The Need for Recognition.

Earlier in the week, I took a train to Oxford. Two trains, actually, with the need to change trains at Reading. This was one of those mid-week trips I often take, "to have lunch", as from time to time I go either to Reading or even to London to mull over my thoughts in a cafe, usually, the one inbuilt on the upper floor of a Marks & Spencer department store. Such is the life of one retired from paid work.

A life to be envied or pitied? That's a matter of each individual's opinion. But after a sumptuous meal, I wandered to a nearby shopping mall boasting a rooftop terrace. Among the city's soaring spires, I saw a phenomenon which, for a moment fooled me, until I looked at it more thoroughly.

It was a cloud formation just over the horizon. But the grey hue over a light background gave an impression of a distant estuary with a coastline backed by hilly terrain. It was so realistic, that indeed, for a moment, I was fooled into believing that the city of Oxford looked over a distant river estuary. 

The ghost estuary behind Oxford.

But by checking any map of the UK, it's obvious that the city is totally landlocked and located just south of the Midlands, although the River Thames does pass through it, making that stretch of the river popular with local canoeists and punters.

Afterwards, I found myself strolling along Broad Street along the south face of Balliol College, one of many institutions making up the University of Oxford. Just opposite its entrance, a shallow pothole in the road marks the exact site of the 1555 martyrdom of Anglican bishops Nicholas Ridley and Hugh Latimer. For me personally, this was the most outstanding event in Church history, followed in 1556 by the death of Anglican archbishop Thomas Cranmer who was also the author of the Book of Common Prayer, read in English churches for centuries afterwards. All three were burned alive on the same site for testifying the truthfulness of the Bible.

Although I have always admired such believers who prefer to give their lives to the fire rather than renounce the Bible or deny its truthfulness and historicity, there are times I can feel overwhelmed. From the site of the pothole, I look directly up to the hazy-blue sky and called out to God, feeling somewhat ashamed of my own worries and daily problems that seem paltry by comparison, and I ask for the same level of courage should I ever have to face martyrdom.

As I walk along the historic streets of the city, I watch those passing by predominantly young men and assume that one day they will boast of their alumni at Oxford University. Even our present Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, was once a student at Balliol College, as BBC foreign correspondent Mark Lowen, broadcasters Peter Snow and his son, Dan Snow, fellow broadcaster Robert Peston, Professor Richard Dawkins, and many others whose alumni served as the stepping stone to greatness.

I pause, look around and let out a sigh. Oh, how I wish that I succeded academically as these men did. How, from boyhood, have I longed to have made my late parents proud of me! Instead, what they did was to compare me with their neighbour's two sons who were both a little older and considerably brighter, and then to refer to me as an idiot, dim, and worst of all, those dreadful Italian words were directed at me by Mum - maledetto di Dio - cursed of God and destined for Hell. When told this every time I did or said something amiss or without proper forethought, sooner or later, I grew up to believe it to be all true. My sense of self-worth and self-esteem was rock bottom and I accepted all this as an indisputable fact, confirmed by my schoolmates, even our school teachers - to whom I was classed as below average - and later, by my work colleagues. Thus, it must be all true!

I wonder how many men think of themselves the same way I thought about myself? As author and BBC presenter, Simon Reeve wrote in his autobiography that the biggest killer in the UK amongst men is suicide. And he has the right to know. He wrote that as a late teenager, he stood on a footbridge spanning a busy motorway in West London, ready to jump. Just then, a passing truck honked a long blast - a sound that brought him to his senses as he pulled himself away from the edge. Reeve is one of a very rare species who eventually made his way to greatness without attending a Public School or University.

Have you ever had to stand in one long line, side by side, at the school football pitch at the start of the games session? Then the master picked out two team captains, and then it was left for the two boys to select their team players. I was always the last one remaining, and I had to join the team whose captain was unfortunate enough to watch me amber along to his side, whereafter I was invisible, totally ignored.

But sport as a whole I had never disliked. It's so fortunate that such activity covers a very wide range of disciplines, including contests against the clock. And in the early eighties, I put my version of a sport to practical use.

Exact spot of the martyrs' execution, Oxford.

Back in 1982, a friend invited me to a hospital radio studio, a small room tucked under the maternity ward building of Heatherwood Hospital in Ascot, the town renowned for its royal racecourse. Hospital radio is a very British institution, normally run by the League of Friends, a charity that gives moral support to in-patients, especially those who are long-stays. Actually, it wasn't a radio in the proper sense, but a cable connection to each of the detachable cell phone-like devices set beside each bed. With each of these, the patient listens to the radio via their earphones.

I became a member of the Friday crew, at first, too many of us to fit into such a small room. Each one of us had just 35 minutes to sit at the console, nicknamed Alice - and he was free to air his voice into the microphone, to be heard by every patient across the whole hospital who had tuned in. Thus, the studio became a cauldron of heated egos, each one of us vying for recognition, a prelude to fame, as a radio presenter, usually mislabeled as disc jockeys, or simply jocks for short.

It was known that hospital radio was a pathway for presenting on national radio, whether it's the BBC or commercial radio. We had one chap who was so vaingloriously ambitious and wanted to broadcast on the BBC, that he made his own cassette recording of his presentation, and submitted it to both the BBC and commercial radio stations. However, he was rejected by all of them and he left our crew without ever returning. 

All this was in the days of the vinyl, long before CDs came into fashion, let alone the computer or the Internet. On one side of the console, there were two manual turntables. While the record on one of them was playing, the other one was cued, ready for the music to begin at the right moment. On one side of the room was the record library. a large cabinet of shelves holding hundreds of albums and singles. Thus, each turntable was twin-speed, 33 RPM for the albums and 45 RPM for the singles (I thought I give this info for the benefit of those born after the year 1995.)

Thus, a common mistake was forgetting to adjust the speed of the turntable after the music had begun. There were times when, even unaware of the presenter's attention, either a single churned out its tune too slowly or an album was whizzing its contents too quickly. Thus the term Roger the Bodger was coined by me, after the Beano comic character and became something of a laughable joke.

The record library gave a good insight into human psychology, even if unwittingly. The largest number of albums taking up the shelves were of solo male singers, such as Adam Faith, Cliff Richard, Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, Rolf Harris, Val Doonican, Gene Pitney - to name a few. Fewer in numbers were male group vocals, such as Beatles, Rolling Stones, Tremeloes, Small Faces, Beach Boys, etc. Female vocals both solo and groups, were considerably fewer, along with the classical albums. All this is a good indication that the need for recognition is found more strongly among males.   

