The Dark Secrecy Behind The Mask.

During the early nineties, the cycle ride from my home town of Bracknell to Minehead in Somerset was split into two parts. The first was the 90-mile ride to Bath Spa, a Roman city famed for its ancient pool, the second was the 70-mile ride to Minehead from Bath Spa, after spending the night at a backpacker's hostel, a steep hill climb from the city centre. Thus, the two-day ride was 160 miles, approx 260 km, in total.

However, the climax of the whole ride was not merely the chalet assigned to me and three other flatmates, but the mass welcoming service at the Big Top, accommodating thousands of excited Christians of all ages at the opening ceremony of the annual Spring Harvest Bible Festival held here at the Butlin's holiday camp located on the north coast of England's southwest peninsula.

The Big Top, Exterior.

The thundering praise and worship, accompanied by a music band and dancing spotlights, say it all. Indeed, it was the climax of the two-day cycling journey. As such, I could help but feel a sense of uniqueness, as the car parks crowded with parked vehicles testify of the type of transport used to get here. As we all stood and sat next to each other shoulder to shoulder, who would ever think of social distancing, facemasks or sanitary stations placed at the tent's several entrances? On the contrary, hugging was quite the norm, and neither of us sharing the chalet would even consider one another as a "disease."

There was one year when I decided to spend a whole Sunday at Bath Spa. Here, I had the opportunity to visit two churches, both of them in the city centre. The first one I visited was Bath City Church which, at the time, met in a disused cinema building. It had roughly the same number of people as the Kerith Centre in Bracknell - several hundred. It was also a "live" church, that is, free from established tradition, and its morning service was charismatic. Bath City typified any large church gathering. 

The other venue I visited was Bath Baptist Church for the evening service. It was smaller in numbers, and also met in its own built-for-purpose facility, and it was more traditional in its service liturgy. Yet, due to having fewer people, I felt a stronger sense of intimacy present. Of the two venues, I felt more at home in this smaller gathering than I did at the first one.

The point I'm trying to get across is that for more than six decades of my life, I was able to walk into a church of my choice as freely as walking into a shop or superstore. After sixteen months of restrictions caused by the Coronavirus pandemic, to walk freely into a church service as a member of the public seem to be of a bygone age - something I now look upon with fondness.

My PhD friend Andrew tells me that at one of the churches he attended, advance booking is necessary to sit at a service. And that's not the only one. I saw on Facebook that advance booking was mandatory at another church elsewhere. This, I find rather shocking! To book a place at a service? A facility that should be open to the public, allowing free entry to anyone - even on the spur of the moment, or in need of spiritual edification, or just to give thanks to God, the church service should be open to all, regardless of numbers. After all, the Bible does say, 

Whoever will let him come. (Revelation 22:17.) 

Does this mean being turned away from the door had I just turned up without first booking? Suppose, earlier that week, a loved one fell ill and, not knowing any better, I arrive to attend a church service for spiritual support or intercessory prayer? Would I really be turned away similarly to a bouncer refusing entry into a nightclub?

It's wonderful news that our own church at Ascot will be meeting physically once again after 16 months of virtual services on the Internet. And, thank heavens! No advanced booking will be required. If the weather is suitable, we will likely meet outdoors within a small, enclosed field. According to their newsletter, by meeting outdoors, a facemask would not be a necessity. But if there's a threat of rain, or simply that it's too chilly, then we will meet at our usual venue - the Paddock Restaurant at Ascot Racecourse. However, although not mandatory, the wearing of masks will still be preferred, especially during the singing. And that, despite open windows blowing a chilly drought through the room.

Unlike my PhD friend, who has a lanyard around his neck, I would feel ill-at-ease if I don't wear a mask. Not because I'm afraid of becoming infected, but a feeling of concern about how others around me may feel if they saw me remaining maskless. It's the same ill-at-ease I have felt when shopping without the facecloth, even though it's no longer illegal to shop without a mask. Especially now that I'm fully vaccinated.

A bit like last Wednesday, when I took a short train ride to Reading Station. On the outward journey, there was no problem in not wearing a mask. But on the return journey, the carriage tannoy came to life with a request for all customers to wear a mask. I dug into my pocket. Sure, my cellphone was there, but as for the mask - it must have fallen out onto the street. The snag when that happens is that there is no characteristic clatter of a solid hitting the ground to attract my attention. The loss can remain unnoticed for hours. And so my feeling of uneasiness returns with the train announcement, and I silently pray that the conductor won't suddenly decide to inspect our tickets.

 

Spring Harvest Big Top, Interior.

