My Song is Love Unknown - is there anything good about Good Friday?

This is an update of a piece I originally wrote in 2015 and have edited and re-posted once already. I make no apologies for doing so again, not least because the bizarre and unforeseen circumstances in which we find ourselves for Holy Week and Easter 2020 have given more people the time to sit and read.

More importantly, we are all being forced to confront the painful reality that our world is one in which suffering, pain and loss are an inevitable part of our existence, and that if we naively believe that "all will be well", we will inevitably be disappointed. It's a cruel world, and to turn in anger on "God" and say "if there is a God, why does he let bad things happen?" is futile. My concept of God is of an abstract force for good, not some sort of guardian against bad stuff, and for me, Good Friday gives a powerful reminder of that reality.

The combination of a national and international lockdown with the week in which we remember the death of Jesus gives good cause to ponder the meaning of it all, and to question whether religion has any useful part to play in our lives. If you object to religion, it's perhaps best to stop reading now. However, if you can bear with me, you might just come to see that being religious doesn’t mean you’re opinionated, self-righteous, and in-your-face, or that you necessarily have to believe in implausible miracles. 

Today is known as Good Friday, and we would all be forgiven for hollow sarcastic laughter at that thought - not much good about this particular Friday, is there? Good Friday commemorates what was surely one of the most significant events in human history, and a notably horrific event, yet its meaning and significance are increasingly forgotten, at least in our increasingly secular country.

For me as a unitarian Christian, the whole business of Jesus’s death and resurrection is complicated. Many people now pay little attention to the traditional meaning of Good Friday and Easter, yet nobody can deny that the events of what we call Holy Week are as significant as any in the history of mankind. The fact that we are eating hot cross buns today and chocolate eggs on Sunday is a direct consequence of our commemoration of those events 2000 years ago.

If you are a follower of Jesus Christ, the events of Holy Week and Easter are pretty hard to deal with. The day on which the hero of our belief system was cruelly and violently put to death by a tyrannical occupying power is called, in English at least, “Good”. As if that’s not bad enough, Christians are then taught to believe that he did it “for their sake” and that he then rose from the dead, thereby defying the one certainty in life: death. According to many, that’s what’s “good” about Good Friday – the idea that Jesus “died to make us good”, to quote C F Alexander’s wonderful hymn, “There is a Green Hill far Away”. My own brand of Christianity really struggles with the idea that someone else had to suffer and die for my sake, and much as I love that hymn, I find the words very hard to identify with, and any notion of Good Friday being a good thing because of an act of self-sacrifice doesn't work for me.

Actually, calling it “Good” is a largely English-speaking oddity. Most other languages have a different term, most commonly some variant on the word “Holy” – in French, for example, it is “Vendredi Saint”. Of the major European languages, only Dutch – which is the living language closest to English in many ways – uses the term “good”: “Goede Vrijdag”. I actually think the German term is pretty apt in terms of telling us what happened: Karfreitag – which means Sorrowful or Suffering Friday.

Whatever you call it, it wasn’t a very good day for Jesus and his followers. They would have taken some convincing, at the end of that terrible day, that what he went through was in any way good. I too struggle to see what’s good about the cruel and horrible death of a patently good man.

As a Unitarian, I certainly don’t accept the idea that we are all inherently sinful and need someone to suffer and die in order to save us. I believe that we human beings are all capable of the most terrible sins, but that’s not the same thing as being sinful, and I certainly believe that our salvation lies in our own hands, not those of an innocent man. So in that sense, there is nothing good about Good Friday for me.

However, I have an aversion to well-meaning attempts to manipulate language to make it match literal truths. After all, Easter is a term derived from the name of a pagan goddess of Spring and fertility, so at one level I’m happy to accept Good Friday as “just a name” for an important day.

Yet the idea that today is a good day because it recognises the good thing that Jesus did for us is not necessarily the correct explanation for the name of the day. Another very plausible explanation comes from the fact that the words “good” and “God” are often interchangeable in the English language. We need look no further than the word “goodbye”, which means “God with you” (God-by-ye) for proof of that. So if we accept this explanation for the term, “God Friday” is perhaps a little easier to accept.

