It was 50 years ago today. Sergeant Pepper taught the band to play

Neil Pickford remembers things.

I don’t listen to the radio these days. Oh, radios Humberside or Two are on for other members of the family to sample as they wish but I rarely listen as closely as once I did.

So it took a long process of drip-drip-dripping before I realised that I was hearing a higher-than-normal ratio of really good music among the vintage pop and modern chatter.

It then dawned on me that most of these good songs came from one particular four-piece, guitar-based beat combo as ‘Hep Cats’ used to describe this sort of thing back in the ancient days of black and white telly – The Beatles!

Finally, it dawned on me that this was 2012 and, therefore, 1962 was 50 years ago. TARAAA! Suddenly it all made sense.

You see, in this month exactly half a century ago, a gentleman at Decca wrote a letter declining to sign The Beatles to a recording contract on the grounds that: “Guitar groups are on the way out.” Nice one Decca.

Well, EMI were a bit more broad-minded and, later that year, released the group’s first single (‘Love Me Do’) which just scraped into the Top 20 and the rest, as we say, was history.

You may think I’m overstating the case but I truly believe that these four gentlemen changed the entire world, and I’m prepared to defend this statement.

Certainly, without the Fab Four Britain would be a very different country and I’m old enough to remember how drab it was before 1962.

(As a side issue, my home town of Dursley remained drab for another 30 years. Interestingly, when JK Rowling was looking for a suitably horrible surname for Harry Potter’s dreadful guardians, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, she picked on ‘Dursley’ because it was a town she absolutely loathed. I share her feelings and, in fact, when I first-ever used a new-fangled spellcheck device in the days of good, old black and green computer screens, instead of accepting ‘Dursley’ it suggested ‘drowsily’. I felt I was in the presence of brilliant Artificial Intelligence – but I digress.)

The Beatles’ success took the international image of our damp group of islands and gave it a good polish, coincidentally transforming the cities of Liverpool and London into icons of ‘cool’ – an image that we are still deep-mining to this day.

Go into any British airport or retailer of tat to the tourists and what do you find? Models of double-decker buses and black taxi-cabs, that’s what, of the kind that haven’t worked the streets of the capital for years, but which are indelibly linked to trendiness and Beatle-style. The moulds were made in the 60s and are still working overtime now.

Because London was the trendiest city in the known universe creative types flooded here and started making things, because people wanted to buy things made in London where The Beatles were.

Britain’s film industry became commercially successful and still is, producing mega-hits such as Star Wars as well as James Bond and Harry Potter. The London Symphony Orchestra then performed the movie soundtracks that shaped the tastes of a generation, Superman, Jaws, Star Wars etcetera.

Britain’s music ruled the world: if you listened to a foreign language pop station in the period you heard: “Gabble, gabble Rowling Schtones…gabble, gabble Rode Schtewart… gabble, gabble Da Kinks!” Occasionally there would be a local wannabe artiste singing an unmemorable ditty (in English) but then it was back to the real stuff.

We conquered America, first with the pop bands that followed The Beatles as fast as work permits could be negotiated, then the louder guitar-based bands (thank you Decca) such as Cream, Led Zeppelin and Queen who found they could fill stadia effortlessly. Even rubbish like Judas Priest was treated with respect.

Back in the 1980s one third of all the records in the US Top 100 were British and EMI was the biggest record label in the world. The rest of the world copied the literate three minute pop song format popularised by our heroes (ABBA being the most obvious example) and the entire globe followed our fashions, football and TV.

Even the French, not normally fans of le rosbif (us) succumbed to the joys of The Avengers and The Prisoner while everyone else consumed Thunderbirds, Captain Scarlet, period dramas and the like.

We also had Rolls Royce, the Mini, Harrier Jump Jets and Concorde – we RULED!

That’s why, to commemorate the 60^th anniversary of Her Majesty in a proper way I launched a campaign to make ‘Hey Jude’ our national anthem in time for the Olympic Games. So far it’s not made much headway, but we can live in hope.

And 2012 also marks the (approximately) 80^th anniversary of the monster tree next to a northern wall of which I have written in the past.

The tree is younger than some of our Thursday morning congregation but they, unlike it, do not need pruning.

In a nice piece of circularity I found out that The Beatles had written a song on this very subject: “It Came in Through the Transept Window”; and you must also remember Paul McCartney’s marvellous chart-topping “Band (saw) on the Run.”

Ahhh, glorious memories.

And if you want more glorious memories of my writing then why not pop along to www.vestry-view.blogspot and sample a further 170 sparkling gems. You could even become a ‘Follower’ – which would be nice. Every mad egoist needs a few.

Oy! Dawkins! You’ve got it soooooo wrong!

Neil Pickford gets feisty.

It’s been a depressing few weeks if you believe that my employer, the Church of England, is important. 

We’ve had judges deciding that it’s against the law to have prayers before council meetings. Then the magnificently smug Richard Dawkins pops up yet again to trumpet research which claims that most Christians don’t know what we’re talking about.

On that basis, he claims, Christianity should lose any special status that it has as the state religion. Stop teaching religious education, remove all traces of the Bible from public life, replace ‘Songs of Praise’ with ‘Science and Sensibility’ and all will be well. Once free from the shackles of outmoded superstition the new Age of Aquarius will dawn and everything will be tickety-boo.  

Well, I don’t accept Mr Dawkins’ conclusions, not least because my journalistic background makes me instinctively disbelieve every press release – especially ones claiming that research ‘proves’ whatever product or angle the sender wants to sell. 

“Survey shows bald people grow hair if they eat Winnalot”:  “Research reveals new houses in green belt increases virility”: - you know the sort of thing. So if Dawkins’ eponymously-named Foundation for Religions and Science claims their research proves most Christians actually don’t believe in God then I wouldn’t automatically accept this as gospel (ha ha). It’s much too easy to manipulate research and get whatever statistics you want.

