A VERY Big Hole-In-One!

Games was something dreaded rather than anticipated at school. Of course, when I first heard about Games as a first-year fresher approaching his twelfth birthday, I envisioned something akin to Snakes and Ladders, Ludo, Checkers, or Chess. Or heaven forbid, Monopoly, which exercises greed rather than mind or muscle. Or as school being an institution for learning - Trivia Pursuit (Genius, of course), or Scrabble. But no, the period bearing the title Games on the day's timetable had no bearing on the numerous board games I was becoming familiar with. Rather it was to do with football (Association) or rugby during the Autumn and Spring terms, and cricket or athletics during the Summer term.

"Monopoly, which exercises greed rather than mind or muscle." 

In typical sixties style, all this exposes our weaknesses in the boy's changing room. The school uniform consisting of black blazer and trousers, grey shirt and of course, a striped tie, nicely conceals a moment of forgetfulness when a boy fails to bring in his kit without a proper reason. So in full view of us all, he was forced to bend over to receive a designated number of whacks across his buttocks from the sole of a size twelve plimsoll. If he was a first year, then one single whack. Two for a second year pupil, three for a third year, and so on. I have watched quite a number of this kind of corporal punishment throughout my entire four-year stint at secondary education. Some boys took the punishment with such stoicism, that all they did was wince slightly as the plimsoll flew through the air with full might. Then after it was over, the boy returned to his bench without further ado. By contrast, I recall at least one boy who burst into tears and begged for a reprieve before the third stroke landed.

And to add to this sorrowful state of affairs, I recall witnessing a very unfortunate incident at the boy's changing room at the master's absence, when one rather chubby fellow burst into tears as a result of being a recipient of ferocious teasing by other pupils nearby. Ferocious teasing? It was more downright mental cruelty, capable of destroying any sense of self-worth, and, to my mind, opening the likelihood of suicide. Let's put it this way. As all across Italy, found in every home, the use of the bidet would have spared anyone from such dreadful embarrassment. The poor lad wept as his token of privacy was thrown across one end of the room to the other to the delirious laughter of his oppressors. All I could do was sit nearby and watch, refusing to be involved.

But I doubt if anyone had ever realised the humility I felt every time it was left for the two team captains to select their own players, whether in football or rugby. I was always left on the shelf, ready for the unfortunate captain whose lot fell to include me in his team. Let's face it, I was a letdown to the team and as a consequence, became a victim of verbal bullying, and close to being physical as well. As physical prowess was the yardstick for peer respect, the ideal, popular pupil always excelled in team sports. Even if he had never played that particular game before, just give him a ball and a set of rules, and he will always produce.

It is from these schooldays experience that I began to realise what it takes to be a good Englishman. If you are fortunate enough to be born with brains, then life can be a fruitcake, especially in long haul travel, property ownership, quality of lifestyle, smart dress at work, greater respect from society - and a better chance for church leadership. But fail at school? Then physical prowess, a good team player, even having a magnificent boxing skill, patriotic, military service and devotion to a life of manual or skilled labour may engender a degree of respect as a true English bulldog, but responsibilities such as church leadership of any level will always be far less likely. The issue was, I was neither. Certainly not physical prowess, hopeless in team sports, with only one or two I can refer as friends, and indeed, not much to show. Except for endurance. 

As such, I found long distance cycling a source of moral and physical strength. It was after I was freed from the wretched school tie and its culture, that I eventually began to bloom. But I believe that this was connected to something which was totally life-changing - to experience a rebirth through faith in Jesus Christ as Saviour less than five years after leaving school. Before this experience, I was not all there. Immediately after, however, I was all there, even if there will be some time before the fruits of such a transformation will become manifest.