I certainly prefer this explanation: to call it God’s day is much easier for me to accept, in that my own interpretation of God is that it simply means “good”. My concept of God is not as an omnipotent father-figure and creator who ordains all that is, was and shall be, but rather that “God” means all that is good in the world. After all, it is commonly observed that there is only one letter of difference between God and good, and also only one letter of difference between devil and evil. Etymologists rightly point out that this is probably just a neat coincidence, but it certainly suits me to believe that “God” can simply mean all that is good in the world, while “devil” can simply mean all that is bad in the world.

Jesus’s death, and especially the manner in which he was condemned by a fickle and baying mob, was surely the work of the devil – of evil. No different from many other acts of betrayal and violence throughout history. But it is my view that wherever there is evil, good is never far away, and good always has the last word. Time and again, when something dreadful happens in our world, we are left to despair of humankind’s capacity for evil. Yet invariably, and especially if we look for it, there is a response which is good, although you often have to look harder for it, because the media prefer bad news to good news. There are so many examples, but one that always sticks in my mind is the way in which the family of 12-year-old Tim Parry, the boy killed by an IRA bomb in Warrington in 1993, used his death and that of 3-year-old Johnathan Ball in the same incident as a catalyst to set up a peace foundation, contributing in no small measure to the eventual end of the IRA bombing campaign and the start of the Ulster peace process. I could quote numerous other stories from throughout history to make the same point. Good – or God – had the last word.

So instead of despairing when something dreadful happens in our world, and bemoaning the absence of God at such times, perhaps we should look for the good – the God – which is always there to respond, to comfort and to heal. And in that respect, Good Friday is aptly named, in that however hard it must have been to believe it at the time, God (or good) was not far away. Good Friday comes just two days before we remember that even if the physical Jesus was put to death, his spirit, his values and his example of how to live a good life continued to shine in an at times dark and evil world, and still do so to this day.

So Good Friday is indeed good in a strange way, if only as a reminder that however evil our world may seem, good is never very far away and always has the last word. And my chosen title, My Song is Love Unknown, sums up all that the life and death of Jesus means in our sad world: “Love to the loveless shown that they might lovely be” seems a pretty good summary of what he was trying to achieve, and to attempt in our own small way to do likewise is the least we can do to honour his memory.

We Can Work it out

I freely admit to being conflict-averse. Some would say annoyingly so. There seems to me to be so much discord, conflict, and argument, so many angry words and deeds in this world, that I see no possible benefit to me or to anyone else in picking fights, metaphorical or literal, with anyone, unless absolutely necessary.

Easily said and arguably complacent, I know: I am well aware that I am fortunate in having been born and raised in a stable family, and I enjoyed the benefits of a good education, leading to an enjoyable and safe career. I have also enjoyed the stability of a 38 years-and-counting marriage, blessed with three lovely and loving adult children. I am lucky enough to still live with two of them, and a fab daughter-in-law. I am also blessed with friends of all ages drawn from a life surrounded by good people. 

I therefore perhaps have rather less to be angry about than many in this far-from-perfect world.

However, it seems to me that there is a lot of anger around at the moment, both in a wider world which has become significantly more polarised and tribal in recent years, and also in the social media bubble in which I have chosen to spend some of my time in recent years - the one inhabited by (a very small proportion of the total of) people who live with diabetes.

I spent four days this week largely absent from Twitter and Facebook, having taken a short holiday staying with some old friends who live in deepest Norfolk in a house with unreliable Wi-Fi and intermittent 4G. I didn’t try to take a “digital detox”, but found myself confined to just an occasional look at social media (usually provoked by a notification when out and about), without the means easily to reply or get involved in any prolonged exchanges.

It turns out I inadvertently chose a good few days to take this unplanned break: returning home to a catch-up on my accounts, I saw much hostility, notably the justified but arguably excessive and misdirected anger about Paul Hollywood’s ill-advised “diabetes on a plate” quip from Tuesday’s Great British Bake-Off; a simmering row involving many about the nature and extent of the problem surrounding healthcare professionals’ use of language in talking to and about the people in their care; and finally a poorly-judged advertising campaign by Diabetes UK seeking to draw attention to the dangers posed by some of the potential complications of diabetes.

In all these cases, there is usually some merit in what is said on all sides, some justification for the anger, and some justification for the anger about the anger. What saddens me is the way in which the immediacy of our hyper-connected world causes such rapid, and therefore almost by definition, unreflective responses. And in that sense, I am grateful that my own unplanned absence from social media gave me the chance to sit back, watch and reflect, rather than piling in with my own, probably imperfect, words.

