A good Christian

A Good Christian.



David wore only three colours. Grey, black and white. He thought that this made him look a serious kind of person. He wanted people to realise this before he opened his mouth.
There was another reason for the absence of colour in his dress. He had red hair and had divined that there are few colours you can wear with red. The red hair waved sensitively over the back of a collar which, as often as not was upturned. He liked the idea that wearing neutral colours gave him a religious air (as if that imparted some kind of moral authority). In fact he had the appearance of a tramp, would have done so even in a suit. David had a soft spot for religion and all things religious. It was the spiritual bit he liked. Coincidentally, he lived only fifty yards from the Anglican Cathedral and had started attending the Evensong service that took place every Friday in the Saint's Chapel which lay deep in the bowels of the Cathedral.

One particular Friday, as the light fell away he made his way from his tiny flat down to the Saint's Chapel. He had an abrupt, waddling gait that made him look bird-like. This image was accentuated by his habit of swivelling his auburn-haired head to catch a sight or sound.

Evensong had just begun, so he trod quietly. Secretly though, he rather enjoyed the echo of his footfall from the great, cold, sandstone walls. He cast his sightline upwards to the ornamentation of a balcony that spanned the Chapel, then to the figures that graced it at intervals. The organ's needlepoint sounds stabbed at his heart and its throaty rumblings transposed his entire body. Solitary figures were peppered along the first few rows of pews,close to the Cathedral Choir who were standing, waxen figures shimmering in their own beatitude. All those tiny figures amongst the pews had that air of concentration that seems to emanate from the back of the head. David gazed at the altar before him as though at the pages of a gilt Bible, propped open.

The first hymn ended tremulously and David became aware of a man who had crept up humbly, quietly, sliding himself along the same pew to within touching-range. The man, of West Indian origin was dressed expensively in a series of browns, right down to a pair of tooled brogues.
He was carrying the red hymn book as if it were some kind of passport and nodded at David in a quaint manner, a parenthetic smile appearing on a face covered in age-spots. He must have been about fifty five, sixty. David had exchanged the nod, but not the smile. A tiny bond had been created. There was a grain of something shared.

The congregation stood up for the second hymn. David and the West Indian rose too, though more slowly. Both pondered the words of the hymn in their own way. David recalled the hymn from his Primary school days, laughed inwardly at the thought that he and his younger brother had twisted the words to that hymn during school assembly and thereafter every time it came around on the huge roll of hymns that instructed all eyes. They had sung 'his first avowed intent, to be a grim pill' after waiting in hysterical anticipation for the key phrase. Hymns, with their strange coda deserved to be scrambled. Often their words had lingered in his mind through morning classes.

The West Indian broke his train of thought with soft, vibrant tones.
'You want the hymn book?' David, surprised, didn't hear the words but understood the actions. Then came a question. 'Are you a student?'




' Kind of-yes.' David answered, hedging his reply, hoping to add intrigue, tossing the ball back to the man 'and what about yourself?'
'No...aaagh, you see I've jest come up from Bristol actually, you know to Liverpool for a few days. Actually a come lookin' fer a jab.'


The Canon was rattling through the reading, though his words were slowed down by the echo time in the chapel. The reading became a backdrop for the present thought and conversation going on in the third row of pews.

The West Indian began to unravel details about himself. David heard that his name was Mr.Marshall, that he intended to go back to Bristol in ten days time after a spell of what he called 'lookin'around', that he was looking for work as a coach driver. David saw that he must have been sacrificing 'lookin' around' to come here, wondered how he knew about Evensong.
He must be a spiritual man was his conclusion. Had there been some great tragedy in his life? Was he running away from someone, something? David fancied himself as a bit of a detective, was always confident of getting to the bottom of anomolous things.
'Do you have relatives here?' He made the question sound casual.
'Well I know a few people here and there, you know' Mr.Marshall had answered, his expression becoming momentarily peppery, cross. Then came an unexpected chuckle.

David laughed with him during the first few bars of Hymn 101, 'When I survey the wond'rous cross.' Both of them sang, lulled by the solemnity of the occasion. From time to time Mr.Marshall's gaze strayed, settling on a focal plane beyond the altar. He was troubled by something, David had decided.

The congregation took their seats again and David stared at the pew in front of him. Someone had scrawled, in tiny letters 'Canon Riley riles me.'
Canon Riley shuffled towards the lectern, taking tiny, nibbling steps, grabbed the rail that ran around it.

'I've lost count' he began 'of the number of times I've walked up and down Duke Street, down the same streets of this city'. His voice settled down as the preamble morphed into the main body of his address. David tutted and Mr.Marshall shot him a sidelong glance as if to admonish him, but a cheeky dimple had appeared upon the age-spotted face.
The man pursued his line of questioning.