As facemasks come and as facemasks go, how could I avoid reading about a scandal which erupted at an Anglican Church at Branksome, Dorset? Rev Charlie Boyle of All Saints Anglican in Poole, was accused of hugging a mourner at a funeral he was conducting. He also sang the hymn Thine Be the Glory aloud and with much emotion as he concluded an Easter service earlier this year. An anonymous person in the congregation complained to the church authorities. Now he is under threat of losing both his job and his home. And what was the complaint? Singing without a mask. And that was despite that he was also exempt from having to wear one.

Several things here. First, the complainant remains anonymous - even to the extent that the vicar himself doesn't know who he is. And if the complainant was so displeased, then why didn't he raise the issue with the Reverend himself? Why go to the Parish Bishop?

According to the national statistics, the Church of England is on a decline. However, the All Saints Anglican in Poole is a rare exception. Here, under Boyle's leadership, his church is thriving, especially among the younger set. He has a heart for God, and his keenness to sing the hymn aloud and without any reservation shows his delight in the Resurrection of Christ.

 

All that tells me a lot about the complainant. First, he remains anonymous to this day, second, he preferred to inform the Bishop rather than sort out the issues with the vicar himself. And thirdly, he refuses to come out and admit that he made the complaint. All that is enough to tell me that the complainant was consumed with jealousy of the vicar's success. And he's too cowardly to come out.

Nothing new here. Back in 1994, I was a volunteer at a Christian Conference Centre near Haifa in Northern Israel. One day, a young Arab friend who had a high level of respect for me approached - with a question of whether I was homosexual. When I asked him where he got that idea from, he was very apologetic and revealed that it was Trevor who informed the teenager that I was likely gay and had a fancy for David. Look at it this way. I had never shown an interest in bedding with another man. It wasn't only because this was unbiblical, but rather, I never had any interest in it. The teenager believed and sided with me.

Whether I was gay was true or not, Trevor had no right to inform the teenager - or anyone else - without approaching me about the circumstance. If my orientation and my supposed crush on David had bothered him, then why didn't he come to me first and sort the matter out? At least I could either verify or deny his accusation. Instead, he found it easier to spread it behind my back. And all that by a man several years older than I was.

Then it was my mistake to say to Trevor, in the privacy of his bedroom, that Joy was a lovely-looking volunteer. That was it. That's all I said. Joy wasn't around, instead, she was elsewhere, well out of earshot. There was no one else with us. Just Trevor and me, alone in his bedroom. The next day, I was called into the Centre manager's office. Here I was questioned by him whether my crush on Joy was true.

Why? Oh, why? The similarity between Trevor and the anonymous complainant in Dorset is, to me, quite astounding! I guess the human heart is so mysterious, so secretive, that no one but God can see into it. Being a volunteer in Israel very nearly brought me to the brink of apostasy. In fact, I did renounce the Christian faith whilst lying alone on a bunk-bed inside a medieval hostel within the walls of Jerusalem Old City. But God, seeing my distress, gently called me back to Himself, and then afterwards, opened the door of opportunity for world travel.

The anonymous complainant moaned about the vicar singing a hymn aloud without wearing a mask. Therefore, instead of shouting his own praise and thanksgiving to God, he makes an effort to get rid of him, to deprive him of a job and a home for both he and his wife. And it looks as if his foul efforts to have the Reverend sacked might be successful. And the cause of the complaint? Not wearing a mask.

I can clearly see a parallel between this unknown fellow and Trevor, who was successful in getting rid of me almost exactly 27 years earlier. True enough, back then, no one wore masks. But bring Trevor forward in time and here we see the most cautious, Covid-phobic individual I could ever imagine and the most ardent mask-wearer who could ever walk this earth. And still insisting that he's a devout Christian.

And so, I try to picture the scene in Israel in the midst of the pandemic. The hot sun is out, almost entirely overhead in the late, Middle East Spring. David and I are both working outside and neither of us is wearing a mask. Then Trevor, himself masked, arrives at the spot, looks directly at me and orders me (but not David) to put my mask on.

I then suggest to David, I suppose you better put your mask on too.

To which Trevor replies, Never mind about him. It's your duty to follow the procedure.

Later, the Director calls me to his office (yet again) and discusses with me the latest altercation I had with Trevor (which I didn't, instead, I actually obeyed him.) The manager then decides that with regret, and to keep the peace here at the Centre, I must leave and fly back to England. But because I have done nothing specifically wrong, I'm to be paid by ITAC* for a holiday in Jerusalem (or anywhere else in Israel, other than Haifa) and will not be escorted directly to the airport (the normal procedure for volunteers guilty of rule-breaking.)

All Saints Anglican, Branksome Park.