As this strong desire for recognition, especially among males, was reflected by the size of the record stack, so in the studio, the sense of competition was felt, with one teenage presenter, whose mother was a nurse at the hospital, preceded the rest of us. Thus, he referred to himself as the senior jockey, despite his young age. It was due to him that I unintentionally took on the role of detective, after watching him steal singles from the library after reports of records going missing throughout the preceding months.

Eventually, after my initial friend who invited me in the first place left the crew due to his job schedule, I was assigned the team leader by the charity chairman. I narrowed the number of presenters to just three, to cover the full three hours from 7.00-10.00 pm. That is a full hour at the microphone for each of us.

However, the charity eventually ran short of funding. Therefore, by collecting sponsors from both my window cleaning customers and from church friends, I ran the Bracknell Half Marathon to contribute towards rebalancing the charity's funds. Since several attempts had to be made, I ran the race three times, one event a year, to contribute to the restoration of the fund. I also ran a stall at a local fete to raise further funds to put the studio and the charity back on track.

Eventually, in 1985, I left Radio Heatherwood, with myself assigning the keys as team leader to my successor, a friend from church who had joined our crew and was trained up mainly by the two of us. Leaving him to take the reins, I moved on to join Thames Valley Triathletes, based in Reading, as a follow-up from the half marathons I completed.

At Radio Heatherwood studio, taken 1985.

My tale as a triathlete is another story, to which space won't allow me to detail here. Suffice to say, I enjoyed competing in the combined Swim-Cycle-Run events held across the country. Some of these events required an overnight stay at a hotel or even a backpacker's hostel. But not only had I found these events a challenge to my physical side but also to both mental and emotional integrity.

But our greatest achievement was accomplished by bringing the Triathlon into Bracknell, placing our hometown on the world triathlon map. Details on how that was accomplished have already been written in one of my older blogs, Alan Sugar at the Kerith? Thanks, Ascot Baptist. A direct link is given below.

If you see how my blog layout had evolved between 2011 and the present, that's another reason not to feel worthless. Perseverance is what I love doing - which is writing - will lead to such improvements.

Finally, doing everything for the glory of God is the underlying secret behind all issues concerning self-esteem. 

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

*To extract the blog from the archives, Alan Sugar at the Kerith? Click here

Travel Series: Importance of Travel

During the late nineties, and not long before I met and married my beloved, whenever I visited my parents for Sunday lunch, I was frequently asked:

If you had a chance, where would you prefer to live, Australia or California? 

To which I would reply, I'm not sure. Each is different.

Indeed they are. I guess such talk had much to do with the longest non-stop flight I had ever taken: The cross-Pacific route from Sydney to Los Angeles, which made it into the Guinness Book of Records for being the world's longest continuous commercial flight. Thirteen hours in the sky altogether, taking off from Sydney at 17.30 hours and landing in LA at 13.30 hours on the same day. There is something unique about crossing the International Date Line which has made me wonder about the imaginations those early marine navigators might have had.

The Sydney-Los Angeles flight is no longer featured in The Guinness Book of Records. That had been replaced with the New York-Johannesburg flight, and I believe the London-Sydney or even to Aukland will hold the honour in the future - if it doesn't already.

My life's shortest flight was back-to-back with my longest. It was a thirty-minute hop from Los Angeles to San Diego, which I was willing to pay extra by using the LAX airport as the interchange, rather than making a long and tiring journey across the city to the Greyhound Bus terminal on East 7th Street. At least, when arriving at this semi-tropical city, there was no Passport Control, and I found myself out on the street on a hot day after collecting my rucksack from the tiny luggage carousel.

But to answer my parent's question, Australia or California? After experiencing recent health problems between my wife and myself, the answer to that would be more obvious: Australia, as I have heard stories of British tourists in the past having to sell their homes to pay for healthcare in the USA, after failing to take up a Health Insurance policy for foreign visitors.

In addition, off the coast of Queensland lies the Great Barrier Reef, which is a marine biologist's paradise. But this part of the world, especially around the Cairns area, is subject to Summer monsoons whilst southern California enjoys a balmier year-round climate. Although just off the coast of La Jolla, just north of San Diego, there is a small diving area. However, it's the enormous Great Barrier Reef which is one of the Wonders of the natural world, and such remains unbeatable. However, North America needn't feel missed out. It boasts at least two Natural Wonders: Niagara Falls and Salt Lake, both I visited in 1977, and the Grand Canyon, visited in 1978 and 1995 respectively.

And yes, health. I learned that there is an Australian version of the NHS, although without health insurance, as a foreign visitor, had anything happened, I would have had to pay for care, due to not being a citizen. The same applies here in the UK for all foreign tourists. Hence, whenever I leave the UK, I was always covered.

Here I will ask: When and how did it all begin? As a boy, I was sent out by Mum on my own on shopping errands. A good opportunity to learn about buying and selling from a young age and to realise, according to her, that nothing in this world is free. But such trips aroused curiosity when it comes to checking out certain places, and I was still 9-10 years old when I was able to find my own way from Pimlico to South Kensington on foot, while I was fully intrigued by the dinosaur remains displayed at the Natural History Museum.

Those were the days of innocence. There was nothing amiss about a boy walking along the street alone. I knew the Highway Code well enough. Despite a much thinner traffic density on the roads, I was aware of the dangers and my parents realised this. As for paedophile, a source of concern for many parents at present, this actual word did not exist back in the early 1960s, nevertheless, Mum always warned me before each trip not to talk to strangers. And that was all.

Dad owned a Collins World Atlas, which was far more in my hands than his. Each country was shown in a different colour from the others, with the emphasis on the British Empire, since these colonies always appeared in red. This colour-coding helped me learn which country was part of the Empire and which weren't. Furthermore, the headmaster of our primary school had a daughter (or a niece) who was sailing around the world. He gave our class a lecture on her experience. This was followed by dishing out a world map in three separate sheets, and our task was to tape these sheets together in the right order. Although very simple, apparently, I was the only one who got it right, thanks to Dad's atlas, and I was commended by the headmaster.

Furthermore, he put my work up on display in the school hall, to be seen by everyone. My interest in Travel became established from that point on. This climaxed in the Round the World trip, completed in 1997, some 35 years after showing the completed map to the headmaster.*

As I sat as a sole occupant of a row of four seats inside a sealed bottle suspended some 39,000 feet 11,900 metres in the air by a pair of wings, I thought about how fortunate I was, as the plane was on a firm course to Singapore from London. There are, I believe, reasons why I was on board that airline in the first place, one or two, psychological. True, I wanted to see the world while I had the opportunity. But this particular trip had its beginnings from a talk I had with an Australian bricklayer in our shared dormitory while I was staying at a backpacker's hostel in downtown San Diego two years earlier in 1995. After sharing with me some details about his home country, I've developed a keenness to visit this island continent for myself.