Social media, especially Twitter, is in many ways a megaphone in which those who say most, and say it loudest, can very easily be mistaken for the majority. It gives us all the means to chip in with comments which are potentially “heard” by 1000s, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to join in when you agree with something, even if in a pre-social media world you might have simply noticed, commented to those sitting with you, and moved on with your life. There are clearly many on Twitter who find it very difficult to say nothing, when often to say nothing is the most effective and powerful of all comments.

Then there’s also the pressure to make a post snappy and eye-catching, which inevitably leads to ever more extreme language. I am NOT defending Paul Hollywood, but was what he said really “vile”? Foolish, ill-advised, ignorant, yes, but not maliciously intended to hurt others. Not “vile” or “disgusting” as many chose to say. We all make mistakes and upset people, we all use words carelessly and cause hurt which we then regret: it's part of being human.

The megaphone of Twitter made sure that criticism of Mr Hollywood’s ill-informed quip made it into mainstream media, and quite rightly so, but the real villain of the piece was, as some rightly pointed out, the programme makers. I am sure that there is much left on the cutting room floor after an edition of GBBO or any similar programme is made, and it wouldn’t have taken a PR genius to spot the potential backlash to a diabetes joke.

Then what of the #LanguageMatters debate? I fully recognise that there is a continuing need for care and sensitivity to be used by HCPs in what they say to and about people with diabetes, but in my own experience of living with diabetes, I have never experienced anything beyond amused irritation at what people have said, and to be honest I have got better things to do than spend time calling out every single inappropriate word or expression used about me or others with my condition. In all areas of my life, I mind rather more about peoples’ manner and attitude, rather than what they say. The right words can be said, but the speaker may say them in a manner which betrays dutiful adherence rather than genuine empathy and concern. Just as when someone in a shop wishes me to “have a nice day” I am only impressed if their manner suggests they care about me as an individual.

I wonder how many people with diabetes or other conditions have genuinely been demoralised and demotivated by things said by HCPs? It’s very easy to adopt a reaction, having seen someone else’s, and join in the hue and cry.

It appears that “being nice” is not good enough according to some. But it’s not a bad way to live your life, and personally I think I’ll just try to be nice and hope others do likewise to me, knowing that I can’t please all the people all the time, but at least I tried. And if I’m angry, I’ll say so myself. But don’t hold your breath waiting.

“Life is very short, and there’s no time for fussing and fighting my friend” Lennon and McCartney often said some pretty profound things, so I'll call this post We Can work it Out

Do you really want to hurt me? Language matters.

I am a linguist by profession: words and language are (or were) the tools of my trade. I have therefore followed with interest the conversation that has developed over the past year or so regarding the use of language in healthcare.

Fundamentally, as Dr Partha Kar pointed out in this recent post, it’s a simple question of good manners. Whether it’s the #HelloMyNameIs campaign so admirably started by and perpetuated in the name of the late Dr Kate Granger or the NHS #LanguageMatters campaign arising from the thoughtless language sometimes used to talk about diabetes, choosing appropriate words is a matter of common courtesy. Our sophisticated power of speech is what distinguishes us from other animals, and words are wonderful things, but can also be very powerful and hurtful weapons.

However, at the risk of clouding an age-old and simple issue of manners, I do feel that the issue of language has become more difficult in our increasingly connected, hyper-communicative and instantly reactive world. And the problem extends well beyond the world of healthcare. At the risk of seeming like an anti-internet reactionary (which I am anything but), I feel that the written language has become so common a currency that it has perhaps become devalued and under-estimated.

The ease and ubiquity of exchanging words with a far larger audience than was possible just a few years ago means that the words that we so readily use have a far greater reach. We have all become potentially influential writers, with the power to persuade and influence but also to hurt far more people than just those around us.

The English language in particular is wonderful, and in many ways deserves to have come to dominate communication across the world in the way it has done. Our language is uniquely rich and subtle, and has the ability to adapt and change at bewildering speed without losing its power or its charm.

Yet perhaps one aspect that requires more thought and attention is the way in which divisions between the spoken and written forms of language have become blurred: thanks to ICT, we all now communicate far more in writing than in the past, using text, social media and email to communicate in a way which just wasn’t possible in the past. Some moan about sloppy language, grammatical errors, and the use of abbreviations, acronyms and emojis as evidence that standards are falling, yet I see some marvellously expressive use of language in the online world.

