‘It was not always thus. When the time came to consider the fate of men much more steeped in wickedness than Bin Laden – the Nazi leadership – the British government wanted them hanged within six hours of capture. President Truman demurred, citing the conclusion of Justice Robert Jackson that summary execution “would not sit easily on the American conscience or be remembered by our children with pride? The only course is to determine the innocence or guilt of the accused after a hearing as dispassionate as the times will permit and upon a record that will leave our reasons and motives clear”. He insisted upon judgment at Nuremberg, which has confounded Holocaust-deniers ever since.’

Do these people have cataracts? Really dark sunglasses? Or just no windows? At this time of year (that’ll be February, dear reader, if you’re visiting from some point in the future) I’ll grant that we don’t live in the lightest part of the world but the summer is a different matter. On 21st June twilight starts at 0345 and it doesn’t actually turn dark until almost 19 hours later.

I’ll also grant that there may be some overseas visitors whose visit to the UK may be spoilt when they wake up at sunrise only to discover that the local National Trust house isn’t due to open for another five hours or more but I suspect that all three such visitors could probably find something else to do while they’re waiting. Such as enjoying the views from Scafell Pike.

When I travel on my holidays I pay pretty much no attention at all to time. It’s an irrelevance. I wake up when I wake up. Eat three meals a day at times dictated by my whim and go to bed when I feel I’ve enjoyed plenty of being awake.

If these tourist bosses really want to do something useful why are they campaigning for only CET? Surely if we put our clocks five hours ahead we could abolish that ghastly experience of darkness almost completely.

Back from a fine visit to the Velodrome where we saw noone getting a huge splinter through their leg.

The Tweet illustrated demonstrates this quite nicely. It really got on my wick.

Firstly, there is the idea of voluntarily segregated buses. Now, in the interests of fairness I shall point out that I’ve no experience of any “communities of ultra-Orthodox Jews”. If it is indeed the case that these communities are entirely comprised of people who actually quite like separate buses then I should be fascinated to hear more. I suspect that’s not quite the case though. Peer pressure is quite a strong coercive force in society.

The article claims that the Israeli ruling “permits buses servicing communities of ultra-Orthodox Jews to separate men from women, though only if all the passengers agree [because] in ultra-Orthodox practice men are not allowed to touch any women except their own wives.” It also reports that “In the same ultra-Orthodox area two bus routes recently requested that women sit at the back. Women report being verbally abused or assaulted if they refused to move.” I suspect that “ultra-Orthodox” Judaism does not actually approve of touching women (which I would guess would be necessary in order to assault them) who refuse to move seats. As I understand it, the Torah says very little about mass transportation.

The use of violence makes it plain to me that this is another sad example of people abusing their professed religion simply to get their way. Maybe, if men find it so extremely hard to use a bus without touching a woman they could get off and walk. Here in Preston I never seem to be forced to touch women on buses.

Secondly, there is this idea of ‘proof’. “Proof that religion has no room for equality.” Proof is a powerful word. It trumps all other evidence. The (to put it mildly) quirky act of some “ultra-Orthodox” Jews (and, as far as I can tell, 90% of Jews are not ultra-Orthodox) proves no more about religion than the indivisibility of the number two proves that all even numbers are prime.

I suppose it would be easy here to quote Galatians 3:28 (so why not?)

There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.

And I could argue here that I’ve found some room for equality in religion. Yet one sentence from the Bible doesn’t prove that religions are strongholds of egalitarianism. It is easy to cite examples of how human beings take the names of their religions and of their God(s) in vain. It is easy to cite examples of conflicts “caused by religion”. In all cases I would probably disagree. The troubles in Northern Ireland, for example, were not caused by religion but by years of injustice perpetrated by people whose professed religion specifically condemns such injustice.

Religious organisations have allowed some dreadful things to happen. I suspect they will continue to. They are fallible. They are gatherings of people. And people fail. A lot. (Although, strangely, the sort of atheist who likes to condemn all religion never gets angry.)

I can see no way that anyone can square any form of persecution or subjugation with these words of Jesus:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart,
for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they will be called sons of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.
Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

Matthew 5:3-12

It may sound illiberal. It may sound intolerant. But I heartily believe that every act that fails these two tests (from Luke 10:27) is unchristian:

‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbour as yourself.’

In English conversation, there is always an undercurrent of humour. We can barely manage to say “hello” or comment about the weather without somehow contriving to make a bit of a joke out of it, and most English conversations will involve at least some degree of banter, teasing, irony, understatement, humorous self-deprecation, mockery or just silliness. Humour is our “default mode”, if you like; we do not have to switch it on deliberately, and we cannot switch it off. For the English, the rules of humour are the cultural equivalent of natural laws – we obey them automatically, rather in the way that we obey the law of gravity.

Can their possibly be a single English-person who doesn’t recognise that “Crap! Robin Hood airport is closed. You’ve got a week and a bit to get your shit together, otherwise I’m blowing the airport sky high!” was a joke?