The timing couldn't be more perfect. Around 1995, a deal was made between British Airways and Qantas Airways to help repatriate Aussies living in the UK back to their homeland. However, this also provided a golden opportunity for us British nationals to fly halfway around the world for a very cheap price - in the hundreds of pounds rather than the usual thousands.

Night view of Merlion, Singapore, taken 1997.

Another psychological reason was that while most of my generation were married with children, I was still single, and that had endured into my late forties. Furthermore, church life was centred mainly on the family, and "men's meetings" usually delivered talks about the ins and outs of marriage and the family, and there was also a "singles group" which, oddly enough, was categorised as separate from the "adults." So, grown-up single people aren't adults? Not so edifying, especially from back in the Spring of 1972, then aged 19, my girlfriend terminated our year-long relationship. I had no other female companion until I met my present wife towards the end of 1998. Such a long time as an adult singleton - over 26 years - provided opportunities to partake in many interesting activities, including travel.

What a shock I once received when, not that long after leaving school, I saw an ex-classmate with his wife and pushing a pram - while I was still living with my parents. Indeed, the early seventies was an era when it was apparent that the average age for marriage was barely out of the teens, and being "left on the shelf" is the fertile ground for developing an inferiority complex, a feeling of personal failure. Especially if I didn't do that well at school, and others around me have graduated, paired up, and married. Travel provides a wonderful antidote to low self-esteem.

During my time as a single member of a church fellowship, Christians who were slightly younger than me, but had graduated, landed good jobs and found wives, had that tendency to patronise whenever in conversation. This might have been exacerbated by the awareness of my vocal accent which gives the impression of low intelligence, even if a psychologist who analysed my IQ in 2005 had given me an above-average rating.

I have found that travel has given a boost to my self-esteem, which was further heightened by our marriage. However, it seems that the purpose of the soul is to find complete fulfilment in loving someone else, fulfilling their lives and making them feel loved, worthy and happy. At the same time, knowing that you are loved, respected and thought worthy by your nearest and dearest is, I think, the strongest antidote for low self-esteem.

But I didn't marry until I was 47 years old. In the meantime, I found travel to be a morale booster and an antidote against the feeling and awareness of low self-esteem. Travel comes in all kinds, and some are suited to one type more than others. For example, I have found that young, middle-class Christians are drawn towards group travel, such as Oak Hall, a Christian travel agency dealing with escorted tours overseas. Much to my surprise, over the years, I have found that Oak Hall to be very popular among graduate Christian singles, and it's still popular now. This gives me the impression that Christians shun independent backpacking as if such activity is associated with the hippy movement.

Far from it. Backpacking carries responsibilities, including careful budgeting and avoiding unnecessary expense. For example, avoid eating at a posh restaurant and staying at a 5-star hotel, where a hostel with shared dormitories and equipped with a member's kitchen will work wonders on the budget. Like this, I was able to add an extra two weeks on the 1997 Round-the-World trip, extending it from the original eight weeks to ten weeks, when I saw that my funds were being spent more slowly than originally calculated. Even afterwards, I returned home with some change.

Also, something is exhilarating in find a hotel or hostel under your own steam and asking for a room or bed after arriving at a new destination. And then deciding how long you want to stay at that location without anyone telling you that time is up and we all need to move on, usually on a rigid and inflexible schedule.

Also with people, fellow backpackers. Like the time I was in the small member's kitchen at a Singapore hostel. A tall, muscular Dutchman and I got talking, sharing our travel experiences. He flew out to Singapore for a few days, and he was due to fly back home. I told him of my plans to fly onward to Australia in a few days after arriving from London. The next morning he acted with a degree of hostility and ordered me to look after an item of his while he was in the bathroom. Feeling rebutted, I just walked out of the room, onto the street. Who was he to order me about? Oh well, that's travel.

Esplanade at Port Douglas, Queensland, 1997.

Or after arriving at Arlie Beach Backpacker's in Queensland, the setting off point for the Whitsunday Islands. A staff member and I played table tennis one warm evening. He won. I lost. Then he tells me that this was the first game he ever played. Yes, I was gutted! Or the time when, at Coffs Harbour Hostel in New South Wales, I was thrashed at the pool table by an aggressive young female who seems to take delight in humiliating men. Lesson to learn: stay away from competitive sports! Or the one evening at Byron Bay Hostel, also in NSW. Here, I was sitting on the sofa of the lounge and I got talking to this young lady sitting next to me. Then this chap arrives, and sitting on the other side of her from me, he began to dominate the conversation with every effort to shut me out. He succeeded. I just walked off and made my way to the beach to gaze at the southern starry sky, leaving those two to it.

I guess that's what travel is all about - an adventure. But to have mountains, you also need valleys. Downers as well as uppers. But in all, it's all a great, self esteem-enhancing experience.

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

*For greater detail of this fascinating experience, click here.

The Guy With A Tablet.

This week I had to take my partially disabled wife Alex to Wandsworth in London for an assessment, pre-arranged by appointment. Getting there was no real issue. Outside rush hour, the train was sparsely occupied while she remained in her wheelchair throughout the whole journey. The interview itself lasted about eighty-ninety minutes. Afterwards, we had a look around at the huge gleaming indoor shopping mall, beautifully constructed, which rejuvenated this formerly ugly working-class district once blackened with soot from nearby heavy industry, where I remember walking through with my former girlfriend way back in 1971. Without having any wonderful memories of the area, to re-visit after more than forty years was indeed a culture shock.

Bygone Wandsworth

But it was the return journey which had inspired me to write. Being the start of the evening rush hour, far more seats in the train were taken, except one which was right by the doors, allowing me to sit while holding my wife's hand as she remained sitting in her wheelchair. Directly in front of me were two male passengers. Both looking to be in their late twenties or early thirties. The one by the window had longish hair, sported a moustache, and was dressed casually with a shirt open at the neck. The other, next to the central aisle and sitting right next to the first, was a businessman dressed in suit and tie, and concentrating hard on his tablet. I was able to have occasional glances at his screen, which looked as though he was flicking through one image after another. Despite myself cracking jokes which brought bursts of laughter from Alex, (to lift her morale) this fellow remained stern-looking as he kept on gazing at his tablet.

About halfway through the journey, Alex's wheelchair rolled as the train braked. I rose up to reorient it to its former position. It was then that the casually-dressed fellow offered to help my wife out of the train as it approached the station. I explained with thanks that we still had a considerable length of travel left. Finally, at our stop, the guy with the long hair took my hint, and immediately arose to help lift the chair out of the train, onto the platform. Much to our surprise, the businessman rose up too, and contributed his effort in lifting of the wheelchair. Then they both returned to their seats.

