Author Archives: Tim Lenton

We are now at the exciting time of year that falls between Easter and Pentecost – otherwise known as the climax of the football season.

Interestingly it has elements of resurrection, as apparently doomed clubs spring to life; and speaking in tongues, which is what goes on across the terraces, on the pitch and in the commentary boxes. It also has promotion to a higher form of existence and relegation to the depths of non-league purgatory.

But here the similarity with any kind of Christianity ends, because football is basically a dishonest game.

Beautiful, yes, but basically dishonest. You can tell this very easily, almost every time the ball goes out of play. Both sides will appeal for the throw, corner of goal kick, despite the fact that those nearest the ball almost always know exactly who touched it last.

Similarly, except in extreme circumstances, everyone nearby will know whether or not the ball has crossed the line for a goal. The referee may be unsighted, but the players nearby will know. Use goal-line technology by all means, but it wouldn’t be necessary if the goalkeeper who has seen the ball bounce behind the line didn’t carry on and pretend it hadn’t.

There are more extreme examples: the player who goes down as if poleaxed when his opponent looks at him askance; the forward who deliberately trips over the defender in the penalty area and goes flying; the defender who grabs a handful of shirt and then protests his innocence before anyone has even accused him.

All this dishonesty inevitably makes life difficult, if not impossible, for the referee, who is not God or any kind of omniscient being. Oddly the referee is expected to be totally honest: he would be crucified if he was shown not to be. But the players are expected to dive and deceive the referee in any way they can.

I know some other sports are going the same way: no-one expects a professional cricketer to “walk” any longer, even if he knows he is out. But many sportsmen are still honest. A snooker player will call a foul on himself, and a golfer will give himself a penalty – and these are high-paying sports, so it can’t just be the money. Extremely high standards are demanded of Olympic athletes.

On one of my rare outings as a soccer referee at a very amateur level, I was faced with a situation where I suspected a defender of handling the ball, but I hadn’t actually seen it. So I asked him if he had – and he wouldn’t tell me. I knew him personally (as I did many members of both teams), and he was an upstanding, honest individual. So what was going on?

What is it about football in particular that encourages dishonesty? Maybe more than any other sport it reflects a self-centred society with a morality bypass: one that believes anything is legal – as long as you don’t get caught. Cameras may be the solution, but they shouldn’t be necessary.

Now that all our Easter shopping is over and we think it’s safe to resume normal life – whatever that is – I thought I’d buck the trend of which I’m so often a part, and give a passing thought to what it was really all about.

Many, many years ago Graham Kendrick wrote a moving and effective song called Paid on the Nail. It is not widely known now, but it came to my mind on reading an article sent to me by a friend, which contained some harrowing details about what it meant to be crucified.

I expect that you, like me, would rather think about the love of God for all of us and how, in the words of my local mystic Julian of Norwich, “all will be well, and all manner of things will be well”.

That’s true, of course, but I do also happen to believe that it took something terrible and miraculous to get us to the point where we can connect with God. If the Resurrection isn’t true, there’s not much point in Christianity, but what did the Crucifixion mean? The following details come partly from the article I received, but mainly from a health website.

At that time in history, death by crucifixion was reserved for only the worst of criminals. Large sharp nails, about 15 to 20 cm long, each with a point of 6 cm, were hammered into the pulses – not into the palms, as the flesh of your palm would simply tear from the weight of your body.

In the pulse, there’s a tendon that extends to your shoulder, and when the nails were hammered in, it would break that tendon. This forced Jesus to use all the muscles of his back in order to breathe, as the air was forced from his lungs by the weight of his torso. So Jesus had to support himself on the single nail hammered into his feet, which was bigger than those driven into his pulses, as the feet were carved together.

Since his feet could not endure for a long time without tearing, Jesus was forced to alternate that “cycle” in order to breathe.

It is believed Jesus endured this cruelty for three hours. A few minutes before He died, he was no longer bleeding, for he had no blood left in his body. He was simply pouring water from his cuts and holes.