The next day, I lay on my bed in Jerusalem with my spirit crushed and with my emotions all over the place. Why was Trevor's prejudice aimed at me and not towards David? Could it be that his perception of me being gay (without proof) "pollute" the holiness of the land? Therefore, to "Rid Israel of all impurity" -  was I expendable?

Or could it be that, since David is a graduate and I had only a mediocre education, Trevor fawned all over him while I was, in his eyes, next to nothing, even someone to be despised?

That was the most likely scenario - had it been now instead of in 1994.

I hope so much that the Reverend Charles Boyle will keep his leadership post at his church he worked so hard to revive, and the discipline aimed correctly at the anonymous complainant, whoever he is. And may heaven help us all if the scandal in Poole is read by atheists. Such treachery will entrench them further into their unbelief in God, and give them more ground for them to sneer at all faiths.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*ITAC: Israel Trust of Anglican Churches.

Laughed or Ignored? I Prefer Laughed.

Yes, as the title imply, would I prefer to be laughed at or ignored? Well, what I received instead was an angry response. But put it this way, whether laughter or anger, I would be far happier to receive either of those than to be ignored. At least with an angry response, I know that whatever I had contributed has received attention. With laughter, that too is a response. But by being ignored, I have no idea if anyone had read my contribution to the discussion.

So what did I write to stir up this anger? The answer to that was, in one of my comments, I hinted at the possibility that humans and dinosaurs co-existed. Yes, you read that correctly.

Stegosaur at Ta Prohm Monastery, Cambodia 

My comment appeared when an atheist YouTuber posted a video asking whether his feelings were hurt after a barrage of insulting remarks were thrown at him. Those insulting comments mainly consisted of foul names and rudeness spouted at him in anger, mainly by "Christian" flat-earthers - from whom this kind of emotion is shown when an argument is lost and cannot be gainsaid. Although disagreeing with him on his commitment to Darwin's evolutionary theories, I had this to say to him:

Scimandan, I have always admired your level of education, your marathon runs, and the way you present yourself on video. Yet I am a Christian, a young-earth Creationist who believe that man and dinosaurs once co-existed.

I know, I'm aware that I'm one of those who should be ignored. But do you know what my real wish is?

For you and me to get together at a pub or coffee house for a two-hour, man-to-man discussion where we can exchange our views without prejudice. But I suppose both time and distance will prevent this from happening.

By the way, I'm not a flat-earther. Instead, I believe as much as you do that our planet is spherical. 

Good luck with your videos.

Then another commenter (not SciManDan) aimed one directly at me:

This is dreadful. People like you are charlatans, pagans, heathens and nothing more than heretics.

THERE IS ONLY ONE TRUE FAITH and that is:

Catholicism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism, Sikhism, Shinto, Judaism, Confucianism, Spiritism, Korean Shamanism, Caodaism, Bahai's Faith, Jainism, Cheondoism, Hoahaoism, Tenriism, Rastafari.

Or any infantile mumbo jumbo you can invent for yourself.

Theism is dying on its arse and not a moment too soon.

Send ALL your money now, you know the baby jesus (sic) needs it.

Here is no ignorant runt! This rather angry man looks to be well-educated. He names eighteen different faiths here, and there is quite a number which I had never heard about, but he is right on one issue: All the religions listed here are defined as salvation by works. And except Catholicism, Judaism and Islam, all the others are found in the far east of Asia, although I did see an edifice dedicated to Bahai's Faith on the slopes of Mt Carmel, overlooking the city of Haifa in Northern Israel.

Another also commented:

It would help if you had some evidence that dinosaurs and humans lived at the same time. The Noah flood is also a ridiculous fairy tale.

My answer takes the form of a series of questions. In the above photo, there is a carving of a Stegosaur at the Ta Prohm Monastery in Cambodia. This structure was completed in 1186 AD. That is 835 years ago up to the time of writing. Were the people back then very familiar with fossils? If so, were they able to flesh out the bones as accurately as our modern paleobiologists can do now? And assuming that they were able to flesh out the bones of an ancient beast, why did they feel it was so important to have an image of a living version carved inside a religious structure?

Or could it be - just could it be - a witness that this dinosaur was alive at the time the structure was built, and they preserved an image of it?

There are other images, even models of dinosaurs supposedly found in Mexico, Peru, and other parts of the Americas. But I don't feel it's right to include those in this blog due to their lack of authenticity. They could be fakes, and as such, I do not want to use these as evidence to prove the reliability of the Bible.

Ta Prohm Monastery, Cambodia

The YouTuber had posted his video just three days before I wrote this blog, but already over this short time, he had collected 77,687 views. How many would have read our discussion, who knows? However, I did reply to the first commenter that he was almost right that there are only two faiths: one is salvation by works, as defined by the 18 he had listed, and the other is salvation given as a free gift through faith in Christ, without any works done to earn it. I then quoted Romans 10:9, 13, where Paul writes that if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord, and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you will be saved.

