Against Pegida, or why fundamentalist religion is like a bumble bee

Nothing to add

 On Saturday February 28th 2015 I went on my very first political rally. Normally I don't get involved, I place my cross in a box every four or five years and leave it at that, content that I've earned the right to moan about the government when it goes pear-shaped. This time felt different. This time was Pegida.

Pegida is a movement that began in Germany as a protest against, as they saw it, the 'Islamization' of the west. I file this sort of talk in my mental 'aye, righto' box alongside its polar opposite, the notion that being a Muslim in Europe these days is akin to being a jew in 1930s Germany; Exaggeration by groups who want to paint themselves as victims.

Gathering

What got my goat in particular was the location for the first UK Pegida rally. Newcastle. My Newcastle. In the days before the march I asked why Pegida bothered me so much. After all, the EDL have marched several times in Newcastle and I never so much as raised an eyebrow. Having thought about it I believe it's because the EDL (and the BNP) are well known and quite easy to dismiss as the usual crowd of knuckle-draggers. Pegida on the other hand is new, and in the context of a stream of ever-increasing bad news (British-born fighters joining ISIS, Charlie Hebdo murders in Paris, beheadings on Youtube, female genital mutilation, burqas, etc etc) it's perfectly reasonable to have concerns about 'Islamization'. And this is what picks at me. That there's a possibility that Pegida, without the baggage of the EDL/BNP, could have genuine mass appeal. If we ever find ourselves in the sort of 1930s Germany scenario I've always poo-pooed, a movement like Pegida will be at the heart of it. So we need to expose it and stop it before it starts.

Having made the decision to attend a counter-march I dutifully turned up at the part of Newcastle known as Gallowgate, joining a burgeoning, bustling crowd in preparation for the planned 10:30 march. This is going to sound a bit cliched but the best adjective I can think of to describe it is 'colourful'; the drums, the flags, the clothes and the haircuts were all a sight to see. All ages, races, genders and religions were in evidence, some carrying amusing banners, my favourite being 'Stop it, alright? Just stop it!'.

We're off

The march set off slightly later than planned but was still in very high spirits as it wound its way through Newgate Street to the finishing point, about a hundred metres from the Bigg Market where the Pegida rally was occuring. It was here, I assume, that speeches were made by such luminaries as George Galloway and local Labour MP Chi Onwurah. I say 'assume' because I couldn't see or hear a bloody thing, but that's the price of popularity.

So a success then, and to that small, nagging voice in my head concerned about Jihadi John moving in next door, I say this: Religious fundamentalists are like bumble bees.

Newgate Street

If that requires an explanation, it's that as a child I was terrified of bees, particularly whopping great bumble bees. If one got into the house and proceeded to buzz about as it angrily collided with the windows I would play merry hell until it was removed. Or until I was removed, whichever was easier for my parents to do. And while it cut no ice with me at the time, I've never forgotten their advice. Bees are much more scared of you than you are of them. The same goes for religious fundies; just as we might be scared of being forced into a burqa or the day Gregg's is banned from selling sausage rolls (Nooooo!!), religious extremists fear our loose morals and lax standards. And that's the crux of it. If it comes down to a clash of ideology, my moneys on the side with bacon, Stella Artois and casual sex.

Hobnobbing

The Alnwick Garden

A while back I posted that I'd started doing some volunteer work in my spare time, for a local charity that runs a social group for people with learning difficulties. It turns out that it was even more rewarding than I expected as I received an unexpected invite to a party last week. It was, by my standards anyway, a high class affair but then I'm more used to a sausage roll and a can of vimto at my parties.

Our Hostess, The Duchess of Northumberland

The occasion was the first annual Lord Lieutenant's Garden Party for Volunteers and Carers in Northumberland hosted by the Lord Lieutenant herself, who also happens to be the Duchess of Northumberland. Such a prestigious gathering demands a venue to match and luckily enough the Duchess knows of one - The Alnwick Garden, just outside her house, and a pet project of hers.

Garden Sculpture

Naturally I was allowed to bring a guest along and I could think of no more deserving person than my own dear mother, who's recently recovered from a painful knee operation. I always get a bit stressed on what to wear for occasions like this and the invitation letter gave only subtle hints on this subject. For instance it's never a good idea to tell someone like me to 'please wear what you feel comfortable in' or there's a good chance I'll turn up in my boxer shorts. Similarly when it says 'ladies may wish to wear a hat' is that a discreet way of saying 'WEAR A HAT!!'? One can never tell with posh people. The final hint was that 'a 'Garden Party' theme is very much encouraged' but I guessed that didn't mean I could wear my Hawaiian shirt. In the event we decided on a 'smart casual' look, me in a decent shirt but no tie, and mam in a hat but with an option to leave it in the car.

Water features

In the event mam's choice was wiser than mine (no surprise there). The Duchess herself was wearing a hat so that validated mam's decision instantly. I on the other hand was probably the scruffiest bloke there, with pretty much everyone else wearing a morning suit or at least a tie. Bah.

Fountain Rainbow

Poor wardrobe choices aside, the rest of the day was great. The weather was dry and sunny, there was free grub and we had a lovely stroll round the gardens enjoying the various water features, plants and flowers. The only thing we missed out on was talking to the Duchess as she circulated among the various guests. This was an unfortunate consequence of me prioritising food over socialising, though anyone who knows me will cheerfully admit I'd cheerfully barge HM The Queen over if it meant getting my paws on a cream bun.Who knows, perhaps one day I'll get the chance to?