"How helpful these two were." Alex commented afterwards. "I wish God's blessing for both of them."

As I saw it, it was the casual-dressed chap who had the genuine concern for Alex's welfare, as he had initially made the offer entirely out of his own free will. He was also the first to arise, despite sitting further away from the central aisle. It wouldn't have surprised me at all if the smart fellow contributed out of a pricked conscience rather than out of genuine kindness.

Train journeys. I have read a number of stories of what goes on within a train when on the move. Furthermore, I can compare such journeys with the equivalent made in Italy, or even crossing France on my way to Italy - a favourite way to travel back in the early 1970's with the use of the good old-fashioned boat-trains. One such story appeared in the national newspaper. It had taken place sometime in the eighties or early nineties, when the newly-invented cell phone was as cumbersome as a brick, and looked rather like a brick, too. But it was a gadget that carried a very high status symbol. It was used almost exclusively by the yuppie, an acronymic word for Young Urban Professional, an oft-used term prevalent in the Thatcher years of the 1980's before slowly sinking into semantic oblivion by the mid-nineties. Whenever self-esteem was analysed in those days, the yuppie with his bulky mobile phone, was the yardstick with which one's social status was measured by anyone who thought was worth his salt.

So on that particular evening rush hour, this young, smartly dressed passenger sounded very impressive as he kept his business conversation going while the train he was sitting in kept rolling out of London. As he was talking about trading of stocks and how various companies and businesses were affected by what took place in the Stock Exchange, suddenly someone burst into the coach he was in from the adjoining carriage with a desperate plea for anyone with a cellphone to come and attend a passenger who has fallen ill. Everyone in the packed carriage pointed to the young businessman, who blushed with embarrassment when forced to confess that his phone was, all throughout that time, switched off, due to its flat battery in need of recharging.

Then there was another occasion, at another time and place, and also reported in the Media, of a "yuppie" constantly talking business in his cellphone for a prolonged period of time. So much so, that the fellow sitting opposite angrily opened the window, quickly grabbed the phone out of the young man's grasp, then threw it out of the window just as the train passed over a bridge spanning a river. Everyone within view cheered.

Other related instances have been reported, not necessarily on the train. One occasion involved a staff member of a cruise liner being interviewed by a reporter. This sailor related about how his passengers, all of upper-middle to upper class, changed behaviour after boarding, "going all nautical", and even calling down Bon Voyage to the people waving up to them from the pier below.

"And I always thought it was the other way round." the crew member protested. "Then there is the contest on who would sit at the Captain's Table during supper. Everybody wants to sit at the Captain's Table, and each vie hard for the opportunity." The sailor continued, "They are not sitting at the table for the conversation, you understand. They are there to be seen." *

I suppose that sums it all up. They are there to be seen. Very much like another story, this time about the owner of a posh restaurant. "There was a time when nobody wanted to dine under the alcove," the owner explained. "Their table was rather concealed, it was difficult to spot. But we came up with the idea of raising the floor level under the alcove by installing a platform. Now everybody is fighting for the table under the alcove!" *

Real life stories, all of them true, which brings me back to the smartly dressed businessman sitting in front on the train home. As he concentrated hard on his tablet, he looked to all within the train to be seriously engrossed in some business transaction. But more than likely he wanted to be seen as an aspiring executive rather than actually grappling through a difficult deal. Which has brought to mind the case of one City gent commuting into London with a highbrow newspaper The Financial Times (a broadsheet) held completely to obscure him from all the other train passengers - until a copy of The Sun (a tabloid aimed more for the commoner) fell onto his lap in full view of all those whom such an incident must have delighted. Too bad it wasn't the children's comic The Beano!

And I bet there are many other identical or similar incidents of this kind happening all the time. What is it about us all who are crying out for public respect, to be held to a high vocational esteem, and to be considered intelligent and well-educated? Is office life so demanding that having a laptop open while sitting in the train a life-or-death necessity? In addition, does he then sit in front of the computer at home, burning the candle at both ends, until finally retiring to bed in the twilight hours of the following morning? Or is he just putting on a public show to be seen? And furthermore, what is it about our English culture that obliges us to sit in a train in stony silence? Such as not daring to greet the stranger sitting next to you, or directly opposite? Like at one occasion when a friend and I found ourselves in a packed evening rush hour train pulling out of London Blackfriars, and while I carried on talking, my friend said, rather loudly,
Quiet, Frank. You'll wake up the dead!

Not the kind of words to say back in 1973, while sitting in an international express from Paris Gare de Lyon to Roma Termini. After a fast sprint to Dijon, the next stop was Chambery, not that far from the Italian frontier. It was here that a group of Italian young men boarded the train, and took their seats in the same compartment I was occupying, served by a corridor which ran alongside all the compartments.

The fact that the stop at Chambery was during the small hours of the night, with daybreak guaranteed by the time we stopped at Italy's first station Bardonecchia, failed to quieten the continuous torrent of friendly conversation which filled the compartment with such a cheerful (if not annoying) atmosphere. Something totally unknown to British Rail in its day! But it was during the following year, in 1974, where I found myself on a very similar backpacking journey, on a train from Foggia, near the east coast of Italy. Here I sat next to a young man of about my age, and it wasn't long before a conversation got going, which turned two strangers into firm friends. At Naples, where the train terminated, he made sure I was settled in my hotel before agreeing to meet up two days later, where he took me, along with a couple of other friends of his, to a beauty spot up on one of the mountains surrounding Naples. As far as I'm aware, for all the miles traveled on British trains throughout my lifetime, I have never found myself conversing with a stranger, let alone making friends. Threatened by a group of youths sitting across the aisle - yes, on one occasion at Ascot. But never the opportunity to make friends.

I can't help wondering: If the Lord Jesus Christ was ministering among us now, and he had to take a morning commute into London, how would he behave? Interesting point, really, coming to think of it. Would he be just like all Englishmen, sitting stoically like a zombie? Or make an effort to interact, resulting in people responding and receiving his love God has for them all?

Hmm, interesting question.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Brian Moynahan, Fool's Paradise, Pan Books, 1983.

Lord, I Just Don't Have It!

Despite that too many people in this country play down the Bible, calling it a book of myths, fiction, or merely a collection of allegorical stories to boost morality, there is some advice which, to be honest, can be astonishingly accurate. It is considered important enough to be recorded twice: in Matthew 23:12 and Luke 14:11, and the wording is exactly the same in both cases - 

For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.