And verse 13: And whoever shall call upon the name of the Lord will be saved.

His response?

He recommended I join any of his long list of idiotic, non-existent religious groups to search for any magic (oops, he meant "truths") such as Pastafarianism, Frisbeetarianism, and Bullet Baba's Motorbike - a list of 24 pseudo-organisations in all. He then, in bad grammar and lacking punctuation, ends with:

Remember send money the baby jesus is desperate.

I have checked this guy's profile, but since his channel is empty, I wasn't able to find any information of his whereabouts, whether he was living in the UK or in the States. But, since the atheist YouTuber himself is English and lives here in the UK, I take it that this fellow lives here too. If true, then he mirrors the appalling state of our nation spiritually.

And two weeks previously, I walk through the streets of London, as already mentioned in my last blog, wheeling my partially disabled beloved from Waterloo Station to the Premier Inn hotel, just outside Euston Station. We passed massive crowds of England football fans, all cheering their team as if they had won the tournament already. They cheered for glory, but not for the glory of God, but for the nation, that is, for themselves.

We watched the match against Italy in our hotel room. Yet England lost in what is, in my opinion, the worst possible way, by a penalty shootout after a 1-1 draw and extra time. This humiliation, this defeat, this anticlimax of the whole tournament - is God trying to tell us something? And now, the Olympic Games.

The opening performance at a Tokyo stadium lacked the verve which characterised both the Rio and the London Games within the past decade. But as we watched the athletes enter the stadium, all of them masked, all I could do was sigh. And so, they all marched into this huge chamber with a massive hole in the ceiling, through which firework displays are easily seen from inside, thus classifying the interior of the stadium as outdoors. Yet, they all had to wear masks, the athletes, the volunteers, the organising committee, and the 600 or so VIPs who occupied seating that would have accommodated around 66,000 spectators. Instead, the stadium was almost entirely empty, while outside in the streets of Tokyo, the people protest, calling for the Games to be cancelled - while the rate of Coronavirus infections keeps on growing in numbers.

Oh, what has happened to us? It's as though this pandemic is a fulfilment of the novel by H. G. Wells, The War of the Worlds, where a mighty British Empire of the 19th Century suffered a Martian invasion - right at its very heart - London. Here, the whole of the Earth, including the Empire, was at the mercy of an alien power over which they had absolutely no defence. But, after so many deaths, the remaining human inhabitants were rescued by the mercy of God, using bacteria - the most minute and the lowliest of all creatures - to infect every Martian and without an immune system, succeeded in killing them off, their corpses became food for the birds.

And so, after more than a year of lockdown and restrictions, July 19th - the so-called Freedom Day - came and went without any real significant changes. I would still have to wear a facemask if travelling by public transport, and on the London Underground, masks are still mandatory, thanks to the orders delivered by our present London mayor, Sadiq Khan.

Although I despise those face cloths, I would still wear one if it means keeping the peace. But yesterday, I dared walk into our local superstore maskless. At last, the absence of the door marshall checking us out at the shop's entrance gave me more confidence. However, I could see that the majority of shoppers continue to wear their masks. Apparently, all the female adults wore them. As for the men, the majority of them were also wearing them. But there were also several younger men going about maskless, making me feel a little better. And nobody gave any dirty looks.

2021 Olympic Opening ceremony, Tokyo.

And the churches! This week will mark the first Sunday we as a church can get together. After more than 16 months of weekly virtual services via the internet. There was something totally unnatural about this way of worshipping God, yet each week brought a reminder that we as a church continue to exist. One benefit has arisen from this pandemic. That is the weekday twenty-minute Zoom prayer meetings held every morning. As for one who has no car but gets everywhere by bicycle, any idea of cycling for 25 minutes to get to a 20-minute prayer meeting, then ride back home again, especially on a cold winter morning...

Nope. Here, a computer gives a big advantage, and I thank the Lord for the advance of technology that was unheard of by all previous generations. The good news is that our Zoom prayer meetings are here to stay.

And this week? Church life begins with a picnic. Nothing unusual about that. We, as a church, picnic every year. The only difference this time is that after three weeks of glorious Summer sunshine, this Sunday will have heavy rain and storms, according to the Meteorological Office forecast. Yep, typical British Summer! After all, Summer in Britain would not be Summer if we didn't have wind-driven rain! Great for our first meeting after 16 months.

But we're determined to picnic regardless of the weather. The only difference is that, should it rain, our food will be eaten inside the marquee, while raindrops impacting on the canvass outside could create a noise loud enough to drown out the sermon. Ah, don't we love our British Summers!

