Steve Bird 1954-2026 RIP

My childhood friend Steve has died. My sister remarked 'We thought he was invulnerable'. Quite.

I first met him when I was cycling up Serpentine Road and passed this blond, cherubic young man playing with a balsa wood plane in his front drive. He was casually winding the elastic band powered propeller.

He warned me, although I can't recall his exact words, that there was a gang of kids at the top of the hill who were not worth crossing. I don't know why I ignored him but I carried on up. I may have thanked him. Going further up the hill I got cold feet and must have tried to weigh up his warning with the prospect of going back down past him having changed my mind. I never saw the dangerous gang but I did cycle back down.

'Changed you mind then?' he said.

I'm not sure whether we started communicating from then onwards or whether it was when he later arrived at King Edward's School (KES). He had been at Birmingham's Bluecoat School - a middle school. So I took the KES entrance exam aged 10 and joined what is now known as year seven in 1966. He came along in what that sort of school calls the Upper Middles (year nine) when he was 13. His birthday was November; mine May. He was almost exactly six months older than me.

From then on we sometimes walked to school together but regularly he cycled and I cadged a life off my Dad, who headed off for work at 8.30 every day and used the school drive as a short cut. That got me to school in good time to play football first. Assembly was at 9.10 every day and first period 9.30.

People often ask which King Edward's school we went to. The answer was that as the first of the King Edward's Foundation schools the title had no geography such as King Edward's Five Ways or King Edward's Camp Hill. It was in Edgbaston but was simply King Edward VI School, often abbreviated to KES.

Some years later the Chief Master, a guy called John Claughton who had been an Edwardian in the year following us, was responding on social media to a radio interview he had given and his description of the school. I commented that I tried to help people by adding the word 'Edgbaston'. He replied with a sentence that was not only true of the moment but summed up almost my entire experience of my teachers in secondary education. He said 'I did not consider it my responsibility to help people.'

It was the sort of school where he was S.E.Bird and I was J.S.Tilley.

The list of things Steve and I got up to as we became friends was extraordinary. Football in the garden was popular. My garden had two apple trees at the far end of the lawn, accidentally planted as perfect goalposts. His lawn was longer and thinner. We trashed those lawns.

The thing we did more than anything else was make up games. He taught me the essence of war-gaming with toy soldiers and rolling dice. In his garden was a bare area under a big tree which was great for this. We had some favourite board games which we played straight and others which we tweaked to be better. Spy Ring is quite a disappointing game but our version, which required memorising the colour of a tile and trying to get it back to a base whilst taking your opponents tiles as far away as possible, was simple to learn and tough to play.

One summer we improvised a new version of Pro-Shot golf. Younger readers may not have encountered this game where a lever is pulled on a stick with a golfer at the end and he swings his arms. You can fit an appropriate club and swing to hit a polystyrene ball for driving; a marble for putting. My house had a long hallway which was a par seven. One day we played from my bedroom, across the landing, down the stairs and into the lounge. It was about a par 27. An extra degree of difficulty was that at some point in the hole you had to hit the dog with the ball. Our dog Dixie used to sleep in the sun somewhere in the hall or on the landing. Hitting her used to rouse her and she would move. You needed to be the first person to do this or you were handicapped. You were not allowed to call her.

We had a lethal go-kart made from a section of old fencing on two pram wheels, the end sharpened to a point. Half way down Serpentine Road, a steep hill, was not a good time to discuss if we should have included a braking mechanism. We ended up halting it in the traditional way by driving it into a hedge. Steve said that if his mother said he looked as if he had been through a hedge backwards he would simply reply 'No, forwards'.

Our gardens backed onto each other. Well, almost. Between us were the Trumpers (friendly, OK) and the Murch family, who could often be seen in silhouette in the house but never outside in daylight and nobody ever recognised a Murch out in the wild. They were not keen to throw back footballs.

But it was possible to save a 250 metre walk (yards in those days) by jumping the fence and running across two lawns. We did this rarely. We felt that the unseen Murches might have weaponry.

When his family moved house and became a half-mile walk away it felt treasonable.

We did do some other slightly naughty things but, truth be told, although we never admitted such, I don't think either of us was ever particularly happy being mischievous. We did spend hours plotting the way one might go about stealing a car from the roof of Bristol Street Motors. The story about us trespassing and me falling though a shed roof is, sadly, true.

As we got older we still met many evenings a week. Steve was more diligent about homework than me and studied harder for his exams. He was particularly interested in some of his subjects. I was always captivated by the next leisure thing and pre-school footie. I worked my way through all the sports KES had to offer but never pinned down one to be good at. It was a rugby playing school, not football. They would say it was a football school but the football was rugby football. Steve had a decent build to be a forward. I was a skilful passer and runner but when tackled I tended to snap. The school showed little interest in my two nose injuries one of which was almost certainly a break. We played inter house rugby. I once tackled Steve who had broken away. Trying to get a grip I accidentally pulled his shorts down. It was an effective strategy.

We were fond of Subbuteo and tried to play through a league season. We kept a record of the teams' results but also a personal record. I have still got the book in the box of teams for my grandson should he want then. It shows Bird leading Tilley by the time the habit wore off.

10/9/1977

At all physical activities he was braver than me and stronger than me. He could swim pretty fast too. He once put a full blooded volley into my Dad's stomach (Dad had agreed to go in goal for some reason) and the next day Dad was taken ill with appendicitis. He never let Steve forget. When my Dad died in 1999 Steve, unexpectedly, turned up at the funeral (it had been quite short notice). He told me my Dad was the first person to treat him as an adult and it meant a lot to him.

Steve went to Leicester University and I went to work in insurance. We often spent evenings together during the long vacations but our constant companionship eased off. Liz and I met when we were 17 and 18 and were married young at 21 and 22. Steve was an obvious choice for best man and did a great job.

I was delighted when he met and married Rosemary. He had a friend, Ray, by then from university days and he had spent more time with him than me over the previous few years. He took the trouble to phone and make sure I was OK with his asking Ray to be his best man.

One thing that made sure our bond was never fully broken when we were working at opposite ends of the country was that sometime around age 17 we started sending the same birthday card back and forth to each other. We kept it up, as we said we would, until one of us died. We never said that the person holding it at the end would be the winner but I won so little I am going to pretend we did. Also, he had usually sent it late.

Visiting Steve two weeks before he died I was sore tempted to suggest I might win a fun-fight for the first time. I think he would have taken it well but I'm not sure the others in the room would have understood.

The Birthday Card

At his funeral he was praised for his sense of humour. He laughed a lot but had a terrible sense of humour, full of Dad jokes.

We didn't see each other as much as we would have liked to from our mid-20s onwards. My parish work took me off round the country and he was always in Bath.

We caught up from time to time. Not often. He must have been passing through Chester-le-Street because Liz recalls him being with us for a day or two. All I remember is walking around Church Chare together and him remarking how much Roman pottery was simply lying around in the flower beds. Knowing how little we knew it is the sort of thing he could have said even if there were no Roman remains around. As it happened it was true. When the Parish Centre was extended, extensive Roman walls were found and some were left exposed and covered by perspex so the casual viewer could see them. Steve also pointed out a number of Roman stones that had been used in the building of the Parish Church. By 'Roman stones' he explained that he meant stones that had once been part of a Roman construction, probably quarried locally, but then re-used. He showed me the marks left by the builders when they used their method of lifting with a block and tackle. Fascinating.

When we had a young family we met rarely and it was amazing to meet Steve's adult kids at the memorial service. Lovely people. It occurs to me that one of the sacrifices you make in a public-facing job of service and duty is to admit and own that you will not get around to see as many of your older friends as you would like. That applied to both of us.

When we lived in Leamington we kept in touch via Christmas news letters but I can only recall two occasions we actually met. The first was when I begged a bed for the night on the way to a training event in Devon or Cornwall. The second was when the four of us managed to get our diaries together to meet for a meal in Cheltenham. I think we ate at Pizza Express in the early days of that franchise when it was cool.

