NO-ONE DOES IT AS WELL AS US.

We weren't going to waste time watching the royal wedding, were we? Well, only a quick glance, just to see the interior of the Abbey. And suddenly, there it was, in all its vertical splendour. And so - we spare a little time for the ceremony.

The silver snarling trumpets 'gin to chide*. And you're hooked, and the tears spring to the eyes, and the slow archaic ceremony begins to unfold. Here is the Dean of the Royal Peculiar; here is Cantuar himself, in High Anglican vestments. Here is the groom, in a totally impractical scarlet jacket, and here the best man, befrogged and aiguilletted beyond endurance.

Here comes the bride, in a long straight stream of pallor in the dark interior, deviating, as is only right, in deference to the Unknown Warrior. And suddenly it all seems so right, with all the authority of ancient truth, and you bask in the certitude of it. Archaic it may seem, but it is surely based on immemorial truths, and Anglican truths at that.

And then the mind wanders, as it is all too prone to do in such circumstances, and you begin to listen to what is being said in such measured tones. '...ordained by God in the time of man's innocence....' And as such participated in by Adam and Eve? Who published the banns?

'.... to have and to hold, till death do us part.....' This in front of a whole row of royalty who have slipped in and out of marriage with the dexterity of lampreys. And how many in the audience - sorry - congregation, had straight down the middle of the road married lives behind, or indeed in front of, them? Do they believe the Bible's references to the subject? Water into wine? As Rowan Atkinson says, 'You should go professional.'

So it's all very moving and impressive, but at times it seems to owe more to the Royal Shakespeare Company in a lush historical production than to fundamental reality. We do it better than anyone else: the French always look as if they have just escaped from an operetta, and the Americans as if they are doing a Historical Re-enactment in a charitable cause. But what precisely is it that we are doing?

*Only the Police Trumpeters, unfortunately, rather sub fusc. The cameras, very wisely did not linger. But the sound did the trick.

I SURRENDER!

Constant readers of this blog will know that I have conducted a long campaign to protect the English language from decay. I should like to report that there has been some improvement in usage generally. But clearly this is not so - the reverse is true. Despite my protestations, and those of even more distinguished academics, the viruses seem to be increasingly well embedded; beyond hope now, I think, of eradication.

On radio and television speakers of education and culture seem not to notice that they are using vulgarisms such as (my own favourite targets) CONtractors: PROtesters: kilOMeters: REEsearch: WestMINNster.....

As for other sloppy pronunciations, the letter t seems doomed to eradication. Americans. of course, pronounce it as d, as in the wader poured the wine, but even that is better than the glottal stop, as in bread and bu''er, or mili'ary. Final t has become silent already - Christmas presen'. This gives rise to the fascinating thought that the word knight is destined to become the first in the English language to have more silent than pronounced letters.

Incidentally, the protests at the proposed closure of libraries formed part of a necessary and urgent campaign, but one can't help feeling relieved that the media are now free of constant references to libaries - especially during Febuary.

And so it goes on; a constant blurring and mumbling of language. Sam Johnson laid it down that dictionaries should reflect the language as it was really used, rather than dictate, but surely he was referring to the use of educated men. Dictionaries now scoop up any old rubbish and give it the authority of print. It's a long time, for example, since they gave up defending the valuable distinction between imply and infer; so muddled thought is reinforced.

The time has come for all old codgers to retreat into their ivory castles, and meditate on why they prefer to write an historian rather than a historian. 'But nobody says an horse!' - precisely; and if you didn't have tin ears you could hear why.

INTERNATIONAL FUN & GAMES

There it is, a stupid, ugly, meaningless logo typifying an increasingly irritating branch of show business. Much is made of the global camaraderie inspired by the Olympics. We hear little of the accusations and counter-accusations of what must be increasing levels of the sly use of performance-enhancing drugs. It passes belief that the human body has steadily improved in performance over the decades - evolution doesn't work like that. What has improved is the camouflage of dubious aids.

The Olympics are supposed to inspire young people to participate in sport. Certainly people of all ages identify with favourite young contestants - we watch with great pleasure the career of our Tom Daley. But at the same time as we hear of the millions being invested in providing temporary accommodation for international athletes we also hear that a local local leisure centre, complete with a pool where scores of children learn to swim, is in danger of closing. Presumably the children will have to be content with watching a handful of top stars doing their swimming for them. This seems to typify this celebrity-based approach to getting youngsters off the sofa.