However, what we are in danger of losing is the ability to distinguish between appropriate registers of language. In effect, we all now write as if we are speaking, which is great, but overlooks the fact that the written word (as seen on the screen of our phone or tablet) has a potentially hurtful permanence that the spoken word does not. We all say things in the heat of the moment which are hurtful, but we can apologise, explain why we did it, then perhaps say the same thing in a gentler way and in so doing start to put the hurt right. But anything written, for example in a Twitter post, stays there in perpetuity, such that it retains the power to cause harm and upset in a way which may not have been intended. If you need proof of the problem, we now have a US President who appears to think it wise to share his impulsive and at times ill-considered thoughts with the world using Twitter. 

The decline of formal registers of language is in some ways commendable: the Plain English Campaign has done much to ensure that ordinary people can understand complex specialised documents and that rich and powerful people and organisations cannot hide behind unnecessarily opaque language. But there is a place for formal and restrained language which has been carefully crafted, considered and reviewed. The sort that was in the past used in letter-writing, dare I say?

Our written language has, quite understandably, become very "chatty". Which is fine in its own way, as long as we don’t overlook the context or the importance of what we are saying. If there are no boundaries to what we say, no conventions and taboos, we risk causing unintended harm, and using words which are far too strong for the context. In particular, swearing has been massively devalued (as happened years ago with the French language), such that it has completely lost its impact yet has retained the power to cause offence and upset. I am not against the use of swear words, but there is no point in having them if they lose the power to add an element of shock and emphasis to what I say. So on the very rare occasions when I do swear, people know I am really annoyed. And I would never swear in writing unless directly and privately addressing trusted friends. The casual use of previously taboo words in the online world has to some extent undermined the power of those words, yet they are still nasty: people say “WTF” without thinking what they are actually saying, and casually insult those of whom they disapprove using slang words for the genitalia of both genders. There was an amusing lack of irony which I saw in a supposedly supportive response to Partha’s post calling for people to be gentler in their use of use of language by someone saying “It's surprisingly simple to not be a dick”. Talk about fighting fire with fire...

So perhaps some of the keyboard warriors out there should remember that although they may think they are just “talking” online, they are in fact writing, and in so doing can cause more hurt than was intended. And just because the object of our anger is a doctor, a politician, a footballer or a celebrity does not mean that he or she has no feelings.

Language matters, and words can hurt: but “Do you really want to hurt me?”

Couldn't Get it Right

This is difficult. I am well aware that every job is a good deal harder and more complex than it looks, and that it is the easiest thing in the world to criticise, so I offer these thoughts as, I hope, due praise, together with suggestions and observations as to how things could perhaps be differently expressed. 

A routine hospital clinic review has left me with a 1976 earworm from my diabetes playlist which expresses perfectly my thoughts: Couldn't Get it Right by the Climax Blues Band.

Today was my second clinic review since I returned to hospital care last year. My first review, back in November, left a lot to be desired, and I wrote about it at the time – here.

Today's visit went better in many respects. For a start, the administration was exemplary and the waiting time minimal. I received a courteous reminder phone call, at 7:30pm, three days before the appointment, with the caller apologetic for disturbing me but explaining that missed appointments are common and costly. Fair enough.

Checking in at the hospital was on a touchscreen and I had been sitting less than a minute when I was called for weighing, blood test, blood pressure and “taking the piss”. Another minute's sitting down and I was called in, about a minute before the appointment time.

At my clinic we do not have designated consultants and DSNs, so it appears to be pot luck whom we get to see. The woman I saw greeted me, gave her name and proceeded to give me more time and attention than I have ever had before. She was thorough and attentive, and my take-home message in factual terms was an HbA1c of 6.4. So I should be celebrating.

But I was left feeling, well, mildly amused and even slightly angry, largely because of some rather careless language and an unnecessarily stern tone on the part of the consultant.

She asked to see my meter in a rather brusque tone, and seemed surprised and mildly disapproving when I proffered my FreeStyle Libre, explaining that this was where the vast majority of my data could be found. She took it from me in a manner reminiscent of a teacher confiscating a mobile, then fumbled through the display in a manner reminiscent of an aged aunt with a smartphone. She was clearly less than familiar with a device which has in recent years been widely recognised as a quantum leap in blood glucose monitoring, an impression strengthened by her asking how long I wear the sensor for (it is well known that the sensors last precisely 14 days). I sensed suspicion rather than interest.