The human body is composed of nearly 3.5 litres of blood. Jesus shed every drop of His blood for us. He had three nails hammered into him; a crown of thorns on his head; and a spear plunged into his chest by a Roman soldier. Added to his suffering was the burden of carrying his own cross, weighing nearly five stone, for well over a mile while the crowd spat on his face and threw stones.

Christians believe Jesus had to endure this experience so that we may all have free access to God. Not so that another religion could be created: the access is available to everyone. Not so that Christians could impose their beliefs on anyone: again, it’s simply a gift. Jesus was a Jew, and people from all races and religious backgrounds have accepted what he did.

That’s it. No strings, just nails. Oh, and a resurrection.

I was aware that the warm and sunny weather might come to an end; so I collected some sun each day and kept it in cans in my garden.

I know there is a chance that it might explode, but I think it is worth the risk. Now, when the sun is hidden behind clouds, I shall be able to open my cans, pour out the contents and enjoy the light and warmth.

Some people became irrationally angry when I queued up to collect sun and got in their way. They said I cast a shadow on their day.

Others laughed at me. But they will soon be laughing on the other side of their face, wherever that is.

I have not been making unnecessary visits to petrol stations, because everyone knows that petrol never runs out. Nor does water. I have lived in this country for well over 60 years and during all that time, petrol and water have never run out.

But sun often runs out; so I am hoarding it.

I was listening to the latest Leonard Cohen album in my car the other day, when the genial Canadian was interrupted by a local radio station giving advice on traffic conditions.

As surreal experiences go, this one is right up there. One minute I was immersed in deep poetic insight accompanied by gentle harmonies; the next I was being shouted at by alien beings operating on a totally different level and at breakneck speed.

Surprisingly I did not hit anything, though if the radio announcer had been closer to me, I might have been tempted. The superficiality meter was going through the roof.

Some would say I was being brought back to reality, but I disagree: I felt I was being dragged away from it by a hysterical white rabbit that was late for something, and was concerned that it might be hampered by slow-moving traffic on the ring road.

Which of these two realities is really real? Many people would, I suspect, say that anything dealing with traffic and the urgency of getting from A to B is much more real than poetry about the mystery of the spiritual life – in the same way that science seems more real than religion.

But scientists do not necessarily agree that reality is ordinary. J B S Haldane, a biologist (and incidentally a Marxist) said: “Reality is not only stranger than we suppose, but also much stranger than we can suppose.”

Poetry and mysticism are one way (or perhaps two ways) of dealing with that. Many people have mystical experiences, but they are often discounted, or – worse – put on a par with mental illness. Unsurprisingly, the evidence contradicts this.

A survey made of people who had experiences of God (that is, mystical experiences) showed that the relationship between such experiences and psychological well-being was extremely high.

Richard Holloway reports in his book A New Heaven that this was dismissed by mental health experts.

The scientists who conducted the survey reported: “We confess to being somewhat dismayed when professional colleagues dismiss our findings with an abrupt certainty: ‘Those people can’t be having religious experiences.’ Maybe not, but they’re having something, and whatever the hell it is they are having, it correlates with mental health at a very high level.

“If we had found any other correlate, the mental-health establishment would be knocking down our doors demanding to know more.”

Of course, listening to traffic directions is much easier. It just drives you crazy.

“I accept chaos,” said Bob Dylan drily many, many years ago. “I’m not sure if it accepts me.”

Most of us are unhappy with chaos. When even the flutter of a butterfly’s wing can start a storm on the other side of the world, you have to be a little uneasy about contemplating any kind of disruption, particularly at much more obviously provocative levels.

So perhaps it is prudent not to get involved in uprisings of any kind, even the kind that seem to release us from tyrants.

The problem is that while we want to be free, we would also like to be safe – and the joy of freedom can quickly turn into the terror of chaos.