We are told of the economic benefits of the expected surge of tourists to this country, but Tiresias wonders exactly how the figures are arrived at. Do they fully include the cost of the massive security operation that will be necessary? And what price do we place on the tensions created by the congregation of activists for various causes, not to mention those who, disguised as fans, are present in the hope of a really good punch-up.

It seems a pity that the Olympian Games did not confine themselves to the area of Much Wenlock.

So far the vocal opposition to the whole sorry enterprise seems to be confined to Ian Hislop, Janet Street-Porter, and myself - an unlikely trio, you may think. We can only hope that the cause will gather momentum. But then, Tiresias warned a deaf world to the dangers of credit run mad long before the current financial crises, and nothing was done. So - here we are. Don't blame me if there are tears before bed-time in 2012.

MORE ILLUMINATION

Here it is, then - what I have been doing while I have not been blogging for some time. Some improvement, technically. I think the calligraphy requires a good deal of practice, though.

Click to enlarge, if you want to criticise.

So the rotweiler of the vatican has been magically transformed into a dear little benign pope, sitting on his portable throne like a child on a bouncy castle, waving at the assembled gullible (with a noticeably high proportion of shipped-in children).

As to that nasty business of the pederastic priests, he has made ample atonement, has he not, by apologising for their regrettable behaviour? Well, only after the truth of the whole sorry story had at last been uncovered.

What he has signally failed to do, and clearly has no intention of doing, is to apologise for his own part in the frantic efforts to obfuscate the whole issue by shuffling proven pederasts to alternative posts, where although abominably guilty they could continue to function as priests; and by doing his utmost to prevent the facts becoming known.

It has been suggested that he should be prosecuted for obstructing the due process of the law. While it is obvious that in any society with a sense of moral standards he is manifestly guilty, the power of the papacy, though diminished from the good old days of the Inquisition, is probably still enough to ensure that any such charge could be conveniently lost in interminable legal flummery. Hardly worth the effort, merely to demonstrate the invisible worm in any religious bud.

UNCORKED

A particular nastiness has crept into the sybaritic world of wining and dining. I refer, of course, to the screw-top wine bottle. This seemed at first sight a trivial matter, but subsequent experience has shown that there's more to it than this. With the increasing use of this penny-pinching device are disappearing a whole range of minor traditional pleasures. We are assured that this glib new trend will ensure that our wine will never be corked.

So there is no need now for the happy ritual, is there? The display of the label. The careful cutting of the capsule with the wine waiter's knife. The swift realigning of the tool to expose the corkscrew. The skilled turn of the wrist as the screw is driven home. The flick which exposes the fulcrum on which the cork is withdrawn. And then - oh, happy moment! - the plop of the release. The assumption that one will want to check the state of the wine; a little poured into the bottom of the glass. A quick check of the nose, a swirl around one's tongue, and the word of acceptance. Only then can the pouring begin.

And to replace this? The bottle plonked down, a muscular twist of the wrist, and there you are, mate. What next? Crown corks, I shouldn't wonder. All this, of course, is seized upon by the colonials, for whom hygiene is all and mystery nothing. All these bottles of wine ruined because it is corked! After a long life-time of happy bibbing I can recall only two occasions on which the wine had in fact deteriorated: surely a small loss for the vintner to cover.

How to avoid this grossness? Stick to the great wines of France, Germany, and Italy - which is far the best advice, anyway - and search the upper shelves. Presumably the good wines will always be traditionally presented, but I have an uneasy feeling that that the ordinary drinker will find his choice gradually more and more restricted.

And how about spin-off, in this global age? The little cork-oak plantations of Portugal where a whole way of life is threatened by the drying-up of demand for the crop of these strange trees? Well - tough.

ASTONISHING COALITION!

So - we are all settling down to this dangerous new idea in British politics. What tense negotations brought it about! How loud were the forecasts of disaster! And what an unheard of thing it is!

Why? Even our present mediaeval system of elections brought about a pretty accurate reflection of the will of the electorate. A large proportion of the population is interested only in football. So only a little over half of the electors voted at all. No-one believes that any one party has solutions to all our problems. So voting was pretty evenly divided between Conservative and Labour, with a bit of a tilt to the Tories. A sizeable proportion of the population thought that neither of the main parties knew what was best. So there was a block of votes for the Lib Dems and other minorities.