Truly, I’d love to comment on the lunacy that the writer of the above tweet, Paul Chambers, has not only been convicted of menace and fined £3,600 but has today lost his appeal. Yet I’d love to post something deeply ironic or facetious about it. However, I can’t afford to pay such a fine (although the incredibly decent Mr Stephen Fry can and will.)

Time moves on. Friends moved to different parts of the country. The church became ever more introspective and exclusive.

“We need ladies to cook for us.”

“We need men to put chairs out.”

Women were never mentioned in the church. Only ladies.

In 1995, when we arrived, we were surprised to discover that the only baby-changing facilities were in the ladies’ toilets. Despite mentioning the issue repeatedly, that was still the case when Small was born. I made repeated forays into the ladies’ loos and, in 2006, by which point Small no longer needed such facilities, baby-changing facilities were made available elsewhere.

A request for somewhere to secure bicycles was met with the answer that such facilities would be part of the new building. Six months after the new building opened, there were still no cycle parking facilities.

The work of the church began to look more and more as though it sought simply to provide a social venue for nice middle-class women (and, in fairness, a very good Sunday School).

Both myself and my wife were struck by depression. Nobody in the church noticed.

We started going to church less and less. Nobody noticed. On my first visit to the church in three months the only conversation I had was with someone who wanted to tell me how annoyed she was that the church’s website (which I ran) didn’t work. Replying that I’d spent two days working on resolving the problem, I was met with a stony silence as though I was letting the church down.

We left. Nobody noticed. So we told them.

C.S. Lewis once said that “the church is the only organization that exists for the benefit of non-members.” He was wrong. The church has to exist for the benefit of both.

We’ve found a new church. We now look forward to jumping out of bed on Sunday mornings to go there. We have had more conversations with friendly people in a little over six weeks there than we had in our last two or three years at the other place.

This was not some strange way of having fun. Oh no. This was serious stuff. This was training. Such as élite athletes might be expected to do. But a little slower.

We had a schedule that included the words ‘hill training’, ‘rest day’ and ‘event’. Unfortunately, due to an error at the planning stage ‘rest day’ seemed to have filled almost every day since the end of March and ‘event’ was today.

And so it happened that we received an email from the good people at Lancaster CC reminding us that we should arrive at the Ashton Memorial at around 7 o’clock in the morning to sign on for Le Terrier, a sportive which is not only 78 miles long but also features a promised “no junk miles”.

Mrs Anorak had some sense and opted for the shorter 44 mile route. Her rigidly-adhered-to training plan of rest days, avoiding all big hills and gardening had prepared her better for this “puppy” route than the full version which I lovingly refer to as “the bitch”.

So the morning dawned and we realised that we really did have to haul our backsides out of bed. Fortunately, it was neither pouring down with sun nor with rain although a fine mist (referred to, surely for reasons of space, on motorway matrix signs as “fog”) seemed to cover the county.

Arriving at Williamson Park to sign on, we had a good dither about how many apples, bananas and layers of clothing to carry before starting the ride with a lovely descent to a small dip about 100 yards away before the beginning of the climb to Jubilee Tower.

The map suggests that the aforementioned architectural prominence offers scenic views and is but a short ride from Lancaster.

Cartographers lie. Kilogrammes of carbon fibre overtook me as I struggled climbed manfully upwards, allowing Mrs Anorak to set a more leisurely pace.

Descending from Jubilee Tower I had the choice either to have a blurred, spectacleless view of the road ahead or a blurred, windscreen wiperless view of the same. I opted for the latter, reckoning that I could wipe them with my gloves. Not such a bad plan, if only my gloves hadn’t already been used to wipe my breathing apparatus.

Sportive rides are entirely non-competitive. For this reason, the majority of riders blasted past me without so much as a “hello” or a twitched finger on their way to the first checkpoint at Marshaw from whence the puppy was to climb over the Trough of Bowland and the bitch was to whizz round to Scorton, Oakenclough, Chipping and Whitewell. This stretch was actually fairly fast.

And then I saw it. The route sign at Whitewell pointed skywards. (Several riders didn’t see and, I guess, found themselves accidentally on the shorter route.)

The ascent to Cow Ark is so quick as to be almost forgettable when attempted in reverse, as Mr and Mrs Anorak had indeed done only on Friday. From today’s perspective things were a little different. I engaged my granny ring and pedaled at something rather less than a snail’s pace as more kilogrammes of carbon fibre shot past me. One was almost certainly disqualified for asking after my health.

Shortly afterwards (in lateral distance terms) the road dropped. I don’t know quite how fast I descended but I know my Garmin was reporting a speed of 36mph as I passed a pair of surprised walkers near the top on the other side.

And then, more but slower climbing. The Garmin told me I had already climbed 1400 metres in 35 miles. Almost half of the distance was complete and slightly less than half of the ascent.

I began to hate descending, feeling these downward slopes were robbing me of the altitude I had worked so hard to acquire and knowing that I’d only have to labour more to regain those missing metres.

Plans to complete the whole of the bitch, which includes a challenging climb of Roeburndale, had already been shelved. The climb to Bowland Knotts was the location of the first forced dismount as my legs chose to go on strike.