It's great to be back!

Feeling Nervy At The Train Station

For many months now, hardly anyone can be seen in a superstore without wearing a facemask. I could go further to add that if a maskless adult happens to line up behind one of the tills, then I might have been tempted to cheer. Unlikely. At the store's main entrance doors sits one member of staff who was never there pre-pandemic - the Covid marshall.

The previous week, I entered the superstore to buy the morning newspaper, and in my haste, I'd forgotten to put on my mask. I was still at the stand with the paper in my hand and about to head for the self-service checkout when I was approached by the marshall to asked me if I would like to borrow a mask. That was when I apologised and whipped out my own face covering.

That morning's experience left me feeling uneasy for the rest of the week. What kind of society had we evolved into? 

I seem to recall reading a futuristic adventure comic strip back in the 1970s. A young woman, named Axa, living permanently inside the Dome, which covered a large city underneath. The huge transparent dome was built to keep the air within it pure and free from any contamination. Like all the other Dome inhabitants, she was dressed in a dull, full-body uniform from crew-neck to ankle. Then one day, in rebellious anger, she tore her top from the neck, down the middle as she strode along, leaving her with a partially exposed chest. However, she was immediately caught by an officer and brought before the governing council.

The Council granted Axa's request for her to dress how she liked, and her desire to leave the safety of the Dome was also granted, providing she sets out on a very dangerous mission arranged by the Council. One wise member of the ruling party gave her a sword, and she was then dismissed.

The air outside the Dome was polluted with a radioactive Great Contamination, gotten from the last nuclear war which wiped out the majority of the global population, and as such, the need to construct new cities for the remaining human inhabitants, each city under a protective dome, for their own survival.

The Great Contamination had an effect on wildlife. Axa was barely out of the Dome and wandering through the semi-desert when she accidentally ran into what looks like a pattern of cords. Approaching her was a spider the size of a car, and dwarfing the woman. The web was strong enough to hold her in place as the spider was about to roll her in a cocoon that would have given the hungry arachnid its much-needed nourishment.

But Axa was swift with her sword. With it, she took a swipe and decapitated the spider. She then used her sword to sever herself from the web strands. She then departed on her adventure, leaving the lifeless giant arachnid as food for the birds and other wildlife.

The current pandemic has brought back memories of the comic strip. Indeed, the air may not be contaminated with post-war radioactive pollutants, but it transports viruses from one person to another. Hence the need for a national lockdown - perhaps symbolised by the dome under which Axa lived and felt restricted.

I can also see a parallel between the tearing of Axa's own clothing to my desire to throw away the mask. At least she was given a sword by the Council - the equivalent to the vaccine, endorsed by our Government, and the struggle with the giant arachnid which can be likened to our struggle with the fatal illness, which only the sword/vaccine can fight against.

Okay, I'm aware that comparing the present pandemic to a comic strip that seems irrelevant may seem ludicrous, but then, why not? Just as often a true word is spoken in jest, so why can't real prophecy be expressed in a cartoon?

And so, one very warm and sunny weekday, I thought of killing some spare time with a trip to Reading, a short train ride from my hometown of Bracknell. There is one issue I'm aware of - that is - whenever the weather is warm, I prone to sweat rather freely. Therefore the fabric of a facemask would quickly soak, begin to smell and become even more uncomfortable and unhealthy over a short time.

But I was also curious about our current laws regarding the restrictions. For example, suppose that I was sitting in the train maskless and the guard, or conductor, arrives to inspect my ticket. He then orders me to mask up. But what if I had a paper cup of hot coffee and a croissant resting on the table in front? Would the guard still deliver the same order?

Just like this morning, when I visited Starbucks for an in-house coffee and croissant. While I was standing in line, waiting for my turn to be served, I had to wear a mask because this was required. But as soon as I sat at a table inside the restaurant, I was allowed to take my mask off.

It's as if the virus itself has adversity against the presence of food, and therefore, it's powerless to infect where there's food around! Why that is, it's quite remarkable. Either that or the laws lack sense. Therefore, I decided to conduct a social experiment - to see what might arise when I use public transport maskless. If the guard was to approach me and either ask me to put on a mask or order me to do so, then I would love to have countered with the question:

If I had a mug of coffee here in front of me, and maybe a cake as well, would you still order me to put on a mask?

I would have loved to hear how he would have answered that question. But instead, no guard walked through the coach throughout the train journey and as such, my curiosity remains unfulfilled. However, before settling down at the start of the journey, I made sure that all the seats around me were unoccupied. Being off-peak, this wasn't a problem.

