"We had nothing else to do..."

That's what these murdering children said: "We had nothing else to do."

But then they found something to do all right: "So we killed someone for a bit of fun."

Extra Ecclesia....

"Pope Benedict has approved a new text asserting that Christian denominations outside Roman Catholicism are not true Churches in the full sense of the word."

From the Beeb tonight.

...Well, you have to admit the old trout has a point. Not a happy one to be heard by Protestant ears it must be said, and certainly likely to cause fires to burn in Orthodox circles. Yet "Tu es Petrus..." and all that jazz.

If you understand these things then you will, and if you don't you may walk away now.

Either Christ did found his Eternal Church on Earth - pending His return - or he didn't. That is the essence of the thing. Feel free to believe that the whole thing never happened - and personally I find that a more credible notion than the Muslim angle, which seems to be that Jesus was a Prophet for sure and yet somehow didn't actually die on the Cross because Prophets are meant to be conquerors not dead people - but don't go thinking that just because the Church over millennia somehow fails to live up to your own high moral standards it can be rejected and you start all over anew.

There is the notion of course that the Anglican Church is but the Catholic Church in England and environs. But could anyone other than an unreconstructed imperialist actually believe that holds any water?

H and I are currently holding talks about this whole Rome question. We are not far from an agreement in truth. Time is coming one senses for a somewhat radical move. Watch this space is the best I can offer for now.

'Extra ecclesia nulla salus' as the old text goes. My abiding anchor in all of this is my dear Catlick friend - Prior of Quarr Abbey and friend to the world - who opined that one always knows where the Church is to be found, but one never knows where it isn't present in some form hidden from human eyes but known to God.

We monkish chaps had quite a lively debate one night on the validity or not - in Catholic sacramental terms - of a quasi-communion service that would be celebrated by prisoners-of-war in WWII: said by the senior officer, though but a layman no priest being present, and using the only available biscuits and water for the offerings of the Body and the Blood of Christ.

Was it the Mass? Quite probably - nay definitely - it was not. But was it the Real Presence? I bet my life it was.

The Matthew 'Tyrell' Appreciation Society AGM...

Not sure how familiar you will be with the wondrous 'Alan Whicker Appreciation Society', and for all one knows it may have lapsed now that its eponymous hero is largely retired from view. But even if not you will rapidly get the picture - and picture essentially it was if not is - of men who loved to mimic the Great Man's style, from smart blazer and immaculate flannels, to buzzing voice via a trimmed yet compelling moustache.

It was parody of sorts, but affectionate tribute the more to someone was who was unique but of a type, of a type yet also sui generis. The cultivated Brit. who could travel the world, observe its strange ways with humour and appreciation, could convey with but a lift of an eyebrow his astonishment at its peculiarities as seen from the abiding Home Counties perspective, and yet treat it all as a modern marvel not to be missed for all the tea in China. (Monty Python tried a spoof, but it could not work as they were not kind in their intent.)

For those in the know, there could as easily be - and should be if not - a 'Matthew Tyrell Appreciation Society.' Who he, you might ask? And if you were to do so I would have to acknowledge first that he is probably not he at all.

For all that one does know is that he is the due husband of the wonderful Miss Rebecca Tyrell, journalist and scribe; and as she is the due daughter of the late John Tyrell, racing commentator sans pareil, one has to assume that said spouse actually carries the name of another bloodstock lineage altogether.

You see my point I am sure.

But leaving aside the current vagueness of the man's full name, why should one wish to honour him with his very own Appreciation Society? For the sound reason that he is a voice of modern masculine unreason. A man who hordes logs against the Apocalypse, a man who understands that the world is off to Hell in a handcart, yet will not accept that no one has noticed that the cart has a flat tyre that must at once be repaired. A man who will run alongside said cart trying to fix it as it trundles by. A man even who will carry this Cassandra-esque burden of prophecy with dignity for the sake of the family, yet will still let rip with the occasional public rant against the very madness of it all.

And what is that if not the epitome of all that modern British man could and should be - dedicated, dutiful, diligent yet also at the same time bouncing up and down with something between righteous indignation and hysterical ire at all he sees around him: a Knight of a new Round Table - established to do doughty battle against truly noxious foes - Sir Matthew 'Fawlty' Fortitude.

