Bank Holiday bonus bonanza benefit bunkum

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford goes commercial

Now, gentle reader, please stick with me during my latest contribution to the frivolity and gaiety of the nation because we’re about to try a very important scientific experiment.

You see, buried deep inside this collection of witty banter will be a hidden message. I’m going to attempt some subliminal advertising and I need your complete and utter concentration to make it work. So get yourself into a quiet part of the room where you’re not likely to be disturbed for the next few minutes, sit down comfortably in a well-lit environment that is conducive to easy reading and hold this article at a convenient distance from your eyes.

(pause)

OK, are you sitting comfortably?

(pause)

Then I’ll begin.

(pause)

“COME TO BEVERLEY MINSTER THIS BANK HOLIDAY MONDAY!!!!”

(pause)

Ok, now let’s see if that worked, shall we?

Do you currently feel an overwhelming urge to visit East Yorkshire’s most popular free tourist attraction on Monday 29^th August, but as yet have no idea why you should? You do? Excellent! You are clearly in the top one per cent of the population for intelligence and are probably the most popular person in your neighbourhood – whether you realise it or not. Normally such people are also extraordinarily attractive and smell gorgeous. I look forward to seeing you in the Minster on Monday between 9am and 5.30pm.

For the rest of you who aren’t so sensitive I’ll explain why you should also be there – and if you’re inside our wonderful walls between these hours I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you’re also in the top one per cent, extraordinarily attractive, smell gorgeous etcetera, etcetera. After all, how will I be able to tell the difference?

I want you there partly because we are opening the north west tower (all 165 feet of it, 208 steps and incredible views from the roof) for this one day only at an unbelievably low price of £8 per person (and half price for under 16s) – that’s a recession-busting discount from the normal price of £10 per person.  Better still, a family ticket for two adults and two children IS ONLY £20!!!

Or you can do one of our ordinary central tower roof tours including the ancient tread wheel crane and assorted other goodies for just £5 and £2.50!!

And! And! AND! There’s yet more!!!

You see John and I have been casting around feverishly trying for a gimmick that will give the day a bit of a push because normally it’s a big fund-raising date in our calendar – if people know about it. Last year, however, it was a bit flat – largely because we didn’t get much publicity before the event. So we need to boost our media profile by creating a true once-in-a-lifetime experience – but we couldn’t think of one.

So, instead, I’m going to officially launch my new CD: “Three Chairs - Neil Pickford reads the best Views from the Vestry” and hope that this drags in some of my eager fans (if they are prepared to go public with this strange psychological flaw).

 The CD will consist of one hour of me reading a selection from the ‘best’ articles I’ve written over the past three years, all delivered in my gloriously redolent, yet surprisingly friendly and dulcet tones – possibly accompanied by music composed by the talented and inexpensive Pickford siblings. It’s the ideal present for deaf friends and relatives at an unbelievable launch price of £5, with all profits going to Minster general funds.

I realise that the prospect of copies individually signed and dedicated by yours truly isn’t really the ultimate crowd-puller so we’re throwing in, for one day only, a truly remarkable opportunity – the chance to get the matching signature of my colleague, the yin to my yang, the tonic to my brandy, the ever-smiling annihilator of errantly allocated automobiles, CAR PARK JOHNNY! 

If you miss this chance it will be a long while before the next as he only retains the power of writing for 12 hours at a time. It’s taken us five months of training to get him this far and I can’t guarantee when we could possibly repeat the exercise.

All this, of course, assumes that I’m going to have the CDs ready in time and that involves significant effort by me – I’ve got to record it. I am compiling a folio of my finest, recreating rib-tickling ribaldry in recordings that will entertain and entrance (that’s en-trance, not entry-ance – sorry, they look the same but they will sound different on the CD) – and that’s not easy.

For a start the recording will take place in my son’s bedroom, because that’s where the computer and mixing desk is. I will have to mentally rise above the all-enveloping piles of unsorted everything that are his attempts at filing and ascend into Chuckleville, creating a happy place which will brighten your lives for years to come. It’s harder than it sounds.

Why don’t you pop in to the Minster on Monday and see if I’ve succeeded?

If you can’t wait or don’t want to pay for the CD then a full archive of around 150 articles from the Mister Minster and View from the Vestry collection is available here and you can read them aloud for yourself.

They’re taking the Michael, I tell you

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford mounts another pedestal.

I am staring at a piece of packing and I am seething with rage. Many people seeing exactly the same bit of wrapping may wonder why I got in such a temper but it’s obvious that they haven’t noticed the same thing that I have.

If they had then I’m sure they’d be just as angry.

In itself it’s an innocuous piece of thin golden plastic that has been extruded or stamped out with its identical brethren in its millions – nay, possibly billions. Not so long ago it housed biscuits – very pleasant chocolate-topped biscuits wrapping a thin orange paste atop a cake-like base.

Now quicker-thinking individuals among my readers may well have leapt to the conclusion that I’m describing a Jaffa Cake and I’m not surprised that you did – it was my intention to misdirect you along that path.

However, this biscuit is actually another manufacturer’s attempt to climb onto the Jaffa bandwagon by producing something which is similar, but sufficiently different to avoid a ‘passing off’ legal action. These particular biscuits are rectangular, not round, but to the owner of non- gourmet tastebuds such as myself they taste exactly the same. They come in packing that proudly boasts it is part of the Marks & Spencer branded family and that, as almost everyone knows, is the sign of Good Stuff. However, I may never buy one of these products ever again because someone, somewhere has taken advantage of me.

For some strange reason I started fumbling with the packaging before I disposed of it in the relevant bin and then stopped short. My enquiring mind had, subconsciously, registered there was something slightly unusual about the shape and I wanted to find out what it was. Eventually I twigged – there were only enough compartments for eleven biscuits.

ELEVEN! What sort of stupid number is 11? I’ll tell you what sort of number it is – it’s a flaming rip off, that’s what it is, because we’re supposed to believe that we’ve just bought a normal packet of 12 – but in fact we’ve been short-changed.

Twelve is a proper number. Everyone knows why there are 12 biscuits in a packet: it’s two biscuits for six people, three for four people, four for three people and five people can each have two with a couple of spares for later. But eleven is a guarantee of disappointment.