For the last phase of my working life Liz and I moved down to Nailsea and so we were finally in the same county as Steve and Ro after many years apart. We maybe expected too much but despite many 'we must meet ups' we didn't, very often. Again I can remember one lunch together at the Carpenter's Arms in Chew Stoke (midway between Nailsea and Bath) and a meal at their house which was supposed to be a meal out but something went wrong with the booking. We sat in the kitchen and I sneezed a lot due to cat proximity. I didn't discover my cat allergy until my mid twenties. When we first met, Steve's family had a black cat called Elfin. I must have sniffled and sneezed a lot at their house.

Other meet ups were at diocesan events. We planned to go for food after the Archdeacon's retirement service at Bath Abbey but it went on for so long we had to pull the plug. In his inimitable style Steve came up to us afterwards and simply drew his hand across his throat. Cut.

I retired a bit later than I needed to; Steve a lot later. He seemed to be the source of advice for so many organisations and trusts that I suspected he would never fully retire. But last November we drove down to a country pub in the Cotswolds and met for a fabulous leisurely lunch. We agreed to do it a bit more often and I said the next time we exchanged birthday cards I would arrange such. As it turned out, just before my birthday, Steve shared the news that he was unwell, although at that time it was not without hope of treatment. Our next meeting was our last and we knew it was going to be a time for goodbyes. I kissed him. Felt right. No speeches necessary.

Steve's legacy is extraordinary. The City of Bath has made him a Free Man for services to heritage. His family clearly love and adore him as a Dad, grandfather and husband. Everyone speaks highly of him, proof that you can do so much using the techniques of gentleness and respect although in his case he was genuinely gentle and respectful.

I have reflected on our friendship over these last few months, from the moment I learned he was going to die and wondered what I would say if asked, to deliver as fitting a sermon/eulogy at his memorial as I could construct. People seemed to find it helpful. I genuinely couldn't have done any better and am extremely grateful to have been asked to do it. The text of the sermon follows this more personal tribute.

As I have reflected my mind has regularly gone back to his attic bedroom in Serpentine Road where two 14 year old boys are chatting happily and playing Subbuteo. I had had friends before but somehow this was different, although I didn't realise it at the time. I found myself some years later describing Steve as the brother I never had. Weird really. No one has a brother with a six month age gap. Also, when he was 14, his brother Anthony was born. He now had a proper brother.

I felt safe in his company and now reflect on his being a good influence in my life. At St Stephen's Cross Section (a church youth grouo) games nights there was an occasional outbreak of some of the rougher elements of young Selly Oak. There was a game we played where two teams, at opposite ends of the hall, tried to hit a football in the middle with tennis balls, rolled underarm, to get the football to the far end - a goal. Despite the rules being clearly stated it sometimes turned into a game of throwing tennis balls at the other team. When this began Steve met fire with fire. He threw a ball at the leading aggressor, who went by the name of Buster to his friends. Buster dodged, but when we changed ends at half-time (no reason to do that, just tradition, there was no advantage to either end) Buster offered a hand touch to Steve on the way past. I hate it that it's true but force respects force. Being less physically able I have tried, usually successfully, to talk myself out of trouble or spot it coming and avoid it. Being in Steve's physically imposing company helped though.

This is the first time that a dear friend has died of something that is associated with old age. It has led me to reflect on my own mortality. I am sad today as I write this. Sad for the things that never quite happened and profoundly grateful for the things that did. I am aware that I am writing the words I could not have managed to say in Bath Abbey and that is probably the greatest gift the six weeks preparation time gave me.

When I look out the Subbuteo box there will probably be more tears as I remind myself of Bird 754 Tilley 698 or something like that. I've just remembered the football card game called Penalty, which we sometimes ended the evening with since it required no skill whatsoever except playing the hand you had been dealt. Almost all luck.

Life dealt Steve and I similar, but different hands. He played his well.

I am grateful to my oldest friend for imposing upon me this final piece of self-reflection as I learn with him and St Paul, to be content in all circumstances. I think I have. I will not try to be someone I am not at this ripe old age. Just a better version of me.

Thanks Steve.

Memorial Service for Steve Bird 12/10/26

Bath Abbey
Philippians 4:4-13

Before mobile phones, teenagers had to call each other on the landline and rehearse what they might say if another member of the family answered the phone.

Long after we knew each other's voices instantly our little mantra on the phone was 'Hi Steve; it's Steve.' My friend for nearly 60 years was Steve to me, not Stephen.

We all need friends who remind us where we came from. So when Steve and I met we were usually both 16 again. And in my contact list he is BirdBath.

When we met for the last time a few weeks ago we were both incredibly rude to each other. Felt right.

I have many stories about us growing up together. I have edited most of them out because I don't come out of them well. I have chosen the ones I will tell because you see something in the child that becomes the adult.

Firstly, all kids dig holes in their garden at some stage. Steve's was the deepest hole any child has ever dug in a garden to my knowledge. It really needed pit props. Archaeology beckoned.

Secondly, a group of us at school were once chatting about the going rate for cleaning the car. Three or four of us shared. Then Steve said he got nothing but 'I do it out of family duty'. That shut us up. A career of duty beckoned.

Thirdly, and I don't know how it happened, when he helped his surveyor Father on a Saturday morning, I sometimes went along, finding myself standing on a Birmingham traffic island holding a level for his Father to take readings.

Some years later I found I had agreed to hire a van, drive it almost to London, pick up a sofa and drive that and Steve to the centre of Bath, park it on double yellow lines and help carry the sofa up three flights of stairs. He was immensely strong. He did most of the heavy lifting.

I simply note that when Steve asked me to do something with his disarming smile, he waited for 'Yes'. I said yes. Not much difference between 'Could you give up your Saturday' and 'Could you give our heritage project £34 million. Smile and wait for yes. Fund-raising beckoned.

When Steve found out he was unwell he told some of us that as he expected numerous meetings and tasks he was setting up a project spread-sheet to manage it.

When he found out no further treatment was possible he told us, quoting St Paul, that he had '...learned to be content in all circumstances'. It was from the passage which Anthony read for us. We believed him.

Some people think Stoicism is about coping with bad times well. It is more than that. It is being responsible for that which is in your control, and accepting what is not. I think Steve was a proper Stoic.

In Acts 17 we read that St Paul encountered a group of Stoic philosophers in Athens. He didn't disillusion them but suggested that they were missing out on the source of contentment in all circumstances - Jesus risen from the dead. He told them that the God he served did not live in Temples built by human hands. Some sneered; some wanted to hear more.

That same Paul's letter to the Philippians is unusual in that Paul thanks that church for their financial generosity. This is rare. Then, in the few verses beyond our reading today, he asks them to give more assuring them that whether they do or don't he will still be content. But they really should. I can't imagine Paul smiling, but the letter ends waiting for yes.

Steve's faith was not conveyed as an evangelist does. More the 'always be prepared to give an account of the hope you have in you with gentleness and respect' that Peter's later letter discusses.

When people operate with a sense of duty, and serve a small church committee as lovingly as they serve a city, you know it is powered by something deep. If you were to ask him why he was diligent in all things he would tell you. He was powered by Christian hope.

Paul gave thanks for such faithful service when he encountered it. He pointed people towards it when he didn't.

Paul had a massive and impressive conversion from persecutor of Christians to follower of Christ. I am not aware Steve had such because I don't believe there was a single day when he didn't know the love of God.

The church is suffering some problems with its image and reputation just now. He'd hate me for saying this, but If there were more members like Steve the reputation would recover.

Whether you choose to allow the gospel to illuminate your existing beliefs, simply explore the faith of a man who was driven by it to make a difference to others, or deconstruct the gospel to make sense of it for today, I think Steve would want me to ask you to be sure to think about it, if only once.

I'll end by smiling - waiting for yes.

Post Script on World Cup

Many fine words have been written about the World Cup. We seem to have come to some tentative conclusions which, to summarise, are:

1. Argentina can no longer expect to be tolerated as a team that can commit three times as many fouls per booking as any other. 

2. Hydration breaks should only happen when there is a danger of dehydration.

3. Extending half-time in the final for a bit of a show is in keeping with the culture of the USA but not of football. Never again please.