Garden

Whoosh

The Late Shows 2 - The Geek in The Keep

Newcastle at night. As seen from the roof of the Castle

 If it's May it must be time for The Late Shows, the annual 'culture crawl' around Newcastle, when the city's galleries, museums and historical attractions throw open their doors late at night. The Late Shows has been around since 2007 in Newcastle but this was only my third year of being involved as a volunteer.  For the previous two I was based in St Nicholas' Cathedral but this year I got my dream gig of being in the Castle Keep, just down the road. For a castle-lover like me, there couldn't be a better place to spend a Saturday night.

Busy

The role of the volunteer is simple - welcome visitors, answer any queries and hand out the Late Shows speciality (and very popular) glowsticks. I arrived at the castle as requested at 18.30, ahead of the scheduled opening at 19.00, and got a taste of how intimidating the building is as I climbed the first set of stairs to knock on the large locked door.
Once inside I had a quick scurry around to see what lay in store for our visitors. In addition to the building itself, as a special Late Shows treat there was a band playing in the Great Hall and an art installation on the roof. Speaking of the roof, I knew the opportunity to see Newcastle at night (see the above picture) from one the highest points accessible would be a big draw in itself. Once I'd satisfied my own curiosity I took up station at the entrance and awaited the grand opening.

Still busy

The next four hours are pretty much a blur. For a large building, the interior can be quite cramped (mainly due to the thick walls) and there was a joyous, if slightly claustrophobic, atmosphere as hordes of people descended on us. At times it felt like we were under siege so great was the tide, and we were forced to regulate the people coming in due to overcrowding. Come chucking-out time at 23.00 I was still turning people away.




 


When I left the Keep there was still one suprise in store, the entire side of the building was lit up by a projection especially for The Late Shows. A spectacular end to a breathless night.

A projection on the castle walls

Hexham Book Festival 2014

So spring is here and I've emerged from hibernation to start blogging again. Rejoice!
The subject of this particular blog is a book festival I've been attending in the nearby town of Hexham, where various authors have been giving talks on the books they've written . It first came to my attention last year but I never got round to attending any of the talks so I promised myself this year would be different.

I wasn't expecting to find that much of interest to me, thinking most of the books would be about detectives, boy wizards or kinky sex, and my own area of interest, medieval history, would be ignored. How wrong I was...

What better setting for medieval history?

The first talk I found of interest was given by Alison Weir, who wrote the first account I ever read on The Wars of The Roses so I owe her a lot. Even better, the lecture was to be given in Hexham Abbey, which has it's own connection to the Roses War, as it's believed Henry Beaufort, 3rd Duck of Somerset and Lancastrian commander, is buried there after being executed after the Battle of Hexham in 1464. The subject of the talk was Alison's latest book, an account of Elizabeth of York, daughter of Edward IV, whose marriage to Henry Tudor united the warring factions and ushered in the Tudor age. Elizabeth is far from my favourite character in this period but I found the talk entertaining and the Q & A session that followed was quite lively; Alison didn't come across as a great fan of Richard III and I think some of his fans were in...

I then attended a talk on the 1513 Battle of Flodden, which saw the biggest ever Scottish invasion of England. This was in the less evocative setting of The Queen's Hall, the local theatre, given by author George Goodwin. This was less well attended than the Alison Weir lecture but I found his style very engaging and thoroughly enjoyed the talk.

The Yurt, location for badger-chat

 Next up was a talk given by Phillipa Langley, who sprang to fame last year during the discovery of the body of Richard III in a car park in Leicester. Phillipa, of the Richard III society, was the key figure in raising the funds and directing the operations of the dig. I saw a documentary on the excavation and Phillipa came across as a determined, if slightly bonkers, character but that was more to do with tv editing I think. In the flesh she was as passionate as I expected but (thankfully) not as intense.

A nice young man from The Guardian

I also attended a bonus talk (if you bought tickets for three you were able to choose a fourth for free) so picked a subject I have a passing interest in - badgers. A friendly young man from the Guardian, Patrick Barkham, was promoting a book he'd written on everyones favourite black and white mammals so I popped in to the yurt (yes, a yurt) to see his talk. Once I'd overcome my hilarity at seeing a guardian nature writer who actually did feature glasses, a neat beard and a jumper (I didn't check to see if he was wearing sandals), I became engrossed in the talk and came away both enlightened and entertained. At one point he asked for a show of hands, confirming at a stroke my suspicion that I am indeed the only person in Hexhamshire who's never seen a badger :-(

Here's to Bookfest 2015!

The Reluctant Atheist

Since some of my posts have been about the history of Christianity or places of worship, I thought I'd clarify my stance on religion. Or try to clarify it, which isn't easy when you're not sure yourself. In fact one of my reasons for writing this post is to help my thought process, so hopefully by the time I reach the end of it I'll know a bit more (I'll let you know how I get on). My position right now is that I'm not but I sort of wish I was, an attitude that would amaze and horrify the me of a few years ago.

REPENT THY SINS!

It was much simpler when I was growing up. As a Catholic you only really have to remember one thing - God is always watching and always judging. In those days nice people didn't get divorced, gay meant happy and there was no such thing as abortion. There was nothing remotely strange about a man being born of a virgin (not that I knew what a virgin was) and rising from the dead, or there being only one man and one woman on the whole planet, or that they lived in a lovely garden until they were tempted into eating an apple by a talking snake. Likewise parting the Red Sea, the great flood or slaying the first born of all Egypt (which always struck me as being unnecessarily cruel for a loving God). Then, without any apparent warning, something changed. I remember sitting listening to a discussion in an R.E. lesson in school about how the Resurrection must have happened because the stone in front of Jesus' tomb was so big that it couldn't have been moved without an enormous fuss, and it suddenly struck me. This is a load of bollocks.

