An offer you can refuse. But don't need to.

The Catholic Church seems to have been sending some rather mixed messages in 2013. Forgive me being rather late to this but I don't keep that close an eye on the goings-on at the Vatican so didn't catch this at the time. It seems that in May the Pope, in a quite startling departure from accepted tenets, came out with this in an open letter to La Reppublica.

It's not exactly a once-in-a-lifetime offer - the head of a Church you don't belong to reassuring you that a God you don't believe in will forgive you and allow you a place in a Heaven which doesn't exist if you 'follow your conscience' - but from any secular viewpoint it's certainly a positive sign of moderation and modernity from the Pontiff. Any kind of recognition, especially from the Catholic Church, that atheists can be good people, is to be welcomed. It suggests at least a man who recognises the shape of the wider world in which his Church's followers live. The Church of which he's nominal leader, though, moved quickly to disavow any such notion.

So much for modernising - central tenets are going to take rather longer to change, it seems, than even the Pope may prefer. There are, though, some areas where the modernising momentum is clear. Check this out.

This is one of the most bizarre examples of mixing old and new I've ever seen; the Catholic Church showing that they can be both thoroughly modern on the one hand and simultaneously archaic on the other. It seems that the Church is now on Twitter [it probably has been for some time, but I'm a) not on Twitter and b) in any case extremely unlikely to 'follow' a religious Twitter feed, so was unaware of this]. I wonder how many aggregate years in Purgatory were saved overall as a result of this offer to the contrite. And who keeps the numbers, if anybody? Is there some celestial logbook somewhere, in which a heavenly functionary marks the time off for those eligible with a Godly pencil, or has that too been modernised, computerised even? I'd love to ask this Sacred Apostilic Penitentiary how they track these things. (Who appointed them, by the way, thereby giving them the authority to pronounce on these matters? Shouldn't they regard this as the exclusive right of God?)

Anyway, the Pope and his modernist tendencies. He may, to use The Tablet's Vatican correspondent's words, be 'seeking to have a more meaningful dialogue with the world', but there's only so much he can do, no matter how determined he may be. This is, after all, a 2000-year-old institution with some 1.2 billion members and a multi-layered, complex organisational structure. His job must be like trying to steer the largest ship on a gigantic ocean - no matter which way he's looking, or which way he turns the helm, the thing changes direction so slowly that it's imperceptible. Any changes he tries to make now are not likely to make the slightest difference until he has, in the eyes of his Church's members, long joined all those good atheists upstairs. Oh, hang on, that was one of the things that hadn't in fact changed after all, wasn't it? Oh well. Never mind.

Taking the biscuits seriously

As a result of a discussion at work the other day, I realised that it's been a good couple of years that I've been writing this blog already, and have yet to make an entry on something very, very close to my heart. There are many things people find important, of course – politics, religion, morality, climate change, music, whatever it is. And indeed I've written on those matters, but I've somehow missed the fundamental subject of biscuits.

Now my capacity to eat biscuits, as anybody who knows me well will tell you, is enormous. I would, quite happily, eat my way through an entire pack of dark chocolate digestives with a cup of tea. Only a sense of shame and a vague awareness that it's probably not good for you to do so prevents me from doing exactly that whenever the opportunity presents itself. And the disapproving stares of others who may have had their eye on a biccie, in the case of a shared pack.

At work there are very frequently biscuits in the offing, so I have to moderate my scoffage for all of the above reasons. Apart from, that is, the occasions where the generous person who's provided them has made the inexplicable decision to buy horse biscuits. Now don't get me wrong, I appreciate that I'm in a minority here, possibly a minority of one, but I regard Hob Nobs (even when they've been disguised under chocolate) as horse biscuits which have somehow found their way into the human food chain. Mixing equine foodstuff with proper biscuits in the same factory is just careless, frankly, and asking for trouble.