Bear in mind also that Mister Dawkins’ increasingly virulent (and very specifically anti-Christian) campaign appears driven by someone motivated by emotion, not cool reason. Perhaps he is haunted by childhood memories of boring afternoons on the Sabbath or being forced to watch Thora Hird and Harry Secombe. He may very well be trying to get back at everybody and everything connected with this trauma = and with some justification in my opinion. However, whatever the motive I don’t take his conclusions seriously.

Some people do however, and so I think it’s time to go back to basics. Once upon a time Richard Dawkins wrote a highly readable and fascinating book called “The Selfish Gene.” This drew on his scientific knowledge of zoology to produce an elegant theory on how animals might have developed behaviour which appears to demonstrate selfishness or altruism. He postulated a consistent and highly believable explanation to account for why these responses had developed in many non-human creatures.

Later in his career Dawkins then made a leap of faith and started believing that humans are exactly the same. Our behaviour and morality is something we’ve just developed as survival techniques so there’s no need to invoke a big sort of ‘God’ who is concerned about humans. Left to our own devices we can get on with living together in a comfortable way, unhindered by religious prejudices that distort our behaviour. We’d be rational, in human terms. Our morality would be pure.

Well, that’s cobblers. 

Human beings do not all, individually, behave in a rational way that helps the herd. In any barrel there are a heap of bad apples but, on top of that, selfishness and a desire for the easiest possible life is the dream of many. You don’t have to believe in the fairy tale of Adam and Eve or Original Sin to see that humans can be tempted so very, very easily.

If the temptations were put on a plate in front of us, without any price being asked, which of us wouldn’t opt to have a free and fabulous car, instant weight loss, better looks, a bigger house, more toys, longer holidays, easier work, overwhelming approval among everyone we meet, a glittering career in movies, a best-selling book? 

If we were given great power over our fellow humans – if we were politicians, policemen, army officers, for example, then which of us could resist the temptation to indulge ourselves at the expense of others? Very few, I suspect, unless we had a sort of nagging feeling that this behaviour is wrong.

Well last Sunday we had the Legal Service in Beverley Minster. A good representation of what you might call the ‘elite’:  commanders, judges, sheriffs, mayors, etcetera was gathered together by the Church of England to be loudly reminded that they are: (and I quote from the order of service) “servants above all …. we present ourselves, imperfect before the throne of grace, to ask God’s forgiveness for our own sins…”

These are words that are supposed to humble the powerful, to make them think again about how they use the privileges and responsibilities that life has given them. They were spoken out loud in front of everybody because they are part of what it means to be an Anglican in Britain – they are there to make people behave better than they otherwise would. 
  

That’s got to be a good thing, surely – and a far better attitude than that displayed by the anti-Christians who pop up in the comments section of newspaper websites after almost any church news story. Reading these you are exposed to the opinions of people who claim to be rational and intelligent members of the anti-superstitious elite – and it’s a depressing repetition of rudeness, ignorance, prejudice and generalised offensiveness. 

Now you know that my wages are paid by the kind people who are church members at Beverley Minster but that’s not why I’m on my soapbox today. It’s because I would much prefer a world run by Christians who keep being prompted to improve their behaviour to one modelled on Dawkins and his uninhibited bag-carriers of hatred and intolerance. 

A worrisome, wearisome kind of day

Neil Pickford is all fingers and thumbs

I wasn’t really that surprised when I sat down with my laptop and started planning this week’s column to find that my thoughts consisted of the following:

Nothing.

Not a sausage.

Blanksville.

It had been just one of those days – you know the sort. You walk into your kitchen in the normal way yet, somehow, you manage to knock a cup that must have been at least three miles from the edge of a table. Then the strange magnetism that attracts china drags the utensil to the floor where it immediately shatters.

And, of course, it’s the family heirloom, isn’t it?

Things just didn’t get any better after that. As it was one of my days off I was helping my dear wife in her wonderful award-winning bed & breakfast (Hunter’s Hall, just visit www.huntershall.net for details) as we’d had a very busy period. I was on bed-making duties and the corners of the pillows just wouldn’t match up with the cases. Normally I can just slide the darn things in and they look great, but not today.

Naturally the double quilt also managed to perform a corkscrew while being inserted into its cover, and when it came to placing pairs of towels neatly at the foot of each bed they just snagged each other and refused to lie flat. Even when they finally capitulated they didn’t look right and I had to do it all again.

Wiping down the shower screens left smears where normally they would have just glistened and, all-in-all, it was a pretty pooped Pickford who was finally satisfied that everything was shipshape and Bristol fashion (a phrase referring to the round-bottomed ships that were specially designed to moor in that fair city and rest safely on their hulls when the tide went out. Don’t tell me this column isn’t educational). 

 The general air of ‘elbows’ continued for most of the day. I needed to iron some shirts but every time I eased out one crease I managed to create two more elsewhere.  You can also imagine how much fun I had trying to put my contact lenses in.

But I survived all these frustrations – and so did all the inanimate objects around me (except for that first cup, of course). I finally made my way back to my trusty laptop, powered it up and then stared blankly at an equally blank screen, desperate for inspiration but not confident about finding it.

Unsurprisingly, as my mind ranged here and there I thought idly about the Minster and the various concrete (well, stone, actually) examples of ‘thumbs’ that exist slap-bang next to dazzling craftsmanship. Once you start to look really carefully you can see hundreds of little bodges that cover up an awkward piece of workmanship. Back in the 13^th and 14^th centuries the masons obviously had their own equivalents of the camouflage garden decking that Alan Titchmarsh did so much to popularise.

Over the years John and I have been compiling a list of what we like to call: “Oh whoops” architecture. For example, after building phase one of the Minster it eventually reached the existing Norman nave and the masons stopped work for 70 years. Then they started building from the other end back towards part one. Eventually they knocked down the final wall ready to join together their marvellous gothic constructions – only to find they didn’t match.

