– Of Spiders and Sex Education –

The sun crests the horizon, throwing its rays across the drops of dew lying heavy on Arthur Pod’s web. From his corner, with limbs tucked up around him, Arthur opens a few eyes blearily, then snaps them shut. The dew is dazzling and hurts his head.

He searches for the day. Saturday, please let it be Saturday. But last night comes back to him slowly. Last night was Sunday night. He had gone down The Black Widow for a few with James and Rich. From the animosity he feels towards the bright dew balls this morning, he surmises that ‘a few’ turned into a few more. He can recall some of the walk home with the boys – a couple of legs draped around each other’s shoulders, with those remaining employed at weaving them homewards.

And if last night was Sunday it means Arthur needed to get up right now because there is a class waiting to be taught. He draws a slow breath in, and opens all of his eyes at once.

Dragging himself along a strand of web to the nearest drop of dew, Arthur bends his head to it and drinks deeply. That’s better. He can do Mondays. It is more the thought of them. But there remains something else. Something more than just a Monday morning. Then the something else comes to him. Today he is teaching sex education.

–

The morning drop-off ritual is in full swing as Arthur reaches the school gates. He weaves through the mass that is blocking his path, skirting chatting parents, dodging spiderlings chasing each other. He hears his name called a few times but pretends not to.

‘Ooh Mr Pod! Do you have a second to talk about Jennifer’s behaviour?’

No he doesn’t. She wouldn’t like what he had to say anyway.

He reaches the hallway. Third door on the right – his classroom. Nearly there. Passing the classroom before his, Arthur glances in. His eyes meet those of Mrs Callum.

‘Arthur – Just the man I need. Which of these fonts looks better?’

Mrs Callum is sat at her desk, a stack of textbooks neatly in her ‘marked’ tray. She looks like she has been there for hours already. On her PowerPoint she flicks between two seemingly identical typefaces.

‘Morning Charlotte. Err the second one, definitely. Good weekend?’

‘It wasn’t bad thanks. You should have joined us at the Vine Leaf on Sunday you know. It was fun.’

‘I did want to, but I went down the Black Widow first, and you know…’ He trails off, suddenly conscious of his hair sticking up wildly where he slept on it. Which was pretty much all over. He tries to brush some down with a rear leg. It bristles back up.

‘Right I’d best just finish up prep for first period.’ He says. ‘The dreaded sex ed! Are you ready for it?’

‘Born ready.’ Mrs Callum winks, and returns to her fonts.

Arthur backs out the room, and enters the adjacent classroom. Sitting at his desk, he releases a breath that he doesn’t remember holding in. This is not going to be fun. Of course it was a very important lesson for all spiderlings to learn. Especially with such an absence of fathers. Studies across the country show that teen pregnancy rates dropped significantly after the class was introduced. But it was always awkward. No escaping that.

I should have a few minutes to prepare before I’m joined by the horde, he thinks.

In the playground, the morning bell begins its toll.

– –

‘Sir, why have the girls gone out with Mrs Callum?’

‘If you were paying attention last week Owen, you would know why. Today I get the joy of taking the first of your sex education classes. The girls are learning separately because they will have different issues to discuss.’

‘I don’t need sex education sir – I’m already a master. I could teach this!’

‘I am sure you could. But as the school have unfathomably failed to recruit your expertise, I will be taking the lead. Let’s get on with it shall we boys?’

Arthur rises from the chair at his desk and moves round to perch on the front of the desk, facing the class. He feels this gives him a certain approachability that might make this go a bit easier. We’re all in this together lads. He props a couple of his legs up on the desk to add to the casual demeanour. The angle is awkward. He takes his legs off again.

‘Now when it comes to sex, there are a lot of myths out there. And when you are growing up and finding your feet in the world it can be difficult to know fact from fabrication. Hopefully over the next few weeks we can dispel any misleading beliefs you have taken on board. You should come out of this with a good understanding of sex and procreation, and be well placed to make informed decision for yourselves. And Owen you will have to bear with us, seeing as you know it all already.

‘Whatever sir.’

‘Alright. Let’s begin by calling out some of the things you have heard about sex from your mates, or an older brother perhaps.’