4. England fans love Vindaloo football - 'We're gonna score one more than you.' Risking losing it to win it gave us England 6 France 4 in the third place game. More please.

I want to add a brief post-script about two things. 

Firstly that insufficient attention has been given to the genius chant post quarter-final when we beat Norway of 'You're not rowing any more.' And if that is because it wasn't chanted that is poor.

Secondly, and this is serious, I followed a few referees on social media commenting on incidents from the games. A couple agreed that an Argentinian foul, in the early moments of the semi-final with England, warranted a booking '...but not in the first minute of a World Cup semi-final.' In effect this means different interpretations of laws operate depending on the time in the match and its relative importance. This is inappropriate. Declan Rice had to live with the consequences of a first minute yellow card in an earlier round.

It was also the case that referees suggested the awarding of a penalty kick in a semi-final or final ought to be only for the most serious offences. Other situations would be interpreted in favour of the defender even if they would be penalised elsewhere on the pitch.

These two comments are a licence for dangerous play in the first five minutes or so of an important game and also for all sorts of shenanigans in the penalty area at set plays (which the authorities are trying to stop).

Laws should be interpreted consistently, at whatever level the game is being played, wherever the action is on the pitch and however much time has elapsed in the game.

Much to discuss, but on he whole I enjoyed it.

Follow me

Peter Ustinov, a fine chat-show guest and raconteur, used to tell a story of a porter he encountered at Dublin Airport who uttered the memorable line 'Follow me, I'm right behind you.'

I thought of this as I was categorising the verger I met recently. Was he a former airport porter? I was guesting at a new church. New to me, that is. It's been around for centuries.

In a cathedral there are fine vergers. Trained, professional and competent. OK I can immediately think of two exceptions, one who probably moonlit for Hezbollah and the other with a bottle of vodka, but you know what they say about exceptions and rules.

If you are involved in a cathedral service and the choreography involves you moving across the floor, a verger will verge you there. They will be at your shoulder before you knew you needed to think about moving and they will need following until they get you to where you need to be and bow as they leave you. They will escort you back after you have done the thing you needed to do.

Very few parish churches have vergers like this. Most feel more like some sort of daemon-spirit-animal.

So on this occasion I had been told that my verger, who had been around in the church I was visiting for quite a long time although not centuries, would show me the ropes. My preparation had given me a few questions about how things were done round there and I was assured my verger would answer my questions.

Friends, he did not. He came from the father-knows-best school. Everything was up to me and what I wanted. He didn't understand the idea of my wanting to do what was 'normal' in that church. I obtained the services of a church member who knew the answers.

At every point in the service where it seemed to me we needed to move he was waiting for me to give some sort of signal that he should lead me. When I was unsure if it was usual practice to reverence the altar the verger was obviously standing in the reverencing position but, I now realise, waiting for me to lead. Thus we gave a somewhat mixed message by doing it on the way out having not done it on the way in.

He told me the giant concelebration wafers they used broke into 20 pieces (I had quickly counted 18). The correct answer was 24 so we had some left overs. Does anyone else think they look more suited to an ice-cream sundae than the body of Christ? Just me then.

I took my hints as to what was required of me at communion based on what my colleague was doing and where he was doing it. Seemed to work but, a bit like an IKEA book-case assembly, there were some things on the communion table at the end which had not seemed necessary. Maybe the whole  spiritual life of the church will collapse later.

I followed my verger/server from right behind him whilst leading. It was great fun although my calf muscles were a bit sore from being on my toes for so long.

In Appreciation of House of Games

House of Games recently has become our chosen programme to watch whilst eating our supper, Monday to Friday. We usually only watch one episode of 25 minutes. It is light, we can join in and there is unlikely to be anything that puts us off our tea.

I think it has a sort of liturgical function. It is the same thing at the same time every day. It follows a varied, yet strict format.

Four minor celebrities, with occasional space for a national treasure, answer questions over five rounds. The first round is usually for each player in turn and has a few easier questions to gift points and confidence. Other rounds are clever and reward different types of thinking beyond plain general knowledge. For instance an answer may have to be given backwards, or with the words in alphabetical order. The 16 rounds are repeated week by week, although the order varies. The last round each day is always the same - Answer Smash. Here the questions are in two parts and the end of the answer to part one is the beginning of the answer to part two. Contestants must only give the duplicated bit once and 'smash' the answers into each other. This gives answers such as Malcolm McDonald Duck or Ring of Fireball XL5. The jeopardy of Answer Smash is increased as it is the only round where a point can be lost for a wrong answer, thus allowing gaps to be made up on the leaders if they are over hasty.

This principle is extended on Friday when points for a win are doubled 1,2,3,4 becomes 2,4,6,8 and again allows gaps to be made up.

Groans greet any 'new' round like a new hymn in a church service.

Our knowledge of current TV, especially soap is poor. We are not good at identifying people from pictures. We do not know the names of today's pop artists although the programme digs back well into popular music's past.

We laugh at how poor these minor celebrities are at geography or guessing historical dates. The younger ones obviously think that inventions of the early twentieth or late nineteenth century could have happened in the 1970s or 80s. History is before I was born syndrome.

I like to imagine I take one of the chairs and answer that contestant's questions to see if I could win. I usually do OK.

Daily prizes are red, with a House of Games logo on a regular item such as a bread bin, salt and pepper shaker or rucksack. Each week the dart board and the wheelie luggage are popular. Weekly winners get a trophy. A couple of times per series there is a redemption week for those who did OK but won nothing in a previous week. And a champions' week for previous winners where the daily prizes and trophy are gold(ish).

Richard Osman has presented it for nine years but is now to hand over to Michael Sheen. The current logo is an avatar of Osman's face and each of the contestants is given a similar avatar - basically a black and white caricature of their key facial features.

I imagine that each week is filmed in a day with guests changing clothes between episodes and trying to remember to refer to yesterday rather than an hour ago. Osman's clothes change very little - white shirt, polo neck, polo shirt, blue shirt, always with jeans and jacket. He has good patter and can gently encourage the disappointing 'You've got a win in you this week surely?' He can also prick the bubbles of pomposity that occasionally break out, always with a twinkle in his eye. Things that need moving on from are moved on from professionally. It is the sort of consummate broadcasting I admire very much.

It will probably take Sheen a while to get his feet under the table. Like a new Rector in church people are happy with a change in personality but want to continue recognising the format.

We don't watch the programme live. It is all on the BBC iplayer so we just watch the next episode we haven't watched. Given that we have holidays and time away for other things it means our gap between series is shorter than the live watchers' experience.

I once laughed at our next door neighbours in Leamington, an older couple, when we realised they had recorded Big Break, as the Snooker Loopy theme tune was playing out of the window long after it had finished. Are we like them now? It's different, but I couldn't tell you how.

The point? You were expecting a point were you? I've told you about that. To humour you, how about this:

Writers have a complex relationship with repetition. Sometimes its rhetorical use can be extremely effective. I was tired. I was hungry. I was dirty. I was thirsty. I was almost out of hope. I was rescued. That's not my finest work but you can hear the effect.

But although I like some of the repetition in liturgy it is the tendency for it to change slightly by season that makes it effective for me. It is the theological equivalent of a screen-saver.

It makes me poor at saying 'I love you' and always looking for other ways to put it. Turns out people prefer the mantra to word-play. When I say it, because I perceive that the other person will appreciate it, it costs me. My life is an internal monologue of Just a Minute and that loses points.

On Easter Sunday we use the versicle and response:

Priest: Christ has risen!

All: He has risen indeed. Alleluia!

I dislike it. I want my affirmations more nuanced than that. As a famous piece of spoof liturgy once said:

Priest: Christ is risen

All: Quick, sit down, he's starting

That service would have my attention.

Last Night 2022

I was sorting through some old stuff and came across this, which I have never shared. I wrote it as I wandered round my empty house in Nailsea for the last time, after all the furniture had headed north with my wife and I had stayed for one final night. I can't remember why that had to happen, but it did. It's quite personal so I may have felt a bit odd about sharing it at once. I found the leaving and retiring process emotionally very draining:

I sleep on a mattress in an otherwise empty house. I wake looking at Mendip foothills for the last time.