But I did not have to wait long before such fruits began to show. Because reading and writing was something I did enjoy to a certain level, I found such wonderful benefit in reading the Bible. Over time, I discovered that reading the Bible has raised my level of intelligence which seems to uphold the view that the Bible was written under divine inspiration. And generated more faith. And also the enjoyment of physical endurance. Long distance cycling is one of them. Some trips were purely for tourism, which involved riding to faraway places and then finding a bed at a hotel or hostel. Others were fast burn-ups, usually done locally, covering up to thirty miles 48 km, starting and finishing at home, or even at church. Then to add a dip and a trot, I became involved in the Triathlon between the years of 1986-1992.

Although I was totally hopeless in team games at school, I was never averse to sport as a whole. It is so fortunate that it comes with such a wide spectrum, and there are beautiful colours within this spectrum which, although never advocated on the school curriculum, had highlighted what I was better at, the enjoyment gotten from these has given me such a morale boost, something so unfortunate in never having attained at school. But the fear in sporting failure having remained ever since. One good example of this was around 1980, give or take, when a group of us from my previous church went out for a picnic. A voluntary game of football was played among us menfolk. I joined in, and although I have made an effort to contribute, I was still fearful of any reprimand that would have come my way. But no reprimand was thrown at me, much to my surprise. Instead, I felt accepted, and even surprised one of the Elders for participating in the game, which he had already perceived as not being part of my natural character. It was this that got me wondering whether there is a big difference in culture between school and church.

Weeks turns into months and months into years. After job redundancy in 1979, I started up my own business. Even after then I have kept long-distance cycling active for a good number of years. I then travelled the world over the next few years, sleeping in backpacker's hostels far and wide. Eventually I married and became a father. More importantly, I settled at my present church fellowship in Ascot, my spiritual home, where an active men's social had taken off during the last couple of years. Such men's socials are an excellent idea, mainly to promote stronger fellowship between us who by nature are very self-reserved and often cliquey, within the church as well as outside the church. Starting some years earlier with men's breakfast on a Saturday morning every six weeks, the midweek evening Curry Club at a local Tandoori also started up, much to the annoyance of my dearly beloved. Because of this, I have nicknamed this The Smelly Breath Night!

With a new administrator, the men's social has expanded to include an evening's trip to a brewery, at another occasion a private barbecue and sauna. Being such a fan of the sauna, indeed I was the first to step inside. Then there was earlier this week, after responding to an invitation, for golf. I thought, golf? I tried playing golf with some friends a couple of decades earlier. I was so bad that even if I stood directly over the hole and dropped the ball, I would still miss. Really, the idea of golf between two teams of men did not exactly inspire anticipation, but nevertheless, I had accepted the email invitation as soon as it was posted. It was because I was all for promoting closer fellowship, edification, and godliness among ourselves, rather than any excitement over a golf course, that I made up my mind to participate.

The original booking was for twelve of us, with eleven of us showing up. I was very impressed with the venue when we arrived there. It wasn't long that I discovered that this amenity, known as the Surrey Top-Golf, had no resemblance to the traditional golf course. Instead, it was a large field which within were set several large circular shallow pits, some more than twenty metres across. The idea was to get as many "hole-in-one" strikes from a stationary position under a heated shelter. It was a facility built on the latest technology. Each player had a set of golf balls, each with a chip inside with the player's name programmed into it. When the ball fell into any one of these pits, a number of points was scored. The chip within each ball sent the message to the computer displaying our names and scorecard.

Top-Golf, Surrey

Despite such huge holes, I still managed to miss more than scored. And I was not the only one. Far from it! Because since it was already dark by the time we arrived, the floodlights illuminated thousands of golf balls glistening in the drizzle across the field, none having ended up where they should be. And throughout the evening I added more to the glistening white forest. But was I met with disapproval from any in the team? Far from it. Rather, when one of our members realised that I was holding the club the wrong way, he gently offered to show me how the stick should be held. After this, my scoring rate dramatically improved. But after two games which between them took longer than we anticipated, I still came bottom, on an equal level with another player. But no feeling of rejection, no rebuttal, no let down. Instead we all had great fun. 

