It’s that time of year again

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford almost regrets having a weekend off

Oh dear, it’s terribly sad and all that sort of thing but I wasn’t on duty last weekend. It was one of those occasions when I have a couple of days off in lieu of being paid more wages and so I was slumped at home, preparing for the Australian Formula 1 Grand Prix. This started at a horrible hour in the morning. Worse still, It was the start of British Summer Time so, in reality, I was glued to the telly at horrible minus 60 minutes – which is even worse.

Yet, despite my absence I was confident that my boss, smiling John Dell (whose dark alter-ego, of Car Park Johnny is known to only a few people) would have changed the Minster clocks so that, as Beverley citizens rose bleary-eyed from their fragrant pits and eyed the tower they would see (provided that they lived to the north of the structure) that the hands pointed to the correct hour.

And, of course, any insomniacs within range would have heard the bells ceaselessly tolling the correct time during the night. They may not have liked it, but they would at least be punctual.

Peeling the top off a disgusting, mood-setting Australian tube of Fosters I felt a slight twinge of guilt at John having to do this task by himself because, quite frankly, it’s a two-virger job. It shouldn’t be, but those silly Victorians seemed to have a blind spot when it came to making machinery convenient for the humble working man to operate. A frame of mind that regarded covered cabs for train drivers as feather-bedding their workforce (and decent living wages as unnecessarily generous) was not going to consider virgers’ convenience when maintaining accurate time.

Our trusty clock mechanism, a big, black ticking beast manufactured by Messrs Smith of Derby, celebrated its centenary just after the millennium. It looks absolutely splendid – to an outsider. Brass gleams brightly, the painted frame shines and the massive pendulum ticks majestically as if the end of the world wouldn’t stop it. Every two days an electric motor, the only concession to modern working practices, rewinds the weights that keep the old ticker going – thus preventing we virgers from having to climb 112 steps to wind it by hand or cranking a capstan at ground level.

However, when it comes to changing the time then the good old-fashioned methodology still applies – and what a stinker it is. You see, our Empire-building Victorian ancestors put the simple hand-operated mechanism that controls the clock speed right slap bang against the far wall. And then, to make matters exactly very, very much worse, they put the dials that tell you what time is showing outside the tower on the opposite side of the machine, facing away.

With two of you in place it at least means that the virger who drew the short straw (and ends up lying on their back with one arm raised to release the escapement) doesn’t have to worry about overshooting the mark. Virger Two watches the dial, warns Virger One when the target is approaching, then counts down until split-second(ish) precision is achieved.

It’s great for any watchers outside as the minute hand sprints round the 14 foot diameter face – in fact it’s so good that we performed this trick several times for the BBC last year. The second time was when we did the feat twice for the Antiques Roadshow (sorry, sorry, I know I promised I’d never mention it again but the story doesn’t make sense otherwise). Yes, we spun the hand rapidly to seven o’clock, then ‘dong’ and Fiona Bruce spoke from the top of the tower to introduce a new season of the programme in question. And we repeated the exercise for eight o’clock in case the decision-makers at Broadcasting House changed their minds and decided to show it later in the evening schedules.

They DID change their tiny little minds and the programme actually went out at half past the hour, so all our careful coordination of movement, bells, camera zoom and speaking was a complete waste of time.

And previously we’d spun the dial for Look North to illustrate the hour going forward. For the late night report they, rather irritatingly, showed too many shots of me climbing the stairs and then just a second of the hands themselves in action which, after all, had been the whole point of the exercise.

It took us over an hour to get the hands back to where they would have been if the BBC hadn’t been there and the bells were bonging as if a jazzed-up Hunchback of Notre Dame had run amok with a hammer. So that was, quite literally, a great waste of time (hahahahahaha).

So spare a grateful thought to John this week as the chimes ring out correctly; synchronising and setting the rhythm of our fair town as they have for centuries. I certainly did as I sucked on my early morning tinny but, I’m afraid, their musical reminders were completely obliterated by the roaring of 2,400cc V8 engines on the other side of the world.

Don’t worry - it’ll be my turn next year.

First published April 2011

And now for something completely different

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford provides a pot-pourri of pointlessness.

I was in one of those tranches of tedium which intersperse moments of intense excitement in my life: not, I should point out, while at work because I’m constantly ‘doing’ there, but at home. My wife must have been away.

Anyway, in this rare period of peace I started casually flapping back through my columns (not that I’m in any way precious about them, you understand). As I carefully lifted the plate glass protective sheets out of their safe-deposit box and scanned them for printing imperfections I suddenly realised it has been a few months now since I bored you with an account of my typical day.

As my current typical day is subtly different from typical days in 2010 I thought you’d be fascinated to know more, but then things went wrong: I blame it on the fact that it’s a slightly untypical year at the moment.

You see, although we are now nearly at the end of March we still haven’t celebrated Easter, and that’s confused me. On March 1^st the Minster followed our normal practice and extended our opening hours to 5pm. We virgers mentally take this to be the official end of our quiet winter/spring seasons and gear up for our summer visitor influx which starts on the Easter weekend. But this hasn’t happened yet. Until it does daily visitor numbers are counted in the dozens rather than the hundreds. All month the Minster has been open to prospective visitors for an extra 60 minutes each day yet remained as empty as Gordon Brown’s diary.

It’s the problem of having a floating date for Easter, that’s what it is.

“Well,” any non-Christians might say, “sort it out – it’s your holiday.” And I have to agree – something needs to be done.

In fact, the date of Easter is and always has been a problem among Christians and involves major doctrinal issues (apparently). It is the most important festival in our calendar and there are (supposedly) huge, complicated and awkward calculations involved. Oh yes, it’s not just a case of seeing what dates are already busy next year for things (you know, daughter’s wedding, Uncle Jack’s 60^th, that sort of thing) and nominating the nearest free Friday.  Neither is it a random date selected by a blindfolded darts player.

It’s actually… actually, I must admit I can never remember what the process involves, beyond something to do with cycles of the moon,(see below) but I do know that Orthodox Christians in Eastern Europe celebrate it several weeks after we do. In fact this disagreement was one of the main reasons for the split between ‘them and us’ back in the 11^th century.

Conversely, in England, it led to unity. King Oswiu of Northumbria called a summit or ‘synod’ at Whitby in 664AD to decide whether he was going to follow the Easter dating traditions of the Roman or Iona-based Celtic church. He opted for Rome, much to the annoyance of subsequent generations who like heavily-patterned crosses. It also annoyed the Celtic monks who had to relocate the ‘tonsured’ or shaved part of their head from the front to the top. (Our current vicar, a true ‘broad-church’ Anglican, sports both styles simultaneously, although I don’t think it’s intentional). 