After that it unraveled quickly. I'd finally figured out what a virgin was (thanks to those videos in biology) so that was another nail in the cross coffin. I stopped going to church and devoted my full attention to other things, things that normal young people are supposed to do, like making friends, getting drunk and snogging people. The fact that I was no good at any of these things and would normally end up watching an old football video on a Friday night was neither here nor there, I didn't miss God at all.

And that's how it stayed for twenty years or so, I watched the decline of religion with an air of disinterest, or even mild approval. I remember reading a newspaper column (Johann Hari I think) saying it was time to place God and Jesus alongside the likes of Thor and Zeus and thinking it sounded like straightforward common sense.

Then two things happened. Firstly I developed an interest in history, especially medieval history, and some of the best places to visit if you're a medievalist are churches. All those hours spent in magnificent old places of worship, marveling at the statues, carvings and stained glass, imagining the love and devotion of the artists and craftsman who created them have had quite an effect on me. Call it the power of suggestion or maybe I'm just gullible but it's definitely re-awakened my spiritual side. Secondly I've got old. Well maybe not 'old' old, but I can no longer claim that my best years are ahead of me. As such I've increasingly been wondering what life's all about and finding that my previous reasoning - there is no point, just enjoy it while you've got it - is not good enough. I want there to be more, to know that I'm not just a tiny tiny piece of dust in the great void. In short, I want to believe.

Now this is easier said than done. For starters I'm not just a skeptic, more like a complete cynic. In everything I come across, I look for an ulterior motive, an easy answer, qui bono. On top of that, thanks to my work life as an engineer I think in a very logical manner so any sense of mystery or wonderment feels just wrong to me. There must be a rational explanation, be it propaganda, superstition or mental illness.

I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to square that circle but maybe it won't matter. The way I see it is that if life is all about enjoyment, and believing in God helps you enjoy life, then believing in God is fine. If nothing else it's cheaper than a therapist...

The Atatürk Memorial

I like to think that I'm a typical blokey bloke who can drink and belch and wench with the best of them. I like to think it but I know it's a load of codswallop (apart from the belching). The truth is that I'm a big wuss who's scared of his own doorbell and still can't get through the first five minutes of Watership Down without blubbing. The reason I mention this is because I wanted to share my latest cheek-moistening experience, something I stumbled across the other day. It's from a war memorial at Gallipoli in Turkey with a quote from Kemal Atatürk, an officer in the first world war and later President of Turkey. It reads:

"Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives… You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country or ours… 
You, the mothers, who sent their sons from far away countries, wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. Having lost their lives on this land, they have become our sons as well"

I bet I'm not the only one to shed a tear.

The Lindisfarne Gospels and Saint Cuthbert

The highlight of this week for me has been a visit to an exhibition centred on the Lindisfarne Gospels. The Gospels were written on a monastery on the island of Lindisfarne (also known as Holy Island), just off the Northumberland coast in about 700AD. They consist of illuminated manuscripts  of the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John bound together in a single volume to form one of the most important artistic, cultural and historic artefacts ever produced in the north east. Not only that but it's story is inextricably bound up with that of other pillars of regional Christianity, namely Saint Cuthbert and Durham Cathedral. It's only fitting therefore, that the exhibition should be based at Durham University library, literally a stones-throw from the Cathedral and the Shrine to Saint Cuthbert.

The story of the Lindisfarne Gospels goes back to 664AD and a crisis in the Christian community on the island of Lindisfarne. Prior to this time, English Christianity had been subjected to two different influences, those of the southern-based Roman church competing with the rival Irish tradition, stronger in the north and to which Lindisfarne belonged.
The biggest disagreement between the two churches was over the timetable of Easter, as each one used a different method to calculate the date. This dispute reached a head when the Bernician king Oswy, ruler of Northumbria and based at nearby Bamburgh, married Eanflaed who originally hailed from Kent. King Oswy, following the local Irish calender found he was celebrating Easter perhaps a week earlier or later than his wife, who favoured the Roman date. As a result, Oswy arranged a church council at Whitby in 664 to settle the debate once and for all, with himself as judge.

Durham Palace Green Library

The Roman church emerged victorious, perhaps suprisingly given that Oswy belonged to the Irish tradition. One reason may be that Saint Peter, who personally held the keys to heaven, was especially revered in the Roman church, and Oswy may have been reluctant to risk annoying him and thus jeopardising his own entry. Or perhaps Oswy simply wanted to keep his wife happy.

Whatever the reason, it was a severe blow to the Irish tradition that Lindisfarne belonged to. Its position within the Anglo-Saxon church was downgraded and many of its members, including the bishop, could not (or would not) compromise their beliefs and so returned to Ireland. The task of reforming and rebuilding Lindisfarne as a centre of Christian learning fell to a monk from the monastery at Melrose, now in Scotland but at that time part of Northumbria. His name was Cuthbert.

Despite being educated in the Irish tradition, Cuthbert accepted the  ruling of Oswy at Whitby and successfully overcame opposition to reform Lindisfarne, first as Prior and later as Bishop. He managed to combine his responsibilities with his own preference for an austere, hermit-like life and when he died in 687 it was not long before miracles were being reported at his grave.