Imagine the scene: three people will enjoy three biscuits but one poor individual will only get two – resentment starts to grow, possibly leading to bloodshed in the future. Or, conversely, four people will enjoy two biscuits but the fifth person, probably the host, will see there is still one left over at the end of the nice little soiree they have just enjoyed. “I can’t just leave that one – and it’s foolish to put it back in the box by itself – I’d better eat it” they will think.

And so our kindly host consumes extra calories, leading to a terrible addiction that will ruin their lives and those of all their loved ones. And all because some penny-pinching wonk at M&S has shaved a tiny proportion of the costs of producing a family treat without dropping the price.

It’s common throughout the confectionery industry – I have scientific proof that Wagon Wheels are only half the diameter they were when introduced in the 1970s: the same shrinking effect has happened with Mars bars, which once used to dislocate your jaw when you tried to bite them, but can now be almost stuffed in sideways.

Mind you, it’s not just sweetie-makers that are squeezing extra profits out of helpless consumers – I discovered an identical process has happened with jumbo packs of Felix cat foods. Last week there was a special low price offer and so we were very happy, until we got home to find out that there were only 44 sachets inside the box instead of the usual 48. Surprise, surprise, the price-cut wasn’t as big as the reduction in quantity, so they’d tried to sneak another price rise onto us instead of being straight and saying: “yes, things are more expensive to make than they were last week, so you’re going to have to pay more. Sorry.”

I think it’s the deceit that annoys me more than anything else.  Huge quantities of human ingenuity used to disguise the fact that we’re getting less for our money than before. Marketing strategies designed, packing redesigned, tooling tweaked, nozzles slightly nipped, purchasing orders pruned, an overall reduction in demand leading to lesser income for everyone on the supply chain. And for what? A miniscule gain in profitability that is lost in the effort involved in implementing the change and vastly outweighed by a subtle reduction in the quality of life for millions of consumers and producers.

It’s making me so angry that I think I’ll go out and, and, and……oh, to heck with it. I’ll just have to do without biscuits tonight as a protest.

That’s how angry I am.

I’m afraid there is no smart aleck conclusion to this article, no tiny nugget of wisdom to wrap it up neatly. But I do feel better now, so thank you for sharing.

A sense of perspective is not always good

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford travels and thinks

To some people a summer holiday is a month-long trip to the sun, immersing oneself in the culture, climate and alcohol of a different country. To others it is a few weeks exploring the varied scenery, accents and local brews of our own British Isles.

To this virger from Beverley Minster it’s an overnight stay in mid-Norfolk, a one-way journey on a preserved railway branch line and a shared bottle of maison rouge to wash down a curry. And who is to say which of us is right?

As it happened, the southern station of the railway is next to a very prominent former abbey at Wymondham which now serves as a parish church. It, like Beverley Minster, was dissolved at the time of Henry VIII but, unlike our own beloved structure, the larger section belonging to the monks was dismantled afterwards. Only the part reserved for parishioners has been left standing. 

It is big, it has lots of Norman arches, life-size angels in a richly patterned wooden roof, an incredibly ornate altar screen which was commissioned and erected last century, picturesque and evocative ruins and a history dating back 800 years. I stood there, surrounded by all this glory and history, the interesting architectural details, the evidence of dedication and love for the building and I thought: ‘So what?’

It wasn’t a reaction that pleased me – in fact I was rather shocked. Here I was, dismissing something that was beautiful, fascinating and the product of many years of restoration - but I did.

I analysed my miserable response and realised that the whole thing just wasn’t ‘doing’ anything for me.

I’ve been spoiled, that’s the problem. My workplace is Beverley Minster and, frankly, compared to our famous landmark, it’s going to take a heck of a lot to impress me.  Oh, I’m not immune to the charms and claims of other places: York Minster is flipping big (albeit, visually, just a fatter version of Beverley Minster); St Paul’s Cathedral is magnificent (and once employed Nicholas Hawksmoor – who subsequently saved Beverley Minster from ruin in 1716): Westminster Abbey is huge (with west end towers modelled on those of Beverley Minster – by Hawksmoor, no less) and – oh well, I’m sure you can see how this is going. Plus, in any case, I’ve learned its quirks and ins-and-outs over the years in a way that I never can with a single visit elsewhere.  And I’m very fond of it.

Back in the days of the Reformation and also after the English Civil war my thoughts might have been considered somewhat heretical – even idolatrous. During these times when evangelical Protestant reformers closely resembled the Afghan Taleban (abolishing Christmas and public entertainments, for example) my affection for a simple building would have been regarded as distracting me from my duty to concentrate on worshipping God.

In those zealous days the ‘cure’ would have been somewhat brutal– quite probably the building would have been ‘de-beautified’ by enthusiastic men with big hammers.

Whether or not glorious buildings distract people from the ‘proper’ form of worship is a theological point I shan’t even try to answer – that’s one for the vicar. I’ll just concentrate on moving tables and chairs and marvelling at each new example of creativity and craftsmanship I discover, virtually on a daily basis. I’m just glad the hammermen didn’t visit Beverley.

Mind you, I’m not stupid or ignorant (although that’s not what my teenage sons might say). While I happen to think that Beverley Minster is a wonderful example of fallible humans working together to create something sublime I know it’s not the best in the world and I had a small tour group the other day that brought this fact home to me.  One of them was from Poland and, when she named her home region a battered old recollection scratched its way from inside the rusty biscuit tin of my mind.

“You’ve got a few big churches of your own around there, haven’t you?” I tentatively suggested, hoping my memory hadn’t let me astray (like that embarrassing time when I confused Charles and President Kennedy, but that’s another story altogether, thank-you-very-much).

“Yes” she confirmed and I suddenly realised I had to ditch about half my regular chat. No point saying that every inch of stonework in our building was once brightly painted– she had at least three magnificent examples of just that style within an easy cycle ride. They are all bigger than the Minster, full of pomp, circumstance and spectacle.  Most superlatives I normally quote would have been slightly lame compared to those she could fling back at me.

But we still had a good tour because, instead of lecturing, I just let them look for themselves. They loved our ancient tread wheel crane, the lifting boss, the story of the leaning wall and the wonderful engineering in our nave roof.  It was fun – the human, fallible side of the building came to the fore.