I’m sure that an expert could tell me why the dates have to be floating, unlike at Christmas, but I’ve never asked, so I can’t tell you. All I know is that it’s a pain – and not just for the Minster virgers.

This year school terms, and so many other areas of life, have been distorted by the lateness of Easter and it’s ridiculous. This year my elder son’s 13 week Spring semester is made up as follows: 10 weeks on, then three weeks Easter break, then return for JUST THREE WEEKS to complete the year.  Can you imagine what sort of distortions have been made to cram the necessary revision periods, exams and normal teaching into those 15 days?

Madness, I tell you. MADNESS!

Now I know some church-goers are (justifiably) upset when a judge says that English law no longer gives Christianity a special status so I expect I’ll get yelled at for what I am about to say, but to heck with it …. (swallows hard, pauses, then nervously speaks): I think that schools and universities should ignore Easter when it comes to planning their year. Give equal length terms with a half term slap bang in the middle and stop distorting timetables.

We can still keep Easter special by retaining the two bank holidays for when Good Friday and Easter Monday happen to fall. I’d argue that making them separate from the longer holidays would actually make these two days MORE important and prominent than now, lost as they are within a much longer holiday period.

Oh dear, this outburst has come as a bit of a surprise to me. When I started today I was fairly confident I would be offering you an interesting update about Russ Conway and several other little bits’n’pieces. Instead I seem to have struck a blow at the traditions conjoining and defining the relationship between the British State and Christianity. Hmmmm.

Perhaps it’s best if I stop now before I dig myself an even deeper hole.

FYI -  Easter always falls between March 22 and April 25. March 21 is the date of the vernal equinox, the start of spring in the northern hemisphere. Easter Sunday is always the Sunday after the first full moon after March 21 (unless the full moon is on a Sunday, in which case it is the SECOND Sunday afterwards) There you are – simples!

First published April 2011

Travel broadens the mind – is that a good thing?

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford gets in a car for a trip – and likes what he sees.

Oh dear, I seem to have come out with another rant this week – perhaps I should have seen a doctor about getting my angst removed for Lent. However, until then you’ll just have to put up with me as I am.

I start with a shameful confession – terribly embarrassing and all that, but I have to admit it. T’other week I travelled ‘doon south’ (or however that should be written). I freely admit to being one of those softie southerners, so beloved of old-fashioned Yorkshire comics, so the trip shouldn’t have been much of a culture shock to me. But it was.

I won’t bore you with the details but, for no particularly good reason I found myself in Banbury with a few hours to spare. I knew the silly nursery rhyme: “Ride a white horse to Banbury Cross,” (although I suspect younger generations are more familiar with: “Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane,” by Marc Bolan than the aforementioned whimsy) but nothing more. In any case it wasn’t poetry that called me, but simple curiosity.

There’s a very strange church, St Mary’s, right by the latest version of the Banbury Cross and that was fun to visit with my virger’s eyes open. Maybe I’m being subjective but when the only people in a church are well-meaning ‘watchers’ who sit there reading books it feels more like a ‘dusty museum’ experience than something more profound.  At least with the Minster we have ‘welcomers’ who actually like to answer questions, people available in the shop and, last-but by-no-means-least, the chance of seeing a real life virger cleaning the floor or moving chairs. In other words, a quality tourist experience. But this wasn’t the shock.

The eye-opener came as I walked back to the car park through the shopping streets. Now, it’s not always safe to generalise but Banbury isn’t too different from Beverley: it is a market town in a predominantly rural district. Until fairly recently it had a cattle market in the centre. Like Beverley its local railway network was cut back in the 1960s and it has also lost a lot of its traditional industry in the last 30 years. Unlike Beverley, however, there is already a massive modern retail development of the type that is blamed for sounding the death of small shopkeepers  – and yet the High Street was bustling, chock full with independent retailers.

So we don’t need to worry about the new Flemingate development hurting our existing shops, do we? Well, actually, I think we do, and here’s why.

Banbury put the huge (100+ retail unit) shopping centre slap bang next to the older, smaller shops, and people use both of them. Pedestrians park in the multi-storeys, walk to the big stores and then, almost seamlessly, they are in the old town centre. 

Compare that with Beverley’s nearest equivalent – Tesco - and extrapolate (oooh, cheeky). Currently, if a visitor comes to the former cattle market site and car park, what will they find? That their approach has been alongside high walls that hide the old town and give no hint of the riches therein. If one does decide to search for old Beverley what confronts them? They have to navigate four ugly lanes of New Walkergate traffic towards an especially boring section of The Beverley Wall; then an uninteresting walk to Dyer Street, which seems to be facing away from them. There are a few shops there, to be sure, but Dyer Lane itself has little to recommend it, architecturally speaking, and is often dark and unwelcoming. Doubly unwelcoming is the ornate Dyer Lane sign that has its back towards the putative visitor, giving the impression they’re leaving through a private drive. It’s as if the town hasn’t realised that not all shoppers start off in Saturday Market– many actually need to be directed (even enticed or invited) in from external car parks.

So what about the Flemingate proposals? Will they encourage shoppers into the old town? Will they heck!

How many visitors to that site are likely to cross the railway line at all – even to come to the Minster which, let’s be fair, is fairly obvious from the site and quite close? Perhaps a few. But even the most adventurous are unlikely to tramp further if all they can see is a railway station and then an old, tall residential street with narrow pavements that merely lead to yet another bit of Blank Beverley Wall.

Banbury demonstrates that, if the transition from new to old shops is seamless then everyone benefits, but this may be impossible to achieve here without knocking down Railway Street or the newer buildings in Eastgate – and some people may object to that.

My own more modest proposals involve railway lines, trams and an extension to the Beck – possibly also an all-year-round skating rink. I’d be delighted to sketch them out on a convenient beer mat or, better still, show the scene of my vision during one of my regular tours in the roof of the Minster (11.15am and 2.15pm most days, £5 per adult) if anyone’s interested.

I was hoping to end this piece with a clever allusion to ‘Having our (Banbury) cake’ or ‘Banbury Cross’ but I couldn’t think of anything that made people laugh - sorry. Maybe some jokes just don’t travel well – but good ideas should.

First published March 2011

A blast from the past

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford takes another rambling trip down memory lane.