It's at this point, around 700, that the Lindisfarne Gospels were produced and it may not be coincidence. The monks were advocating Cuthbert as a candidate for sainthood and producing a deluxe version of the most sacred books of the early church may well have been part of the effort. And some effort it was. It's believed the book was written by only one man over a period of five or six years. This man was probably Eadfrith, bishop of Lindisfarne from 698 to 722. Around 960, a priest at Chester-le-Street called Aldred added an Old English (the language of the Anglo-Saxons) translation (called a gloss) written word-for-word above the latin original. How do we know this? Because Aldred tells us! He added a personal note (a colorphon) at the end. He wrote:

"...Eadfrith bishop of the church of Lindisfarne, in the beginning wrote this book for God and St Cuthbert and for all the holy ones who are on the island. And Aethilwald, bishop of the Lindisfarne-islanders, bound and covered it without, as he well knew how.

And Billfrith the anchorite forged the ornaments which are on the outside, and bedecked it with gold and with gems, and also with gilded silver - pure wealth.

And I, Aldred, unworthy and most wretched priest - born of Alfred, Aldred I am called, the outstanding son of a good woman, I speak - with the help of God and St Cuthbert wrote a gloss above it in English."

Durham Cathedral. A Resting Place Fit For A Saint

Cuthbert was buried on Lindisfarne and made a saint. The story may have ended there were it not for the arrival of those perennial bad-guys - the Vikings. Monasteries were a favourite target for Scandinavian raiders due to their wealth and lack of defences and Lindisfarne holds the distinction of being the first recorded victim of a Viking attack on England, in 793. Continued raids and invasions forced the monks to abandon Lindisfarne, temporarily at first but for good in 875. They took with them their prized possessions, including the body of Saint Cuthbert and the Lindisfarne Gospels. For the next seven years the monks and their precious cargo wandered around the north of England, before settling at Chester-le-Street in 883. They remained there for around one hundred years, before more Viking threats forced them to flee again, this time to Ripon in Yorkshire. They had intended to return to Chester-le-Street when the danger receded, but finally settled in Durham, thanks, if legend is to be believed, to a cow.

Shrine to St Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral

The story goes that as the community of monks headed north from Ripon, the cart bearing the body of St Cuthbert came to a sudden halt and would not move. The monk's leader had a vision of Cuthbert demanding to be laid to rest at a place called 'Dunholme' which none of the monks had heard of. At that moment two young women passed by and the monks overheard one woman ask the other if she'd seen a lost dun (brown) cow. The second woman replied that she'd seen the cow heading towards Dunholme and when the monks set off in the direction she indicated, they found the wheels of the cart became miraculously unstuck. The road took them to Dunholme (Durham) and despite the inconvenience of Norman conquerors and protestant reformers, Saint Cuthbert has been there ever since. Having visited Durham Cathedral many times I can testify to what a fitting resting place it is for the north east's premier saint. As for the Lindisfarne Gospels, I'd love to say they also have a permanent home in the cathedral, or at least in the region. Sadly that's not the case and they are only here temporarily, on loan from the British Library, to give us locals a chance to see them. I heartily recommend you do.

The Blood Donor

For the first time ever I've been turned away from the blood donors. And it's nothing to do with having sex with men before you ask*. Far more mundanely, my blood failed on 'iron level' which sounds like a manfail if ever there was one. Why couldn't I fail a less butch test? "Sorry sir, but your blood wasn't pink and fluffy enough for us" never happens to me.
Naturally I was downcast. "I'm sorry" I flustered "This has never happened to me before. I've been under a lot of stress lately, with work n' that" Of course, the nurse was very understanding and insisted it wasn't my fault and we could always try again later, albeit in 3 months time. I enquired if it would help if I ate more bananas. No, she said, though red meat might improve things (RED MEAT?? I KNEW IT! MANFAIL!!!) and I slunk off home, head bowed. I did consider asking if  I could have the cup of tea and biscuits while I was here but thought that would be a bit cheeky so had a kitkat (mint) when I got home.

By my logic it's their fault anyway. If they didn't keep bringing in all these tests I wouldn't keep failing them. It was different when it all began, back when I was a callow youth of twenty-something (began for me I mean; I would imagine the blood donation service had been a thing for a while). There was no particular reason that prompted me to do it, no life-saving blood transfusion on a family member, I just simply decided I was going to be a nicer person and giving blood is what nice people did. So off I toddled to the local hall and gave the traditional pint (or armful if you prefer). It was a doddle, a fair trade I thought for a cup of tea and some bourbons, and the knowledge my blood might be helping save a life gave me that lovely warm glow you usually only see on porridge commercials.
It was also how I came to find out what blood group I am, having previously been in a state of blissful ignorance. Around Christmas-time every year I get a letter asking me to make that extra effort to donate because demand for my blood-type is so high. Is that because I have an incredibly rare type, due to my descent from Nordic Superheros? Sadly no, it's because any Tom, Dick or Chavvy can accept my disappointingly unexceptional blood. All I can say is at times like this I'm glad I'm not a Nazi or I'd be escorting myself to the gas chambers.

Anyway, over the years that followed I've given blood whenever I can, excepting illness, work commitments and that one time where the nurse missed my vein. Twice. During this time I've learned a great deal about the importance of drinking a glass of water beforehand, of squeezing and unsqueezing the fingers on your donating arm, and, of course, periodically clenching and unclenching your buttocks. But I've never failed the iron test until today. I wonder if it's an age thing, something that will occur more often as the grim hand of death gets ever closer. I suppose I'll get another clue in three months time...