Even if it is believed that the writers of the New Testament has wildly exaggerated their "miracles" Jesus said to have performed to add a bit of colour to what might otherwise been dull documentation, nothing could have brought out the truthfulness of the advice given than by watching Alan Sugar's The Apprentice, (the British version of The Apprentice USA, with Donald Trump.) What makes this business selection process such popular entertainment is the continual humbling of the eighteen candidates, each vying for the £250,000 investment prize to launch a new business. Each of these candidates - nine men and nine women - have enormous egos, and believing that they can make themselves multi-millionaires, even billionaires by investing the prize money to start a new enterprise which would attract customers galore. Their self confidence, arrogant "me first" attitude becomes a sitting duck for the most appalling ridicule, the butt of jokes, and ongoing teasing. One male candidate boasted that he is the modern Alexander the Great, out to conquer the world of business and enterprise. As things turned out, he was the first of the eighteen to be fired.

Apprentice candidates in the Boardroom

Yeah, right...

At the end of each episode, when the fired candidate walks solemnly out of the studio, the national population watches with glee, a degree of gloating in which lies the expression, serves him right. Not quite so high and mighty now - as melancholic music plays over the defeated candidate as he or she climbs into one of Sugar's limousines to be driven home. But none of this deters the fierce pride and competitiveness among those who return to the house. Instead, these remaining candidates looks to me to be the very backbone of Britain - London and the Home Counties in particular. This was aptly demonstrated a few years ago when the male team named itself Team Empire. Indeed to conquer the world of trade and enterprise, and to hold dominance.

This sort of oozing self-confidence has made me wonder if church leaders would vie to have such a candidate stand at the pulpit on a Sunday morning. There is something intrinsically alluring about having a fellow in a business suit delivering a preach - whether it's expounding the Bible, giving an exhortation, or merely testifying of his missionary accomplishment. For some reason or another, a chap who wears a suit to work depicts status, a good education, along with a mental and emotional capacity to hold down a profession carrying responsibilities - and is perceived by church leaders as the only kind of vessel from whom the Holy Spirit can minister to the listening congregation.  

The best teacher is experience itself. One example of this occurred in 1997, soon after returning home from a ten-week Round-the-World trip. As I stood at the front to testify about my travel experience, I made a mention about the Second Advent of Christ as King, suggesting that this may be soon in human history. After the service was over, I asked a friend why he stood up in defense of my speech. His answer was that he became flustered by the whispering among the seats behind. They were asking among themselves how could I possibly have any knowledge of eschatology if I was a mere labourer, who earned a living cleaning windows. Indeed, manual labour and higher education certainly don't mix! Or for that matter, a few years earlier when our Elders (not with us any more) refused to let me teach a class, in favour of someone who worked in an office. 

But does one with a higher education really make a better vessel for the Holy Spirit? As was the case of one graduate who I know reasonably well. Here was someone young enough to be my son, yet with a much higher level of education than myself and with a far more eloquent speech to match, delivering a preach about Enoch, the seventh generation from Adam. He opened with a statement that, according to his studies, around four thousand years separated the Flood from Creation. I thought, What? Where did he get that from?

After the service, upon my request, he explained that our use of Greek numerology was very different from that of the Hebrew language. Indeed, that is true. The numbers in Hebrew are represented by the letters of its alphabet. But than again, it looks to me that the ancient Greeks did not use numbers. Instead, the measure of quantity was written in words. One good example is found in Revelation 7:4 which in the Greek reads: Hekaton tesserakonta tessares chiliades - quite a mouthful really, just to say 144,000. But I think the point is missed here. Really, no matter how the quantity is expressed, 2+2, as far as I understand, will always be 4. The real issue lies in the number of years between the birth of Enoch's son - Methuselah - and the Flood itself. It is not that difficult to work out. Methuselah was born during the 65th year of Enoch's life. When Methuselah was 187 years, his son Lamech was born. After the birth of Lamech, the narrator then stated that Methuselah lived a further 782 years, making a total lifespan of  969 years.

When Lamech lived 182 years, he became the father of Noah. Lamech lived a further 595 years before he died, making his total lifespan of 777 years. The interesting case I find here that if Methuselah lived for 782 years after the birth of his son Lamech, then the father outlived his own son by five years. Now if the narration has any credibility, Noah was born 369 years into Methuselah's life. If Noah's grandfather lived to 969 years altogether, than on the day he died, Noah must have been 600 years old already. And according to Genesis 7:6, that was his age when the Flood came.

The real punch to all this is the actual meaning of the name Methuselah. It literally means When I die, the waters will come. This seems to me that while his father Enoch was alive, God himself instructed him to name his son with a prophetic name. There remains the question of the period between Creation and the Flood. Just add all the numbers of the father's years when each son was born. And including the age of 600 years of Noah's life, this brings the total of 1,656 years separating the Flood from Creation.

Am I very pedantic? Why am I so engrossed with such detail? As I myself admitted to the graduate. This is not to show how clever I am, for it does not take a rocket scientist just to add up a few numbers. Rather it shows how factual the Bible really is, and its ancient writers had a far more advanced mathematical knowhow than many of us wish to give credit for. What I have read in the past, during the days of Abraham, children attending school at ancient Ur were learning about the square root, the cubic root, geometry and other mathematical wonders. Transport such a child through time to the present, and I would not be at all surprised if he would make a successful graduate at Oxford. Such a little fact as this puts paid to any idea that modern grads of the present are any way academically superior!

For everybody who exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted. The trouble with the Western world, including Britain and its church leaders, is that those who have exalted themselves would be exalted even more. Great institutions such as Oxford and Cambridge Universities, two of the finest centres for education in the UK, if not the world, provides a constant pool of candidates ready to take on the mantle of full time church leadership. It does not matter whether the graduate is a true believer or not. If he had passed his exams for a doctorate, then the churches would be more than keen to thrust him into leadership.

Am I pursuing church leadership? By no means, as I have never testified of the Holy Spirit leading me in such a direction. But I have exhorted others in home groups for quite a number of occasions. To be realistic, church leadership is not for me at all. Rather, what I really need is for the Holy Spirit to fill my soul with agape love for others. And it is here that I fail, along with everybody else. There are a few believers who has taken a dislike to me. Not many, just a few, and a few too many. One example is when a request a friendship connection on Facebook with another believer, and in response he blocks my request rather than simply say "No." This leads me to search my conscience, to see whether I might have created some issues with him. Nothing. My conscience is as clear as crystal.

I ponder whether I am even an embarrassment to these middle class believers. For example, my wife assures me that "I look gorgeous" - and I know for sure she means it wholeheartedly. But as I see it, both the mirror and camera disagrees. I also have a peculiar accent in speaking. Therefore I would shy away from hearing my own voice recorded on tape or video. This gives the impression that I'm a very slow learner, having a low I.Q, incredibly gullible, easily fooled, therefore making me an easy target for potential fraudsters. Furthermore, I am aware that I have mild autism, which impares my verbal communication skills, leaving other believers with difficulty in fellowshipping with me.