The country as a whole operates only as a compromise between a great variety of interests. So what more natural than that we should have a government that goes some way at least to representing this kind of mixture? It would be ridiculous to have a government that presented a picture of Britain as a monolithic Tory stronghold, or as exclusively Labour. As it is, some of the dafter policies of the extreme wings of the parties have had to be dropped or modified, and a good thing too.

'But a coalition government won't work!' Then how about all the countries where it works very well, and people have long ago stopped getting all pink and excited about it?

Even the out-dated electoral system we have inherited has presented us with a more rational mix of political opinions in power. The presence of the Lib Dems will ensure that a new electoral system will approach even nearer to ideals of a just representation of a highly diverse population. All that then remains is to get rid of the yah-boo arrangement of seating imposed on the re-built House by Churchill after the war, and there is a real hope that debates may begin to sound like serious discussions of real problems, and less like witty point-scoring in the Oxford Union.

May coalition government have come to stay, is what Tiresias says.

EUROPEAN CONFORMITY

Europhobes are constantly trying to frighten us with the idea that closer contact with Europe will enmesh us in an ever-closing net of dull uniformity. How far that is from the truth can be easily established by a glance at any range of medications.

I, for example, like many of my age take six forms of medication daily, some many more. Some old people find it difficult to keep track of their dosage. You would think then that a simple standardisation of packaging, with clear instructions, would be of great advantage to all concerned, and easy to achieve. Not a bit of it.

Of my tablets and capsules, three come in packs of fourteen; but two come in packs of ten, and one in packs of seven. Consequently, over time, I begin to run out of some types of medication before others. One type, ordered on the prescription form in batches of eighty-four, is marketed only in packs of twenty, so I am constantly being cluttered with cut-off bits of pack containg twos or fours to make up the number. Of the packs of ten, one is arranged as two rows of four and a split row of two, the other consists of two rows of five each. Of the packs of fourteen, one displays two rows of seven with a calendar marking, another shows two rows of seven without a calendar, and one runs vertically, four down the left side, four up the right side, and two down the middle, like a country dance. Oh, and it displays a calendar, but in Spanish. All right as long as you remember Placido Domingo.

Perhaps the finest example of the pill-packers art is the pack of seven; not, as you might expect, a small pack, but in a form larger than any of the others, displaying ten huge pods, three of which are empty, and none of which contains anything larger than a standard capsule.

Add to this that most of these medications have at least two names - one, indeed, oscillates between three - and you have the perfect formula for confusion. It's a wonder that little old ladies aren't dropping like flies all over Europe. I exclude the possibility of securing co-operation from the Americans, who still measure screws in inches and always write the date backwards, but I do feel that sensible Europeans could collaborate in a more rational system of presenting medication.

TRADITIONAL BRITISH SPORTS

Ideas, as well as the language that expresses them, can become down-graded by usage. Take the idea of grooming - taking great care of a well-loved horse, or, if you are wealthy enough, employing a servant to do it for you, as in Stubbs's painting celebrating such a gentlemanly interest. And now it has become a furtive activity performed by the sexually frustrated under cover of the internet, to seduce young girls who think they understand the modern world, but are foolish enough to believe what they see on the screen. Often the consequences are saddening, or even tragic.

Or stalking. Why anyone should want to crawl about on a damp bleak moorland in order to observe, or photograph, much less kill, a stag is a puzzle in itself. But it was, even perhaps including the matter of slaughter, an undoubtedly gentlemanly occupation; engaged in by the heir to the throne, no less. Now it has come to mean hanging about on street corners with intent, or worse; with the intention of establishing a relationship which is doomed from the start.

These are aspects of a grey and sleazy world which hides behind techno-glitter to deceive itself into believing that it is engaged in the pursuit of happiness.

And yet - Morecambe & Wise sang of stalking avant la lettre - "You walk fast, I'll walk faster; I'll stick close, like piece of plaster; Get my kicks, following you around", and no-one thought them any the worse for it. But then, those were the days when two men could share a bed, and all you waited for was the ice-cream van gag, or talk of Ada Bailey. How naive we were.

GOYA'S HAT

What a remarkable man Goya was! His ability to show the obscene horrors of war, or the grotesque limits of the human face, or to depict the Spanish royal family as if they were a problem family who had just robbed a theatrical costumier's store - and get away with it - places him in the forefront of fascinating characters.