*Disclaimer: There's nothing wrong with having sex with men if that's what you're into. It just so happens that I'm not, especially when I've just had my tea.

The White Queen. A Chance Missed

So I've been watching The White Queen on television, the BBC's adaption of the cousin's war (Wars of the Roses to you and me) series of books written by Phillipa Gregory. I wasn't sure whether I'd like it or not when I first sat down. After all, the period it's set in is one of my favourites in all history, with plenty of battles, political intrigue, double-dealing and larger-than-life characters. On the other hand I don't consider the books to be that great, not a patch on Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall or Bring Up The Bodies, even though the latter are set in the reign of (urgh) Henry VIII.

I came away slightly disappointed but not susprised. The Wars of the Roses is not something you can fit into a ten episode series without sacrificing a lot of the detail. They began the story, as Gregory's books do, with the meeting of Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville (the eponymous 'heroine', if that's the right word, of the title). This means ignoring all the events that had taken place beforehand but I don't suppose you can blame anyone for this. After all, when should you begin with the Wars of the Roses? The first battle in 1455? The loss of France which fuelled the discontent and rise of factionalism? Or perhaps we go back earlier to the usurpation of the throne by Henry IV, the first Lancastrian King? The more I think of it the more I feel you can only do it justice with the full Game Of Thrones style multi-episode, multi-series, mega-show.

My second gripe concerns the show's female-led focus. I have no problem with this in principle, historical women being too often ignored amidst the blood and guts as medieval history is boiled down to a succession of chainmail wearing thugs doing unspeakable things to each other. My issue is that the most formidable woman of them all, Margaret of Anjou, is a mere background character. For me, she should have been front and centre from episode one as the key Lancastrian. Much as I enjoyed mad Maggie Beaufort and her 'saint's knees' or Elizabeth Woodville's icy beauty (Anne Neville did little for me one way or another), none of them come close to Margaret of Anjou's iron will as she battles to secure the throne for her son, despite the disadvantages of her sex, her foreign birth and her ineffectual husband. She, not Margaret Beaufort, is the real Red Queen.

Then there's the biggest disappointment of all, the portrayal of the Battle of Bosworth. I see this as more than just a battle, and not just because there is one King at the start and a different King at the end. It's also the end of an era, as the medieval age gives way to the modern, and this is symbolised by the defining moment of the battle, the doomed cavalry charge led by Richard III as he vainly seeks to come to blows with Henry Tudor in person. He got suprisingly close, personally killing Tudor's standard bearer, William Brandon, and it's tempting to speculate how different history would have been had he succeeded. This episode should have been portrayed as a medieval version of the charge of the light brigade, Götterdämmerung, a romantic death ride of perhaps a thousand  knights on horseback, banners streaming and armoured helms gleaming in the sunlight. Perhaps budgetary restrictions meant this was always impossible but surely they could have done better than what we got, which was a brawl in the woods. Harrumph.

Despite these whinges I enjoyed it enough to sit through all ten episodes, and if they made a sequel or, even better, a prequel, I'd watch that too. Average medieval drama is still better than no medieval drama. Hell, I might even invest in the DVD if I see it for a reasonable price.

A Day At The Cricket, or When Opportunity Knocks...

A confession: I am a sociophobe. Or at least I think I am anyway. I've never actually been diagnosed with anything, unless you count the school/workplace diagnosis of 'a bit of a wierdo'. I am the sort of person who is generally happiest at home with a good book or a film or even a documentary on BBC Four about religious architecture. When I venture out it's usually for a solo jog or a lone wander to a local landmark or place of interest. For the most part I enjoy it, though I do wonder about the toll it takes on my mental health, especially in my current job which also involves spending a lot of my time on me tod.

"I love you Keith"

I've talked to myself for as long as I can remember so I have no worries on that front, but I'm a little  concerned about a more recent development which has seen me discussing potential grocery purchases with the items themselves. For instance, the other week I had a long conversation in the crisp aisle of Asda involving the McCoys ("you're too expensive this week, I'll wait 'til you're on special again"), Skips ("you don't last five minutes"), and Walker's Ridges ("your ridges are too big!"). Admittedly, none of the snacks talked back at me but it can't be long in coming.

Respect My Authority!

For this reason I decided a while ago that I was going to become more outgoing, I was going to say "Yes" to every opportunity where previously I had hesitated. In practice I haven't said "yes" so much as "What? Me?? Now???" but it has partly worked. As a result I now volunteer at a local group for people with learning difficulties and also do 'one-offs' such as being an 'ambassador-supporter' at last years Olympic football matches held at St James' Park in Newcastle. I still can't always actively enjoy the experience but I do come away with fond memories, which helps me to summon up the courage for the next opportunity.

The reason I mention all this is because last Friday an opportunity came my way that I wasn't expecting. A friend on Twitter (who I'd never actually met in real life) mentioned that she had a spare ticket for the Ashes on Saturday and did I fancy it? For the uninitiated, the Ashes is a series of five cricket test matches played between England and Australia and the match in question was being held, for the first time in history, at nearby Durham.

My view of the cricket, with Lumley castle on the right

As is my wont, my first reaction was to think of all the reasons why I couldn't possibly go: I have to get up for work on Monday (the day would have been finished by 18.30 on Saturday), I have plans on Saturday (the plan in question being to go for a sandwich and a coffee, possibly a jog later, same as I do pretty much every Saturday), I couldn't afford it (money is the least of my worries right now) and so on and so on. What swung it the other way was the knowledge that if I didn't go I'd regret it, now and forever, so I took the plunge and said yes.