She was commendably thorough in her questioning, albeit a little bureaucratic and interrogatory in manner. I was particularly amused by one choice of question: “What other medical conditions do you have?” “None!” Her raised eyebrow suggested disbelief, and surely a better phrasing would be “Do you have any other conditions?” Words are powerful and subtle things, and the phrasing of a question should be thought through. Especially if it's a routine question, presumably used at every such appointment. I felt guilty for being so well.

Scrolling through my data, she appeared to be looking for lows, and enquired rather accusingly “what was wrong here?” on seeing a solitary “LO”. I explained that nothing was wrong, pointing out that it was at 5:30 pm on a day when I had been working hard in the garden, that it was preceded (on the Libre) by a 4.9 with a down arrow and followed, 30 minutes later, by an 8.4 with an up arrow, indicating that I had anticipated and acted upon the “LO”. Her manner suggested she was unconvinced.

Then came the punchline: my HbA1c, she said, was “too good” at 46 (6.4). It was at a level where I was at increased risk of hypos (self-evident in a way?), and she asked if I suffered from hypos. Yes, I do, I replied, but I am normally able to anticipate them and deal with them, not least because of the Libre. Fair enough, she said, but if it went any lower "we would need to lower your insulin dose”. Bad phrasing again. I'm not a child – it is I who would modify the dose.

By this point, I was starting to sense some rather rigid thinking: “lowering my dose” suggests a constant dose, unadjusted for meal content, portion size, activity level, temperature etc. I vary it according to what I'm eating and doing. I don't have a "dose". It's not medication.

To finish with, she said she thought I didn't need a DAFNE course. I was clearly doing very well without one. I told her that I've never been taught carb counting, I just guesstimate, and she replied that I must be very good at it. So again, I am being penalised for doing too well.

So there you go. A pleasing HbA1c result, great to hear as I approach my 20th diaversary and 60th birthday, but somehow it seems that they're never satisfied. 

To paraphrase Abba, “I feel like I lose when I win”

Thank You for the Music - and the lyrics

With a surprise visit to Sweden coming up at the start of June, thanks to my well-documented affinity with the FreestyleLibre and those good people at Abbott, I have suddenly found myself wanting to be immersed once again in the wonderful music of Agnetha, Benny, Bjorn and Anna-Frid, collectively known to the world as Abba. I know that there's much more to Sweden than Abba, but let's face it, for most of us, Sweden is about Abba, Volvo, Ikea and, erm....

So as soon as I heard I was going to Stockholm, their Summer Night City, those songs flooded my brain as they do every so often and out came my Abba Gold and More Abba Gold CDs.

I have watched with amusement over the past twenty years or so as the rest of the world has decided that Abba are indeed very talented and cool. I always thought they were, unlike the Johnny-come-Latelies who have reassessed their work and its enduring appeal and influence. I was an Abba fan right from the start, and especially all the way through university in the late 70's, while my friends were more into punk, new wave, and disco. I loved all that stuff too, but I always said that Abba would survive and prosper long after their extravagant clothing had faded into the realms of  ridicule or ironic nostalgia. I well remember telling a group of friends at university that Thank You for the Music was what our generation would be singing along to in an old folks' home when we had all gone ga-ga. How right I was. And how pleasing it is for people of my generation to see my own children and the young people I teach discover Abba's wonderful musical legacy. It's very hard nowadays to find anyone who doesn't like Abba.

Now of course it's about the music in most respects. Benny and Bjorn are peerless tunesmiths, be it in the exuberance of Dancing Queen, Gimme Gimme Gimme, and Mamma Mia or the melancholy of The Winner Takes it all, Knowing Me Knowing You and One of Us. Moreover the arrangements, instrumentation and production are also touched by genius. Just imagine Dancing Queen without those descending piano chords, or Chiquitita without the guitar introduction. Imagine Voulez-Vous without the chords that lead into the verse, or Super Trouper without that piano-backed middle eight. Imagine The Day Before you came without those synthesised little twirls or Mamma Mia without the crash crash of cymbals that accompanies the "Just one look" line. I could go on. Those guys certainly know how to write, harmonise and arrange a good melody, and their ability to create a whole song from one simple melody is at times awesome. The Winner Takes it All is not only a lyrically devastating song, but musically it is so very simple: it's actually just two melodic phrases, repeated.