So I don’t care if we’re not the biggest, brightest, busiest, or best: to quote Genesis (the band, not the book): “I know what I like and I like what I know”.  

Getting back in touch with reality

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford gets wild about life

It is often said that modern living is disconnected from nature. There now exist whole generations who couldn’t skin a rabbit, let alone tell me which part of a carcase is an animal’s shank – and whether it’s a good bit. This, apparently, is a bad thing.

Millions of children believe that vegetables grow in plastic bags and chickens’ natural plumage is a warm covering of fried breadcrumbs. It’s possible they think that there are three different kinds of bread-tree: brown, white and sliced.  Milk, as they all know, is made in giant factories, just like colas.

I once wrote a Harvest Festival song which reflected the current way of acquiring our foodstuffs. It started as follows, (to a traditional tune): “We scour the shelves at Asda. The good things close to hand….” and continued accordingly. It got a laugh.

During my teens the call: ‘return to nature’ was widespread – it probably still is among later generations. Well this summer we’ve done just that in the Minster, simply by leaving our doors open. When Nature came calling in the past it found its way blocked by a whole range of ancient oak doors (or even by our youthful 10-year old wheelchair door, if it was approaching from the north east). For most of the last month, however, its access has been clear. The wheelchair entrance has been hooked open all day (as described in an earlier column - and toilet-angst has been much reduced in consequence).

The main Highgate doors have been freed from their bolted bondage, despite the fact that we virgers risk a hernia every time we try to slide the massive restraining lock back into place before we go home.

Most significantly however, as far as our feathered friends are concerned, the massive doors at the west end have been swung wide and welcoming. A route that is normally travelled only by bashful brides on their way to domestic duality (and subsequently by virgers who tidy up any invasive confetti) has become accessible to them.

For some reason our feathered friends seem to find this irresistible. It’s as if they are thinking: “All this back-to-nature stuff may be fine and dandy for big, unwinged pink things, but modern birds want a nice warm, properly weatherproof nest.” And so you often hear the anachronistic sound of beating wings indoors.

Now I’m not hostile to birds per se (although I do object to the fact that they gorge themselves on our bird table and then, freshly charged, fly over our house to do their doings on our car) but I don’t think they should be inside the church.

It’s not prejudice, it’s because I know that the inside of Beverley Minster is not a viable environment for them. For a start there is an acute shortage of worms (although some people may disagree).  Birdseed is pretty thin on the ground as well and, unless we’ve got a baptism coming up soon, there’s no fresh water for them to enjoy either.

Basically, if they come into the building and stay then they are going to die.  And, if they do, who’s got to deal with the consequences? That’s right – the virgers.

Last time wasn’t too bad – we just launched the Minster choir’s new CD with an excellent concert and everyone was in a good mood – even me, who had just put in a couple of hours unpaid overtime. I had finished dismantling the staging and thought I was on the final stretch when I was delicately informed that there was a ‘dead thing’ behind the big chair near the pulpit.

Fortunately the carcase was still fresh so it was easy enough to put a black bin liner over my hand and whisk the corpse away for reverent disposal in the big green bin outside: certainly much easier to deal with than one that managed to expire in our shop.

Its final resting place was inside a wooden construction housing the overhead lights. It was a bit more difficult getting the deceased into the bag while standing with one leg on a step ladder and the other waving around in midair, but I managed it and soon everything was sanitised, spick and span once more.  

Most of the recent invasions have ended peacefully with the errant avian explorer deciding the grass is greener….(um)…. where the grass is, and deciding to leave before nightfall. Birds are simple.

Squirrels however, that’s a different matter. This morning I was warned by one of our ever-present volunteers that they’d seen one casing the joint as I swung the door open. Oh no! Once they were inside who knew what mischief they might get up to while searching for nuts? Our sound system is fragile enough as it is without sharp teeth getting to work on the cabling.

So I wasn’t going to just let this one stroll in as without a fight but, as we all know, squirrels are very intelligent creatures that can, when accompanied by music from ‘Mission Impossible’, overcome incredible obstacles which would beat the most cunning creatures – and choirboys as well.

I had to be extra-cunning so I thought hard and eventually came up with up a highly-specific, anti-squirrel sign that lets them know they are not welcome.

“No nutters allowed,”

It seems to have worked.

We’re all going on a summer holiday

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford goes a-chuffing

I’m now going to share one of my private interests with you. It’s alright, it’s not shameful in any way although, it has to be admitted, some people will look on me with a mixture of pity and/or incomprehension.

People like me, who like the same things as me, have become a bit of a cliché for those weird people who don’t understand us and they give us strange titles: they call us ‘anoraks’ or ‘train-spotters’.

This is quite reasonable because a lot of people with my interests do actually wear anoraks when they go out to spot trains. However, that’s not a particularly accurate appellation in my case because: a) I don’t actually stand by railway lines and note the numbers of passing locomotives, and; b) I don’t have an anorak.

I’m not an extremist: I can’t shut my eyes and tell you what type of locomotive is approaching by the sound of its engine, I don’t pore through every ancient photograph counting the rivets in the boiler; I couldn’t tell you a Class 34 from a Class 43 without seeing the number on its side and I haven’t got a clue about relative tractive effort and tow-bar loadings. I never even wanted to be an engine-driver when I was a child.

I am, however, someone who loves railways – I have an OO-gauge model layout that, when the mood takes me, allows me to ‘play trains’, I do have a fair number of railway-related books on various shelves around the house (although many of them are quite dusty from being ignored over the last few years), and I enjoy visiting preserved railways to see the big beasts in action.

In fact I plan to do a fair bit of that this very summer, when I can tear myself away from Minster duties. In this part of the world we have two extremes – the North Yorkshire Moors Railway at Pickering that carries 350,000 passengers a year, and the Appleby Frodingham Railway which punts a dozen or so enthusiasts at a time around the Scunthorpe steelworks sidings – but there are dozens more to choose from all around Britain. I shall visit a few of them over the next few weeks – maybe even some in Wales.

While I do so I wouldn’t be surprised to bump into a few individuals who normally wear a dog-collar during the week. Keen observers of the human condition may have observed a high correlation between church officials and railway enthusiasts: indeed, in the Minster both the vicar and musical director share my interest in this area; and, by happy coincidence, 2011 looks like being a good year for us.

