Thought for the Day

As delivered at BBC Radio Bristol earlier this morning:

St George's Day today. A Roman soldier, martyred for not renouncing Christianity in the fourth century, is the patron saint of England, dragon-slaying myth and all.

The red and white cross of St George has been used proudly by English football fans and misused badly by racists.

What does it mean to be English? I have been terribly confused. With England making up the greatest population of the union of kingdoms I have, over the years, celebrated English success when I meant British.

We have Team GB at athletics, one Irish rugby national team for the Republic and Northern Island and five separate national football sides.

In various invasions over the first thousand years of Christianity it is likely that many of the occupants of England fled to the Welsh and Scottish hills. Romans came and went. As did Vikings. And Normans. The population of England, so modern DNA testing tells us, largely represents a people movement from continental Europe. Yes, we're Anglo-Saxons, all immigrants in a cosmopolitan melting-pot.

Yesterday we celebrated the joys of cuisine this huge mix of people groups has given us in multi-cultural Bristol.

Today we remember a man, probably from the Roman Province of Syria Palaestina, born to Greek parents, who heard the Gospel of Jesus Christ the Jew, and became the patron saint of a distant country full of people from everywhere except there.

So forgive me being confused. And to quote St Crocodile of Dundee - maybe the land doesn't belong to the people; the people belong to the land.

On this day of all days may we celebrate that in Christ there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for we are all one in Christ Jesus.

A brief discussion followed about the national symbol of England needing updating and presenter Keith suggested a pie. So the Keith Gooden Pie of Patriotism was born.

Saints Days

Our first year ever in Gozo co-incided with the feast of St Peter and St Paul, the patronal festival of the village we were staying in, Nadur. Festa time.

I recall everyone getting very excited because a relic of St Paul's wrist bone had been loaned by a Maltese mainland church and was being paraded around along with some alabaster saints. I apologise if I run out of catholic language high-church chums; I've never been fluent.

This particular day also happened to be the semi-final of Euro 2000 and Italy, I think, were playing. The game went to extra time and then penalties.

There was one bar in Nadur showing the footie. In the square there were brass bands and elsewhere fireworks.

Excitement reached a fever pitch and so the procession did what all sensible processions should do in such cucumstances. They dropped the saints, the relics and the brass instruments in the street and crowded round the bar window to watch the footie. T-shirts and robes mixed.

Gozitans cheer for:

1. England
2. Italy
3. France
...

N. Malta.

Italy won, setting up a final against France.

The drunkest man I have ever seen went back to his taxi as he had a fare.

The procession continued.

It was a wonderful night. But not as good as the final. We got there early to get a seat in the bar and found that, due to the cheapness of Cisk, the local ale, for the only time in my life I was able to buy a round for the whole pub.