I have had a quite amazing fortnight.  Let’s go back two weeks

11 November.  The Service of Remembrance at school is one of the big, if not the biggest, annual event.  Each year the chaps of Year 10 take the lead.  This is the fourth time I have attended one of them and this year really topped the lot.    We had not had time for a full rehearsal this year, serendipitously  (is that a word? It has a red squiggly line under it as I type) we have found this might be better.  The lads sung beautifully, they took the roof off and the acted with dignity the whole time.

12 November.  I was at Southwark Catholic Education HQ for a new chaplains’ day. We chaplains meet three times a year anyway.  This was the first time a day has been held for the newbies.  It was really nice to meet them, be infected by their energy and enthusiasm and offer them support.  The collegiality in our small band of chaplains is a thing of joy, we are like cousins.

13 November.  I won’t say too much yet, but I think we were not found wanting in the inspection.

14 November.  Prize night.  The night we award our lads for the efforts of the previous year.  It’s always a joy how the chaps take pride in receiving their awards, there’s never any incidents of ‘cool’ behaviour, just joy, support and pride in their joint achievements.

15 November.  I went to King College Hospital for an endoscopy.  That’s when you swallow a camera.  I was sedated for this.  You can have the endoscopy without sedation but my sister tells me she’d rather give birth again than have it done  without, as she did once, so I took her advice

The staff at Kings were polite, professional and everything people say the NHS isn’t.  And do you know what else I liked? They called me Mr Flavin, not Anthony, but then, I’m old fashioned like that.  My appointment was a 9.40, and I was being injected with the sedative by 9.50.  The next thing I knew it was 10.45 and I was being woken up by a lady who acted like my mum on a school day “Come on, I want you awake.  Don’t go back to sleep, Keep your eyes open”.  She then bought me a cup of tea and chucked me out, along with photos of my oesophagus.  So that’s something for the grandchildren to inherit.  I went home and slept for four hours.

16-17 November.  I am putting it down to the sedative but I was so unbelievably grumpy on Saturday and Sunday I didn’t recognise myself.  My wife did, which is rather telling.  I kept out of people’s way and concentrated on writing my homily.   The third Sunday of the month is “deacons’ preaching weekend”.

It was also Prisoners’ Sunday, which had a short focus in the homily, but I ended with a line from the second reading,  “go on quietly working and earning the food that they eat”.  But I asked them, in their heads, to define ‘food’.

18 November.  A Spiritual Life Committee meeting after school.  A new sixth former joined us today.  It’s heavenly to see staff, student, parents and governors coming together to nourish the spirituality in a school.  I think we are unique in this.

19 November. 27th anniversary of my mum’s death.  I was 26 and married when I was orphaned, so it doesn’t count calling me an orphan., and I wasn’t really ‘orphaned’ either.  I was bought up to stand on my own two feet.  I was left in good stead when my mum died (and I had eight older siblings) so I have always been grateful I was given the foundation that I have.

20 November.  Oh what a night, This one has been worked to since July and it’s my fault.  We have a staff choir at work and we join in the evenings of sacred music that happen in the school chapel.  Naming no names but someone (me) said he’d like to learn The Cantique de Jean Racine for himself.  This is a bit of a feat when you don’t read music.  The next thing I know, our choir mistress says “ok, we’ll do the cantique on 20 November”.  She might as well have asked me to build a wall, I can’t do that either.  But we cracked on, learning independently, rehearsing together supporting each other.  A dress code of red and black was chosen for the night, I wore a tie, we all looked stunning and, ja no waat, we dun good.  I was buzzing when I got home.

21 November.  I finally got a day to catch up with all that stuff that you need to catch up with.  My filing got done and my emails tidied up.  Always a good feeling, I find.

22 November.  Started off in one school, as the boys that were doing assembly were very proud of what they had done.  Their assembly was based on the Gospel of Wednesday the ‘talents’ Gospel.  I’d quite taken a couple of the staff by surprise by allowing a football to be used in chapel assembly.  One lad showed is ball control as his talent, but that’s all he did, he didn’t head it to St Anthony or anything.  Three spoke in their home languages, simultaneously, as if the were having a conversation and three played music while one sung. The message was we are wrong not to use the talents we are given.

