/Holy+Nativity+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqqSRkOtmshLqveUButCDvuaa5HHWX4sQwRcOTIR2EwCgtp9h4hS33CkhbVWQhqdCP0y9z1ZUgBxBII_A2nPNjJ-fONwAu8jxo51yiKj36ZULVUZBCrY5SUGyb06jvmP-FCc00FmL5D8/s320/Holy+Nativity+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Picture courtesy of Michael Overbury</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The audience that filled St Peter's Church in Ruddington for the <i>Ruddington and District Choral Society's</i> Christmas concert last night had arrived on a bitterly cold December evening, the rain increasingly beating down. As they came through the door to buy their tickets they shook the rain from their coats, wiped their faces with handkerchiefs, and some anxiously looked back into the night and grimly forecast <i>"This lot could well turn to sleet or snow by the time we go home!"</i> In the event, this was all rather prophetic since one of the wonderful readings we were to hear later in the evening was TS Elliott's <i>The Journey of the Magi </i>the opening lines of which are <i>" A cold coming we had of it, Just the worse time of the year...." </i>! There were warm greetings and smiles aplenty but it was not the most auspicious start to the concert advertised as <i>"A Celebration of Christmas</i></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>. </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">All, however, were glad to be in the warmth of the church on such a night and so clutching their programmes, they scurried away to find their seats.</span><i> </i> Little did we know, however, that we were in for an evening, the music, words and the atmosphere of which would warm not only our fingers and toes but would refresh and warm our souls, make us feel human again and dispel all thoughts of the inclement weather outside! </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The concert<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> began with a reading
from the Gospel of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">St. John (Ch1 v 1-14).</i> It beautifully</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> set the scene for the evening, speaking of the great mystery, awe and wonder of the Christmas story:</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word
was God.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The same was in the beginning with God.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made
that was made.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In him was life; and the life was the light of men.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it
not.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The same came for a witness, to bear witness of the Light, that all men
through him might believe.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He was not that Light, but was sent to bear witness of that Light.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the
world.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew
him not.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He came unto his own, and his own received him not.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons
of God, even to them that believe on his name:</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the
will of man, but of God.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his
glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,) full of grace and
truth.</span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And as I listened to these ancient, great, so well known and
powerful words my mind was taken over by some other words - the last three
verses of John Betjeman’s great poem “Christmas” which seems to echo St.John’s
words from the Bible and asks a profound question about the nature, mystery and
relevance of Christmas. Although Betjeman’s great work did not appear in last
night’s Christmas Concert I am absolutely sure that everyone who performed or
sat entranced in the audience thought on these things, so profound (yes, that is
the right word) was the event. Betjeman wrote:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 4.1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 4.1pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And is
it true,<br />
This most tremendous tale of all,<br />
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,<br />
A Baby in an ox's stall ?<br />
The Maker of the stars and sea<br />
Become a Child on earth for me ?</span></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And is
it true ? For if it is,</span></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 4.1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 4.1pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
No loving fingers tying strings<br />
Around those tissued fripperies,<br />
The sweet and silly Christmas things,<br />
Bath salts and inexpensive scent<br />
And hideous tie so kindly meant,</span></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">No
love that in a family dwells,</span></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 4.1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 4.1pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
No carolling in frosty air,<br />
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells<br />
Can with this single Truth compare -<br />
That God was man in Palestine<br />
And lives today in Bread and Wine.</span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfO-A-Kux_37EcAR8ZsGa2R3zNyaO4IBrgonLtLMnK7blgLjYxnv-QqodsolrliwWfes27xhdANF5y8LkZi2vXQ_Op8KbNHqp8TuQNv1BprJl6MYK2QXoUA-gT_9r9ehOuJ8e0lSZrYSw/s1600/P1020032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfO-A-Kux_37EcAR8ZsGa2R3zNyaO4IBrgonLtLMnK7blgLjYxnv-QqodsolrliwWfes27xhdANF5y8LkZi2vXQ_Op8KbNHqp8TuQNv1BprJl6MYK2QXoUA-gT_9r9ehOuJ8e0lSZrYSw/s400/P1020032.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And so the concert begins!</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i></i>Betjeman wrote his great work in 1954; it speaks of the very
essence of Christmas. In these 21<sup>st</sup></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> century days when our annual
commercialised Christmas “binge” threatens the true meaning of the religious
festival and great nativity story and where cheap “tat” goes hand in hand with
greed and excess it is a salutary reminder of better, more worthy things. Just
over a decade before (1942) Betjeman put pen to paper, however, his great
friend the composer Benjamin Britten had composed his equally profound,
mysterious and exquisite Christmas work <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
Ceremony of Carols.</i> Britten’s work was the centrepiece of last night’s
wonderful Concert. Its origins are strange and worthy of repeating.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUnG8Y6xEafwnvyKFdcgzPSBTyZlYIANmYCPLAgT8asj0B3eKRPZ6pGwC3RE7miql2D9f04t9-Rhlf8tX44260bJskhzRJZtDO4Xu8tiClNOFZmQViXc7yIkTvd6uHSq6T-aIIJYvnzo/s1600/P1020044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="1600" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUnG8Y6xEafwnvyKFdcgzPSBTyZlYIANmYCPLAgT8asj0B3eKRPZ6pGwC3RE7miql2D9f04t9-Rhlf8tX44260bJskhzRJZtDO4Xu8tiClNOFZmQViXc7yIkTvd6uHSq6T-aIIJYvnzo/s640/P1020044.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the winter of 1941- 42 Britten and his partner and
musical associate Peter Pears were returning home from the USA to the war torn
UK. The only passage they could get was on a small Swedish tramp steamer that
would take almost a month to cross the Atlantic. The weather was bad and there
was the constant danger of attack from German U-boats. Before leaving Halifax,
Nova Scotia, Britten visited a second-hand book store and there bought a copy
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The English Galaxy of Shorter
Poems</i>. Britten later confessed this was pass the time and take his
mind off the worry of the potential dangers of the crossing. On reading
the poems, however, the germ of a musical idea formed in his mind and resulted
in the composer spending much of his time on board composing – in, according to
Peter Pears, “...a tiny, ill lit and foul smelling cabin next door to the
boat’s refrigeration unit...”. The result of Britten’s labours on that
trans-Atlantic trip were two exceptionally fine choral pieces – amongst
the greatest in English music: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hymn
to St. Cecilia</i> (based on a text by poet W. H. Auden), and what we
heard from the Ruddington Choral Society last night, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Ceremony of Carols </i>based
upon the works Britten found in that second hand book of verse. The “carols”
are largely the product of 15th and 16th century writers, most of whom are
anonymous. Wonderfully, they retain their unique flavour as a result of
Britten's sensitive and extensive use of old English language. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx6nYTCvPZo5OZ3Hp7ug3IgnKaLwUn3myF0mCtNNEQY20EV5dWO_NgxfYMa0eaQkr6iEll8bv_i9esWNXvt7O8nGMv1grd5cQox6rWK0K1AQR5tRAvxU-qCWOZdk_YA02k6l0wweCxTGA/s1600/scan0159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1111" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx6nYTCvPZo5OZ3Hp7ug3IgnKaLwUn3myF0mCtNNEQY20EV5dWO_NgxfYMa0eaQkr6iEll8bv_i9esWNXvt7O8nGMv1grd5cQox6rWK0K1AQR5tRAvxU-qCWOZdk_YA02k6l0wweCxTGA/s320/scan0159.jpg" width="222" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Musically, Britten had been studying the harp with view to
perhaps writing a harp concerto and consequently he used some of his ideas and
scored <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Ceremony of Carols</i> for
treble voices & harp. Last night the audience sat spellbound as young
harpist Kathryn Mason delicately and beautifully accompanied the choir - and later
in the programme earned a huge round of applause for her delightful rendering
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sleigh Ride. </i>The sheer beauty of
Britten’s composition was in evidence, too, in the solo movements sung by
Soprano Georgina Podd – her clarity, the pure sound and her nuanced voice
exactly right for both the work and the occasion. Later in the programme her
solo singing of the first verse of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Once
In Royal David’s City </i>would, in
other circumstances, be described as a “show stopper” – but in the atmosphere
and programme of last night, it’s simple beauty was almost overpowering –
certainly, it brought a lump to my throat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Britten’s work is not easy; it will tax
the best of choirs but under musical director Paul Hayward the R&DCS were
again on top form, not only getting it musically “right” but bringing out the
delicate, rich and yet haunting and mysterious nature of the work and of the
Christmas story itself. As the work unfolded we were taken back to an ancient
age – far from Santa’s grotto, Rudolf’s red nose or Bing Crosby’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">White Christmas. </i> On a bitter night of wind and driving rain in
Ruddington it was easy, as we listened to the choir, to Georgina Podd and to
Kathryn Mason, to be taken back to some distant past and to imagine a weary and homeless couple on their long
and hard journey; a poor carpenter and his wife, “great with child”, the ancient equivalents of our modern day refugees; it was a small step to picture a cold and bleak
stable and thence to ponder the great and awesome mysteries of the shepherds, the kings
and the angels imagined by Betjeman in his poem and to ask the question that Betjeman asked </span><i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"And is it true, this most tremendous tale of all....For if it is...… No carolling in frosty air, Nor all the steeple-shaking bells, Can with this single Truth compare...." </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; float: none; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The whole programme for the evening was wonderfully
constructed. The audience carols were full of warmth and Christmas cheer but especially
when the choir’s voices soared in the descants of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">O Come, All Ye Faithful</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hark!
the Herald Angels Sing </i>they became<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>great celebrations, rousing reaffirmations
of the Christmas message to balance the profundity of Britten’s work. Throughout
the night the accompaniment of Michael Overbury on the organ was, as always,
both a joy and a wonderment. His own exquisite composition <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Of one that is so Fair and Bright </i>gave the choir not only the
opportunity to demonstrate their (and Michael Overbury’s) musical talents but
also got the second half of the concert off to a delightful start whilst at the
same time continuing the night’s theme of the mystery and (to use a much over
used – and today misused word) the awesome
magic of the Christmas story. I sat delighted as the choir showed their joyous
musicality and rich textured, layered sound when they performed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Dulci Jubilo</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We wish
you a</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merry Christmas </i>but I also
sat mesmerised, overcome and pondering the ills of humanity in our current
world as the haunting and poignant <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Coventry
Carol</i> filled St Peter’s. Can there be a more timeless expression of the
Nativity than in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Coventry Carol</i> –
conjuring up the bleak stable, the new born child, Herod’s rage and the Slaughter
of the Innocents but at the same time telling of Mary’s lullaby of love for her new born son and the dangers of the world that he was born into. As I listened I could
not but help think of its relevance in today’s world as we witness the tragedy
of Syrian children caught up in that terrible never ending conflict, or the “lost”
faces that I saw the other night on TV as I watched the news and saw film of
the conditions in the refugee camps in Bangladesh which are filled with
thousands of Rohingya people fleeing from the horrors of Myanmar. The story of
the Nativity may well be two millennia old but its theme has a dreadful reality and resonance in today’s world. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdyDEMjsXGjfZhBsSNXn3rQZwA_l9ttww5xA_sGQvyLE4EFk7SzH-NcbWZlZHwtT86e94AJ0vYtgVLXu1lF0Hfb5lI2CMVDyLXx6A4s9JerL5WeNqGSXNS2nDffwRTK3yMIv72ZLaDQDI/s1600/P1020039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="687" data-original-width="831" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdyDEMjsXGjfZhBsSNXn3rQZwA_l9ttww5xA_sGQvyLE4EFk7SzH-NcbWZlZHwtT86e94AJ0vYtgVLXu1lF0Hfb5lI2CMVDyLXx6A4s9JerL5WeNqGSXNS2nDffwRTK3yMIv72ZLaDQDI/s320/P1020039.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Musical maestro Michael Overbury at the organ</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And in between all this we enjoyed some wonderfully thoughtful
readings. From <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">St John’s Gospel</i> we ranged through William Blake’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cradle Song, </i>T.P. Garrison’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Annuciation, </i>T.S.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Elliott’s (another friend of Britten
and Betjeman) wonderfully evocative <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Journey of the Magi </i>and to round things off Paul Hayward put down his
conductor’s baton for a few minutes and gave a splendid reading of the gently
humorous (and one of the many highlights of the night) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twelve Days of Christmas </i>by John Julius Norwich. The readings were
all an absolute joy to listen to, each
beautifully read and completely at one with the musical contributions.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This was not, however, just a Christmas entertainment. It
was an evening to enjoy it is true, but, like Betjeman’s poem and
Britten’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ceremony of Carols</i>, it was an evening to stop us all in our
tracks. It was a programme to make us take a step back from the mad scramble that has come to be our
modern Christmas where drunken parties abound, cheap instantly
forgettable Christmas drivel is piped through our shopping malls, greed and
excess fill our ambitions, television channels pump out the latest Hollywood blockbuster horror film or mindlessly banal animated cartoon box office hit and too often fill this great Christian festival with loud, garish and often innuendo trash, calling it "family entertainment". Yet, in today's world even the BBC can find little or no place for piety or at least a nodding acquaintance with the Christian roots of the season. I often wonder what would the founder of the BBC, Lord Reith, think? And what, too, would Betjeman think; in his poem <i>Christmas</i> he quaintly and delicately observed in 1954 that “<i>Provincial Public Houses
blaze” - </i>what would that great and gentle poet laureate write today?<i> </i>Yet in this mad 21st century Christmas season we have<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>a world
where homelessness is on the rise, food banks for the hungry thrive, man’s
inhumanity to man too often knows no bounds, and words and ideas like decency, respect,
kindness and truth are, it often seems, long forgotten often disparaged ideals. But, last night’s concert gently said "<i>stop, pause for reflection, think on more important things".</i> It made us all ponder other, more important but often over looked,
or worse, forgotten human virtues. For me at least the programme reminded me of
the words of St Paul in this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Letter to
the Philippians</i>:<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> “...... </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white;">whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest,
whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are
lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if
there be any praise, think on these things.” </span></i><span style="background: white;">Last night’s concert – to use a modern
phrase – “ticked all these boxes”!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuKhCpX1X4rqX5S2ItDfv1VluKBI5YP7oIkkCXWb_sdC9_r8KGtBo56jQXVPFhUV8_oDp_J_3T557uu6LTcgmzAeck6_0JEj1iwFh0V80Wnwbs3QvSFrmCM451CZmKAXk7BBYRfrtz90c/s1600/P1020041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuKhCpX1X4rqX5S2ItDfv1VluKBI5YP7oIkkCXWb_sdC9_r8KGtBo56jQXVPFhUV8_oDp_J_3T557uu6LTcgmzAeck6_0JEj1iwFh0V80Wnwbs3QvSFrmCM451CZmKAXk7BBYRfrtz90c/s400/P1020041.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Paul Hayward captivates the audience with the reading of </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>John Julius Norwich's "Twelve Days of Christmas"</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In these troubled times for our nation and the world can there be a more important or powerful imperative than the need for mankind to reflect upon
these virtues – to explore what it is to be human. Surely, if the Christmas story has a message it is not to spend Christmas in a drunken haze but to ponder the humanity and all that it implies of the birth in bleak stable of a small child. Thankfully I, and I suspect many more who walked out of St
Peter’s at half past nine last night and into the cold December Ruddington air, reflected upon what they had heard and what it had all meant; and in
these troubled times that can be no bad thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In previous reviews I have praised the leadership of Paul
Hayward and accompanist Michael Overbury at Ruddington – the effect of these
two wonderful musicians has, in my view, galvanised the choir making R&DCS a
real force to be reckoned within the musical world and life of Nottinghamshire.