Naturally I spent the rest of Friday and the early hours of Saturday worried sick. Anything that involves travelling, large crowds and people I don't know very well turns me into a quivering jelly but from the moment I found myself safely onboard a number 21 bus from Newcastle (I had planned to get the train but it was utterly utterly crammed) the day went remarkably well. The crowd was large enough to create a great atmosphere without ever feeling claustrophoic and the people I met turned out to be lovely. The cricket itself was as compelling as I was expecting and there wasn't any rain. I even engaged in a bit of celeb-spotting: Mike Gatting, Matthew Hoggard and Jeff Thomson (I had to google that last one as he's before my time) were all seen milling about. I managed to stand in queues without panicking and got a seat on the bus back with no trouble at all, largely thanks to a speedy exit and cunningly walking to an earlier bus stop so as to beat the crowds (no flies on me).

All in all my best weekend in ages, just ready for another week of twelve hour shifts at work...

A Waste Of Good Wee

Meh

I've been doing a lot of overtime this summer. I don't really need the money to be honest but I always feel I should fill me boots while it's on offer. Besides, it's not like I've got much else going on at the moment; I've been trying to mix long walks with pub lunches but it's not doing it for me lately. Not much is to be frank. My life's in a bit of a lull at the moment, as if I'm waiting for something to happen. No idea what though. The most exciting thing that happened this week was finding out they've made a mistake in stocking the vending machine at work, so M&M's are 40p instead of 70p. Hold the front page...

Ho hum

The other notable incident (small beer comapared to cheap sweets of course) is that I've been to the doctors. Not because there's anything wrong with me, on the contrary I'm fit as a violin at the moment. The reason I went, quite simply, is because they asked me to, and it would've been rude not to. Since I'm now 'getting on a bit' they asked me to go for a routine health check. I was flattered at first as I assumed it was just me but apparently this is quite common and they've asked other people as well. Humph. I haven't been for a while, so long in fact that they've built a whole new medical centre since last I went. Two whole storeys of it. And a chemist's shop built on to the side. More proof that mighty Crawcrook is on the grow.

Yawn

Anyway, I was told to bring a urine sample with me so I craftily procured a small sample bottle from our Quality department and did the business in it. When I got into the medical centre I proudly pulled it out of my jacket and brandished it aloft like it was Excalibur itself.

"Is that sterilised?" enquired the clearly unimpressed health woman as she took the bottle from my proffered hand.

"Eh?" said I.

 So the bottle went in the bin and that was the end of that. The rest of it was just a blur after that, a blood sample, weight and height measurement (very pleased to be 5'10" not 5'9", though I did have shoes on) and a chat about exercise and diet (good luck getting me to eat oily fish).  Now it's just a case of waiting for the results, assuming the 12 hour shifts haven't killed me in the meantime that is.

The loneliness of the fair-to-middling distance runner

It's twenty past six on Thursday and I'm sitting with a cup of coffee and a wagon wheel. I'm fairly ambivalent towards wagon wheels but these were on special offer in Nisa at £1 for 6, which works out at 16.67p per wagon wheel. Not bad but I can't help feeling I should've gone for the 4 Wispas for £1 in the Co-Op. Another of life's regrets.

Anyway, I'm not supposed to be blabbering about wagon wheels (is it just me who finds they taste better if you turn them upside down?), this post is about an enduring passion of mine: Running Jogging.

I've always fancied myself as a runner, despite the fact I've never been any good at it. I blame Steve Cram for this. The emergence of the bubble-permed stick insect from Jarrow and his subsequent rivalry with those other British greats Sebastian Coe and Steve Ovett occured at just the right time to enthrall and impress yours truely. I liked him so much I even bought the breakfast cereal he advertised. But no matter how many bowls of sugary Kellogg's Start I ate, I couldn't run any faster and I soon had to acknowledge that I wouldn't be a sub 4 minute miler. Or a sub 6 minute miler come to that.

 For a while, once my schooldays had finished and there was no deranged, Kappa-jacketed PE teacher to motivate me, and no girls to try to look fit and manly in front of, I lost interest. The world of work took over and that presented a whole new set of challenges: How much could I drink without feeling sick on the bus to work next morning? (not much, I eventually settled for 3 pints, 4 if I was really living dangerously). How many pairs of ill-fitting trousers could I possess? (LOADS!!). Why couldn't I grow a moustache worthy of the name? (no answer).

Then I was made redundant. This meant I suddenly had lots of time and not much money and I needed a way of getting out the house without spending cash I didn't have. So I started going for long, lonely walks which soon turned into long, lonely jogs and I've never looked back. The physical benefits are obvious, one of the reasons I've (so far) managed to hold off the dreaded middle aged spread despite my crisp-and-biscuit based diet. Less appreciated is the mental aspect; I live alone and don't have so much as a cat or a tortoise with which to offload my stress if I've had a bad day so jogging is my substitute and I find it really helps.

So if you're thinking of taking it up, go for it! It's not easy, especially at first but with a bit of persistence you might just surprise yourself. My top tips are-

Nice scenery helps

1. Find a good route. It helps if you live in an area with some nice scenery of course, a river in my case. Not so good if you live in a concrete jungle although the threat of knife-wielding junkies and rapists can be motivation in itself I suppose.

2. Go at your own pace. Don't worry if you're slow, even if you end up walking. The sting of being overtaken by 12 year old girls and old codgers wears off eventually.