We are planning to have our own model railway in the north transept in early December to help promote the campaign to reopen the York –Beverley line, using models of both Minsters to bookend the layout. Then, on December 17 we expect to welcome 400 members of a rail tour who are travelling from London to experience a carol concert under our roof.

(As an aside - I suspect it’s not true that a disproportionate number of clergy etc are railway-ists although it’s certainly true that an unusually high number of the best model railways over the last 60 years were built by clergy. In addition two leading railway photographers were bishops and, of course, the creator of Thomas the Tank Engine was a vicar. It’s probably because they only work on Sundays so they’ve got plenty of time to perfect their art.)

Our musical director is undoubtedly inspired by the rhythm of the engines and wheels on tracks, but my own love affair is more complicated.

Perhaps it is because a smoothly-running railway is a perfect demonstration of humans working in cooperation to achieve something greater than themselves – just like John and I do as virgers in the Minster.  

Perhaps it is because the sheer scale of the engines reminds me that there is something greater than us in the world. Perhaps the intricacies involved in trying to get the various locomotives, rolling stock, rail routes, points, signals and passengers all in the right place at the right time mirror those required by the virgers to get a church service set up, running smoothly and ending without apparent error. 

Maybe, as far as the model railway is concerned, it is the way in which turning a small electrical transformer can make my miniature world run the way I want it to, in contrast to the out-of-control mess that is reality.

It’s even possible that my love affair dates back to happy childhood memories of hissing, leaking steam trains; filthy cigarette-stinking carriages; sticky chewing-gum infested carriage floors; inedible crispy and stale cheese sandwiches and rock-hard sausage rolls that combined with the unique excitement of going away on holiday to become an overwhelming pleasure.

Whatever the reason, this summer will find me happily indulging my love of the old four foot eight and I shall be as happy as a ballooning kitsch-garden-fetishist who has just crash-landed in the middle of the Ideal Gnome Exhibition.

Only more so.

It’s truly Heaven on Earth.

A glimpse into what might have been

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford wanders in the grounds

I don’t often get outside the Minster during my normal working day.  Oh, obviously I pop across the road to do virgerly things in the Parish Hall and occasionally, and as a special treat, I’m allowed to go into town and acquire some essential ingredients such as Domestos. But actually wandering around, with time to just stop and look at things is a rarity.

So, when I found myself in the south churchyard this week with a perfectly good excuse to waste a few minutes I thought I’d have a closer look at the old place.  And suddenly I was very, very surprised.

I know what the Minster looks like from the north – after all, I go past it at least four times a day and I’m not unobservant – I’ve seen the multiple statues, the flying buttresses, the windows, the proportions, the trees – heck I know it as well as the back of my hand, wherever that may be.  So the south side of the Minster is just the same, isn’t it?

You’ve probably worked out that the correct answer is ‘no’. It’s substantially different and, once I started looking closely, it felt like I was slipping into a parallel world. The familiar became unfamiliar and I started seeing things as they might have been, rather than as they are. Gosh!!!

A glimpse of what might have been – end of part 1

+++++ Commercial break –

 I have been asked to remind all traders in Beverley that the closing date for sponsors for the Christmas Tree Festival in the Minster this year is the 31^st July 2011. If you have lost your forms or want further details please telephone (01482) 868540. Thank you.

-          End of Commercial Break +++++

A glimpse of what might have been – part 2

It’s all to do with the south wall of the south tower. There, tucked away behind some 18^th century buttressing, are arches and carvings, plus evidence of a much lower floor level for a now-lost building. And, in a parallel world so beloved of science fiction series such as Star Trek, where an evil version of me would now be sporting a beard (no, hang on, I’ve already got one – that’s confusing – sorry); in this mythical parallel world the former building would now be complete and serving as the Parish Church of St John and St Martin. Simultaneously, the present site of Beverley Minster itself would be an open field with a few stumps of stone dotted around.

For, in truth, 16^th century religious reformers had no need for our very Catholic, relic-worshipping Minster in the new, improved Church of England. No, in their drive to democratise Christianity the aim was to create a network of local churches where anyone could drop in, sit down and listen to a preacher discussing a religious matter – then debate it afterwards. You didn’t need a huge, beautiful and distracting building for that – a small, simple one would be quite sufficient.

And so it was that the old charnel house, (where the bones of the dear-departed were stored) with its upstairs chapel was designated as the new parish church for southern Beverley, The Minster was put up for sale by the King’s agent to act as a cheap source of lead and high-quality limestone – ideal for the burgeoning Tudor mansion-builder market.

You can be sure that, if this had gone ahead, the Minster would have been stripped of most of its materials within a very few decades and all we’d have left would be a picturesque open field with isolated wind-breaks and an artist’s impression on an English Heritage notice board.

In this case, however, we can thank the 16^th century Beverley Town Council for a far-sighted act of investment (and that’s not something that’s been said often over the centuries, but thoroughly deserved in this case). They bought it and preserved it for us to enjoy, demolishing the old charnel house and chapel to help pay for it.

I think we got the better of the deal.

Meanwhile, in my parallel universe, the town of Beverley without the Minster is a poor shadow of ours: the county’s administrative headquarters is based in centrally-placed Driffield and this swampy part of East Yorkshire is noted primarily as the rather damp northern fringe of the sprawling city of Hull. The ancient man-made Beverley Beck fuelled the Industrial Revolution locally and attracted many heavy industries over the centuries but all that is left now are some rotted ruins and heavily-contaminated land.

Vain efforts have been made to create a tourist industry but, with no natural features of note, no landmark buildings to attract visitors and a general air of cut-price decay, the effort was a miserable failure. A long-running campaign to persuade managers of the busy railway line to Driffield to build a small halt at Beverley seems to have died – its argument that it would help attract commuters to live in new low-cost estates on the site of the former industrial area not attracting any would-be developers either. 

It seems frankly unbelievable now that, once upon a time, people travelled hundreds of miles just to visit an old church in Beverley.

A glimpse of what might have been – Epilogue:

Meanwhile, back in this universe, I had a profound thought.

Question: What do you call the anxious wait before a musician starts to perform?

Answer: Pre-Minstrel Tension.

Thank you and good night – you’ve been a lovely audience.

