Hot news:

“I have always been an Atheist and to see my life choices validated on a piece of toast is truly astounding,” said one guest at the Huddlesfield Arms Hotel.

It must be a sign…

Ooh yeah… wow.

World Science Festival 2009: Bobby McFerrin Demonstrates the Power of the Pentatonic Scale from World Science Festival on Vimeo.

Hat-tip to Errol.

Elsewhere on this thing called internet, I have today noticed a query from someone wishing to know “do they have July 4th in England?”.

The answer, of course, is No.

Since 1776, there has been no July 4th in England. Instead, we move directly from 3rd to 5th July (without passing go, without collecting £200). England is thus unique in the world in having a 30-day July.

There are varied and curious by-products of this calendrical anomaly. For starters, it goes some way to explaining the unpredictability of the English summer: dropping a day is bound to have an impact on calculations of mean monthly temperature, rainfall etc. More significantly, the accumulation of skipped days over the last 233 years has nudged England slightly ahead of the rest of the world: here we are now on 22 February 2010.

I hope that clears things up.

A face from the Old Middle East
in the lid of a breakfast-time feast?
Is he saying, I ponder,
to this family in Rhondda:
“Beware of the Pharisees’ yeast”?

<pout>

So the boffins have been using computer simulations to estimate the chances of intelligent life arising on some of the 330 exoplanets so far discovered.

While researchers often come up with overall estimates of the likelihood of intelligent life in the universe, it is a process fraught with guesswork; recent guesses put the number anywhere between a million and less than one.

“It’s a process of quantifying our ignorance,” said Duncan Forgan, the University of Edinburgh researcher who carried out the work.

Less than one form of intelligent life in the universe? Quantifying our ignorance? Well, I had my suspicions…

“Go Jade, we have made our decision:
save Royaume-Uni from derision!”
But despite all those votes,
can a song with six notes
really go on to win Eurovision?

“The manner in which Jesus died
was brutal, it can’t be denied.
To Gentiles it’s foolish -
to Sussex folk, ghoulish.
So… let’s not preach Christ crucified.”

Actually, this news needs a bit more comment. I mean, I can understand – sort of – the nervousness of the church concerned that their sculpture of the crucified Christ might be just so stark that it puts people off, and their impulse that an empty cross might direct people more towards resurrection hope. Part of me is sympathetic to the concern not to “put people off” by having such a “scary” sculpture in the equivalent of the shop window.

But… well, part of me says no, if we are to recognise the depth of God’s love for us then we must allow it to confront us in the fulness of Good Friday’s agony.

The first time I visited Rome and the Vatican was as a teenager. I don’t remember much about the visit, but I do recall the one piece of artwork that struck me more deeply and immediately than any other, from the busts to the Sistine ceiling. It was a small and simple desktop crucifix – wrought iron I think, certainly not gold or silver – upon which the figure of Christ was seen not hanging serenely but jutting his chest forward in agony.

I’d go so far as to say that the image was formative for me. I was strongly reminded of it years later in ministerial training, when I encountered some very similar renditions in the set of images “The Christ We Share”.

An image of Jesus on the cross may well be unpleasant. It may well send shivers down the spine – indeed it surely should. But where will such an image testify more strongly to the truth it depicts: at a church, or in a museum?

He’s old, yet he’s young. Big hair too.
His vehicle is boxy and blue.
Change of actor again
in two thousand and ten -
but all I can say is: er, Who?

Interesting research reported on BBC News tonight:

According to [Durham University's] head of music Bennett Zon, O Come All Ye Faithful is actually a birth ode to Bonnie Prince Charlie…Prof Zon, said there was “far more” to the carol – also known as Adeste Fideles – than was originally thought.

He said: “Fideles is Faithful Catholic Jacobites. Bethlehem is a common Jacobite cipher for England, and Regem Angelorum is a well-known pun on Angelorum, angels and Anglorum, English.

“The meaning of the Christmas carol is clear: ‘Come and Behold Him, Born the King of Angels’ really means, ‘Come and Behold Him, Born the King of the English’ – Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

Well, dear reader, in the spirit of academic endeavour, shall we explore another seasonal ditty thusly? Yes, let’s.

Sleigh bells ring, are you listening,
In the lane, snow is glistening
A beautiful sight,
We’re happy tonight.
Walking in a winter wonderland.

Notice the subtle spin with which the writers present this midwinter scene. The grim reality of weather-related travel chaos (hence “walking”) is brushed aside. And there’s more than a hint of didacticism in the parenthetical “are you listening… we’re happy tonight”. Clearly this is a song aimed at telling us what to think. But who’s behind it, and where is it heading?

Gone away is the bluebird,
Here to stay is a new bird

Here the writers declare their hand. The blue is gone, the new is here. It’s Britain, 1st May 1997. Election Day. The Conservative party, with blue as its colour, is ousted from government. New Labour. New bird.

He sings a love song,
As we go along,
Walking in a winter wonderland.

And now the depiction of idyllic winter scenes begins to make sense. The last time Labour had been in power, the country endured the notorious Winter of Discontent – wage disputes in the private and public sectors, power cuts, uncollected rubbish, restricted hospital admissions. But now, in a heroically audacious piece of PR, the writers attempt to excise the memory of that winter in favour of an altogether more palatable hibernal mythos with which New Labour can associate itself.

In the meadow we can build a snowman,
Then pretend that he is Parson Brown.

Now, this is clever. A reference to Tony Blair in the song would have been just too obvious – but in any case, in May 97 His Blairness didn’t really need bigging up. Gordon Brown, on the other hand, was never the most media-friendly of faces or voices. So the writers create a nice jovial cameo for the incoming Chancellor, nicknaming him the Parson as a nod to his child-of-the-manse background.

He’ll say: Are you married? We’ll say: No man,
But you can do the job when you’re in town.

An extraordinary piece of perspicacity here, looking ahead a full 7 years from the 1997 Sitz im Leben. For in 2004 the Civil Partnership Act in the UK made available to same-sex couples a legal standing equivalent to marriage. New Labour would, indeed, do the job while they were in town.

Later on, we’ll conspire,
As we dream by the fire
To face unafraid
The plans that we’ve made,
Walking in a winter wonderland.

The song finishes with a paean to the principles of media management. It’s your basic joined-up blue-sky thinking that sings from the same hymn sheet and knows a good day to bury bad news when it sees one.

So there we have it. Winter Wonderland is actually a song about the Labour victory in the 1997 UK general election.

Just don’t tell Perry Como.