I expect many of you have, like me, been following the latest "shock/horror" Archers' revelation to wit the engagement of C of E vicar, Alan Franks, to Asian lawyer, Usha Gupta. Naturally, this novel and highly unlikely coupling has split the good parishioners of Ambridge, culminating last week in a cat fight between Ms Gupta and Shula Archer, a welcome change in tempo from two of the most boring and sanctimonious characters in this "everyday story of country folk". I have pondered the issue and have come to the rather surprising (to me) conclusion that I am of the Susan Carter School of Thought. Let's forget religious tolerance and cultural symbiosis for a while. The position of a priest in any church is not just a job; it is a calling, a way of life and a very public act of faith and, as Susan so rightly asks, how can Alan continue to deliver Holy Communion and uphold Christianity as The Way to God when married to a Hindu? Sacrifices have to be made and even if Alan and Usha are "the only middle aged singles in the village" it is not right for them to be joined in holy matrimony. I am not big on the Church of England, or any church, nor do I have anything against Hinduism and if Usha were to take a fancy to lonely widower, Mike Tucker, that's quite OK with me but vicars should stand by their beliefs in all aspects of their lives, or leave the ministry, otherwise their position in the community they serve means nothing at all. Will the BBC allow the star-crossed lovers to make it to the altar of St Stephen's in August? I'm definitely interested to find out.
In yesterday's Sunday Times, India Knight took a stand by speaking of an underclass in Britain which she sees as responsible for many of society's current ills - excessive drinking, violent youth crime, lack of what we used to call "common decency". The concept of an underclass, while highly politically incorrect and therefore unaddressed, is not a new one. I remember my Dad, a man of impeccable working class origins, with 35 years experience in the Police Force and then Social Services, commenting, in shocked bewilderment, on its rise as long ago as the late 1960's. Who or what is responsible for its creation is more difficult to identify but certainly this bottom rung of society bears no relation to the traditional working classes who no longer exist but were once the moral backbone of Britain. I quite often pop into a very nice "one stop" shop which serves a large council estate bordering the newer, private properties on Gazeuponafactory. It is a good place to view the many facets of mankind. As I queue up with my wholewheat loaf and carton of skimmed milk, I am very aware that
, despite a generous choice of foodstuffs on the surrounding shelves, the vast majority of my fellow customers are there for cut price booze and fags. The other day, I stood behind an undernourished, follicly challenged lady of a certain age who had a little boy in tow to whom she spoke quite tenderly. Her basket was empty except for a copy of The Sun. At the checkout she requested two 6 packs of lager and several packets of ciggies. "Do you think we need anything else, Nan?"piped up the little boy, perhaps hoping for sweets or just possibly a little disconcerted by the limited nature of her purchases. "No Darlin', Nan replied. "We have everything we need".
William's nighttime wanderings, although somewhat dampened by recent inclement weather conditions, continue to fray my nerves and he had driven me (metaphorically, even his many talents don't include mastery of a gear stick and his feet will never reach the pedals) to T K Maxx in search of retail recuperation to the tune of some beige Nicole Fahri linen pants, a large straw and even larger straw basket with which I intend to titillate the locals and shame Daughter Number 3 on our forthcoming trip to Crete. "Look what you made me do!" I moaned, thrusting a pair of newly Birkenstocked feet under The Bolter's nose. He was unmoved, as I hope Brian will be when he checks the bank balance online in Korea.
Only over here: A pair of Sikh Michael Jackson wannabes and a dancing sheep dog have just been voted through to the final of Britain's Got Talent. Don't you just love it?
In yesterday's Sunday Times, India Knight took a stand by speaking of an underclass in Britain which she sees as responsible for many of society's current ills - excessive drinking, violent youth crime, lack of what we used to call "common decency". The concept of an underclass, while highly politically incorrect and therefore unaddressed, is not a new one. I remember my Dad, a man of impeccable working class origins, with 35 years experience in the Police Force and then Social Services, commenting, in shocked bewilderment, on its rise as long ago as the late 1960's. Who or what is responsible for its creation is more difficult to identify but certainly this bottom rung of society bears no relation to the traditional working classes who no longer exist but were once the moral backbone of Britain. I quite often pop into a very nice "one stop" shop which serves a large council estate bordering the newer, private properties on Gazeuponafactory. It is a good place to view the many facets of mankind. As I queue up with my wholewheat loaf and carton of skimmed milk, I am very aware that
, despite a generous choice of foodstuffs on the surrounding shelves, the vast majority of my fellow customers are there for cut price booze and fags. The other day, I stood behind an undernourished, follicly challenged lady of a certain age who had a little boy in tow to whom she spoke quite tenderly. Her basket was empty except for a copy of The Sun. At the checkout she requested two 6 packs of lager and several packets of ciggies. "Do you think we need anything else, Nan?"piped up the little boy, perhaps hoping for sweets or just possibly a little disconcerted by the limited nature of her purchases. "No Darlin', Nan replied. "We have everything we need".William's nighttime wanderings, although somewhat dampened by recent inclement weather conditions, continue to fray my nerves and he had driven me (metaphorically, even his many talents don't include mastery of a gear stick and his feet will never reach the pedals) to T K Maxx in search of retail recuperation to the tune of some beige Nicole Fahri linen pants, a large straw and even larger straw basket with which I intend to titillate the locals and shame Daughter Number 3 on our forthcoming trip to Crete. "Look what you made me do!" I moaned, thrusting a pair of newly Birkenstocked feet under The Bolter's nose. He was unmoved, as I hope Brian will be when he checks the bank balance online in Korea.
Only over here: A pair of Sikh Michael Jackson wannabes and a dancing sheep dog have just been voted through to the final of Britain's Got Talent. Don't you just love it?
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