We have a niche that wants filling

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford contemplates a commemoration

I should like to issue a statement on be’alf of aaaall members of Church of England Guild of Vergers (sic), Beverley Minster branch:

“After a long process of due consultation and consideration the executive committee ‘as unanimously voted in favour of the following proposal. ‘We note the forthcoming 60^th anniversary of t’election of our glorious leader Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland and the British Dominions beyond the Seas Queen, Defender of the Faith; records its gratification with ‘er dignificated conduct over the said six decades, and proposes that the relevant h’anniversary should be marked by a suitable permanent commemorative object – viz. one life-like statue, to be produced by comrades from the allied Guild of Masons – which is to be mounted permanently in a suitably prominent location around the exterior of the People’s Palace of Beverley Minster Parish Church. We call on all right-minded citizens (male and female) to support this campaign as a constant reminder of t’struggle for equal rights and suchforth.’

Motion proposed by Comrade John Dell: seconded by Comrade Neil Pickford.

Sorry, had a bit of a 1970s flashback there, probably prompted by recollections of the Queen’s Silver Jubilee in 1977. Ah, those were the days: industrial disputes, trade union officials stalking the land, dominating the ‘Today’ programme with their garbled syntax; British Leyland headquarters (probably) regularly updating a noticeboard saying :’X minutes since last strike’; British music still largely ruling the civilised world (excluding France) and I, a muscular Adonis who only weighed nine stone four.

As a bumptious 21 year old in that year I religiously bought three copies of the Sex Pistols’ notorious ‘God Save the Queen’ in an attempt to make it Number One on the 25^th anniversary and therefore shake the very foundations of ‘The Bourgoisie’(who, or whatever that was). What a prat.

How things have changed in the intervening third of a century. Several weeks ago the largest British-owned car manufacturer didn’t… (actually, what is the biggest British-owned car manufacturer now? I’ve lost touch); there wasn’t a single British act in our own pop charts, let alone overseas (ah, the shame – damn you Simon Cowell). Oh, and I’m six (and a bit) stone heavier - and not a prat.

So when John suggested it would be a good idea to commemorate the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee next year with a statue I listened with interest – not least because the last time a monarch celebrated 60 years on the throne we took it as a good excuse to transform Beverley Minster.

The Reverend Nolloth, our vicar from 1880 to 1921 was a wealthy man who married an even wealthier woman. They had no children and so adopted the Minster as their surrogate offspring, lavishing their fortunes to beautify the building in whatever way they felt best – and we see the glorious results to this day.

In the years leading up to Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in 1897 the Nolloths helped fund a major statue-carving exercise that filled vacant niches around the West Door (both inside and outside) and on both our west towers. An incredible enterprise, a total of 190 external figures and 24 internal ones were carved, initially by full-time Minster mason Robert Smith with the project finally completed by Percy Baker in 1905.

Pride of place was reserved for the contemporary figure of the Queen, which was mounted in place on the north tower, looking straight up Highgate (incidentally, the statue immediately above her is of Henry Percy, 4^th Duke of Northumberland – one of only three surviving mediaeval external statues. The others are of St John of Beverley and King Athelstan, and are found high up on each side of the east window. They can be seen by craning your neck while driving from Flemingate – which is not recommended, incidentally. But I digress).

Now then, if you look up at the north walls from Highgate you will see there are still a few empty niches and, surely, it would make a lot of sense both historically and as a simple mark of respect, to use one of these to host a 3D image of Her Majesty, the leader of the Church of England.

After all, she’s already been to the Minster twice (in 1997 and again in 2002, to mark her golden jubilee) while Vikky herself never once visited, despite our patriotic endeavour.

I have no idea how much such a commission would cost these days although I’m sure, if money was tight, we could ask China to knock out several thousand of them cheaply which we could sell on, and so subsidise our efforts. But if we are going to do anything about it then it’s probably the right moment to start something rolling.

Is there anyone out there who will volunteer to set up a fund-raising campaign? I’d do it myself but I’ve got to shift a whole heap of chairs over the next few weeks and I doubt I’ll have the time. But I’ll happily chip in a fiver (equivalent to one hours pay, after tax) as a goodwill gesture. I could probably raise the money by selling my surplus copies of ‘God Save the Queen’ to some museum dedicated to The Decade That Style Forgot.

I’d quite like to forget a lot of it myself – eurggh, how embarrassing.

You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford contemplates matters theological and practical…

Firstly, let me reassure my many concerned readers that, so far, I have not been injured in any way this week. Not even a twinge, thanks very much for asking.

So we can concentrate on my emotional problems rather than physical, and quite poignant they are too. You see, I have been in contemplative mood following the end of the last-ever REaction event in the Minster.

REaction, I should explain, is (or was) a day-long get-together for school years 6 and 7 where they have fun and do something that ties in with the national curriculum on religious education (I can feel your eyes glazing over already, but hang on. It’s important).

Last week we were timetabled to have nearly 900 schoolchildren at the Minster spread through Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. They would be encouraged to think about matters of social or ethical concern, run around and sing while by far the best session (of course) was a brief trip in the roof of the Minster, choreographed by John Dell and narrated by yours truly.

We pioneered the event 10 years ago and it’s been adopted all around the East Riding and beyond since – but now it’s finishing as existing Local Education Authority spending is reassessed.

Not everyone liked it – I think particularly of the visitors who made it very clear that they hated loud music playing in the nave when it coincided with the few minutes they had decided to spend as tourists in our free-entry, world-class attraction.

“Makes me ashamed to be an Anglican” was one comment: another person wrote a long diatribe in the visitors’ book saying, in essence,:”It didn’t orta be allowed.”

Well, I know my well-meaning church has a reputation for faffing around, trying not to annoy anyone and putting off decisions on just about everything, but there are some things which just need saying straight out – so here it comes. People like that make ME ashamed to be an Anglican and yes, yes, YES! It did orta be allowed.

What could possibly be wrong with 300 kids smiling and laughing and having a good time while thinking of religious and ethical matters in a church like the Minster? A church which, long-term readers may remember me saying, was the headquarters of the northern branch of the Guild of Music in the 14^th and 15^th centuries. Our world-famous collection of statues shows the wide range of noise-making devices that would have been honking, squeaking, screeching and thumping inside our walls on celebration days. 