Reading Station is larger than the one in Bracknell, as while the latter is on a commuter line, Reading serves as both a commuter terminus and a principal through-station on the Great Western Railway for trains from London into South Wales and Cornwall, as well as a stopping point for Cross-Country Trains from Birmingham, Manchester and Newcastle to Bournemouth and Cornwall. Therefore, for such a busy station, its forecourt doubles as an indoor shopping precinct, making mask-wearing compulsory, that is, except when seated at one of the tables placed near the eateries.

The nervousness I felt when I kept my mask in my pocket instead of donning it after alighting, was not spotted by the two barrier controllers as I inserted the spent ticket into the slot to activate the barrier. I felt relief when I stepped outside.

I had lunch at Marks and Spencer. It was on that one occasion when I entered the store that I had to don my mask. The Covid marshall was gazing at me, and it was as if I felt her eyes piercing my soul. I was in no mood for any potential confrontation. One story less for the newspapers! But when I sat at a table at the upstairs cafeteria, I immediately whipped off my mask, not to wear it at all for the rest of the trip.

After such a refreshing meal, I sauntered through the indoor shopping precinct, maskless, until I arrived at the Riverside. This is where the River Kennet passes through an open-air precinct, lined with diverse eateries, a relaxing area, a large cinema complex, and the main car park, itself a building aesthetically well-disguised. Under the summer sunshine, the Riverside is a wonderful area to sit, relax and unwind while watching the river making its way to join the River Thames, the main river passing just north of the town.

And at the footbridge which straddles the river, two couples were occupying the public seating. Each couple sat about six metres apart. I took my place between them, that is, not less than three metres from the person on either side of me. Immediately, both couples rose up and left, leaving me as a sole occupant of the bench that lines the whole length of the walkway.

A short time later and feeling thirsty, I made my way back into the indoor shopping mall to buy a cold fruit juice. The pretty young female who served me seemed to have taken a delight in me not wearing a mask, perhaps her first such customer of the day. Afterwards, I took my drink to a lawn bordering the river, where a young man in his early twenties was sitting, alone, about 20 metres away. He gazed at me as I approached to find a suitable spot to settle. I sat down, facing the river, about ten metres from where he was sitting. He rose up and relocated further away from me as if I was the disease itself.

I sighed. I have seen this several times before, including an alfresco church meeting one evening of last summer. What has happened to us? What has become of our national reputation? What has happened to John Bull, the stoic Brit who does not flinch during a crisis but carries on regardless? The sort of people who would offer a cup of tea to a stranger, right in the midst of the Blitz, when German bombs rained over the city. This Covid-19 pandemic has English Bulldog metamorphosed into Chocolate Teapot, a phrase coined by my PhD friend Andrew.

Indeed. When passing a stranger on the sidewalk, he swerves to avoid passing too close. Another wears a mask while driving alone in his car. Yet another wears a mask out in the street. A marshall asks to put on a mask inside a public facility. A slight rise in infections and another lockdown is on the cards. Any lifting of restrictions appointed on a certain day is delayed further. And so it goes on...

The Riverside, Reading, UK. It's crowded in the Summer.

All these go on here in the UK while I hear or read about the USA, Denmark, and recently, Israel, all making mask-wearing non-compulsory. That is, it's no longer necessary in those three countries to wear masks. At the same time, news comes in about our government offering a five-day "grace period" for Indians and British holidaymakers from India to fly home before the quarantine deadline. And so, infection rises as the Indian variant spreads, thus, "Freedom Day" is delayed by a month. More recently, our Prime Minister is considering admitting up to 2,500 VIPs into England to watch the European Cup Final at Wembley. These Very Important Persons are from amber-coded countries where all other returning travellers must quarantine for ten days after arrival into the UK. These VIPs refuse to quarantine. And I wouldn't be at all surprised that they refuse to take a Covid test either.

Then one wonders why I'm rather hot under the collar?

The day spent in Reading virtually maskless was a social experiment, putting myself at risk of a rebuke from someone in authority. But actually, I got away with it. Nevertheless, while I was both onboard the train and sitting at a table, I made sure that I wasn't sitting close to anyone.

Would I do this again? Really, I don't know. Perhaps, quite likely. However, I need to take heed from the exhortation by the apostle Paul in his New Testament letter to the Romans. In chapter 13, verses 1-8, the apostle instructs us to submit to the authorities, as no authority exists that wasn't established by God, and everyone in authority is a servant of God and he does not bear the sword for nothing.

The Covid marshall at M&S in Reading was a good example. Her stare was a warning to comply and not rebel. She was a servant of God, even if she may not realise this herself. And by complying, nothing else happened.

As a Christian civilian, it's my duty to respect the Government as servants of God. But this does not prevent me from getting uptight when they make rash and apparently stupid decisions that can jeopardise the health and freedom of this country's citizens.