Under Hayward and Overbury’s guidance the choir have ranged from Rutter to Rheinberger,
Britten to Bach, Shearing to Schubert, Haydn to Handel and from Mendelssohn to
Mozart – and all points in between – and have dealt with all these composers
and works with aplomb. The choir has both widened its repertoire and at the same
time improved musically and chorally in leaps and bounds. They, their leader
and their accompanist have much to be proud of. Long may it continue. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ55lbOuwalBf-QtpTXUhYAgYZkC_CVKpRjjctjhVaGfh58tbWjJUx4Kdj5p8T9Kp61wbpMj10xRm_XM2yOtJ22MztAIhqwjLFAfygYzaKsM1mU_Ygu54NTeWtp5fjNtvRDifLTCyiCiI/s1600/P1020048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ55lbOuwalBf-QtpTXUhYAgYZkC_CVKpRjjctjhVaGfh58tbWjJUx4Kdj5p8T9Kp61wbpMj10xRm_XM2yOtJ22MztAIhqwjLFAfygYzaKsM1mU_Ygu54NTeWtp5fjNtvRDifLTCyiCiI/s640/P1020048.JPG" width="640" /></i></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Take a well deserved bow Paul Hayward</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Thank you Ruddington & District Choral Society, thank
you Paul Hayward, thank you Michael Overbury and all the other performers who
did so much to not only provide an eloquent and haunting musical evening but to
also reconnect me with the important things of Christmas and my basic humanity. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-65740834865002017962019-08-30T15:57:00.001+01:002019-08-30T21:20:21.744+01:00The Deliberate Removal of Nuance<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfXnlzFCZAEd5lEjX0aDk8mHKJ3kVYyKFltk2LnQtG3g76M3XjV2LoqmNAtXF2-xczZHCas-isRUB1uGP7iisgXHuHxrnhLInF65j88Enu2_BnsgN1Q2ukQmlZ8n0jxriRQnVPxmeTILg/s1600/ScreenHunter_01+Aug.+30+15.49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="619" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfXnlzFCZAEd5lEjX0aDk8mHKJ3kVYyKFltk2LnQtG3g76M3XjV2LoqmNAtXF2-xczZHCas-isRUB1uGP7iisgXHuHxrnhLInF65j88Enu2_BnsgN1Q2ukQmlZ8n0jxriRQnVPxmeTILg/s320/ScreenHunter_01+Aug.+30+15.49.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: windowtext;">
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<span style="color: windowtext;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">“Tyranny is the deliberate removal of nuance” commented American
documentary film maker Albert Maysles (a relation of British comedian Alexei
Sayle) during in the McCarthy era of the late 1940s & early 50s in America
– a time when thousands of American were accused of “un-American activities” by
Senator Joseph McCarthy. Evidence, debate and opinion were sidelined; if you
are not for us you are against us said McCarthy. Maysles’ quote was true – when
tyranny takes hold discussion, debate, different opinions, slightly different
views - shades of grey - are the first things to go. All is black and white, no
ifs, no buts, no arguments; you are either with us or against us, nuance and
tyranny are mutually exclusive terms. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: windowtext;">
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">I have
thought much about Maysles’ famous quote in the past 48 hours since Boris
Johnson gained the Queen’s permission to shut down Parliament for five weeks.
Put simply, Johnson has removed the opportunity for nuance (defined in my
dictionary as subtle differences, shades of meaning) in our political and civil
discourse; he has severely limited the opportunities for the sharing and
putting forward of opinions different from his own and it leaves Johnson in
complete control with no reference to anyone or anything else. No ifs, no buts,
no argument. Stalin, Hitler, Mao, Mussolini and other communist or fascist
dictators would nod their heads in knowing approval – it is the classic first
step to the establishment of a tyrannical regime, the closing down of debate,
of differing opinions; it is the deliberate removal of nuance.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">Of course,
Johnson’s supporters argue that the prorogation of Parliament is perfectly
legal and anyway, they argue, for most of the time that Parliament will be
closed it would have been closed down anyway for the annual Party Conferences.
This argument is both facile and mendacious. Whilst it is true that it is
perfectly legal to close down Parliament that closing down is usually done with
the agreement of Parliament. And this leads to the second point: it is true
that Parliament may have been scheduled to be closed for the Party conferences,
but this is always with the agreement of the Parties involved. Boris Johnson
has acted arbitrarily showing no respect for the principles and traditions upon
which our constitutional monarchy rests – he has closed down the opportunity
for debate and taken the first steps in tyranny.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">The UK is
one of the few countries in the world not to have a written constitution. The
situation is made even more complex because as well as our elected Commons we
have an unelected head of state who is a Monarch - head of state by birth
rather than common consent - and a second chamber that is also unelected. No
other country has such a complex (and many might argue contradictory)
parliamentary system. Nevertheless, for hundreds of years it has served us well
– but only so long as everyone plays the constitutional "game". Half
a millennia ago Charles 1st didn’t play the game and it ended badly for the
country and for him – years of civil war ripped the country apart and this was
followed by Charles losing his head. Our system has built in contradictions
almost at every point and juncture as to who is in charge – Monarch, Prime
Minister, ruling party, House of Lords or Parliament as a whole? And each has
its own delicate and minute checks and balances all steeped in the nation's
history and traditions – little written down as specific rules or requirements,
fluid, but built up over hundreds of years - and all somehow clinging together
in what seems to amount to little more that a series of “gentlemen’s
agreements”. The delicate balance of who is in charge was illustrated in 1642
when the Speaker of the House, William Lenthall famously defied the King.
Charles 1st entered the chamber of the House of Commons, supported by 400 armed
men, in an attempt to seize five members whom he accused of treason. When
Charles asked Lenthall where the five were, Lenthall calmly replied "I
have neither eyes to see nor tongue to speak in this place but as this House is
pleased to direct me". A clever but defiant reminder to the Monarch that
Parliament is sovereign - although nowhere is this written down as a
constitutional law.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">In 1642
William Lenthall knew that our political system and constitution rely not upon
written constitutional instructions and rules but upon matters of principle and
tradition, upon following the common practice that has built up over centuries,
and respecting the traditions and principles upon which our system is based. But
most of all on a government's willingness to bow to Parliament as the supreme
or sovereign body – more important than any single individual or party – be it
the Conservative, Labour or Liberal Party or Elizabeth Windsor, Charles 1st or
indeed Boris Johnson. Our current Speaker John Bercow knows it and that is why
he called Boris Johnson’s actions “a constitutional outrage”. But following
Johnson’s action this week all that has been blown away by this man who doesn’t
give a damn for tradition, delicate checks and balances, unwritten gentlemanly
"understandings" or parliamentary sovereignty. We now know what
Johnson meant when in the Brexit Referendum campaign he said that it was all
about "Taking back control" - he meant taking back control for him
alone. And he is ready to destroy anything that threatens this ambition.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">But
Johnson is a coward – he has gone into hiding. The man who hopped up to
Scotland at the drop of a hat to visit the Queen in mid-week is back in his
burrow. He has created the greatest constitutional crisis this country has seen
in many generations, set in motion a chain of events that will at the least
split the nation even further and might possibly lead to civil unrest. And yet,
except in the most perfunctory manner, he has not taken to the air waves or
stood outside Downing Street and given some a cohesive speech to explain or
defend his actions, and, it highly unlikely given his usual modus operandi,
that he will allow himself to be interviewed by perceptive and forensic
political commentators who might, God forbid, ask him some hard questions. This
is a man playing fast and loose with not only democracy but with a nation – he
needs to be held to account. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">I am no
fan whatsoever of Theresa May – either as a politician or a person but as with
Margaret Thatcher I can admire her diligent management of Parliamentary process
and procedures. Even the most strident critic like myself has had to give a
grudging recognition to Mrs May as she fought for her EU deal – never once
shirking her responsibility to be accountable to Parliament and the country. As
I (and I suspect much of the country) watched her at the Dispatch Box hour
after hour, day after day, being vilified and metaphorically torn apart by
critics on all sides of the House (as well as large sections of the media who
were quick to point out her short comings) she stood battered but firm. We all
knew that she was said to be a stubborn woman but many, like myself began to
think that this bordered upon self harm or some kind of masochism. I’m sure
that there were many reasons for her intransigence: commitment to the EU Deal
she was fighting for, personal bloody mindedness, belief in the democratic
implications of the Referendum result, love of her country and her
Party........but I cannot escape the fact that all of these ultimately must be
rooted in her respect for Parliament, its procedures, its principles and its
ancient traditions. Above all, I am firmly of the view that Theresa May, the
vicar's daughter who once admitted that the naughtiest thing she ever did as a
child was to run through a field of wheat, knew well the need to protect our
delicately balanced unwritten constitutional monarchy with all its twists and
turns and its delicate checks and balances of accountability, integrity, gentlemanly
conduct - and above all its ultimate acknowledgement that Parliament is
sovereign. She knew that all this is needed in order that opinion might be
heard, shades of meaning understood, nuance protected - otherwise the House
(Parliament) like a pack of cards, literally and metaphorically, comes crashing
down. Theresa May knew well that Parliament, its opinions, and its nuances,
must be heard, for if it is not protected, cherished and promoted then the UK
is at huge risk of tearing itself apart. We have no written constitutional laws
to protect either the individual or the state from those who would seize power
when the Parliamentary system stumbles or finds itself in uncharted waters or
when the whole pack of cards crashes down - as it is in danger of doing now –
so despite my many policy disagreements with Theresa May I greatly respect and
admire her for her commitment to the preservation of stability, good order and the protection of our civil and political liberties in these strange and dangerous times .</span></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">Boris
Johnson’s prorogation of Parliament has driven a coach and horses through this
delicate constitutional world. It is an aggressive provocation of Parliament
which widens the already great Brexit divide into a civil war state of mind. It
is explosive and dangerous and leaves a dangerous vacuum. If Parliament, which
in our system, is and must be sovereign is sidelined, disregarded, superfluous,
then what and who will step into the vacuum? The future is both bleak and
dangerous – but Hitler, Mao, Stalin and Mussolini, like the Four Horsemen of
the Apocalypse would know exactly what and who steps in. And so does Boris
Johnson, and I have little doubt that he sees himself as the fifth member of
that unholy band, ready to take control.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">Tomorrow I will, for the first time in my life protest and join
others in Nottingham (meet at the Brian Clough Statue near the Market Square at
11am) to try to ensure that opinion is heard, that nuance is not stilled and
that even though Johnson has suspended our sovereign Parliament the views of
the people will be heard.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></span>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-38457818842788651442019-08-29T10:47:00.001+01:002019-08-29T11:19:19.689+01:00Playing Fast & Loose With Principles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwL_KzDiohD7Lx51d6OIvPXQooEVQvAeiBVljHse4Vq0JaZrXHkM9qGyLDl9HYBDQud3k2W3uLEA_8IB3qHUbevUUetZYORo8gLeKuktD2Kc5tCCit9Pxv_-wpBPBEFJKto3Sjro5N3Bk/s1600/ScreenHunter_01+Aug.+29+10.52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="628" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwL_KzDiohD7Lx51d6OIvPXQooEVQvAeiBVljHse4Vq0JaZrXHkM9qGyLDl9HYBDQud3k2W3uLEA_8IB3qHUbevUUetZYORo8gLeKuktD2Kc5tCCit9Pxv_-wpBPBEFJKto3Sjro5N3Bk/s320/ScreenHunter_01+Aug.+29+10.52.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">I have never been a monarchist but fully accept that the Queen
has, throughout her long reign, worked tirelessly on the country's behalf and
has upheld the position that she holds in a dignified and honourable way.