I have a need which I'm fully aware of. Not a need for a higher level of education, status, fame, or riches - but in need of God himself. The agape love of God, and such divine love flowing out to others. Not at all easy when I don't think highly of myself. But the need is there. The Lord God - Majestic, Almighty, my Rock and my Fortress. Indeed, in my flesh I shall see God. With my eyes, my own eyes, and not with the eyes of another, I will see Him stand upon the mount. I think this is true humbleness - recognising my own emptiness and seeing how much I need the Lord for everything, including salvation, and then giving credit to him for all the strengths I do have. The same as Abraham referring to himself as dust and ashes, David seeing himself as a flea, and Isaiah crying out, "I am undone".

And how much I long to see this same train of thinking and believing sitting in the hearts of everyone, especially in the household of God. If everyone becomes aware of this need, then all criticism, rejection and judgement would melt away. It's called, standing under the shadow of the Cross. I am in desperate need of it, along with everyone in my fellowship, and in all churches worldwide.

If that was to happen, I can guarantee that the BBC's The Apprentice would vanish like a dream does when the sleeper suddenly wakes up.  

By The Grace of God...

Summer is here, a time of the year when there is an air of a jollier mood being felt across our part of the world  - as the kids prepare to take a long break from school, and families turn their attention to the airports, perhaps feeling a degree of tension in their hope that no industrial strikes, political catastrophes, or even a natural disaster, would disrupt their well-earned getaways which had been planned and arranged since soon after last Christmas, which during the past six or seven months involved meticulous budgeting and saving. And I can attest to all that. Just a few years ago a volcano way up in Iceland blew its top. The cloud and ashes drifting south towards the UK caused all flights to be cancelled, long haul as well as short, and for over a week at least, if I remember, thousands of holidays and weekend getaways were ruined. And that was the result of a minor crater. I dread what would have been the consequence had it been its larger neighbour which had erupted, a possibility which many volcanologists hold as imminent.

 

But industrial disputes were the worst bane for someone stuck at the airport departure lounge. I will never forget 1978. That first Saturday in August of that year the French Air Traffic Control staff decided to strike, right at the very peak when families, group of friends, couples, and individuals, were ready to fly to European destinations, particularly Spain, in those days the chief holiday destination for sunshine breaks outside the UK. But the mid-seventies also saw the beginning of a revolution in air travel. If I recall, it was in 1976 that British entrepreneur Freddie Laker had opened the door for commoners to fly across the Atlantic Ocean on a cheap airfare. And competition soon established itself, so much so that poor Laker went bust in the early 1980s. But low-fare flights across the Pond remained established, no longer a privilege reserved for the chosen few.

 

But by 1978 I had already experienced my first transAtlantic flight the previous year, in 1977 when I flew to Toronto from London Gatwick. I recall the hugs I gave to my parents at the airport just before check-in, in anticipation of such a long distance to cover entirely on my own, with the nerve-racking yet exciting experience of standing at the Niagara Falls just a few days later. So by the following year, I wanted to return to North America to see the Grand Canyon in particular.

 

There was confusion around, caused by the strike, when my flight to New York was announced and boarding was now commencing. I made my way to the gate from the departure lounge. There was a crowd of people at the very next gate to mine, not looking too happy. Then the announcement echoed through the wide, glass-panelled corridor. Would all passengers for the such-and-such flight to Spain please return to the departure lounge. As the crowd of people at the next gate began to saunter back to the lounge, there was an eerie, spine-tingling scream. It was from a young man, about my age or slightly younger, whose pent up feelings of anger and frustration were released in a demonic- sounding vocal blast, no doubt, something very similar to be heard in a lunatic asylum. But as they made their way back to the lounge, at our gate we all boarded our 'plane on time, and take-off was on time as well, as the French strike did not affect flights to America.

 

 

As the British coastline well below us receded to make way for the ocean, I was still trembling over the young man's scream. But I could not blame him. Had I been in his shoes, I would have been equally frustrated, but most likely without the drama. What I have heard, that particular group should have taken off some seven or eight hours earlier, for a dawn arrival at their destination. Instead, they were called to the gate several times throughout the small hours, only to be told to return to the lounge. So his expression of rage was no surprise to me, after working hard and saving up for his dream getaway, his morning of departure was ruined by foreign union power. Little wonder that the Tories won the General Election just a year later with Margaret Thatcher as the nation's very first female Prime Minister, who dealt with the Unions head on!

 

The flight to New York was as uneventful as the previous flight to Toronto a year earlier. Except for one detail, and it wasn't the turbulence. Rather, it was the anticipation of flying across the Atlantic on my own, with no accommodation booked at all after arrival, as was the case with Toronto, as well as not knowing what might or can happen thousands of miles from home. So during mid-flight lunch, I took a roll of bread, broke it and declared that this was the Body of Christ broken for the forgiveness of sins. Then I took the red wine already in the glass, and drank, declaring that this was the blood of Christ shed for the New Covenant, and took it in remembrance of Him.

 

I celebrated mid-flight Communion seriously, yet back in those days, without Church authority, I had hopes that God would honour the sacrament, for I knew that because I took the bread and the wine without authority, the Catholic church would have anathematised me, and perhaps sentenced me to Hell as well. But instead, both backpacking trips were life-changing blessings, and I felt protected. As for accommodation, in both trips, I was never told, "Sorry, no rooms available," but I was welcomed off the street by reception at every hotel door I walked through.

 

Of all wonderful chances, I had the privilege to not only to look in to the vast, imposing Grand Canyon, but a chance to hike into it as well. This was because of a last minute cancellation of a bed booking at Phantom Ranch, near the Colorado River at the bottom of the Canyon. I was successful in grabbing that vacancy, making the full hike and an overnight stay possible, something close to being impossible normally, as planning to camp or sleep within the Grand Canyon National Park usually takes months of preparation. 1978 was the first of the two hikes completed at the Grand Canyon. The second was completed in 1995, for want of better photography.

Colorado River, taken from River Trail, at my 1995 hike into the Grand Canyon.

 

The year 1978 was a good example of one man being more fortunate than another when waiting to board a flight at an airport afflicted by industrial action. On that occasion I was the fortunate one. But much more recently, in 2013 I had booked a holiday with my wife in Crete to celebrate our wedding anniversary. But on the day of take-off, another couple occupied our seats instead, most likely on an extra cheap deal which our cancellation had brought about. While the 'plane soared into the air, my wife was confined in bed at a local hospital, where she stayed for nearly four months. Believe me, cancelling a fully paid up foreign holiday was my first ever experience I had in my life. Not only was the need to grapple with the insurance policy, but for us both it was a horrible sense of loss. Even to this day, Alex is unable to get outside the house without a wheelchair. Whether this will be for the rest of our lives or not, only God knows, as he has all things in his hands, including our future.