“Oh Whoops” they probably said as they realised the beading around the east rim of the window was different to that around the west side. “Never mind, let’s just slap a quick carving over the join – no one will notice.”

And so they did.

The best example, however, is at the back of the reredos – a magnificent edifice of the highest quality that once supported the gold-covered reliquary of St John himself. This was the holiest place of all where wealthy pilgrims would come to pray for miracles.

Before Henry VIII’s religious reformers (and subsequent Protestant purists) removed all traces of colour with wire brushes this structure would have been a riot of pictures, murals and brightness that individuals could study and meditate about for hours. So, obviously, it was the centrepiece of the whole building and every single detail would have been carefully planned and executed.

And yet….. and yet….

Once you look at it carefully you find something that is so very, very wrong that it can’t be anything other than a total Thumbs. The hugely expensive tiles are not just badly laid– they don’t even follow the same alignment from one section to the next.

It makes me humble to know that, no matter what sort of clumsy accident I may have, I am still a mere amateur compared to the experts. I shall approach the task of repairing a large, chipped fish tank (chips and fish – did you see what I did there, readers? Sorry) at home with renewed confidence and my normal blind optimism.

But if you see me sloshing around with wet feet you’ll know I’ve had another day like today.

The rising cost of living

Neil Pickford comes over all biblical

Firstly, let me offer you yet another of my apologies. Two weeks ago I misquoted myself when I wrote that I had been ‘The’ film critic of the Bristol Evening Post instead of ‘A’ film critic for the group. Just thought I’d better set the record straight as I believe that facts are important.

Opinions however…..

I’m going to try and experiment this week readers and admit that I’m beginning this article without any idea how it will end. The next 800 words will in fact, be guided by the researches I do en route and I will be sharing the results of these researches with you as I progress. You are therefore actually witnessing the process of creation as you read.

Gosh. Isn’t it exciting?

I am taking the subject of inflation as my theme today, specifically inflation in the costs of things, not the current condition of my waistline. Now it may be that, as a result, I start to veer into moral issues, which is unusual. After all, as I have explained in the past, in Beverley Minster the vicar does the theology and I shift the chairs.

However, it’s fun sometimes to go outside your immediate comfort zone and, let’s be honest, after we virgers’ huge efforts spent in rebuilding the interior of the Minster after the wedding fair last Saturday, it’s very nice to move to matters meditative for a while.

I started thinking about inflation as a result of a coincidence: two unrelated documents that were rather unexpectedly passed to me yesterday. The first was a major dissertation on the history of Beverly Minster which revealed to me that, back in mediaeval times the Minster’s annual income was £900 – making it the second-richest non-cathedral religious body in the entire north of England.

So, 500 years ago a sum of £900 was an absolute fortune: now it’s roughly the total monthly pay of an adult on minimum wage. We all know that prices were different in The Goode Olde Daze but comparisons based on these figures alone don’t come close to telling the whole story. Apparently, £1 in 1750 (the earliest date available on the Bank of England calculator) was worth £172.92 in 2010. This means that £900 back then today translates into £155,628 today – but that’s not a huge fortune.

These days are probably several individuals in Beverley who earn that every year, so simple multiplication obviously doesn’t convey the full story.

I’d hoped the second document, which is rather more recent, would be easier to translate - but actually it doesn’t seem to help much either.

It was part of an appeal for funds to restore the magnificent organ in the Minster: It asks: “Must this noble organ fall silent?” and underneath a photo of the keyboard are the heart-tugging words: “Yesterday this note was playing. Today nothing happens.”

To prevent this deplorable state of affairs continuing the huge sum of £8,400 was needed in 1962. Yes, £8,400! And this required a huge campaign with patrons of the calibre of The Lords Middleton and Hotham. Yet now, some 50 years later, £8.4K is less than a virger earns in a year (and that’s a pretty easy target to reach, let me tell you).

The inflation calculator tells us that a 1962 £1 equals £16.62 in 2010 (inflation averaged 6% every year in the interim) so, today, inflation-adjusted, £8,400 then is equivalent to £140,000 now.

But a similarly-sized rebuild of the organ at Bridlington Priory is currently estimated to cost £750,000 – nearly six times the inflation-adjusted price!

Hmmmmm – it would appear that figures by themselves don’t tell anything like the full story – important things really are getting a lot more expensive than they were. Any lovely person who put aside a lump sum of £10K a few years ago hoping that, on their death, their bequest would pay for major repairs to our Snetzler would be very, very disappointed now.

I tried to find out what the Bible had to say on the subject of inflation – is it good or bad? Frankly, it wasn’t very helpful. Proverbs 13:11 – “Dishonest money dwindles away, but he who gathers money little by little makes it grow”

Hmmm, not sure about that because, as the rate of inflation has frequently outstripped savings rates over the last 50 years it’s been darned hard to find legitimate saving accounts that keep pace– so all money saved is money that is losing value, honestly gained or otherwise.

But, as we all know, “the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil” (1 Timothy 6:10), so perhaps, morally, we shouldn’t worry about the value of our money in the future. It seems to imply that there’s no point in worrying about saving for your retirement because…. Well, just don’t worry, that’s all.

And Matthew 6:19 warns us: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal.”

So my very basic Biblical research seems to be telling me there’s no point worrying about inflation eating away my savings (savings? ha!) and that there’s nothing morally right or wrong about inflation (i.e. spending more money to get less), per se.

And yet my dear wife informs me that Arial recently reduced the number of biological tabs in its plastic boxes, firstly from 24 to 23 and now down to 21, for the same price.

And, on so many levels, that seems just WRONG!

And now for something completely different

Neil Pickford changes tack

I have been accused, after my last few columns, of veering towards the serious rather than the silly. For this I can only apologise. It was never my intention to push, provoke, postulate, pontificate or proselytise and I am sorry for any confusion that may have arisen.

And if you’ll believe that…..

This week, however, my mind is being drawn irresistibly to the infinitely less intellectual subject of chairs – specifically the moving of same.