That it happens, and people seem to have turned a blind eye all these years, accepting these horsey treats into their homes, is probably down to oats. I'm often asked why I eat flapjacks if I'm so set against Horse Nobs, as they've become known in my office, which is to miss the point. I don't have anything against oats per se – mixed with the right ingredients; sugar, honey, chocolate etc, they're delicious. It's the Nobs specifically I can't be doing with. I can't fathom how people can't spot their error as soon as they bite into one, but it seems I alone in the world can see the truth – everybody else unaccountably regard them as delicious.

Other than that, though, there are just a couple of additional exceptions to my pretty broad biccy taste. One is custard creams - some kind of yellow chemical mix compressed into a mould and dipped in paint, they are neither custardy nor creamy for me, and the taste is... well, yellow, if such a thing is possible. The other is ginger nuts. No, no, no. Biscuits should a) not burn the roof of your mouth like a too-hot curry and b) come out of a cup of scalding hot tea after an indecently long dunk entirely unchanged by the experience. Now a digestive, sadly dismissed by many workmates who regard them as 'plain', a digestive knows how to behave in cup of tea. Get the timing wrong, and your digestive will punish you by falling apart as you lift it out, in protest at its treatment. You have to treat them with respect and delicacy to gain the full reward of their deliciousness.

I fancy that I know how to treat all biscuits, so I'm never happier than with a cup of tea and a tube of them for dunking. I merely ask, dear reader, should you ever be kind enough to come round for a cuppa and bring biccies with you, that you do me the service of selecting a pack made with human consumers in mind.

We're gonna need a bigger helicopter

I don't often do film or TV criticism on these pages - I've reserved that for Wonderlance in the past - but every now and then, a film comes along which completely redefines the boundaries of filmmaking. Sharknado is not one of those films. It does, though, warrant comment here.

For those among you not sufficiently down with the kids to be in on the 'nado phenomenon, it's a made-for-SyFy Channel film about sharks deposited in the streets of Los Angeles. By a tornado. But enough of the plot - I don't want to confuse you. Here was a film which combined the prodigious talents of actors formerly from, among other gems, Beverly Hills 90210 and Saved by the Bell with the sort of special effects budget which the likes of ILM can only have nightmares about. 

The result was both utterly magnificent - a modern-day Plan 9 from Outer Space - and extremely knowing at the same time. Lifting shark-death method and chunks of dialogue from Jaws, including a riff on Quint's legendary USS Indianapolis speech ("So, six people went into the water, and one little girl came out. Sharks took the rest."), it's all too aware of what it is. The tagline alone is enough to tell you that - 'Sharknado', the poster reads. 'Enough said.' Definitely - this is a film with its balls hanging right out, and it ain't afraid of how cheap and funny-looking they are. In fact it knows that's why you're staring.

It became something of an internet sensation after it debuted in the US, so its showing here was keenly anticipated by fans of a certain genre - bad films. So successful has it been that SyFy have already announced a sequel, to come out just next year, set in New York. Enough said.

Royal baby shambles

According to the CIA, there are over 350,000 people born every day on our already teeming planet. The gigantic majority of them will come into the world the way they'll remain for their entire lives, from the point of view of all the others - anonymous, save for their family and those close to them.

Now there has been, of course, one particular exception to that dominating the media these past few days. I write from a broadly neutral position when it comes to the royal family. I'm far from a flag-waving Monarchist. Nor though am I some kind of abolitionist Republican - I do not believe the removal of the monarchy would do the country any good. The absolute domination of the broadcast and printed media of the birth of the latest royal kid, though, I do take serious issue with. (And, of course, here I am, both feeding it and feeding off it by adding my own contribution to that panoply).

