Panic On The Eve Of Glory.

Yep, another Saturday morning. But today, the air is electric with pulsating anticipation. As tomorrow's all-important clash between England and Italy is splattered on the first 13 pages of the Daily Mail, plus a further 16 pages in the middle of the 112-page newspaper devoted to the coming football match, together with the back page spread, this gives a total of 30 pages devoted to Wembley. It's quite a contrast to the five-page devotion to the Wimbledon tennis finals that are also set to take place this weekend. And under the shadow of Wembley, Wimbledon is almost forgotten, hiding towards the back of the newspaper.

Wembley Stadium.

And so I stand in line, waiting to be served at our local Starbucks, this particular cafe is annexed to the out-of-town Sainsbury's superstore. Wearing a mask, I watch as my patience begins to drain, as the queue refuse to move. At the counter, this young man was holding his mobile phone over the card-swiping terminal, but it fails to scan.

As the dialogue continues between that person and one of the females behind the counter, I began to sweat as the tension grows. Unfortunately, my patience is often in short supply and today was no exception. The man continues to swipe the terminal. Still no response. Maybe that's why I'm more of a technophobe than a technophile. The old, stone-age, out-of-fashion cash transaction had always been infallible, so reliable. And it kept the queues moving fast. 

Then came the "advancement" of writing cheques. At the superstore tills, I have found this method of payment so slow and frustrating! It's always the customer in front of me. She takes a chequebook out of her handbag and begins to write. She then scribbles, Thirty for pounds 65 pence, and then signs it. Then she keeps looking at it, tears it up and starts again on the next page, Thirty-four pounds 65 pence, and at last, hands it to the teller, who examines it thoroughly before stamping and then activates the till. Meanwhile, I stand there with my head ready to explode. But like any true Brit, I remain calm. And that's despite my 100% Italian bloodline - renowned for shouty protests and wild gesticulation!  

Then came the electronic payments, first, by typing in the bank account PIN code, then by swiping the bank card, and now by holding a smartphone to the terminal. All well and good. If all functions correctly, that would allow the queue to move even faster than even by cash payment. At least one does not rifle through a handful of coins to find that last penny.

But when the smartphone method of paying goes pear-shaped, then that was the nadir of frustration. There was an elderly couple in front of me whose calmness somewhat impressed me. However, after about ten minutes, the young man who held up the queue eventually collected his drink and made for the exit. How the transaction was settled, I can't say for sure, as I wasn't watching him all of the time he stood there. But quite likely, it was done by typing in the barcode, either on his phone, or at the terminal, or both. However, during the long wait, I had built up a sweat, the mask began to irritate, and so I peeled it off whilst still waiting in line.

Being maskless was, once again, the cause of pandemonium. This happened when the elderly couple, who were in front of me, had paid for their fare and were waiting at the collection point. Having then paid for my normal croissant and cappuccino as well, I moved on to join them. They were both masked. I wasn't, as I was due to sit at one of the in-house tables, as I always do.

Immediately, one of the servers behind the counter began to panic. Shouting at me to the point of hysteria to move away from the couple, she ordered me to "stand over there!" Meekly, I did so without making a fuss. Actually, not only were they both wearing masks, but I came no closer than a metre from the wife, who was nearer to me. Throughout the incident, they remained totally calm and did not say a word or even move away. After they had gone - they had bought a takeaway - I was next to collect my coffee. I saw the server's look of annoyance as I collected my cappuccino and made my way to the table.

I felt ill at ease as I tried to read the paper. I rose up and walked into the superstore and bought a pack of three blue biros (blue ink is nicer than black ink.) Then, having returned to the table, I wrote a sincere note of apology at the back of the receipt for upsetting her earlier on. I waited for a lull in the queue before handing the note to her. Almost immediately, she called out and with a wide smile, acknowledged and accepted my apologies. Ah! Peace was restored.

Oh, dear! What kind of a world are we living in? As I collected my coffee, she made sure she had kept a safe distance from where I was standing, despite the presence of the large Plexiglass shield separating us. There is something apocalyptic about the whole population going about wearing facemasks as if hit by a thermonuclear war that had permanently contaminated the entire globe's atmosphere. Indeed, I find this whole scenario rather unsettling, a reminiscence of those futuristic horror movies where everyone wore breathing apparatus to survive. Furthermore, I was taken by surprise by the panic my maskless face had caused. And that's not the first time either.

I haven't counted the times when a passerby had deliberately veered away when we passed each other on a public footpath. A few were even wearing masks - outdoors. Then not to forget last Summer when a Christian group met for an alfresco Bible study in warm weather. After leaving our house late due to the need to nurse my wife whilst she was in pain, I was the last to arrive and the Bible study was already underway. When I attempted to join in, those nearest to me (more than two metres away on both sides) - a near panic ensued, as if I was the disease, a source of potential danger.