I have tea, coffee, a leaky bottle of milk and a chip fork for a spoon. I have toast but accidentally packed the marmalade.

Rooms in which we loved and laughed. The ghosts of Quiet Days and family parties, Deanery Standing Committees and Church Vision Days, hover above. Nowhere to sit. I eat on the stairs. 

I was standing over there when I heard my Mum had died.

I was standing in the kitchen most nights for ten years waiting for a call from the motorway. We used to see if we could eat together.

I was watching Election Night in this room with a group of young adults, explaining the democratic process as my heart broke. Still broken.

Weddings and funerals were planned in here.

That is blood on the carpet where my love cut her head. Ambulance at 5.00 a.m. on a Saturday in the days when that happened.

There’s music in every wall.

Both sons lived here for a year and now have their lives.

My grandson sat on my knee here.

Soon I will turn off the power, the water and turn the key in the lock. I will drive away. Not to a new life. Hate that expression. This sixteen years is coming with me.

Thought About Rory Gallagher for a Moment

I saw Rory Gallagher several times at Birmingham Town Hall in the 1970s. He travelled touring most of the time. A school friend with the amazing name of Jules Totty told me about him so I joined him for a gig having heard nothing of the guy's music. This would be 1972 or so.

The last time I saw him in Brum was a rainy winter's night. A sheepish announcer (remember the days when someone came on stage to introduce the band?) told us the tour bus was stuck in the snow. Cue boos. Followed by cheers when we were told that Rory Gallagher never lets an audience down, he was here, and he was going to play anyway.

Rory always had a few acoustic numbers in a live set so, in jeans and a trademark check shirt, we got 45 minutes of these. Some of them he probably hadn't prepared but you wouldn't have known. He didn't do much onstage patter. Unless you were from Derry he was hard to understand. We recognised some of the same things he said over and over again - introducing the next song he'd always say 'Hope you enjoy it' like a waiter bringing your starters.

The acoustic set complete he said he'd come back after an interval and do some electric numbers. More cheers. After the first tune he was joined on stage by the road manager who played drums and towards the end of the set by a roadie on bass.

Rory Gallagher was an elite and extraordinary guitarist. He sang, roughhousing it most of the time but always in tune and time. I thought he sang like I expected a pint of Guinness would sing if it could. But the lyrics were largely glib and a way to get into the guitar stuff.

At the end of a gig which ran to about two hours he apologised and told us we'd get our money back or our tickets would apply when he returned with the band. What a guy.

It was widely reported that Rory Gallagher had a drink problem. When I saw him some 15 years later at Nottingham's Rock City he had put on a lot of weight but still moved around the stage like a younger man.

I thought about all this the other day when I noticed the release of an album by an artist playing tribute. Not a tribute band. Just someone who loved his music. Joe Bonamassa plays Rory Gallagher's music live in Cork. It came up on one of those Facebook reels that tries to algorithm my interests (currently it is guessing AI older women in short skirts who live near me and great football goals, so it is not far out).

I listened to the short sample and enjoyed the quality of the vocal. I imagine the guitar falls short but I didn't listen long enough to find out and, more importantly, I am not a guitarist. I will listen to the whole album when it drops in June though.

As I was listening I found this information in my mind where it has been hanging around doing nothing for 40 years - Gerry McAvoy on bass, Rod de Ath on drums and Lou Martin on the keyboards. I imagined a Who wants to be a Millionaire final question listing these names and asking whose backing band they were. And I know. But I ask the audience anyway because I still have that lifeline and love the thought of demonstrating I am smarter than the audience.

The thing is that only someone who learned the band by repetition (probably having to read it up after the gig because you couldn't understand the Irish names pronounced by an Irishman after several beers and having to go to some trouble to do that pre-internet) would know those names. I don't think any of them have performed in their own name. They were competent as backing band to a man who was so good he could make a roadie and his tour manager, unrehearsed, sound like a decent backing band.

Rory Gallagher died of an infection due to liver problems. He was 47 years old. I still play his albums from time to time. Bullfrog Blues from live in Europe has a vocal that came from the song being his encore for several years, like Ten Years After and I'm Going Home at around the same time. That is to say the words were hinted at but a non-initiate would have no idea what they were. It didn't matter.

Will look forward to the tribute album vey much.

Fashionably Late

There was a documentary on the television a few years back. It was a focus on a family with a lot of new money. They were surrounded by people who could take it off them with such ploys as convincing them their daughter needed hypnotherapy and their dog grooming advice. Or was it the other way round?

One of the people who helped them feng shui their living room to stop all the creative energy leaving was dressed entirely in white with heavy silver, or more likely white gold, jewellery. This included a thick cable-knit sweater in summer. The presenter asked him if he was hot and got the answer, as I recall:

'I'm dressed for fashion not comfort, darling.'

Now there are some points at which this might be necessary. If your job is fronting an indie band you might wear your signature look parka even under studio lights. And, of course, catwalks are full of models dressing for other life situations. Summer collections are launched in winter.

I have some skin in the game because a family member worked in the industry and I occasionally get free advice.

It has left me regularly reading, rather than breezing through, the fashion pages of the Saturday Guardian and, especially, the FT weekend's How To Spend It magazine. In that sentence 'It' is as large a sum as you can possibly imagine, aimed at the sort of people who have a fridge dedicated to a particular type of preserved olive you can only buy if you know a Greek monk.

The Guardian is somewhat more down to earth and can be useful to people with limited budgets who care. My oldest male friends can all look away now, there's nothing for you here.

Jess Cartner-Morley has been the Guardian's fashion correspondent for over twenty years. In autumn 2024 headlines in her weekend column started to catch my eye and I wondered what life would be like if someone took her advice week by week. A lot of it is clearly for women but not all. I followed it for a year.

Holiday vibe: trousers not pictured

The first week I got going I learned 'With brat summer long gone, demure is the vibe of the season.' Reserved, modest and shy didn't quite fit with the atmosphere the column had previously generated, or that I ever tried for, so I was intrigued.

The next week the United States Democrat VP candidate was the centre of attention. Not my idea of demure but 'Why the Tim Walz style barn coat gets my vote' was the headline. (It looked like a Barbour to me.)

At this point the weekly advice started to demand money ... big hair, grandma heels and striped shirts were all, apparently, back. The striped shirts were not to have City Boy energy, just yet. But by the spring ‘Consider embracing the ‘lunch is for wimps’ energy of a banker shirt’ was the maxim.

And this threw us into parties. I once went to a dinner party in Dorridge where every woman around the table, about eight of them, had a new lacy dress on. I felt like I had come to an audition for Jools Holland's new backing singers rather than a meal. It wasn't that they were all dressed exactly the same but that they were all fashionable. They'd all read the same magazines and shopped with the same budget.

My head returned there after reading JCM's party advice to 'Wear lace this party season. It is an act of celebration - and defiance.' This was followed shortly by the 'Festive fashion formula? Make it all about the party skirt' which didn't last beyond Christmas when we learned '...the party jean - the answer to your New Year's Eve prayers.'

It occurs to me that having enough storage to keep all my clothes would have allowed me to bring out the ones that popped back into popular culture every now and again. Apart from those 1970s stack heels, of course. I can still remember my Dad's laughter.

Shortly (ahem) before last Christmas I noted 'The return of the miniskirt has been happening gradually and I'm into it.'

Agreed. Carry on. Then:

'...a leopard print coat gives you big cat energy on the streets.'

Possibly. And:

'Keep your trousers on! Find your perfect pair and they'll work with everything.'

This is good advice. I always get looks when I forget my trousers. But it looks dangerously like wearing a garment twice in a row.

What about next year? Glad you asked. '2025 - wear clothes that will make you feel intrepid.' Demure didn't last that long then. Put it back in the loft with the lacy dresses and party skirts.