Silence. Glances exchanged. A weighing of whether that which is thrown about so casually in the playground should be brought into the classroom, to a teacher.

‘Come on boys. The floor is open. Nothing is too stupid.’

‘Sir, I heard a girl only gets pregnant if she actually loves you. That’s how you know.’

‘Thanks for kicking us off Dean. We’ll cover that. Who else?’

‘I heard women can only have sex like 5 days a month. It’s closed off or something the other days.’

‘Mark told me you have to have sex for at least 20 minutes before the woman actually likes it’.

‘No I never.’

‘Is it true that when you have sex, the next day you can’t weave your web in a straight line? Coz your legs are knackered or something.’

Arthur smiles at that one. The boys are opening up. Good. He shifts his position slightly. Sitting on the front of the desk is working very well for him.

‘These are great, keep them coming. I say great – I am pleased to tell you that every one of these is what I would call a ‘sex myth’. Who’s next?’

‘My brother said that after you have sex, the woman eats you.’

The class erupts in laughter. Mark Apsley claps. Owen Burns mimics a post coital female. ‘Ooh thank you big boy… GET IN MY BELLY NOM NOM NOM!’

Arthur’s heart sinks. And so it begins.

The laughter settles and Owen regains his chair.

‘That does sound funny doesn’t it? Now…’ Arthur pauses, tries to pick the right words.

‘I want us to remain calm and sensible while I tell you something important about that last one. I was hoping to come to it a little later in the term, but let’s deal with it now.’

Around the room the smiles fade. He has the rare experience of all 17 boys in his class giving him their undivided attention. The collective force of their 136 eyes burns into him demanding truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help him God.

‘On some occasions… there is, ah, truth to the fact that following intercourse, the female spider will… consume the male.’

The eyes grow bigger. No one moves. Every tick of the class clock reaches Arthur with perfect clarity.

‘I understand you will need some time to process this information and that’s fine. The school has an excellent support system in place for any of you who feel particularly concerned. And yes boys. We certainly did pull the short straw on this one. I’m in the same boat here.’

Mark Apsley raised an arm. ‘So I get to have sex once. Then I die?’

‘No Mark, it is doesn’t happen in a lot of cases. You may live to have many…encounters. I know a lot of you are missing fathers, (and now you will understand why) but some of your Dads are still around and going strong aren’t they?’

A few heads nod. The majority stay unmoving.

‘It would be remiss of me not to explain that certain species have a higher rate of survival following the act than others. Some of you have an excellent chance of walking away unscathed. Others of you will need to take more care. The males of some species face up to a 60% chance of not…making it. Where are the redback twins? George, Ian – you need to be especially careful. I know it’s not what you want to hear, and life is hard enough with all the ginger jokes, but I would not be doing my duty without warning you.’

The twins exchange glances. Luke Weatherby reaches over and pats George on the back.

‘Now here’s the good news. There are things you can do to improve your chances. We don’t just have to sit there passively. While the jury is still out on whether some practices actually work, others have been proven and used for centuries. I have prepared a series of hand-outs…’

Arthur stands, and distributes the papers to the front row.

‘Pass these back please. On here you will find a number of recommendations, websites and books for further reading. There is a series of touches that can hypnotise your partner to take the hunger away for just long enough. Others swear by plucking the web a certain way before the act. Almost like a code.’

The boys receive the hand-outs reverently, as if handling ancient manuscripts.

‘Next week you have a session with Mrs Diovacci in the gym, where you will learn a number of dance routines that can be used to up your chances. And here’s an important one boys – the bigger you are, the greater your survival rate. Don’t let those gym passes go to waste. Look at page 4 for some basic lifts to help you bulk up. The greatest survival tip is, of course abstinence. But let’s be realistic – none of us would be here if that was adhered to universally. Failing to prepare is preparing to fail. I don’t need to stress the importance of putting in some serious revision time. Now, we are almost out of time. Are there any further questions?’

Mark Apsley raises a leg. ‘Sir, you are obviously still here. What’s your trick?’

‘I have been…careful Mark. I don’t go jumping into anything without thought. A tactic I thoroughly recommend to you all.’

Through the small square window in the classroom door Arthur spots Mrs Callum peering in.