Beverley Minster was designed and built to demonstrate and shout about religion in a noisy and showbiz sort of way. These angry visitors imagine that their image of a silent (and probably empty) church, with doors eagerly open for them to enjoy is the only one that is valid. They are wrong, their knowledge of church history is wrong, their knowledge of Christ’s teaching (suffer the little children) is wrong, their understanding of the reason for Beverley Minster is wrong, their personal viewpoint on the world is wrong and, frankly, they are miserable toe-rags who would condemn the rest of us to greyness and decline.

If they had their way the next generation of adults would only be allowed inside Beverley Minster under strict control, would certainly not enjoy the experience and, without a doubt, would never return.

These new adults would then probably condemn Christianity and its wonderful message because of the selfishness of some of its supposed adherents, (it’s easily done - I myself became a vehement atheist for many years, thanks entirely to the behaviour of some hypocritical God-botherers.  But I eventually learned better).

If you prefer quiet churches then go to Denmark where, as I learned this week, a voluntary church tax keeps them in immaculate condition - and no one uses them (except for the traditional baptism, wedding and funeral). Our complaining visitors would probably love the atmosphere of lifelessness and sterility – I prefer to get the next generation excited and feel that there’s always a warm and tolerant welcome within our walls.

 And anyone who doesn’t agree with that statement should be boiled in oil.

BY THE WAY – the final day of REaction didn’t happen, thanks to the teachers’ strike. I wondered how many of the strikers were using this time to go on an official demonstration. I hope they all did a full risk-assessment beforehand. I trust someone checked the pressure in the tyres of the coach taking them to the demo: I hope someone tested the protest banners to see there were no sharp edges or rough surfaces that could cut or leave splinters.

Were the banner- carriers trained not to wave them about in a manner that might cause distress or injury to others?  Were banners made of ecologically-sound materials that could be recycled afterwards?

Was the demonstration taking place in a safe environment, free from risk of injury from traffic or trip hazards along the entire route? Was there an adequate supply of trained first-aiders?

Could the demonstration be justified on educational grounds? Could it be linked in with the national syllabus in any way?

What if it rained?

Hmmm - I think it would have been much easier, and better, if you’d brought your classes to the Minster instead.

You’ve gotta smile, haven’t you?

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford puts on a brave face

I’ve got a splinter in my finger.

Now I do appreciate that’s not really big news, but it’s annoying me.

It’s all thanks to the flag on our north tower: well, indirectly at least.

You may have seen this flag over the last few weeks – it’s the cross of St George and it’s been flying for much longer than normal. In fact we started flying it so long ago that I can’t remember if it was John or me who actually tramped up the 208 steps to raise it, or which particular special festival we were flying it for. Was it Easter? Ascension Day? The Queen’s official birthday (no, no, we’d have been flying the Union flag for that). Prince Philip’s birthday?

Well, whichever it was, it’s had a good innings (if you can call it good, being whipped around a metal pole by winds of up to 90 miles per hour, 24 hours a day). You’re probably thinking we virgers should have taken it down rather sooner than we have – and you’d be right.

However, there are extenuating circumstances: the flag pole has been surrounded by a great grid of scaffolding recently and it’s been too darn dangerous to try and retrieve it. Oh, I don’t want you to think John and I haven’t tried, or at least thought about it. In fact, for the first few weeks the scaffolding was in place both of us did the deed several times – on one occasion twice in one day. But the final time put paid to all further efforts: it was very windy and, having climbed 165 feet and limbo-danced under one particularly irritating brace I unlocked the flagpole and prepared to lower the proud ensign.

It stuck – several times. Firstly, the rope had mysteriously swollen inside the hollow pole and it took a lot of tugging to finally persuade it to come down. Then, as I was lowering the flapping thing it decided to wrap itself around an upright piece of scaffolding and wouldn’t let me free it by flicking the rope and shouting at it.

There was no other solution – I had to do my world-famous impression of King Kong and ascend, by whatever means I could, until I was perched some eight foot above the top of the tower, with the nasty, knotted nuisance laughing at me. I DID enjoy the unique aerial views of East Yorkshire and bracing benefits of a gale blowing directly from Siberia but, grimly determined, I got it down.

A few days later it had to go up again for another festival and, afterwards, the wind was joined by driving and very wet rain. It was at that point that John and I decided to let it stay there, flying freely. We reasoned that this was the natural habitat for a flag and it would be much happier there than tucked away in a nasty dark cupboard.

And so it remained. Eventually the masons finished repair work on our pinnacles and then, several weeks later, the scaffolders removed their property. Finally our route was clear. Oh goody.

As it turned out, a major attraction in our social committee’s special ‘Welcome to the Minster’ event last Friday was a tour up the same tower. While I can’t say I was looking forward to the climb with huge excitement I was, nevertheless, pleased that I could finally collect the flag while simultaneously earning the Minster some much-needed tour revenue – a genuine ‘two-for-one’ bargain.

I was a bit more tired than I would have liked because I’d had a very busy day. We’d had a funeral in the morning and then only a few minutes to remove all traces of that service before guests started arriving for a wedding. Not a problem, but a complicating factor was that the Minster was also hosting a ‘singalonga County Choir’ event the next day and I needed to build staging for 130 visitors.  Wouldn’t you know that this staging was required exactly where the happy bride was expecting to process from her limousine towards her eager victim-to-be?

I couldn’t reasonably expect her to climb over a massive construct in her wedding finery so I had to wait until afterwards to start building – and I ran out of time to complete it before the social event started.

Not to worry – I started the tour, had just cheerfully shown everyone our 110 year old clock and was about to lead the final push to the pole when I suddenly realised I’d left the keys to the flag downstairs in my office. 

Oh…..bother, I thought.

I didn’t feel like popping down for them right then so the flag was still flying that night. Next morning I was pooped but, from eight o’clock onwards we virgers were busy with unending stage-building while people kept telling us (wrongly) that there wasn’t any toilet paper in the ladies’ loo. It was during one of those distractions that I managed to shove a splinter deep into my index finger and I haven’t been able to remove it since.

It’s my day off tomorrow and, in a sneaky and rather guilty way, I’m kinda hoping that John will choose to take the flag down without telling me.

Well, you see, I’ve got this painful industrial injury and I really think that should rule me out of having to do it - don't you?