These thoughts are provoked by demands on the virgers to remove all pews from the nave for this Saturday morning in the Minster and subsequently return them to their original locations by the end of that same evening. This apparently pointless exercise is caused by the need to accommodate a wedding fair which will be in full swing for a mere five hours or so but will take over almost the entire church for the duration.

We’re accommodating around 50 stalls between the pillars and down the centre of the church, as well as catering for many hundreds of visitors. It’s a major logistical exercise because we’re also building a catwalk for two fashion shows and providing the seating for these demonstrations, as well as the tables and serving bases for refreshments.

Then, when it’s all over John and I will have to take exactly as long as it takes to strip down all traces and restore the building to its normal Sunday layout – so we won’t be home for early evening telly, that’s for sure. Good job Doctor Who isn’t on at the moment – I’d be too torn between Daleks and Duty.

We’re been planning the procedure like a military exercise, and I can just picture it: Private Pickford squares his shoulders and slowly stretches his neck, feeling the tension building as he prepares for the campaign. Corporal Dell is beside him, the warriors acknowledging each other with a simple nod before they start their well-planned manoeuvres in silence, each concentrating on their own part of the operation, confident that their comrade will not let them down.

The central rails have already been removed on the north side of the central crossing and the round altar, a cunning camouflage, is jacked up and ready to be manhandled aside.

The two men tense and prepare to push, straining to feel the first critical micro-movement as their pressure fights the inertia of the altar, then they guide the huge but beautifully-balanced structure past various innocent obstructions with bare inches to spare from disaster on both sides, until it is out of the firing line and safely stowed where no one will disturb it.

Phase One of ‘Project Wedding Fair’ completed: now for Phase Twp.

Next, the virgers must assemble an intricate assembly of pipes, frames, plastic fixings, boards and bridges, each part expertly placed in exactly the right position to play its full part without fail.

From the air it looks a simple ‘T’ shape but, in reality, this construction is a carefully designed launchpad for dozens of dazzling designs that will bewilder and beguile. Yet, so brilliant is our work that the entire edifice will appear invisible once the whistle blows.

Stretching away on three sides will be the baffles, rows of pews in groups of three, still bearing blast-absorbing kneelers on their backs which can be grabbed at need by any civilians in the area when the balloon goes up.

No time to waste – the rest of the pews have been commandeered to defend the walls of the Minster and must be manhandled into place along the north and south sides. Each group of three has its own space and if any one of them is out of position the entire beautiful edifice is in danger.

Good soldiers that we are, John and I will check, check and double check each other’s work before we are satisfied, then we can move to Phase Three: getting the essential stores in place and provisioning every single one of the participants.

Each one needs a table of sorts or a stand, plus two chairs for maximum efficiency, plus an inexhaustible supply of electricity to maintain equipment in peak condition for the entire exercise.

Then, infrastructure in place, we must be ready to solve the million and one individual problems that afflict an army at war in the critical moments before action begins. John and I are grizzled old-timers, obviously men with many years of knowledge built up the hard way and so, naturally, the nervous, the new and the inexperienced will come to us for guidance and reassurance.

We shall sort them out; we will pat their shoulders; we may tell them everything will be fine (whether we believe it or not) and then, when the whistle blows, we can finally stand down for a cup of tea and a slice of toast: the essential fuel of the working virger.

And when, a mere six hours later, the skirmishing is over we shall remove any casualties from the field and begin reversing the results of our previous physical endeavours. Why? Well, because we have to get everything ready for the next engagement, the 8am Communion that marks the opening salvo in the next weekly cycle of life in the Minster.

Finally the whole vast internal space in the Minster will be as it was before, ready for action, and we shall finally be able to return to the virgers’ truest and bestest friend – their bed.

And with this article the balance of nature has been restored. Thank you and good night.

What is truth, what is reality?

Neil Pickford pursues matters philosophical.

I watched ‘The Matrix’ again t’other night, in a sober frame of mind. My dear wife had instructed the family to view and consider the various philosophical implications contained therein, so we did that.

Now, I don’t know if you’re aware of this but I used to be the highly-regarded film critic for the Bristol Evening Post (an unpaid position, but as much free booze and canapés as you could scoff at all the press previews – I put on two stone in six months).

Using my profound and highly-tuned sense of critical observation I stared, impressed, at the special effects, the ‘bullet-time’ traceries, the 3D fighting and the amazing minimalistic acting technique of Keanu Reeves (and I mean that in a good way). By gum, it still looks good after 12 years and the story – of how humanity is controlled by machines that have created an artificial reality to fool everyone into believing that they are living normal lives – continues to touch a chord with troubled teens today.

It raises questions about what is Reality – which was precisely the philosophical point that we were supposed to be debating. However, because I am a fundamentally superficial creature I found myself focusing on how cool were the clothes that our heroes wore in the ‘Unreal’ world of the machines.

In spite of this my tiny mind did, eventually, turn to a more intellectual plane and I pondered the question from the perspective of my own studies into Philosophy at the oldest university in Britain.

In this we were invited to ask just how we perceived reality and therefore if our perceptions were an intrinsic part of reality or merely a veneer of interpretation based on a deeper reality which we didn’t really perceive fully – or something like that.

I soon philosophically concluded that if an object walked like a duck, talked like a duck and mixed with other ducks – whether I was there to see it or not – then it probably was a duck so I might as well get on and worry about something else, such as where I was going to watch the Magic Roundabout that day.

Nevertheless we all know how different perspectives lead people to different conclusions and, to make matters worse, we all tend to believe that we are right, and anyone who disagrees with us is obviously wrong. There’s no chance that we could be wrong.

It’s a dangerous attitude, one that is often abused by those in power and, let’s be honest, the Church is not free from guilt in this matter. The most famous example is Galileo who was forbidden from teaching that the Earth revolved around the Sun because this contradicted the accepted view that Earth was the centre of the universe. As we now know, he was right and the papal authorities were wrong but in those years what, exactly, was ‘True’? During those years the accepted Truth was that the Sun revolves around the Earth but, regardless of dogma, the Reality was – and always had been - the opposite.

