Oho! The Church Militant!

Ukrainian Catholic Priest blesses sledgehammer to be used for demolition of statue of lenin.

From Cardinal Timothy Dolan

In Memoriam: Nelson Mandela

Today I learned that Nelson Mandela, former South African president and a hero to all, had passed away. Here is the statement that I released to the press:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: December 5, 2013

STATEMENT OF CARDINAL DOLAN ON THE PASSING OF NELSON MANDELA

Nelson Mandela was a hero to the world. His bravery in defending human rights against the great evil of apartheid made him a symbol of courage and dignity, as well as an inspiration to people everywhere. As Blessed Pope John Paul II noted during his visit to South Africa in 1995, Nelson Mandela was for many years, “a silent and suffering ‘witness’ of your people’s yearning for true liberation,” who, as President of South Africa, had to then “shoulder the burden of inspiring and challenging everyone to succeed in the task of national reconciliation and reconstruction.” In succeeding in these crucial and difficult tasks, Nelson Mandela truly made the world a better place.

May he rest in peace.

Abortion? Schmabortion! What does it matter so long as you are a hero to the world?

Reblogged, because it seemed topical Newman speaks today to us through Blair

London 29.01.2070.

During this morning's General Audience, held in the Conway Hall, Red Lion Square, London, His Happiness, Pope Polypistis I, spoke warmly of the fragrant memory of Saint Tony Blair, canonised one year ago today.

Riding on the Papal Unicycle, and steering an impeccably straight course along the Golden Line of Tolerance specially painted on the floor, His Happiness, wearing the the Universal Tiara, which bears the insignia of all the major Faiths, as well as others too numerous and esoteric to catalogue, greeted delegates from Catholic Abortionists, Queering The Church, We Are Church, Catholic Yackers, and the general public.

"A Saint's life," his Happiness remarked, "is an open book where we can read what we will. Saint Tony devoted his life, as well as his overarching gifts of courage, intellect, honesty, and humility, to the pursuit of all that is good.

"In the true spirit of Newman, he stood for the Truth, and the rights of Conscience courageously to follow and embrace that Truth wherever it may be found.

"Many were the voices raised against him, not least in this our church, by those for whom the easy option of blind obedience to mere dogma was more attractive than the pursuit of Truth through a truly enlightened Conscience.

"Newman speaks today to us through Blair."

No Snivelling Here

In 1996, South Africa passed one of slackest (or most liberal) abortion laws in the world.

Nelson Mandela signed it.

For me, anyone who supports abortion, whether a president, an M.P., a queen, a doctor, a nurse, or a teacher, is along with Mengele, Himmler, and the rest, quite beyond the pale. 

Rot them all!

Saint Nicholas - My Kind of Saint

Saint Nicholas was my kind of Saint,
If sometimes short of temper.
Though pacifism was not his bent;
He was fidelis semper.

When Arius denied his Lord's
Divinity, Nick felt sore;
Decided acts speak more than words,
Felled Arius to the floor.

His kind of knock-down plagologue*
Is now not to our taste.
We value courteous dialogue
Above such wordless haste.

And yet there is a time, one feels
To strike and not to speak.
When Reason with Unreason deals,
It's reason which is weak.

For who can mould a brain of mud
With philosophic lore?
Better to thump the stupid crud.
His place is on the floor.

* Note: Plagologue = arguing or reasoning with blows. This word does not appear in any dictionary. It is my own coinage, being derived from Latin 'plagus' = a blow, 'plagosus' = full of blows, violent, cognate with Greek 'plegein = to beat, and logos = reason

Plumber confesses to Shakespeare Imposture

Mr Krzystof Mistrz, a self-employed Polish plumber, has confessed to forging the sonnet which has fooled Shakespeare scholars, and was referred to in my penultimate post.

Mr Mistrz, a former English teacher in Poland, said at a press conference yesterday, "It was very easy to do. After all, I trained as a palaeographer, and love English renaissance poetry.