And that is what I believe the Kingdom of God is about. Love, peace and joy in the Holy Spirit. Any competition taken with a sense of lightheartedness, and those who are weak, as I was, to be supported and if necessary, redirected. I could not think of anything more dynamically opposite from our school culture half a century earlier. That was why I detailed the embarrassing episode with the poor chubby pupil at the gym changing room. Such dreadful action by his contemporaries can only lead to sorrow and death. And the memory of such an episode could remain throughout life, with any thoughts on self-worth permanently damaged, unless helped along over the years by his naturally charismatic temperament. In addition, the constant threat of corporal punishment hanging over our heads has made weaker team players such as myself more prone to dislike team sports. This, along with bullying for letting the side down, really, without Christ in my life to strengthen me, I would have been left with two choices. One was to sink into despair to the point of developing agoraphobia, maybe even feeling suicidal. The other choice was the one I had taken, to try and make good of a bad situation.

One example was not long before leaving school in 1968. It was a games lesson out in the field and we were playing football. Hardly the one ever to kick the ball, on this occasion a stray kick from another player brought the ball to where I was standing. So what was the object of football? To score goals, wasn't it? So after a little hesitation, I gave the ball a hard kick towards the goal. It went in. For the first time ever I have scored for our team. I felt ten feet tall and very ecstatic for the rest of the day. Not long after, I made another effort to score at an indoor five-a-side game. Unfortunately, my shot was this time well caught by the goalkeeper. Such opportunities had never occurred again. But the report I took home to my parents read this, as I have never forgotten it:

Frank has made some great efforts this term: Standard below average.

And that was written by our plimsoll-wielding P.E. master, who seemed to be lately pleased with me. Perhaps he'll make an English bulldog out of me yet. Then maybe not. Standard below average. That is on physical education. It would take nothing short of a miracle to change that. And I believe that faith in Christ did just that. For I did have a potential ability which was not manifest at school - long distance and fast cycling which later evolved into Triathlon competition, with good results.

For the Kingdom of God is not about meat and drink (nor sporting excellence) but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.

Romans 14:17.

That was how our group at Top-Golf behaved last week. Peaceful, joyful, Life building, edifying, supporting. It was, in a sense, a good taste of Heaven. And furthermore, such would kill off any concept that church life is about living hermetically like monks, unrealistically cut off totally from the world. Church life is nothing like that. Neither should believers be perceived as "holier than thou" with a self-righteous, judgemental attitude towards those who disagree with them. Unfortunately, I know several of them who are just like that, even from another church. Neither should true Christians be so self-reserved and unemotional to the point of being cold of heart. This kind of attitude may be characteristically English, but it has no part in the Kingdom of God. It is also unfortunate that I know quite a number of men, especially of my age, who live out such attitude, not all in our church though.

"Perhaps he'll make an English bulldog out of me yet."

These are fellows I knew as far back as 1978. One or two were excellent football players, and actually played weekly in a team representing their church at a local league. I was involved with this club myself, but not as a football player.

These men, along with their wives and children are all well educated, professional men now reaching retirement age. But there will always be times when I wish they would dump both their religion and their patriotic pride and allow the love of Christ through the Holy Spirit shine out freely from their hearts, especially towards people who are different to them. Then they would score a real hole-in-one.

Calling God A Liar...

Anyone who is familiar with my blog archive may have come to the conclusion that I am rather amazed and astonished with the English; their culture, their way of thinking, what they believe, and their attitude. Probably as one like myself who speaks with an accent, appear different, that is, having a Continental appearance, and especially during my schooldays; prone to show emotion, lacking physical strength, useless as a popped balloon at team sports, and subject to verbal bullying, I had never felt that I fully belonged here. Even when I was older, more than once was I told to go back to my own country - but wait - England is my own country. I was born here, grew up here, and became very well acquainted with the English way of life over a span of sixty years. Nothing about my homeland should take me by surprise, even from one whose both parents arrived from Italy soon after the War, making me a full-blood Italian with a British citizenship.