 

And I think this makes all the difference. Having our future in God's hands is a reality - this applies to everybody. But believing that God has our future in his hands seem to make all the difference. Believing this fact makes the burden much easier to bear, and there is even a sense of peace. Sure enough, I can look at all the photos taken while abroad, both first on my own and later as a couple. Together, our memories remain fresh as we strolled the beaches of Israel, Rhodes, Kos, Malta, Sicily, and Lanzarote. Not to mention the beaches and historical sites here in the UK, in the days when Alex was able to walk normally, allowing us to stroll arm in arm like any other couple. At present it is not so much in missing out on these trips, but the distress in watching my beloved sitting in a wheelchair while I push it along. If ever I need the love of God, his comforting arms, his reassurance, it is now. I don't think it's so much of a loss of foreign holidays as my wife's health. She had even suggested, more than once, that if I need to get away for a short break, she wouldn't object. But I know that within myself I don't have a heart to go away alone. Since the day I married, travel had never been the same since.

As a domestic window cleaner, having customers announcing that they will be flying away within the next week or at the following month is normal for this time of year. I have clients who even fly abroad more than once a year - Egypt seems to be high on the list, particularly with the Red Sea resorts where fringe reef corals provide magnificent diving and snorkeling opportunities within the clear, turquoise waters not unlike that of a large aquarium. Ah! This reminds me of when Alex and I visited Elat, on the southern tip of Israel, close to the Egyptian border. A reminiscence of the glory days at the Great Barrier Reef as a Round-the-World backpacker in 1997. But rather than sit and envy my clients while at the same time bemoaning our fate, instead I give thanks to God for allowing such opportunities to travel, both as a bachelor and then as a married couple. To add to this, Alex is looking forward to our coming break in Bournemouth in a week from now at the time of writing. Sure enough, compared to other places visited, Bournemouth is just around the corner, but it will offer the opportunity for my wife to get out of her wheelchair to recline on the beach while the sea laps gently close to our feet - providing the English weather is reasonable, of course!

Coral Beach, Elat, close to the Egyptian border - taken October 2000


If you think that I love looking back over my life while writing blogs, then you are right. It gives the opportunity to dwell on the goodness of God and his undeserved generosity. This is a good remedy during times when I'm feeling down or when life seems so unfair. For example, this weekend I was reading a very well composed article about a paedophile ring at Parliament throughout the 1980s. Although I'm not familiar with the author or his background, by reading his article in the Daily Mail newspaper, the way he compiled all the facts together has brought out his academic brilliance. The article looks like a result of weeks of research, but actually the only resource he had was from an obscure 200-page document at the British Library in London, and from a section not normally accessible to the public. Could he have amassed all this information over a couple hours browsing? That was how it came over to me. Yet by reading his rather complex composition with much intricate personal detail, I could not help wishing that I too was as clever as he was at school, and had passed scores of exams, collected grades and a degree at university, and then earn a living as a journalist - writing articles for a national newspaper which would have had a greater number of readers in one day than all of the 170 blogs I have written here, over a period of more than three years.

And that's the danger when making comparisons with other people, like when I was a child, we lived two doors away from a family with two boys, both a tad older than me, who were excelling well at school. My parent's mistake was that I was compared to them, and I fell way short. Ever since, I had that longing to excel academically, but my schooldays proved a disastrous failure which had a profound effect on self esteem, which most likely stem from my awareness that my parents wished for a son comparable with their neighbour's. Let's face it, I would have much rather have been a journalist than a window cleaner! - Especially as I find joy and satisfaction in writing.

But here is where the truth of the Gospel has it's effect. I found that it has the power to set me free from the nagging emotion of feeling inferior. And that's saying something - as I live in a class-obsessed country where professionals are revered by society over and above the commoner. I have come to learn, yes even over a long period of time, that as long as I have Christ, then little else matters. As the writers of the Bible so delightfully remind us: that life's longevity is like a wisp of smoke that is seen for a moment then vanishes - with Jesus Christ, life is eternal. So at present, I much rather to be a window cleaner in Christ than a professional without knowing him. As a result of this, I have a lot of admiration for this author, Guy Adams, rather than envy. He has done well and deserves his reward.

But other than salvation, I thank God dearly and praise him for giving me a wife, whom I can love and cherish. The husband and wife is an analogy of Jesus Christ and his bride, the church, and he gave up his life for her redemption. So with me, I can ask God for the power of the Holy Spirit to fill me with the same sacrificial love for Alex as Christ had for us. This includes going to Bournemouth with its questionable Summer weather than to go to Crete. It also means staying at home to look after and take care of her rather than backpack around the world. And I'm not talking merely out of a sense of duty, but rather my love and desire to remain together outweighs any desire for backpacking. That, I think, demonstrates the grace of God.

I greatly thank the Lord for allowing me to travel when the opportunity was open. But now I thank him for the greater gifts of salvation, and furthermore, for a wheelchair bound wife and companion whom I can lavish unlimited love and devotion.

Even if it rains everyday in Bournemouth.

 

 

Oh You English...

So far this has been quite a testing start of the New Year. Torrential rain falling as periodic showers just about every day as I go about my business constantly wearing a heavy, waterproof raincoat - so much so that now I dare not step outside without it - even if the sky is clear and the sun is out.

Then my heart drops as I watch my beloved wife, the one so nearest and dearest to me, stumble around the house in her bid to complete the chores, which she willingly chooses to carry out as her showing of respect for me for being the sole breadwinner. Being under heavy medication is no encouragement as her back pain flares up from time to time, and her medication is for a set period of several weeks or months - making me wonder what exactly does the future hold for us. With last year's holiday to Crete cancelled, the paltry insurance claim successful, even though the payment was considerably less than what I had hoped for, and this year my passport expires. With Alex remaining housebound, at this moment in time it looks like that all holidays - in the UK as well as abroad, has become a thing of the past - as I would never consider travel of any kind without my beloved alongside.

 

Ah! How marriage had changed my life. No amount of travel could ever replace the comfort and joy of being close to someone I love and adore deeply, knowing how much she loves me to the same level. So surely, it breaks my heart to see so much medication lying around, knowing that it is a momentary fix to keep her pain at bay - at least she is alive and fully aware of her circumstances, and her memory remaining intact. I dread the day either one of us has a stroke or develop Alzheimer's, and not remembering either one of us - a beloved, longstanding marriage partner seen as a total stranger at home.