Now where am I heading with this line of thought?

You may well ask and, frankly, it’s a question that’s worrying me as well because once you start questioning reality, where do you stop?

For example, we know that the camera lies. I ‘know’ that my physical body is a good shape for my age – not fantastic but good - and, in fact, my shoulders and arms are powerhouses of muscle, developed over many years of chair-shifting. Topping this torso is a kindly face crowned by a full head of hair that is gathered into an unusual but stylish ponytail.

The camera’s reality tells me that I am 25 per cent overweight, my beautiful blonde (and grey) pulled-back hair never seems to register on the printed page and my facial expression defaults to that of a grinning baboon. One of those viewpoints is obviously wrong – but which one?

Simultaneously with relationships: how many people sincerely believe they are the life and soul of the party while, all around them, the rest of the world thinks they are a crashing bore? Or, rather more seriously, that their marriage is stable while, in fact, their spouse is being unfaithful?

Once you start going down the path of doubting everything where does it end? Could we logically conclude that we are all, in fact, merely energy sources for machines, cocooned and living in a virtual world where all that we sense is an illusion?

Actually, yes, we could, and I shall explain.

Logically, no initial observational viewpoint of reality is necessarily better than any other, so the first step towards constructing a coherent world view is always going to be a matter of faith or hope. Maybe later observations will change your viewpoint but, to start with, it’s like stabbing a pin blindly into a board to find hidden treasure.

But you’ve got to start somewhere so I’ve decided that I’m going to stick my pin into the Minster and believe that it really exists, and in very much the way that I picture it.

Bother - because if that’s so then I’d better start cleaning the floors because I perceive that they are still littered with Christmas tinsel.

And let this week’s column be a warning to you on the dangers of trying to watch a thought-provoking film when you’ve just eaten pizza.

Tree-mendous troubles in t’graveyard

Neil Pickford discusses matters arboreal

It’s been a rotten start to the year; in a sensory sense. If you remember my apology last year for excessive and inappropriate winking at people then, I’m sorry to say, it’s still going on. The new prescription for my left contact lens means I have to rely on my right eye to focus on middle to distant but the lazy thing hasn’t adjusted yet, so everything is all a bit bleary and blurry.

Add to that the fact that my right ear has gone on the blink again and it’s as if half my connections with humanity have been lost. This partial silence of the rest of the world does make everything seem a little distant and that’s not good. I feel like someone watching life as a kind of bad back-projection: there’s movement but it’s not very involving on a personal level. This can have annoying consequences.

 I gave a talk t’other day and, beforehand, warned my audience that I was a bit ‘mutton and Jeff.’ I said I would appreciate it if all laughter should be loud and obvious so that I could detect it and know I was doing something right.

I’m not sure if they heard me because I only picked up faint titters over the next hour, but I’ll blame the ear for that and continue to believe that I’m the funniest guy for miles around.

There was one occasion this week, however, when my deafness might have been a blessing, but it didn’t work out that way.

I won’t bore you with the reasons but I found myself trapped in the organ loft for nearly an hour, kneeling down and with my head and arm shoved through the rungs of a ladder, pushing rapidly at two red buttons whenever a digital signal changed and chaos boded. Downstairs there was a special service going on that consisted of periods of quiet readings, silence and then blasts of noise from our organ.

To make those noises our massive organ (please stop sniggering at the back there) has some massive pipes – up to 32 feet long (I won’t use the word ‘metre’ in this context so as not to confuse any musicians among my readers – hahahahaha, sorry, obscure little joke there).

These huge wooden whistles (for that is, basically, what they are) are called ‘oboes’ and make the deepest noises. It rapidly became very apparent to me that, when operating at full whack, they are also very loud – and I was right next to them.

A deaf left ear might have been a blessing at this point but, unfortunately, that particular aural channel was working properly. Typical!

Partly as a result of my sensory shortcomings I also fear I may have mislaid some of my chuckles recently.

Chuckles – you know – those silly little things that make people like you. Little jokes that brighten up even the most average conversation (or newspaper column). I used to have ready access to them but I currently feel a bit like an absent-minded squirrel that prudently laid down a reserve of nuts for the winter and now can’t find them. It’s really very vexing. So I apologise for that as well.

And speaking of matters arboreal, as I nearly was, I seem to have finally stumbled onto the subject of this week’s essay – one that has been bothering me, and several others, for a while.

It’s the huge tree in our northern churchyard, between the Highgate door and north transept, that is the issue.

Don’t get me wrong, I like trees. I think they are very nice things to look at and useful when waving their branches around to warn you of windy weather. They are also excellent perches for birds to stand on while aiming their doings at my newly-washed car. I believe they are also saving the planet and can help hide obtrusive mobile phone masts (if Orange doesn’t cut them down for interfering with reception, of course).

So I speak with a heavy heart when I say that, in my opinion, the tree needs to have a severe pruning if not total removal. I am aware that not everyone will agree with me because, when it was last proposed to remove some of the tallest twigs, people objected to any work being done at all. This led to a long period of consultation and various committee meetings before approval was granted for this routine husbandry.

And then the paperwork got lost somewhere and the work was never done.

So now everyone has got to go through the same process again and, of course, the tree has grown even more massive in the interim. Of itself that’s not an issue but the tree is destroying the Minster while we wait. Its roots are questing and pushing aside the clay on which the (not very deep) foundations of the building are resting while the tall branches deposit sap and other natural by-products that stain the stonework, leave a sticky residue and block up guttering – as do the tons of leaves and twigs that fly off throughout the year. This makes routine roof maintenance a rather more dangerous and irritating occupation than it needs to be.

I would much rather see the Minster in a near-pristine condition than any number of trees, no matter how venerable, so I rather hope huge quantities of its surplus timber will be chopped off and carted away sooner rather than later. It’s not as though you can’t plant any number of replacements, but you’ll never plant another Minster.