"So, ok, maybe there were a few anachronisms in the Mandeville and Chaucer texts. I'm sorry if I embarrassed anybody. I certainly wasn't trying to cheat anybody - just having a bit of fun.

"Must dash. I have work to do in the British Museum."

Mr Mistrz confessed to more forgeries - the recently discovered manuscripts of hitherto unknown chapters of Mandeville's travels, dealing with the mediaeval author's journeys in the Americas and Australia, a Chaucerian poem, "The Milton Keynes Tales", and an Old English poem, "The Battle of Croydon". All were found in bizarre locations.

The revelations will undoubtedly lead to resignations amongst British and American palaeographers and scholars.

Renaissance Sonnet Discovered in Bodleian Could Be By Shakespeare

News of a sonnet, discovered during recent plumbing work at the Bodleian Library, Oxford, is puzzling scholars of English Renaissance literature. Everything in the handwriting and paper indicates authenticity, but the use of the word “crust” to mean “cheek, brass neck, chutzpah” seems an anachronism.

You may read it here (spelling modernised) and make your own judgment.

Viewing the ashy desert of my lust
As I lie here abed, awaiting death,
I pray not. Tis a waste of noisome breath
To plead with unhearing gods. I put my trust
Rather in my unconquerable crust,
The steely corselet which sustained my joys
When I, like child besotted with its toys,
Pursued fair wenches, now long turned to dust.

I had my times, gamesome and hot they were.
My bastard brood in every parish grew.
My quarry? Women, and my lust the spur,
A merry hunt! My friends, to me be true:
No “Dies Irae” sing, death’s path to ease.
But “I did it my way” – at my funeral, please.

John Smeaton, SPUC director: BREAKING NEWS Pope Francis's new document addresse...

John Smeaton, SPUC director: BREAKING NEWS Pope Francis's new document addresse...: A few minutes ago, the Vatican released the text of Evangelii Gaudium ("The Joy of the Gospel") , an Apostolic Exhortation by P...

David and Goliath: a Post Vatican II Perspective

Picture it: the valley of Elah and the two opposing armies, of the Israelites and of the Philistines. Between them stand the two champions, David and Goliath. There is a hush, punctuated only by the cries of the waiting vultures.

David steps forward. He throws his sling and stones to the ground and speaks.
"I had it in mind to say, 'This day the LORD will deliver you into my hand, and I will strike you down, and cut off your head; and I will give the dead bodies of the host of the Philistines this day to the birds of the air and to the wild beasts of the earth; that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel, and that all this assembly may know that God saves not with sword and spear; for the battle is God’s, and he will give you into our hand.'"

A vulture sharpens its beak.

"Come on, I thought, this is no way to resolve a clash between two cultures. I have an idea that each of us, Philistine and Israelite, has spiritual riches to share with the other.

"Let's talk about this. I can see that you are hurting. Your body-language tells me that. I propose that we sit down together, share a flask of wine, speak openly of our perceived differences, and resolve them.

"Then, if you wish,  I can personally arrange for your circumcision. We will set up a commission for inter-faith dialogue, make a covenant of brotherhood, and our two peace-loving peoples will live peaceably together as the multicultural Nation of Phisrael."

The waiting jackals look bored and begin to fight amongst themselves.

And Goliath spake.

"%$#$%&&*#@!" he roared, and he smote David and laid him low. And the army of the Philistines slew the army of the Israelites, their women, their children, old and young, until there was none left."

And how do you feel about that, Best-Beloved?

A Discussion of Chesterton on Poland

http://youtu.be/Oq-Y2pdoOrA

Ah! Just what we wanted!!

From Fox News

NEW YORK –  A leading Roman Catholic commentator and founder of a pro-Catholic media organization has landed a deal to write a "full-scale" biography of Pope Francis.

Publisher Henry Holt announced Wednesday that it has acquired a book by Austen Ivereigh, a British journalist who helped found Catholic Voices, which seeks to improve how the church is presented in the news. Ivereigh also is a former press secretary for the Archbishop of Westminster.