Stock Photo.

I could never forget that incident, and it enabled me to realise the psychological damage the pandemic had caused. Instead of seeing each other as fellow human beings, brothers and sisters in Christ, each receiving a greeting of politeness and respect, and to evaluate the best for each other, instead, each one of us had turned into objects of fear, repulsive, to be kept away from. What the heck had happened to us? And the reason to wear masks? The official line is to protect the next person from breathing in your viral breath droplets. But I tend to believe that the real reason for wearing masks is fear. Fear of catching the virus.

I was intrigued when I read about and saw the pictures of the 60,000 who poured out of Wembley Stadium after England had defeated Denmark last week. The mask was a rare sight. In fact, It looked as if there were more fingers on my hands than football fans wearing masks. The exuberance over the win for England had eliminated all fear, or at least most of it, to enable these fans to go about in a crowded environment with hardly a mask in sight. And I would feel very disappointed if I were to turn on the TV to watch the Final tomorrow evening - only to see a crowd of 60,000 (out of the 90,000 when at full capacity) at Wembley, all wearing masks and all remaining quiet if England scores. Dream on! I'll eat my own head if England scores without as much as a whisper from the excited crowd! Yet, didn't our Government ask precisely that during last week's match against Denmark?

Alex, my wife, and I will be on holiday by the time of kick-off, God willing. Knowing my beloved, she detests football so much, that it's unlikely we will watch the match - or at least the first half. But who knows? Even as two football sceptics, I would still be keen to watch at least the second half of the most important football match for over half a century.

And who would I prefer to win? This, for me, can be a difficult question to answer. First of all, as already mentioned, I'm a full-blood Italian. But I have lived all my life here in England. Italy has won four World Cup tournaments (second after Brazil with five wins) and one European Cup (in 1968). In turn, England has won only one World Cup (in 1966) and no European championships. Then to add to this, all my friends are keen England supporters. If I were to cheer Italy, would I be looked down upon with disdain, or even down their noses if England wins? I know one or two who would, and they are Christians. And to support Italy would go against the national flow. Yet considering all that, I would still give Italy my preference due to family loyalty and being my original homeland.

 

The very fact that the England football team is symbolised by the three lions - indicating strength, courage and the ability to win the battle. I believe that the three lions are synonymous with the British Bulldog, that icon of courage, strength and emotional restraint, that ideal typification of the Englishman. My PhD friend Andrew had used this icon in his Facebook posts to equate the British Bulldog with Brexit. Although others have disagreed with him, nevertheless, I can see his point. According to one recent article that appeared in The Daily Mail, those who are more likely, by a narrow margin, to ditch the mask after Freedom Day are Brexiteers. Those more likely to hang on to their masks after July 19th are Remainers. Hence, my friend's perception of equating Brexiteers as having the Bulldog spirit.

Of course, some Brexiteers will prefer to keep their facemasks, and some Remainers will dump them. But I wouldn't mind betting that the majority of the jubilant England fans who poured out from Wembley last week had voted to leave the EU in 2016. But how wide or narrow the margin between Leave and Remain is, that would be anyone's guess, short of a thorough survey.

Yet, this is so, so ironic! Some who are Brexiteers have been accused of "lacking the Bulldog Spirit" by other Brexiteers for not wanting to ditch their masks after Freedom Day, but instead, to keep on exercising caution, including the wearing of facemasks in shops, public transport, and other enclosed spaces. 

On Facebook, I have used my travel experience to demonstrate that the Bulldog Spirit isn't tied exclusively to Brexiteers. As a Remainer, I have hiked the Grand Canyon twice in my life, in 1978 and again in 1995. Before hiking, I became aware of the risks of undertaking such a venture. Hikers have lost their lives on the trails, others were rescued by the ranger, still, others had suffered heatstroke, others still, hyponatremia - the lack of salts in the bloodstream caused by excess drinking of water without an adequate intake of salt. This brings severe pain due to muscle cramps that immobilise the hiker. Yet, I took on the challenge, aware of these risks, to fulfil my dreams and created a photo album full of stunning pictures. The opposite of taking risks is to be over-cautious, thus refusing to hike and missing out on a life experience that is treasured forever.

Given the opportunity, I would walk the Grand Canyon trails again tomorrow. And I voted to remain in the EU in 2016. Risk-taking is not exclusive to Brexiteers.

The Grand Canyon. Stock Photo.

All I can do is wish England well at the Finals. This is a time of joy, excitement, hope. A relief from the months of the pandemic lockdowns and more optimism for the future of the nation, families and individuals. But, instead of relying on human strength and self-confidence, wouldn't it be wiser to remember what King Solomon had written in Proverbs 21:31:

A man prepares his horse for battle, but the Lord gives the victory. 