 

But alive and conscious we are, and we are thankful for this. Every morning, at breakfast, on my way to work, or at work, I always thank the Lord for keeping us alive to see this particular day in human history, that is, when I remember, or when I'm wallowing in deep morning blues, a mental and emotional malady which I'm very prone to suffer. I find that thanking the Lord for the day, especially a day beset with uncertainty due to the weather or temperamental clientele, or a combination of both, makes the day a lot more bearable, even enjoyable to a certain extent, and by the blessed evening I reflect on the day and realise that the weathermen were unduly pessimistic and my clientele keen to have their windows done after all.

 

Yet there are times I feel that I'm on my own, struggling against the odds to keep both of us above water. Church is not meant to be the place to feel lonely, but sometimes I do feel lonely. Not that it is the fault of the Elders, the structure, the mode of worship, the style of preaching, or the majority in the congregation. Thank God for Ascot Life Church! It is my spiritual home, something I can't do without. Yet there is at least one member, whom I still love dearly, not only refusing to talk to me, but acting as if I was invisible or absent. He blocked his Facebook account from us so that neither my wife or I can log onto it. And his younger son, a very keen and talented sketch artist, has also done the same thing.

 

The church is one place to come for spiritual refuelling, a place for comfort, company, love, fellowship, a place where after a week of stressful events, a place I can get close to the Lord, or talk to someone. Perhaps it's a bit like riding a bicycle (my main mode of transport) from A to B. If all the parts are in order, the ride will be smooth and pleasant. But the most common fault that does occur whilst riding is a flat. All it takes is a tiny pinhole in one of the tyres and the whole machine grinds to a halt, literally. Nothing is more irritating than that trrr-trrr-trrr vibration generated at the rear wheel and passing into the body through the saddle, with the noise to go with it. It is the sensation most feared and dreaded by any triathlete or road racing cyclist out contesting for the gold medal or winner's trophy.

 

The puncture is a good illustration here. The pinhole can be so small, that the affected inner tube has to be inflated with a pump and then inserted in a bucket of water to locate the tiny stream of bubbles before repair can take place. Yet it is enough to bring havoc to riding, the cause of being stranded in the middle of nowhere, miles from home or destination, and dashes hopes for victory at a championship contest. As a one-time long-distance cyclist and triathlete myself, common sense has dictated the wisdom of carrying a spare inner tube and repair outfit which, although might have lost the chance on a triathlon victory, at least would have enabled me to cross the finish line, or avoid being stranded out in the remote countryside.

 

Having a Christian brother disliking me brings grit into the fellowship very much as a flat to a bicycle. And like the pinhole, the feeling of animosity can be invisible to other church members to the extent that they are not aware of it. I guess we both have stiff upper lips, and decide to keep the issue bottled up rather than show the slightest emotion and cause a scene. But what was the cause of the animosity?

 

It was the case of social class and status. He has a grandson through his elder son, and I joked on Facebook that he should take on window cleaning when he has grown up. This upset our brother very dearly and as a result, weekly church attendance is marred by the atmosphere only us two can feel, more likely only I can feel. So I see church attendance a bit like the dreaded vibration of a flat while trying to reach my destination.

 

Social class! The very centre of Englishness for which, multiple thousands have sacrificed their lives during the Great War, according to Jeremy Paxman's book, The English - A Portrait of a People. According to this author, it was for traditional Englishness with its rigid class system which those thousands of British troops had fought in the trenches in the dead of winter and had given their lives, unlike in the Second World War, when the British fought more to defend their families than its culture. And this subject is talked about right up to the present day. It seems that the English are still obsessed with class. And this is no longer the big three - Working-Middle-Upper Classes - which dominated the centuries. In the last few decades the three became five, as middle class presented problems such as whether an office junior can be graded equal to a doctor or lawyer. Middle class represented higher education, a good income and a desk job. So an office junior considers himself middle class simply because he sits at a desk, unlike the working classes beneath him who earns a living by getting their hands dirty - whether in manufacturing, construction, plumbing or other skills which require wearing overalls or a boiler suit.

 

And here is the snag. A surgeon would not be considered working class because his education is too high. Yet at his job he too wears an overall, even a mask as paint sprayers do, and get his gloved hands dirty. But no one would consider him working class. Hence, middle class was sub-divided into three levels: Lower Middle, Middle, and Upper Middle, making five altogether when Working is added along with Upper.

 

But lately, with the decline of the manufacturing industry, the five have become seven with different titles. Starting at the top we now have: The Elite, Established Middle Class, Technical Middle Class, New Affluent Workers, Traditional Working Class, Emergent Service Workers, and Precariat at the bottom. A couple of years ago, I took an online test to find out which of the seven I was in. After being thoroughly honest with the input, the result was Precariat, on the bottom of the pile. Earlier last week I re-took the test, most likely with different questions, including whether I visit museums. I generally like museums, although I have not visited one for several years, I still included this detail. The result was the same - Precariat, and I shared this on Facebook.

 

One comment appeared underneath, which read:

I've been approved in Jesus Christ so what else do I need to base my self esteem on?

This guy, one of our church members, was absolutely right. The English in general seem to have a deep problem with self esteem. One newspaper even said that the English had lost its identity since the collapse of its Empire, and now are finding ways to re-establish its identity. The result is a pile of useless stratum which I think the public in general will not recognise, let alone use. To the public, there will always be three universally understood, all others remaining as computer jargon favoured by sociologists. For example, I would call myself working class, which is understood by all, while "Precariat" would cause the majority, I believe, to scratch their heads.

 

In a country that has lost its identity and trying to establish a sense of self esteem by means of a complicated and confusing structure, as the fellow above commented on Facebook, true identity in found only in Jesus Christ. Faith in Jesus explodes the class system to smithereens. Furthermore, Jesus himself said that the first shall be last, and the last first. He also said that if anyone wants to be great in the Kingdom of God, let him serve others. Then there was the case when the mother of James and John appealed to the Lord to have her sons sit on either side of him on the throne. This angered the rest of the disciples to the point when the Lord had to call them to his attention. Then during the Last Supper, while the thought of the cross was heavy on the Lord's shoulders, again a discussion arose among his disciples on who would be the greatest. A surprising situation considering that Jesus had settled this matter several times throughout his ministry (Matthew 20:20, Mark 10:35-45, Luke 9:46, 22:24.)

 

Just think of it: A lawyer hugging a window cleaner, the dustman shaking hands with a doctor, the magistrate dining in the home of a plumber, the factory floor cleaner sitting at the barrister's table, all their children playing together, everybody having fun.

 

That is not impossible if every believer took their faith in Christ more seriously, and not bicker over an offspring's future career prospects, and the realisation that everybody desires love and acceptance, regardless of his social standing.

That is what church is all about.