This is a tale that will probably have most redolence amongst any of my female readers who are, shall we say, enjoying their second youth, but I beg my younger readers to stick with it – you might find it interesting.

I was having a quiet afternoon, scraping chewing gum from the Minster floor and pondering suitable forms of punishment. One mild-mannered visitor had just suggested hanging, drawing and quartering, on the grounds that ‘whipping is too good for them.”

A saintly former workmate of mine once seriously proposed making them chew curried chilli peppers while their mouths were taped shut, but I was currently playing with the concept of hanging them upside down from our tread wheel crane with their hair stuck to the floor by a big slab of the smelly stuff. An entertaining image, but not one likely to be approved by the vicar or PCC. So I continued pondering - what would our ancestors have done in these circumstances?

Soon, as the mind does, (or mine does anyway) I was drifting away, wafted on the memories of ancient smells and screams back to my pre-Beverley home, where I used to be a member of the congregation of St Mary Redcliffe in Bristol. This, like Beverley Minster, is classified as a Greater Church but unlike the Minster, is not in a particularly salubrious part of the world - in fact, right on its doorstep is the parish of Bedminster.
Now Bedminster was designed to be a tatty Victorian slum, built on the cheap to cram in workers and their families serving the coal mines in North Somerset and, frankly, it went downmarket shortly afterwards.

You get the picture. Before the last World War it was a REAL grotty tip – normal street urchins looked down on ‘Bemmie’ boys.

Oh, over the years many people tried to improve it – the Luftwaffe being particularly effective in this regard – and nowadays bits of it are almost acceptable (if you can’t afford anywhere better, that is). However, shall we just say you probably wouldn’t want to swap if you were currently living in North Bar Without.

One of the Bemmie Boys (probably now classifiable as ‘a child with special needs’ but who was termed ‘a right nasty tearaway” by our more robust ancestors), used to break into St Mary Redcliffe after hours.  A skinny so-and-so, he was never caught until, one day, he found himself sitting at the organ and was transported to a new world.

His fumbling fingers forced faint fugues from the finialed fluting of the fabulous f’organ (sorry, the letter ‘f’ is a bit sticky today). Before he knew it a half hour had passed and he was roused by a firm hand clamping itself onto his shoulder and shaking him (vibrato).

The church organist (for it was he) then explained, in a muscular Christian way (furioso) that the young lad was caught bang to rights and would soon be expelled (volante) from the building into the tender arms of the local constabulary (Sweeney Todd).

The lad, however, pleaded (lacrimoso) that he had found a new calling in life and that the organ called to him (appassionato).

The man gave him a choice – if he was serious then he, the organist, would give him some lessons. If not, then the lad would be singing falsetto for many years to come, as well as enjoying the company of some rough gentlemen at His Majesty’s Pleasure, that well-known chain of hotels and finishing schools. .

The boy WAS serious, he learned to play and, 30 years later under the assumed name Russ Conway, he was the biggest-selling musician in Britain with two number one hits in 1959 alone.

Britain’s answer to Liberace – in more ways than one – he was a hugely popular performer throughout the 1960s and a mainstay on Saturday night TV until the BBC finally caught up with the times and started broadcasting guitar-based music (some time in late 1975 I seem to remember).

Many women now collecting their pensions will have danced to his swinging piano tunes, swooned to his charming smile and sighed at his dashing good looks, never once realising that, if it hadn’t been for the exceptional kindness of one church organist, their fave rave might have had a very different life.

So, when I see another group of little angels running around the Minster these days and chewing I smile benevolently, wondering if there’s another Russ Conway hidden away inside one of them, or if they’re all a bunch of unreformed Trevor Herbert Stanfords.

Then I remember the hours of childhood torture as I was forced to listen to the jaunty rhythms of “Side Saddle" and "Roulette” and I start looking for a heavy club.

The moral of this tale is: don’t spit out chewing gum in the Minster – you never know how the virger may react.

First published March 2011 

I’ve seen the future, and it's an Apple

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford shares a brainwave

I would love to claim the following idea as my own but, in all honesty, I admit it’s the result of a brainstorming process that took place in the Virgers’ Vestry. Still, at least I was in the room when the brilliant flash occurred and so, in a few years time, I may be able to annex the entire concept as my own in the same way that Al Gore, the well-known hot air balloon, claims to have invented the internet.

Like any member of the Church of England who has an interest in the future of the planet (i.e. anyone who isn’t actually in a box) we were moaning about the amount of paper we use on a weekly basis. This environmentally-sensitive thinking was prompted by the sheer number of different booklets we’re giving out to everyone these days. This particular week seemed likely to set a new (and ethically-dubious) record due to changes we were introducing in regular worship.

We’ve had one particular form of words and ceremonial music for a good few years now and produced our own books to make life simple. When the Minster welcomed its new vicar and musical director back in 2009 we expected different thoughts about the accepted pattern of services. Unsurprisingly, they have now decided to make some changes and the congregation needs to know about them.

Environmentally speaking it’s not unreasonable for us to be producing new books which incorporate these alterations as the old ones didn’t have much life left in them - they are fragile and frayed around the edges. However, we haven’t got them yet. Consequently every week the Minster is handing out a veritable committee meeting-worth of sheets to all comers. This was worrying us.

To move the conversation on someone (it may even have been me) suggested: “To save paper, perhaps we should go back to having a screen with a bouncing ball”. The world waited, trembling, aware that something momentous was about to be said………..

“I think we should give everyone iPads,” came the response and, BANG! there was the answer – not only to this problem but also TO ALMOST EVERY SINGLE PROBLEM FACED BY THE MODERN MINSTER!

You think I’m exaggerating? Ha! Let me list just a few of the radical benefits:

Hymns and changes to weekly services instantly on view – no need for virgers to stretch out and put up numbers on the high boards or get a hernia carrying boxes of books. Copying costs slashed;

Graphics available to illustrate heart-rending tales or provocative thoughts of preacher and add punch to delivery – say no more;

Clear sound – no need to keep constantly tweaking, replacing or servicing our irritating sound system – headphones also available for hard of hearing;

Clear view of preacher – no need for extra pairs of spectacles, therefore less pairs of glasses left to be collected/thrown out from virgers’ vestry;

Illuminated screens – means we don’t need to provide light for reading hymn books so we can save big money (and the planet) by switching off our football pitch-style floodlights;

Digital money transfers – no need for collectors or counters to risk infection from 2p pieces or the (occasional) piece of dirty paper. Instant money credits, simple to gift-aid, which make giving so much easier (and quicker).