Enough, however, is enough. I have watched amused, aghast and often angry over
the years while the monarch has "ruled" over a completely bizarre and
dysfunctional royal family completely removed from the realities of life in a
modern society, but the Queen's bowing to Boris Johnson's power grab yesterday
is too much: it has in one fell swoop destroyed the delicate checks and
balances of our unwritten constitutional monarchy. I fully accept that the Queen has been put in a very difficult position and was damned if she did and damned if she didn't - but there are times, and the Queen will know this, when the hard decision has to be taken and in this regard the Queen yesterday failed in her duty. She - and her family - should go, and go quickly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">But
the Queen is not alone. The last three years have seen the country descend into
the depths, becoming a banana monarchy as the populist right wing Tory and
Brexit bandwagon has consistently and continually lied to the electorate,
subverted democracy, made the UK a laughing stock amongst nations and
threatened the very future of the nation with its crackpot plans (or lack of
plans) for Brexit and the post-Brexit world.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">For
three years the Brexit debate has been framed almost entirely in economic terms
- whether it will make us better or worse off - and, of course, that plays into
the hands of the Brexiteers for they know that, as their hero Winston Churchill
famously and contemptuously complained about the electorate "...the
British, alone amongst nations, vote with their wallets not with their
heads". It was true in Churchill's day and in our contemporary world it is
even more true: we have become a nation who knows the cost of everything and
the value of nothing. Everything in contemporary Britain has a cost rather than
a value and in that kind of society basic values - telling the truth, honest
action, matters of principle, respect for others, fairness, justice, decency,
acting honourably, seeing the bigger picture rather than the short term gain,
or doing what is right are now very small voices in our raucous, dog eat dog,
"cost/benefit" Brexit, right wing populist world where envy and greed
rule and where the mantra is increasingly "stuff you - I'm all right
Jack". We have a Prime Minister who is a proven liar, a man who will
pervert any situation to empower himself or to feed his delusional self
important ego, and yet no-one, it seems, is much concerned about this. Indeed
he is lauded and glasses are raised to him in the pubs and on social media -
"Good old Boris, what a wag!" say the unthinking, the uncaring the
wilfully ignorant. And yesterday our monarch, worryingly, took advice from him
- and gave him the royal approval by suspending Parliament at his behest. I
might wonder how the American people can elect someone as morally bankrupt and
politically ill fitted for public office as Trump - but
we are no better. Like the Americans, we too have lost the ability to stop and
ask ourselves the question "Is what we are doing right, is it fair, is it
worthy, is it just, is it acceptable, is it decent, can it be morally or
ethically justified?" </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">When
I was at school 60+years ago we sang a hymn the words of which I can still
remember with absolute clarity. They spoke to me then and they still speak to
me today – about the sort of person one should aim to be and the things that
one should aspire to. </span><br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heavenly Father, may thy blessing<br />
Rest upon thy children now,<br />
When in praise thy name they hallow,<br />
When in prayer to thee they bow:<br />
In the wondrous story reading<br />
Of the Lord of truth and grace,<br />
May they see thy love reflected<br />
In the light of his dear face.</i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">May they learn from this great story</i></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
All the arts of friendliness;<br />
Truthful speech and honest action,<br />
Courage, patience, steadfastness;<br />
How to master self and temper,<br />
How to make their conduct fair;<br />
When to speak and when be silent,<br />
When to do and when forbear.</i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">May his spirit wise and holy</span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">
With his gifts their spirits bless,<br />
Make them loving, joyous, peaceful,<br />
Rich in goodness, gentleness,<br />
Strong in self-control, and faithful,<br />
Kind in thought and deed; for he<br />
Sayeth, 'What ye do for others<br />
Ye are doing unto me.</span></i></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">I
have a strong suspicion that the sentiments and the aspirations offered in this
hymn would get short shrift in our contemporary society where it increasingly
seems to me everything has a price and talk of qualities such as gentleness,
self control, faithfulness, fair conduct, honest action and the rest are so
often seen as old fashioned, boring or irrelevant to our modern world. Indeed,
knowing what we do about our current Prime Minister – a man who is, as I noted
above, a proven liar, who has night time visits from the police because of his nocturnal
arguments with his mistress, who is happy to use expletives in his public life,
and a man who has seen it as worthy to father children with women other than
his wife – it is difficult to imagine that he could in any way subscribe to the
sentiments in the hymn. And yet, few seem worried about this – “It’s his
business” is the usual excuse offered. Or more worryingly, “His private life is
irrelevant as long as he does a good job”. Once we subscribe to that
philosophy the battle is lost for we are giving carte-blanche to anything and
at the same time reaffirming the zeitgeist of our contemporary world that
anything can be accepted at a price; the price being that as long as the Prime
Minister does what Joe & Joan Public wants then anything will be forgiven.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">We
are, like the USA, supposed to be a Christian country and yet we manifestly no
longer subscribe to the advice given the Bible to the Philippians:
<i>"Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are
honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever
things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any
virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things."</i> Together with
the USA, we have not only stopped seeking these things in our everyday lives
and in our public and political discourse but have lost the ability to even ask
questions so that we might understand them. In our celebrity obsessed, wealth
driven, increasingly coarse and vulgar society where ignorance is perceived as
some kind of virtue and the addictive watching of banal soap operas and mindless programmes like "Big Brother", Love Island" or " Strictly"
are thought to be cultural high spots we no longer want to know or understand
what is good and worthy and which things are fundamental to our individual and
national humanity. In short we have become a nation that doesn't care about
right and wrong and when that happens a society is on the way down. We, in the
UK and the USA are the modern day versions of the awful M.& Mme.Thenardier
in Victor Hugo's Les Miserables a couple who roamed the Parisian sewers
scavenging, making a fast buck through any devious means possible and selling
to and involving ourselves with anyone that will share our tainted values or
buy our tainted goods - and all with no consideration of whether we are acting
decently or doing the right thing. Brexit, and the Brexit cheerleaders, have
highlighted the true character of contemporary Britain, both collectively and
individually, and shown how far we have sunk and how our values have been
demeaned. It will only get worse in the next few weeks and months. And
Elizabeth Windsor yesterday, bought into that pernicious and desperate value
system and gave it credibility. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">We
are now heading for a re-run of 1933 Germany when Hitler took steps very much
like those that Johnson did yesterday. Those who are not worried by this are to
be pitied. The prorogation of Parliament is in itself inconsequential; it is
the principle that matters. As Lord Bingham - the ex-Lord Chief Justice - said
of these important principles and values that we have increasingly sidelined
and lost in our country: <i>“Which of these principles (rights, privileges, laws
etc) would you discard? Would you prefer to live in a country where they did
not exist? There are, indeed, countries in the world where these principles are
not easily available to their populations, but they are probably not places
where any of us would wish to live”.</i> Our democracy, our government and
ultimately our way of life fall apart when a government or an electorate no
longer cares about principles - integrity, justice, doing the right thing and
the rest. Look at the demise of any great society from the past (Ancient Egypt,
Athens, Rome, the France of Louise XIV, Tsarist Russia et al) to see the truth
of that. Our own society in Britain and the most powerful society the world has even known - the USA - are falling in power and influence, and like ancient Rome it is because we are rotting from within, unable any more to make sound judgements, stick by our principles, recognise and understand the important values and obligations of life and society. And when these principles are not cherished or are usurped so easily
by those who would take power then we should all be very afraid. It is only
when these things are lost that we will know that the family silver has been
stolen - and by then it is too late for then we will have a state much like
Hitler's Germany. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">Yesterday's
events have taken things far beyond Brexit. I have long resigned myself to the
fact that some kind of Brexit will take place. But increasingly I am of the
view that this must be; not because I think it is a good thing or even remotely
acceptable but because I am increasingly of the view that we British should no
longer be allowed to pour our scorn, force our crass behaviour, peddle our
boorishness and display our anti-foreigner poison on our neighbours. We should
not be allowed at the top tables of nations - or even any table - until we have
learned a few lessons about the important things of life. If we wish to
"walk with Kings" as Rudyard Kipling said in his great poem
"If" then we maybe need to take on board the great principles and
weighty obligations that go with that rather than just be looking for the main
chance to put one over on Johnny Foreigner. And if that means that we have to
have a few years of massive economic suffering to bring us to our political,
social, ethical and spiritual senses, to understand concepts and ideas like
decency, humility, and honest thought - to reset the moral compass - then so be
it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">We
are entering a new and frightening phase; whatever happens with Brexit the sky
will probably not fall in but we will have changed forever as a society and a
political entity. It is therefore crucial that the Queen, our political leaders, such as they are, our spiritual leaders and those who care about what sort of society we want, stand up and be counted.
It is not enough for those leaders who oppose Johnson to wring their hands and
Tweet "It's outrageous" - the time is long past for simple words of
horror and hurt pride. I have never once in my 70 odd years on the planet waved
a flag of protest or demonstrated but I now find myself asking the question
"Could I look my 5 grandchildren in the face and defend what we are doing
as a society and what we are allowing our politics, our society and our moral
compass to become - is this what I want for them? Do I want them to think that
honesty, integrity, honourable action, justice, decency and all the rest do not
matter? Do I want them to grow up thinking that principles are not important
and can be cast aside for short term gain or for economic reward as is being
done by Boris Johnson and his compatriots? The answer, of course, is no. My
grandchildren may disagree with me - that is their right (and a fundamental
principle on which our society and democracy is based and which Johnson and
Elizabeth Windsor have played fast and loose with) - but even if they disagree
profoundly with my views I would like each of them to remember me as someone
who cared enough to stand up and be counted for the things I believed in. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">It is time for all of us who are
concerned about the fate of a once great and respected nation - John O'Gaunt's
"sceptered Isle" - to stand up and be counted. History will judge us
unkindly if we do not.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-90977355975820933432018-11-25T15:46:00.000+00:002018-11-27T08:23:17.675+00:00Reaching the parts that other music cannot reach; music for the soul.<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">There can be few of last night’s audience leaving the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Laudate Domiunum</i><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>concert in St Peter’s Church, Ruddington who
did not disappear down the church drive and into the Saturday night Ruddington
air humming or whistling – or maybe even singing – one of the musical gems that
we had enjoyed from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ruddington &
District Choral Society</i> and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ruddington
Chamber Ensemble</i>. This was a quite magical concert – a treasure trove
of<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>sacred music’s best; from items known
and loved by generations of music lovers to a work which, for most of us, was
almost certainly quite new. This was a beautifully constructed programme
performed by singers and musicians at the top of their respective games.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLnu_nomtX4FtwuYnWBbnCHBu0RUwiiTYXa2hh9AKWHyVs2eTD127HbKT55HRemhwX4kGNiJj-DCQ1ZqpUj-czyHrqmbSUFPJ_7lamvZkjFLnyubp6d4iKSwIpTquZradbmeULHo3Um98/s1600/DSC_0060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLnu_nomtX4FtwuYnWBbnCHBu0RUwiiTYXa2hh9AKWHyVs2eTD127HbKT55HRemhwX4kGNiJj-DCQ1ZqpUj-czyHrqmbSUFPJ_7lamvZkjFLnyubp6d4iKSwIpTquZradbmeULHo3Um98/s640/DSC_0060.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The concert gets underway</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">F<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">rom works that in many ways define the sacred music
repertoire – Bach’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesu Joy of Man’s
Desiring, </i>to Mozart’s exquisite <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ave
Verum Corpus</i> & <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Laudate Dominum </i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></b>we
moved to<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Brahms’ deeply reverential
rendering of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Psalm 84</i>:<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How Lovely Are Thy Dwellings Fair</i> from
his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">German Requiem</i> and thence<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>to Schubert’s great <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass in G . </i>And, to put the icing on this delightful musical cake,
in the midst of these musical masterpieces we enjoyed (if that is the right
word for so haunting and deeply felt work) a work that was for me – and I
suspect many others – a revelation: Josef Rheinberger’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stabat Mater</i><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>- undoubtedly
one of the evening’s many high spots. I don’t think that I was alone in
thinking, I’d like to hear more Rheinberger, can I get a CD or stream some of
his music through the wonders of modern technology? <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>And throughout it all the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ruddington Chamber Ensemble</i> provided not only talented and hugely
enjoyable accompaniment but an accompaniment that was both sensitive to the
choir and soloists and to the nature of the occasion. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ensemble,</i> too, had their own opportunities to shine – and shine
they did – with two of music’s best loved works: Mozart’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eine Kleine Nachtmusik </i><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>&
the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Air </i>from Handel’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Water Music Suite.</i></span></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65SzHp2khsDmwgJMWs1-JvLIwYt2JsTLlohoHsFOMoIZ5oqovTPQw6XP-W89jKq1ffqB3KAbz1xjzL-SXMmNmMSMEOkNjPqGpNmre9WWR2wdaJS7BzTjdqkCdJp_FeMRAsuWHaiCGAqs/s1600/DSC_0062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65SzHp2khsDmwgJMWs1-JvLIwYt2JsTLlohoHsFOMoIZ5oqovTPQw6XP-W89jKq1ffqB3KAbz1xjzL-SXMmNmMSMEOkNjPqGpNmre9WWR2wdaJS7BzTjdqkCdJp_FeMRAsuWHaiCGAqs/s320/DSC_0062.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Soaring sopranos!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i></i><br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">So many of the works that we enjoyed are works that many in
last night’s appreciative audience will
have grown up with; many I am sure appear in Classic FM’s annual top 300 hit
parade – but that doesn’t lessen their greatness or their deserved place in the
sacred choral music tradition. As I walked<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>out of the church at the end of the concert I was mentally humming
Bach’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring </i>– a
work that I came across first as a 13 or 14 year old when for reasons known
only to Mr Hornby, the school music teacher, (in a decision which still amazes me) he somehow
selected me to sing in the school choir at a concert at the Public Hall in my
home town, Preston, where I grew up. The event was attended by many school
choirs in the town and each had the opportunity to sing two works – our two
were Mendelssohn’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">O for the Wings of a Dove</i>
and Bach’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesu Joy of Mans Desiring. </i>I
don’t think it was a competition (had it been so then I am sure that I would not
have been selected!) but the works stayed with me. Nor did I put myself forward
for choir membership because of any great choral or musical love or even
knowledge of these two masterpieces – they were complete unknowns. No, my
reason for asking to join the choir was much more prosaic, perhaps dubious and the same as that
of my several friends who also pleaded their case – there were girls in the
choir who we callow, spotty youths wished to impress! But, whatever the reason,
one of those works – the Bach - gained a special place in my life that lasts to
this day. Shortly after the competition I found, in the storage compartment of
the ancient piano stool that sat in front of the second or third hand piano that we
had at home, a much used, somewhat grubby and dog-eared piano score for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesu Joy </i>– it had obviously come with
the stool which, I suspect, my mother had bought at a house clearance. I was,
at the time, rather unwillingly learning to play the piano and although this
was far too difficult for me to play my experience in the choir encouraged me
to<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>stick at it and over the next few months
and years I slowly became a little more proficient. Bach’s great work, and
indeed all Bach, “stuck” – it has been so for the rest of my life. Throughout
my time working in primary schools I would often, if I needed to relax or have
a quiet few moments, sit in the hall at playtime or before school and play <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesu Joy</i> on the school piano. The sheet music
was not necessary, my fingers by then were on autopilot, occasionally finding
the right notes as I produced some kind of Eric Morecambe like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“hitting the right notes but not necessarily
in the right order” </i>rendering of Bach’s masterpiece. But for me it didn’t
matter, I loved the work and as the choir last night sang I was transported
back sixty years or more to a time long gone, to that event and experience that, in a small way, made
me what and who I am today.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiPj-0sNND2o3aEd9ooCB685tjYJvMYZYpjpuzbRoPLGOLKPoOsDECJ0ks6KARKAm9uZsGOcpT2IULqWiNlWWmk1qbN7BWH9Bt_ZczSYmdMtpLJRrL9zyAH51P_cikY7JRBccf8nSU5kY/s1600/DSC_0069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiPj-0sNND2o3aEd9ooCB685tjYJvMYZYpjpuzbRoPLGOLKPoOsDECJ0ks6KARKAm9uZsGOcpT2IULqWiNlWWmk1qbN7BWH9Bt_ZczSYmdMtpLJRrL9zyAH51P_cikY7JRBccf8nSU5kY/s320/DSC_0069.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Concentration from the violins!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i></i><br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">And this is what all music (be it classical, pop, sacred or
heavy metal) can and should do – take us back in our own life to particular
events, connect us with life’s joys and tragedies, remind us of our short life's markers, recall long lost friends, or great loves and fulfilled or broken dreams. In short give us a context for our very humanity. And it
does something else, equally important; it connects us directly with times that
are unknown or long lost to us.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>When we
hear Mozart or Bach, or Schubert or, when I sat in Nottingham’s Royal Concert
Hall on Friday evening being quite overcome by Nottingham’s own son the
wonderful young cellist Sheku Kanneh-Mason perform arguably the world’s
greatest cello concerto – the Elgar – we were hearing exactly the same sounds
that people heard years – often centuries before we were born. We were
connecting with the ideas, events, feelings and the people of an age long gone. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>As Kanneh-Mason played he was taking us
directly back to the immediate aftermath of the Great War – apposite in this
November month a century after the war ended – and forging a direct link with
Elgar and the emotion and sense of loss felt by the composer and wider society
following the terrible events between 1914 and 1818. This is important, it
gives a context for our own small lives –<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>reminding us of who we are, where we and where our society has come
from - and where, perhaps, it is going. In short, where we fall in the great scheme of things. This is what all music
does and it is what last night’s concert in St Peter’s Church did so
wonderfully.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgudMqvhdSoZQqZLJrOA07NZO2cJsHvAAv_xldNIcyk39KGKBc5H8u1is05cgLzomcjkNLvHC4Wbr2WYLkaudVm3PYCPBPlXE63mgNW-wj_53VLbUlUhQjViIOcnsz3dUvCPb3rFEowL3w/s1600/ScreenHunter_01+Nov.+25+14.55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="635" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgudMqvhdSoZQqZLJrOA07NZO2cJsHvAAv_xldNIcyk39KGKBc5H8u1is05cgLzomcjkNLvHC4Wbr2WYLkaudVm3PYCPBPlXE63mgNW-wj_53VLbUlUhQjViIOcnsz3dUvCPb3rFEowL3w/s320/ScreenHunter_01+Nov.+25+14.55.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
The two wonderful young soloists: Rebecca Sarginson </div>
<div>
& James Farmer</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">One of the problems that I am sure that faces any orchestra,
soloist or choir – even the superstar musicians of the great concert platforms
– is one of familiarity. When Kanneh-Mason played the Elgar on Friday night to
a packed Nottingham Royal centre I would guess that every single member of that
audience knew the work almost as well as the performer and consequently will
judge it in relation to their own perception or experience of hearing others
play it. Was Kanneh-Mason’s rendering as “good” as the Jacqueline du Pre
performance of half a century ago -<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>a
performance that has become a classic in its own right. For me, I was judging
Friday night’s performance against the Paul Tortelier renderings of the Elgar
which for me are sublime. Others will have different ideas. Additionally, as
well as personal “taste” there is the inevitable human reaction to pick up on
every small detail; after all we “know” the work so well that a wrong note or
missed beat or lack of synchronisation or empathy<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>between soloist, choir or orchestra will be
there for all to see and hear – there is little space for the performer to
hide! And so it was with Saturday’s concert in St Peter’s – we all knew so many
of the works and when that happens then there is, I suspect, an added pressure
on the performers not only to bring out something new, something to set their
rendering apart and make it special and memorable but for it to be perfectly
performed so as not to offend the preconceptions of the listeners.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPkx28pX38qL8CQ0iMxJJANie3SC7x8WaSeWu356DDWf7hvgeB_mLud1ZWeVImpSY7dIA3Z-J1M7luPe9PYX251E-_ADLTr8bPIJeTXBftF2pj-6XvBlO-d4ymdiZbgEQM3lRxGg2VLo/s1600/DSC_0077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPkx28pX38qL8CQ0iMxJJANie3SC7x8WaSeWu356DDWf7hvgeB_mLud1ZWeVImpSY7dIA3Z-J1M7luPe9PYX251E-_ADLTr8bPIJeTXBftF2pj-6XvBlO-d4ymdiZbgEQM3lRxGg2VLo/s400/DSC_0077.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Praise the Lord- Laudate Dominum!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i></i><br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">Last night’s concert fulfilled, for me at least, all these
requirements. From the gentle and reverential opening work (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Laudate Dominum</i>) to the final bars of
the Schubert <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass in G</i><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>the singers and players put their own stamp
on the works. If there was a common, and<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>perhaps unintended theme running through the evening it seemed to me to
be that these were all calm and reflective pieces and the choir, soloists and
orchestra brought this out to perfection. In an increasingly brash world of 24
hour news, Brexit strife, rampant individualism, materialism and inequality, man’s
inhumanity to man, instability and uncertainty each of these works had
something to say – in Biblical terms it was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“still, small voice of God”.</i> And if you were a non-believer then
the works still spoke to you – it was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“still,
small voice of calm” </i>in an increasingly mad, mad, mad world<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">The two young soloists, mezzo soprano<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Rebecca Sarginson and baritone James Farmer
blended sympathetically and beautifully with the choir and the orchestra and
when, in the Schubert, conductor Paul Hayward unexpectedly turned to the audience
and took the tenor part I think everyone in the church was both surprised and
delighted. Paul Hayward was a man of many parts: choral conductor, orchestra
conductor, organist (a wonderful rendering of Mendelssohn’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Organ Sonata No 3, </i>perfect for the occasion
and to get the second half of the programme off to a fine start) and tenor in
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass. </i>This young choral director
pours so much of himself – his enthusiasm, his musical know how, his industry
and his commitment - into the choir and their concerts that it is little
surprise that the concerts have been so well received under his stewardship.