When Past Memories are Demolished

Here am I in the kitchen preparing breakfast for both of us whilst Alex lies sleeping upstairs. What appears to be some kind of scuffle going on outside, I turn towards the curtainless window to investigate, only to see five masked uniformed Police officers staring straight back at me, perhaps as long as ten seconds. They then went to the front door and banged on it.

OPEN UP! THIS IS THE POLICE!

Suddenly, two of the five officers retreated and then lurched forward, breaking the door lock as it crashed open onto the wall of the hallway, making a dent in it. Then the leading officer spoke:

You're under arrest for...

"Honey, what's happening?" came a female voice from upstairs.

Two of the five officers rushed upstairs whilst the others handcuffed me in my own kitchen, just as the kettle began to boil and automatically clicked off. Presently, the two officers escorted my panicking wife down the stairs, still in her nightdress and also handcuffed. Then one of the officers spoke:

You are both under arrest for not wearing a facemask in your own home.

"What's going to happen to us?" Alex asked, hysterically.

You'll be both be taken to the station to face charges.

"What charges?" I asked.

A hundred-pound fine for each of you. Maybe fifty pounds each if you can pay straight away. You should know by now it's illegal not to wear a mask at any time, including in the privacy of your bedroom.

"BUT WHY US?" Alex shouted with hysteria.

Another officer, who looked as if on the point of apologising for the ordeal, then answered,

A tip-off from a neighbour. Between you and me, we know her as a notorious curtain-twitcher. She loves to wag her tongue at both ends over the phone at the slightest opportunity. But we have to take each case seriously and see it through. I'm sorry about all this. Now please come with us to the station.

"Let me collect my wallet of bank cards," I said. "I'll pay the fine if you allow us back home immediately."

Yes, that may be possible.

                                                                      

Is this fiction? Well, I hope so! I dread it to be some prophetic incident of the future. Maybe it might be possible to pay the fine there and then without the need to arrest us, let alone damaging the door and adjoining wall. Indeed, I'm beginning to wonder whether this Coronavirus pandemic is getting out of hand, turning our national precautionary moves into something resembling panic to the level of universal hysteria and leading on to a social environment not unlike that in George Orwell's novel 1984.

Therefore, with an excuse that our grocery stock had to be topped up, on the first day after making facemasks compulsory in all shops and stores, I made my way to our nearby Sainsbury's superstore, with a facemask tucked away in my pocket and toting a wheeled bag. After a short wait in the queue, I slipped on my mask immediately before entering. A little way inside, this uniformed figure stood tall and imposing, no doubt ready to pounce on anyone who dares enter in without a facemask whilst at the same time creating a somewhat unpleasant atmosphere.

Has all this beginning to resemble Orwell's book, 1984? Everybody in the store, both customer and staff members alike wore a mask, and not a single mouth was exposed to public view throughout. Never in my 67 years of living had I ever seen such a phenomenon like this one before. Indeed, during the two World Wars, some fighters had to wear breathing apparatus, not unlike a diver's, and during the late 1950s, I do recall having to cover my nose and mouth with a scarf to keep out the effects of Winter thick fog hanging over the whole city of London, where I recall the exterior of both private and public buildings blackened with soot. Such a depressing sight brought in the Clean Air Act of 1956, but it was a further few years into the sixties when I began to notice London transformed. Indeed, Victoria Station had never looked so clean as newly-built.

But this at present? It's a phenomenon I had never come across before, a doomsday scenario which has, in the past, kept fiction and movie writers busy, but whoever would have thought that all this would become reality? It was while I was thinking about the future and what could happen therein when a video scrolled onto my Facebook wall. It was thirty-minute footage of my old school being demolished.

Rather shocked with sudden unexpectedness, the next morning, I cycled to the site. Fortunately, the closed main gate into the school was manned by a friendly security officer whose vocal accent had made me aware that he was an immigrant. We started talking, and I explained that I was a former pupil, one who attended that school more than half a century earlier. At my request, he explained that for me to enter the grounds with a camera, I need permission from the site superintendent, and the security officer attempted to contact him on my behalf.

He needn't have bothered, because as the gate opened to allow a car to exit, I was beckoned over, and through his window, I received permission to enter the grounds providing the security officer must accompany me. And as such, I took photographs such as this one from a vantage point not accessible to the public:

The demolition of my old school, taken July 23rd, 2020.

The building which is being torn down at the moment is the classroom block. In fact, more than half of it has already gone, including the upper floor classroom where I sat for the registration before morning assembly, as well as spending part of the schoolday gazing at the blackboard in front of all of us as the teacher wrote on it using a white stick of chalk, and each one of us copying what she wrote into our exercise books using a biro. No calculators, let alone computers, existed back then!