Every man needs antique shorts

3. Comfortable clothing. Also known as 'Say No To Lycra'. Like many a middle-aged man I've settled for faded shorts (originally black, now faded grey Adidas ones or my vintage Euro 96 ones) coupled with a baggy t-shirt. When winter sets in and the temperature plummets you may also want to invest in some lycra leggings but my advice (for men anyway) is to only wear them under shorts, to avoid those unsightly lumps and bumps. Incidentally, if you're after any fashion advice regarding your jogging apparel, my experience is that local schoolkids will be only to happy to oblige, whether you ask for it or not...

4. Musical accompaniment. I started with a genuine Sony Walkman (with 'MegaBass', whatever that was) but now it's all MP3s and clouds apparently. Actually I'm split on this; sometimes I like having a bit of rock music to jog along to, other times I like to hear the sounds of nature. On a practical note, the sound of a cyclist zooming past can scare the crap out of you if you're not aware of it's approach so be careful with the AC-DC.

5. Be 'Appy. If you have a smartphone or similar gizmo, there's all sorts of (often free) apps to track your jogging - how far, how fast, how many calories, ascent and descent, mile splits. They haven't developed an app to warn you of the approach of pain-in-the-arse cyclists yet (see above) but I live in hope.

The Late Shows

Newcastle at night

Saturday night in a rain-drenched Newcastle. Less than a mile away, local hero Mark Knopfler is playing, erm, Local Hero to a crowd of thousands at the Metro Arena. Meanwhile, as per usual, hordes of inappropriately dressed drinkers are flocking to the bars in the Haymarket, the Bigg Market or on the Quayside. At the same time, those who don't fancy pulling on their waterproofs to venture outside can stay in and watch Denmark bring home the bacon in the Eurovision Song Contest. But not me. I'm stood in the Cathedral Church of St Nicholas watching a contemporary dance performance while handing out stickers and luminous yellow rods to complete strangers. As you do. Now you might argue this is strange behaviour for an uncultured factory monkey like myself, and you'd probably be right. After all, I'm the sort of person who thinks the best thing about The Baltic art gallery is the view out of the window. But I make an exception for this, because this is The Late Shows.

My Location for The Late Shows, 2013

The Late Shows, a 'culture crawl' around Newcastle and Gateshead, has been around since 2007 though it's only come to my attention in the last couple of years. It's part of a greater, UK wide initiative called Museums At Night, itself linked to a European campaign called La Nuit de Musees. The essence of the scheme is getting cultural venues that are usually closed in the evening to open at night to provide a different experience and hopefully attract new visitors. In Newcastle in the first year, 14 events took part and the number has grown over the years to it's present total of around 60.

My involvement began in 2012 when I received an email asking for volunteer stewards at the various venues. The idea intrigued me but, not being an arty type, I was a bit wary so opted for venues I would be already interested in, namely the cathedrals and castle (as part of the recruitment, you're asked to select three venues you'd like to steward, and they try to match you to one of your choices).

The uniform- glowstick, t-shirt, and id

Your main task as a steward is to describe what event or attraction will be happening at your venue to the vistors. You also hand out literature, keep a track on visitor numbers, and hand out the aforementioned luminous rods. Luminous rods? Yes, luminous rods, also known as glowsticks. These have become a very popular part of the programme, and are a good way of fostering camaraderie, as people trekking between different venues can easily spot fellow LateShowers by the bright yellow wands dangling round their necks.

So popular has The Late Shows become that it's spawned an offshoot, The Late-Late Shows. These are venues such as The Sage and The Tyneside Cinema that already open in the evening, so couldn't be part of the standard event. Instead, they put on attractions even later, hence the name.

High-art in a beautiful setting (note the glowsticks!)

Anyway, I enjoyed myself so much in 2012 that I volunteered again this year at the same location, the Cathedral Church of St Nicholas, where a dance performance took place, proving very popular. The location of the Cathedral, just off the bottom of Newcastle's notorious drinking spot, The Bigg Market, guarantees no shortage of interesting passers-by, some of whom will drop in on the way to their next bar. This year for instance, we had the scantily dressed young lady who tried to shelter in the doorway but inadvertently lent on the door itself and came tumbling inside, legs akimbo. She righted herself with all the dignity she could muster and, with a quick 'bless me father for I have sinned', was off again, into the night. We also had a slightly-the-worse-for-wear man who came in, faced the wall, and crossed himself. He then turned through ninety degrees and repeated the action, then again, then once more until he had saluted all four corners of the building, all at breakneck speed. This wasn't quite as amusing as last year's (hen party?) incident where a giant inflatable penis bobbed slowly back and forth outside the stained glass windows but it came pretty close.

Late-night classical performance at The Sage

After my spot of volunteering finished, I crossed the river to the Gateshead side, where The Sage was staging a free classical music concert on the concourse while visitors were given access to the viewing galleries of the main halls. All in all, a  thoroughly enjoyable experience which I would recommend to anyone,


If you'd like to find out more about The Late Shows, visit their website at 
http://www.thelateshows.org.uk/home.html

How Many Tweets Make A Twat?

"Too many tweets make a twat" was David Cameron's response to an interview question about why he wasn't on Twitter. He's since joined of course, or someone in his office has and tweets on his behalf.  I follow him but so far he hasn't followed me back, though I'm sure he will once he sees my #saturdaysausage photos.

What Twitter's all about - pictures of sausage sandwiches

Social media (Facebook and Twitter in my case) doesn't have a great reputation. Depending on your own personal prejudices it's populated by tattooed, lager-swilling chavs typing "LOL" into their permanently attached phones, or else by latte-loving, yoghurt-knitting, mung bean eating Guardian readers.