But additionally, the choir has made, and continues to make, huge steps in
their performance, breadth of repertoire and sheer choral quality – Paul Hayward
can deservedly take much of the praise for all this. As always, Hayward was more than ably
assisted and, I’m sure, advised by accompanist Michael Overbury<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>whose musical pedigree is impeccable and skills
on the keyboard – be it organ, piano or harpsichord - in a league of their own.
As he played the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fugue</i> on Bach’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magnificat <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></i>there was<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>a palpable tension in the church, the audience mesmerised as his fingers
danced on the keyboard. This complex work showed off Bach’s and Overbury’s
technical brilliance and musicality to perfection – it was little wonder that
he received one of the evening’s warmest rounds of applause. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIX-z5c8y7tX2ygYmySk9UXiei7c2eHYP5CduC8sJDnkvp9L_cnTwE7MEGA9waoWDRvrph8O9e8mAP-Iok0sa5Zeux5FFuoezvjX8E_eXbPdz5-JpCnUFPoH-bXPxJx1QSVEXlmjOtiFg/s1600/DSC_0171%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1064" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIX-z5c8y7tX2ygYmySk9UXiei7c2eHYP5CduC8sJDnkvp9L_cnTwE7MEGA9waoWDRvrph8O9e8mAP-Iok0sa5Zeux5FFuoezvjX8E_eXbPdz5-JpCnUFPoH-bXPxJx1QSVEXlmjOtiFg/s320/DSC_0171%255B1%255D.JPG" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Michael Overbury - the maestro of the organ!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i></i><br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">This was an evening of hushed, atmospheric, reverential
music;<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Mozart’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ave Verum Corpus, </i>although well known to all the audience, was a
perfect piece for a November concert in a village church – and the choir’s
rendering was one to set the spine tingling. This was continued with a gentle
and lyrical rendering of Brahms’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How
Lovely Are they Dwellings Fair <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></i>and
following this, the audience were delighted by the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ensemble’s</i> performance of the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
Air</i> from Handel’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Water Music. </i>The
mellow, warm and richly textured sound produced by <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ensemble</i>
was perfect for both the occasion and the work; even though we sat in a church
on a misty November evening I’m sure that many, like me, were transported to a
summer evening glide down the Thames listening to Mr Handel conducting his new
work for the pleasure of King George I three centuries ago. It was the same
with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ensemble’s</i> second offering
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Romanze</i> from Mozart’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eine Kleine Nachtmusik: </i>the delicate,
precise playing of the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Ensemble </i>produced
a pure, gentle and relaxing sound, a rendering in keeping with the reflective
nature of the other works. This was music to close your eyes to and relax
while, at the same time, gently think on great things; if the spirit of Wolfgang
Amadeus Mozart was sitting high amongst the St Peter’s rafters last night I’m
sure that he would have approved greatly.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">And so to the two major works: Rheinberger’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stabat Mater</i> and Schubert’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass in G. </i>As noted above for many,
including me, Rheinberger’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stabat Mater</i>
was an unknown – but what a discovery! The interval conversations over cups of
coffee and glasses of wine bore witness to the fact that I was not alone in
finding this work a real joy. This hauntingly lyrical work which within it
contains a huge range to test both choir and players is music to encourage
listeners to ponder and reflect upon life’s great mysteries. Within it are
contained some truly lovely melodies, serene passages and moments of power and
huge emotion.</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma";">This<span style="font-family: "tahoma";"> a</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma";">llowed the basses and tenors to show their depth, strength
and richness while the altos and the sopranos could soar above them. And soar
the whole choir did – the sound that they made <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>a fitting end to the concert’s first half and
as the final notes died away one couldn’t help noting the many in the audience
turning to their neighbours to express their delight and surprise in this
little known but lovely work.</span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiILJQZIST2l-jaEpkW645VnK06sJWYFx8uj0G28DoLIl0a1TrmXLPrwMHFklCeJvdLn4c-yFJWhcmoergTD32F5r1tBz-zpdbBeFEa9Vzsuzp2jlP1LhJM_1ANeENuIueO2mxBsv5JCbs/s1600/DSC_0064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "tahoma";"></span><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiILJQZIST2l-jaEpkW645VnK06sJWYFx8uj0G28DoLIl0a1TrmXLPrwMHFklCeJvdLn4c-yFJWhcmoergTD32F5r1tBz-zpdbBeFEa9Vzsuzp2jlP1LhJM_1ANeENuIueO2mxBsv5JCbs/s320/DSC_0064.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Choir & players in perfect harmony</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i></i><br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">The well known and joyful opening to Schubert’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass</i> set the scene beautifully for a
memorable performance by the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ruddington
& District</i> and their accompanying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ensemble.
</i>Although gentle and reflective in nature the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass </i>also gives choirs the opportunity to give full voice to their
singing – and this they did. The result was that Paul Hayward extracted every
last ounce of expression and emotional intensity from his choir – his singers
were with him all the way, their faces and voices advertising both their
enjoyment and musical input into this great work. The applause at the end was
due recognition of not only a superbly performed work but of a hugely
successful, enjoyable and lovely evening.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LhcwoVUj5XFJmXspClfSxxJSOQgyd6p3qEGzeuFOcjHQ32oBUoN1vBySfCARDyy7Eeh9nAljgGW3Xh5KU1CN8xDIC9l5NIhVjiXRwtHPfZhYbDYTNTsO3E8kQiarN1RL6j7a2ALzJmk/s1600/DSC_0087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LhcwoVUj5XFJmXspClfSxxJSOQgyd6p3qEGzeuFOcjHQ32oBUoN1vBySfCARDyy7Eeh9nAljgGW3Xh5KU1CN8xDIC9l5NIhVjiXRwtHPfZhYbDYTNTsO3E8kQiarN1RL6j7a2ALzJmk/s320/DSC_0087.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<i>Conductor & choir director Paul Hayward takes on</i></div>
<div>
<i>another role!</i></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But, last night’s concert </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">was not only supremely enjoyable, it was for me – and I hope for others - important. In this brash, uncertain and unstable modern world it seems increasingly that we are losing (maybe have already lost) the willingness to talk about things like virtue, love, goodness, faith, honour, righteousness or the other dimensions of our inner self that go into making our very basic humanity. In a world obsessed with self and where we increasingly ask only what is it worth, does it work, how much does it cost, or </span><span style="font-family: "tahoma";"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>what’s in it for me we increasingly define
our world and our relationships only in pragmatic or economic terms. We have created a gradgrind world where wealth and power are too often the only yardsticks by which people and events are judged. One needs only look at the way in which the Brexit debate has been consistently framed by all politicians to see the truth of this. Never have the politicians driving the debate concerned themselves with the question what kind of people - either individually or nationally - do we want to be: a welcoming, tolerant, open society or a closed, intolerant, isolationist nation? These are not unimportant questions, they go the very fabric of who and what we are both as individuals and a society. We have not been asked equally important questions: is the proposed Brexit is culturally worthy, socially acceptable, morally justified, in keeping with our responsibilities to those who have gone before us or who will come after us, or desirable in terms of our wider relationships with our friends in Europe. No, the name of the game has been only power and economics - will it make us economically richer or poorer, will it give us an economic advantage over other nations? It is the manifestation of our own selfish individual and national ambitions to become richer or more powerful in the world's crude rat race to the top - or, maybe, in reality it is a race to civilization's bottom. The whole depressing spectacle proves what our society in general and our leaders in particular have become: we know the price of everything and the value of nothing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">In writing this I am reminded of Oliver Goldsmith's great and damning poem <i>The Deserted Village</i> decrying the same national atmosphere that clouded our country in the get rich quick days of the mid eighteenth century when a small aristocratic elite got richer and richer at the expense of the huge mass of the population: this was the age of the Enclosure Acts when common land was "enclosed" by the nation's great families and ordinary workers lost their homes and livelihoods. Forced to leave the land that they had worked for generations they often fled to the growing towns seeking work the great factories and mills of the growing industrial revolution. There they fell prey to unscrupulous mill owners and the spiral downwards continued:famine stalked the land, obscene poverty was rife and insurrection imminent. Against this backdrop Goldsmith wrote in his searing poetic commentary:<i>"Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay"</i>. Quite. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1dxMTxvpac59FJToj0Oz5FTRwxR7VILjNVrxZnh9quW72tOlSpmNpKPAouY4NuSY2t6l0dVGC0FSGmioQ2AtcgUSiJkzGoLpW87yZdnQ_pKrzGuaiO5HcGgKVJlcvhoNujt2EVpu6tVs/s1600/DSC_0104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1dxMTxvpac59FJToj0Oz5FTRwxR7VILjNVrxZnh9quW72tOlSpmNpKPAouY4NuSY2t6l0dVGC0FSGmioQ2AtcgUSiJkzGoLpW87yZdnQ_pKrzGuaiO5HcGgKVJlcvhoNujt2EVpu6tVs/s320/DSC_0104.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ready for the second half to begin - we await our conductor!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";"><i></i><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">And today, as then, the only game in town is the acquisition of wealth and power; society can no longer be bothered or interested in asking the great, unanswerable questions: who am I, why am I
here, what’s life about, how should I act, what’s the right thing to do? We
less and less talk of ideals and instead talk more of ambitions, thus prioritising personal wants
over<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>humanitarian deeds and human thought and action.