However, I think we can all too easily overlook the words. Considering they were penned by two men for whom English is not even their mother tongue, the lyrics of Benny and Bjorn demonstrate a mastery of our language which puts the rest of us to shame. The searingly honest account of a broken relationship as told in Knowing Me, Knowing You, or The Winner Takes it All is genuinely heartbreaking, while if anyone ever lays bare the pains of parenthood better than is done in Slipping Through My Fingers, I wouldn't want to hear it. I defy any parent of older children to listen to that and not shed a tear.

So how come a couple of Swedish folk singers (for that is what they were long before the platform heels and outrageous flares took over) became such masters of our subtle and nuanced language? Well they don't always get it quite right: there's a clear error, for example, in Fernando, where "since many years I haven't seen a rifle in your hand" should surely be "for many years..." not "since many years..". And in I have a Dream, their Germanic languistic roots are showing in "And my destination makes it worth THE while/pushing through the darkness STILL another mile". But almost everywhere else, they nail it as well as, if not better than, most English-speaking lyricists, and I have only recently started fully to appreciate why this is.

Basically, it's because they are uninhibited by the clichés and conventions of English, and therefore dare to do things that a native speaker would find too embarrassing or too banal. Wherever you look in the lyrics of Abba, you'll find turns of phrase which a native speaker just wouldn't dream of using as a lyric. And because we are not used to that kind of language in a song, the banal suddenly becomes unusual and therefore powerful. Try this for an example, from Waterloo:

"...and I have met my destiny in quite a similar way.."

I very much doubt that the phrase "in quite a similar way" has ever been used in lyric poetry before or since. Abba's songs are full of phrases which, when detached from the context in which they have become so familiar, sound like they have no right being in a song. Try this from the wonderful narrative that is The Day before you Came:

" and having gotten through the editorial no doubt I must have frowned"

or this from that same song:

"And stopped along the way to buy some Chinese food to go
I'm sure I had my dinner watching something on TV
There's not, I think, a single episode of Dallas that I didn't see
I must have gone to bed around a quarter after ten
I need a lot of sleep, and so I like to be in bed by then
I must have read a while
The latest one by Marilyn French or something in that style"

That song is actually full of the most outrageously prosaic lyrics - but isn't that the whole point of that sadly under-rated song? And while you're at it watch the video - how dark and Scandinavian is that?

Or how about this for an opening line of Super Trouper:

"I was sick and tired of everything
When I called you last night from Glasgow"

What a line, but who else would have dared write it? Very few English songwriters produce stuff like that, preferring to express emotions with clichés and words from the stock lexicon of love. Of course a few do: The Beatles did on occasions, with the sometimes derided Paul McCartney in particular responsible for touching sublime heights with the most banal of language. Think "Father McKenzie, writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear" in Eleanor Rigby, or the whole of She's Leaving Home. Some of McCartney's solo stuff has also hit the same spot, but he's often been ridiculed for it. Another Day is a good example. Another band who had the knack of making silk purse lyrics out of sow's ear words was that popular 70s art-rock band 10cc: think anything on The Original Soundtrack or How Dare you?

However, in the case of Abba, it's not just about daring to use banal language; sometimes it's quite the opposite. Interestingly, I've heard it suggested that Abba's unfamiliarity with English led them to come up with turns of phrase that an anglophone writer would be scared to use. What English writer would dare, even in the 1970s, to come up with the lines:

"See that girl, watch that scene, digging the Dancing Queen"

"Digging"???  An expression that was perhaps cool and trendy for a few weeks in 1967, but does anyone use that word without irony? It obviously stuck in the minds of two young Swedes...and where would Dancing Queen be without those lines? It's all part of its enduringly camp, "so bad its good" appeal.