One used to read all of this from the pen of the fragrant Rebecca T. herself over at the dear Telegraph. But then she - and so of course did he - vanished from view. That was, sadly, that and no more for some year or more.

But now one has fortuitiously discovered that she - and of course he too - has pitched up at the ghastly Indie. One tried reading the wretched thing when it first appeared, if only to cock a snook at Rupert 'Mordor' Murdoch, but it couldn't take - drying paint possessing the more informative and interesting dynamic. Good to know though that the man continues to rant. For what else is a man to do in these mad, troubled times?

Whisky Galore....

...Bro. Geo. signs in to report a curious moment's fantasy today. There he was - like the dutiful management consultant he is - seated in a hotel lobby waiting for a group of senior managers to digest the first reading of his searing report into their many and manifest deficiencies.

Awkward moments as you can imagine. Will they fall at his feet to thank him for revealing all, or will they slice his corpse to many silent pieces in the hope of disguising the whole matter from shareholders? Believe me, it can go either in such delicate and fraught situations - or so Bro. Geo. tells me.

A hour or so having passed by - the report was that long and that critical - dear Bro. had wearied of staring meaningfully into space, or sipping a long emptied coffee cup. Turning to the only reading material to hand - all copies of Nietzsche left tucked in his briefcase in the meeting room - he mused on the delicious single malts on offer: Lowland or Highland or Isles, so many from which to choose.

Though it were but ten of the morning, it also being a hotel, the bar was open. Should he order a single glass of each and every one? Should perhaps it rather be a double? Or maybe to take a geographic tour from South to North to West?

That there was pressing need for a de-stressing ingestion of spirits to refresh the spirit was, it seems, quite the matter of the moment. Geo. knowing his report would challenge, Geo. also knowing with what strong emotion such a challenge would be faced by the challenged, a state of alcoholic stupor was terribly tempting.

Consultants though, it would seem, drink less on duty than the most abstemious copper so naked he faced the growlers and the howlers.

Growl and howl it seems they duly did. To an extent that the long-awaited evening snorter turned into a midnight special, leading to a morning's hangover beyond the skill of even a Jeeves. (Not that the Bro. has a manservant as such, but if he did that person would have been - howsoever Jeevesean in resemblance - utterly at a loss to salve his suffering master.)

But with the morning came repentance - theirs not his even. For on reflection, taking it all in all and in the round and under consideration etc., etc., they had accepted, after all, that Geo's harsh words had been as true as they were astute.

Now that does call for a large glass of the finest malt for a job well done that this study can offer.

Nostalgic Nonsense....

Traversing, as one does, the airwaves one has come across tonight this total reported piffle from John Lennon and George Harrison regarding the death, this day forty years ago, of their manager Brian Epstein:

Before leaving Bangor, John Lennon said: "Our meditations have given us confidence to stand such a shock."

George Harrison said: "There is no such thing as death, only in the physical sense. We know he is ok now. He will return because he was striving for happiness and desired bliss so much."

One has, funnily enough, been attending today a local fancy-dress 'Sixties' party. Yet one more hippie type figure seeming out of the question, one posed as a French existentialist revolutionary circa. Paris 1968, replete with texts from Sartre, Camus and Genet. ("Jes Suis Marxiste, Tendance Groucho" and all that jazz.)

A splendid festive occasion, but what did we all grumpy elders do but anguish over the current state of this country and to possibly allow that maybe the Sixties were a better time than now?

Reading, though, the above twaddle, one must question just how fanciful and false nostalgia can be.

Crime and Punishment....

Councillor Robert Parkinson, Lead Member for the Environment, said: "Littering is an offence that blights our streets.

"This is justice for the large majority of our residents out there who respect their streets and particularly those who work hard to keep them clean.

"I hope this gives a stark message that littering is an offence that will not be tolerated."

...This after a man was pursued through the legal system for dropping a piece of paper in Derbyshire.

Thank God say I that our streets are free from litter, if not from actually gangs of evil children who shoot to kill for the sake of 'respect'.

We clearly can all sleep easy in our beds tonight.

Public Tears...

