The Hands of God

I’ll get the really topical one out of the way first: the FIFA World Cup and memories of Maradona’s infamous cheating that put England out of the 1986 competition. Not only did he cheat, he blamed it on God. No wonder he suffered in mid-life and died prematurely. Let’s hope his hands can handle all those hot coals he’ll be stoking.

The next Hand of God refers to a rather unsubtle message He gave me a couple of days ago. One evening, I was pondering a temper tantrum in the comments section of a previous blog ("Towns, Gowns and Gridlock"). I assume it’s a guy, although he seems to think it’s possible to be ‘born in the wrong body’. Therefore, perhaps ‘he’ would prefer to be addressed as a mole (blind), an octopus (deaf) or, as he appears to be so au fait with them, a horse’s ass (stupid). He’s so angry with me that his counter-arguments are no more than a confused cacophony that doesn’t hold water, or gin. According to him, I have a “deep-seated fear-driven naked hatred of anyone different to [my] white Cof E housewifey fuck-all-to-do-except-blogwitter self.” If he wants to be taken seriously, he should insert some commas.

I don’t go out of my way to make people angry. Honest I don’t. I can’t help it. It’s a gift. I don’t like to think that I cause such extreme angst. Perhaps I should make a huge effort to soften my stance on some issues so as not to rile those who ‘can’t handle the truth’ (always in gratitude to Jack Nicholson’s iconic outburst). I was thinking this the other day. As I was on the verge of deciding to be nicer, the Hand of God reached down and whacked a lightbulb in a wall-sconce above my dressing table. It exploded and showered me and the carpet with glass. Not only is my curly hair unforgiving when it comes to capturing flying stuff, of which it then won’t let go, I was in bare feet and my slippers were at the other end of the bedroom. The explosion was obviously God’s way of telling me to stand up for what I believe in, face down the bullies, be myself and to speak freely, warts and all. 

Let’s face it, Anne Widdecombe RIP didn’t hold back. I remember Anne’s appearance at an Oxford Union debate, resplendent in a scarlet frock, forcefully dismissing censorship, wokeism, snowflakes and cancellations. She famously fanfared, “Nobody has the right to live their lives being protected from offence, or from insult, or from hurt feelings. It is an occupational hazard of living in society, and if you really can’t take it, become a hermit.”

God must have agreed with her and seems to want her sagacity on tap, because He snatched her mid-prime to sit at his right hand and whisper in his shell-like. God’s gain is our loss.

I admired Anne but, despite the circumstances, initially took news of her death stoically. I eventually choked up when I listened to a tribute to her from Zia Yusuf, her fellow Reform UK bigwig. He was unmistakably reading from a script, something Anne didn’t need to do, and started off in his usual wooden manner. He often comes across as wooden, or angry, but once into his stride talking about Anne, he visibly relaxed and smiled sorrowfully, revealing his genuine pain and bewilderment. He spoke, in the end, really beautifully about a beautiful lady who still had much wisdom, energy and kindness to impart. Therefore, heeding God’s hand and taking Anne as my mentor, I won’t soften up. I will continue to call a shovel a shovel, a spade a spade, a snowflake a snowflake, and a horse’s ass a horse’s ass.

The third Hand of God I want to tell you about was actually the two hands of a music director at a Come and Sing or a ‘pop-up choir’, if you will, in London. On a recent hot and steamy Saturday, I defied engineering works, strikes and the weather to take the train to London to sing a selection of timeless choral anthems with people I’ve never met before and probably won’t again. The occasion was overseen by an inspired and inspirational conductor. He infected us with his adoration of Handel, Fauré, Rachmaninov, Mendelssohn and Brahms. He managed to teach us a little ancient Slavonic, adopt a vocal curtsy, and how flat-chested altos might sing with more bust.

During a short break in proceedings, I popped out for some fresh air and crossed over to Trafalgar Square, where a small group of pro-Shah (of Iran) adherents were playing their own uplifting anthems and delivering measured unintimidating speeches. They were surrounded by the ‘Pahlavian’ tricolor, the Union Jack, Stars and Stripes, and Star of David, which I found strangely comforting. I hope one or two of the Iranians popped into the church later that afternoon to be cheered by our rendition of “My Heart is Indicting”. We sang it quite well, better than we did the Rachmaninov.

Whoever wins between England and Argentina this evening, I hope there’s no violence on or off the pitch, and certainly no cynical Hands of God. Unseemly chanting in the crowd? That’s free speech, and I’ll allow it.