This is not news. This boy, one of those 350,000+ who came into the world today, is no more newsworthy than any of the others, as far as I'm concerned. His life is, more or less, mapped out ahead of him. He could, of course, be one of the very rare exceptions among royalty who lets it all go - all the trappings, the lack of freedom, some of the attention and privilege which goes with his lineage. Even if he does, he'll be protected from the worst of life's realities by his name and his family's money. More likely he'll lead the kind of life Princes Andrew or Edward do, not ascending to the throne and the kind of burden of duty the Monarch bears until he's at least the age Charles is now. He will, in all likelihood, live his life within certain pre-defined parameters.

The same can't be said for almost all of the other kids born today. Of course, the vast majority will live their lives in obscurity. Born today were people who will do terrible things - murderers, warriors, ideological extremists. But also born today somewhere were people who'll do great things in art, literature, politics, environmentalism, architecture, diplomacy. Somebody may have been born today who will become as famous as the royals. Maybe somebody who will do something great for all humanity. The canvas for almost all of those countless thousands is more or less blank, and some of them will fill it with lives that will astonish, that will be much more fulfilled than that of our royal newbie.

This is not a criticism of him, of course - in his innocence he has no more idea of what's in store for him than anybody else. I wish him well. But I extend those same wishes to all the kids whose births didn't make the news today, whose as-yet unlived time stretches out ahead of them, to be lived who knows how, for who knows how long?

Hunting the bus nutter

Typical - you wait forever for an entry about buses, and then one comes along all at once. Or something. Anyway, financial realities have meant that, in recent months, I've had to forego the freedom of a Travelcard and commute to work by bus. Not for me the devil-may-care, jet-setting man-about-town jollity of changing from train, to bus, to tube at will. No – I now sit on the 159 from Streatham all the way to Trafalgar Square every morning, and then do the return journey in the same way every evening. In many ways it's been a boon – getting on at the start of the route, I always get a seat. You can see the outside world. If you open windows you actually get air coming into the bus. And they're very unlikely to get stuck in a tunnel 200 feet underground.

There are, though, of course, drawbacks, as you'd expect for a monthly saving of £80 on a three-zone Travelcard, with all its attendant flexibility. You can't just change your route home mid-commute if things have all gone a bit pear-shaped – at least not without paying again. It takes longer, particularly on the way home, for some reason. You get squashed by gigantic individuals sitting both in the seat next to you and most of yours. You occasionally have to sit with your feet either side of a drying puddle of somebody else's vomit. Mercifully (and selfishly), I'm pleased to report that this last hazard is something I've only seen happen to other people.

By far the greatest difference, though, is the bus nutter. Now I'm sure that the sardines packed on the suburban trains into London each morning run the risk of finding themselves next a train nutter, but trains are big. There are a lot of people on them. Even if there were two train nutters aboard, your odds of finding yourself next to one of them are long. I did the train version of the rat run every morning for years, and I was much more likely to see a fight than encounter an oddball. This is not the case on the bus, so you have to do what you can to minimise the chances that you'll end up his (it's always a man) travelling companion for the duration of your trip. This means, frankly, surreptitiously scoping out the people waiting at the stop in the morning to see if you can spot him.

This morning's candidates were a twenty-something lad swigging from a half-empty bottle of Gordon's at 7.30am, or a bloke in a suit who, eschewing the seats provided at the bus stop, sat on a six-inch high concrete block muttering to himself. He smoked tar-black roll-ups and stared openly at anybody turning up. He didn't get on the bus, instead wandering off to whatever business to which he had to attend. This prompted the thought that he'd decided that one of the rest of us was the bus nutter and he wasn't going to take any chances. And, frankly, who's to say he wasn't right? I often listen to funny podcasts on the bus into work, occasionally having to fight to stifle a laugh, and could well be on several regulars' shortlists of dodgy individuals to be sat as far away from as possible.

One of the unequivocal rules that all London commuters understand about their daily routine – if you look around for the morning's Designated Bus Nutter and can't identify him, it's you.