‘Ok I can see the girls have already finished. It is more straightforward for them. Less questions I imagine. You can come in girls.’

The door opens and the girls enter. They walk with a new sense of purpose, a swagger in their step that is barely perceptible yet definitely there. As they take their seats around the class there is a lack of the usual hair pulling or flirtatious antagonism from the boys.

‘Welcome back girls.’ Arthur glances across to the door, where Mrs Callum still lingers. She meets his gaze and smiles. Then she turns and walks back to her class, leaving his door open. He watches the sway of her abdomen, her slim legs carrying her rhythmically down the corridor.

Kindle Edition: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Di-Jamiekan-Nyuu-Testiment-Testament-ebook/dp/B00B4I1PMO

Paperback: http://www.amazon.com/Jamaican-Diglot-New-Testament-Bible/dp/0564020648

I’m mildly concerned I may meet a similar fate, as I’ve had some similar run-ins with my own limbs in the night. Like many people, I sometimes wake up to find my arm is dead from having been slept on. I used to have a good chuckle to myself, flapping the hand around, squeezing the rubbery, lifeless fingers. It is a bit more worrying now though. The other night I turned over in my sleep, and my dead arm flung out of bed. It smashed the coins, pens, glass of water and phone on my bedside table onto the floor. It was only the noise that woke me up – my hand didn’t feel a thing.

One time I did feel it. I woke to find I was holding my arm straight up towards the ceiling, dead fingers curled into a fist.

That’s strange, I thought.

As I watched, my arm began to sway slightly in the air. My efforts to steady it caused it to bend at the elbow, and it fell rapidly towards my face. I made a desperate attempt to dodge out the way, failed, and punched myself in the face.

What awaits me next? I live in fear of my limbs for, when the blood deserts them, the night is theirs and they roam unchecked.

Remember me, dear reader.

Photo Credit: Camil Tulcan via Compfight cc

In preparation for the winter months, I put a few coats of preservative on the bench, and we bought a cover. I thought we were all set for the wind and rain.

Wrong.

When it rains, the water sits between our paving slabs, then evaporates up under the cover and lies on the bench, causing the wood to go black wherever it is allowed to rest. The cover blows around like crazy in the winds we’ve been having recently, sometimes managing to come half off. If I tilt the bench sideways against the house to allow water to drain, the wind makes it bang against the wall. I’m constantly wrestling with wet cover ties, wiping the wood down, moving the bench in storms, dropping it on my foot etc.

You get the idea. And I get angry with it. During one episode, as I clawed at the wet knotted cord to retie it tighter I could feel my annoyance growing. Then out of nowhere I felt a challenge:

You care more about your bench than you do about the dead and starving people in the Philippines.

It was November 2013, and I had seen plenty of reports on how Typhoon Haiyan had left thousand’s dead, and more without homes, possessions or food. I had read the reports and seen the footage without engaging with it emotionally, or getting angry, upset, or bothering to pray for them any more than a quick one liner for God to help. Yet here I was with gritted teeth, emotionally involved with my picnic bench, raging at the injustice of having to retie a knot in the drizzling rain.

It felt pretty bad to know I cared more for cheap pine furniture I got half price from Argos than for other humans.

Prepare well
The more I thought about my interactions with the bench, the more I learnt from it. I had taken the time to prepare the bench for bad weather, spending several nights applying preservative, letting it soak in, wiping it down, and repeating. Too often I can’t say the same for my preparation and preservation of my heart. I regularly head towards challenges with my confidence based on my man-made preparations or natural abilities, instead of putting in the time to equip myself through reading God’s word and letting the truth of his continued faithfulness soak in (2 Timothy 3:16 + 17).

Face the problem
When there are issues with my bench, I take the time to correct them. I put my shoes on and head outside to tackle them. I can’t always say the same for my relationship with my wife. Sometimes I am aware of a problem with how I spoke to her, or how I acted in a way that did not make her feel loved and supported. And too often I ignore the issue because saying sorry is uncomfortable, and maybe if I leave it for a while and just do some nice stuff to make up for it she will forget and forgive me. Or at best it is a quick promise to her to try and be better at something next time. It’s a ridiculous way to go about doing life with the most beautiful and fun girl I know, who I have been blessed with as a wife. Problems need addressing and overcoming. Otherwise you are left with the relational equivalent of my bench’s ugly black watermarks.