Oh, the terrible pain

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford is nursing a wound

I managed to hurt myself in the Minster last week. Oh, not in a huge way – although I’m sure it would have been taken as an excuse for a 13 week ‘sickie’ by some people I know - but it was enough to be uncomfortable. I’d pulled a muscle in my chest when I was helping a few people shift our 20,000 ton Steinway piano (I may be exaggerating the weight, but it feels as heavy as a battleship when you try to move it).

I ignored it when it first happened, had a quick cup of tea, and promptly forgot about it until I had to move something else that was quite heavy later in the day – a stack of chairs, probably, or something equally uninteresting. It twinged a bit more so I grumbled to myself and, as I was due to start my normal mid-week ‘weekend’ off, decided to treat it with a medicinal glass of red wine when I got home. I was so medicated by half past ten that I could hardly find my way to bed, much to the annoyance of my ever-tolerant wife (25 years of marriage last Tuesday, thanks for asking. No, I don’t know what she sees in me either, but people are strange, thank goodness).

Anyway, I felt strangely lethargic for some peculiar reason the next morning and decided to let my mind roam around for a while without me – let it get out of the ‘skullery’, so to speak … hahahaha (oh, please yourselves). When it came back it was in a thoughtful mood and, after a bit of prodding, vouchsafed its contemplations unto me.

So, for what they are worth, here they are:

“Isn’t it strange how we do things today, compared to the Good Old Days?”

“Oh yes?” I queried me. “What do you mean?”

“How we specialise in things. In the old days we didn’t and,” my brain went on, warming to its theme: “I wonder if we’ve actually changed things for the worse.”

It was obviously an issue that merited further investigation and so here, dear reader, is a quick precis of my findings:

Specialisation is a relatively modern phenomenon: as a young economics student I was taught that the increasing focus on individuals doing more and more limited jobs more and more frequently boosted productivity by a factor of ever-such-a-lot. The standard example of this was the Ford Model T where, because individuals just did one tiny, repetitive operation all day, they could build cars far faster. It got to the point where one new ‘Lizzie’ came off the production line every three minutes, as opposed to about three times a year as happened before.

This was parodied in the film ‘Modern Times’ where Charlie Chaplin’s character was supposed to spend his entire day tightening identical nuts on an unending stream of identical boards. He went mad.

Before the 20^th century, however, things were very different. Then, for example, the master mason who designed Beverley Minster back in 1190 (a date currently subject to debate, but roughly right) would not have been someone who merely chiselled lumps of stone into strange and interesting shapes, no. They were (in no particular order) architects, mathematicians, quality controllers, quantity surveyors, employers who had the threat of starvation as a useful weapon in negotiating pay-scales, diplomats, engineers… and so on and so on.

But this general mix of skills wasn’t confined to the equivalent of white-collar workers, no sirree. Tradesmen or artisans were expected to be very versatile as well. Once you’d passed your apprenticeship you would know everything there was to know about the material, resource or substance that your master traded in – and I mean EVERYTHING.

Take, for example, the case of the Thorntons of York. These were craftsmen in wood – if you needed something done that required the use of tree by-products they were your people. It was Thorntons who carved the wild, almost over-powering decorations on the west end door and above the font: items which to the modern eye appear almost sickly in their complexity but which are fabulous examples of a wood-carver’s craft. Then they could also turn their hand to scaffolding.

It was the same Thorntons who, in 1716 erected the 90 foot tall triangular buttress that stopped one of our walls falling down and was subsequently used to push the wall upright again without collapsing and bringing the rest of the church crashing down with it. Their understanding of how wood worked, both as a reinforcing and a flexible material, was vital in what was one of the biggest civil engineering repairs in Yorkshire’s history. And they could also turn their hand to whittling away at small lumps of wood to make attractive decorations throughout the rest of the church.

Now that is what I call an interesting job.

I know the world divides into two types: those who like the predictable from day to day, edging their way towards retirement. Then there are those who, like me, love variety and will deal with retirement if and when we ever reach it. My brain concluded that being a virger suits me down to the ground – never two days alike – combining the practical and the artistic – just like in the 18^th century.

And, as my brain also pointed out, I’m getting an 18^th century wage to go with it.

That really hurt.

When is a door not a door?

As the outside temperature rises Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford detects a decrease in angst

It's really nice when we experience a spell of hot weather in Beverley as the Minster goes 'au naturelle' (oooh, nice! A bit of yer actual French, that was).

Well, what I mean is, we open both doors on the north side of the church to let the sun (and visitors) go in and out.

For the Highgate entrance this means a 20 foot tall wooden thingy is agape during the day and this presents a more welcoming appearance to visitors. At the east end the disabled door is hooked open and this has the effect of removing a barrier between visitors and the toilets – which has a surprisingly profound effect. Suddenly, people are no longer staring at a large arrow and asking: “Is this the way?” as though having an existentialist crisis. Nor do they say: “Can we get back in again afterwards?” obviously fearful that a free-entry historic monument might try to lock them out. Now they can just follow their noses (so to speak) to the toilets.

So some summer visitors are relieved, both before and after they’ve been relieved (if you see what I mean) and I know why. It’s all to do with primitive memories and I shall explain further, once I have donned my professorial gown and mortar board.  Pay attention class:

It is obvious that almost all human behaviour has its roots in survival lessons learned by our distant cave-dwelling ancestors, subsequently refined over the centuries.

Let us examine this in the context of the humble door.

Now the door is a simple device, merely a rigid extension of the original brontosaurus hide that successful hunters used to keep the warmth in their caves after a triumphant trip with pointed spears and Raquel Welch. Arguably, therefore, it’s the oldest piece of home-improvement in human experience as upturned skulls being used as soup tureens or fingerbowls should be classified as status symbols rather than practical inventions.

A brontosaurus skin used as a door flap was also a safety device: it would have convinced other brontosauruses that the cave was already occupied by one of their own and, of course, being so big, there wasn’t likely to be room for two of them, so they’d go away. This theory is boosted by the fact that brontosauruses were very, very stupid. Ancient man quickly learned that brontosaurus skin doors were an aid to survival – a lesson they could pass on to their children.

And, of course, once they were alone with Raquel Welch behind skin/doors that kept prying neighbours away they were more likely to have babies than those who didn’t – I trust I don’t have to draw pictures on this.