The tragedy of art imitating death

My absolutely favourite British writer of them all, Iain Banks, missed seeing what he knew would be his final novel published by just 10 days. His publisher, when they heard of the grim prognosis for his cancer, rushed the process to try to beat his illness to the punch, but it wasn't to be.

As with all his work once I'd first read him, I bought the novel on the day it was released and read it quickly. I finished reading it on the bus home last night. For the double tragedy of it being the last words he ever wrote and the nature of his death, and the contiguity of his illness with the similarly terminal decline of the book's main character, I had to fight back tears which would have no doubt had my fellow passengers assuming I was the bus nutter when I finished it.

The book is, you see, as well as being as powerfully written as all his work, about a man raging against the dying of his own light as cancer has its way with him. This horrible resonance was, apparently, a coincidence, with the first draft finished when he found out about his own illness. It makes every word, of course, doubly meaningful. How much did he change once he'd found out? How much of the dying character's raging, bitter tirade against a vacuous society and the disappointments of most people's lives when measured against their own, younger, more idealistic selves was actually the voice of Banks?

That's what made the final chapters in particular, and finishing the book, so poignant. The quarry which forms the geographical and metaphorical backdrop for the book is an ever-advancing abyss, which stares back at you when you gaze into it. His dying character dismisses such feelings as the solipsistic ravings of a drug-addled drop out friend, and vents his fury at society, at his friends, at himself and the cancer that's taking him.

I hope that's not how Banks felt, that he was able to face his own end with something approaching acceptance, but who'd blame the man if he didn't? To have such a gift, to be able to express yourself so eloquently through work which resonated strongly with your readers, leaving them awed at the scale of such a giant imagination, and then be denied the right to express it fully - I can't begin to imagine how he felt.

So I was upset that there will never be another Banks release. Upset that I'd finished it, that there was no more to come from the man, that such a talent has been taken from us. I usually hate the rush of grief-junkie teeth gnashing which follows the death of somebody famous, the desperate desire to show how hurt you are that Diana's gone, but in this case I'm one of those who will feel the loss his absence represents quite keenly. I'm just one of millions who never knew the man but felt the power of his work, and what a great power it was. Cheers, Iain.

If you change your mind...

I saw The Book of Mormon recently. Bloody good fun it was, and considerably more positive about the Mormons than some of the hysterical conservative press would have you believe. The Mormons are a funny lot - their absolute faith in their president being a living prophet, and their belief in the existence of the golden plates for example, despite nobody ever having set eyes on them, are excellent standards of the blindness of religious certainty. They are, though, to be praised for their response to the musical itself. Not for them mass demonstrations, burning torches and the promise of damnation for the creators. Rather, they've plastered central London with adverts for their faith and generally tried to engage with it. Kudos to them.

On that certainty, though. This piece on the Beeb caught my eye not long after I'd seen the show. I've written on here before about some of the central tenets around which religions are built - the concept of original sin in the Catholic Church, for example. The struggle between such pillars of belief systems and the need of all faiths to modernise if they want to engage with modern people, particularly in the West, cannot be a simple one.

We live, in Britain at the moment, in a society which is riven with examples of the trouble these certainties can cause, whether they're theological certainties or secular ones. Aircraft grounded on the way in from Pakistan, vehicles stopped mid-motorway, attacks on Mosques - knee-jerk reaction to an act of unspeakable and all too human brutality in Woolwich, nothing to do with religious teachings. At such times, it's only natural to lean on one's own convictions, the beliefs that sustain you when things are shit. When those convictions are born of religious faith, though, is that necessarily helpful? The divisions between religious and secular, and between the faiths themselves, seem to be widening at the moment. A little more doubt, a little more questioning, would probably do us all a bit of good.

It is such questioning, such reinterpretation, that has allowed some religious thinking to survive at all in a smaller, less credulous and more integrated world, and find its place in the modern West. It can be done – the same Church that persecuted Galileo for stating that the Earth revolved around the sun, heresy at the time, found itself formally exonerating him in the late 20th century, when it was kind of stupid to argue otherwise. The Vatican now has its own 'in-house' astronomer, no less.