Let it hurt
Some things in life are worth feeling the pain of. Others aren’t. I would suggest that something is a bit amiss if I can walk past the homeless guy who sits 40 metres from my door, and feel nothing for him, yet grit my teeth and get worked up about a piece of furniture. Work out what is worth getting upset about. It will make a big difference.

Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong.

I had some time, so I expanded on what each instruction might involve. Most of them I need reminding of myself.

Be watchful

• Do not grow passive
• Be aware of potential pitfalls surrounding you
• Be aware of that which could become dangerous in the future
• Test things
• Fight lethargy
• Look for the opportunities God has put around you
• Look for chances that may open up in the future.
• Be sensitive to the Spirit’s guidance
• Guard your heart

Stand firm in the faith

• Do not be swayed by every claim that arises aiming to disprove your faith
• Tend your faith. Feed it with God’s word, and spend time with He who first grew it in you
• Question why you believe what you do
• Spend time with those whose faith and lifestyle you admire
• Spend time with people who don’t share your beliefs – living in a scared bubble only stunts your faith
• Discern between new Christian practices and fads that will pass, and genuine revelations and teaching that is in line with God’s word and will build you up.
• Worship God in your own time. Don’t leave it until Sunday morning – it will take you half the morning to shake off the rust of a week without worship.

Act like men, be strong

• Be decisive
• Serve others
• Protect the weak
• Acknowledge your fear. Then show courage in it.
• Fight for that which is good and right
• Encourage others
• Resist temptation
• Take responsibility
• Don’t use your physical superiority to get your own way
• Don’t think of yourself as a god. Don’t act like you are a god.
• Submit yourself to good authority
• Where you can, give honour and dignity to those who are without it
• Deliver on what you have promised
• Honour your wife/girlfriend

– With your actions

– With the words you speak to her and how you speak about her

– With your thoughts

– With your use of time

– With where you let your eyes go when you are not with her

• Honour women who are not your wife or girlfriend.

– Be clear about your intentions. Don’t lead people on.

– If you have to tell yourself it’s just harmless fun, it will probably hurt someone

– If you genuinely like a girl, tell her. Ask her out. She might say yes, she might say no, but she will respect you for asking.  Don’t drag out being in the friend zone because you’re afraid of getting turned down.

– Women in magazines and on TV and websites are humans and somebody’s daughter. Act accordingly.

It is the following verse that holds the key though, because if we stop here it’s just a list of outward rules. Verse 13 wraps it up for us:

Let all that you do be done in love.

 

Photo Credit: Amir Kuckovic via Compfight cc

Sainsbury’s basics

I brought some basics peanuts a few years back. As I ate them I read the packaging, which told me they were a ‘bit smaller, still nutty’. Before reading this I had been happy with the nuts, but as I gnawed at them, this description gnawed back at me. How much smaller than average were they? Is the girth of a nut proportional to the enjoyment factor? Was I making a rookie roasted-snack error? Maybe that’s what the check-out lady was smirking at. I’m generally content with my lot in life, but a man has to draw the line somewhere. My mind conjured up the greater crunch factor I could be enjoying if I’d paid 30p more. Since that day, I always take care to read the descriptions of basics packaging, to let me know what I’m missing out on.

What is replacing the cheese here? ‘Easy spreadability’ doesn’t account for any of the net weight of this product.

Are there scourers making any other promises? I must have missed out on these brash abrasives with their offers to provide 4G network coverage, make you the most popular man at parties and save on your tax returns.

This finely crafted couplet describing basics mushy peas would not look out of place in a verse by one of the Romantics.

Like fair Ophelia my sweet love layed her down
and ‘twixt the reeds she sank for evermore
more mushy, still lovely
in water, sugar and salt added

Sadly, the descriptions are not all as consistently beautiful. They swing between lowering expectations for some products, while boasting about others. If you buy basics food for your canine companions; “They will woof it down”.

Some items are considered sacred, and not to be commented on.