The book, currently untitled, is expected next year.

According to the publisher, Ivereigh's biography will show that the Pope has pressed the "reset button" for the church. Pope Francis has made international news by saying the church should not spend too much time focusing on gay marriage and abortion and should concern itself more with the poor.

Good news from Father Z

PHILIPPINES: Saint Michael Prayer approved by Bishops Conference after all Masses

St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil; may God rebuke him we humbly pray. And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly hosts, by the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the other evil spirits who prowl upon the earth for the ruin of souls. Amen.

He Loves.....Wagner????

Pope Francis wrote, or said, 

"Among musicians I love Mozart, of course. The ‘Et incarnatus est’ from his Mass in C minor is matchless; it lifts you to God! I love Mozart performed by Clara Haskil. Mozart fulfills me. But I cannot think about his music; I have to listen to it. I like listening to Beethoven, but in a Promethean way, and the most Promethean interpreter for me is Furtwängler. And then Bach’s Passions. The piece by Bach that I love so much is the ‘Erbarme Dich,’ the tears of Peter in the ‘St. Matthew Passion.’ Sublime. 

Then, at a different level, not intimate in the same way, I love Wagner. I like to listen to him, but not all the time. The performance of Wagner’s ‘Ring’ by Furtwängler at La Scala in Milan in 1950 is for me the best. But also the ‘Parsifal’ by Knappertsbusch in 1962."

Oh dear!

Well, That's a Relief!

Sister Margaret Farley, whose work on sexual ethics drew a caution from the Vatican, told an audience in Michigan that she is encouraged by the leadership of Pope Francis.

“He seems teachable,” said Sister Farley, a retired Yale Divinity School professor. She said that she continues to espouse the positions that prompted the Vatican’s critical scrutiny—including support for ordination of women and for legal recognition of same-sex unions—because to do otherwise would “contradict one’s integrity.”

From report by Catholic Culture Org.

METRONOMES UNITED

TOGETHER VE VILL CONQUER ZE WORLD

74 Years Ago Today

Germany invaded Poland 74 years ago today, shelling the Polish garrison at Westerplatte, and later murdering many of the Polish prisoners.

Remember!

Pieśń o żołnierzach z Westerplatte


A Song about the Soldiers of Westerplatte by Konstanty Ildefons Gałczyński


Kiedy się wypełniły dni
i przyszło zginąć latem,
prosto do nieba czwórkami szli
żołnierze z Westerplatte.

( A lato było piękne tego roku ).

I tak śpiewali: Ach, to nic,
że tak bolały rany,
bo jakże słodko teraz iść
na te niebiańskie polany.

( A na ziemi tego roku było tyle wrzosu na bukiety ).

W Gdańsku staliśmy tak jak mur,
gwiżdżąc na szwabską armatę,
teraz wznosimy się wśród chmur,
żołnierze z Westerplatte.

I ci, co dobry mają wzrok
i słuch, słyszeli pono,
jak dudni w chmurach równy krok
Morskiego Batalionu.

I śpiew słyszano taki: - By
słoneczny czas wyzyskać,
będziemy grzać się w ciepłe dni
na rajskich wrzosowiskach.

Lecz gdy wiatr zimny będzie dął,
i smutek krążył światem,
w środek Warszawy spłyniemy w dół,
żołnierze z Westerplatte.

The first battle of the Second World War took place at Westerplatte, near Gdańsk, September the first, 1939.

My translation, inadequate as always:


A Song About the Soldiers at Westerplatte

When their days had been fulfilled
And it was time to die with the summer
Straight to heaven, four by four,
Went the soldiers of Westerplatte

And the summer was beautiful that year.

And so they sang – Ah it’s nothing
That the wounds hurt so
For how sweet now to walk
In heavenly glades.

And on the ground that year, there was so much heather for bouquets.