From there  I headed up to St George’s Cathedral for Canon John Redford’s funeral Mass.  I feel very unworthy being allowed to vest and share sanctuary space with the other clergy at such events, but I am allowed, and I must do it the best I can.  I managed to catch up with two priests I had not seen in quite a time, the three of us had been out of touch, but one had been keeping up to speed with my, shall we say, progress.  One of the chaps noted how clergy were all greeting each other, and glad to see each other ‘will it be like this when we get to heaven?’ he asked       “in my case ‘if’ I thought”.

The Mass was beautiful, ++Peter preached about a Canon Redford everyone there would have recognised, the humour, the big personality and the love of music.  And I was pleased to note ‘My Song Is Love Unknown’ was sung at Communion.  I have chosen the same hymn for the same time at my funeral.

The evening was special too, far too personal to write about but it was lovely.

When I got home I had a Twitter DM, pointing me to a sub-tweet from Fr Sock, responded to by another, casting aspersions on me for keeping my tweets private.  They can always ask to follow me if they’re that keen to know.  There was also a little thing about aspersions being cast on them for their anonymity.  I’ve not done that, I’ve cast aspersions for cowardly duplicity in abuse handed to my wife, so get a grip ladies, remember what you did, and have shown no remorse for.

All in all a busy two weeks, the busy are blessed.

I’ve given up. I shall no more be engaging with anyone on Twitter who’s behaviour offends me.
I shall no more mention sock puppets, or puppeteers, I shall no more blog about the people who
have stood by and watched others, myself included, talked about, laughed about, laughed at,
speculated about and refused to answer when rapprochements have been attempted.

I shall no more attempt to find out why someone with whom I have not engaged decides to
take a swipe at me to a sock puppet account.

I have to accept that none of them will ever accept, or apologise for the way my wife has been treated.

I am heartened that some, in fact a good few, have seen this unseemly behaviour and have spurred me
me on, but the fact that so many have treated my wife with the utter contempt with which they have
is something I can no longer fight. I had this conversation briefly with Catherine Lafferty, what immediately sprung into her mind was last Sunday’s second reading from 2 Timothy “I have fought the good fight to the end”. Oddly enough
my surrender first crossed my mind when this reading was read last Sunday. Bizarre that we thought the same.

Earlier this week I referred to my wife being disabused, on Twitter. Suddenly the word ‘disabuse’ was being bandied around here there and everywhere. It didn’t make me angry, it made me well up. These people had no idea of the hurt caused by the abuse my wife has had inflicted on her. In fact her abuse was clearly a source of amusement for them. It may sound a bit wet and a bit unlike me to admit, but I welled up. It wouldn’t be the first time, one night while she was sleeping, I held her in my arms, as ya do, and this whole debacle crossed my mind. I sobbed, I have no shame admitting, I sobbed that the epicentre of my earthly world could be subjected to the vileness that she had, and so many “Christians” (don’t make me laugh) treat my distress with distain.

I have fought, but, as I type this, it is All Saints Day, I have to consider, am I bothered by the things of Heaven or the things of Earth. Heaven please. I have no need for recognition or standing on earth, I do my job, the one for which I was called, I do my best to put myself last (I believe) I stand up for matters of social justice and I call people out if I think they are acting badly.

This is how the whole thing started, when a sock puppet blog, the author of which I used to be cordial with, started being
unnecessarily unpleasant about Damian Thompson. Now Damian and I are not exactly buddies, we crossed Twitter swords a few times, but the postings in this, supposedly, Catholic blog were rather disappointing too. I said so, and from there on in I was a sock puppet pariah, and I have had to see the same treatment meted out to my wife, and watch people with a great faith in their own worthiness join in.

All Saints day reminds me I want to get to heaven, I want to be a saint myself, not a known one, just a man who made it to full communion with God. If I am going to be able to do this I have to let go of the rage and upset these people have caused and be merciful, I have to remember Christ’s own words “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do”.
I was speaking today to another blogger who has also had his family abused on social media, we concurred that we ourselves are fair game when we put ourselves out there, but not our families, it’s just wrong.

I want to get to heaven, I need to be able to look Christ in the face and explain myself. If I let go, if I let them carry on pretending their behaviour is acceptable, they and their cohort who will look for excuses to dismiss what I am saying here, and allow them to turn it all back on me, which they will, I can be seen to be showing mercy, and I can explain myself to Christ.