Elsewhere, just by using "Eurotrash" words and names they developed a pan-European appeal with titles like Mamma Mia, Voulez-Vous, Chiquitita, Hasta Manana and Fernando. All instantly memorable hooks which are foreign intruders in English lyrics. The Euro-connection leads me to another thought. I'm pretty sure that in other languages, notably French, some of the features I have identified in Abba lyrics are also there. I would quote as evidence the incomparable Armenian-French nonegenarian Charles Aznavour, writer and performer of some memorable chansons in which the banal and the sublime pop up to devastating effect. His work must wait for another blog post, but if you're curious, try this wonderful tale of an old flame rekindled. Sorry if you don't know French:-

"Non, je n'ai rien oublié"

Or try this tale of a romantic evening gone wrong..

"Bon Anniversaire"

But back to Abba. We must also not overlook the many times when there are no linguistic oddities, no banalities, but just astonishingly powerful lyrical expressiveness. Take this from The Winner Takes it All:

"The Gods may throw a dice

Their minds as cold as ice

And someone way down here

Loses someone dear"

Those lines are conceptually straight out of classical tragedy, but then in the next verse the same idea comes crashing into the modern world of the divorce court:

"The judges will decide

The likes of me abide"

And don't forget that those extraordinarily personal and poignant lyrics were written by two men to be sung by the two women from whom they were going through a messy divorce. The most public group therapy ever?

So there you have it. Musical and lyrical genius in my humble opinion. A band who could have drifted into a category marked 70's nostalgia, but have become an enduring global brand. I'm pretty sure people will still be listening to Abba years from now, long after they, and I, have gone. What intrigues me about Abba is that the more times I listen to their songs, the more I like and appreciate them. There are not many artists of whom I can say that: possibly just David Bowie and the Beatles. I rest my case.

PS Take time to watch some of the Abba videos. They, too are iconically wonderful. Click the link on any of the songs mentioned.

Let's Taste the Spice of Life

As I approach the landmark age of sixty, I very much hope that I am NOT becoming a grumpy old man. Old, yes, but not grumpy. I happen to believe that for those of us fortunate enough to live in a liberal Western democracy, the world is a better place than it was when I was born. Indeed I believe our society is, by and large, a more tolerant, fairer, kinder one than it was, say, 50 or 100 years ago. Music was great in the 50's, 60's, 70's, 80's and 90's, but there's still some great stuff being written and performed. The worlds of theatre, cinema, sport, culture and business are more vibrant and innovative than at any time in my life and well before. And mainstream television, whose demise is often predicted, seems to me to be in rude health, not least in the area of drama, in which we have been treated in recent years to a string of productions of the highest quality in both lightweight escapism such as Downton Abbey, hard-hitting hyper-reality like Happy Valley, or Call the Midwife, which manages to be both escapist and hard-hitting at the same time.

So I don't believe in the "good old days", nor do I think that we are in an inexorable slide towards a new dark age. Of course the world can still be a frighteningly nasty place, and mankind's capacity for evil remains depressingly apparent. But that should not blind us to what virtue there is, nor to the fact that the younger generation gives me every reason to believe that the future is in safe hands. I don't think young people are feckless, lazy and degenerate; I find them to be engaging, hard-working, good-humoured and respectful of their elders. Yes, I know I am lucky enough to teach in a very good independent school, but I also know many wonderful young people from all sorts of schools and backgrounds (it would be remiss of me not to mention here my many young friends from the online diabetic community) So you won't, I hope, find me ranting and raving about falling standards, bad manners, popular culture and whatever else some older people seem to almost delight in moaning about as they grow older.

I do, however, have one overall regret about the world in which I must grow old: it's the way in which we seem to be losing variety and contrast from so many areas of life. So perhaps readers will permit me to be, well, just a little grumpy, about what can be termed the homogenisation of modern life.

"What on earth do you mean?", I hear you ask. "I thought homogenisation was a chemical process, most commonly applied to milk". Well yes, it is, but if homogenising means making everything more consistent, removing contrast, eliminating light and shade both literally and metaphorically, then our world is a lot more homogenous than it was even twenty or thirty years ago. And I feel it is somewhat diminished as a result.

I started thinking about this post earlier today - Sunday - when I was walking to church. I am lucky to live in a small market town with a flourishing Parish church, whose peel of bells can be heard throughout the town on a Sunday morning as it has been for generations. I posted a short clip of the peeling bells on Twitter which quickly attracted a few likes, some of which were from people whom I know to be atheists, which intrigued and heartened me. Perhaps I was on to something. At least until mid-morning here in Kirkham, it sounds and therefore feels like Sunday, and perhaps more people appreciate this than I had thought.