By this point a CTC member wearing a Manche à la Méditerranée jersey and I were leapfrogging each other and having a friendly chat. Possibly he was allowed to do this as he, like me, had mudguards. He was a stronger climber, I overtook him on each descent.

The last of the puppy-riders were at the main feed station in a fine spot at the top of Lythe Fell. They had been passed by the entire field, possibly because of their mudguards, possibly because they were on a mission to buy and eat cake wherever they possibly could en route. They had already failed to reach one check point on time because of their conscientious devotion to this mission. With only thirty minutes to go before the next checkpoint shut, I decided to get a move on. They decided to assist in consuming cake.

I had decided to avoid the Roeburndale part of the long route, believing that the return leg would be made somehow easy by this choice. All I can say is that Roeburndale must be one heck of a climb.

A pinging in my back pocket informed me that Mrs Anorak had arrived back at the Ashton Memorial, comfortably ahead of schedule. An arrow on my Garmin let me know that I was 5 miles behind my own schedule. I refused to let my lack of concern show.

Le Terrier is a great ride, with happy, friendly people at the feed stations and checkpoints. It’s just a shame that so few of its participants appeared willing to reciprocate. I hope to be back next year. Who knows, by then Mrs Anorak might be ready to tackle the long route.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Gaythorne Ave,Preston,United Kingdom

I’ve just sent a letter to my esteemed local MP to encourage him to protect our photographs:

Today sees the second reading of the Digital Economy Bill. I have today become aware of the potentially very damaging consequences of clause 43 of thus bill which:

• removes the right of each individual creator and copyright owner to market their work to the clients they choose, for the uses they choose, at the price they have set
• In so doing it destroys any guarantee of exclusive use, and
• breaks the contractual ties between models, their agencies, property rights holders, photographers and clients, because
• images will be used in ways that rights holders would have forbidden, had they known beforehand
• says that images can be declared orphan after a “diligent search” for the owner without recognising the practical impossibility of such a search
• proposes that images should be licensed at “the market rate” while ignoring the impossibility of determining such a rate for any specific image
• proposes a scheme for managing orphan works that is not limited to orphan works

Perhaps more disturbingly clause 46 allows the Secretary of State to amend the Act by Statutory Instrument. This is a completely unnecessary step which could allow an unscrupulous future Secretary of State to make changes to the law without democratic accountability.

Please vote against this bill.

Mow Cop is quite a climb. I’ve had one previous attempt at it and got as far as the front door of the pub (bear in mind this comes after the best part of a mile of quite steep climbing) before finding I could no longer keep my front wheel on the ground.

Today I followed the sage advice of keeping as much energy as possible in reserve for the section by the pub. For me this meant using 30/25 almost all the way up and chatting to one of those who had chosen to walk as a convenient means of ensuring that I wasn’t working too hard.

Looking up, it became quite clear that there was a whopper of a wall to climb from the pub upwards. ‘Clear’ isn’t quite the right word. I realised that I was sweating so much from my temples that my glasses were unpleasantly damp so I needed to find some way of safely stowing them in a back pocket while still pedaling up the climb.

As the gradient went from painful to insane, I stood up on the bike in order to keep my weight forward, pedalled as fast as I possibly could (an entire 40rpm!) and uttered every single Anglo-Saxon word I could manage in order to pretend that my legs weren’t experiencing the most agonising pain that can be achieved without causing permanent damage. Smile for the camera….

Several turns of the pedals got me to a point at which the gradient eased off. Slightly. A couple of spectators urged me to dig deep (like I hadn’t already done that!) while I concentrated on the blessed relief that might come twenty yards very much up the road as the road turned left and levelled off.

I had forgotten that this left turn led to a fine Cheshire false flat of about 7%. Just enough time to stop swearing, to give myself a little cheer while pedaling past some of the defeated and to consider the final few meters of climb that come after the road turns right.

A woman who appeared to live at one of the houses near the top on the left was urging me up to the summit near which the gradient hit 14% again.

And then it was over. 15 minutes and 13 seconds for the 2km from level crossing to summit.

Later I was told that it had been “absolute carnage” up Mow Cop for those who had attempted it earlier in the day. I was fortunate to have had a clear run at the hill. Others hadn’t been so fortunate: most mortals can only attempt a climb such as that at their own pace. And if one’s own pace happens to be just a little faster than that of the rider in front then there will be issues. Lots of people had fallen off while trying to avoid those who had ground to a dead halt.

4 kilometres of delightful, sweeping descent followed which offered fine opportunities to feel smug and to spin the agony from the legs in preparation for the next climb (of a total of four) at Bridestones.

I have only two criticisms of the day: a bag drop at the start / finish line (Gresty Road) would have been appreciated and it would have been useful for someone to have made the magenta and black “Caution Ahead” signs slightly less subtle. I missed one, hurtled at 40 km/h across the A523 and realised that I’d been a little too busy looking at the level crossing on the far side of the junction.

It was a tremendous day. I shall certainly be back next year.