The President of America, arguably the most powerful man in the world </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">(not the wisest, or most devout, or most humble, or most thoughtful President - American voters have moved on from these real qualities and qualifications for national leader when they moved on from Obama)</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma";">, pours forth drivel of enormous proportions such as <i>"I think if this country gets any kinder or gentler,
it's literally going to cease to exist."</i> and millions vote for him. These same people - and others - see nothing wrong when he talks of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“beautiful
deals”</i> with little or no awareness of what the word beauty implies. The nonsensical drivel that Trump espouses is, it seems, endless but he should not be judged too harshly - he is not the cause but merely the symptom. Flick through any social media platform and one will read mind numbingly banal posts from otherwise perfectly "intelligent" people: on Facebook as I look at my mobile phone screen at this moment I am reading two memes:<i>"Stay calm, eat cake"</i> and <i>"Why is it that meteors always land in craters" - these </i>being passed on as profound wisdom or insightful commentary. We truly are in a race to the bottom; we have become increasingly uncaring in our use of language and consequently
in our thoughts.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>No longer, do we consider what we say and how we say it. No longer, I fear, do
we ask is an idea or thought or action good or worthy or decent or just or of good report
or any of the other facets of humanity that make us who and what we are and
what we might or should be; we simply reflect back the brash, pragmatic, banal and increasingly non-sensical world that we are creating and inhabit.</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">
</span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtoJy1d5r9dRzT4du3dcgrFo6LTPVJPgKzg3uvKgXU99xJfZ3HfBU2iqU5q2ivh2a1x7j-p1lvCV5qqgiHxH4ERBJiaS7pMPylrsKKI04tRHbQTopobRheJtCclOFKhyR8wUqNFPMvnXs/s1600/DSC_0078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtoJy1d5r9dRzT4du3dcgrFo6LTPVJPgKzg3uvKgXU99xJfZ3HfBU2iqU5q2ivh2a1x7j-p1lvCV5qqgiHxH4ERBJiaS7pMPylrsKKI04tRHbQTopobRheJtCclOFKhyR8wUqNFPMvnXs/s640/DSC_0078.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Reaching the climax!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">So, as we race to the bottom last night’s concert and the music
chosen for the programme was an important and timely reminder; not only did it remind us of
these essential and deeply personal aspects of our humanity but it also reminded
us of the importance of calm reflective thought, of beauty, of reverence, and of
recharging the human spirit. Music can elate, enrich, sadden, inspire, deepen
one’s understanding of the world and mankind; it can provide huge solace or
great joy at important moments in our lives. As the old lager advert once said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“It reaches the parts that the other beers
can’t reach” </i>– well last night’s concert did just that and more: the music and the programme last night reached the inner-most parts of our humanity, our souls <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>that perhaps many other<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>works might not have <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>reached!</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVFAogWPLnjEYh25a6LbU8-PPO2OOCCy3hoDyQ6jzFe76HxBf6hY2-_yaZAH2F4N87DotbpjKcycjhzvZpwM9hjE6q463CeBb0P4X_9by7SR3_p4rEmaTMIOUaUPEW0evZtJNhyphenhyphenbLofM/s1600/DSC_0098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVFAogWPLnjEYh25a6LbU8-PPO2OOCCy3hoDyQ6jzFe76HxBf6hY2-_yaZAH2F4N87DotbpjKcycjhzvZpwM9hjE6q463CeBb0P4X_9by7SR3_p4rEmaTMIOUaUPEW0evZtJNhyphenhyphenbLofM/s400/DSC_0098.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Applause all round for a wonderful and inspiring programe & performance</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i></i><br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">For as long as there have been men and women on the planet
they have made music and they have pondered the great mysteries of life. The music that we enjoyed in St Peter’s last night in a small way
enabled us to continue this age old examination of ourselves; in the words of St Paul’s letter to the Philippians, to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“think on these things”</i>; to without embarrassment or fear of being thought old fashioned or <i>"out of touch" </i>with the <i>"real world"</i> to think great
thoughts, talk of beauty and decency and love and virtue, to ask the
questions that we need to occasionally ask of ourselves: who am I, what am I
doing here, what is the right thing to do, what is really important in life?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Indeed, St Paul’s words would have been a
perfect sub title for last night’s concert; they would have captured not only
the unwritten theme of the programme but the measure of the performance: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are
true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever
things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good
report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these
things”.</i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma";">So, thank you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ruddington
& District Choral Society, Ruddington Chamber Ensemble</i>, Rebecca
Sarginson, James Farmer, Michael Overbury and Paul Hayward – you gave us so
much more than two hours of nice music. You gave us music to <i>Praise the Lord - Laudate Dominum </i>and in doing so<i> </i>an opportunity to refresh the
soul, recharge the spiritual batteries and re-engage with our inner humanity in these dark, uncertain
and worrying times.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "tahoma";"></span>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-69122614551038524592018-11-18T10:15:00.003+00:002018-11-18T13:32:46.631+00:00Laudate Dominum: "Praise the Lord"......Come and join us at an evening of some of the world's great sacred music at St Peter's in Ruddington<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Laudate Dominum</i> – "Praise the Lord" is the theme of Ruddington & District Choral Society's upcoming concert on Saturday, November 24th at St. Peter's Church in Ruddington. The programme promises much - some of the greatest, most loved and exquisite examples of sacred music; great choral works all of which, in their different ways, "praise the Lord". The concert covers a wide
spread – from the Baroque repertoire through to the late nineteenth century and
includes both the great names of the choral tradition: Bach, Mozart, Brahms,
Schubert, as well as the lesser known Josef Rheinberger’s<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>magical, haunting and intensely reverent <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stabat Mater</i>. And to add to this
cornucopia of profound and lovely sacred works there are much loved orchestral
and organ works by Mozart, Bach and Handel from the Ruddington Chamber Ensemble and organist Michael Overbury which are sure to brighten and
enrich a November autumn night.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Although Saturday's programme is an<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"> evening of sacred music one should not forget that devotional music has
long played a wider part in the development of all music. Today, we can easily
listen to our favourite music by switching on our CD player, tuning in to
Classic FM or maybe even streaming our music from a Spotify App. We can pop
along to the Royal Centre to enjoy one of the world’s great orchestras or live
life to the full rocking to the music of one of the world’s pop stars playing a
gig at the Nottingham Arena. But it has not always been so. It was devotional
music that so often provided the bedrock of musical performance before technology,
theatres and opera houses became an established part of people’s lives, so the
role of sacred music – choral, organ or any other – was crucial in the wider
development of the western musical tradition. For all composers in the days before "instant music" - records, CDs, radio, theatres and the like - devotional music was not simply a recognition of their own religious beliefs
and perspectives it was so often a money earner and, to use a modern phrase, part of
their professional CV.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">So come along to St. Peter's in Ruddington (7.30 pm Saturday November 24th), you'll not only be made very welcome but enjoy some of the world's most beautiful, inspiring and uplifting music such as: </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Laudate
Dominum</span></u></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">: <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Wolfgang Amadeus
Mozart (1756 – 1791)</span></u></b><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">Mozart’s
sacred music was the least important part of his output. His relations with the
church were troubled, and unlike Bach, he lived in a milieu where the
profoundest musical ideas of the time were not practiced in church. At the same
time, however, Mozart composed remarkable, profound, never to be forgotten,
sacred works. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">While
in the service of the <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>unpleasant and autocratic
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Archbishop <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Colloredo, Bishop of Salzburg, Mozart was
required to compose devotional works and in doing so <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>wrote some of his most remarkable sacred
pieces <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>- amongst them the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vesperae solennes de Confessore (Solemn
Vespers) K. 339</i>. This masterpiece foreshadows <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>the two great unfinished religious works of
his Vienna period, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass in C Minor</i>
and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Requiem.</i> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">The
work was intended for the celebration of an undisclosed saint's day and its six
movements were interspersed with readings. The text consists of five<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Psalms</i> and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magnificat</i> canticle that concludes every <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vespers</i> service. Just before the final dazzling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magnificat</i> <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>is the exquisite and much loved <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Laudate Dominum</i> <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>for soprano and chorus. Mozart’s love of the soaring
soprano voice is amply displayed in long, luxurious lines over a simple
accompaniment. One of the most lyrical soprano solos Mozart ever wrote it is a
work beautiful enough for a place in any of his operas but at the same time has
a inward spirituality perfectly appropriate for a church service. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Ave
Verum Corpus</span></u></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">: Wolfgang Amadeus <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Mozart (1756-1791)</span></u></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">The exquisite <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ave Verum
Corpus</i> was written only six months before Mozart’s death at age 35. At a mere
46 bars, it reflects perfectly Mozart’s ability to say something profound in
the simplest possible way; once heard, its otherworldly and sublime melody is
never forgotten. Composed for his friend, choirmaster Anton Stoll, for the
Feast of Corpus Christi, it is a radically pared down example of Mozart’s
determination to create a new type of church music based on clarity and
emotional directness rather than the often florid counterpoint of high Baroque.
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i></span></div>
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<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">Ave Verum Corpus (Hail True Body of
Christ)</span></i><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"> dates from
the 14th century and has been set to music by many composers. </span><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">It is possible that Mozart composed his work mindful
of the Imperial ban on elaborate sacred music, or it is equally likely that he
was writing with the limitations of Stoll's choir in mind. Whatever, his
setting is remarkable for its compact simplicity - an approach that would have
suited the reform-minded Austrians where textual clarity and brevity were
all-important in church music. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">Written in
1791, the same year as his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clarinet
Concerto </i>and the opera<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Die
Zauberflöte – </i>each pinnacles of Western music. American composer Aaron
Copland said of these three works: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“....they
fill us with awe and wonder, not unmixed with despair. The wonder we share with
everyone; the despair comes from the realization that only this one man at this
one moment in musical history could have created works that seem so effortless
and close to perfection.”<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></i></span><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">Pianist and musicologist Artur Schnabel famously
described the work as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“....too simple for
children and too difficult for adults (after all, simple music like this
exposes any lapses of rhythm, intonation, or ensemble)...... the music seems to
encompass a universe of feelings in forty-six short bars”. </i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring</span></u></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">: Johann Sebastian Bach (1685 – 1750)</span></u></b><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">There
can be few works from JS Bach’s vast musical output that are so easily
recognisable to the man or woman in the street as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring</i>. The work derived from the 10th and last
movement of the cantata <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Herz und Mund und
Tat und Leben, BWV 147 ("Heart and Mouth and Deed and Life")</i>. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">Bach's
duties as cantor at St Thomas's school, Leipzig required the performance of a
cantata on Sundays and feast days. As the Thomaskirche had no repertoire of
cantatas when Bach arrived in 1723, he had to compose a new work each week. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cantata No. 147</i> <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>was first performed on 2 July 1723 and is
known to be based on an earlier lost work from 1716. It is this work that includes
the chorale <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesus Bleibet Meine Freude</i>,
also known as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring</i>.
Bach scored the work for voices with trumpet, oboes, strings, and continuo but
in the intervening years the work has been arranged for countless combinations
of instruments. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">Today,
it is as popular as ever and often performed at wedding ceremonies, as well as during
Christian festivals like Christmas and Easter. One of the most famous
transcriptions was that of the English pianist Dame Myra Hess (1890–1965).<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>In 1926 she published piano solo - and later a
piano duet version of the work and when the Second World War broke out she
raised the profile of the work to new heights when it became a firm favourite
of her wartime concerts at the National Gallery in London.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The government had closed London's theatres to
avoid mass casualties in the event of bombing raids and the National Gallery's position
made it vulnerable to attack. Concert pianist Myra Hess had the idea of using
the Gallery as a venue for lunchtime classical music concerts. She approached
the Director of the Gallery, Kenneth Clark, and he gained the necessary
permission from the government. Chairs were borrowed from any available
source and the Gallery – empty of its thousands of art works which had been
removed to a place of safety - was hastily converted into a concert venue. Myra
Hess and friends from the world of music staged concerts at 1pm from Monday to
Friday, every week of the year during the Blitz. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Her aim was to raise the morale of Londoners
and make classical music available to all. The concerts were a roaring success
– long queues formed outside the Gallery and were attended by a total of
750,000 people over six and a half years. Bach’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring</i> played by Hess became the work most associated
with the concerts and a wartime favourite. It has held a special place in the
hearts and minds of English music lovers ever since.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "wingdings"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">v</span></span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">How
Lovely Are Thy Dwellings Fair</span></u></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">: Johannes Brahms (1833-1897)</span></u></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">This
well known and beautiful melody, a working of Psalm 84, forms the central
section of Brahms’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A German Requiem</i>.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Requiem</i>
is a large scale work for chorus and orchestra and soloists.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Although it sets scriptural words to music the
work is non-liturgical.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Brahms assembled
the libretto himself from the Lutheran Bible, focussing purposely on omitting
Christian dogma. It is important to point out that it is not, as the title
might suggest, a nationalist work of any kind, Brahms wrote that he would
gladly have substituted the word ‘German’ with the word ‘Human’<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i></span></div>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Requiem, </i>composed in
1866 is considered to be Brahms’s greatest choral work. Although he was
already an established composer, the piece established his international
reputation. It is a work equally respected by scholars and beloved by performers
and audiences, engaging listeners through its broad range of expressive styles
- from sombre and tragic, tender and lyrical, to triumphant and sublime - and
speaks to them through its spiritual approach to the inescapable human
experience of grief, both with its acknowledgment of despair and provision for
hope. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">After the death of his mother in 1865 Brahms wrote the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Requiem</i> and there is no doubt that he
found some consolation in this. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>By April
1865 he had sent two movements (‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blessed
are they that mourn’</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘How lovely
are thy dwellings fair’</i>) to the pianist Clara Schumann (widow of composer
Richard Schumann) with whom Brahms had developed an intensely emotional relationship
following her husband’s death. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">Although their relationship probably never developed beyond
intense friendship Brahms relied upon her judgement and advice on all musical
matters. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>In the accompanying letter with
the two movements he wrote, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“It’s
probably the least offensive part of some kind of German Requiem. But since it
may have vanished into thin air before you come to Baden, at least have a look
at the beautiful words it begins with.”</i> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">He could not have been more wrong. Clara was lavish in her praise
for the two pieces and they became central to the whole <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Requiem.</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“How Lovely Are Thy
Dwellings </i>is a simple, gently lyrical and serene contemplation of heaven
and has been described as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“...an oasis of
seemingly-uncomplicated melodies that turn the work toward life after death.” </i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "&quot" , "serif"; font-size: 12.5pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>B<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">oth the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Requiem</i>
and this beautiful movement quickly became established and much loved parts of
the choral tradition.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Stabat Mater</span></u></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">: Josef Rheinberger (1839 – 1901)</span></u></b></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Josef
Gabriel Rheinberger</span></strong><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"> born in Liechtenstein and resident for most of his life
in Germany, was an organist and composer. His father initially opposed his
pursuing a musical career, but was finally persuaded to allow his prodigiously
talented son – he performed publically at age seven and was declared a “child
prodigy” - to study in Munich. He was involved in the rehearsals for the first
performance of Wagner’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tristan und
Isolde </i>which took place in Munich in 1865. In 1867, he was appointed
professor of organ and composition at the Munich Conservatory, where he
remained for the rest of his career. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Rheinberger
was influenced by a range contemporaries such as Brahms and by composers from
earlier times, such as Mendelssohn, Schumann, Schubert, and, above all, Bach.