Additional subscription applications available – for a small fee we’d let you have live updates of football matches, F1 races, Top Gear etc. Extra revenue to church.

Interactive format - leave messages, prayer requests for vicar in case they’ve got to belt off straight after service (email facility disabled during sermons, of course);

Rent out units to receive services at home – less dangerous travel in bad weather, thus prolonging the average life of congregation. Downloadable so busy Anglicans can access service at a convenient time – and fast-forward through the boring bits.

We could even pipe in very important messages at critical moments, such as “The virgers politely ask you to replace your kneelers after use – thank you”. This would save time after services and reduce the exorbitant Sunday double-time wages paid to the virgers (oh, hang about, they’ve already done that).

It’s brilliant – I can think of so many other areas where this would help as well but I’ve run out of space. I may well return to the subject in future columns.

First published March 2011

The Cenotaph is special

Beverley Minster virger ‘Professor’ Neil Pickford examines human psychology.

Now zen class, if you would sit strrrrraight unt pay attention ve vill move on to ze next slide…

Sorry, sorry, where was I?

I’m afraid I must have slipped into virtual-teaching mode while considering what constitutes a sacred space in the Minster, but please excuse me. This fantasy allows me to indulge in my favourite “arms-waving-about-and-talking-loudly” activity and is otherwise completely harmless.

Anyway, as I was saying last week before I was so rudely interrupted by a shortage of newsprint, the Cenotaph in Beverley Minster has become a very special place to me in recent years, and I think the way this has happened reveals a lot about what can be termed ‘sacred’ places in church.  Firstly, let me just quote from the Minster’s own in-house historian from the 1970s, Thomas Tanfield:  “In the central bay … is a Cenotaph designed by Mr F.L. Pearson and executed by Mr R. Dawson of Marylebone, London. It is modelled after the shrine of King Edward the Confessor in Westminster Abbey and is inlaid with mosaic and enriched with rare marbles of beautiful colour. The panelled niches contain the names of officers and men of the East Yorkshire Regiment, and the panels on the north and south screens contain the names of about 2,000 East Riding men who served in 120 other regiments...”

The cenotaph itself, the chapel it stands in and the huge dark blue coloured windows nearby were erected in 1921 after massive public donations to remember those who lost their lives on the battlefields of World War One.

When I started working at the Minster a mere four years ago this Cenotaph was just a big, rather gaudy monument with names on. I felt a certain amount of respect for it because I come from generations of military fathers: my own joined up as a young teenager in the 1930s to become a military musician and escape a life of poverty and boredom, only for Hitler to come along and make the whole experience a lot more unpleasant than he’d been expecting. So I was fully aware of monuments commemorating those who fell in various wars and had been silently present at many of them as Dad continued to play clarinet in the local ‘TA’ band on Remembrance Sundays.

But the Minster’s cenotaph wasn’t anything special to me: none of my family was associated with this part of the world and you won’t even find either parent’s surname listed on it. Yes, terribly sad and all that, but entirely theoretical. But then I started working on Tanfield’s book about Beverley Minster.

Tanfield himself spent 30 years researching our building, putting all his findings into a scholarly tome, then produced just six copies of his meisterwerk. One of these is the ‘bible’ of the virgers, providing the answer to any question about the building for which we can’t remember details, but our copy is getting very battered and fragile.

I transferred all this precious information into digital format, transcribing around 100,000 words with my own delicate little pinkies, converting it into an easily-searched publication available to anyone with a computer.  Then I realised that, by creating a spreadsheet, I could do the same with the names on the memorial, so I started.

It’s only when I began entering the thousands of names listed that it started to dawn on me just how massive the scale of death and loss must have been. There are 7,514 names on the Cenotaph alone – all of them local boys who fought in various divisions of the East Yorkshire Regiment. The side walls record a further 2,261 East Yorkshire lads attached to other regiments, making a total of 9,775 deaths. And these are just the ones who died close to the spot where they were injured: since I made the list I have been informed of more than a dozen individuals who died of their wounds in hospitals back in Britain, but who are not listed here.

Suddenly these weren’t mere numbers – to me they became a weight of human loss that was tangible – roughly half a capacity crowd at the KC stadium for example. The cenotaph moved from being a dusty relic to a spot with real emotional overtones for me. I sometimes go in there now and think about the lives cut short, and the pain carried by those who came back as well.

My relationship with the cenotaph has evolved: it owns me now. And, I guess, that’s what really makes a place sacred to you.

And next week I may return to the subject of rabbits. 

To be added, perhaps, if space permits: Electronic copies of Beverley Minster by Tanfield on CD, compiled by Neil Pickford, are available at Beverley Minster shop, priced £9.99.

First published March 2011

Another page from the Minster book of history

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford looks for ancient meanings.

I must immediately apologise to readers from last week who were hoping to discover something about rabbits. I am afraid that I currently have nothing to say, profound or otherwise, on the subject of cute, cuddly cottontails so the subject will have to rest.

I’ve been unable to concentrate on such matters because I’ve recently been getting very angry about overpaid po-faced juvenile journalists spouting ignorant, emotive and innumerate tosh on TV about public spending cuts. The BBC is producing an unending parade of spokespersons who are unquestioningly allowed to tell us the cuts will end civilisation as we know it but a simple maths exercise shows it’s only a reduction back to 2009 funding levels. Back in my own journalistic youth my boss would have said – actually, you wouldn’t want to read what he said in a family newspaper but, to précis: “don’t let yourself be spoon fed. Ask the lying so-and-so why they’re lying”. But not one of these modern TV ‘journalists’ or ‘correspondents’ is! Grrrrrrr.

However, this is probably not the right place for that discussion - although I’d be delighted to continue it in a suitable hostelry, if you’re paying.

Anyway, as an cooling down therapy I have been contemplating the difficult subject of things that are, or were, regarded as especially ‘sacred’ in Beverley Minster, and why. It’s an interesting exercise (I think).

Once, some 500 years ago, the most important object in the Minster was the reliquary of St John of Beverley - the second most significant shrine in the north of England. This reliquary was so important that it had to have a church as magnificent as the Minster to house it. The whole building was designed as a sort of taster for pilgrims as they got ever-closer to their objective, which was nothing more or less than the miracle-working remains of a humble but deeply inspirational Saxon bishop from around 720AD.