Can they?

Wan aarr wera lud (read it again with a Yorkshire accent in your head) and you needed a new light bulb it was easy.  You went to the hardware shop and asked for a light bulb.  If the shop keeper couldn’t remember you buying one recently he might say ‘front room?’ in which case you’d want a 100 watt one, otherwise it was 40 watt, that’s what everywhere else got.

In order to buy a light bulb in the third millennium you need to do a course.  There are so many types now.  The last time I tried to buy one in a hardware shop, a good old fashioned one with a bloke in a brown coat and a bobble hat on the other side of the counter (four candles) it took 15 minutes, I kid you not.  But that’s quick compared to the hours I can be trying to buy one in a DIY superstore.  I’ve been quicker choosing new cars than light bulbs!

Another thing that makes me kick off is radio adverts that have to finish with someone turning the terms and conditions into supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

“a.p.r.ratevariable14paymentsof325andafinalpaymentof215youmustbe18oroverandaukresidenttermsnandconditionsapplyoffercloses14julyseeourwebsitefordetails”.  

Do they think anyone listens, do they? Really?  No, it’s just a daft EU directive that no advertising agency has found a creative use for yet.  That sounds as if I am knocking advertising agencies, I’m not, I can’t, I can’t run one any more than those people that knock Catholic schools but wouldn’t dream of making themselves available to them during the day to see what teachers actually have to cram into their working day.

Other than my wife being disabused on Twitter and one little coterie of real life people not having the backbone to tackle the abusers I’m muh more easy going than even I realised.  I always thought I could give Virginia from Outside Edge a run for her money but others see me much more genial and avuncular.  Dear Reader: I am so not.

There is something that I have spoken up about that has made me rather unpopular and got me a reputation for being rather prickly. I don’t mean it to, but in defending the working mother, for whom not working is not a viable option, I seem to have offended the stay at home mothers.

This first happened when my own children were at primary school and a stay at home mother was berating another mother for being late picking her son up from nursery.  She didn’t do it to her face, we all saw this happen as she came rushing in 10 minutes after the children were let out and we were all standing chatting, she did it behind her back, almost sock puppet style, and looked for people to agree with her.

One or two did nod sheep-like, I headed over to the mum who was late, but was cut off at the pass by another, with whom she was friendly.  Our complainant started to speak loudly about how mothers of young children should not work, others nodded. “What about those who have to work?” I asked “they shouldn’t HAVE to work” she replied.  “Lovely idea, but then there’s the real world” I said.  She looked at me with distain and walked away, just like all my teenage girlfriends after one date.

The next time I saw he she spoke about the matter, she was accepting that some have to work, but she felt too many did.  My view was that in the area we were in, the vast majority of mums would have to work, and there was a good handful of mums who were single parents, working their socks off and studying to better themselves who were utter heroines, and in my view much more of a heroine than anyone who could opt to be a housewife.

Big mistake!  This was circa 1994.  Call me old fashioned but the transformation of my mums job title into a pejorative term had passed me by.  I was now a sexist because I used the term ‘housewife’.  I apologised but our stay at home mum had trouble accepting it (hello!)

No one, but no one, has ever held up the nearing 60 stale pale male who jacks in his job with a comfortable pension and takes time to help older neighbours with their gardening and Sainsbury’s run as doing something marvellous.  Some how, while a worthy productive and necessary occupation, being a stay at home mum has been put up there with Violet Szabo and Marie Curie.  Perhaps this might be because there are now so few of them but this elevation is often done in such a way as to demean the oncology nurse who is the chief bread winner or the assistant in the chemist shop who is studying pharmacology when she’s fed, bathed and read to her children at night. Single dads get a pass card, their pedestal is erected before the first packed lunch is boxed.

p>More than ever, to choose to be a stay at home mum is an immense privilege, most couples have had, and do have, to compromise to make it work.  I have friends who have made such sacrifices, no one takes doing so lightly.  But they’ve been able to make that choice, many many of us don’t, and those that have to do it alone, can do without hearing that stay at home mums deserve medals.

Yesterday’s blog post made my point so beautifully I could not have orchestrated it better myself.