He was a prolific composer composing many works in different genres. They
include twelve <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass</i> settings, a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Requiem</i>, tonight’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stabat Mater</i>, several operas and symphonies and many works of
chamber music. Today he is remembered mainly for his many organ compositions,
which include two concertos. His organ sonatas have been called the most
valuable addition to organ music since the time of Mendelssohn. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">A
young contemporary of Anton Bruckner, Rheinberger held several important posts
including conductor of the Royal Choir in addition to his Chair at the Munich
Conservatory. He was a composer who often turned his back on popular styles of
the day, relying largely on well established musical craft and technique to
create some of the most masterful pieces of the late nineteenth century. A
distinguished teacher Rheinberger counted amongst his pupils the composers
Englebert Humperdink and Richard Strauss and the German conductor Wilhelm
Furtwangler – widely regarded as perhaps the greatest interpreter and conductor
of the 20<sup>th</sup> century symphonic and operatic music.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglErqRnsL-kHQ5VSiOdYpd-rOojFIUKaESyOZU-9TTB0Lmnb9OKLrPiK5GeupAgOScGYqnGJwAou3an0GOyjs9xk01LU5Lr4rqBp5lPU0XzoLoaK6BfqKCtAl3WSxXyDc1Nl7F4bzXkWQ/s1600/Josef_Rheinberger_001%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="220" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglErqRnsL-kHQ5VSiOdYpd-rOojFIUKaESyOZU-9TTB0Lmnb9OKLrPiK5GeupAgOScGYqnGJwAou3an0GOyjs9xk01LU5Lr4rqBp5lPU0XzoLoaK6BfqKCtAl3WSxXyDc1Nl7F4bzXkWQ/s200/Josef_Rheinberger_001%255B1%255D.jpg" width="156" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">The
<i><span style="margin: 0px;">Stabat Mater</span></i> is a
13th-century hymn to Mary portraying her suffering as Christ's mother during
his crucifixion. The title comes from its first line, <i><span style="margin: 0px;">Stabat Mater dolorosa</span></i>, which means
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"the sorrowful mother was
standing".</i><strong><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; margin: 0px;"> </span></strong>Rheinberger’s
<em><span style="border: 1pt; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; margin: 0px; padding: 0cm;">Stabat Mater</span></em> was
composed in 1890 and is a follow-up to his concert version of the same text
that was composed in 1864. Its size and restraint <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>shows that it was intended for use within the
liturgy and is representative of how Rheinberger approached his sacred works. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">The work originated in somewhat strange circumstances and as the
result of the generally poor health that Rheinberger suffered throughout most
of his adult life. For many years, he suffered a disability of his right hand,
making composition increasingly difficult. In the first half of 1884, however,
the hand became badly ulcerated making writing virtually impossible. In
desperation he sought therapy at the health spa town of Wildbad Kreuth. The
treatment was largely successful and greatly eased the pain and <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>when he returned home Rheinberger told to his
wife that he had made a vow to the Mother of God that if his health improved,
he would compose a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stabat Mater</i> in
thanks to build upon the one originally composed in 1864. The result was
tonight’s work.</span><b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">Eschewing
the flamboyant church music of the day Rheinberger sought to create works that
reflected, in part the sixteenth century polyphonic ideals as seen, for
example, in the works of Palestrina. In his day, Rheinberger was a strong
advocate of the movement to simplify and purify liturgical music. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stabat Mater</i> is scored for strings,
organ and chorus; there are no sections for soloists. Despite the simplicity
and purity of the score the work is emotionally powerful both in its music and in
the poetic text. It coveys a wealth of emotional styles – from its dramatic
opening theme sounded by the men of the choir and lower strings to the
beautiful duet sections of the <em><span style="border: 1pt; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; margin: 0px; padding: 0cm;">Eja
mater</span></em>, to the majestic fugue that ends the work. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The work is a brief, but brilliant foray into
this deeply moving text. A contemporary review of the first performance declared
the work to be<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">: “One of the most beautiful
works which the present time has to offer. Its breadth of conception and its
noble tonal effect</i><em><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-style: normal; margin: 0px;">,</span></em><em><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; margin: 0px;"> combined</span></em><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> with its rich polyphony reaches the masterpieces of the old Italian
school.”</i><span style="color: red; margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Mass in G</span></u></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">: Franz
Schubert (1797 – 1828)</span></u></b></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass in G Major</i> was written early in 1815 when Franz Schubert was
just 18 years old and first performed in the same year in the small Viennese
parish church of Lichtental. Astonishingly it</span><span style="color: red; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">was composed in less
than a week (March 2<sup> </sup>- 7). The year 1815 was an astonishing one; it
saw the completion of Schubert’s second and third symphonies, two full-scale masses,
several chamber works, and an astonishing one hundred forty-four songs. At a
time when much of the world was celebrating Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo, Schubert
was quietly producing dozens of compositions, many of which would become
staples of the classical repertoire. His works from that time demonstrate a
remarkable depth of expression and level of compositional maturity and in a musical
culture that centred almost exclusively in Vienna, Schubert stands out as a
rarity. Unlike Mozart, Beethoven, and a handful of other successful composers
whom the Viennese gladly claimed as their own, Schubert was native to that
city, and remained there until his brief life was cut short by typhoid fever in
1828.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">Small
in stature (he stood less than 5’2”) and prone to bouts of illness, Schubert
never married, devoting himself instead to composition, teaching, and salon
performances. His widespread fame and respect largely arrived posthumously;
during his lifetime he laboured under the shadow of Beethoven and the fanatical
popularity of Rossini. </span></div>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">With
a small but committed circle of friends and fellow artists, he supported
himself through teaching and publication, living in relative obscurity. A <span style="color: black; letter-spacing: 0.55pt; margin: 0px;">gifted composer with an exquisite
sense of melody and drama he was the consummate creator of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lieder</i> – or art song - tone poems, and artistic works in almost
every musical genre.</span><span style="color: red; letter-spacing: 0.55pt; margin: 0px;"> </span>His
music ultimately came to embody a unique Classical-Romantic style, steeped in
the formal traditions of the eighteenth century but deeply imbued with the
harmonic and expressive spontaneity of the nineteenth. <span style="color: red; letter-spacing: 0.55pt; margin: 0px;"></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">The
score of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass in G Major</i>, <span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">for string orchestra and organ in addition to soprano,
tenor and bass soloists and choir</span> was not published until decades after
Schubert’s death. <span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">The soprano solo line was
undoubtedly written for Therese Grob who Schubert adored. It is the shortest
and simplest of Schubert’s seven masses and perfect for the small church at
Lichtental where it was first performed. It is an exquisite, lyrical <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass </i>that exudes an overall devotional
mood.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Schubert was not an orthodox
catholic but was a deeply religious man. He wrote to his father, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“People have wondered at the piety I express
in a hymn to the Virgin Mary, which seems to move every soul and to dispose the
listener to prayer. I think that is because I never force myself to pray and,
except when devotion involuntarily overpowers me, I never compose that kind of
hymn or prayer -- when I do, then the piety I give voice to is genuine and
deeply felt.”</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">This
gentlest of masses illustrates that Schubert was familiar with and accomplished
in the latest <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>musical developments of
the age. The intimate character of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass</i>
is heightened by its chamber scoring, the marked absence of lengthy polyphonic
passages, the absence of long instrumental interludes and the lack of textual
repetitions that are common in larger works. In many ways the piece challenges many
of the accepted religious aspects of the mass in being deliberately understated</span><span style="color: red; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"> The
soloist passages are lyrical and unpretentious, the texture is largely
homophonic, and the harmonies are smooth and restrained. But Schubert’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mass</i> is no pedantic exercise: passages
of soaring lyricism abound and the piece ends not on an energetic finale but on
a warm and tender <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Agnus Dei.</i> Its melancholy
and mournful melodies enriched with profound harmonies underscoring the young
composer's maturity. Dennis Shrock the internationally acclaimed teacher,
scholar, and performer of choral music has commented that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“....within this gentle, understated work there are periods of driving
intensity interwoven with the most profound soft, reflective moods. There is
majesty and inner joyousness and through it all runs an overriding serenity...”. </i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><i><u><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Eine kleine Nachtmusik: </span></u></i></strong><u><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><strong><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; margin: 0px;">Wolfgang
Amadeus Mozart</span></strong> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">(1756 - 1791)</b>
</span></u></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">Composed in 1787<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span><em><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; margin: 0px;">Eine Kleine
Nachtmusik</span></em> <i>(A Little Night Music)</i> can claim, with some
justification, to be Mozart’s most popular work. Despite this, however, little
is known about its origins.<i> </i>We do not know for whom he composed it or
whether he intended it to be played by an orchestra or by single players. There
is no record of a performance during Mozart’s lifetime and musicologist Alfred
Einstein has suggested that Mozart might have composed it purely for his own
enjoyment.</span><u><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span></u></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 17.65pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">We do know
that Mozart composed<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>the piece while
working on the second act of <i>Don Giovanni</i> and we also know that in
Mozart’s own catalogue he indicated that he had written five movements although
now we now only have four. It’s a matter of conjecture as to whether it was
Mozart or someone else who discarded the missing movement. The four remaining
movements, however, are sufficient; the <em><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; margin: 0px;">Eine
Kleine Nachtmusik</span></em> is considered a supreme example of Mozart’s
mastery of balance and economy. Some experts think Mozart cut out the movement
himself to preserve this balance. There is no doubt that the tunes themselves
and the sound Mozart creates have a unique “rightness” which immediately
appeals to the listener and ensures the piece’s perennial popularity.<i></i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">At
first hearing, as well as for the one-thousandth time, no music sounds simpler
than <em><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; margin: 0px;">Eine kleine Nachtmusik</span></em>.
But this is a sophisticated simplicity, which Mozart could achieve only after
completing some of his most complex works, such as the operas <em><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; margin: 0px;">The Marriage of Figaro</span></em>
and <em><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; margin: 0px;">Don Giovanni</span></em>,
the great piano concertos and the string quartets. With such experiences behind
him, Mozart knew how to limit himself to the bare essentials and to say the
most with the fewest possible notes. For anyone quite new to Classical music,
there is no better place to start to explore the world of the classics. The
music student, trying to grasp the elements of classical forms<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>such as sonata, minuet, or rondo, could
hardly find clearer examples. And even the seasoned music lover and the
professional musician must marvel again and again at a musical perfection that
almost defies description. Such is the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eine
kleine Nachtmusik.</i></span><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Air from the Water
Music Suite in F:</span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> George Frederic
Handel (1685-1759)</span></b><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">On July 19, 1717,
two days after the event, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">London
Daily Courant</i> carried the following report: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“On Wednesday Evening, the King </i>[George I]<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> took Water at Whitehall ... and went up the River towards Chelsea.
Many other Barges with Persons of Quality attended, and so great a Number of
Boats, that the whole River in a manner was cover’d; a City Company’s Barge was
employ’d for the Musick, wherein were 50 Instruments of all sorts, who play’d
all the Way from Lambeth ... the finest Symphonies, compos’d express for the
Occasion, by Mr. Handel; which his Majesty liked so well, that he caus’d it to
be plaid over three times going and returning.”</i> </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">Handel based his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Water Music</i> on similar compositions that
had become popular for the al fresco suppers and barge excursions at Louis
XIV’s Versailles. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Water Music,</i>
like those French works, is simple in texture, dance-like in rhythm, graceful
and majestic in spirit; many of the movements recall the dance forms that are
the basis of all Baroque suites. The slow sections – of which the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Air</i> is arguably the most well known – reflects
perfectly the limpid, flowing operatic arias of which Handel was the undisputed
master. Of this much loved music, American musicologist Martin Bookspan wrote,
“It need only be said that for sheer entertainment and joy, the music that
Handel composed for the King’s on that summer’s evening has few rivals in the
whole repertoire.” Few would disagree.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<u><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><b>Fugue on the Magnificat</b></span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><b>: Johann Sebastian Bach </b></span></u><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><b><u>(1685
– 1750)</u></b></span><span style="font-size: small; margin: 0px;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; margin: 0px;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">In the autumn of 1705, the
young Bach requested four weeks’ leave from his employer in Arnstadt to travel
to Lübeck and learn from Dietrich Buxtehude, the greatest organist of the age.
He made the 280-mile journey on foot not returning until late <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>February, by which time he was severely rebuked
by the Arnstadt Consistory for his prolonged absence. What Bach learned in
Lübeck changed him forever. Contemporary accounts tell that his organ playing
changed dramatically; his employers complained bitterly, referring to his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“improper playing</i>” by making <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“curious variations in the chorale”</i> so
that the congregation was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“much confused”</i>
by it!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyOA6lqsJwqPgOtye4swJ4N5zX4uCkDg_K3LwW7RZtDpD2ZARHAw76bQ2MuzT3uJ5zwre0NsyziaP_ef91R9A2tKOeRX8ppMfUR7ErVzhTmF-0ngugsT0HrbaNiRlrE8G9PvxoKKWm0cI/s1600/b925c46a-59cb-47dd-9764-aef8ab7a9fee%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyOA6lqsJwqPgOtye4swJ4N5zX4uCkDg_K3LwW7RZtDpD2ZARHAw76bQ2MuzT3uJ5zwre0NsyziaP_ef91R9A2tKOeRX8ppMfUR7ErVzhTmF-0ngugsT0HrbaNiRlrE8G9PvxoKKWm0cI/s200/b925c46a-59cb-47dd-9764-aef8ab7a9fee%255B1%255D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fugue on the Magnificat (BWV733)</i> dates from this period. It has
been suggested that the work might be that of Bach's student, Johann Krebs but whatever
the pedigree the work is a fine, and brilliant, composition requiring
consummate skill both for the composer and the player. In musical terminology a
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fugue </i>is a contrapuntal composition
in which a short melody or phrase is introduced by one part and successively
taken up by others and developed by interweaving the parts into a complex whole.
Bach is the undisputed master of this form.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magnificat </i>is a canticle (a hymn or chant forming a regular part of
a church service) also known as the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Song
of Mary. </i><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Bach’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fugue on the Magnificat </i>is based upon Martin Luther’s German
translation of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magnificat </i>and<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>would have served as a prelude to
congregational singing, an adornment to the choral melody, or perhaps more
likely it would have preceded a singing of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magnificat.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 0px;">Now, if all that doesn't whet your musical appetite and set the musical taste buds tingling then there is really no hope for you! So, come along, support your local choir, listen to and enjoy live music and enjoy a musical feast at St Peter's as Ruddington & District Choral Society praise the Lord - <i>Laudate Dominum</i>!</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045032707031687266.post-46194424423209673892018-10-30T09:27:00.010+00:002021-01-28T15:09:49.008+00:00John Derbyshire: A Quiet Prestonian, My Hero & The Stuff Of Family Legend<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFd9q-jqJ7XCf8E0cDDs9mbLstRG889WZk64n02R8y1R_ZE55WzRgytZRNC7Zf7qqQ9yINSFiK3uAAHzegL7CIW1cSyeRbIx6bQxzvsqvDh0HaJ5a-p3Wdgt2GFUn0lwEOx_1NxLjOl5Q/s1600/docu0055.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="698" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFd9q-jqJ7XCf8E0cDDs9mbLstRG889WZk64n02R8y1R_ZE55WzRgytZRNC7Zf7qqQ9yINSFiK3uAAHzegL7CIW1cSyeRbIx6bQxzvsqvDh0HaJ5a-p3Wdgt2GFUn0lwEOx_1NxLjOl5Q/s320/docu0055.JPG" width="207" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>John as a young man</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">My great
uncle, John Derbyshire, was my hero. I had always liked him, even as a young
child when I helped him pick peas (popping most of them in my mouth!) from his vegetable patch. The fact that he was then well into his late middle age was irrelevant – I
suppose that you can say we just<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>clicked.