Me? I think it's great. I like the sheer mundane nature of the pics/tweets (see left) and I particularly enjoy the challenge of writing my own, mainly because it's so alien to me. Prior to Twitter and Facebook, my only experience of creative writing was writing essays at school and I'd never realised how hard it is. Everything I wrote sounded like it was written by an eight year old - "Today I went to the zoo. I had ice cream. It was nice." As a result, as well as having a new found respect for authors, I've determined to improve my writing skills, hence this blog thingy.

The greatest moment in human history

It's also a great way of meeting new people and broadening your experiences. Through Twitter I've chatted to people all over the world, from wrestling fans in Iraq (yes, really)  to Chelsea supporters in South Africa. It's introduced me to Choral music, book festivals and art galleries. I've been tweeted out of the blue by Sheridan Smith, chatted to Chris Addison and had a retweet from Gary Lineker.

Some say it's a waste of time spending time in a virtual world at the expense of the real one and maybe they have a point. Compared to composing a symphony, painting a picture or learning a new language, messing about on Twitter is pretty pointless, but most people aren't doing these things. Most of my tweeting comes when I'm plonked on the sofa in front of the tv or riding on a bus so I consider it an enhancement to my current activity rather than an alternative to something worthwhile.

Sure there's a downside - foul and abusive behaviour and spamming to name two, but most of this can be avoided by careful management of your timeline. Based on my four years on Twitter, here are some #TopTips.

1. Don't tell people how to use Twitter
I appreciate this is contradicting everything else I'm going to put in this list but ultimately people will use Twitter the way that is best for them, and so they should. Don't like people re-tweeting their own Follow-Fridays? Don't follow 'em, simple as that. Anyway, this is my blog so I'm allowed to be hypocritical. Don't like it? Stop reading. (Wait!! Come back.....)

Nice, eh?

2. Be Nice (even to Piers Morgan)
Search for mentions of certain celebrities (footballers and politicians particularly) and you'll find a tirade of abuse. I understand feelings run high but I don't agree with it. For me, if you wouldn't say it to someone's face then you shouldn't say it at all (a cliche of course, but sayings only become cliches because they're true in my experience). Much as I dislike Joey Barton I wouldn't abuse him to his face, especially if he's holding a lit cigar. Ask yourself what your mother would say, unless your mother is the sort of person who would call someone a cockwomble or speculate about commiting sodomy with a hammer, in which case don't. Ask what my mother would say. Believe me, she wouldn't be impressed.

3.Who to Follow
Most people start off their Twitter life by following celebrities they like or people they know. Great, but  the experience is limited if that's all you do.You won't get much engagement with celebs and you already know the people you know so there's nought new there. No, what you want is to make the acquaintance of new people, witty erudite people, possibly with similar interests to you. But how to find them? Some people ask their existing followers to recommend them to others ('pimping out') which is fine except you have no idea if the people who follow you as a result are people you'll want to engage with, assuming anyone follows you in the first place. A better way, in my humble opinion, is to ask your followers to recommend other people for you to follow, as people will naturally suggest their best/favourite follows so it comes with a built-in quality control.

There's also the DIY approach - Type a subject you're interested in into the search box (music, sport, tv, balloon animals etc), see who's tweeting funny or interesting stuff about it, and follow them. Simple as that. With luck they'll follow back (you can always nudge them along by tweeting them to say hi) and even if they don't, you're still following someone who you find engaging. Repeat x10, x100 or x1000 according to your taste and you'll soon find you've got a timeline to die for.


4. It's Not Just About The Tweets
So you've just tweeted something Oscar Wilde would've been proud of and you sit back and wait for the plaudits. And wait. And wait. Believe me you're not the only one (there's me as well so that's at least two of us) but don't despair. Replying to or re-tweeting a comment is actually quite a compliment because someone's taken the trouble to single you out for attention which they didn't have to do, and this fact is key to getting the best out of Twitter. When I think about who my favourite follow(er)s are, in most cases it's not just about their general tweets, it's about their replies, the fact they take the time to have one to one engagement. So if no one is tweeting you, why not tweet them first?


5. To Follow Back or not to Follow Back
Some people, especially when they're new to Twitter and trying to build their follower base, automatically follow back whenever they get a new follower. Fair enough but don't feel obliged to do it. Ask yourself how and why this person came to be following you, have you been pimped out or re-tweeted lately? See how many followers you have in common as this is also a good clue. The reason for this caution is nothing sinister (not usually anyway), it's just to make sure your timeline remains as interesting as it should be, and not contaminated by spam (or 'shite' as I prefer to call it). Many organisations, businesses and individuals create a Twitter account to promote a particular service or message, which is great if it's of interest to you but boring and irrelevant if it's not. Be aware.

I have no idea what I'm doing

It occurs that 'My First Blog' should have been the title of the post, not the title of the blog, and now I can't find how to change it. I've only been on 5 minutes and already I've broke it. Anyway, never mind.

This isn't really a blog, it's more of an online diary. I'm saying that obviously because I'm not expecting anyone to read it and it'll make me feel better about getting no views. Also, I'm hoping to develop my creative writing skills and this seemed a nice easy way to do it.

I expect to be writing mainly about my current interests- mainly history (medieval esp) and my constant battle to stay sane. Also jogging as it helps keep me fit, mentally and phyisically.

To finish I'm going to try and add a picture. Here goes:

It's the bridge at Corbridge for no reason whatsoever.