There was a stratum of five class levels according to learning ability. For example, in year one there was class 15 for the slowest learners, then class 14, 13, 12 and 11, the latter for the brightest pupils who fell short of passing the Eleven-plus only by a narrow margin. In year two, they were class 25, 24, 23, 22 and 21. Ditto in year three - class 35, 34, 33, 32, and 31. Pupils in class 31 often attained GCE 'A' levels and can (but not often) qualify for University. Classes in the 33 and 32 in the stratum usually leave with GCE 'O' Levels (two which I have from voluntary evening college.) Those in the lower two end up as apprentices and manual labourers. Such was school life in the 1960s.

It was a classroom where I felt that it was more for teasing and outright bullying rather than for learning. Even the school uniform - consisting of a black blazer with a gold shield sewn onto the breast pocket, along with a grey shirt and a striped tie - failed to turn us into juvenile gentlemen. Instead, at the first opportunity of staff absence the boys, in particular, would become mischievous, but with enough tact to avoid getting caught and to face punishment, which in those days was usually corporal, with detention for minor offences.

The tall building to the extreme left of the picture contained the art room on the lower floor and the old science laboratory on the upper floor (the new science laboratory was opened in 1967, one year before I left school in 1968, which is not in the photo.) Also out of the picture, the main hall where we had morning assembly and also served as the lunchtime canteen with two sittings - now stands derelict and awaits demolition. Behind the hall is the old gym, with the department for technical drawing (TD) further on, and the old woodwork dept, with the old metalwork dept behind it. Running parallel is a building which housed the needlework and the housecraft (cooking) classes for the girls. The new wood and metal workshops were opened in 1967 in the same building as the science laboratory, and the new gym opened at a separate building during the same year. All now stand derelict.

Indeed, it was a big school, but in those days a Secondary Modern (later changed to Comprehensive.) It was geared for everyone who failed the eleven-plus, and therefore unable to go to a Grammar school in preparation for University. Instead, the curriculum was generally non-academic and trained pupils in readiness for vocational apprenticeships in craft, mechanical engineering, and for occupations in industry and construction. This became more apparent during TD and with science experiments. These remained on a very simple level. For example, our TD lessons would never reach anywhere near building design. Instead, it centred on a small odd-shaped block of wood with no useful purpose. And then we did not start with TD until we were into our fourth year, which for me was in 1967.

With our science experiments, we became very familiar with the litmus paper, along with creating oxygen and hydrogen gas in the test-tube, as well as carbon dioxide. And the good old Bunsen burner which heated metal to expansion, along with elementary biology. With such simplicity, it became obvious that we would never become scientists, and they seemed to have made sure of that.

It was a kind of school where although uniform was compulsory, during warm weather, boys sometimes, actually quite often, wore their shirts open-neck and without a tie, and staff usually turned a blind eye to this, perhaps unlike the strict dress code characteristic of a Grammar school. And that despite that our physical education master singled me out one morning and demanded why I wasn't wearing a tie. An easy target? Perhaps bad luck of the draw, I think, as well as during a cooler spell outside.

Generally speaking, the school taught us how to be independent bread-winners without high qualifications, although among the top pupils, it was possible to attain a place at University. It has also trained us to be good at team sports, although I was a failure at this. But most of all, the school taught us to respect our and one another's freedoms.

But as I watch the demolition site in progress, I cannot help feel a sense of sadness. A passing of something, a passing of memories, a passing of something which linked to my youth, now seemingly long gone into the aeons of the past. However, what I haven't said so far is that a brand new classroom block had just opened, a large one, and that will be the new school. It has made me realise that the closure and demolition of the original school must directly be linked to the decline of the manufacturing industry along with all the craft and trade apprenticeships which were connected to it.

School lab classic, the Bunsen burner.

Nowadays, with the advance of high technology, the school must reflect this, and train its students accordingly. Gone are those woodwork and metalwork depts, along with housecraft and needlework. In comes high-tech which must meet our present society. I guess the demolition marked the end of one era and the beginning of the next, where 1984-style (temporary) surveillance of the facemask will take over our freedoms.

The Police arrest in our homes will never happen, at least not here in Britain or Europe. But as one who claims to know God and to read the Bible, to deliberately refuse to wear a facemask in disobedience to the Government's instructions to halt the spread of the virus, is to rebel against God. And that is something I don't want to do, not after what His Son Jesus Christ went through, out of his love for us.

Therefore I will continue to wear a facemask at all the venues where it's required. After all, society might be changing, but The Lord is the same yesterday as he is today, and will be the same forever. He'll never change.