Is the freedom worth it? It depends who you are. Certain people have the innate tools to benefit from chaos, because they impose their will on it. They are the kinds of people who dominate meetings: quick-thinking and quick-talking. They do not necessarily have the best ideas, but they carry the day.

This is (again) another way of saying that the wrong people are in power because they would not be in power if they were not the wrong people.

That is why you get the French Revolution, why certain bankers ruined the economy and why the Arab Spring could easily turn back into a winter of fear.

“Meet the new boss, same as the old boss”, as Pete Townshend so eloquently put it.

Yes, chaos is risky. It is a life-or-death environment. That is why most people see democracy as the perfect form of government, and the rule of law as vital.

In fact, the latter is more important than the former. Whoever is in power, if the law is bigger – and securely separate – then we can rest easy in our beds. Unfortunately, human nature is such that this can never be guaranteed, or even expected.

Belief in a God of love goes a long way to counteract the human tendency toward self-interest and self-justification, but belief in a God of vengeance has the opposite effect.

All you need really is love. It stills the storm, and brings freedom. Sadly, we don’t believe it any more. Perhaps we never did.

During one of my periodic bursts of activity, I walked in the countryside the other day. On my journey I met several people – all of them with dogs.

I became concerned about the obvious reluctance of people to walk without dogs. What could be putting them off? Perhaps it was the possibility of meeting dogs and not being able to deal with them. I have decided to reassure them.

Dogs in the countryside are not a problem. If they run up to you and jump at you, or place their mouths in the vicinity of tender parts of your anatomy, they are simply playing, or being friendly, in much the same way that lions or polar bears do. You can safely ignore them, or give them a poke with your walking pole, though this is probably illegal unless you are actually bleeding.

Dogs do leave marks of their passing, but the colour of this is not much different from certain types of mud. You should avoid smelling anything that looks like mud. You should not step in it either. If you take these simple precautions, what dogs leave behind is not a problem.

You may meet people carrying transparent plastic bags containing substances that are not entirely pleasing in an aesthetic way and contribute little to the experience of walking in the countryside. These people usually have dogs with them, but this may be a coincidence. Remember, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If you throw up, try to do so off the path.

I hope this is reassuring and encourages people to go walking without dogs. I would like to make it clear that no dogs were injured in the writing of this article.

Don’t you love the King James Bible? And don’t you also love slagging off those awful modern translations that trendy churches use nowadays?

Well, you’re not alone. The 400th anniversary of the completion of the translation that King James I authorised to be read in churches has given opportunity for all lovers of tradition to come out of the woodwork and tell us how inferior and often awful any other version is.

Of course, their version of “any other version” – the one from which they take their toe-curling quotes – is usually the least satisfactory around, which almost no-one likes or uses. Yes, I’m talking about the New English Bible, which memorably opens the beautiful first chapter of John’s Gospel with the breathtaking and breath-removing “When all things began, the Word already was. The Word dwelt with God, and what God was, the Word was”.

All right, the search for accuracy when the original is carefully designed to indicate unfathomable mystery is bound to lead us up strange paths, but the NEB surely did not have to demonstrate it in such a ham-fisted way.

Why do these KJV-worshippers never mention the New International Version, which unlike the NEB, is frequently read in both churches and cathedrals. Perhaps because it is actually quite good. Straw men fall over so much more easily.

You can easily see this when the complainer strays from the safety of the NEB.The latest attack I have read complains (among much NEB-knocking) that the RSV replaces the KJV’s “giants” in Genesis with “nephilim”, but you can easily imagine that if the situation was reversed, and the KJV had plumped for nephilim, he would have complained about the banality of the RSV’s “giants”.

Of course I love the KJV. What’s not to love? I love Shakespeare too, for much the same reasons. It should continue to be read because its authors had an ear for poetry, and poetry is one of the best ways of approaching God. When it comes to accuracy and accessibility, its pedestal is not so high, or so secure, in these ungodly times.