To give credit where it’s due, it is probably a wise move for Sainsbury’s head office punster to admit defeat here. The target audience for this product is likely not in the mood for puns or cheery descriptions that tell them what they are about to buy is not great, but will hopefully do the job; “Not as absorbent – still gets most of it!”

Basics packaging is like the person in your Lit seminar whose sentences began “Something the author might have in mind is, and I’m probably wrong here, I’m just thinking out loud, let me know if this is stupid…” Annoying. Give me the freakin’ pancakes, and if the fact that they are ‘a little smaller’ puts me off, I won’t buy them again. And if they really are ‘still great with syrup’ then good, I will enjoy them and it was pointless to point out the fact that they are smaller. Don’t be pre-empting my opinions, J.S. If I buy a basics product I don’t need it highlighted what I’m missing out on. I’m obviously good with getting second best, or I’d be reaching for the products packaged with a colour range more diverse than white and orange, and perhaps even with *gasp* photos.

I wonder if the range is one big reverse marketing ploy. By advertising their products as ‘a bit rubbish, but not that bad’ Sainsbury’s drive us to the next range up, increasing our spend…

A helpful note on basics snobbery: This is where you have your firmly embedded views on what products are acceptable to buy as basics, and what you want to go more upmarket for. When you spot someone with a basics product you would not dream of stooping to buy, curl your lip derisively, give their trolley a wide berth and primp your perm, if you have one. That’s right – my other car(d) is a Waitrose.

I had put off continuing this series because I felt like a bit of a hypocrite; writing articles on MMA sat at my bureau, cafetiere by my side, in the comfort of my home. It had been a year since I quit training to prepare for my wedding, and my memory of how it feels to get punched in the face had faded somewhat. Since being married, my combat experience has been limited; from the light sparring of ‘No, these cushion covers will look better than those’, to the more perilous ‘I think it is your turn to hoover, actually’.

So back I went to EliteCombatCentre MMA. Despite being mega unfit and somewhat rusty, it felt good to train again. We worked on using hands to set up leg kicks, and everyone limped home with a nice red left thigh. By the time I got home my thigh was a secondary concern, because one of my ribs was quite rudely making itself known. I tried to ignore it and went to bed. Next morning I couldn’t sit up and had to exit the bed by rolling over and doing a reverse worm shuffle. One of my ribs was cracked. I vaguely remember getting roundhouse kicked in the chest and it hurting enough to ask for 5 seconds to breathe; I think that was what did it.

Personal aside done. If someone is getting hurt, someone else is doing the hurting. A successful fighter is essentially someone skilled in the business of dealing out hurt, or at the least, discomfort.

Question: Is it ok for a Christian to be on the giving end of punches, kicks, chokes, slams, elbows, and knees?

I focus on the giving, as history attests we’re fairly good with receiving – ever since a crown of thorns was forced onto Jesus’ head, Christians have been eaten by lions, sawn in half inside logs, and used as human torches. The apostle Paul spouts off a list of his battle injuries that would put most UFC Hall of Famers to shame.

The (official) aim of an MMA fight is to best, not beat/demolish/pulverise your opponent. Accomplishing this, however, nearly always involves damaging their body, to a greater or lesser extent. In an earlier post I stated that the question of whether Christians can legitimately take part in MMA should not hinge on how safe the sport is. However, the Bible teaches that when you accept Jesus as your Lord, your body becomes a temple of the Holy Spirit. This means that God does not live in a purpose built building like a temple or a church, neither does he just sit remotely in heaven somewhere. He lives in us. Couple this knowledge with the fact that our body is a gift from God that we are to honour, and this gives us something to think about.

One of the reasons many Christians choose not to smoke, drink heavily, use drugs recreationally and engage in sex outside of its intended purpose is because they believe these things to be an abuse of the body. So if I say no to the Lamberts, but engage in a sport that requires me and my fellow man to choke, punch and throw each other around, am I a hypocrite?

I don’t advocate going too far the other way and putting the body on a pedestal. Life is full of things that involve wear and tear on our body. If we are to shun everything that involves likelihood of injury then bye bye football, childbirth, and walking around barefoot when there could be a piece of lego lurking. Jesus is not looking for a church full of people living in a protective bubble like Bubble Boy in Weebl and Bob. We were given life to live. So what this comes down to ultimately is the condition of our heart.