If only all such changes of position could be so completely arranged, so comprehensively and neatly played out. I wonder, over the centuries, how many groups of learned elders have pored over their religious tract of choice, seeking guidance from their Almighty on some startling new revelation, some new science which casts doubt on the previously solid pillars around which their faith were built? At what point did the Vatican realise, for example, that Galileo was right? Did they secretly realise he was on to something even during the man's lifetime, only to hide the truth, knowing how dangerous to their Church it would be? Given the AIDS crisis in Africa, will they ever get round to addressing the use of condoms? And how would the various Churches deal with First Contact, when and if it eventually happens?

I have to go back to The Book of Mormon for what I suspect lies behind the response to some of the more shattering revelations science may afford us from time to time. (And, yes, those revelations may yet of course back up things that the theologians have been saying). One of the better songs in the thing addressed how to deal with thoughts or feelings that conflicted with Mormon teachings.

"Turn it off, like a light switch. Just go click! It's a cool little Mormon trick! We do it all the time. When you're feeling certain feels that just don't feel right, treat those pesky feelings like a reading light, and turn 'em off."

It'd be cool indeed of some of the more outdated, conflicting and downright idiotic religious shibboleths could be similarly excised, but as Galileo's pardon took 360 years, I'm not expecting miracles.

Health scares

I've written in these pages before about the Tories' fundamental inability to grasp the concept of the NHS, a huge organisation which does not exist to make money and is therefore completely beyond their comprehension.

Latest suggestions on a prominent Tory forum include limiting the number of times anybody can visit a GP. This, of course, goes against an NHS constitutional principle that access is based on clinical need. God forbid you should have some problem which required repeated visits. "Well, Mr Smith, I'm afraid to tell you that several tests on your shoulder pain have proved inconclusive, and you've now run out of visits. If I were you I'd go home and pray it's not an acute case of gammy-arm-falls-off-at-the-jointitis. See you next year!"

It's only fair to point out of course, that this is not a stated policy aim of the government, merely a right-wing discussion forum shooting the breeze. Like most Tory Health ideas though, the very concept, of course, has been less than warmly welcomed by the professionals it's likely to affect. The Chairman of the BMA's GPs committee certainly hasn't pulled any punches - Health Minister Jeremy Hunt has evidently irked the BMA on GP-related matters generally: Hunt "...keeps on tweeting and speaking a childishly superficial and misleading analysis of a very complex problem," according to the good Doctor Buckman.

Petitions are already being raised, objections voiced. Some of the Tories' more hare-brained ideas on the NHS have already died as a result, in part, of the hugely negative reaction from both professionals and public. With any luck this will be still-born too.

The sun shines on the righteous

I've written in these pages before about the joy experienced when getting together with a substantial chunk of my mates to celebrate the wedding of two of them, and I was privileged to be invited to another such occasion on Saturday.

Set just outside Sudbury, in the heart of Gainsborough country (which, while still far from being in full leaf, was appropriately bucolic and entirely beautiful), this was a day when it finally felt like spring had arrived in all its glory. After what's felt like six months of unending grey and dreary cold - hang on, let's rephrase that - after what has been six months of unending grey and dreary cold, the sun warmed us nicely from an azure sky as the guests were taken to the venue on an old Routemaster. (Number 159 no less, the route home for me down to Streatham; so kind of the bride and groom to think of us south London dwellers in such a fashion when they must have been busy!)

A cracking venue, marvellous food - as I said on the night, never before in my life have I seen too much dessert, I wasn't even sure such a thing was possible - and the couple picking up the tab for the drinks all night, all combined to make this a most convivial occasion. One thing, though. No matter how beautiful the weather, no matter how lovely the setting, no matter how much fine food and booze, these things are only as good as the people which complete the occasion. And what very, very fine people these are.