Two photographs this morning of people shedding tears in public dominate my Internet server's front page.

The first is of Melanie Jones, mother of the murdered eleven year old boy, recounting to a police news conference how she cradled her unconscious dying boy in her arms begging him not to leave her.

The second is that of some non-person sobbing because she has been voted the least liked 'housemate' by her peers in the television nonsense 'Big Brother'.

The showing of the second is an insult to the first, but the greater insult is our acceptance as a society that the second should be considered a matter of any interest.

Ours is truly a degenerate sinful world and the time is now for mourning, confession and repentance.

Bicycle-By Shooting...

Have you heard?

An eleven - yes eleven - year old boy playing football in a Liverpool pub car park has been shot dead by another young boy - believed to be between fourteen and sixteen - who cycled past on a BMX bike, stopped, struck a pose then shot him in the head.

God help us all.

All Souls...

It may be a gift - a true charism - or it may be nearer a curse, but the Anglican position is, in theory, that all who are within the Parish bounds are within one's cure - hence curate indeed.

Romans, Non-Conformists (which is most if they but knew it), religious of other faiths or indeed none - rank athiests to the core - are all persons one is charged with seeking to nurture and to point towards Heaven.

This can indeed be taxing if one chooses to reach out to those who are not explicitly attached. By and large, on the whole, taking all as it comes as it were, one does not seek to intrude. One simply lets it be known to any without the obvious flock that one is there if needed.

This is not to say that one is just a soft touch. H will - bless her - give very short shrift to, say, a Baptist farmer who phones to ask whether we would mind minding his chickens whilst he is away preaching the Lord's work to some heathen flock in the benighted North or - more likely these days - the darkest South. There are lines though faint and where those lines are they must be drawn.

So what does one do for passers-by, those who appear but to disappear? One has been called from abed to minister to fallen angels - as we all are in some regard - resting for a night at the Dragon Inn only to discover that the Grim Reaper has come to present the lifetime's bill. A rare but not unknown occurrence it must be said.

I won't, though, do tourist weddings - out-of-town couples who espy our rather lovely ancient Church and insist that it is just the perfect location for their 'OK' nuptials. This is plain silly and easily resisted.

Where then within this wide, if not near boundless, spectrum of catholic - in its generic rather than specialist import - concerns for souls sit Gypsy travellers? They arrive, they inhabit a place - generally unlawfully - and then one fine or misty morning they are gone again, leaving it has to be said most often a trail of unsolved burglaries and thefts, not to mention a multitudinous mountain of domestic detritus.

'Reaching out' is mostly just not the thing. Encampments hardly ever warm to the visiting dog-collar. Round abuse is the most common reply to a decent Rectorial greeting. I state but facts, not expose prejudice.

Would it then surprise you, given the above, that I report a large such Romany settlement not some three miles from her with some deep unease? Settle is perhaps not the word - twenty caravans appear as if from the magician's hat and the Council stands back astonished at such sorcery.

Legal action is to be taken of course and eventually they will go. I the meanwhile will cast my eyes to Heaven - not I admit in search of godly guidance, but rather secularly to check that the lead-roofing of the Church remains in situ.

Does this all sound as if I somewhat lack that fulsome Christian charity for which I should be renowned? I fear it just might, yet no sooner had they come than the entire tack and tackle of a local stable vanished overnight. We are talking thousands of pounds worth of equipment carefully saved for and bought so that darling daughters can ride. Gone in one midnight raid.

I do at that fume I admit. It should not be that way but sadly it is. Gypsies come and saddles and bridles vanish. I again state but the facts.

A parson yes, but first of all a father to a beloved daughter. E is terrified not simply that her saddles will go, but far above that her horse is at risk. Horse rustling is not unknown sadly and must be assumed a possibility.

Local night patrols have been organised and I freely confess that should 'Gypsy Dave' come within but one furlong of our horse with malice aforethought, then he will depart with at least three broken limbs not to mention the lack of a pair of his finest testicles.

This is not quite how I had envisaged the ecclesial role and function, but there you have it.

Bill Deedes RIP...

...Requiescat in pace dear Bill.

The world has lost a good friend and Heaven gained a fine golfing partner.

