Prints of Thieves

As the adverts have now started appearing, I will shamelessly republish something I wrote earlier this year on Facebook.

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So, Ridley Scott and Russell Crowe meet up for lunch one day and Ridley says to Russell, 'We need another film... we're not talked about enough. You need to be a lonely hero, unloved by the authorities. Any ideas?'

'Er, Gandhi?' mumbles Russell.

'I think it's been done... by... someone. And there's no violence. We could make him violent, but that would ruin the point. His point, if you will.'

'The Antarctic explorer and unfortunate man of renown when it comes to suicidal quotes, Lawrence Oates?'

'Could do. But snow as an effect is flippin' expensive. I've run out of the money I got from... well, y'know. That film we did. The really good one. And also - there's only one good line in a film about Oates, and it comes at the end. And it's about death. And it's quite subtle. Not everyone will get it.'

'Ridley, gotta be honest, you should have been more financially prudent. You didn't invest in any kind of financial institution the world over, did you? That would have been stupid. Anyway, how about Robin Hood?'

'Hmm. You might be onto something there, because, personally, I don't think that Robin Hood has been done to death enough. In fact, I think we could flog the ol' horse even further, and with the money we'll get to make it because I'm Ridley Scott and you're Russell Crowe, we'll just have a bunch of cool fight scenes that completely wipe the floor with any other adaptation. Tell me, can you fire an arrow from a bow?'

'Er, do Gladiators do that?'

'No.'

'Then probably not.'

'You better learn. We need historical authenticity. And no-one wants a Robin Hood with a pea-shooter.'

Boycott

I like to think that this headline implies an angry Yorkshireman in whites and pads, wielding a cricket bat, storming into as many schools as possible in a day during tests for 11 year olds. Anyone else?

Today

Today has been my day off. I have enjoyed peace, quiet, wine and a hammock. But other than that, in a small social experiment, I texted some dear friends for suggestions for what I should do with my day. Here are some of the highlights:

• Learn to iceskate.
• Write a haiku about the gospel.
• Climb the Eiffel tower.
• Streak through church.
• Ban volcanoes.
• Make Dave a cup of tea.
• Build a fort out of chairs, cushions and sheets.
• Go to Trafalgar Square and shout at the lions 'Die, Aslan, die!'
  
• Make papier-mâché - the sender going to a lot of effort to have the correct accents, which deserves praise, I feel.

But the one that stuck with me, and thus, the one I have tried to do is...

Write a haiku about the gospel. Thank you, Scott. So, here goes:

son of God...
son of a carpenter
less deadwood, more God.

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That was anti-climactic. I should have done something more thrilling. Thank you all for your efforts, and your willingness to get involved. You brightened my day with every text that arrived. This may not be the last time you will be called upon!

Election - the chosen ones...

I'm feeling a friend cull on Facebook coming up. I also notice that recently, someone called an Election. (As Chris Addison said: 'Gordon Brown's gone to the country. Which is a stupid place to go. Doesn't he know there is an election on?). Anyway, as these two things have sort of merged, mainly in my conscience as opposed to anyone elses, I think one might be causal to the other.

No, I don't mean that deleting friends will sway me to vote for a particular party. That would be ridiculous.

The idea is to delete those 'friends' who, without justifiable reason, do not vote in the election. I think this a good idea, however, I'm biased, because I thought of it. So, the decision falls to you, dear readers. We shall have a little vote of our own, and exercise our right to democracy. The fate of the lazy, anarchistic and cynical depends on you.

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I am well aware that I'm still taking my own sweet time with the reader's requests. Sorry. They will be done when I have a moment to be whimsical and foolish.

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This website always brings me much joy, as a photographer. I hope it does you too.

Theology

I may embarrass her here, but in the midst of a conversation about all sorts of things with a wonderful friend of mine, we got onto God - as you do - and her words were just wonderful:

I think he doesn't like being complex. It makes him unreachable.

Read into it what you will, disagree if you must, but those simple words are quite profound.

Sacrilege

Someone denouncing Easter? Someone weeing on a symbolic momument? Someone defaming a saint?

No, the rules of Scrabble are changing.

Boo.

Unfinished

I am very aware of the desire, from some quarters, to finish the tale started on Friday. I'm actually loath to do this, as I don't think that a) I can do it justice, and b) everything can be wrapped up neatly. But I will endeavour to do so, for the sake of the reminder that... well, have a read.

--

He was bent double, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He stared into the black.

It was taking a long time to adjust.

Footsteps approached, and showed no indication of slowing. John turned his head in time to see the swarthy frame of Peter approaching, at speed. John stepped backwards, and Peter, as ever, rushed straight in.

"Where is he?!"

"I don't know, do I?"

John followed. There was a distinct smell of death in the air of the tomb.

"Didn't he say...?"

Peter was cut off with a look. John had felt this before. The hope stirring. The light returning. The opportunities endless...

But that had died. That had been nailed to a cross, stabbed with a spear, and buried in a tomb. A tomb, that if one closed their eyes, reeked of decay and hopelessness. But when the eyes were open, folded grave clothes and a distinct lack of Him could only mean one thing.

Hope.

John fought it. Every logical possibility ran through his mind. The Romans took him. The Jews took him. The disciples took him. Someone must have taken him. He can't be... alive.

John slowly turned, and watched, as the first light of day filtered into that dark space. He stepped outside, and the Spring air filled his lungs. Perhaps the hope could stir. Perhaps the light could return. Perhaps the opportunies were...

Perhaps it isn't finished, after all.

The Disappointing Jesus

"It is finished."

John stared, unblinking, at the figure hanging on the cross.

"Shit."

John's hands clenched into fists. His jaw tightened. He screwed up his eyes. He could feel the anger coming back.

Finished? Why the thunder is it finished? Is this it? As in, really it? It all comes to a head here? What the...

"John?"

John blinked. He looked down at the woman who had said his name. She took a step towards him, and collapsed into him, sobbing. John wrapped his arms around her, but continued to stare at the cross.

C'mon. Enough. This is where you do your magic, right? Look up, grin, flash a wink, and command those hordes of angels. Stop this being dead. Stop it.

But he kept on hanging there. Unrelenting. Unmoved. Undone.

How could he? How could he say all those things? Then go and die? What a useless Saviour. John looked away for the first time, to realise the woman was still sobbing. And what about her, he thought. What about all the promises? You lied. You told her that you were different. You told us... no, you told everyone you were different. And now, look at you. You're dying the death of a common criminal.

The woman pulled away. She took one last look at the bloodied cross, and slowly walked down the hill

He was angry. He was disappointed. He was let down. He was without a Saviour.

John turned away. It was finished.