There were lots of comments In the wee small hours, shared among various people saying how bad I was with some of my parodies. Not one of them had the spine to decry the comments made about my wife or parish though. I suspect they don’t want the sock puppet master (for there is but one) to start picking on them. Not a single solitary one noted what I had said previously, if it’s said about me and mine it’s satire, if I say it, it’s a nasty little dig, and thats what I was accused of.

Apparently the puppet master ‘liking’ my blog must get up my nose. No, not at all, I’ve seen that tactic used before on social media, ‘like’ something and then have a meltdown about it.

I must try and remember who that was. Perhaps my reader from Ecuador, or the Methodist Hall.

Anyway, thank you folks, keep the hit rate up.

(also see this post https://tonyflavin.com/2013/12/17/a-bitter-irony/

and https://tonyflavin.com/2013/09/08/the-second-stage/

and https://tonyflavin.com/2013/10/20/all-unwrapped-and-wrapped-up/ )

I’ve unlocked my first two blog posts.  There is nothing I’ve written that’s untrue and nothing that hasn’t been screencapped.

I find it exceptionally interesting that only anonymous accounts have contributed to the blog since my last post was removed.  I know what I make of that, I wonder if you do too.

Yesterday someone left a comment on my blog.  I did not publish it.  The reason being that the contributor was anonymous.  There was a name, the same name as on a Twitter profile, but there is no real person named on it.  I choose not to engage with such Twitter profiles.  It’s been proven that some people use multiple profiles, they use these profiles to make it look as if others agree with them when there is a debate going on.

Sadly when a, to be frank, fake account is being used people tend to lose responsibility for what they post.   A myriad of nasty, vicious, ad hom comments fly off their Twitter pages, the fake accounts have been seen to get into cahoots with each other and subject individuals to a catalogue of unpleasantness.

I’ve been there myself, and it’s gone beyond Twitter.  I have been subjected to blog posts attempting to ridicule me, but not only me, also my wife, my parish and my diocese. While these have all been deleted I am yet to receive an apology.  There have also been parody Twitter profiles of me and my wife.  One of me had an utterly obscene name and another, of my wife, depicted her as a pig.  Hence I think anyone will understand me not responding.  I always explain my motive to the authors, if they are genuine, and have genuine reasons to be anonymous I honour that.  If they tell me who they are, I go with it entirely.  There are pseudonymous accounts I do engage with but I know who they are and there is never an issue with unkindness from them.

I have been unkind on Twitter, dreadful in fact.  In this matter I had been less than attentive  to my clerical state.  But to all those I have offended, I have apologised.  There have been those I have argued with, and to those people I have offered an olive branch.  Would I have felt inclined to accept responsibility for the upset I caused if people didn’t know who I was?  Probably.  Would I have apologised or just vanished?  I have to admit, most likely the latter.  But I did not, I did what decency dictates.

If anyone wants to contribute to my small, amateur, insignificant, silly little blog, they can do, but in their own name, not a micky-mouse cowardly fake one.

Well, it would seem that some need a lie down!  Stock up on smelling salts and be primed with damp tea towels with which to fan the fainters.  There’s a rumour of epic proportions emanating from the Vatican that’s got ‘David Seltzer plotline’ written all over it.  It’s believed Archbishop Piero Marini may be the next Prefect of the Congregation of Divine Worship!

The ins and outs of this do not bother me. I don’t think it’s my place to have an opinion on what The Vatican chooses to do.  I believe my place is to have faith in the Holy Spirit and to work with what he sends us.

So I have to confess to being more than a little unsettled seeing priests blogging at the weekend saying what a bad move this could be.  Bad for whom, them, their congregations, the faithful?

Let’s cut this back to basics, if your big brother or sister encouraged you to question your parents would that be right?  If one of your class mates tries to get the class to doubt a teacher, who would be a fault?  If your colleague blogged in an unfavourable light about one of the bosses proposals, or even a staffing change and the blog turned rather subjective, our instinct tells us that this is wrong, just wrong.   So why do priests who are meant to be leading their congregations justify having a moan about Rome?  We know Pope Francis has caused disquiet to some of our brothers and sisters in Christ, but is that not a good thing?  Did they not help the faithful who were uncomfortable about Cardinal Ratzinger’s election understand that this was the will of the Holy Spirit?  Or did they just swan around with a smug face on?