At Gdańsk we stood just like a wall
Whistled at the Swabian cannon
Now we rise amongst the clouds
Soldiers of Westerplatte

And those who have good eyesight
And hearing are said to hear
How in Heaven, rumbles the steady tread
Of the coastal battalion.

But when the cold wind blows
And sorrow wraps the world
In the centre of Warsaw we will pour down,
The soldiers of Westerplatte.

It Started 74 Years Ago

The air raid-sirens are sounding all over Poland now, at noon, to remind everyone of the invasion by Germany on 1st September 1939.

Hi Mummy, it's me ... That's how I looked when ...

One of my Liceum former pupils published this on Facebook. I read it and choked on tears. The text below the picture is translated by me from the Polish.

You might wish to reblog, Tweet, or Facebook it.

Hi Mummy, it's me ... That's how I looked when ... You know, you said that you couldn't deal with it, not now ... and you bought the pills, which made me quietly die in you ... I'm a little sad because I wanted so much to love you and hug you tightly, I wanted you to be proud of me, so many things I wanted to do with you! Now it is no longer important ... I just wanted to say that I forgive you, and I still love you. Until we meet again Mummy, I'll be waiting for you!

Just For The Record

I am alive, well, very busy, but so angry that I will not write anything specific here and now.

The Grave of a Young Patriot

We do not know his date of birth, though the anniversary is probably about now, because someone (probably a relation) has, in accordance with Polish custom, put flowers at the foot of his grave.

We know that he was a Boy Scout, a soldier of the "Grey Ranks" in the Warsaw Uprising of 1944, and that he died on the eleventh of December 1945 aged 15, but whether from wounds sustained in the street battles, or from illness is not recorded on his tombstone.

Had he lived he would now be 84, and a devoted father, and grandfather.

Thousands of young Warsavians died at the hands of the German Army. Bach who destroyed Warsaw and so many lives, received a shortish gaol sentence.

The Heart Bleeds

In neighbouring Netherlands, doctors are paid 330 Euros for a second euthanasia opinion. "That's fair," says Dr Distelmans. "But in Belgium, there is nothing."  

Courtesy: Bio-Edge

Friends of God - reblogged

Trying hard to find something positive to say, I have been thinking back to what was probably the happiest time in my life, as a project worker in homelessness charities in London from 2000 to 2005.

Someone said I would learn more from my clients than they would ever learn from me. He was right.

 They were aged from 18 to about 50, criminals, many ex-prisoners, thieves, liars, alcoholics, drug addicts; the feckless, the unloved, the lovely.

Friends of God, all of them, religious, many Catholic, lapsed, but prayerful, with a sometimes skewed morality all of their own, best illustrated by example. All names have been changed.

 Wain: “My room-mate was a thieving bastard. He stole my coat, so I couldn’t go out. And it was mine – my girl-friend nicked it for me.” 

Wain had been raped at the age of 12 and infected with HIV and potentially fatal hepatitis, as had his 9 year old sister (it was on his records). The rapist was his mother's new boyfriend, who, when her pregnancy deprived him of sex, despoiled her children.Wain had ambitions to give up heroin, get a job, get married, have children, and be a good husband and father. He had perhaps 10 years to live. He prayed, injected, stole. So would I probably have in his position.

Augustus, seeing me getting on my bike to go home coatless in the pouring rain: “Chris, have my coat til tomorrow. I’m not going out, so I don’t need it." (St Francis and the cloak). I gracefully refused, of course, saying it was against the rules.

Abdul, a Somali, who had seen a project-worker hit his head on the corner of a cupboard, came to see him an hour or so later to make quite sure he was ok.

The Muslims (I love Muslims, though not Islam) fasting from dawn to darkness through Ramadan only to find the kitchen and dining room closed by order of the manager, when it was dark and they could eat and drink. We got round that and quietly cooked halal chicken for them.

Clients helped each other continually, and fought like tigers when honour had been transgressed. Two were fighting, facing automatic eviction, when I caught them. The cassus belli was a nearly empty plastic lighter whose ownership they disputed.