Now, I hope you're still paying attention because this next bit is complicated, 'Forget dressing to impress others - try mirroring them instead.' Followed by this shocker, 'Secondhand ... Sometimes ... looks far better.' Take your coat to Oxfam and replace it with something less catty and more intrepid. Next season you're also going to learn that ‘If you look like you found your jewellery on a bric-a-brac stall, then you are doing it right.’ Two birds.

'The return of grown-up trousers means belts are back.' If you've been wearing your perfect trousers without a belt since December 14th no wonder they fell down. Console yourself with the news that they probably weren't grown-up enough. With your all-adulty trousers you'll need a 'Little Boxy jacket.' I don't know either.

March began with a good question. 'What to do with all the clothes you don't even wear.' I'm thinking the answer is going back to the charity sector or Vinted but maybe stop buying clothes for a bit. No, that can't be it.

Also '...the age of tight, restrictive gym wear is over.' Thank the Lord. Everything was getting crushed down there. '...subtle updates to your outfits can kickstart spring.' So my gym wear can only be slightly less clingy eh?

Stage wear

By March I also learned to prepare my outfits for the week ahead and thus feel invincible. The bedroom is a bit of a mess now.

‘Fallen into wearing the same old work outfits? It’s time to up your game.’

Admit it. It's going to cost.

‘The key to the perfect handbag? Road-testing it in the wild.’

Hello John Lewis. Can I borrow a handbag for a few hours with a vie to possible purchase?

‘Want to look posh on a budget? It’s all about the right colours.’ I needed more specific advice here and a week later ‘…butter yellow is the colour to be seen in this summer.’ Will that give me a ‘Boom boom vibe … gold watches, big hair, short skirts, sexy dancing and fur – real or fake’? Because I needed that seven days later.

Here's an easier one. 'Want a style update? Pull your socks up.' No Steve, not those socks. It means you need better ones that are meant to be longer.

‘Ask yourself: when will I wear this?’ Six months in and I realise some people need to be helped to ask a question most ordinary people ask all the time. Having given yourself a good talking to it's back to the shops for ‘… the slightly geezerish leather blouson … the look to be seen around town in.’

Holidays? ‘Travel trousers: the gateway drug to smart comfy dressing.’ Don't know about you but I always travel in trousers. Non-restrictive, grown up trousers with a belt, obviously. Although two weeks later I learn it’s the traveller in sleek, muted neutrals who stands out, in 2025 the waistcoat is for everyone and a straw basket is the essence of summer.

Cue airport stares at your ironed jeans and waistcoat as you gently cradle flowers.

Wedding guest

Talking of money, here are 67 wardrobe updates for the summer which should include being able to '... rock fabulous flats.’ They won't last long though because ‘…September is an ideal time to update your look.’ And chuck out the muted neutrals and the butter yellow because 'This autumn, wear any shade – just as long as it’s white.’

Your coat now needs to be long, whatever animal print it is ‘When you’re picking your coat for this winter, take a long view.’

‘Pay your own tribute to Armani by perfecting his signature relaxed style.’ Being dead has never been called a style before. While you're pondering that, iron your jeans again as you'll discover ‘Smart, straight, stiff – how to style your jeans this season.’

It all seems utterly confusing. Which is, of course, the point. I can't believe fashion editors get no free invitations to events put on by people who want to sell clothes more often than I want to buy them. They have to make me feel I'm out of touch. One issue of HTSI will help you understand the fashion budgets of the people featured. I like a well-dressed occasion. I love a smartly tuned out town or city even more. How to achieve it? Try this from 8th November with which my year concludes ‘…check what’s already in your wardrobe.’

You'll thank me. I've included some images of my signature look.

Happy Christmas

Our annual Christmas letter is published today. Roll with it. Don't try to understand too hard:

https://stevetilleychristmas.blogspot.com/2025/12/...

If anyone needs help with the pirate jokes spend three minutes listening to this Andy Hamilton sketch. You'll thank me:

https://youtu.be/XKv5ulewTO4?si=uo8GWBu_bmlevIId

The Wrong Sort of Christmas Tree

A few years ago I developed a rash on my back in the shape of a triangle. There were also blotches on my arms and legs which got less frequent as they reached the hands and feet. It seemed like a virus of some sort but definitely warranted the trip to the surgery I took.

My doctor took one look at my back and went to the shelves for a reference book. This is never a good thing. I want my illnesses to be common and treatable, not hidden away on page 471 of a rarely-accessed skin disease text book.

'Was there a herald patch?' she asked. I wondered what one of them was and she described an area of dry skin about three centimetres square that appeared before the main rash. I had had such a thing on holiday over the summer. I thought it was an area of dry skin caused by hot sun and a poor moisturising regime (I promise I'll never write those three words in a row ever again).

As a Christian minister I have an overwhelmingly positive picture in my head of heralds. Heralds bring glad tidings of good news, something we get reminded of a lot over Advent. Ta da! It's gonna be good. A herald patch bringing news of three months absolute dermatological shit-housery was not what I associated with the word. Also, the rash was typically in the shape of a Christmas tree.

So when I responded in the affirmative she showed me the entry in the learned journal and told me I had pityriasis rosea, a virus that usually self-healed in three to six weeks but mine was overstaying its welcome. I got an appointment at the Bristol Royal Infirmary for a dermatologist to have a gander.

Before that I did a brief parsing of my new medical terminology. I had a sad red rash. Pityriasis rosea is Latin, with Greek antecedents, and means scaly rash red. All that medical expertise had helped me describe my symptoms in a different language.

The clinic appointment came along and Maeve, a specialist so beautiful that I would have done or said a lot of things to prolong the visit, confirmed my diagnosis but added that it had become eczematic. I got some high-powered steroid cream, another word to learn to spell, and the rash eventually subsided.

Only one problem. I had never had eczema before but since that time I have had it on my back regularly, especially when the weather turns cold. It can be caused by getting up after sitting with my back touching something for a while. Or even an over-sensitivity to the non-cotton label in my all-cotton underwear for sensitive skin. Why do people who make expensive pants for sensitive skin compromise everything with a cheap scratchy label?

I get through E45 cream by the bucket-load and have to use expensive shower gel. Everything is expensive, despite the NHS. The eczema has been quite costly in terms of lotions, potions and pure cotton next-to-the-skin wear.

Throwing money at a problem is not necessarily the way to solve it. But it sure makes life more comfortable while you are living with it. Very expensive cotton clothes help. I like wearing them. Thanks John Smedley, Spoke and Son of a Taylor. But I feel slightly forced into that position.

What can we learn? Look I'm 70 years old and in pretty decent nick. I have the financial capacity to make decisions that will improve my life. Good haircuts and decent dentistry are a bit Kevin (they Costyer - old family joke). Other improvements are to things that stopped working and need to start again. Eyes and ears for instance. It is like paying for someone to stop hitting you over the head with a spade and then feeling grateful. False teeth, glasses, hearing aids, gym clothes and eczema cream all put me back into the state I was before I needed those.

But the cold makes me itch a bit. At least it has a Latin name in a textbook. Lord preserve us from ever being medically interesting.

Essays by AI

I heard an in interview with a head-teacher earlier. It revealed that it seems like most students' essays are AI assisted these days and it is so convincing that the teachers are unable to tell. But I believe AI is able to tell if a piece of work is original or not, pretty quickly. AI gives me a quick and helpful summary of my mood and style if I produce 750 Morning Words daily. I'm sure more detailed analyses are available.

What would help, I believe, is for the start of each term to begin with essay day. Every pupil who will expect to submit a piece of written work for assessment during the term has to provide an example of, say, 1000 words of writing. These words should be written in a supervised classroom situation without any external assistance, perhaps on a tablet without internet access to save time for the teachers in the future.

Pupils could leave as soon as they finished. Yeah. Make it a bit competitive. In fact the faster the task is achieved the more likely it is that the results will be helpful.

Very minimal instructions should be given. The writing can be on any subject. It could be a story, a stream of consciousness (as this almost is), a comment piece of journalism or a narrative. Or something else.

The point should be that AI can then bank the piece and make an assessment of future work based on whether the student can write to that standard or not.