As I've often said on here, I genuinely think I'm ridiculously fortunate to find myself surrounded by such good people, and privileged to call them my friends. That two of them should be kind enough to invite me and so many others to their wedding is humbling and gratifying, as was the kindness and cordiality of their families, the joy in the best men's speech and the general atmosphere of goodwill in the whole thing. I joked on these pages after the stag do that the stag (now the husband, of course) was batting way above his average, but the truth of the matter is of course that these are both people of the very, very finest qualities.

That I got so pleasantly blotto*, saw those two outstanding people get married and spent the evening in the company of most of my closest friends left me counting my lucky stars once again. I wish the new Mr and Mrs M all the very best.



*Rumour has it that I was seen front and centre, singing loudest, into the early hours at the post-reception sing-song. I can only, in response to those rumours, quote the groom's own speech, as he introduced the best men, fearful of the contents of their forthcoming address. "Filthy, lying mouths..."

In the horse's mouth

Last weekend, a few football fans in the north and south of England decided to do their bit for the stereotype of us all as snarling, atavistic, violent neanderthals, with trouble in both London and Newcastle. A few Millwall fans at Wembley decided they'd have a bit of a scrap amongst themselves, no doubt eliciting a rolling of eyes among the thousands of peaceful Millwall supporters all too used to being seen in that light regardless of the facts of the matter, while old enemies Sunderland and Newcastle did the dance of the thousand fists on the streets around town in the north-east.

(On that, Sunderland and Newcastle fans could easily identify each other from their shirts, but how did the Millwall fans know who to hit and who was hitting with them? Did somebody nip off to the gents' and knock up a few quick flags on bog paper, improvised heraldry for the idiot few to tell themselves apart? That'll baffle me for some time...)

Anyway, one individual has quickly become the 'icon', if that's the right word, for this display of first-class fuckwittery. 45-year-old Barry Rogerson has learned quickly that it's one thing to go around hitting fellow football fans, but it's quite another to punch a police horse. This nation of animal lovers does not take too kindly to that sort of thing, and our Baz has quickly found his name, age and former occupation plastered all over our beloved press.

This piece in the Express is particularly magnificent, encapsulating perfectly both the utterly moronic childishness of his actions, and the press's gleeful, pious response to it. Mr Rogerson has evidently realised how badly his actions have played out to a British public which probably has a regard for, and relationship with, animals which is unique in the world. If his taking part in the disorder in the first place was childish, his rapid backing-away from his actions subsequently makes him sound even more like an eight-year-old kid trying to pull the angelic innocent act in front of a sceptical parent.

"I'd like to apologise to the horse... ," he says. Only in Britain would this not sound utterly bonkers - I'm quite sure the horse is ready to shake hooves and put the whole thing behind them. Then this, from his wife, which is probably the best line in the whole piece: "He normally never goes out anywhere without me. I let him out once by himself and look what happens." See, officer? He's just a kid who got too excited, threw up his jelly and ice cream and then had a hissy fit, lashing out when the party broke up. So he faces a wrathful public, probably a wrathful wife, and will soon face the judgement of the law. Bet he's pleased he went to that game.

As a football fan myself, and despite not having anything violent or anti-social in my past to answer for in that regard myself, I feel the need to redress the balance a bit. We fans face enough mistrust and disdain from people outside the game as it is without Mr Rogerson and those like him doing their bit for the negative stereotypes. I'd urge you, if you have time, to read this, and this, or just type 'football fans charity' into Google and have a look at what comes up. The huge majority of us are just people, doing many more good things overall than bad, just like the rest of the population. If anything, the common bond and understanding of support, of any team, makes it easier for us to come together and act in unison where there's a need.

Most fans are mortified when they see this sort of stuff, so please don't go thinking that the photo of Barry Rogerson, face covered, punch mid-swing, which so many people have seen (and had confirm their opinion of football fans) is in any way typical of us.