As a youngster, to me he seemed exciting and a bit different. A lifelong
bachelor he was a bit of a “man about town” and although he dressed in his
working clothes whilst he tended the garden and did other jobs, when he went
out each evening for a quiet pint of beer he would look, to my young eyes,
rather smart and dashing in an old fashioned sort of way – trilby, stiff
collar, tightly knotted tie, highly polished brown shoes, gold watch chain on
his waistcoat. </span><br />
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">John lived nearly
all his life with his mother, my great grandmother, in a house – now gone – in
the Fishwick area of Preston. Shortly after his mother, Jane, died, well into her 90s, and John
himself was retiring age he moved, in the mid 1950s, to a little wooden bungalow that he had
bought some years before on the A6 at Cabus near Garstang, about 10 miles north
of Preston. The house in Preston where he lived for so much of his life
overlooked the area of the town called Fishwick Bottoms (locally as known as
the “Loney” or the “ Bonk”) <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>and from its
land you could look down to the distant River Ribble. For anyone who knows the
area the house <span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 17.33px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">(I suppose it might have been called a smallholding,
although it wasn’t farmed in my lifetime)</span> had a considerable area of land around it containing barns and
greenhouses and the like. It stood at the point behind what used
to be Fishwick Secondary Modern School (which I attended in the mid 1950s)
where Church Avenue bends round to became Neston Street. In the distant past the house must have been very much at the edge of Preston - almost in the "countryside" I guess - but as the Callon Estate, Fishwick School and other surrounding areas were built and the Preston urban area spread in the 1920s and 30s it became part of that urbanisation. From the side door
which was on Church Avenue and always used (never the front door!) one could
see the nearby St Teresa’s Roman Catholic Church. Strangely, the actual house
address was 9 Manning Road since the front door was actually on the unmade
track that was, at that time, the continuation of Manning Road just off New
Hall Lane. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I presume that when the
Fishwick School playing fields where put down in the late 1930’s the effect was
to cut Manning Road into two – one end at New Hall Lane and the other at the
end of Church Avenue. When I made a visit a few years ago I realised
that the unmade track that was Manning Road in my childhood and before has
been made into a proper street with houses and has been renamed and terminates as Church Avenue.</span></span></span><br />
</span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCXgxjLJ6sj4R8jlF5O7AAtonxlqnZt5dapSKVIqf4NjJYYAzIYy3yktjhEfkZHZlEu5urTLJ_Co-u2NRc-T4Mng4ZCxsizwKobTSiVckuvmuiDFwQHIzEnjGUsBwJHtieFLrOvNyvI84/s1600/joe+%2526+john+as+teenagers.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="509" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCXgxjLJ6sj4R8jlF5O7AAtonxlqnZt5dapSKVIqf4NjJYYAzIYy3yktjhEfkZHZlEu5urTLJ_Co-u2NRc-T4Mng4ZCxsizwKobTSiVckuvmuiDFwQHIzEnjGUsBwJHtieFLrOvNyvI84/s400/joe+%2526+john+as+teenagers.JPG" width="253" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>John (standing) and his older brother Joe, my </i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>granddad, in about 1908</i></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"></span><i></i><span></span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"></span><br />
</span><div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;">
<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">The house
had been in the family for a long time and for John’s father (James, my great
grandfather who died many years before I was born) it was his place of work as
a blacksmith and iron moulder. James Derbyshire and his wife Jane (<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; display: inline; float: none; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 100; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 36px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><i><span style="color: black;">née</span> </i></span></span>Fisher) had originally come from the Bolton-le-Sands area near Morecambe Bay and moved to Preston sometime at the turn of the century but by 1915 they were established in the house in Preston with three children: Joe (my grandfather, born in the Bolton le Sands area in the early 1891), Annie (who became Annie Nicholson and lived in Garstang) and John, born in 1897. At the side of the house was James' workshop a
large, earth floored shed filled with ancient iron tools, workbenches, a
forge and a vast selection of horse tack - old saddles, huge numbers of rusting horseshoes, bridles and other items I could not name; as a child I can remember playing in this wonderland! Here in Nottingham
in my porch I still have a cast iron door stop moulded into the shape of a lion
made by my great grandfather probably in the early years of the 20</span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><sup>th</sup>
century – it’s a nice little link with my past. But if the smithy was a
wonderland so, too, were the surrounding grounds of the house. My friends Jack
Greenhalgh and Jimmy Kellett (who both lived nearby) and I played hide and
seek, soldiers, cowboys & indians and a thousand other boyish games for hours in the old
tumbledown barns and greenhouses.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>One
day I vividly remember we all three chased a huge rat that we saw near a barn.
The animal disappeared into the barn but our bravery stopped there – although
we threw stones into the barn none of us were brave enough to venture inside.
Presumably by then the creature was down in its lair – but we weren’t prepared
to find out! On another occasion we were playing hide and seek and I decided to
stand on top of an old oil barrel to look for my pals. Unfortunately the barrel
was riddled with rust and I fell straight through gashing my thigh badly; my
great grandma had to bandage me up with a piece of old shirt that she tore into strips. The scar is still there today, almost 70 years later; I suppose in this day and age I would have been whizzed off to A&E with flashing blue lights but we were made of sterner stuff in those days so a few strips of one of my Uncle John's old shirts had to do!</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">I have many
happy memories, too, of the house. It was a large detached house but the
kitchen and the attached outhouse were the only rooms ever really used. The
rest of the house always seemed to me to be an unused, bleak affair filled with
an ancient grandfather clock, great Victorian sideboards and other old furniture and faded carpets. I remember, too,
that the rest of the house always seemed unlived in and cold - fires were never
lit there, curtains left drawn so that the rooms were gloomy and many of the pieces of furniture were covered with dust sheets.
The outhouse, which adjoined the kitchen, and through which every visitor came
to get into the house (I don’t think that the front door of the house had been
opened in years!) had a lavatory and several old tables usually filled with
windfall apples, bowls of eggs from the few hens that were kept, or various
vegetables that were in season and had been grown in the largely overgrown garden. There was a huge old stone sink, a dolly tub, and a selection of aging <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>kitchen implements and apparatus – especially an old mangle
which, as a child I loved to test my strength against by<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>turning the huge wooden rollers.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>On rainy days my great grandmother would hang
her washing up on the wooden airing rack which was suspended from the outhouse
ceiling.</span><br />
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"></span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"></span><br />
</span><div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;">
<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">From the
pungent smell of windfall apples and damp washing in the outhouse one stepped
into the kitchen – the house proper - with its huge black shiny kitchen range
and <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>roaring fire, always warm and
welcoming whatever the weather. Although there was an old, working gas cooker in the outhouse, the soot
blackened kettle was always boiled on the fire and my great grandmother seemed to cook everything in the oven at the side of the fire. </span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">As a young child
I was often taken to visit<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>“Grandma and
Uncle John” on a Saturday evening; we would walk up New Hall Lane from
Caroline Street where we lived and I would sit - being seen and not heard - on
the ancient, hard and very lumpy chez lounge near the kitchen range and the fire<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>while the adults talked and my very old (to
my young eyes) grandmother sat in her rocking chair. Then, just before we left, she would open the range oven door and pull out
a steaming bowl of rice pudding left over from lunchtime. This would be
presented to me with a spoon and she would say “I’ve saved you the toffee (the
thick skin of the pudding) – it’s the best bit, eat it up Tony it's good for you". And I always
did – although I’m not a pudding lover, I’ve loved the “toffee” on a rice pudding
ever since!</span><br />
</span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw91j_0Rwpwy0vGDhSULHUycF_aP8vi3xPw7pBWAq5n9aAR9Jz5qaIAnElN1V4I9q8gArCR5wcxOl7229LKZQJVoooyZzObIiv5bVEohGAOXL1PV4HSHCCkqRiQOcbmLpLaAlMIthXII8/s1600/docu0027.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="652" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw91j_0Rwpwy0vGDhSULHUycF_aP8vi3xPw7pBWAq5n9aAR9Jz5qaIAnElN1V4I9q8gArCR5wcxOl7229LKZQJVoooyZzObIiv5bVEohGAOXL1PV4HSHCCkqRiQOcbmLpLaAlMIthXII8/s400/docu0027.JPG" width="247" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Me with my great grandmother at the house </i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>in Church Avenue. This would be in about 1946.</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>St Teresa's church is in the background</i></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><i></i><span></span><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">Then, at
about nine o'clock, as we set off for home; Uncle John would appear dressed
smartly in his old fashioned brown suit complete with waistcoat and gold watch
chain, don his trilby, and he would walk with us down Church Avenue to where it
joined New Hall Lane. We would carry on down the Lane bound for Caroline Street
but he would disappear into the Hesketh Arms pub for his Saturday night half of
mild. I know that John would go for his “quiet half” most evenings – sometimes
to the Hesketh Arms, other nights further afield – especially the Bull &
Royal in the middle of Preston.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;">
<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">When my
great grandmother died in the mid fifties John moved to the little
wooden bungalow that he had bought in Cabus, nearer to the Garstang Creamery where
he had worked for many years. The bungalow was tiny and called "Woodlands" and was more or less opposite Dicky Dunn's Transport Café - more commonly referred to in those days as "Dirty Dick's"! "</span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">Woodlands", I think, is long gone now but it was just along the A6 road from what was the Mayfield Café. Mayfield, when I used to visit my great aunt Annie as a child in the late 1940s & early 50s was a bungalow and had been first owned by Annie, John's sister, who was married to Bill Nicholson. Bill and Annie lived and farmed in the Garstang area throughout their married lives. The original Mayfield bungalow had been planned and largely built by John and Annie's elder brother Joe (my grandfather) who earned his living in property repair and building. Annie & Bill started a business at Mayfield - a café - on the A6, I assume that they thought that as car travel was becoming increasingly common in those 1930/1940s days this was a good business plan - it clearly worked and they soon had to extend the place. From serving teas in the bungalow they had a dining/tea room built.</span><span face="Tahoma, sans-serif"> </span><span><span>I can remember making frequent visits there in the 1950s with my
parents and each time gazing at an old black and white framed photograph
that hung on the wall. It showed my auntie Annie standing smiling in the café
and sitting at a table complete with table cloth and cutlery King George V and
Queen Mary each with a cup of tea in front of them. As I gazed at the
photograph auntie Annie would again tell the story (as she did each time I
visited!) of how the King and Queen were visiting Lancashire and travelling
north. They had stopped at Mayfield for “refreshments” – my auntie had been
warned the day before that this would occur and that the café must be closed so
that His Majesty could enjoy his afternoon tea uninterrupted! O</span></span><span>ver the years it was further extended and became a well known and used transport café in the 50s and 60s. Today it is "Crofters" a large, gross and graceless looking "hotel & tavern" - whatever that might be - </span><span><span>where casino nights, late night discos and other such dubious events
take place – a far cry from King George V & Queen Mary! When Annie & Billy gave up Mayfield in the early 1950s they moved just a few hundred yards along the A6 nearer to what then was the Burlingham Caravans site. They had a large detached, bay windowed, house built, set back from the road and called their new home "Daybreak" which we often visited and seemed to my eyes very grand - the last time I drove past some years ago the house still stood there, much as I remember it from my childhood.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-Oy-MY69lR95qCq8b6PzEjKs7p1txe9Qc5fBohVERatzhkQChWkYJL5rVS0gGopyyNjPqK_ydWKd7sWTWYxlRmPnk4kyHxOJcgSfsu4gw3RJeEdLTIqVCdiGin0BIGe4ugGWUW3qh6s/s1600/scan0081.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="1022" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-Oy-MY69lR95qCq8b6PzEjKs7p1txe9Qc5fBohVERatzhkQChWkYJL5rVS0gGopyyNjPqK_ydWKd7sWTWYxlRmPnk4kyHxOJcgSfsu4gw3RJeEdLTIqVCdiGin0BIGe4ugGWUW3qh6s/s320/scan0081.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Mayfield in its original form - it later had an extension as it</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>became a café - later a transport café and now Crofters</i></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"></span><i></i><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">I never revisited John's old house in Preston and left the area to live in Nottingham in the mid sixties. When I did return a few years
ago I decided to make a nostalgic trip around the places of my childhood and I
discovered that my great grandmother’s house was no more – instead there stood
several well established houses bungalows. They had obviously been there for
some considerable time, all evidence of the past use of the land gone forever. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">But as<span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"> I stood there looking at the modern houses and bungalows now sited on the place where my great grandparents and great uncle had lived and worked<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>for most of their lives, and where I had enjoyed many happy childhood hours, I wondered if anyone knew of the old house that had stood there half a century before. And I wondered if anyone had an inkling of a bit of history that had occurred there when, in a tiny way, my family’s history became part
of the nation’s – a small, perhaps, insignificant event but one which ultimately had a huge impact upon my own life and that of one
of my children.</span></span><br />
</span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7iPsHBxPyk2Q6iKGyu43IBZwvLM_RU2U8ZfmLJlpO91DYXdTcPajRt4Aj4BhdB2MCfW_utPUKBDu_e_HHxcbx8by8usxz5xxHqMGc6EIcQcujI49XRAenzOuaby-ow9kl-DcYEYOdBQ/s1600/9194801725_a3671809b5_o.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1285" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7iPsHBxPyk2Q6iKGyu43IBZwvLM_RU2U8ZfmLJlpO91DYXdTcPajRt4Aj4BhdB2MCfW_utPUKBDu_e_HHxcbx8by8usxz5xxHqMGc6EIcQcujI49XRAenzOuaby-ow9kl-DcYEYOdBQ/s320/9194801725_a3671809b5_o.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>My great grandmother Jane Derbyshire, shortly </i></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>before she died in the early 50s.</i></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>She is being presented with a bouquet as </i></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>the oldest pensioner in</i></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Preston at the time.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"></span><i></i><span></span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">You see, I mentioned
at the top of these ramblings that I loved Uncle John and much of my “hero worship”
and respect for him was because of something that I knew of him: he
had run away to war when he was still a youngster! His older brother Joe had enlisted and John, several years younger and still only 17, broke all the rules
and without permission "took the King's shilling" and joined up. I can remember my great grandmother sitting
in her rocking chair in the kitchen in the old house and telling me, shortly
before she died, that she had no idea where her younger son John had gone –
except that he had gone off to war. </span><br />
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">It was 1915.
John’s older brother – Joe – my granddad had signed up for the Loyal North
Lancs Regiment in December (see my blogs: <a href="http://arbeale.blogspot.com/2011/02/back-to-blogging-weve-been-away-to.html">Touching the Past</a> and <a href="http://arbeale.blogspot.com/2017/06/we-stood-in-bright-morning-sun-looking.html">A Little Bit of Preston Deep in a Foreign Field</a>) and a few weeks later young John just
disappeared – gone off to war. In those days many people didn’t have birth
certificates so it was easy for someone to join up and lie about their age. The
minimum age for joining up was 18 and for armed service overseas it was 19.