But for me one of the oddest aspects of this man lies in his own self-portrait. He wears a torero's jacket from a suit of lights, because that was the macho thing to do at the time, though he never appeared in the bull-ring. But the hat? No self-respecting bull-fighter would appear in such an odd thing. We are assured that it was a hat he wore for painting details in a poor light, and that it was fitted with candles to light up his work. But look at these candles - about 1 cm away from the crown of the hat. Surely if they had ever been lit the whole hat, and possibly Goya himself, would have gone up in smoke.

Or is this hat really just a project, like Leonardo's flying machines and battering rams, that never got past the design stage? He glowers at us under the brim, as if defying us to disbelieve him. But I for one am not convinced. None of the candles are lit, because there is plenty of light in his studio, which he has painted in for us. So why is he wearing the hat at all? Trendy showing-off, which always appears daft to succeeding generations.

FOREST GREEN

'The forests are ringing beneath the axe; thousands of millions of trees are perishing; the habitats of animals and birds are being laid waste; rivers are dwindling and drying up; marvellous landscapes are vanishing beyond recall..... and with every passing day the earth becomes uglier and poorer....

'Forests moderate the harshness of the climate. And in countries with a gentle climate human beings spend less of their strength on the struggle with nature; they become gentler in their turn.

'In places like that people are lithe and beautiful, with quick responses, and well-turned speech, and graceful movements. Their arts and sciences flourish, their philosophy is never sombre, they treat women with grace and honour.....'

There you have it, the latest inspiring ecological thinking, combining an abrasive shot of reality with a vision of the profound effects that rational action might bring to the lives of us all. And who is speaking? Anton Chekhov, through the mouths of characters in Uncle Vanya, writing in the nineteenth century.

And what has happened in the course of over one hundred years? Nothing but more of the same, accelerated by slicker technology.

At long last there seems to be an awareness that a few tentative steps towards arresting the slide to disaster might just save something from the ruins. But it's only because those able to take action are by now thoroughly frightened by the alternative scenario that this is occurring. And will the Chinese abate their stampede towards more and more coal-fired power stations? Will the Americans ever pause to consider the consequences of their neurotic air-conditioning and their ridiculous over-heating of buildings? And will.......?

SLOW JUSTICE


Why does legislation which clearly rights injustice, or introduces obvious improvements, or treats the individual with understanding, or in any other way must clearly be of advantage, take such an interminable time to reach the statute books?

The farcically classic case is the decimalisation of British coinage. The first move towards this obvious reform came in 1849, with the introduction of the florin, value one tenth of a pound. Thereafter bill, proposal, and agitation came and went: but nothing happened for one hundred and twenty years, until a gigantic struggle managed to bludgeon through a stupid House the Decimal Currency Act of 1969.

So with the Married Women's Property Act. Previous to this a married woman lost all rights to her property, which passed automatically to her husband, and many husbands are on record of exploiting this whip hand without mercy. The scandalous Norton case brought it to public attention, but it was a further fifty years before this gross injustice was set right.

A widower was forbidden to marry the sister of his dead wife, even though she was frequently the obvious person to care for him, so they had to choose between giving up this opportunity or Living in Sin. It took another fifty years of agitation before anything was done to remove this nasty little prohibition - and why? You've guessed it - it was written into the Book of Common Prayer; religious, and therefore infallible.

The Wolfenden Report proposed sensible reforms to the laws on homosexuality, which had long been a gross invasion of human rights. Oscar Wilde's was only the most prominent among many thousands of lives destroyed in one way or another by this bigotry. Yet once it had been published it took ten years of arduous campaigning to get this level-headed approach on to the statute books.

And today? Many lives end in torture, degradation, and misery, because those suffering are not allowed to choose to end them peacefully. Sooner or later this stubborn denial of the individual's right to control his own life will no longer be enforceable, and men will wonder that we have put up with it so long. But meanwhile the prolonged struggle goes on, wresting a little relief here, a slight softening of revenge there. In the House of Lords noble gentlemen quote statistics showing the degrading effect of reform on societies where it exists - all totally inaccurate and refutable, and bishops maunder on about the sacredness of human life. Quietly the sensible and humane mine away in the dark tunnel. Eventually they will blow the whole conspiracy of silence to the sky.

But I shall not live to see it. I can only hope, like all of us, that my end will not be too painful or degrading.