 

Maybe it was the luck of the draw, or perhaps the Sovereign plan of God, that while my mother was pregnant with me throughout 1952, she frequently breathed in air which was polluted with London smog. Smoke from the city chimneys, both domestic and industrial, spewed daily into the air along with fumes from cars, buses, trucks and even steam-powered locomotives. When there was no wind, this stratum of smoke particles remained hanging in the air, combining with the winter fog to produce smog, hence the term. This gaseous gloup which Mum had to inhale surely brought no good whatsoever to this unfortunate foetus; as its mother was so familiar with the state of the buildings, Victoria Station in particular, being literally blackened with soot before the Clean Air Act was passed by the Government around 1962. But by then it was already too late. What if Mum lived by the coast throughout 1952, enjoying the daily sea breeze which was free from any pollution? Instead of failing at school, would I have had success in graduating as a doctor, which was my childhood dream?

So I could toss the argument back and forth. A developing foetus - better off by the sea, blown daily by a chilly sea breeze? Or being subjected to thick city smog marooned over the city by an area of meteorological calm? Whatever the outcome would have been, one famous guy I always have a liking for is Andrew Marr; journalist, news reporter, documentary presenter, and author.

 

Andrew Marr, in one of his more jovial moments.

 

To be honest, I have no idea of the condition the city of Glasgow was like in 1959 when Marr's mother walked the streets to complete her errands. Perhaps being much further up north, the constant chilly breeze kept the city free of smog, despite the presence of heavy, smoke-spewing industry at the time. But whatever the case might have been, towards the end of July of that year, a baby boy let out his first ever cry as he was brought into the world, destined for greatness.

 

And what was the difference between us two children? While I was a slow learner (although certainly not stupid) and already "doomed" for a life of menial tasks; several hundred miles to the north, young Andrew was making rapid progress in his primary school, which looked very promising - and perhaps assurance to his parents that their son will not end up scraping a living in some smoke-billowing, dirty, noisy factory or mill.

 

It doesn't seem fair, does it? Who knows what I could have been if my mother lived at an area well away from London. And another characteristic strength Andrew Marr seemed to have had as a boy which I didn't - stoicism, emotional suppression, the stiff upper lip. Could this have been the making of the British Empire? The master race? National superiority? Not to forget, also - greater advance in biological and social evolution? As a victim of bullying, I had shed tears often. Andrew apparently did not, as this extract from a recent article, about a severe stroke he had suffered recently and came close to death, had shown:

 

I have known Andrew Marr for many years,and he is not a man given to showing his emotions, let alone to talking about them.

 

He says: "Some people told me after what happened that I had to express my emotions - that I had to cry and let it out. Perhaps it's my Presbyterian upbringing, but there were no tears from me - even though there were many from others.

 

"I remember thinking that if I allowed myself to cry, who knows where it would stop. There are few things less attractive than self pity.

 

"I was never angry and I never asked, 'Why did it happen to me?'

 

In hospital I was surrounded by people in far worse situations than I was. They were all very brave, very tough and very cheerful. Being around people like that is a great antidote for self pity.

 

"In any case, I have had a very lucky life. I would have been pathetic to collapse at the first bit of bad luck."
Citation: The Daily Mail, Saturday June 29th, 2013.

Now if anyone said those words to me privately, I would have thought, What a pillock! - and took it no further. But instead, his words were published to the world and were available to anyone who could rustle up a quid from his loose change in his pocket. It was this widespread publicity which moved me to write this blog in response.
 

The interviewer was none other than journalist Amanda Platell, a strong advocate of British stoicism and the stiff upper lip. By reading the article, it was without doubt that Platell coaxed him with questions throughout the interview, and being as she is, wanted to bring their discussion to a climax of true British heroism, with the implication that Bulldog Britain has indeed evolved into a white master race from which other nationalities can look upon with reverential respect. Platell herself was born in 1957 and grew up in Perth, Australia. In the 1980s she backpacked to the UK with her partner at the time because, according to her own words, she was impressed with British stoicism which, we assume, made it the motherland of the greatest empire the world has ever had, and she wanted to experience life in the UK for herself, against the wishes of her partner, who eventually returned alone to Australia, leaving her to pursue her career in journalism as a lifelong single. 