Being 60 years old, I could stop any fight by getting in between them. No heroism. They were gentlemen and would not hit an old man.

I always carried extra lighters and cigarettes, so confiscated the nearly empty one, gave them a new one each, and asked them what kind of people they were to force me to lie that they had not been fighting. All fights had to be reported, and eviction was inevitable. They were perfect Christian gentlemen and apologised.

If you did them a kindness, however small, they remembered.

They were full of beautiful surprises. One of our duties, in pairs, was to search clients’ rooms for drugs, under the pretence of health and safety checks. I remember the floor of one room covered in potting compost with cannabis growing under bright lights, strictly business, of course. The tenant wouldn’t touch the weed. He was a crack addict.

On the wall, besides the usual ikons, the client had a portrait reproduction of a black man in 18th century dress, with a powdered wig. I asked who it was of.

"Dr Johnson’s black servant (Francis Barber),” came the reply. "Samuel Johnson was a good man, a real Christian and left him his money when he died." How many English people know of this?

 A scholar, a Christian gentleman, and a crack-addict.

How I miss them – God-fearing, pious, lovable – villains, rascals, disreputable, as God knows we all are, if we examine our consciences honestly.

Sorry! No, not you of course.

Sacrifice Betrayed

My step-father, who died in 1998, wondered what he and his fellow soldiers had fought for in the last war. Not, he thought, for what Britain had become.

Reading the verse from Maccabees at the bottom of the memorial tablet (in East Knoyle Church, Wiltshire) above, the calamities of their people and sanctuary, brought about by their descendants, have made a mockery of their sacrifice.

The betrayal fills me with shame.

The Prayer of a Man Too Easily Distracted (After Sir Edward Dyer, but only the first line!)

From two years ago, but I still rather like it.

My mind to me a kingdom is
Where I, a sadly feeble king.
Try hard to rule my unruly thoughts;
While they rebel like anything.

Such plans I have for this and that
To learn, to teach, to write, to pray,
Thoughts say, "Why, what a brilliant plan!
But first we need a holiday."

And off they scoot in search of this
And that, but not the things I planned.
I lack the grit to drag them back,
A havering Hamlet, half unmanned.

So sitting downcast, weakly angry
At my own impotence, I pray,
"Lord, give me strength before procrast
-ination steals my life away."

Kermit Gosnell

I have read that, if Kermit Gosnell is found guilty, he faces execution. 

"A consummation devoutly to be wished" - by me for one.

The Fruity Fruits of Vatican Two

Into the fields to harvest
The fruits of Vatican II!

We are the Easter People
Who will the Church renew.
"What are these fruits," you ponder,
That you so keenly reap?"
We've Joy and Love and Wonder -
Let Faith and Reason sleep!


There were no fruits from doctrine
Or from obedience blind,
But we are now so fruity,
It sometimes blows our mind.
We speak in tongues and prophesy
"Yah! Bliffer Blaffer Bloo!"
The Spirit so baptises us,
That all we say is true.


We don't need popes and bishops
We've each got Direct Lines
To our heavenly Big Daddy,
So we are all divines.
When Roma loquitur, we know
Causa is not at end
We may accept Rome's opinion
If it matches the latest trend.


The Fathers of the Council
Said, "From the experts, seek
The wisdom of the worldly
The freedom of the freak!"
We've done it:  See how worldly
And freaky are we all!
At every Mass there's schmalz and slop -
Don't we just have a ball!


That lovely lady Brosselmans
Said Mass is like Diwali
Or Eid ul Fatr festival - 
That's really up our alley.
Now ours is really a shebang
With loud and joyful praise.
Who needs old-fashioned reverence
When we our voices raise


In Gibberish and rigmarole,
"Oh wazza wazza whizz!"
And pogo up and down the aisle
While the celebrant does his biz.
Oh sweet to the Ears of Abba dear
Is our loud hullabaloo,
A glorious Harvest Home for us,
We fruits of Vatican II!