IN ENGLISH - WITH SUB-TITLES IN ENGLISH?

The last night of the Proms. A time when there are likely to be a number of young minds making their first acquaintance with splendid music. So, the organisers give us an excerpt from 'Dido and Aeneas', beautifully sung by Sarah Connolly. The voice reaches a passionate phrase. But what is she singing about? If the young listen carefully they will hear her enunciate - 'ghu-MAH-ma-mah, ghu-MAH-ma-mah!' Old hands lucky enough to know where we are in the music will know that this is where Dido cries so piercingly 'Remember me! Remember me!' But the vowels and consonants are not easy to sing - so Connolly does not sing them. Baffling to the newcomer.

She is not alone in this. Joan Sutherland used to sing whole operatic roles in a handy language all her own. This seems to me to show a contempt for language; it implies that musical considerations can trample words underfoot.

Tate's libretto is feeble stuff, and at times risible, but it is the framework on which the whole work hangs. If we are not told why Dido cries out so piteously what is the point?

WHY DO I NOT LIKE THE PRE-RAPHAELITES?

The Pre-Raphaelites sought to distance themselves from the general run of nineteenth-century English art. This immediately recommends them to my imagination - a fresh start, a new angle. They will not imitate the imitators of Raphael, with their conventional triangular rules for composition, or the smooth studio light that falls evenly over all subjects. They will look at the real world, and subject it to an intense vision which will distill its essence. They will study and practice the rendering of colours and surfaces with a skill that verges on trompe l'oeil.

Living as I do in a world of art which seems to place great importance on the scratchy cartoon style I ought to find myself very receptive of PRB paintings. Yet this is not so. My immediate reaction to most of their works is one of indifference, and frequently of repulsion. I ask myself why this is so.

Like most questions in the field of the arts this does not permit of a glib answer. Take Holman Hunt's Hireling Shepherd. This ought to be a painting I find approachable. It appears to consider the nineteenth-century marshmallow approach to the rustic world, and give it a good sharp twist. This swain and maiden are possessed of earthy characteristics; their skin is rough and sweaty; whatever they are up to it is not the study of lepidoptera; they sprawl on gritty ground (albeit with an unusually fine display of native British flora). The sheep untended go wandering in a way which will take a deal of sorting out later. And behind all this, and in happy contrast to it, the calm of the countryside as seen at a safe distance charms the sentimental eye. The technical skill in the rendering of shape and texture is exquisite.

And yet I find it repellent. The fact that it is obviously intended mistily to suggest ideas of sacrificial lambs and good shepherds doesn't help - I dislike being got at. (And anyway - 'the good shepherd careth for his sheep.' But why? So that they will make a good price when they come to be slaughtered - that's why. But I wander.)

But basically I think my revulsion is due to the fundamental dishonesty of the resolution of vision. Hunt has certainly observed with precision and understanding every blade of grass, every strand of a sheep's wool, and he has rendered them with microsopic clarity. But we do not see the world like this. At any moment our mind is concentrated on a minute area of our field of vision. At the same time we are aware of surrounding concentric circles of visual images of decreasing precision, and we we constantly rapidly and unconsciously shift our concentration to other points in this vaguer penumbra. But Hunt shouts at us that we must be aware of the leaf on the shrub, the wrinkle in the stocking, the crease in the apron, the back-lighting on the lambswool, and....and....and...., all at the same time and with the same intensity. It is a hard sell, and the mind backs away. Or mine does, anyway.

SCOTLAND THE BRAVE

The al-Megrahi affair has shown up a number of individuals and institutions in characteristic attitudes.

The release of al-Magrahi on compassionate grounds presents a picture of a Scottish government acting boldly on its own convictions. (It is only a pity that some Scots political parties have seen fit to muddy the waters for what they see as political advantage.)

The attempted bullying by the FBI is a gross interference in another nation's affairs - a not uncommon attitude in that quarter. Are American neo-cons really so naive that they think that terrorists around the world are thinking, 'I'll get involved in a terrorist act; then if I can contract a terminal disease I shall have got away with it'?

The anguish felt by American parents who lost their children at Lockerbie is totally understandable. One is saddened, however, that it should so often take the form of the kind of rant extruded by the gun lobby: they seemed disappointed that they had been denied the pleasure of watching the accused dying behind bars.