The monks who guarded this tomb were granted substantial rights and possessions in the Saxon period; the conquering Normans’ respect for the remains protected the town from the ‘Harrowing of the North’ in 1069. It was John’s remains that continued to attract vast wealth to Beverley in the Middle Ages and made it one of the richest towns in England. John’s tomb was truly ‘sacred’ yet suddenly, because our national religion changed from mediaeval Catholicism to a relic-free brand of Protestantism, all such worship was outlawed overnight. The reliquary became redundant and was melted down for Henry VIIIth’s treasury. Even the exquisite stone platform it stood on was denounced as too ‘papist’ and dismantled.

So a richly decorated shrine that, for nearly 800 years, had been a source of wonder and veneration for peasants and kings alike was transformed into an object  worth more broken into its component pieces than when still in one piece.

And what about the formerly holy contents – you know, the holy remains of St John himself? Well, they were just stuck in a lead-lined box and forgotten about for a while.

A similar ‘de-holying’ transition happened in the transepts of the Minster, (the bits that stick out from the main length of the church). Once there were around 16 different permanent altars in these areas. Each of these would have been fenced off from its neighbour, with its own rich decoration, priest, programme of worship, closed-off sanctuary area, secure storage for communion elements, candles and mystique.

Today most of those spaces are utilised for completely mundane purposes and we can’t even be sure what was there before. For example, was the space that now houses the changing and robing area for the choir ever an altar? It’s certainly not very holy now. And some of the other formerly sacred spaces now contain, (in no particular order of non-holiness): the shop (three bays); the town exhibition (three bays); an open space (two bays); storage for staging and plastic chairs (one bay); display cases and the Henin Cross from World War I (one bay); a memorial bay for the East Yorkshire Regiment and the fallen of World War II – and the Cenotaph (one bay).

Aha, now, the Cenotaph! That’s an odd one and it’s a space that has taken on an increasing importance to me over the last two years. If you’re still interested I’ll tell you why next week.

Until then I’d like to leave you with a profound thought - but I haven’t had one yet. Maybe I’ll come up with something in time for my next scribble.

Here’s hoping.

First published  February 2011 

The varied use of sacred spaces

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford teeters on the edge of profundity.

It would appear that, to some people, certain areas in a church are more sacred than others.

This thought was prompted t’ other day when I looked at a vacant space in the Minster and saw that someone had carefully put railings around it. This empty area was where our altar is normally to be found but, at that moment, said item of furniture was some sixty feet away in the north transept. To a total stranger there would have been no obvious reason for the space it normally occupied to be protected in this way while the rest of the crossing was open to all.

For those of you would don’t know I should perhaps explain that the altar is where we prepare and serve communion. Around are various rails where communicants stand or kneel, and the space between them and the altar is often called the ‘sanctuary’ where several rituals take place. This area is frequently closed off and regarded as, in some way, different to the rest of the church.

 However, the Minster is rather unusual in that our communion rails and altar are completely removable. Yes, our main altar is on wheels and is fairly mobile – albeit in the same way that Anne Widdicombe was fairly mobile in ‘Britain’s Got  X Factors’ or whatever it was.

It has to be – this space is directly underneath our equally mobile roof boss which gives access to the Minster workshops some 20 metres overhead. Whenever we are raising or lowering a special delivery to or from the workshops we shift this altar as we don’t want a massive load of lead smashing through it.

This mobility also means we can (and do) shift it (and the surrounding rails) for a host of other reasons as well: there are various formal processions throughout the church year, especially Remembrance Sunday, when it would be right in the way. Some big concerts also need the space, several Christmas services use staging to accommodate all their musicians and this staging often extends over that same spot. Social events: the summer ball, commemorative meals and the various Youth Cafes all benefit if the central area is uninterrupted and so it is shifted for these as well.

But on this one occasion the movers had felt the need to put the rails back after moving the altar. Why? Was it because they had a vague feeling that the space was still, in some way, different to the rest of the church? It seems hard to believe because they knew that, on that very spot less than 36 hours later, there would be a succession of young teens crashing into each other while pretending to be Sumo wrestlers – which is not an obviously sacred activity. So, was it that, on one day it was quite acceptable to use the space for fun and games, but on the previous day the space was still somehow ‘different‘.

Probably not, but this started me thinking because there ARE spaces in the Minster which different people do seem to regard as being intrinsically more important (or ‘holy’) than others.  I must admit that I share this tendency. I know, however, that my ‘special’ places are not special to everyone else. Conversely what is, to me, a spot of absolutely no significance might, to someone else, be a source of great comfort and a reason for pilgrimage - and I find that quite an interesting insight into human character.

That’s why I’ve decided (with your generous approval of course) to intersperse my rather more lackadaisical musings with occasional pieces looking at places or objects within the Minster that seem to have a greater than ordinary importance to me or others – and trying to work out why, instead of just describing them.

Mind you, I can’t keep up this serious streak for long so you may well find yourselves reading something about rabbits next week. Until then, however, there’s one thing on which everyone can agree – there’s absolutely nothing special about the vicar’s vestry at

First published February 2011

Lies, more lies, and reasons to be cheerful

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford climbs atop another personal soapbox

I am afraid that I may go on a bit of an off-subject rant today but, for some unknowable reason, a simple line from a perfectly innocent and uplifting news story has made me come over all tetchy. I expect, when you hear what I’m about to bang on about, you’ll treat me with a faintly supercilious or even patronising air. Well, I’m sorry but it’s something that really used to annoy me in my previous life as a man of the world and it has been triggered all over again.

What really, REALLY gets my goat (which is a fairly stupid phrase, once you come to think of it) is the sloppy use of words and phrases that are sprayed around unthinkingly. This particular bête noir was revived by headlines about a major new development at Hull Docks.

It was a headline that, all too often, is complete and utter bunkum; a supposed ‘fact’ that has been uncritically swallowed which, in reality, is just a piece of puff produced by a parasitic publicity person without a proper perception of plausible prognoses

 Let me elucidate.

Over the past few decades, whenever a new speculative office or retail park was proposed in Britain the developer would issue a press release. Invariably, it would feature a computer-generated model of the development (which was so imprecise that it could have been drawn by a ten-year old with crayons) and a headline that screamed: “Will create X,000 jobs!”

Rubbish, cobblers, pooh-sticks and other naughty words. Merely building a new office block or retail shed doesn’t, of itself, generate a single long-term job (except perhaps for security guards). Once the builders have left the site then that’s it.  Just because you might have a building in which you can cram 2,000 office drones with a parking allocation of one space for every 0.2 of them, it doesn’t mean a thing. The building has not ‘created’ a single job.  Some of these buildings may, in fact, never even be occupied in between the optimistic popping of champagne corks and subsequent attentions of demolition crews.  The headline should read: ‘Might accommodate X,000 people if the demand is there.”