(Tune: We Plough the Fields and Scatter")

Must-Read from The Bones

The Black Madonna of Jasna Góra. The scars on the face were inflicted by sacrilegious Swedish protestant invaders during the XVII century.

Lawrence England in his blog That the Bones You Have Crushed May Thrill has a beautiful post on England's need for Our Lady, The Lady the Country Needed is Still the Lady the Country Needs, and points out that she is already Queen of Poland.

You can hear the beautiful Polish Hymn Maryjo Królowa Polski (O Mary Queen of Poland) here or here.

Killing Off the Customers - Smart Idea!

Well worth reading. 

Why teachers should oppose abortion, here, cogently presents the purely economic effects of abortion in Chicago. 

Islamic Justice or the Wisdom of Solomon

Wisdom is beautiful no matter where it is found.

I heard this story in the 1960s from someone in the oil industry. 

In one of the Arab states, a rich man, watching his gardener pruning a tree, was killed when the man fell on him. The widow went to court and demanded the execution of the gardener (a life for a life).

The sheikh, or imam, or judge, after a moment pondering , gave judgement.

"Of course his life is forfeit if you so wish. The gardener will stand under the tree where your husband was killed. You will climb the tree and fall on him."

The woman withdrew her suit. 

Has the Goldfish Belched?

Sleeping Bishops

As the world descends into madness and the apotheosis of unnatural lust looms, what are the Bishops of England and Wales doing about it?

The French (and not only Catholics) have been protesting in Paris and in London.

Has anyone heard even a discreet murmur from Archbishop Vincent Nichols about the organising of similar protests in Britain?

Has the goldfish belched?

Easter Monday - Wet Monday - Śmigus Dyngus

On street corners young men and boys will be waiting with water pistols or even buckets of water to drench young women, an ancient custom possibly dating from pre-Christian Poland.

Photos: Wikipedia



So watch out, ladies!

Liebster Award

Thank you, Mulier Fortis for this! I am honoured!

1. What inspired the title of your blog? Irony. Left-footer is a disparaging protestant term for a Catholic
2. Why did you start to blog? To dispel my rage.
3. What is your personal favourite post on your blog? The verses about St.Nicholas and Arius.
4. What has been the most popular (most viewed) post on your blog? The verses about St.Nicholas and Arius.
5. Which post on your blog has attracted most comments? How do I find out?
6. What other hobbies or interests (beyond blogging) are you prepared to admit to? Playing flute, saxophone, violin, reading (mainly history and poetry), writing verse, photography.
7. What has been your closest brush with death? Not being killed by a V1 rocket as a child. I saw the corpses of three men who were killed.
8. Where is your favourite place of pilgrimage, and why? Częstochowa, because it is so very happy, jolly even, sacred, and houses the Black Madonna.
9. Who is your favourite spiritual author, and why? G. K. Chesterton, because he writes as I think.
10. Have you ever experienced a miracle? Lots. Whenever I strike a monetary deal with St Antony, I find what I am looking for.
11. Which of these questions did you find it most difficult to answer? No 6: impossible.

Fun, well, rather boring, facts:

1. I belong to a Polish Walrus club. We swim in the sea between October and April.
2. I have an almost pathological interest in languages
3. I loathe, beef, English breakfasts,  Wagner and Beethoven's 9th symphony.
4. I live very happily in Poland.
5. I am not a team player, and have no team-spirit.
6. I am too fat because Polish food is irresistible.
7. I get very angry about history. If I had a time machine, I would do my best to dispatch Xerxes, Cyrus, any number of pharoahs, Julius Caesar, Henry VIII, Elizabeth I - the list is very long.
8. I read newspapers only when on the internet and free of charge, and as little as possible because of the stupidity, lies, and downright bad English written by most journalists. I fear linguistic contamination.
9. I can sleep standing up, and often do so when bored, in Church, for example. I can, and do, sleep anywhere.
10. I consider the last half (only half) decent British Prime Minister to have been Harold MacMillan.
11. I have Irish, Scottish, and Welsh ancestry and refuse to consider myself English.
12. Bonus: I hate what to me does not make sense, "speaking in tongues" for example.