Father, Son and Holy Ghost and now Bill - quite a four-ball.

None

Do you wonder why I despair of all hope?

My prayer is that they will suffer every agony in prison - scalding in the showers would suit - until they each die as she did, tortured and helpless.

Then an eternity of Hell.

What thought is that for an avowed Christian?

Sharon Wright and Peter McKenzie-Seaton - evil

From the BBC...


Pain of child at mother's hands:

A four-year-old girl who was brutally murdered by her own mother and her partner suffered "unimaginable pain" in the final days of her life. Cigarette burns, bruises and bite marks were among more than 100 injuries found covering Leticia Wright's dead body from head to toe.

Detectives believe the injuries were inflicted during the last four weeks of Leticia's short life.

The abuse continued "until her body could take no more", police said.

Her mother Sharon Wright, 23, and her partner Peter McKenzie-Seaton, 22, were found guilty of her murder at Bradford Crown Court on Friday.

Detectives branded Wright and her boyfriend 'wicked'.

Det Supt Paul Taylor, who led the murder inquiry, said Leticia had been a beautiful, healthy little girl.

"The level of cruelty that Leticia was subjected to beggars belief," he said. "It is unthinkable that her own mother could treat her in such a way.

"I believe Seaton and Wright would have been well aware of the trauma they had inflicted on Leticia, and they chose to continue the abuse until her body could take no more and she died."

Leticia was born in August 2002 in Dewsbury and moved with her mother to Hartlepool in 2005.

After Wright met McKenzie-Seaton, the couple and Leticia moved to Kettering in Northamptonshire before moving to Almondbury Bank in August 2006.

Det Supt Taylor branded the pair "wicked" and welcomed the conviction.

He said: "Sharon Wright and Peter Seaton deserve to spend a long time in prison and I hope they both reflect on what they have done and hang their heads in shame.

"Our sympathies have always been with Leticia's natural father and his family, and they remain so at this time."

NHS Direct - My Arse!

"It's two in the morning, the middle of August, I'm phoning you now just to tell you I'm sicker..."

The more astute among you will recognise the Leonard Cohen pastiche. Others may leave now.

Well there we had it. It was the middle of the night. We are away staying in a perfectly pleasant B&B. Only it wasn't pleasant as I had succumbed to a recurrence of a raging dental abscess. Beastly thing if you've ever been there.

Of degrees of pain endured - or not - in one's life, first above any and all must have been the time one had ruptured a spinal disc in the neck. Childbirth - not that one has naturally though one has heard - a mere shadow. Passing a kidney stone (number two on the list) a mere bagatelle in comparison.

Anyway, so there we were at two in the morning in the middle of Kenilworth High Street - sleeping or sitting still not an option - stifling screams of raw agony from this wretched abscess, the only consoling thought being - and it mattered little - that this pain was marginally less barbaric than the aforementioned neck disc thing.

Having been this place before - dental abscess rather than Kenilworth itself - one knew that the sooner one began antibiotic treatment and pain relief the far the better. One had previously tried the 'bloke thing' and sought to ignore the infection and the pain in the totally vain and silly hope that both would pass of themselves, and from that bitter experience had learnt that medical intervention at the once was the only way to go.

But where to go if to go? Where precisely would one find the required 24 hour walk-in centre? That was the moot and the undetermined question. A man in less distress would have noticed the nice hotel folder on the bedside table providing exactly the information needed.

The man, though, was not acting rationally for he then took the stupid step of telephoning NHS Direct for directions.

The call went roughly thus:

NHS Direct - Hello

Me - Hello

NHS Direct - What do you want?

Me - To find where to go to subdue my raging pain.

NHS Direct - What's your phone number?

Me - Why do you need to know?

NHS Direct - We ask the questions.

NHS Direct - Now you have successfully answered, tell me your postcode.

Me - Postcode? What postcode! I'm standing in the middle of effing Kenilworth High Street at 2.00 in the morning. I have no frigging idea what the postcode is. This is a town called Kenilworth. It is in Warwickshire. It is situated approximately five miles between Coventry and Warwick. Just tell me where I need to go for urgent frigging assistance.

NHS Direct - What's your postcode? The computer won't let me process your call without a postcode.