My old, cynical reflex was triggered when I saw: “10,000 new jobs” were being created by Siemens’ massive investment. I scoffed in a sniffy, superior fashion –but then I started to think. Maybe, just for once, this simple headline was correct.

Apparently:  “The factory itself is expected to create about 800 jobs initially, but about 9,000 more are expected to come from operations work, such as maintenance and supply activities” and that starts sounding a lot more plausible.

Manufacturing jobs are different to those in a supermarket. If a new store opens and employs 80 people then the only real implications outside the site will be that the group’s normal supply chain gets an new drop-off point to deal with. Perhaps an extra driver is taken on for a depot somewhere in the Midlands as they rejiggle runs to accommodate another two or three stores in a region – but that’s it. And most of the store’s wages never leave the building anyway, being  spent by staff  on their own groceries.

But manufacturing is something different altogether. Assuming that the new Hull facility won’t be just a final-stage assembly plant then there MIGHT be massive additional employment created locally. Someone will have to manufacture whatever packaging the factory needs to transport its products safely – perhaps locally. Someone, perhaps living locally, will have to deliver this. New harbour facilities are being built to handle the turbines, which will need to be operated by local people.  A lot of very, very expensive equipment will need to be installed and then maintained continuously by local people. And so on and so forth.

I guess I’m trying to argue that a working manufacturing plant matters a whole lot more in the local economy than any office block, no matter how full of productive desk-workers it may be, and media coverage should reflect this. Any company that employs 800 in manufacturing could very well create a demand for products and services that will REALLY provide employment for 10,000 people.

 I just hope any future press releases about ‘creating jobs’ will get a rather more quizzical reception from now on so that dubious employment boasts from people trying to sell something don’t get equal treatment with fantastic bits of news like this.

That’s it – rant over. I’ll get back in my box for now and be more vestry-relevant next week, I promise.

First published February 2011

Hypochondriac in search of happiness.

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford tries to get help for a little trouble he’s been having

Hello doctor, sorry to trouble you but I’ve got this little problem – well, maybe not a problem but it’s just a teeny weeny little thing that’s worrying me (please don’t laugh). It’s a bit embarrassing really. Well, it’s like this - for the last few weeks or so I’ve had a sort of feeling about, you know, my thingy here.

You know, this what’s-the-proper-word; um, y’know, the wotsit; my, um, y’know, column (no, please don’t snigger. Thank you).

Well doctor, honestly, to come right out with it, I have to say I think I’ve been a little bit, well, you know, a bit not-up-to-spec in the old chuckles department, type of thing.

Well, I know I’m not getting any younger but I should have thought I had a good few columns left in me yet, but somehow it’s getting harder to bring one to a satisfactory conclusion these days.

What’s that you say? Why don’t I just open my eyes to what’s going on in the world? It’s such a daft place there always something that’s good for a laugh? D’you reckon? OK, so what’s going on in my world at the moment?

Well, there’s been a lot of work that’s going on at the different Minster rooms. I mean, we’ve just had the Peter Harrison room gutted, recarpeted, repainted and refurnished to make it much nicer for people to use. It’s transformed - It’s now got an overhead projector and loop system for the deaf as well but nothing amusing happened while the work was being done. No, sorry, nothing to laugh at there. The overhead projector didn’t work when the man came to demonstrate it but that wasn’t funny haha, really. More funny peculiar.

I know we’ve got about 13 weeks of work starting at the Parish Hall because the builders have started knocking down and rebuilding the toilet block. But I can’t see anything very amusing on that subject – unless you’re someone who laughs at people in a queue for the loo – and I don’t.

Do you mean we might find those two mythical old ladies who disappeared all those years ago? Well, that’s not very funny at all, is it? And no, I doubt if they found it very funny either.

Perhaps I should look elsewhere, you say? What, revisit moments that amused me at home, such as when my younger son coolly informed at my older son: “my VIRTUAL social life is ten times better than your REAL social life.”

This statement was uttered just as older one was off visiting his long-standing girlfriend while younger son was scratching himself on the sofa. But that’s private – it’s not really something I should share with my millions of readers all around the world. And now I think about it it’s not particularly funny either – I guess you had to be there.

 “Well,” the doctor finally concluded, steepling her hands and staring at me over her gold-rimmed pense-nez: “I can only conclude that you are SAD.”

“I know that,” I countered in a not very witty way. “I want to be amusing again.”

“No, S.A.D.” she explained laboriously, as if to a total idiot. “Seasonal Affected Depression, also known as Winter Depression or Winter Blues – it means you’re missing the sun.”

Ridiculous – I stormed out of the consulting room, passing a highly polished brass plate that read ‘Dr D.N. Duck, MD, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Woman’s a quack,” I scoffed and stormed into the road.

That, however, was yesterday. Earlier today the sun came out for the first time since 2010 and I started to feel so very, very much better. In fact, I could feel my chuckle muscles flexing and my jocular juices starting to flow. Actually, I’ve just remembered a rather splendid joke which I’d like to share with you all – but, sadly, I’ve run out of room. Never mind, there’s always next week to look forward to (sorry, grammar purists: to which we can look forward).

Suddenly, and sunnily (ha ha) the world is a much better place.

First published January 2011

Yesterdays news is a documentary of tomorrow

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford recalls some experiences with the BBC.

I am trying to write this column in a way that doesn’t make me look either big-headed, or falsely modest. I shall probably fail but, if I do, please at least give me credit for trying. Anyway, I do promise that this will be – cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die - the very last time I mention ‘Songs of Praise’ etcetera.

It all seems so very, very long ago now. When the closing credits ran over the January 2^nd edition of S. O. P. (as we insiders call it) and the final shot of Beverley Minster faded out it was as if a whole stage of my life was finally over.

That may sound melodramatic but don’t forget that, back in May 2010, we had massive excitement because BBC1 was rolling up with two different production crews to film Songs of Praise and Antiques Roadshow over a single week. This activity was the culmination of many months of planning, dozens of texts and phone calls, visits, discussions and long hours on site. This was a pioneering cooperative effort for the BBC and fairly big news in the broadcasting world: we had BBC news crews filming BBC programme-makers as they filmed while another film crew took more film of the production for subsequent transmission in Europe. Exciting times, if somewhat crowded on occasion.

The end result, as far as we were concerned, would be two editions of each programme but, four months later, the BBC had only broadcast the Antiques Roadshows and a single Songs of Praise. Until the second one was shown there was a sense of unfinished business. However, that one has now been transmitted…….. and it’s all over.