Far better would it be to give all the glory to God and to credit Him for the victory. To acknowledge God and to submit to His ways through faith in the death of His Son Jesus Christ by crucifixion, His burial, and His physical Resurrection, then not only England, but the whole of the UK would be on a winner.

An Astonishing Incident at the NHS

Lately I have found myself becoming more impatient, forever searching for an item I have just used, and instantly forgetting where I have left it. Along with this feeling of frustration and memory-loss, comes swearing - uttering words I would never say in public, let alone in a church meeting, along with quick bouts of anger. In the gym I tended to tire more quickly as well, which led me to the incentive to stay away, cutting my normal schedule of three-sessions-in-a-week to just one session attended this week. This cutting down of gym left a feeling of emptiness within, a lack of personal fulfilment which was an addition to the already low moods I've been feeling already. As I sat there, browsing through the Internet, my wife asked what has come over me, with an explanation for asking that she has seen a change of personality lately. Or in short, according to her, I have become a different man, and not the guy she married.

And this includes my prayer life, which has dried up at the same time, even if I continue to read the Bible each morning. After Alex had brought all this to my attention, I had to sit and think. Because after being confronted with my new self, I had to search my subconscious to what has been the cause of it. It wasn't until the News bulletin began its TV broadcasting that the penny dropped. It was about Brexit. What else could it have been?

This was the week that our Prime Minister Theresa May launched Article 50 to the European Union president Donald Tusk in Brussels, paving a way for a two-year negotiation route to what is hoped for a trouble-free exit. Personally I was getting sick of it all - day after day, bulletin after bulletin, newspaper after newspaper - updates of the Brexit move keeps pouring into my soul until they spill out of my ears and vomiting out of my mouth. Then to read about and to hear about the constant gloating, the smugness, and the sneering from Leave-supporting politicians and journalists towards those who wanted to remain. And then we both wonder why I have experienced a personality change! 

As one journalist for The Guardian newspaper wrote; it will be the return of the dreaded Rule Britannia mentality. Whether he was being duly pessimistic or facing a possible future reality, that is a matter of the reader's opinion. As I have mentioned in last week's blog post, the right-wing newspaper The Daily Mail journalist Katie Hopkins, a very devout Brexit supporter to the point of fanaticism, she would gladly lift a gun to shoot some sense into a city of blind, deaf, and dumb monkeys whose majority had voted to remain, and to kick out all the immigrants. As The Guardian had pointed out, the future of Britain would be encapsulated to a gang of white boys leaving the pub at closing time, laughing and guffawing, and ready to beat into pulp anyone who doesn't match their nationalistic ideals.

Stephen Lawrence was such an example, making this case one of the century's most iconic of all racially motivated crimes. During the evening of 22 April 1993, a black student and a budding architect was murdered by six white youths after leaving a nearby pub. Although dressed in a tee-shirt, Lawrence had more intelligence than all six of the English white men combined. But during the Court hearing which followed, all six defendants were dressed in smart suit and tie, enough to impress the Judge to dismiss the case due to lack of Police evidence. Afterwards, BBC Panorama investigated key officers of the Metropolitan Police by sending one of their journalists as an undercover reporter, to expose the truth that the majority of officers involved with the case were on the defendants' side, a tragic truth behind the dismissal of the Court case, which led to several Police officers losing their jobs at the Met. No doubt, all six of these murderers would have been keen Brexit voters.

Stephen Lawrence

Then the story of BBC motoring programme Top Gear presenter Jeremy Clarkson punching a colleague for failing to serve a roast beef dinner after a day's work, a dispute which took place 12 March 2015. Clarkson was praised by Daily Mail columnist Richard Littlejohn for his bullish masculinity which encapsulates what it is to be British. No doubt, both Clarkson and Littlejohn would be keen Brexit supporters. But how is it that just two newspaper reporters can have such an influence on me, and to my opinion, the UK as a whole? Could it be that the paper's daily UK circulation averaged 1,510,824 during November 2016, together with 100,000,000 online visits during a typical month. So I assume that both Hopkins and Littlejohn must be close to being household names.

And so the prominently right-wing Media portrays the patriotic British and Brexit voters as having inherited a savage Viking mentality, which would not be out of place with the like of Hopkins picking up a gun. But not just to defend the country, but to invade another, subjugate its indigenous inhabitants and to set up a colony on behalf of Monarch and Country. Ah, the British Bulldog has woken up, and it has let out a resounding growl at last year's Referendum.

And I can just hear the rustling of the pages in the Bible. For King David wrote an astonishing prophecy found in Psalm 22, which is most striking from the King James Version, from which a part reads:

Many bulls have compassed me: strong bulls of Bashan have beset me round. They gaped upon me with their mouths, as a ravening and roaring lion.

I'm poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: my heart is like wax; it is melted within the midst of my bowels.

My strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of death.

For dogs have compassed me: the assembly of the wicked have inclosed me: they pierced my hands and my feet.

I may tell all my bones: they look and stare upon me.

They part my garments among them, and cast lots upon my vesture.

Psalm 22:12-18.

In this incredible prophecy of the Crucifixion of Jesus Christ which was to take place a thousand years later, the people surrounding the Cross were depicted as three voracious beasts - the bull, the lion and the dog, all three looking to emulate the culture of the British, particularly the English. It is as if the whole country is influenced by a spirit in the air, bent on keeping the majority blinded to the Gospel of Christ. By reading Old Testament history, it looks to me that the prevailing enemy of ancient Israel were the Philistines. These people were the bane of Israel particularly during Samson's day, as were in the days of King Saul, and finally defeated by King David. Even to this day, any barbaric tribe or group of people are sometimes likened to the Philistines.

But the bulls with lion-like characteristics during the time of the Crucifixion were the Roman soldiers, who were directly responsible for the crucifixion, and immediately afterwards the throwing of the dice to determine who will get his clothing. John's Gospel details this well, letting us know that four soldiers were involved with the dividing of the Lord's clothing, all of them Roman (John 19:23-24). But mingled in the crowd, among the Roman soldiers were the Jews, mainly of the Pharisees, and other less hostile Jews, including the disciple John, along with women who also following him. As the spirit in the air had influence particularly over the Romans, as it did over the Philistines before them, so I can see the influence this spirit has over the British at present.

And its purpose has always been the same - to keep the inhabitants from knowing God through faith. The Philistines might have worshipped Dagon the fish god, the Romans bowing the knee to Jupiter, and the British having their own religion - Evolution, with its messiah Charles Robert Darwin. But these three are no different from the snake lying to Eve in the Garden of Eden. In order to turn our first parents away from God, he had to offer something which had appeal. To Adam and Eve, it was power towards divinity through knowledge and wisdom. To the Philistines, it was power through national conquest and empire, as were with the Romans. The British too has always wanted to conquer other nations to achieve supremacy, and the concept of Empire suited their desire to make their king divine, and so identify with him. And as for the new religion, disguised as Science, this was specifically designed to nullify the truth of the Gospel - allowing a great many to live their whole lives without God and ending in a lost eternity. So contrary to myth, the Snake is very much alive at present, and it is delivering a message almost identical to that delivered at the Garden of Eden - supremacy and a quest for (national) power, together with a godless knowledge and wisdom, all of these preferred above to that of faith and submission to God's love and sovereignty.

And so in the days gone past I felt my own faith in God stall and my prayer life drying up, as more news about Brexit continue to pour in. With my mood low and subject to short bursts of anger, frustration and strong language, I sat in our lounge browsing the Internet when my wife uttered a distress call from the kitchen. When I answered her call, I found her lying on the floor in extreme pain along her spine and down to her leg. Her pain became intense enough for her to scream the house down. I immediately found some strong Codeine pills which temporally eased the pain, and she soon fell unconscious. I had no other option but to make an emergency call for the ambulance. It was a while later, at an Accident & Emergency ward of a major hospital that she came round, and as the morphine administered inside the ambulance began to wear off, she again began to moan loudly. A doctor who was accessing her gave her another shot of morphine, which dulled the pain. It was at this occasion, whilst lying down on the hospital bed, that she clasped my shoulders to pull me close to her.

"Don't be afraid, you could have a heart attack. Please trust in the Trinity. He is Sovereign." 

(Alex always refers to God as the Trinity.)

She began to pray, using words approximate to these:

"Please Lord Jesus, reassure my beloved husband. I don't want him to be frightened and have a heart attack. Please strengthen him, and please assure him that between us everything will be all right."

I was quite astonished at her concern for my welfare eclipsing that of her own. She kept reassuring me of her love and devotion to me, alongside God himself, and what a wonderful husband I am and have always been to her. At this point she became more firm and you can say, more authoritative.

"Don't ever say that you are fat, or you are ugly, or that you are not very intelligent. You are absolutely gorgeous, and I adore you."  

Sometime later, a doctor assessed her and new medicines were prescribed, with repeated prescriptions to follow. We took a taxi home, and so far I'm happy to say that her pain has not returned. 

But one thing that does come to mind. What was it that had set my teeth on edge? Was it the constant flow of news about Brexit? Or was it really to do with putting myself down and comparing myself unfavourably with others, especially in the church? I guess I can't be too sure either way, but one thing I can be assured of - and that I'm loved by God who gave his only begotten Son, I'm loved by my wife who thinks the world of me, and it was God who drew us both to spend the rest of our lives together. With such a threefold assurance, what need is there to be angry at insignificant things if we are destined to spend eternity together in a righteous and glorious new world, a new city built by God himself.