'So you're a STUDENT.' David was annoyed.The assumption had fallen like a slur on his good character. To be a student was to resign oneself to nullity. The very word conjured up images of service tills, contents insurance, milkrounds, apathy and the Carlton Bar. Anyway, it was none of the man's business.

'Well, I'm doing English and Psychology.' This was meant to convey David's intelligence, his moral superiority. These subjects were beacons of a truth greater than the daily student round but Mr.Marshall registered only confusion. What good were English or Psychology to the world, thought he, and why should the education system pay for the philanderer who wished to study them?
'I see' was his reply.

Canon Riley had shuffled to the choirstall, taking his place beside the tenors. He pulled a stray white curl from under his dog-collar, resumed his place at the lectern after leading the Psalm. David noticed for the first time a strange, Medusa-like head worked into the floral




carving that made up the lectern-stand. Its eyes bulged menacingly. He remembered his mother leading him in her cotton-gloved hand along the pews of the Methodist church in Claughton with his brother when they were seven. He would gaze up the towering distance to the Minister, Mr Buchanan, who he resented. He had hated even the lectern itself, the false prop of authority it afforded. He had loathed Mr Buchanan's ring-bedecked, well-fed hands, had scented hypocrisy in them. He loathed, too the dramatic pauses between dry-as-dust bible readings, wanted them over with.

Canon Riley was drawing the evensong service to a close. David knew this because he was running a hand along the lectern-rail and the edges of the huge book of psalms. So he thought to better his acquaintance with the West Indian, who again asked him whether he wanted the hymn book. ' I don't use one, thanks anyway' was his reply.

Mr.Marshall was holding the hymn book open with one hand as though his heart wasn't really in the singing. He was mouthing occasional words. David's curiosity had been aroused by this fact. Both men resumed their seats like cowboys at a saloon bar. Then Mr.Marshall leaned over to David.

' I need a little help. I was wond'ring could you lend me a little. To help me pay my fare back to Bristol.'
David appeared to concentrate hard, drew in his breath then decided what to say.
'I've got a ten pound note. I could...'
'You could just slip it to me inside the hymn book' the West Indian continued in a lowered voice. 'That way, no-one will know.' A few curious glances had indeed been flashed by some of those around the two men, seeing that something unusual was going on.
'Well, yes, I could.' David was flushed with anger and surprise.

'I promise you'll get it back before I have to go back to Bristol. If you'll write down your address on this slip of paper, I can call round with it. If you're out, I can post it through your door, see.'
Despite his anger, David felt he had some kind of rapport with Mr.Marshall. Things would work out and anyway the act of giving had taken on a special significance in this House of God. So he pulled a tenner out of his back pocket. Improbably, the man handed him a bookie's slip and pen. David wrote his name and address on the slip, placed it inside the cover of the hymn book with the ten-pound note.

' I expect it back in seven days time' he told Mr.Marshall.'You 've got my address. I am at home every evening after six. I'll be at Evensong here next Friday. You can give it me back there if you'd rather.'

'Ahhh now 'that's a VERRY good ideah' the West Indian said with a special light in his eye, and a nod for emphasis. 'An' if you like I can put it in this verry hymn book same way's you give't it to me...'
Mr Marshall closed the hymn book with the tenner and David's address on the betting slip, held it close by his thigh, quietly rose, a tall and imposing figure, raised an age-spotted hand to David as a mark of respect and drifted towards the Western Transept which marked the exit for the Cathedral.





During the ensuing week, David thought about the incident and was rather looking forward to the second encounter with Mr.Marshall. He had hoped that the man would call round to his flat but the evenings came and went and the mystery filled out.

Friday evening came and a deepening, electric light was falling when David made his way to the cathedral for Evensong with a quickening pace, feeling cavernous, waiting for the sight of the tall man with the age-spotted face who would perhaps be standing by the Western Transept or in one of the pews. But Mr. Marshall was nowhere to be seen. A rising tide of annoyance was filling David's body but he held out for one last chance and took up his position in the same old pew. A woman further along, sitting roughly where Mr Marshall had been sitting the week before saw David staring rather intently at her, felt discomfited by the stare, wondered how she could divest herself of it.

'You want the hymn book' she said.

Thai airline soap 02.01.2008

Source: The Independent

Thai air hostesses are deservedly hot under the collar as a new soap opera depicts lust, violence, sexual jealousy on board an airline.

They call on the Culture Ministry for a ban or censorship of 'The Air Hostess War'

Cruising and frequent
flying in Thai air soap has
a bumpy take-off.

Thai mile-high club soap
is a flight of fancy, has
too much Bang and Cock.


Cabin-fevered crew
(apparently) in hot air
soap, flight of fancy.