Amanda Platell 

Marr and Platell represent two typical, well educated, middle class Brits. To them, showing emotion was considered very un-British, and Platell herself laments the decline of Britain to a sentimental, mawkish, emotional society since the death of Princess Diana in August, 1997, not long, as a matter of fact, after my own worldwide backpacking trip to Australia, going as far as Sydney. It is clear that if Marr and Platell typify Britain as it should be, I can't help feeling that there is something seriously wrong with a culture which classify itself as Christian.

Andrew Marr admits in growing up as a Presbyterian, a major Scottish denomination, which creed he renounced as early as fifteen years of age. He believes Charles Robert Darwin to have been the greatest Briton to have ever lived, and like Richard Dawkins, he became an ardent advocate of organic evolution as opposed to Divine Creation as taught by his Presbyterian church.  He had also visited and made documentaries at the Galapagos Islands, where Charles Darwin found his inspiration to write his thesis, On the Origin of Species. It looks apparent to me that there is a close link between Darwinism and British stoicism.

Not that I'm against stoicism. It is in itself a good characteristic quality to have, particularly in a crisis. Rather than explode in panic or end up tied in emotional knots, stoicism goes a long way towards tackling the task to either solving the problem, averting a disaster or saving lives. But where I disagree strongly with Platell, and perhaps Marr as well, is that those two believe stoicism is uniquely British. Here I can quote two examples of human stoicism outside the UK. One was of the pilot and crew of Flight 1549 New York La Guarda Airport to Charlotte, Carolina on January 15th, 2009. The 'plane came down soon after take off and fell into the Hudson River, most likely due to a bird strike at both of the 'plane's engines. The pilot in particular, an American, was hugely praised for calmly taking the right action in saving the lives of all the passengers and crew.

But the greatest example of non-British stoicism must be the 33 miners trapped in an underground mine cavern at St. Jose, Chile for several weeks before finally being rescued, with every life saved. This crisis was the result of the collapse of the access shaft leading to the chamber, which happened on August 5th, 2010. Rather than screaming in panic or gripped by terror, the trapped miners, with enough fuel for lighting and with available tools, converted one end of the chamber into a chapel, from where the miners prayed each day to be rescued. They eventually attracted attention from outside and a shaft was excavated to the roof of the mine chamber, with which a special elevator lifted each miner, one by one, six weeks after the initial disaster. It was a stupendous feat, carried out slowly and with meticulous care. There were no reports of panic, even though some of these miners remained mentally traumatic for years afterwards.

An elevator lifts a miner out of the doomed mine chamber, Chile.

With such a display of stoicism, the weekend after the rescue was completed, I bought a copy of the Daily Mail newspaper hoping to read Platell's verdict at her weekly column. Surely, this journalist would have poured praise upon praise to those who rescued the miners and to the miners themselves. What a demonstration of stoicism! But, much to my disappointment, Amanda Platell was away that weekend. Her very absence had sent a strong message which was this: Faced with a situation contrary to her pet opinion, she had done a runner. If the rescue had taken place in Britain, especially southern England, she would without doubt splashed several pages of the newspaper with adoring praise and declaring that the British Bulldog hadn't died with Princess Diana after all!

Also noted in Platell's interview with the TV presenter, Marr was right about self-pity. Self-pity is actually a sin, and according to one American Christian psychologist Tim LaHaye, this emotion is the universal cause of depression, with extreme cases of suicide. Worldwide, and certainly in Britain, depression is a universal mental and emotional malady, experienced by just about everyone to one degree or another. A number of times lately I have experienced train delays and journey disruptions due to someone jumping in front of a moving train, all in the prosperous south of England. Self-pity - feeling sorry for oneself - is wrong. The one proper remedy for this is to trust in the atonement Jesus Christ had made on the cross and his resurrection, and be filled daily with the Holy Spirit, which entails becoming familiar and knowledgeable with the Bible. I should know. There was a time I was tempted to commit suicide myself before I met Jesus Christ.