A punch is a punch is a punch?
As a child, I sometimes fought with my brother in simple overflowings of energy, full of laughter and healthy competition, that ended with no bad feelings. Other times I fought with my brother through gritted teeth, for revenge, to teach him a lesson, dominate him and inflict pain. I put in some serious time on the naughty step for the latter.

Check your heart. If your reason for participating in a combat sport is not one that honours God, or your heart attitude in training/fighting is amiss, it may be time to step back from the sport. In Liam Thatcher’s piece on MMA he draws attention to the verse “’Everything is permissible’, but not everything is beneficial” (1 Cor 10:23). This needs to underscore our whole approach to MMA and indeed any activity. And heart checks need to be a regular thing. Something that was fine a year ago may not be now.

The matter of hearts, minds and ego deserves a separate post, so for now let’s end with two questions that I find helpful (and, tellingly, avoid asking myself if I know something I’m doing is wrong).

How does this effect my relationship with God? 
If anything is hindering your #1 priority and joy, it needs to go.

Is this a good use of my time?
Like many sports, MMA has the propensity to consume a lot of your time. Do your weights for strength, morning run for cardio, BJJ for your ground game, Muay Thai for your stand up etc. Check that the majority of your time (read ‘life’) is not being consumed by something that you won’t give a monkeys about when Christ returns. 

I’m aware that there are questions raised here that I have not fully answered. Some of them I haven’t made my own mind up about, and others we may look at in later posts. Either way, I value your input so please leave a comment with any questions or thoughts.

Next up: We take a look at Christian involvement in top level MMA to see if we can get any tips from the pros. 

Nan gave the tools to my Dad to pass on when he and Mum drove down to visit. As he brought them into the house the smell of sawdust, oil and varnish rose off them. I was instantly back in Grandad’s shed – a child, straining my stick-thin arms to lift the rusted iron weight off the floor, running my hands over the deep grooves and storied stains of the workbench, choosing tools from the rack, guessing their intended role.

Mum and Dad stayed for the weekend. I really enjoyed spending time with Dad as he showed me how to set the blades on the planes, how to sharpen the chisels on the oilstone. His knowledge was recalled from school woodwork classes and the sales counter of a builders merchant.

So now I have

• Record jack plane No. 05 1/2
• Record block plane No. 0130
• Chisels from W. Marples and Sons
• An oilstone
• A wooden mallet

They are all well-used and somewhat rusted/bashed up, but are otherwise in good condition and well made. Grandad was a carpenter for a while, which is the career listed on his and Nan’s marriage certificate. He bought good tools and looked after them. When I looked more closely at the chisels and mallet, I found his name stamped into them. My Nan said that sounded like something he would have done.  Dad told me it was easier to find a tool in Grandad’s shed after he had been gone 25 years than it was to find Dad’s tools in his own shed.

With a bit of research, I found that both Record and W. Marples originally operated out of Sheffield. While Marples still produces tools independently under Joseph Marples, Record is now owned by the US company Irwin Industrial Tool Company Limited. I’m now keen to find out how old the planes are, using this website www.recordhandplanes.com.

But I don’t just want them for the memories or as museum pieces. I don’t think Grandad would want that. The tools are rusted, so I am going to clean them up, sharpen them, and use them. I’m looking forward to learning some basic woodworking skills and using tools that have a special meaning to me. Perhaps I will be able to pass them down to my son one day, and show him how to use them.

P.s If anyone has experience restoring old tools then get in touch.

The showing of work is hilarious; usually the worse the artist the better the results. One time a new guy joined our group. His name got picked by a mum in the group who had never met him before, along with ‘a bull’. When the time was up, she profusely apologised as she revealed her drawing of what looked to be Satan emerging from his groin.

The first two times we played I got lucky. My name was picked out by Canterbury illustrator and designer Caleb Simmons twice in a row.

Then I changed small groups. No more ink-fingered Caleb. Enter my wife, who produced the following drawing.

When questioned over why I was topless, she said “well that’s how I imagine you would be if you were riding an animal – all rough and ready.”

Now we know who did all those fantasy book covers from the 80’s.