And there’s no point arguing with me on this matter because I won’t be able to hear you.

Windy weather warning worries watchers

Neil Pickford looks outside – seeking reassurance

It was last Tuesday morning (my equivalent of a Saturday for the rest of the world) and I was lying in bed, enjoying a later start to the day than normal. And, outside, the wind was howling and roaring.

My mind drifted back to schooldays – an increasingly difficult task over the years – and a Shakespearian quotation from my ‘O’ levels trudged reluctantly to mind:

“Blow, winds and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
‘Till you have drench'd our steeples,”

 As the furies mounted and twisted around my snug, warm house I remembered that, only a few years ago, a tall smoke-stack had towered above the very spot where I was idly laid. I was pleased when we had it demolished because I’d always felt it had a rather threatening and dangerous presence.

Today there is just a continuous stretch of smooth tiling and I can continue to sleep peacefully, whatever the wind speed outside.

Now I know it’s not often that chimney stacks are blown over by winds – but it does happen. And, after all, it’s only got to happen to you once to be exactly one time too many. And it’s not just chimneys – we’ve all seen the localised debris around Beverley when a storm hits – the roads strewn with overturned wheely bins, broken branches, fragments of tile on the pavements; etcetera, etcetera. Believe me, it’s quite an entertainment cycling round the various obstacles on my way to the Minster after a night like that.

And when I arrive at my place of work I have to check for damage because it’s my legal responsibility to make sure that it’s safe to open to the general public. So far we’ve been lucky – although perhaps ‘lucky’ isn’t the right word. After all, when a great golfer popped a shot from a bunker to within a couple of inches of the hole and a spectator commented how fortunate he’d been, he replied, witheringly: “Yeah, and the more I practice the luckier I get.”

It’s a fair comment, and one of the reasons why the Minster has been ‘luckily’ free from draft-derived damage is that a lot of time and money is spent on maintaining it – and it needs to be. You may remember that a pedestrian was killed when a pinnacle fell from the roof of All Saints church in the centre of York a few years ago. I walked past that very church at least ten times a week for three years before the accident and it certainly made me extremely aware of what might go wrong with a tall, exposed building.

And what is more tall and exposed than the Minster? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way because you can experience exactly how exposed it is if you come on a roof tour during a storm.

On a day such as today (or last Tuesday week, as it is to you) you will hear the roof over the transept creaking and groaning like an old wooden ship at sea. This is because the roof itself, despite being rebuilt in the 1720s and strengthened in the 1820s, still sticks to its original design - one which the Romans would have recognised. It was built to be strong and resistant – not subtle and responsive which, it turns out, is a better strategy for long-term survival against the elements.

By the time they got round to building part two, however, our ancestors had learned a few things – not least, how much of a battering the old place was going to get over the years from these elemental elements. So they built the nave roof using a completely different technological concept – and it worked.

I shan’t spoil the story for anyone who hasn’t been up there yet but our ancestors were brilliant, which is why the Minster nave can boast a virtually complete set of original 650 year-old timbers throughout.

However, not everything is as reliable.

For the last few months the west end of the church has hosted scaffolding that was erected to help masons replace some big and rather wobbly stony bits. These had worked loose and there was a danger that they might fall if rocked by, for example, very high winds.

Gosh, isn’t it ‘lucky’ that we started work on them before the latest storms struck? You’d almost think someone ‘up there’ was looking out for us!

And, of course, they are.

There is a fixed programme of intimate annual structural inspections and incredibly detailed five-year ones prescribed for the Minster and, of course, constant ongoing checking between these events.

Much of this checking is done by the Minster’s own handyman extraordinaire Steve Rial, aided by his part-time colleague Paul Hawkins, although ‘handyman’ isn’t really the right word here. Steve is actually an expert plumber and glazier, which means he’s the ideal man to repair the lead roof and leaded windows, but he’s also got to turn his hand to anything else that needs doing at a moment’s notice – and sometimes that involves dealing with bits of the building that are potentially dangerous.

It’s a good job the two of them each have a head for heights – during December and January they’ve been working away some 90 foot above the ground, repairing ancient ridges that are thin and brittle, preventing the wind from ripping off stretches of the ancient materials and dumping them onto unsuspecting pedestrians.

So I shall be able to sleep soundly again tonight, whatever the winds, knowing just how ‘lucky’ we are – and why. Thanks guys.

And so it starts all over again

Neil Pickford contemplates the year ahead, with horror

Now I know that this is the time of year when second-rate columnists who are short of ideas can rabbit on with wild predictions about coming trends and events – certain in the knowledge that no one will read or remember them.

I am different.

I know that you, my quality readers, will both read AND remember, so I thought I’d better take a bit more care with my words. So you will not be reading any fantastic follies from me about both virgers getting OBEs in the next New Year Honours for services to roof tours. I shall also keep to myself the pious hope that a public-hearted floor-cleaning business will take over our duties of scrubbing, cleaning and protecting our stone floor this year.

It is slightly more possible that a location scout would discover that Beverley Minster was perfect as the backdrop for a major blockbuster movie. Even better if it was a blockbuster based on my own writings, with me as a highly-paid on-site script consultant ,  but I have to admit that that’s about as unlikely as me becoming Pope.

Heck, I’d be happy if my column was made into a sit com for BBC3 – or even a one hour special on the Discovery Channel that was only ever broadcast at 3 in the morning but I’m too realistic to predict any of those coming to pass either.

Instead, I’m going to proffer some much more realistic scenarios which may lack the glamour of the above but at least have the advantage of being verifiable.

For a start I predict the Minster will host an exhibition or series of displays of the graffiti inside the building. One of the dedicated team of researchers who keep exploring the old place in minute detail has made a special study of the unofficial carvings which overlay the basic structure – and very interesting some of them are. Amongst the mediaeval equivalent of: “Fred wuz ‘ere” are representations of boats, musical notation and even games or patterns.