Me - (All swearing under the sun.) Sod the bloody computer. Help me or watch me get really, really cross.

NHS Direct - Don't take that tone with me. Give me your postcode or die a miserable and deserved death!

Me - You and your system are the devil's invention and I curse you all to an eternity of pain, such as I now have and shall be yours world without end.

NHS Direct - Goodbye.

Me - Goodbye.

(See how we English always manage our intros and our outros so well!)

What utter, utter nonsense. A system that is supposed to help people who are lost to find their way, that cannot function unless you have a postcode.

Someone, somewhere, sometime must have sat down and in all seriousness thought: 'How can we design an IT system to help people who don't know where they are in relation to NHS facilities - say people who are travelling away from home - find where to go? We could of course design a system that lets people say "I'm somewhere in the west of Glasgow", or "I'm about five miles south of Swindon", or even "I'm slap bang in the middle of Kenilworth." But no, we won't do that. Far too obvious and simple that. Let's fox them completely by demanding of people who don't know where they are their postcode!'

Terrific idea in reality of course, for think of all those wretchedly expensive potential patients and consumers of precious NHS resources who will be denied access when they need it.

'Let them eat Aspirin', says NHS Direct.

'My arse!', I can only reply

Horse Sense...

...as a mother said to me "When they win one of these things it makes the expense all worth while." ('One of those things' is the cherished rosette signifying success in competition.) Well yes, the cost is always a factor to consider. They also serve who only stand and spend, or as my tee-shirt reads 'Don't ask me I only pay for it'. And the 'it' of course is the horse.

My overall knowledge of the animal is strictly limited: the front end bites, the back end kicks and all the rest in between costs me arms and legs in equal and deep measure.

Better though I find than the parent, skilled in the mystery, who will harass her (generally) daughter (almost always) moments before they (horse and rider of course and not mother and daughter) enter the arena for four and a half minutes of stomach churning strain. (A dressage test at a national final for those who do not follow these things.)

Mother will bark out "Give more rein, let her loose, watch she doesn't lean, you're off the shoulder in trot, transition is better but she's still jumping into canter....etc., etc." In reply daughter will inevitably riposte in a crescendo of hysteric vitriol, "Do shut up Mother. I'm riding. You want to have a go?" (The F word will be liberally sprinkled throughout the exchange.)

I, on the other hand, being an ignoramus can only cry out, "She looks lovely. Best of luck daughter", which though not terribly informative is generally well received. There will be times when daughter will moan that all is lost before it's begun as horse is asleep or about to nap. (Funnily enough nap is not nodding off, but more pinging in the air like a vertical take-off jet fighter to demonstrate rank non-compliance with lawful rider instructions.)

Those moments are tricky. If you agree with the comment you are in a hole and if you attempt to refute the sentiment you are roundly sworn at. It's, in truth, pure nerves. We love this sport, but we hate the waiting to begin.

So in she goes and Papa nips off to video the test. 'Enter at A, down centre line to C in walk...' That much is common to any test, but after that it's all over the place. Trot 20 metre circle M to B. At X change rein. Counter-canter C to D. And so forth. (Took me ages to work out that 'X' is not a marker board, but the middle of the arena!)

The test always ends on same note too: 'Down centre line. Halt. Immobility. Salute.' (E salutes with the downward swipe as if scorning the world, the judges and all their works. More nerves.) The aftermath too is invariable: E exits with a sour face and a volley of torment about what a perfectly wretched test it was. More parental dilemma: agree and you risk being trampled; disagree and you are told you are an ignorant parent who would be dangerous if slightly less stupid.

So Stoneleigh came and went this year as before. And how did she do, you naturally ask.

Well, I oh so casually respond: "Well actually she was Reserve Champion [posh horse speak for second] in Jr Prelim and 4th in Jr Novice. Not bad really when you consider that several thousand horses and ponies would have set off in quest of this prize. And by the way, in her first Prelim round she was awarded the highest score of any horse, in any test, on both days."

If you don't know the world of horse, you will merely be expected to respond "Gosh, that's jolly good", but if you do know you'll be bound to reply "Chuffing heck. That's astonishing. Reserve Champ and a Fourth! You must be so proud."

Well yes, I am.