And now I have to think about nine nominees. Tomorrow, I hope.

Easter Sunday Breakfast. For me, first and last meal of the day!

It started with prayers, said by the great-grandmother, and lasted about three hours, with much more to eat than you can see here. Afterwards, there was tea, coffee, cake, and vodka.

After Resurrection Mass, of course.

Happy Easter in Poland

There's a beautiful, very unpompous formality about Catholicism in Poland. I have been on about five or six pilgrimages, which are as popular here as they were in Chaucer's England, but less scurrilous. The atmosphere on the journey is one of innocent laughter, jokes, songs, vodka, and fun. At the destination, there is serious prayer and piety. They are for me the happiest occasions imaginable, short of Heaven.

When you meet a Priest, you don't say, Good morning!", but, informally, "May God make you happy!", to which the reply is, "With God!" Formally, if you don't know the Priest, you say, "May Jesus Christ be glorified!", to which the reply is, "From age to age, Amen!"

This is not quaint, but normal.

At Christmas and Easter, the short and very informal greeting is, "Happy Holy Day!" More usual at Easter is, "Christ has risen! Alleluja!" or something much longer, and often in verse, such as the following: 

Wieść radosną niosą dzwony 
na wsze świata grają strony, 
że zmartwychwstał Pan nad Pany
Bóg wszechmocny, Bóg kochany.

which translates as:


Bells bring glad tidings
Pealing to all corners of the world.
That the Lord of Lords has risen
God Almighty, the God of love.

The first Resurrection Mass today was at 6 a.m. It is followed by a hearty alcoholic breakfast. I overslept for one of the few times in my life, and will have to go at 10.00, without vodka. My fault. 

Christ has risen! Alleluja! Chrystus zmartwychwstał. Aleluja!

Piero della Francesca

Holy Saturday

Rash Promises

Remembering an excellent film I saw years ago, in which a Polish aristocrat engaged in one of the wars with the Turks, with great chivalry, but dubious theology, politely declined the amorous hospitality of a lady on the grounds that he had promised the Mother of God that he would abstain from such until he had decapitated three Turks with one slash of his sabre, which act of martial prowess he had so far failed to accomplish, I declare:

That I am not and am unlikely ever to be, in possession of a firearm.

That I do have a large and admirably sharp axe, for cutting firewood.

That should the foul emissaries of the Lifetime Options Directorate (as yet, a figment of my inflamed imagination, but coming soon) or its squalid successors ever find me with the intention of subjecting me to 'euthanasia', I will do my utmost to subject them to cacothanasia.

I do not trust my eye for decapitation enough to swipe off three heads at a stroke, but I will, as my strength allows, make a bloody mess of as many of them as possible.

Think on't.

With my head under the carpet, inhaling the dust, mice droppings, and the thoughts of Walt Whitman

You can buy them in the books and souvenirs shop in Westminster Cathedral, or could when I was last there. 

Cards: serene, smug, warmly coloured, often claiming to have been copied from some New England tombstone, their words of wisdom, whether they deal with growing old, being nice, or just getting the warm glow of being goodthinkful and goodfeelful,  make me want to vomit.

"I have only gone into the next room....." Oh, really? Then come back and do some bl**dy work! Nonsense, you're dead.

"May I learn to accept what I cannot change........" Abortion? Euthanasia? Slavery? The Ottoman Empire? The so-called reformation? The destruction of thought by the manipulation of language? Hawker Dawker and Richard Rottenborough? Pass me the kidney basin.

"Give me the wisdom to see that....." Lies are true? God is What I would like to think He is?