It’s a whole sub-culture in its own right and there’s a good chance we’ll be able to show off more about them over the May Bank Holidays.

I (fairly confidently) also predict that 2012 will see the conclusion of 2011’s slow but positive progress towards opening the western end of the Minster churchyard to the general public – a scheme very much supported by the virgers.

There is a desire and good will among many parties to see this go ahead and very helpful cooperation from the council, (who are responsible for looking after the grounds these days) so we may well see this project reach completion soon. We do hope so – it’s something that people want very much – giving them the opportunity to explore and experience the building in a different way and also just enjoy being in a safe and secure green environment.

Whenever we open the gates for a wedding we virgers always have to hunt around the perimeter before closing time to clear out people who are enjoying the facility unofficially. It’ll be so much better to do it properly and have a set routine so everyone knows that, if they do get locked in, then it’s their own fault and not mine.

But there is still a very, very faint chance that this may not happen and as I don’t want to be a hostage to good fortune I’m going to predict something of which I am absolutely certain.

I predict that the month of January will be largely occupied in cleaning duties.

Actually, that’s hardly a prediction as it’s already started in a small way. The two 20 foot Christmas trees will be down, their carpet of needles extracted from (almost) every awkward crack and hole that they have infiltrated and then the task of removing all traces of Christmas 2011 will begin in earnest.

The model of Market Weighton railway station in the 1930s will be gone, the large forest of tree artworks created and presented by the High School will be back home and then it will be easy to find a virger – just follow the roar of a vacuum-cleaner and there will be either John or me in close proximity.

In previous years I have waxed lyrical about how our Henrys are the perfect machines for the task, being sufficiently powerful and flexible to clean floors, high window sills and even delicate wooden carvings some 20 foot above the ground – so much so that you may have thought I was getting paid for product placement in my articles. Sadly, that’s not the case which is why I can confidently predict I shall not be enjoying a family holiday this year on Sir Richard Branson’s private island in the company of other nouveau riche.

And my final bold prediction for this week is that I will soon be heartily sick of the sound of Henrys, so the chances of me doing any vacuuming at home in January are slim to non-existent. That’s why I bought my wife a Henry of her own a few Christmases ago. I don’t let her play with my toys and I’m sure she wouldn’t want me to play with hers.

Actually, I can confidently predict a row will follow when she reads that sentence. Oh dear.

So ho hum and Happy New Year to us all.

Irresolution for the New Year

Neil Pickford eyes the future – and he’s ambivalent

Firstly, I must deal with a question that has been repeatedly asked since my last column: you don’t need to worry about Pimple. As I write, Pimple is hiding underneath the model railway in the north transept of the Minster, although I expect it to move fairly soon.

Being a virger I have a strange affinity for dirt and dust and have been able to build quite a relationship with our visitor over the last few weeks. When it has an interesting story to tell it will let me know – and I, of course, will pass it on to you, my dear readers.

However, back to the present: It was 12.30 on the afternoon of Christmas Day and the final members of the congregation had sipped and then slipped away, leaving a happy tide of Merry Christmases in their wake. I was stacking some chairs when the vicar approached with a large circular chocolate box in his hand.

“A present for you,” he announced. I smiled and then saw, with sinking heart, that it only contained torn-up shreds of paper from the morning service – the rest of the chocolates having been scoffed by a hungry horde of celebrants earlier on.

“Hmmm,” I said politely, and thought- hard. 

“That’s probably a very good metaphor for the life of an average virger,” I concluded.

“You might get a column from it,” he replied gaily as he whirled off to sip champagne.

“Well, that’s the only good thing in it then,” I said, amusingly – some five minutes after he’d gone, which was rather too late.

Well, you see, my rapid riposte circuits were quite worn out – as was I.

After all, I was tidying up after my fourth major service in less than 24 hours (Virger John having done another two during the same period) and this was the end of the busiest month of concerts and events we’ve ever experienced.

On top of the normal cycle of big Christmas services we two virgers have assembled and disassembled staging and chairs for no less than 17 very different one-off events in 19 days, with various parties and seasonal specials on top. John’s arms have been hurting for several weeks and I managed to bash my forehead with a large candle stand as we dismantled the final concert of the year, so we both carry scars.

And yet, on one of my rare nights off from our unending sequence of concerts, I drove 80 miles to watch – of all things - another concert- and as a result I’ve been doing a little thinking.

I had travelled along the M62 to watch Roy Wood, the former ‘Wish it could be Christmas’ Wizzard himself, who was in fine voice and with an excellent band. I know I was really looking forward to the gig, but, on top of that, there was a wonderful atmosphere about the venue which, even as I first walked through the door, made me a promise that I was going to have a wonderful time. 

The Holmfirth Picturedrome (for that was the building in question) describes itself as the: “finest intimate music venue” in the north of England (with a capacity for 650 souls at any one time) and I’m not going to argue with that. It’s highly popular with musicians and performers and attracts audiences from many miles around – it’s also profitable.

And yet, at root, it’s just a basic box – exactly like our own Memorial Hall. But there the similarities end.

A former cinema, the owners spent a bit of money removing the fixed seats and screen, then painting the place. They’ve done some structural work, creating a modern, inexpensively-constructed mezzanine gallery along each side and a large upstairs balcony. There was a bar at each level - and that was it. A fully functioning venue that is commercially viable and very busy, attracting lot of big acts because they enjoy the atmosphere of the place.

Compare and contrast that with the big box that is Beverley’s own Memorial Hall where, after years of promises and many, many tens of thousands spent on consultancy fees, we still are waiting for any developments. Despite the existence of numerous art and festival organisations locally the building itself has many gaps in its diary. And yet this was supposed to be an improved version of our old Playhouse, with many hundreds of thousands of pounds available to fund its transformation.