A strange, empty feeling. Nothing more to look forward to – all those hours and hours of recording and interviews cut down into two programmes lasting about 90 minutes in total. Less than two per cent of all the material on which dozens of people worked so hard has finally made it to the screen. As far as most of the world is concerned the rest just never happened. Shots, scenes, plans, interviews, even entire themes now exist merely in the memories of those who took part and will never be seen.

I’ve got virtually no complaints about the editorial decisions made – the whole process has produced four marvellous advertisements for both the Minster and Beverley and we’ll wait to see if that translates into greater tourist numbers when the new season starts. However, on a personal level I would have liked to see more shots of our own choir and rather less time given to the four members of Blake who were featured twice with legs akimbo, yelling loudly and producing some rather dodgy vibratos.

And I wasn’t in a single shot – not that I care of course.

Why should I? After all, I’m now on a BBC website near your computer because the BBC was in town again before Christmas, this time with just a bus rather than a fleet of transporters. This was part of their Video Nation project which aims to build a (rather selective) archive of recordings about life in Britain today and in the past.

Beverley was one of the first places visited and as a result of a lot of work by volunteers there are now two short films about the town available online at http://www.bbc.co.uk/videonation/videos/index.shtml  (go down the index to 22nd December for both items).

‘Bus to Beverley’, covers the history of EYMS’ buses, focusing on their uniquely-profiled roofs that allowed them to pass through North Bar - provided they were driven properly – with some anecdotes about what might go wrong with an over-enthusiastic driver at the wheel. 

‘Historic Beverley’ has me as a presenter using my own words (although not necessarily in the order I said them). Don’t worry, most of the time my face is out of shot and my hands are stuffed firmly in my pockets instead of waving around like normal. This isn’t because waving hands are distracting on camera, it’s because it was bitterly cold when we filmed. People have told me the film looks quite good and is very interesting.

So far I haven’t heard from the BBC or Steven Spielberg about any future filming work so I’m back polishing the brasses and annoying ancient spiders. Now I know what George Lazenby must have felt like after ‘On Her Majesty’s Secret Service’.

Sigh.

First published January 2011

 

Back to school – the hard way

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford finds himself in class

That’s it, the Christmas break is over and the harsh realities of the new year demand that we knuckle down and start doing something positive to take us through the next 12 months. Many people have made good, worthy resolutions which, I’m prepared to bet, in 97 per cent of all cases have already been broken.

I, however, continue doggedly in my aim to lose two stone this year, and have already got used to the taste of cardboard instead of bread, an absence of butter and expanded polystyrene as a substitute for cheese. If I could just make my tastebuds accept lo-cal Ribena as a substitute for red wine I’d be even happier about the prospects of achieving my objective. 

And so, with the temple that is my body en route to improvement I’ve also decided to develop new skills and accomplish great things in 2011. So I’ve decided to learn a 3-dimensional CAD program and then map out Beverley Minster, demonstrating how it was built.

Yeah, all right, I can hear yawns of apathy around HU17 but this is actually quite interesting. A certain Mr John Phillips, with the aid of a like-minded individual from the colonies, has spent years reconstructing the sequence in which the various stones that make up the Minster were assembled. If I can work out how to use the 3D wotsit I should be able to create a sequential display of its assembly through the centuries – and it’s quite a different story to the one in the guidebooks.

John has also uncovered clear evidence of a 13^th century square tower in the centre of the church, which later builders subsequently transformed into a much taller octagonal structure to match the height of our newly-built west towers. It is even clear that the present nave roof is not in its original position and John has also had a stab at working out roughly what shape and size the original church was before the present Minster was built around and over it.

That, in its own way, I find fascinating although I realise I might be in a minority here. But the more I learn the more I become fascinated by the full achievement of our ancestors – you know, the people who actually built it - because they were really up against it.

You see, during the 13^th century England was, in effect, one gigantic building project: the big Norman castles were largely in place by then so, in every part of the kingdom, masons, carpenters and labourers were now beavering away on the dozens of gothic masterpieces we still admire to this day: Beverley, York, Lincoln, Gloucester etcetera – as well as the many huge abbeys and monasteries that survive only in ruined form. 

Yet this was all done in the most appalling conditions: the weather during that century was dreadful. For several years on the trot it rained continuously during the summer months, destroying all crops and also making it impossible for mortar to set. Famine was an ever-present problem and the population was so weakened by successive crop failures that it was very easy for the Black Death to kill off more than one third of the UK population as it did.

In addition, even if the workforce was alive and strong enough to do all the hard work required, the weather was still conspiring against the builders. Temperatures were often too low to get the medieval mortar to go off. This meant that building work had to stop and the stone, which was being shaped in quarries and stone yards around England, had to be stacked on site until they could actually get them to stick together. Then, once the temperature rose sufficiently for the various chemical reactions to take place then they really had to work quickly and assemble as much as they could before things changed for the worse again.

And yet they persevered, slowly fighting the elements to create ever-greater structures, and even in locations where they already had their new churches they weren’t satisfied. Sometimes they would tear down an existing nave or transept two or three times in a century and create something even more magnificent, just for the heck of it.

They weren’t aliens, they were ordinary Joes just like you and me, and with a population of probably less than one-twentieth of today they built these vast structures with simple tools, cranes and muscle-power – and vast amounts of practical skills that we have now largely lost.

It does give you pause for thought, as we enter another year waiting patiently for work to start on the Minster by-pass (the Keldgate relief road) which was first promised to us back in 1927. I think we may have lost our focus over the centuries.

First published January 2011

The relaxing sound of cleaning

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford anticipates a relaxing January

It’s good to get back to work after a short holiday, isn’t it boys and girls? Oh no it isn’t! I hear you reply in full seasonal pantomime mode. Well, actually, yes it is, and here’s why.

Firstly, the Christmas break in Pickford Mansion was less a time of ‘Mistletoe and wine’ and more a tale of ‘Grizzle, blow and whine’ because what’s the first thing that happens when you get a few days off? That’s right children, a nasty bug that’s been hanging around for weeks and waiting to strike, strikes when your defences are down. This was the particular bug known to the scientific community as: “the one that doesn’t give you a temperature but makes you cough and sneeze a lot and gives you lots of catarrh and makes you fall asleep all the time-itus.”

So the beautiful turkey and each of its carefully-chosen trimmings all tasted vaguely the same, as did the nice Rioja that accompanied it, and I kept falling asleep between sentences.