But this blog is not primarily aimed at self-pity and depression. Rather, it is allowing one to express emotions freely when at certain circumstances, some positive. To say that displaying emotion in public is sentimental, mawkish or un-British is making a declaration that the British bulldog is above God and stronger than the Almighty. This considering that at two recorded occasions Jesus wept in public. The first occasion occurred on the way to the city of Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives (KJV):

And when he was come near, he beheld the city, and wept over it. Saying, if  thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day, the things which belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes. Luke 19:41-42.

The second was over the death of Lazarus, to whom Jesus wept (John 11:35) and to whom the Pharisees remarked how Jesus loved him, v. 36.

It is important to note that in neither occasion did Jesus weep out of self-pity, but from a genuine grief over someone's demise or the fate of a city. This is the very same set of emotions Platell criticises British society of mawkishness. If a loved one dies, and the widowed cannot hold his or her emotions in a public setting, then that person should be comforted, not frowned upon, especially if the widowed is male.

But does Paul the apostle mention stoicism as a Fruit of the Spirit in one of his letters? I'm referring to Galatians 5:22-23, which reads (NIV):

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control. Against such things there is no law.

Self control as a fruit of the Spirit could well be similar to stoicism, but British culture leaves out the rest! - Although their ability to form orderly queues may consider patience as included. But these virtues which Platell promotes are not fruits of the Holy Spirit, as the vast majority of the British are unbelievers. British stoicism therefore must be counterfeit to the real fruit which is divine. The unbelieving British, or of any other nationality, does not have the Holy Spirit manifesting from within, so therefore cannot produce any of his fruits. Stoicism is a counterfeit, based on human strength and pride, leading to a lost eternity in Hell, and therefore cannot be the fruit of the Holy Spirit. The genuine fruit of self control has the ability to return evil with goodness. If a person wrongs a believer, or even verbally or physically abuses him, the believer, instead of retaliating, treats his foe with kindness and compassion. That is self control. Divine fruit is far superior to British stoicism!

How I wish I could sit opposite Amanda Platell at her office desk, look hard into her eyes and let her see the truth which she had been blinded from all her life. How I long for her to see the love of Jesus Christ, who died for her! But I guess that would never happen, not because such a meeting would be considered a waste of her time, although that would be the excuse she would come up with. The real reason why I would never meet her is because such a confrontation with one who has the truth would terrify her.

As for Andrew Marr, he is a staunch evolutionist who nominated Charles Darwin as the greatest Briton in history. Evolution is contrary to Divine Creation. The Bible says that the heavens and the earth were created in six literal days and nights, the Hebrew evening and morning making a whole day, as the Jewish day ends at sundown. Uniformitarian geology and organic evolution says that it took billions of years for both rock strata and living things to arrive to where they are at present. The two cannot be both right. One says one thing, the other says something totally different.

If God says that he created everything in six literal days and nights, then the evolutionist who denies this is calling God a liar. Lucifer accused God of lying to Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. To this day the snake in the garden is still talking. And he is using the academic and the well educated to spread his Edenic lie. Darwin was an Englishman. Geologist Charles Lyell, who wrote Principles of Geology and coined up the theory of Uniformitarianism, was a Scotsman. Is it a coincidence that the twofold lie which is keeping people away from Jesus Christ began here in the UK?

And so we have our modern duet, continuing with the Edenic lie. One maintains that inner strength through self effort and culture is a virtue in itself. The other is calling God a liar, as straightforward as that. As Lyell and Darwin had drawn the rest of us away from the truth of Christ, so Marr and Platell continue to push the Edenic lie.

Thus making all four the perpetrators of Hell, which grieves my heart. My longing is that everyone believes the Gospel and are saved, the English included.

Enough to make me weep aloud on a crowded station platform.