"Let me be supine, unthinking, irrationally optimistic, with my head under the carpet, inhaling the dust, mice droppings, and the thoughts of Walt Whitman. Let me be proud owner of a Catholic diary, with its quotations of the week, cataclysmic apercus of such Catholic intellectual luminaries as Anais Nin." No, I think that one has not yet been printed. Give them time!

I have been getting old for quite a long time now. I have pensions, but I refuse to be called a pensioner, or a senior. I am a man and still working, thank God! Sixty years too late I am having weekly violin lessons. Saxophone and flute are too easy, and my blood pressure is too high for the trumpet. 

I know, but do not accept, that I am old. I know and accept the fact that I will die relatively soon. 

I am not remotely serene about it. Like any sensible man in the condemned cell, I am frantically busy.

Last May, on my birthday, when I was still teaching full-time, a colleague (and friend) walked into my class of 17 year olds, gave me a big hug (no, he is not a homosexual. Hugging between men, between women, and and between men and women is normal in Poland) and announced, "Don't worry Chris! You're not old - you were just born too early." [Collapse of stout party].

As Tennyson's Ulysses has it:

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Come on in - the water's lovely!

Last swim of the season for the Elbląg Walruses (Elbląskie Morsy) 24th March 2013. It was really too warm with air temperature of plus 2 Celsius, and sea zero Celsius. However, we did our best to have some healthy exercise.

The brightly coloured object on the right of the picture below is a Marzanna, a doll symbolising Winter, which is ceremonially drowned at the start of Spring. 

Why I do not trust journalists or anything they write

Why do I not trust them? Please read on.

Let me recount an experience with the educational correspondent of a nameless Conservative national daily paper when I was teaching in London in the days of the Inner London Education Authority (ILEA).

The school and its headmaster were well known, the school for its success and popularity, and the Head for his traditional values. This sat uncomfortably with the marxist ILEA.

The journalist came to interview me and another teacher of more leftist leanings. We were to talk about what was good or bad about the ILEA.

I started by getting him to agree that everything I said would be unattributable - anonymous. I then told the ugly truth about the Authority and its preference for ideology over education. Hot stuff. I named names, starting with the abominable Bramall..

My colleague was a very loyal ILEA employee, but not so smart. He gave the journalist a loyal defence of the Authority.

My highly negative views were printed. His were not.

However the newspaper in question seemed to attribute my comments to him.

He was not happy, nor was the ILEA. I was.

Did Biden and Pelosi receive Holy Communion?

It is reported that Biden and Pelosi, keen enthusiasts for the murder of the unborn, received Holy Communion at the Pope's inaugural Mass; that they were neither warned earlier not to present themselves for Communion, nor turned away when they did so.

If this has happened, the massacre of the innocent would seem to have received the approval of the Church, and mere diplomacy has trumped the Body and Blood of our Lord.

I devoutly hope that reports of such horrible profanation are untrue. 

If they are true, the Church is grave trouble. So are we, for the evil which is promoted by self-styled Catholic supporters of abortion, for me at least, exceeds any consensual act short of murder performed by and between adult homosexuals. The Soho Masses, now moved to Farm Street, are of far less moral significance than what may have taken place in Rome.

Please feel free to correct me if I you think that I am wrong.

The Malignant Tendency

The Malignant Tendency

The quasi Catholics arise
And buckle to the fray.
Their weapons: nuances and  lies,
But the strongest: our dismay.
Nightmares they are - open our eyes -
The light drives them away.

Their day is done. Their murky creeds,
Blinded by envy, stumble.
On barren land they sow their seeds
Whose ashy fruit will crumble.
Their only god, their ego, needs
One shove - then watch it tumble.

Like vampires, zombies, ghouls, or such,
In some drab horror film, 
In the Tablet's stale and bitter hutch, 
They haunt the grisly realm
Where slobbering ranks of undead clutch
At the Church they'd overwhelm. 

Frail wraiths, they anger us too much.
We wonder, "Why do they stay?"
To join the humanists, prods, or such,
Would make their dismal day.
I'd like to kick their Kungian cr***h,
But nobly turn away.