The contrast with our own Dr. Jim Swire is marked. He too has suffered the death of a dearly loved child, yet he continues to maintain that the original conviction of al-Magrahi was unsound, and to campaign on his behalf.

Nothing can condone random acts of terrorism. Yet one can only notice a kind of horrible distorted justice in the arguments of Islamics who point to the shooting down of the Iran Airbus flight 655 in July 1998. The USS Vincennes was in breach of Iranian territorial waters, and failed to recognise a civilian aircraft on a scheduled flight. 290 pilgrims were killed. After attempts to deny the incident had been shown for the lies they were, the captain who gave the order to fire was awarded the Legion of Merit. The comment by Old Bush sums it up - 'I shan't apologise. I don't care what the facts are.' Fundamentalist religious beliefs are no excuse for wanton violence, on either side.

The stage-managed reception of al-Megrahi on his return to Libya was, to say the least, very unfortunate and ill-timed. But then Gadaffi has no taste.

An American actor, recently asked for his opinion on the al-Megrahi case, on a BBC chat show, replied, 'I sure want to see that guy dead!' The anchor-man, John Sargent, was visibly taken aback, as well he might have been. (Any intelligence that the interviewee might have possessed was easily masked by the fact that he was wearing the loon's head-dress - a baseball cap indoors.)

The American right presumably wastes little time watching performances of plays by a back-number Brit such as Shakespeare. Otherwise they might have pondered the fact that earthly power doth then show likest God's when mercy seasons justice.

COMPLIMENT / COMPLEMENT

The latest glossy illiteracy to drop through the letter-box -

'NEW! Now you can have a beautiful dinner-table, with napkins specially colour-coded to compliment your table-ware!'

One imagines the delightful conversation:

'May I compliment you on your latest colour scheme, Lady Denby-Ware?'

'Certainly not, Mr. Napkin. Get back under the table where you belong!'

GRUMPY OLD MEN

Why are you such a grumpy old man - always complaining about something?

I'm not grumpy by nature - in fact I am generally thought to be a rather jolly old codger, as you can see. And as I approach the end of things, for 'death, a necessary end, comes when it will come', I should like to think that my generation were leaving something worth while to the next.

But circumstances make it increasingly difficult. There can be no doubt that, looking back to my youth, I see a great many things that have deteriorated. Life in the streets is more violent - we only go out at night for a visit to the theatre, or a restaurant. Apart from that we are more than content to stay at home. There are compensations, of course. We have at our finger-tips a whole range of DVDs of great films and television. Music pours into the room with a startling clarity unknown a few years ago. But the world of strolling and chatting has faded.

In those days I was able to tour the country by cycle, on roads that were fairly quiet at the worst, and frequently, with a little map-reading, deserted. Cotton shirt and shorts, and panniers to carry a little kit; 3-speed Sturmey-Archer gears if one was lucky; and one was away. Nowadays they all seem to think that they are competing in the Olympics - hard hats with streamlining of no value whatever, tight lycra, t-shirts of distressingly discordant patterns, and above all, expressions of grim determination. When was the last time you saw a happy cyclist?

I won't multiply examples, but you will know what they are.

And taking a wider view doesn't help at all. There is no doubt at all now that we have ill-used the planet,and that it is in a shabby and run-down state. Those who come after us may be able to patch it up a bit, but most of what has gone is gone for good. Tribe quarrels with tribe, and generally seems to have no answer but blind rage and killing - especially when fuelled by the myths of the religions. The greatest power in the world seems to have no concept of constructive action, but launches its young men into campaign after campaign which in the nature of things it cannot hope to bring to any valid conclusion. Harry Patch said, 'In the end it comes down to talking, so why can't they do the talking first?' But nobody listens to us old fogeys.

Yes, I'm glad that I can make an appointment to see my GP whenever I want, instead of queuing up in a bleak waiting-room for the next turn. Yes, I am glad that the various conditions that are attendant on old age are comfortably controlled by better and better medication. Yes, I am reassured by the fact that when the weather turns bleak I can order our groceries on-line, and they will be delivered to our door - and in a great profusion unimaginable to me as a boy. And so on and so on.

But always there is this nagging sense that one world at least is coming to an end - youngsters kill each other on the streets for no reason, public facilities are mindlessly vandalised, popular music is a mass of violent noise, everyday speech as heard on radio and television is a mumbled jumble, and....and..... And what's new?