The piece would not be marked or assessed in any way towards any examination or course work. But after a few terms a style assessment could be built up. You could see the student making progress, or otherwise (which might help with interventions in the future), and you could compare future written work with the style displayed at the start of term. Has the student made unbelievable progress in grammar, style or vocabulary?

Perhaps some teachers or IT specialists might run with this, or tell me why it's stupid. I have more kites.

Columba Palumbus

For the last couple of months we have had the rare privilege of watching wood pigeons raise a brood. They chose a nest site in next door's bramble-covered tree. It was safe from cats climbing up. It was safe on three sides through thick vegetation. Also from above.

What the pair didn't know is that the solid wall providing protection on the fourth side but allowing access was not that but our utility room window. We rarely have a light on in there in the summer and it is one of the least used rooms in the house. Morning and evening laundry duties, where we keep the cleaning products, a second sink for dirty vegetables and the compost bins - er that's it.

But every time we have popped in there we have checked up on how the brood is going.

We have always got two or more wood pigeons in and around our garden and have watched them a lot. They are funny. Apart from eating, a breeding pair will spend all their time thinking (male) about sex or suggesting now is not the time (female). They have three bonks a year which gives three broods in roughly April, June and August. Each time a fresh nest is constructed.

In June we noticed one wood pigeon, we assume the female, sitting in the same place in the bush where the nest now is. You've probably seen these birds wandering around comically with twigs in their mouths during the summer. The nest-building methodology is simple. One birds sits where the nest will be and the other turns up with a variety of sticks which are thrust under the sitting bird until a platform is made.

Once the platform is sufficiently knitted together two eggs are laid (so the bird books tell me, I never saw them). From then on, for two to three weeks (again, so the books tell me) the couple take it in turns to brood the eggs while the other goes off to eat. Unless you see the actual moment of swapping over, which we didn't, you will not know which bird is brooding because male and female wood pigeon are identical. We suspect that the female stayed put for longer but that is based on what we know about the animal kingdom and maleness, not observation.

After a while we thought we saw movement but the chicks are kept under the parent's body for a long time after hatching. Then we saw a chick. Then we saw two.

We observed the rather disgusting habit of crop-feeding where regurgitated food is made available to a chick with its head half way down the parent's throat. This is, apparently, a very rich crop-milk that enables the chicks to put on weight quickly. When not feeding the chicks are nagging in the same way a small child always wants a biscuit. Again appearances can be deceptive but it felt that the chick nearest the adult bird got most of the food. That said the two chicks are now out of the nest and both look a similar size.

Towards the end of the time in the nest there was barely room for the two chicks side by side and when an adult bird turned up it had to perch nearby and lean in. Eventually the chicks wandered bravely along a branch and back. Then they reached the nearest bit of fence where they perched for a couple of days, preening and awaiting food which came less and less often. They they started appearing in different bits of the garden. If we get too close we scare the adults but the chicks don't know to be scared.  They also hopped from fence panel to fence panel and back, never further than another ten feet away, but did not fly in any obvious way.

I'd say they are now three-quarters of the size of an adult bird and are developing that lovely grey/pink plumage. They do not yet have the bluey green and white distinctive neck marking.

The two birds, perching side by side about ten feet from my gaze here in the conservatory are very patient (so it seems) and are not scared back into the nest. I have now seen them fly up on to the roof of a nearby house but they are content in and around our garden. We have cat scarers and the birds are usually out of sight of any passing sparrow hawk.

It has been a treat to watch this bit of development in the bird  world. I've often known wood pigeon were nesting in the garden because of the brooding noises but I've never been able to see the action close up. I'm not really interested in the effort required to make technology work but a time-lapse camera would have been an amazing thing.

The Church of England Pensions Board Property Department, if reading this, might note that the chicks, in the final photograph, are perched on the fence panel that has been broken for three years. Of course that is not the reason for this entire post.

Interview with Non-existent Government Advisor

Blogger: Occasionally this blog welcomes guest experts to discus the matters of the day. Today we welcome Professor Dave Dump. Professor Dump is widely respected as a leading expert on political theory and is much sought-after as a government political advisor. He is a newspaper columnist, podcaster, influencer and broadcaster. Professor Dump, welcome.

Professor: I'm not an influencer. I have some influence. There's a difference

Blogger: Professor Dump, we wanted to talk to you about Chancellor Rachel Reeve's screeching U-turn on winter fuel payments.

Professor: Yes.

Blogger: Yes what?

Professor: Yes, you can talk to me.

Blogger: I see. It's going to be like that is it?

Professor: Yes.

Blogger: So, what do you make of the U-turn.

Professor: It wasn't.

Blogger: It wasn't?

Professor: That's what I said.

Blogger: What do you think of the government's decision to change the threshold for winter fuel payments so that pensioners with an income of less than £35,000 receive it?

Professor: See, that wasn't so bad was it? First piece of political advice is to make sure you are not accidentally accepting the premise of a question when you answer it. It was not a screeching U-turn. It was a tweak. It was genius.

Blogger: Genius?

Professor: Indeed. For several reasons but chiefly because for the whole of its first year the government has had a big row, on its own terms, about an area of policy it is determined to get right. Furthermore it has been accused by the blue-top newspapers of moving too far to the right and so it can satisfy them by moving left. Genius.

Blogger: So, if the government are not portraying it as a screeching U-turn, what is it?

Professor: Very good question...

Blogger: Isn't that what people say when they need time to think?

Professor: No, that's 'I'm very glad you asked me that'. Thank you for giving me double time to think. What the government spokesperson will say in those circumstances is 'To be clear...' they inherited a mess and had to move really quickly to calm the markets before setting out on the agenda their huge majority - oops, I mean the public's overwhelming mandate - had given them.

Blogger: Isn't that just a fudge for 'We got it wrong'?

Professor: Anyone embarking on a project wants three things. High quality, speedy completion and cheap price.

Blogger: And...?

Professor: You can only ever have two. Which two do you want?

Blogger: So, to use your illustration, which two did the government choose?

Professor: None of them, but nobody noticed. They opted to make such a catastrophically stupid decision that everyone piled in and got distracted from all the other things they set about in their first year. Then, in apparent response to criticism but actually as a cunning plan, they moved the threshold up but probably a bit too far. It's a clever move to give it to almost everyone and then claim it back in taxation from those who exceed the threshold. If they make pensioners wealthier in the next three years then they can move it back down again, a little, in their penultimate budget. It would be good to keep opposition eyes on this, minor, problem and make it sound big. Many pensioners felt awkward getting a winter fuel allowance.

Blogger: Wow. You could make black sound white.

Professor: No problem. Have you seen the Nigerian national football team's away kit?

Blogger: That's irrelevant isn't it?

Professor: Oh yes. But broadcasters on live interviews hate silence and no-one will notice that quickly.

Blogger: So is there a political master-plan?

Professor: I believe so. It will be long-term and costly. People are talking about leaving the Labour Party one year after a landslide election victory that promised to make a difference in five years. Not only do people want high-quality, cheap and speedy; they will moan about whichever one they don't get even if they knew that would be the case from the beginning. Currently Labour is happy for people to say they're leaving because that is meaningless after 20% of a Parliament. They are hoping, and it's tough because long-term infrastructure projects take more than five years, but they are hoping that enough looks better for them to get re-elected. Also, what you would do if you were stupid and what you would do if your were a genius pretending to be stupid are the same thing.

Some of the big infrastructure projects will be well underway and any opposition will have to say if they will cancel them. If they cancel them they will leave trouble for the country's financial credibility. If they agree to keep them the people will consider it worth trying for the same lot again because they thought of the ideas in the first place.

They've gone for expensive and high quality.

Blogger: What could possibly go wrong?

Professor: Events, dear boy, events. Brexit was always proper stoopid not tactically deliberately stupid, but it was a bit unlucky to have to implement it during a plague and a war. What was stupid is that no-one realised, or said, that it was absolutely reliant on everything else staying the same, to have any chance of working. Nothing ever stays the same. This has been genius politics so far, and has dealt with the first crisis (riots) very well. It is handling the US crisis reasonably well. There will be a crisis that no-one has thought of yet. Then we'll see.

