Away with the fairies.

That last post reminded me of a time in my life, as a young man, when I dabbled with religion. I was a latecomer, mentored by the local vicar right up to being fully confirmed, an adult yearner you could say.

My wife and I got to know the vicar quite well, and as our house was on his way to the church, he would often call for a sandwich and a cup of tea after work. I well remember one particular Sunday night, when as he was sat munching away, there was a knock at the door. It was a couple of policemen, enquiring about a local crime, so I invited them in for a cuppa as well. We all sat there, looking like a scene from Midsummer Murders, but I digress.

It didn’t last long however, this conversion. A growing despair at world suffering, the many hypocrisies of the Church and the need to constantly beg forgiveness from something that couldn't be seen or heard, eventually took its toll on my belief.

It left a hole, I must admit, and I sometimes envy those who have a belief system on which to hang their life, and ‘show them the way’,  but I’m now an ardent empiricist.  I can only believe information proven by observation or experimentation, and I’ve never observed or experienced anything to make me believe in any religious deity.

I came close once, in my early twenties. One very dark night, sat with a mate on a local beach discussing such things as you do, and with a few empty beer cans around us, we asked God for a sign to prove his existence. Lo and behold, there was a sudden flash of light out to sea in the night sky. We were dumbstruck at this manifestation, half expecting the next one to strike us dead for testing him. It was only after the second and third  recurrent flashes at regular intervals, that we realised it was the distant lighthouse of Flamborough head.

I'd like to live here.

The only other experience I have of anything approaching the supernatural, was when as a child, I saw a fairy, in the old sense of the term I must add. You may laugh, but it seemed very real at the time, and I can still remember every detail of the diminutive figure, sat in that blackcurrant bush.

Not a blackcurrant fairy, but near enough.

Of course, the figure had disappeared when I eventually persuaded my mother to come and have a look, but at least she could now justifiably say I was away with the fairies, which she often did.

Over the years I’ve reluctantly had to accept that it was a just figment of my childhood imagination, with the same disappointment that I discovered Father Christmas didn't exist. But you know what, more than five decades on from that day, I still look with expectation in every blackcurrant bush I see, just in case!

Jesus Christ! It sure was hot!

We went to see the latest stage performance of Jesus Christ Superstar last Sunday. The one with a spice girl in it, Mel B or is it C, I don’t know.

It must be nearly 40 years now since we last saw it on stage in London, as a young couple in beads, flares and patchouli oil, with not a care in the world. Mrs N and I had a couple of days there one hot summer when first married, and were totally entranced by all that was going on at that time. We returned home having spent every penny we had in the world.

So, would it live up to our expectations, after all we were there at the beginning.

Well, the music and singing was just as powerful as I remembered, with some brilliant guitar work from two young lads who were probably 20 years away from being born when it was first performed. The vibrancy and energy of the dance routines was just as good , and the special effects were ‘awesome’ as my grandkids would say.

I was a little disappointed with the modern day setting though, and  would have preferred it to have been in its original ‘biblical’, form. The background of last year’s city riots, wasn’t really a big enough political theme to portray an oppressed occupied nation, and Pontius Pilot as a judge just didn’t work, I think he was a bit more powerful a figure than that.

All in all, it was a great evening that whisked us back 40 years for a couple of hours, as we sang along to every tune.

Something happened that evening however, to reminded me of the need to live a good life if I wasn’t to end up in that burning inferno down below.

No, it wasn’t that I had some sort of  Damascene conversion during the concert, it was because the bloody heating on the bus was broken and couldn’t be turned off. We had to travel two and a half-hours, both there and back, set on gas mark 6, and emerged from the bus each time like basting turkeys. Talk about hot, if that’s a taste of what Hell's like, then I promise never to put another foot wrong dear lord.