I’ve also seen priestly blogs with posts along the lines of “I miss Pope Benedict” and “Francis is not Benedict, sadly” I think as a parishioner, I would want affirmation about the current pope, harping back to the previous one could look disloyal.

Rumours, are just that, they are not proven fact, they are speculation.  Take for example the recent rumour that Tony Castle of the A Call To Action executive being caught saying Mass and his bishop being in accord with it.  I don’t suppose any of the rumour mongers thought to speak to the gentleman and ask him if it was true, or speak to the bishop’s office directly on the matter.  If they had they’d have found it was all utter nonsense, perhaps it was too good a chance for a pop to miss.

Let me speak directly to the priests: Rumours are gossip Father, it has no place in the clerical remit.  If clergy do it, we can hardly be surprised when others engage in rumours, and when those rumours prove to be false, how does the Church look?

The Gospel this Sunday tells us about Lazarus who’s need for help went unheard by the rich man.  After they had died the rich man found himself in the fire of Hell while Lazarus was comforted by Abraham.  Only when it was too late did the rich man repent.

Looking after our neighbour is what the Gospel calls us to do.  It frequently begs the question ‘who is my neighbour?’ And we all know the answer to that one.  If anyone is in need, we help them.

Cafod (The Catholic Agency for Overseas Development) looks after Lazarus on our behalf.  And it’s no mean feat either.  Their work is endorsed by all the Bishops of England and Wales, just about every parish in the country has a Cafod coordinator who keeps the line of communication open so the man on the Clapham omnibus knows what is going on and where help is needed.

But Cafod have been called to account, and rightly so.  There have been things in their practice that have caused concern.  Concerns that we are entitled to have answered.   The most pressing problem recently was their involvement in the ‘If’ campaign.  ‘If’, recognising that there is enough food in the world for everyone, presses that this should happen, no one should go hungry.  There are several charities involved in the campaign, some of the charities are not in accord with Church teaching. Contraception and abortion services are part of their agenda.  This can make a catholic uneasy to say the least.

But what if Cafod had not got involved?  How much more good did Cafod do?  Cafod asked the question ‘why is this not happening, why is the food not being shared?’  I’d prefer they did so rather than stand outside saying ‘some pro aborts are asking the question…… We won’t because they support abortion’.  There would have been a much greater outcry at this stance than the path taken.  It has been said that those looking for more information on ‘If’ could be confused if they looked at the website and some of the partners were pro population control charities.  Realistically I feel anyone with the brains to look them up will have the brains to know where we as Church stand on this matter.  And if they don’t, the guidance is there.  If our neighbour needs help in this matter, we help them with clear explanations.

Julian Filochoski was a director of Cafod.  He resigned from the post 10 years ago.  He has, for over 30 years been in a relationship with another man.  This alone was enough to have some people pointing the finger at Cafod.  Comments that are, to be quite frank, cheap about Filchowski’s salary at the time were made, but as we’ve seen, Cafod comes out very well in how much they pay their directors.  We can be greatful to Julian for doing the job so cheaply!  The fact there was a gay man at the top was also sited while discussions were happening about Cafod’s condom policy.  I found no middle ground on this, there was either stunned shock that people could say such things or smug finger pointing.  You can guess where I stood I think.  But this was ten years ago, and it still gets cited.  There’s never a mention as to how well Chris Bain is doing.

The whole condom issue is a minefield. I’d love to write about it but if I do there is a danger it could be misconstrued. We’ve seen it happen before, quite intentionally, so I think I should avoid any “confusion and upset” that might occur.

The latest Cafod kicking fest comes via one of their media team, Damien McBride, a former Labour spin doctor who has written his own book of revelations about his time in that job.  “are they taking his filthy money?” “why isn’t he giving the money to Cafod?” are among the (sorry) silly things I have seen written about this.

I can only seen this as another reason for Cafod to be seen as less than lily white. There are Catholics saying ‘we must stop supporting Cafod’ ‘give your money to other charities’.  And what happens if we do?  People will die.  People who we are called to save will die.  That’s the cold hard fact.