Blogger: Thank you very much Professor Dump. More guest interviewees when we can think of them.

Seems Odd To Me

Some years ago I went on a Proclamation Trust preaching conference. My theology has moved on since then but I carry with me a couple of tips about the art of preaching which have stayed with me.

One of them was to look at a passage and ask 'What seems odd to me?' It's a great question. It is appropriate to ask it for yourself as you go deeper into a passage you probably know well, but also on behalf of those to whom you are preaching. Can you imagine what will seem odd to those who don't know the passage well?

I got back in touch with this idea recently as we looked at the passage in Luke where Jesus, in his home synagogue, read from Isaiah. This seemed odd. Luke says Jesus found the passage where it says this:

‘The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
because he has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.’

The footnote says this is from Isaiah 61:1-2.

Turn to Isaiah 61:1-2 though and you read:

'The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
because the Lord has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the broken-hearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives
and release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour
and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,'

So, there's a difference. Isaiah's prisoners have become Luke's blind. We'll deal with that in a minute. But the first thing that people would have noticed is that Isaiah's vengeance has disappeared. The people, expecting their favourite prophet's familiar words, find them edited, stopping short of the good bit. Who decided to do that? Editors? Jesus? Luke?

And why change the blind reference? Couple of possibilities. Firstly, a commentator, Motyer, tells us that the word translated 'release from darkness' in Isaiah is a word usually used to describe letting light in (opening a window, or opening your eyes in the morning). Of course prisoners, kept in darkness in dungeons, might find their captivity blinding. Their release also, perhaps? Secondly the Septuagint, a translation of the Hebrew Scriptures into Greek in the third to first centuries BCE, chose to change the word prisoners to blind.

What did Jesus read? A scroll? Yes. A scroll without verse and chapter numbers? Yes again. A scroll of the Septuagint which conflated several verses of Isaiah and missed some out? Seems so.

Did Jesus actually read it? Good question. Could it be that this passage has little historicity and Luke is using it to make a point about Jesus' mission? That sounds more reasonable. Mark and Matthew's versions don't have the Isaiah reference.

Could Jesus read? Most scholars think he could and the Bible shows signs of his being educated, but it is not a universally held opinion. He certainly left no books from his own hand.

The more I read my Bible the odder it gets to me. I hear the sound of axes being ground. I find the word of the Lord (that which God initially said) inaccessible and the Bible, for all its truth and beauty, a work of theology which is the best we can do for the word of the Lord round here today. It already includes interpretation.

It will be more helpful for us if we accept it is polemical, interpretive and, whilst it is a historical document and source, certainly not history as we know it.

The final nail in the coffin of my theological conservatism was banged in by Iranian writer, historian and theologian Reza Aslan 'Zealot - The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazarath' (Westbourne Press 2013). He led me to write this. I am grateful.

Hairstyles and Attitudes

I had a hair cut in Stratford yesterday (thanks Indi, fine work as usual). This alerted TCMT that I would be in the vicinity of Lakeland, a shop where she used to work and which purveys several products which we never knew we needed until we got them but now can't live without. She gave me a list. I asked for a translation. It's not a fault it's a feature. TCMT2 will cross her Ts.

And so it came to pass that I entered the shop, having arrived fifteen minutes early for my haircut, calculating that I had enough time to buy the three listed things first.

I am familiar with the layout of Lakeland and claimed the kettle descaler bags and medium sized rubber gloves within seconds. The lens-cleaning wipes were harder to track down and, although it feels like an admission of defeat, I approached the counter and asked for help. A woman of about sixty, five foot three, bobbed grey hair and large glasses pointed to the boxes three feet from my right hand. I felt an idiot but TCMT later told me that they kept them on the counter because they are a best-seller.

Hold the description of the assistant in your head. It will be important later.

Lakeland try and have sales staff that match the customer demographic. If you imagine you are selling to a sixty year old woman you won't go far wrong. I'm sure they enjoy the men who come in and see it as a badge of honour to find the stuff like a treasure hunt rather than seek help. Maybe they run a sweepstake on how long it will be before we ask.

One customer profile is a grey haired, not-unattractive woman who gives off vibes of Baroness or Mrs Something-in-the-City. This woman is used to having staff and knows how to treat them. She will never search in the store for that might suggest an interest in the stock. No, she will walk through the door, adjust her dress for the new environment, and announce her presence by shouting 'clingfilm' or some such product. She will then wait for someone to jump. They'd better.

Apparently it is worth being nice to such people who may, on a whim, choose to buy air-fryers for all their family for Christmas.

Back to my story. Satisfied that I had all the products on my list and had correctly identified any necessary deals (two for one, buy one get one free and an email every day for life) I went back to the counter and brandished my purchases. There are normally questions about loyalty here but TCMT has the Lakeland card so I said no. I was spending about £15.

'If you get the app today you get 10% off' said the kindly woman. (Ten minutes to hair appointment now.) I succumbed.

I scanned a QR code (how rock and roll am I) and went through the process. It was surprisingly easy and I reached the last stage when a message proclaimed 'Your new card will appear here - it may take a few minutes.' (Seven minutes to hair appointment.)

I read the sentence back to the assistant who looked at me as if I was the sort of person who read things aloud in shops. I went on to explain that I needed to be next door in five minutes and could I proceed without the discount. Another gormless look.

A voice from behind me said 'Are you ready now?' I turned round. Sure enough the assistant who had been serving me had wandered off to do some other task while she waited for me and had been replaced behind the counter by another woman who was clearly different but would have matched the same description precisely. Neither may have been sixty. As you can gather I don't pay much attention. I'd been drinking with a friend for an hour once when he cracked and asked if I was going to ask him about his black eye. At that point I noticed it.

Wrongs righted with a 'What am I like' and assistant A returned and my new loyalty card appeared on my phone screen. I made some comment about being glad to get the discount when assistant B told me that it only applied to purchases over £30. I didn't speak but managed to incarnate all the disappointments of my current life (medical, financial, West Brom's run of results) into a single look and assistant A folded. I got the discount. I paid the bill. I arrived at my hair appointment on the dot.

Somehow the whole process reminded me of the church at Failand which, when I arrived in the team in 2006 had fifteen members average age 75. When I left sixteen years later having observed or taken several funerals for the congregation it had fifteen members average age 75. It was as if there was a deal that every 65 year old in the village had to join the church when an 85 year old died. 'Come on Mavis, your turn now.' It worked. Also, they paid their parish share. Or maybe the baroness paid all of it.

If you fit the description, apply for a job at Lakeland. It may be your turn. Today we discovered we had run out of Moth Off, or whatever it is called now. I may need to go back.

Come to think of it the second one may not have had glasses.  

Other Presences

I have sorted out the sidebar mess that included links to all sorts of places I could no longer be found. I have now summarised the four main places under one banner 'Other Presences'. Not sure how much longer I'll be on Twitter/X but still there for now.

Learning Things Too Late

I should have known that. People who are genuinely honest with themselves will say this more often than they put up a fight to defend their ignorance. It is an attitude that takes joy in discovery. I commend it. Here are two things I learned too late in my ministerial career.

Hearing Lady Hale on Desert Island Discs reminded me of her most splendid piece of teaching. In dealing with the massive matter of whether it had been against the law to prorogue Parliament she read a verdict which broke this complexity down to four simple questions:

1. Is this a matter on which we are able to rule?

2. What is the relevant law?

3. Has it been broken?

4. What should be the remedy.

For the last few years I have adapted and applied this to almost every meeting I have been responsible for when setting an agenda and leading a discussion to a conclusion:

1. Is this anything to do with us?

2. What are the parameters of our discussion?

3. What do we need to put right or improve?

4. What needs to happen now?

The second is like, namely this. I met a wise old priest who taught me to avoid the self-importance that comes with assuming that when someone shares something with you it is down to you, and you alone, to deal with it.

Given that pastoral problems normally lead to talking he used to reply, when confronted with such, by saying something along the lines of, 'That must be really difficult for you. Do you have someone you can talk to about it?' On many occasions the answer turned out to be 'yes' at which point he would pray for the relationship and commend it with thanks.