Translation is an art rather than a science, and the KJV was not, as a good friend of mine once opined, verbally inspired by God. It was an attempt – as far as the New Testament is concerned – to convey something written in 1500-year-old Greek (which was itself in many cases a translation from the Aramaic) into something easy and familiar for those in another country, culture and time.

How could it succeed? Look at a translation – or preferably a paraphrase – of the Lord’s Prayer directly from the Aramaic and you will see how much you lose in the KJV, the NIV or any other easily available English version. It goes far beyond the rather obvious point that Jesus would hardly have asked his Father: “Lead us not into temptation.” And what about the Greek continuous present tense? What happened to that?

Ah, well. These are esoteric points, perhaps. Or perhaps not. The point is that the KJV is good. Some might say it’s damn fine coffee. (Another cultural nuance that would be pretty much impossible to translate.) But there are other good drinks out there. And they can be just as nourishing.

To cut a long story short, some abbreviations just get on my nerves. Others, like Tim, or Dot, are perfectly OK.

Maybe the ones that annoy me are the ones used by aficionados who want to foist their familiarity on to people who are not in the least interested. Take Strictly, for instance.

I am probably the only person who attempted to watch Strictly Come Dancing but had to turn it off to avoid being physically ill (sic). It’s not the dancing; it’s the fawning and the insincerity. So when someone calls it Strictly, I feel like throwing them, paso doble style, into the audience. But while that might be PD, it certainly wouldn’t be PC. So I don’t.

It all started when I first went out to work, and one of my older colleagues talked incessantly about getting a divvy. That had something to do with sport, I think. Now sportsmen can’t speak without using esoteric abbreviations.

Jenson Button (a man I admire greatly) doesn’t do very well in F1 qually (or is it quali?), but often achieves P1 during the actual race – which in case anyone is interested is actually not an abbreviation, but takes longer to say than “first”.

In this it achieves something close to the wonderful American abbreviation “GSW” for “gunshot wound”. This is much used in ER, where they are very pushed for time, but no-one seems to have noticed that it’s quicker to say “gunshot wound” than “GSW”. Try it.

That wonderful British TV programme Outnumbered was in the same area when it introduced a character called Mia, who was called Mimi “for short”. As the outraged wife pointed out, Mimi is longer than Mia, so why? Well, quite. Because it’s more endearing? Because of something private and intriguing? A secret relationship?

Perhaps it’s that idea of a secret relationship that makes my toes curl. The abbreviation often implies that the speaker has some exclusive deal with the thing being abbreviated. I mean, everyone knows who Man U is, don’t they?

Yes, I do, but is Manchester United that hard to say? Are we really that short of time? The man who reads the football results has now taken to using the phrase “Div One”. Oh, please. How ugly is that?

About as ugly as “hanky” for handkerchief. I would like to see that banned. But fridge is perfectly OK. I never said it was logical. And if you were going to ask, bus and phone are not abbreviations: they are words, which is why you never, never put apostrophes in front of them. Now don’t get me started on the pos.

5 September 2011

As I made myself comfortable in the hospital waiting room, my eye was caught by a notice directly in front of me: “Please do not move.” For a moment I thought I was on the road again, and all the dreams of Brake, the anti-motorist organisation, had come true.

Had I slipped into an alternative dimension? Or would “Do not move” be replacing 20mph signs in the near future, and all speed limits in the fulness of time?

Funny things, speed limits. They are the same whatever car you drive, whatever the time of day, whatever the road surface and whatever the weather conditions. They are the same if you are an expert driver or completely hopeless (and the driving test does little to weed out the hopeless, because it lets you keep trying until you scrape through).

Speed limits are the same whatever the capacity of your engine, however fast you can accelerate and however efficiently you can brake. They are the same however good your eyesight and however good or bad your reaction time, however well you concentrate, and however much you like talking to your passengers, changing the CD or adjusting the heater.