A priest of my formative years was once spoken to by a parishioner about of one of the women he was allowing to help at the parish youth club, “you know about her don’t you?” he was asked, and her lifestyle and past were presented to him as if he did not already know.  His reply was beautiful “Christ did not ask us to wash our hands before we did his work, in fact he spat on the ground and got his hand dirty. He calls us all, sinners and otherwise”.  But the parishioner pressed on with her concern.  Father then conceded “Ok, I’ll ask her not to come back, you’ll do the door at the youth club will you?”

What do you think her answer was?  Getting her hand mucky wasn’t in the plan.  I am just not able to go and work for Cafod, I don’t have the fibre, let alone the knowhow.  And while the bishops are happy for them to get on with their work, so must I be.i

Back in the 70s when Betty Williams and Mairead Corrigan were working for peace, I noticed that some English news readers had trouble pronouncing Mairead correctly, I mentioned this one evening at home only to have my mum, who was preoccupied with her knitting, launch at me; “How dare you say that, they do a lot of work those women and no one is paying them for it.” Confusion reigned. My sister repeated what I had said, mum was placated, but then my other sister’s boyfriend piped up, he was very curious to know “what on earth did you think he said?” Mum, bless her, admitted she had not really heard me at all.

Once for work I was sent to the bank to get paying in books. Dealing with a cashier who knew who I worked for I ignored his testy demeanour as I replied to “what do you want?” with “paying in books please”, and quite cheerily I did it too.

“Stay here while I go out the back get one” he said (where he thought I might go I will never know)

“Do you have two?” I replied

He launched at me! Everyone working in the bank came forward, I was totally bemused, it didn’t seem an unreasonable request, but hey! What did I know.

When someone asked him what the problem was he put on a whiney voice to quote me, so “Do you have two?” sounded like “do you have too?”

Neither of these misinterpretations were intentional but they serve to illustrate how easily we can be misinterpreted.

A few years back Bishop Conry tackled the issue of people popping into confession week in and week out, rattling off a list of sins, being absolved and popping off again. We’ve all heard of it, we might have done it. I recall a conversation when a chap told me he would have to remember to add something new in the confessional after his team were trounced at home. He relayed that it was very annoying as he always went to confession on home match days so he had only been “done” a couple of hours. But next week was an away match, he goes to confession on the way to pick up his dry cleaning he told us. I remember seeing a parallel.

Bishop Conry’s advice was very sound. Simply put he told us to think about what we were confessing rather than rattling off the same sins every week. Doing it rote is not the way with this sacrament, give it some thought, it’s not just dry cleaning for the soul before you go out in your best clothes on a Saturday night.(that’s me speaking)

When Bishop Conry said what he did, I did not come across one person who disagreed. But on Twitter I have found that some people think he was wrong, what has been heard is an emphasis on going to confession less often.

This thread was picked up and run with again when in another recent interview the bishop made the most heinous admission. When he was a child he……..I can hardly bear to write it…….made up sins in the confessional.

Now, I may live in a parallel universe or I may just only ever mix with rather strange people, but this is a conversation I have had with all of my many siblings (I’m the second youngest of nine boys and three girls), probably all of my Catholic friends, certainly all of my school friends, and a good handful of cousins and extended family members. It’s something we have all done.

I can tell you this, Father Kirby who was the priest I said this to can’t because 1- the seal of confession, 2- he’s dead. Bored with the usually “bless me father for I have sinned it is six weeks since my last confession. I have lied I have cheated I have teased my little brother and not washed my hands at tea time” I decided to spice it up a bit “I broke a window” I said. Fr K replied “No you didn’t Anthony, if you had, I would have known”, which was true.

Fr K always encouraged me with “is there anything else?” as a child I didn’t see this as encouragement, more a challenge, so maybe he’d get an “I swore in the playground” or “I broke Susan Mine’s pencil because she called me Anthony Flabbergast” which was the whole point of him asking, there was more for me to think about. But if there wasn’t something, I would sometimes make something up, other times I would simply say “er..no Father.”

Annoyingly for Bishop Conry this admittance comes hot on the heals of his facilitating A Call To Action in his diocese so his detractors will use it as a further stick with which to beat him. They’ve already given him a metaphorical kicking over the Blake Blog Debacle but this has just been grist to the mill to them.

Bishop Conry shared his words as spiritual support for the faithful of his diocese, they were meant to be edifying. The way he has been treated by people who disagree with him has not been Christian at all.

I hope they confess it.