In many ways it is perhaps the seven days of our week which give the best example of what I mean by homogenisation. I am not a big fan of 24/7 and 7/7 living, in that I like day and night to feel different, Saturday to feel like Saturday and Sunday to feel like Sunday. Go into any town centre on a Sunday these days, and it looks and feels no different from any other day. I prefer my Sunday to feel like the proverbial day of rest. For me personally that means church, Sunday roast and a general chill-out. I know that not many people these days want to go to church, but even a secular Sunday should feel different - maybe a walk, some quality time with family or friends, catching up on reading or even TV. But not just another hectic day. Sunday needs church bells ringing out across an otherwise quiet town or it doesn't sound right. And for me it also needs the Songs of Praise or Antiques Roadshow theme music and the smell of a roast dinner. I dislike Sunday opening of shops, not for religious reasons, but because I belive we all deserve and indeed need a "day of rest", or in modern parlance, a chill-out day.

I feel the same about Saturdays. They too should feel like Saturday: leisure activities, hobbies, shopping, DIY, sports - watching or playing - with "Out of the Blue", the theme to Sports Report at the end of the afternoon and Match of the Day in the evening. I'd rather not have a hospital appointment on a Saturday, so I don't see why doctors should be bullied into doing non-emergency work at weekends in the name of a "Seven day NHS"

Days are like seasons. We appreciate them more if they feel different. We need the cold and darkness of winter to help us appreciate the warmth and light of summer. I would hate to live in a climate where there were no clearly defined seasons. I love contrast.

I suspect that many readers will agree with me so far, but I actually feel that homogenisation has pervaded all areas of how we live our lives in a rather more insidious way. I am saddened, for example, by the way we are forgetting that different activities and occasions require different styles of dressing, behaving and speaking. Taking dress as an example, I very much prefer to dress, and see others dressed, in a style which reflects who we are and what we are doing. I want politicians, doctors, solicitors, teachers and the like to be dressed formally so that they look professional and important, and I don't particularly want them to be informal, crack jokes and I certainly don't want them to feel the need to sound "down with the kids". It's perfectly possible to be approachable, sensitive and empathetic whilst smartly dressed and well spoken.

Likewise, I cringe when I go to a church that feels and sounds like a shopping centre and vicars feel compelled to be jokey and informal, beginning the service with "Good Morning Everyone" rather than "The Lord be with You", using dumbed down, modernised wording in hymns and prayers in an attempt to make them more relevant, and generally making the language and practice of religion indistinguishable from that of the secular world. For me, religion is a serious and solomn, but joyful, business which should feel different from the rest of our lives, albeit in a manner which makes us want to live it out in our everyday lives. That's why I love Choral Evensong. It's about contrast again: I want church to be different from day-to-day life, not just an extension of it.

Another example of homogenisation is in our use of language. As I said earlier, I don't agree with those who moan about "falling standards" of English, and who can't distinguish between change and decline, but I do think we are in danger of losing the ability to disntinguish between different registers of language. We write (or rather type) so much more than we used to, by texting, tweeting, facebooking, blogging and emailing, that we now write in the same way that we speak. I'm doing so right now in this blog post. Again, nothing wrong with that, but we still need to retain and cultivate a more formal, precise and correct form of spoken and written language in many situations. I worry when people think it's alright to start formal emails with "Hello" or even "Hi", where clearly a more formal "Dear...." is required. And again, I see nothing wrong with more sophisticated, even intimidating language in areas such as the law, medicine and business. Serious things need serious language.

So there it is. My fit of grumpiness, or as I prefer to call it, regret. I'd actually prefer to conclude on a more positive note. Rather than moaning about homogenisation, let's say that I appreciate contrast and variety. It's central to my view of life, my personality and tastes. I love punk rock as much as gregorian chant. I love rain lashing on my window as much as warm summer sunshine. I love serious conversation as well as slapstick comedy. I love baked beans on toast as well as fine cuisine. I am as much uplifted and exhilarated by being in a gothic cathedral as I am by being in a football crowd. I love being in crowded city streets as much as country lanes. You can't appreciate light without darkness, peace without noise, summer without winter. Let's cherish and celebrate difference and variety. Variety is the spice of life, so as Manhatten Transfer once said, Let's Taste the Spice of Life