I mourned the closure of the Playhouse and miss the types of act that used to appear there. I envy Pocklington for its Art Centre (and very little else) and I want one in Beverley, so I really wish the Memorial Hall well in its ambitions. But time is passing and money is disappearing….

However, all is not lost. We’ve already got Beverley Minster and, as I think we’ve adequately proved over the last few weeks, we’re a darn good venue.

What’s not to like? The setting looks magnificent (not just good, but fabulous, as everyone who performs there will agree). We have demonstrated that the building’s natural acoustics are perfect for many types of music and, when linked to a modern and expertly-fitted PA system, we can ensure high quality reproduction to all parts of the building for other types.

We’ve got a lot more flexibility in staging and seating than Holmfirth, we’ve also got the Parish Hall, Emmaus, Peter Harrison rooms, and new toilets which have been fitted up to the highest standards.   Best asset of all, we’ve got the powerful partnership of John and me available to assemble staging and make things work smoothly.

And to anyone who says that such things shouldn’t happen in a church I can only say: “Rubbish – you don’t know your history.”

Beverley Minster was built as-and-for theatre. The whole place was full of music and performers (that’s why we have a huge and world-famous collection of 14^th century carvings of musicians and dancers through the whole building). The inside was painted in vivid colours, there were no rows of seats or quiet spaces for the general population – even the seemingly endless succession of prayers and chants in the Quire were conducted against the background of a boisterous crowd in the main part of the church.

The vicar is happy for the building to be used thusly, the treasurer smiles broadly whenever he receives a cheque and we virgers appreciate the overtime and free muscle-developing exercises we get in the process.

And it makes many, many people happy – so what’s not to like?  

Festive frolics and a fabulous fictional fable

Neil Pickford comes over all whimsical

Once upon a time there was a little ball of fluff that floated round in the wind and its name was Pimple. It used to be blown here and there, not knowing where it was or where it wanted to be, and just listening and watching when it came anywhere near the hard stuff below it.

Pimple was an explorer, without a plan or a care in the world and it loved always finding somewhere new. The favourite day in its whole life was when there was a sudden: “Whoosh” and Pimple found it was stuck firmly on the nose of what it later learned was called a reindeer. The reindeer, and all its friends, were in a hurry because they had to pull a huge sleigh full of boxes all around the whole world in less than 24 hours and they travelled to everywhere, (literally ‘flat out ‘ in Pimple’s case) until the task was over.

Pimple had been floating around without a worry for many, many months after this chance meeting but it had fallen into some stronger winds lately and was getting bashed and biffed about. Normally Pimple didn’t try to fight the furies but it was getting cross with the wind always yelling and shrieking and decided it wanted a rest.

As Pimple was bounced from here to there and everywhere it saw a huge, cross-shaped building and felt that this might be a nice place to have a holiday. It was very pretty and full of the sort of good feelings that Pimple liked feeling. So, as the wind sucked and puffed brainlessly Pimple took the chance to slip and float down towards this lovely building. As it got closer Pimple realised it had never felt so much happiness in one place in its whole life. So it let a gust of wind blew it through some huge wooden doors and down again to a flat yellow-grey surface which, as Pimple got closer, looked more and more like the ....

...Ground

Pimple was a bit frightened and bothered when it finally touched down so it lay there, flicking slightly as it took stock, but all the time the nice feelings grew stronger and stronger. Everyone was looking at lots of green tree-things which puzzled Pimple – they were supposed to be outside, not indoors. Still, as everyone seemed so happy Pimple wasn’t going to spoil things by complaining (a nasty habit it’d picked up by absorbing the feelings of humans). Gently, small bits of the green things were falling from the trees and landing on top of Pimple, but they were light and Pimple was happy to be covered by them – hidden from view.

Pimple couldn’t count, so it didn’t know that many thousands of feet were walking past the little spot it had found to hide in. All it could tell was that people were happy, interested, surprised and satisfied – all day long. Dimly it registered that, when almost everyone had finally gone there were a few humans somewhere in the background, moving things around, but they weren’t as important or interesting as the masses of happy people, so Pimple dozed.

Later on many more feet passed Pimple and then there was a lot of noise. This noise also seemed to make the humans on top of the feet very happy so Pimple was happy as well. Pimple was so excited that, afterwards, it didn’t pay any attention to the few humans in the background moving things around because they weren’t as important or interesting as the masses of happy people.

After a while Pimple woke up to find all the feet had gone and the big green trees were being moved. There was no wind around to blow Pimple on to its next adventure so it tried to hide when it saw a big noisy tube coming that sucked up all the green bits around. With a shudder it felt the last of its camouflage being dragged away and realised that the big sucker was going to suck up Pimple too.

If Pimple could feel angry or frightened then it would have felt like that now – but Pimple couldn’t. All it could feel was the calm, ordered mind of the tube-holding human as it steadily worked through its big task of making the ground un-green and clean again. But that wasn’t important.

Luckily Pimple was expert at riding the draughts and, as the sucking sensation flicked Pimple around it managed to sneak round a corner and find some peace and quiet underneath a big table.

Every now and then more groups of feet would come to the table and say strange things about a railway, then go away happily so Pimple enjoyed that. When the feet all went away and just a few humans were left, moving things around, Pimple dozed because they weren’t very interesting (although surprisingly content, as it happens).

At some time over the next blur of days Pimple heard the sharp: “WHOOSH” noise that reminded it of the team of reindeer and their load of boxes. Pimple wondered why everything had to be done in such a rush – why didn’t the reindeer do just a bit of the work every day instead of all in a tearing hurry. But that was another mystery and Pimple didn’t enjoy mysteries, just experiences.

Not long after the whooshing reindeers had gone by the big building was quiet again for a long time with just a few humans wandering around and moving things – but they weren’t interesting or important. So Pimple decided it was time to move on again.

What adventures will Pimple have in 2012, dear readers? Tune in next week at the same Bat-column, same Bat-newspaper and see if our hero has escaped. ‘Til then, Merry Christmas.

Now please excuse me while John and I move a few things around.