The human race thus developed a profound respect for the life-saving and life-giving properties of doors and, being superstitious in those times, began to imagine they had mystical powers. Eventually they started to worship them – and Stonehenge itself proves that this cult of ‘Door’ had risen to incredible levels. Mind you, it’s in Wiltshire which, let’s be fair, has always been a bit strange. I mean, have you been to Swindon lately? Eeugh!

We don’t know much about the form of door the ancient Swindonians worshiped as, sadly, after all these centuries they have rotted away leaving merely the doorposts and lintels as eloquent and somewhat sad reminders of their primitive civilisation.

It is surprisingly that the more sophisticated Egyptians never got the hang of doors as this knowledge would have saved them an awful lot of trouble over the centuries. They were a people who worshipped their rulers (in a way that modern politicians can only dream), and wanted to save them from the constant threat of plagues and whatever else. They built giant triangular royal structures in a desperate attempt to keep their supposedly divine rulers safe from locusts, hailstones and whatnot but never mastered the door. Instead they constructed elaborate mazes to keep the savage elements away, which were only partly successful.

Sadly for the Pharaohs their enthusiastic but deluded and ignorant citizens ended up placing airtight seals on the entrances to protect them – with tragic consequences. Just think what a difference it would make if they’d only invented the hinge. Why, Tutankhamen might still be alive today!

In more modern times just recall the fate of the crew of the Marie Celeste. Theirs was a simple mistake:  the captain accidentally dropped his key into the Atlantic Ocean. The rest of the crew went out in a boat to help him find it and a door swung shut against them. They were stuck as the ship drifted away, unable to get back inside and eventually beached on the south east corner of the United States. Here, as a bitter reminder of the reason why they were never able to finish their meal, they named their new home ‘Florida Keys’ – a corruption of “Flo? Where da’ keys?’

It’s no wonder so many humans are frightened by strange doors after all these experiences, so we virgers are delighted to help reduce their anxiety levels in warm weather. Now we’ve got to work out some way of helping those poor wretches who are so traumatised by dreadful buried ancestral memories that they have to leave taps running when they leave.

Bless.

A Sense of Perspective

Beverley Minster virger Neil Pickford tries to find something interesting

News! All the news that’s fit to print! Breaking News! Hold the Front Page! Exclusive! Daaaaah-da-da-daaaah! Boing: Here is the News….

And so on. The clichés pour out, conveying the sense of ‘Gosh!’ The sense of ‘Now!’ The sense of ‘Important!’ Television news editors in particular justify the vast sums of money they spend on collecting, packaging and presenting ‘News’ for a variety of reasons; journalists (or ‘The Fifth Estate’) as they were politely named in my youth, were supposed to be the pit-bulls of democracy and truth, ferreting out information (sorry, that’s a bit of a mixed metaphor there) that would otherwise be kept from you.

One idealistic individual opined that: “news was what other people didn’t want you to know” which, if true, might lead to an appalling deluge of trivia. After all, just because I don’t want you to know that all my underpants are fluorescent green with a stencil of Mickey Mouse on the side doesn’t mean that you’re interested in reading about them. Although these days, if you are, there’s always Twitter I suppose, or ‘Hello’ magazine, or celebrity TV or – actually, there’s thousands of places where you can find out that sort of stuff.

And that’s my point: what I might think of as boring or puerile could be the most fascinating fabric in the wardrobe of some else’s life. Just because I don’t care what Jordan’s vital statistics are this week doesn’t mean that millions of other people aren’t hungrily chasing the latest information about them.

I’m not intending to have a cheap bash at celebrity culture, or even make a reasoned argument about how it leads to an inevitable collapse of morals and society – that’s not my department. Instead it reminds me of just how difficult it is to judge what will be of interest to people.

In the Minster, mostly, the task is relatively straightforward. You can reasonably assume that any casual visitor who walks through the door and looks around with wonder is going to be vaguely interested in the building and its history. Give them a few facts, describe the difference between the Minster and a cathedral, show them where the toilets are and you’ve covered 90 per cent of their immediate concerns. If they ask you a different question then it’s easy to respond to that as well.

It gets harder when you’re about to start an hour-long tour of the ground or roof: sure, you know that most of these people want to learn more about the place (after all, they’ve paid good money to do just that) but within the group you may have children who’s attention span is going to be severely stretched by too much history, adults who really don’t care about the religious reasons for the structure and individuals whose special knowledge in one area would qualify them for Mastermind. Some are fascinated by our tapestries, others would rather watch paint dry.

If you haven’t been told about these special interests then it’s darn difficult to make the tour fascinating for everyone but we virgers do try, watching the responses as we talk and varying the information we give and the way we present it.

It’s harder still to achieve total satisfaction when you are, for example, writing a weekly column for a newspaper when the amount of direct feedback is non-existent. It’s almost impossible to be sure what subjects will interest your readership, if you’re lucky enough to have one in the first place.

Now I don’t want you to think that I’ve not got anything to write about this week and I’m just rambling on to fill the space – it may be true but I don’t want you to think that. No, I’m currently spoiled for choice on subjects, but unsure which to select.

I have to decide if you would be fascinated by knowing that we virgers have taken 15 per cent more people up in the roof to date than we had by this time last year (despite some abysmal Bank Holiday numbers). Possibly not.

How about the hundreds of chairs I’ve had to move over the last few weeks to accommodate large audiences for the Black Dyke Band and Early Music Festival? – hmmm, probably not.

What about the fact I’m working on a script for an up-to-date video of the Minster which should start filming later this summer and be available to boost church funds in years to come? –  nah, perhaps another time.

Will anyone be interested in the progress of my ‘Abolish Telephone Selling’ crusade? Well, it doesn’t matter anyway because nothing’s happened this week.

Oh, I can’t decide. The best think I can do is direct you to a new blog site I’ve set up at long last, after months of faffing around.

You may remember me telling you that, before the Beverley Advertiser started reproducing me in a non-pixelated way, I wrote pieces for the beverleylocal website. Well, that website has now gone the way of all flesh so I’ve finally started uploading an archive of the 80 exquisitely-written articles that had never felt the stamp of the printed page. There’s bound to be something you like in there.

So please feel free to browse for whatever takes your fancy.

Or not, of course. It’s your choice.