In other words, they take no account at all of the essential quality of driving. They just set an arbitrary speed beyond which you must not go – and this speed is not even decided by experts. They create an offence which is not subject to any kind of judgement as to the danger involved, because it is decided by a machine – and a machine whose accuracy you cannot rely on.

Why are some people determined to pin so many accidents on to speed? Partly because it’s so simple: you don’t have to think about it. And Einstein did say: “You should make everything as simple as possible.” However, he did add the vital three words “but not simpler”. Where speed limits are concerned, we have made things too simple. As a result we are criminalising good drivers, and making barely competent drivers think they are good.
But hasn’t it been shown that speed cameras stop accidents? No, the statistics are variable, in that while one area will show a fall in accidents if you choose the right time periods to focus on, another will seem to indicate – from a similarly arbitrary selection – that the cameras actually increase accidents.

How could that be? By taking drivers’ eyes away from the road. When I am checking my speedometer I am not looking at the road, and when I am looking out for cameras, other hazards – yes, I do mean other hazards – have a slightly lower priority, whether I mean them to or not.

Some will point to a continuing fall in serious accidents since cameras were introduced. But this decline was well under way before the introduction of cameras, and in fact slowed down in the years after cameras appeared.

Of course, like everything else, it comes down to money. Speed cameras bring in money, and they are often placed quite cynically to ensure the money is maximised – on a downhill, straight stretch of road after miles of tortuous bends, for instance. A former police driver friend received points and a fine in just such a situation because he slightly exceeded the limit when overtaking; if he had slowed down when spotting the camera (a natural reaction), he might now be dead.

Some people do drive dangerously fast, and they need to be stopped. That is what traffic police are for. But we have failed to distinguish between dangerously fast and over the limit. The fact is that most speed limits are too low. If the limits were right, the argument against cameras would be weak. But they are not right. Sometimes, they are nowhere near right.

When I started driving, in the 1960s, police advice was to drive as quickly as you safely could: they called it progressive driving. I believe this is good advice. Slow driving dulls the senses and slows reaction times. We are producing a mass of people who can follow rules but can’t drive well – who appear incapable of overtaking and who do not concentrate on the road. Worrying, at a time when so many accidents are caused by fatigue, boredom and lack of attention.

Highways authorities and road safety “experts” want us to go slowly. I want to go faster. Not ridiculously fast, but safely fast. Fast enough to be helpful to other road users.

I think there are excellent reasons for doing this. But the wrong people are in power. And as a much wiser writer said, “they would not be in power if they were not the wrong people”. So I guess there is no hope. “Please do not move” is the way forward. If you see what I mean.

Never mind all this turning-on and turning-off of speed cameras. Most of the real advances in road safety seem to happen in Scotland.

A couple of months ago, for instance, road crashes at five Aberdeenshire blackspots were reduced by 100% through retexturing the road surface to improve skid resistance.

This would, I suspect, by regarded as a lost opportunity by English road safety-in-numbers partnerships, who would have slammed in speed humps, chicanes and cameras before you could say Banff.

Their solution would have had the twin advantages of bringing in cash (always a prime aim of road safety in England) and maintaining a solid accident rate to justify their own existence.

Understandable. Who doesn’t want to justify their own existence? Still, I prefer the Scottish approach on the grounds that it actually contributes to road safety. When it comes to contributing to the road safety industry, England is streets ahead.

Our northern neighbour should also be praised for its attempts to keep roads open, unlike my home city of Norwich, which closes as many roads as possible, either permanently or for an inordinately long time.

Scotland, meanwhile, has managed to put a Model T Ford on top of Ben Nevis – again. This was achieved originally a century ago, when apparently the roads in the Ben Nevis summit area were better and the car was driven to the top.

This time the car was driven successfully halfway up, but then deconstructed and reassembled at the top. I hesitate to mention this, because if the anti-motorist boys and girls at Brake get to hear of it, I suspect that they will recommend this method for all car journeys.

Could be useful in Norwich, I suppose.