Couple that with my incessant barking cough and occasional wall-shattering sneezes and I really wasn’t very good company on the day, just grumbling away in my distant seat while bonhomie went on around me. 

My wife was also busy with Hunter’s Hall, our three-star bed and breakfast (convenient for the town and all facilities and amenities, very clean, reasonable rates, look out for the yellow door, see www.huntershall.net for details – thank you). Instead of a quiet Christmas, as expected, we were inundated with refugees from frozen water pipes, floods, dangerous road conditions and obstinate electrics. At 5pm on Christmas Eve itself we even had the classic biblical: “Is there any room at the inn?” request. However, in spite of tradition we did actually have a spare and didn’t need to offer the bike shed in the garden as the only option – and she wasn’t heavily pregnant either.

It was with a tangible feeling of relief that I slipped back into my SuperVirger costume and prepared to resume battle at the Minster on behalf of goodness, truth and the Anglican way.

January is year-end in virgers’ eyes – time for tidying up and chucking out. Visitor levels are extremely low so we can get on with spring cleaning and removing the detritus of Christmas. First things first, the two 20 foot high Christmas trees must be disconnected from the organ screen and lowered (with due reverence and care) to the floor where they will be sawed up and carted away to that great compost heap in the sky. Then the Henry-ing starts.

Thanks to the recent weather our floors are covered in mud and dust, sprinkled in with a load of fairy dust (well, tinsel), pine needles and sweet papers. Now it’s all drying out we can get the worst of it off with our cleaners before attacking the residue with Nautilus. Attention will then shift to our window ledges (for which we have devised special virger-tools to make the job simple) and on to our magnificent carvings in the quire (for which unique virger-devised equipment will be used to prevent damage). We might even polish all the brasses. The vicar, old ‘imindoors’ himself, has also instructed us to have a mega clearance of any rubbish in the Minster so expect a clearance sale of unwanted, rusty and damp junk in the neighbourhood soon. Then, suddenly, the whole place will be sparkling again, ready for the next wave of visitors and worshippers.

Gosh, what an exciting life I lead. I may have to go and lie down while I contemplate its sheer shimmering translucence.

I feel your envy.

First published January 2011

So that was the year that was

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford reviews 2010

Those of you who have been following my weekly witterings exclusively in the estimable Advertiser will have missed my most recent writing. Having produced personalised, precious and perspicacious pearls of pre-Christmas pleasantries I was then informed that the paper wasn’t being published so my festive frivolity could only appear in the electronic ether, which was a pity as I thought it was worthy Winter whimsy (sorry, I’ve just had a drink of alliteration for breakfast and it hasn’t worn off yet).

Mind you, if no one has actually read my risible writing then I can recycle it for next Christmas, so it won’t be a complete loss.

Anyway, gazing into my justly-derided crystal ball I detected that the Advertiser was planning to run a between-holidays edition – this very one, in fact. I was shocked. This, in newspaper terms, is an annual gift to the lazy, addled-pated columnist as it gives them an excuse to drag out a few random facts, put them in the form of a list and then laughingly describe it as a review of 2010. Frankly it’s an obvious con, an insult to the intelligence of the reader and, equally, an exemplar of sloppy writing at its worst.

Sooooo – in no particular order we come to:

Most memorable moment in 2010 – nothing really springs to mind (ha ha).

Scariest moment – it wasn’t actually scariest for me, but for Aled Jones, It happened when the BBC visited Beverley Minster in May. He wanted to operate our treadwheel crane and we agreed. But first I had to prepare him to be careful. I pointed out that he was lifting a quarter ton weight all by himself, there were no brakes on the wheel and if he lost control he would be flung about like a little toy; his suit would be ruined; the weight would smash through the stone ceiling in the Minster and cause millions of pounds of damage – and it would all be his fault.

For a few minutes afterwards he tiptoed around the wheel like a snail with constipation and a look of abject terror on his face – every second captured on camera. However, in fairness I should say that he soon got the hang of it and, once he’d relaxed and could operate it safely, he did his piece to camera like he’d been working it as long as I have. If you want to watch the end results of my careful training then, by pure coincidence (assuming my crystal ball is working properly) you can see the finished sequence this Sunday, January 2^nd, at 5.10pm on BBC1 in Songs of Praise.

Oddest moment – when I became a stand-in body double for Fiona Bruce. Same week, different BBC crew. Antiques Roadshow wanted Fiona to operate the wheel as well (as you might have seen back in September). She was a real trouper and, despite being about half my weight, turned the wheel, lifted the quarter ton boss, delivered lines to camera and ‘hit the mark’ (as we TV types say) after hardly any practice. That was all genuine.

What the camera didn’t show you afterwards was me then getting in to the wheel to spin it at a more normal speed and drop it safely back into place – the editing implied that Fiona was still treading the boards but she wasn’t – IT WAS ME, I TELL YOU – IT WAS ME!

I hope I haven’t destroyed any illusions with these intimate (and rather uninteresting) behind-the-scenes vignettes.

Biggest disappointment – finding out at the Antiques Roadshow that my valuable family heirloom, which was going to provide for me during my declining years, was in fact a horrible piece of tat. The expert looked as though he wanted to wash his hands after viewing it and I was so disappointed I threw it straight into the Minster bin afterwards. So no early retirement to sunnier climes for me.

Biggest satisfaction – getting ‘Nautilus’, our new floor washer. It’s making a big difference already and quite a few of the paving stones are already starting to gleam with their original light colour.

Most keenly anticipated change for 2011 – the new bungee harnesses we are getting for our safety rigs. Soon, if we should happen to topple over when we’re changing the lights some 50 foot above the floor then we will be gently lowered all the way down instead of hanging uselessly in space forever as a sort of post-modern chandelier.

 Hmmm – and that’s the highlights? It’s been a rum old year in the vestry, hasn’t it?

However, we are starting the new one with a bang - our special day-long series of tours inside the roof and Central Tower on Bank Holiday Monday 3^rd start at 10am, so why not visit us? Work off some of that Christmas pudge; tone up those leg muscles ready for walking to work if the snow returns; see the treadwheel crane where Fiona and Aled performed for TV – and all the rest of it. 

And if not during the bank holiday, why not some other time during 2011? We’re planning even more new attractions including the opportunity to eat your food off the floors after they’ve been cleaned by ‘Nautilus’; and synchronised virger diving from the clerestory windows. And no admission charge!

Alton Towers, eat your heart out.

 First published December 2010