CoE and Closed Season TV

It goes like this.  An Anglican priest (there are no 'priests' in the new testament) places a post on Twitter concerning the 'pride' march he was about to lead.  This as you know goes against basic biblical teaching, but does however refer to the 'Stonewall' influence running throughout the Church of England.  This heresy, based on a corruption of 'love,' is fooling many and will lead vast numbers far from the crucified Christ.

This 'priest' has now blocked me.

I, along with several others, posted a kind reply hoping someone would give the clergyman a complete bible for Christmas.  In the following days many have 'liked' my response.  This I say, is not unusual, many 'like' what I say, especially those far from me.  I was pleased to gather support from 'like minded' individuals, and hoped there was a rising in the Anglican communion against such mistakes.  

However, upon investigating the dozen or more who have liked the post I am abashed!  Only two appear to be English, both racist Brexiteers at that!  The rest are all far-right racist, US white supremacists, Jew haters, gun loving wide-eyed loons.  And they support me!

What we see here is the difference regarding God between the USA and the UK.  For many white Americans, the ones with US flags flying outside the house, God is white, the USA is Christian white, and all others do not belong, especially blacks and Hispanic.

In the UK there is indeed a clear rise amongst some right-wing Christians to make use of God in politics, the Brownshirts using God as white English, and all foreigners Muslim or ungodly.  This will never be a success in the UK outside of the remnant Brexiteers.

Do any of these people know God?  Are they 'Born again?'  Do they 'love their neighbour?'  Of course not.  God is used by them for a political purpose, one that wins success in parts of America, but fails in the UK.  

Jesus of course is at work in the UK.  He never stops working.  However, his love for all people, gays and 'trans' included, makes use of the words 'Come to me,' and 'repent.'  He does not allow us to continue living lives that hurt, I can tell you that!  He wishes each one to know him, to 'follow him,' and unless, as he says, we lay aside all our 'self,' and all that hinders, 'we can never be his disciples.'  He laid all aside, heaven itself, and human life for me, I, like all others must follow him.  We cannot wallow under control of 'Stonewall' or 'right-wing ideology' as both fail, and do not represent Jesus Christ.  We must abandon our ideas and 'follow him.'  This will not be easy for any of us, however, knowing God is worth the trouble. 

The Anglican church must repent soon, or it will perish.  

It is that sad, unwelcome time of year once again.  That period of time between the end of one football season and the beginning of the next one.  The league placings are all but decided, only one Scottish question remains, will Ross County or Partick Thistle grace the SPFL top tier next season?  The word 'grace' may be out of place here.  Sure there are a couple of cup finals in several places, an international game or two, but then what?  Almost the entire month of June will be TV football free! 
Is that legal I ask?  Nothing happens until mid July, 6 weeks away!  I may be seeing spiders by then.

In days of yore, when I was still pretending to learn at school, the season ended with the cup final, and then the Scotland v England game.  Usually this was complete by the 1st of May.  With little in the way of pre-season friendlies around then, one year the Heart of Midlothian pre-season comprised the 1st team playing the reserves!  This gap meant that for an adolescent with nothing to do there was almost three months without football.  The season would kick of in late July, ten or a dozen weeks away, and I was left moping for much of the time.  Being poor, I need to stress this poverty, we did not venture abroad for a holiday, a day or two in Fife living of relatives was all we could scrounge.  

I became hooked on the Heart of Midlothian long before I was allowed near the ground.  Playing football in the playground, in one of the 'pitches' around us, and reading my brother in laws book 'The Hearts,' by Albert Mackie, inscribed with all the signatures of the great Hearts side of the 50's, my copy only has Willie Bauld and Jimmy Wardaugh's signature, a book which inspired devotion to this team. 

Come Saturday, a 3 O'clock kick of awaited.  I became used to using the bus that went the long way round, this being quicker than those which required a change here and there, and at least this would drop me at Tynecastle's door, the 'home of the Free.'   Sitting each Saturday at the top of Drum Brae, while the drivers were changed or just having a break was so frustrating.  I just wished to get there and here we were wasting precious time for nothing!  I feared greatly that I may be late, though I usually made it with an hour or so to spare.  Whether I was heading for the first team game or just the reserves, I always popped into the wee shop with the name 'Cockburn' above the door.  In fact this was Willie Bauld's shop!  He never spoke to me about football, he apparently regarded me as some sort of idiot, why not, everyone else did.  However, I always obtained a poke of Berwick Cockles.   

Not only did this increase the profits of the shop, these came in the Heart of Midlothian colours!  Famously made, once upon a time, in a wee shop in Berwick upon Tweed,  these are now owned by some conglomerate.  I visited the shop not long before it closed, a miserable old man, in a dark and almost empty shop, sold me these sweets that once meant so much to me.  I suppose it was the end of an era that caused his bitterness, a bitterness that showed.  At least he was not related, our grandfather being born there.  

Poke of sweets in wee white paper bag in pocket, I would pay 3/6d, (three shillings and six pence to you) to enter the enclosure.  It was only 1/6d for the ground, but I wished to be by the tunnel and occasionally speak to a player.  The sights and sounds from that position remain with me still.  The aroma of embrocation cream, rubbed on players legs to make them supple, has never left me.  The sight during a big crown of a puff of smoke from a cigarette away over the far side, the green of the grass expanse, the blue sky, usually cloudy in Edinburgh, and the aged men in their uniform of overcoat, jacket and tie, and good flat cap above.  At half time it was normal for those rich persons seated above in the main stand, the only stand indeed, to stand up and stretch for a while.  Many at that time would possess season tickets, something the majority did not use at that time, and also possess one for the Hibernian ground down in Leith at Easter Road.  This does not happen today.  Costs alone would prohibit this, and while a few might still do this they are a small number now.  

The football of course was better in the early 60s.  England had a £10 wage cap, so why would decent players go south?  Wages may have been better here, and noticing the gathered players before the game, all in sharp Italian suits and 'winklepicker' shoes, indicated they were not short of a bob or two even then.  It was not as wealthy as today, however, a good signing on fee once or twice and a player could afford to buy a wee newsagents or a share in a pub.  

The game over, the referee blamed, the Glasgow mafia once more at fault, we headed for the door.  Stumbling up the terracing, laid down way back in 1914 just as the war was raising its head, it did not cross my mind then that many people who I heard yell out that day would have served in that war.  The old men had seen two wars and a depression, many had suffered severe hardship, many had tales to tell from across the world.  I had a near empty bag of Berwick Cockles.

The programme, obtained from a wee man outside the ground, just how many 'wee men' keep wee football teams going around the world?  The programme costs 6d in those days, and I still have a handful of the more important ones on the shelf.  The majority collected I passed on after my mother died, to a kid playing for Hearts U12s at the time.  A couple of scrap books and a pile of programmes from many places were very welcomed by him.

Those days are like all of the past, simply memories now.  It is unlikely I will ever return to the ground, at the moment I am not fit enough, the money and fight for a ticket in these all seated days is beyond my effort, and a move to PPV would suit me down to the ground.  Sitting here shouting at the screen is far more desirable that spending time in the rain, sleet, cold, or any other typical Edinburgh Saturday.  I have seen enough of them, I have served my time.  Memories are good, but comfort is better.