John was just over 17</span><span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">½</span><span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">. Within
weeks, however, he was in France, his mother and father desperately worried.
Depending upon how you look at it he was lucky. It is estimated that about
250,000 boys served in France during the Great War – John was one of them.
Until mid-way through 1916 the British army was largely volunteers (like my granddad)
– men who answered the call. The army was desperate for men so they didn’t ask
too many questions when someone like my great uncle turned up at the enlistment
office. In 1916, however, the rules changed; conscription was introduced so
suddenly there were a lot more men available for the army to draw upon and
thus, the need to take on anybody and everybody lessened and the number of
underage recruits slowly dried up. John must have been one of the last to be
recruited in such a way.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcvSiyHs3Wj0a9K25VGEbXBF5ZQVSfPcMYLCOciFLx4zfI25hq9RTye9aWlSnPbPvD6Ad-YvlYILSd4g16KnlD7ixOEXgvgU0MpxhkVeefLUjYdxjteyM4BOzAXA9ZWlvfogzSLme2Ws/s1600/21.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="508" data-original-width="800" height="406" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcvSiyHs3Wj0a9K25VGEbXBF5ZQVSfPcMYLCOciFLx4zfI25hq9RTye9aWlSnPbPvD6Ad-YvlYILSd4g16KnlD7ixOEXgvgU0MpxhkVeefLUjYdxjteyM4BOzAXA9ZWlvfogzSLme2Ws/s640/21.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>John in France in the Spring of 1916 having 'joined up' under age. He stands on the back row extreme left. When I look at this photo I am</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>appalled at the several innocent childish faces looking back at me. Some look dwarfed in their uniforms and caps. Soon after this photograph was taken John and his friends moved up to the front although he didn't actually see active service until the carnage of the first day of the Battle of the Somme on July 1st 1916.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">Once his initial training was completed he was
shipped off to France but his fighting days didn’t last too long. By the time
John was 18 he was lying wounded in France and had lost his left eye when
it was struck by shrapnel. On July 1<sup>st</sup> – the first day of the Battle
of the Somme he was one of the many thousands wounded. It was the worst day
ever or since for the British Army when nearly 58,000 men were wounded and over
19,000 killed. John was one of those wounded. He was hospitalised in France and eventually shipped back to London. It was about a month later
that his mother received the telegram informing her that he had been injured in
France and would shortly be back to England</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJqXaFz3aZFXdsrrARFEXGP7ZgaLl6RKC3xPfQ0XdsrstTMptQGwIz1qda39pHG-TxmzMybBqemmEyaEZMRLgPWZFXKh431GDUXiZWtInLnnAoK-k7Kue0szBxQl_4hI6t7Pb2qg7i28Y/s1600/22.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="800" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJqXaFz3aZFXdsrrARFEXGP7ZgaLl6RKC3xPfQ0XdsrstTMptQGwIz1qda39pHG-TxmzMybBqemmEyaEZMRLgPWZFXKh431GDUXiZWtInLnnAoK-k7Kue0szBxQl_4hI6t7Pb2qg7i28Y/s640/22.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>A few months later and John has lost his eye on the first day of the Battle of the Somme in July 1916.</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i> He is marked with a cross and wearing his 'blues' - the uniform given to hospitalised soldiers so that they would not mistakenly be identified as deserters.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">At last, in late September 1916, word came to James and Jane in Preston <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>that he was in hospital in London and
his brother Joe, who happened to be on leave at the time, was sent off to the capital to
find his younger brother. I can still remember both my grandfather and great
uncle relating the story of how Joe searched the London hospitals for his
injured brother. It was a huge problem; the hospitals were full to overflowing,
administration and details about patients was scarce and, worst of
all, John had his face bandaged up so was not easily recognisable. Eventually,
however, he was found and some time later returned to Preston, his war service
as a combatant effectively over. He wasn’t officially discharged
until the end of the hostilities but spent the rest of the war in England in non-combative duties. I do know that he received a severe reprimand
from his mother and father – and I’ve often idly tried to imagine the scene
in that little kitchen with the roaring fire and the shiny kitchen range as the
young John, his eye heavily bandaged came through the door. I’ve often
wondered, too, if that event<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>was perhaps
a factor in John never marrying but living with his parents and then his widowed mother
for the rest of their lives. I’ll never know, but the story both excited and
intrigued me. </span><span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">To me, as a
child, this was the stuff of dreams and high adventure and it gave this quiet,
gentle, elderly man an air of mystery and excitement! This was further regularly
heightened when, whenever we went to visit him he would take out what he
called his “war souvenir” - his glass eye - and lay it on the mantelpiece! It
was his party trick which always ensured gasps of horror or delight but thrilled me and made Uncle John very special.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"></span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"></span><br />
</span><div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;">
<span style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">He had only a very ordinary job – working at Garstang Creamery where, amongst other dairy products, Lancashire Cheese was made - but as I grew
into<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>my teenage years it increasingly
became obvious to me that he had much more to him. He was well read and seemed to
have important things to say; to my youthful mind he "knew stuff”. As I grew up I
can remember having increasingly serious conversations with him about events in the news. He was, I realised, both articulate and understanding, able to talk knowledgeably, it seemed to me, about anything; to my teenage eyes he was undoubtedly "on the ball". Each night he would
listen to the Home Service nine o'clock news on the radio – an old crackly machine that
looked as if it came from the Great War trenches! - and he would always comment on what he heard, saying things which to my young ears were very clever, thoughtful and wise. And, having listened to the news he would put on his brown trilby
hat which matched his suit and with his watch chain across his waistcoat very
smartly walk down to the Hesketh Arms on New Hall Lane or perhaps into Preston to
have his nightly half pint of mild ale. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"></span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_FrucpP26V0PLSOLn_bV6y3iYUkzX9mco6xEwBPakXwTC3KwVMWFEPGPW5ttfOa_asoUEaHg_9hD5LHQgMJhoJpd6H7oyQGFw22Xe53yX2unRtJ4mGLFApo7y10hFSSu1lmiPWDRnXY/s1600/docu0065.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1278" data-original-width="925" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_FrucpP26V0PLSOLn_bV6y3iYUkzX9mco6xEwBPakXwTC3KwVMWFEPGPW5ttfOa_asoUEaHg_9hD5LHQgMJhoJpd6H7oyQGFw22Xe53yX2unRtJ4mGLFApo7y10hFSSu1lmiPWDRnXY/s400/docu0065.JPG" width="288" /></span></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>John in December 1956 (at the back on the left). He 'gave away' </i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>his niece - my auntie - Edna. When she married </i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Joe Park at Ribbleton Avenue Methodist Church.</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i> John's brother Joe (Edna's father) had died </i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>three years previously. Edna was a weaver at Emerson </i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><i>Road Mill and her new husband Joe was a tackler there</i></span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">. </span></span></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><i>My mother was a maid of honour and Joe's brother was best man.</i></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">As the years passed he became a firm friend and in the last year or two before I went off to teacher training college I would
enjoy sharing a beer with him and my dad each Saturday night. My dad would pick
John up at his Cabus bungalow and they would pop out for their “quiet halves" of
beer – usually to the Patten Arms at Winmarleigh but occasionally to the Royal Oak in Garstang or perhaps further afield to Morecambe or Lancaster and I would often go with
them. We would sit there, a nineteen year old and a seventy year old enjoying
each other’s company. Even though the years separated us we could always
“connect”. Despite his bald head and advanced years he seemed to me to be a
modern man and still young at heart with the capacity to talk <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to</i> you and not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">at</i> you. </span></span><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">I can remember talking to him in the weeks following the Kennedy assassination and although by then he was in his late sixties I was thrilled that he wanted to know what I, a mere teenager, thought about that dreadful and - to those of my age and who lived through it - never to be forgotten event. <i>"It's your world now, Tony"</i> he said to me one Saturday night following the Dallas assassination of Kennedy <i>"my generation have done our bit to make the world right so it's up to your generation to try now"</i> - how thrilling is that when you're a teenager, a kind of passing of the generational torch, guaranteed to inspire and make you feel good - and for me at least, it was a coming of age thing which without any shadow of doubt gave my life some sort of meaning and goal. When I talked to him he always listened intently and responded – not always agreeing, but picking up the nuances and wanting to explore and think about what I thought and said - and in doing that it seemed to me (and still does) that he was implicitly recognising my opinions as worthy of consideration.</span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"> <span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"> He once asked me - and he was genuinely interested - as we sipped our beer <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Now come on Tony tell me about these
Rolling Stones </i>(this was in the early 60s!) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why do you youngsters like them?”</i> I can remember him talking of the first great Liverpool football team created by Bill
Shankley as they succeeded in Europe and telling me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“that’s the way that football is going to be played from now on, like a chess match – none
of this kick and rush stuff that we've been used to”.</i> To me,
as a teenager, used to my parents and older people putting teenagers down this was
music to my young ears. And I still vividly remember, when I was about to go
off to college and (much to my mother’s disapproval) I had opened a bank
account complete with cheque book (an unknown item in my family in those
days). He spoke up for me when my mother expressed her strong disapproval – bank accounts
and cheque books weren’t for <i>“folk like us”</i> she argued <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. “Now, Doris”, </i>he said<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> “I’ve
been reading in the Daily Express <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>that
in a few years time we will all be paying for things with little plastic cards.
Tony’s a young man now he has to be modern and move with the world”.</i> I
can still hear him saying those words and my mother huffing and puffing while I quietly raised my eyes to heaven and silently whispered a
quiet <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Thank you, God”!</i> Paying
with plastic cards! – I wonder if even Uncle John could have comprehended how the
world would change? No, my great uncle John seemed to me at the time – and still does - to
have had his finger on the pulse, to have thought things out and was his own
man. As a callow teenager all those years ago, to me he was worldly wise,
ahead of his time – to coin a modern phrase a “cool dude”!</span></span></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">American poet and author Maya Angelou once wrote: </span></span></span>"I've learned that people will forget what you did and that people will forget what you said. But people will never forget how you made them feel" - that expresses exactly what I felt about uncle John, both all those years ago and still today. It is a gift given to few but he had it by the shed load - the ability to make people feel valued and good about themselves. Now, today, I am older than John was when he died, but his impact is as strong as ever - rarely a day goes by when I don't at some point think, "What would uncle John think, what would he do, what would he say?" .And, as a I ask myself this, from somewhere deep inside me I hear his long gone voice and somehow get the answer that I am seeking.</span><br />
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"></span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"></span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"></span><br />
</span><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: 115%; margin: 0px;">The boy who
ran off to war remained a young man at heart up until he died in 1974 and I have often reflected that it was through him that I
learned much about growing up and being an adult. He wasn’t loud or brash or talkative – indeed,
if we sat in the pub, him enjoying his half pint, he would usually say little, but
what came out was always quietly said and worth listening to.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>He had no agenda and just quietly got on with the life that fate had
dealt him. I have no idea why he never married but lived with his mother until
she died but whatever the reason for his bachelorhood he was a lovely
and much loved man. Although quiet, retiring and undemonstrative his love
was unconditional. He was what you saw and you learned not only from what he
said but from what he did and how he behaved. He had a quiet and gentle authority and I loved and respected
him not because he demanded it but because of who and
what he was - and especially because of the obvious value that he placed upon me and my young beliefs
and feelings. He listened, and such advice as he might have wanted to
impart to me he did without expectation or insistence. I don’t know whether he saw
himself as older and therefore wiser (although he clearly was) but he never
thrust that experience down my throat. Whatever experiences and wisdom he
had gleaned from his life was passed on without it being a lesson or a homily and I soaked up his wisdom like a sponge – he was the supreme teacher - but never knew it.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJjgJaVyoT9vF-5LGrOri9PZTMaQX8b-ZxVpDm5dnEk1GS-CGGxY1_q0f7nKjBppkVNKKrCZX5LhPChIC79cPltPSegdeICwUlt-YB9WRk8Zr5r7XzngmrisVmji-0v4035PM_gOw9RM/s1600/docu0026.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="204" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJjgJaVyoT9vF-5LGrOri9PZTMaQX8b-ZxVpDm5dnEk1GS-CGGxY1_q0f7nKjBppkVNKKrCZX5LhPChIC79cPltPSegdeICwUlt-YB9WRk8Zr5r7XzngmrisVmji-0v4035PM_gOw9RM/s400/docu0026.JPG" width="151" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>John as I always remember him.</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>No airs and graces - just a gentle</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>decent man who had lived a good</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>and worthy life. But to me, a</i></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>man ahead of his time and with</i></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><i>a story to tell.</i></span></span></div>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;">Uncle John died in April 1974 and when my own son was born a few months later in September 1974 there was only ever going to be one name for him – John. And even today, all these years after my great uncle’s death I still think of him and those quiet conversations and half pints of mild ale that we shared in the Patten Arms at Winmarleigh - a teenager and a pensioner, separated by half a century in age but by a much bigger gulf in life experiences and expectations. He was a child of Victorian England and had witnessed the horrors of the trenches first hand at the same age as I was when we sat together in the pub. Whereas I was a child of Attlee's "New Jerusalem" and the Beatles' "Swinging Sixties", comfortable, confident, with the whole world at my feet he had been born into generation who suffered huge hardships, wars and want that people like me could not begin to comprehend. As I sat next to him in the pub and still today, I imagine him as a young boy running off to war, a boy amongst men, involved in the horror and the blood of the trenches – a thing which both terrifies me and humbles me - but which he just took in his stride – never boasting of his involvement or complaining about the injury that changed his life. Like others of his generation he just got on with things. Sometimes it seems a far cry from today when so many appear to wear their hearts on their sleeves and want to shout from the rooftops of their disadvantage and problems, or vent their spleen against life, society and its unfairness. I'm sure that John had many things that in the quietness of his own mind he could have complained about - the hardships of his life: two world wars, a great depression, never married, never had his own family, the terrible impact of the Great War upon him, perhaps broken dreams and ambitions, great sadnesses and all the other things that go into the lives of all of us. But I never heard him once complain – he simply got on with it. Maybe there's a lesson for all of us in that fact. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 13.33px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-size: small;">Uncle John was an honourable, brave, decent, courteous gentle and generous man. One can, I think, give no higher praise of any person whatever their background, calling, profession or standing in the world than to say he was a good man and lived a good life; John Derbyshire was such a person. He could not, I believe, have had any inkling that he would have such a profound and lasting effect upon and importance to me - and indeed still does. I don't know how he would have reacted to that but I suspect that he would probably have just smiled, nodded and looked into his beer glass and quietly and gently said, without looking up,<i> “Aye , good - well that’s alright then”.</i> But I'd also like to think that deep down he would have gained some quiet satisfaction that although he had no family or children of his own he had made such an impression on me and my life and ultimately my family and that his name and memory lives on in my son, his great, great nephew.</span></span></div>
Tony Bealehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00978321300348757188noreply@blogger.com0