In effect he was praising the sharer for the good judgement they had made so far. This also sorted out the folk only he could help.

I tried it a few times. It worked and was well received.

Anonymity

What started me thinking was this. An anonymous blogger and Twitter/X poster known as The Church Mouse (@thechurchmouse ) posted a thread about the process to elect a new Bishop of Coventry. Using publicly available documents he (we know Mouse is male but that's all) suggested that one parish had been less than clear in getting two people with similar divisive views (vicar and PCC member) onto the 14 member Vacancy in See Committee.

A friend replied 'Oh the irony ... an anonymous mouse complaining people aren't being open and transparent.'

I felt a bit busted. Then cross. Then thoughtful.

There is a strong tradition of anonymity in public writing. The commenter and I are both Christians and have given our lives to public ministry based on a book that is less than clear about its sources and authorship in many cases.

Newspaper leader writers do not give their names to their pieces. It is not that they are a secret but that the view in a leader is that of the paper not the person.

I read along piece about the history of anonymity in early 20th century writing:

Anon is Not Dead: Towards a History of Anonymous Authorship in Early-Twentieth-Century Britain

Reasons for choosing anonymity included those we have discussed as well as a desire to avoid fame and a lack of need for remuneration. It emphasises the long history of anonymity and pseudonymity.

There was a tradition of the preface to Crockford's Clerical Directory being written anonymously but in 1987 a furore arose over that year's long essay. John Habgood, then Archbishop of York, took very public umbrage to the piece and, unusually, this led to a media frenzy to discover who had written it. Afraid of being discovered the author, Gareth Bennet, took his own life. Coincidentally, one of the matters of which he was critical was the working of the Crown Appointments Commission.

Recently The Secret Barrister and The Secret Footballer, to name but two, have been able to give inside information on their professions whilst staying anonymous.

On the one hand this allows them to be kept safe. Or keep their jobs. On the other it looks like they are hiding something.

In my years in ministry I never allowed an anonymous letter to change my mind or views, but I did dwell on and review the things they wrote about when I received them.

There is an easy, lazy response available in rhetoric, often used in courts where juries don't understand the methodology and also in political debate. It goes like this:

Court
Barrister: You are an expert?
Expert: I have these qualifications...
Barrister: Wasn't your opinion found wanting in the case of...
Expert: I have been used on many occasions and found helpful
Barrister: Answer yes or no please...

The idea of the expert being wrong has been put in the jury's head with the expert seeming reluctant to admit it.


Politics
Candidate 1: As Winston Churchill so rightly said...
Candidate 2: I don't think you are in the same league as Winston Churchill

It doesn't matter what the quote is. The idea of the candidate comparing themselves as an equal to a great and respected orator has been put in the audience's head.

So I have a problem with arguing with the anonymity but not the substance. It feels a bit like a gnat has been strained and a camel swallowed. On the other hand we have to trust Mouse when he says 'I’m not standing for election and making important decisions...' without evidence, apart from ten years plus of his, relatively consistent, views.

There's the rub. A one off anonymous tweet is hard to assess. Axes are probably being ground. But a long-running, obviously informed anonymous commentator seeking clarity. I get that. If you want to ignore everything Mouse says because you think he's a coward or hypocrite that is your prerogative. But I don't think it's wise.

It is hard not to engage with press interest in a leaked document even if you think it shouldn't have been leaked. Mouse is not a whistle-blower although he has singled out an individual from a position of anonymity (I've chosen not to because the individual is a friend, albeit one I have often disagreed with).

There is a long and glorious history of anonymous writing in this country. Long may it continue.

Faith After Doubt

Faith After Doubt

Brian McLaren

A longer book review on the way. This book has been really important for me. It may be equally helpful for others on similar journeys.

I came to faith through the ministry of a church youth group in suburban Birmingham in the early 1970s. I didn't know anything about the range of style within the Church of England at first. Soon I understood that it was a Conservative Evangelical church.

That youth group was run by a talented and tireless curate called Don. On the 'divisive' issues of the day he was not extremely conservative. He was a huge supporter of women's ministry and ordination, and forgiving on divorce and remarriage. That said I regularly heard sermons that promoted creationism over evolution.

Fast forward a few years and I'm married, have a son and am pursuing the possibility of ordination. That journey came as a surprise to me and is another story. I headed off to St John's College in Nottingham and a degree in theology.

I wasn't a great student but I was fascinated. Getting to grips with theological reading for the first time in my life I was also angry. Why had I been a member of churches for ten years and no one had so much as hinted at this sort of thing? The very idea that the Bible contained a range of material, not all of it history, started to help me make sense of things. Others who had the same experience struggled with their faith. But a reasonable summary of my years since then has been a desire to make sure people were not as uneducated as I. But how to do that?

As McLaren himself says, '...the better the job that colleges do in actually training their student to be responsible theologians, the more out of sync those future pastors will be with churches that hire them to maintain the status quo.'

It has not been a matter of asserting things that would start a fight. It has been a matter of patiently and gently suggesting things such as:

• Genesis 1-11 is not history
• In the Gospels some words are put on Jesus' lips by the writers
• Some biblical teaching is limited by the culture of its day
• Substitutionary atonement is a model, not the model

For the last 25 years Brian McLaren has been a companion on this journey, although we have never met. His trilogy of books about the sorts of things I have listed above, and his journey in conservative churches, were helpful. (1)

Since then, along the way, he has been true to his original aim of helping us to discover how a new kind of Christian leads to a new way of being church.

Which brings us to this - Faith after Doubt. It's sub-titled 'Why your beliefs stopped working and what to do about it'.

There have been many fine attempts over the years to categorise stages of faith. Fowlers six are the best known. All seem to suggest that the arrival at sage-like dotage just before your death bed is the ideal.

Here are McLaren's stages:

1. Simplicity

Epitomised by a desire to divide the world into yes or no, good or bad, in or out. Likes to belong to a church with clear black and white rules about ethics and doctrine. All that is required of a member is unquestioning loyalty.

Me 1971-76

2. Complexity

Here the question is 'How can I be successful?' Things are no longer known and knowable but learned and doable. Moving away from authority figures as soon as you discover they have flaws. Maybe start looking for a church community more like you. Exchange the joy of being right for the joy of being effective.

Many members of the faith community never get beyond this stage.

Me 1976 - 1996

3. Perplexity

Those who do not want to settle down in stages 1 or 2 often leave. For those who don't 'Come join a community of people who don't know what they believe any more but want to talk about it' is not an easy recruit. Plus the leaders have no answers or certainties. Many ministry students experience this in their first term of theological education. And having built something wonderful as we moved from stage 1 to stage 2 we find ourselves knocking it down again. Members of this group often have humility (I don't know the answer) and courage (Let's journey into the unknown together and see where it leads). Not moral relativism but challenging incomplete morality.

I got here quickly (hold the humility) and spent 1981-96 crossing over. I since have been here for about thirty years. The reason Faith After Doubt is so good is that it encouraged me to go on with the journey

Me 1981-2023

4. Harmony

Many members of the Society of Friends (Quakers) laugh at the slowness with which western Christians get to this point. It is the stage at which one sees love as the driving force steering us through 1-3. It is the point at which we accept, rather than reject, all the disparate bits and pieces of messy life which have got us here. The new music is of appreciation, empathy and wonder. McLaren adds love. No wonder being present in stage four can feel like being lost for words, or maybe lost in wonder, love and praise as the hymn puts it.(2)

I once got in a big dispute by arguing that all change comes from dissatisfaction. I stand by that although the discussion was passionate. I don't think I can persuade you to change your mind until you are dissatisfied with the status quo. And conversely I must value the doubt I developed about my stages 1-3 faith for without the doubt I wouldn't have reached here. Reached where? Well, reached the start of the journey, a journey most people never discover and few have the privilege of joining.

Me, now.

If you're ready, read this book.

(1) A New Kind of Christian (2001)
The Story We Find Ourselves In (2003)
The Last Word and the Word After That (2005)

(2) Love Divine, All Loves Excelling