We have been converted to digital TV. Hooray! Our picture is now much brighter and sharper. But what is the greatest new feature that I am invited to wonder at? We are now able to receive no fewer than 70 channels! Of these about half a dozen sometimes show something worth watching. The remainder pour out a vast sewage of noise and clatter, of no imaginable value, ready to be lapped up by the rising generation.

Is it any wonder that I may occasionally give an impression of being grumpy? But saddened is what I really am. This is not the world I voted for in 1945.

I PROTEST!

What are these good people doing? Yes, that's right, sonny, they are protesting. Every Englishman's born right. But let's be quite clear - they are proTESTing. They are proTESTors. What they are engaged in is a PROtest, but that doesn't make them PROtesters. I proTEST that this is another nasty little distortion of the English language - imported, like as not, from Silicon Valley.

Along with that other increasingly popular mangling of decent speech - SUBscribers, who presumably SUBscribe to magazines or whatever. SubSCRIBERS, please. I suppose they don't pay a SUBscription - or, awful thought, do they? Anything goes.

The destruction of the English language seems to have developed a hideous momentum of its own, like a Greek tragedy. Take 'refrigerator'. A large mouthful for a common thing, so we contract it. Chambers lays it out quite clearly - contraction 'frig', pronounced, of course, 'frij'. But no, it must be spelt 'fridge'. I have waited years for the inevitable to happen, and the other day it did. A glossy brochure proclaimed the qualities of the latest - wait for it - 'refridgerator'. Another victory for the hordes of text-messagers.

You don't care? Many don't. I do.

ILLUMINATION AT LAST

So this is it, then - my excuse for the infrequency of posts lately; all my creative energies have been devoted to conquering this difficult task of illumination. The colouring is in gouache, which is a quite different technique from transparent watercolour. The gilding is something again, but I have made a post about this before.

I am quite pleased with this as a first effort, though the process of photography serves to disguise the fact that the gilding starts off pretty rough, but I was able to polish my technique as I went along.

Watch this space for more examples of this very retro art in due course.

RELIGIOUS THINKING

I have never touched on the subject of religion in this blog, mainly because the claims of the sects seem so meaningless and contradictory; but the sight of a Professor of Theology vapouring on TV recently on the subject of Darwinism has so enraged me that I feel I have to register a protest.

First to clear the ground. There are among many shades of thought two main types of thinking.

In logical thinking the process is to examine the phenomena, and to propound a hypothesis. The thinker then collects all the available data connected with the subject, and considers whether all or most of it supports the hypothesis. If this is so, then the hypothesis is accepted, at least for the time being, before it is supplanted by further information. A clear example of this kind of thinking is scientific study, though it is by no means confined to science. Its progress may be traced in the increased understanding of the shape of the universe provided by Copernicus, followed by Newton, followed by Einstein.

The other main type of thinking is religious. Here the process is to devise a theory. This may be the result of long hard thought, or it may just float into the mind - a process dignified as 'revelation'. Once the theory is felt to be acceptable, for whatever reason, a search is then made for all the data which may support it. Any contrary evidence is disregarded, or may be labelled as heresy, or may even be actively suppressed. The essential feature is that the conclusion must coincide with the original idea, and thinking proceeds backwards from this point. Ironically, a poet as deeply religious as T.S.Eliot summed it up perfectly - 'The end is where we start from.' The idea can then be reinforced by embalming it in dogma or holy writ. Men such as Galileo have been threatened, or tortured, or killed, for denying such embalmed chunks of prejudice. Darwin himself was inhibited for years from publishing the truth by the thought of the religious vilification he would have to undergo.

All this was brought to my mind by the antics of the theologian in seeking to explain that a belief in evolution was not incompatible with religion, since that although the irrefutable facts of evolution clearly show that much of biblical teaching is no more than fantasy, yet God had employed evolution as a tool in his creation of the world. This is to reduce the Bible to the level of a tale with coloured decorations.

How an apparently intelligent man could go about thus sticking plasters on a rapidly deflating balloon, when the increasingly obvious fact is that religiosity is merely a contrived, if fascinating, myth, and that the fundamental nature of the world about us, though terrifying in its complexity, is only to be understood by the gradual accumulation of carefully observed and collated fact, and not through a a cloud of vague and contradictory imagining, I find it difficult to understand.

But then, of course, he knew the answer was 'God' before he even began to consider the problem.