Sunday, September 27, 2026

Remembering the Glastonbury Festival


We first went to Glastonbury in the summer of 1987, taking Alex and Adrian, then eight and six. The festival was already well established, but it was still, then, a CND-aligned, broadly hippy occasion: an enclave of the sixties and seventies still persisting in Somerset.

Once the tent was pitched, it was magical simply to wander. Stalls sold joss sticks, exotic sculptures and paintings; music came from marquees where you could stop and discover some band or act. People were calm, relaxed and friendly. This was a million miles from the practised, impersonal friendliness of business; at Glastonbury at that time the people were there to celebrate an unironic shared cause of peace and love - and to enjoy themselves in an uncomplicated way.

This vaguely spiritual atmosphere seemed to extend across the entire festival. Intrinsic virtue - virtue-signalling was not yet a big thing.

We returned with Alex and Adrian two years later, in 1989. Beautiful weather, great music, the same easy friendliness. It felt very, very safe.

When Clare and I next went, without the children, it was 1993. The character of the place had changed utterly. Madchester was in and hippies were out. The drug dealers from Bristol carried inch-thick wads of filthy banknotes. There was an air of criminality. A high perimeter fence encircled the festival, and security was much in evidence.

The following year Channel 4 would arrive and Glastonbury would be subsumed into metropolitan boho culture - in which it remains enmired today.

Nevertheless in '93 we tried to recreate that old atmosphere, the two of us.


At the end of the weekend we returned to our car and found it had been broken into. Some of our belongings had been stolen.

We never went again.


Friday, September 25, 2026

A reconstruction of our wedding (February 25th 1978)

We were married on a Saturday in February 1978 at the Roman Catholic church of Our Lady of the Assumption in Gateacre, south Liverpool. A small service with immediate family and friends. We were both utterly careless of convention: no elaborate outfits and no big arrangements afterwards. And no honeymoon - Clare went off to work the following Monday to the horror of her boss, who promptly gave her a holiday from the typing pool.


In particular there were no photographs of the wedding itself. Which meant that we now have to reconstruct the event based on adjacent-in-time pictures (like the one below taken at my sister's wedding in October 1978) and a photo that was taken later at the reception from a very side angle. Clare and I worked hard today to nudge these pictures into the shape of our memories, and the results - we think - are not too bad. This is what I must have looked like (above).


And this is our best guess for Clare's wedding day appearance, although she recalls a blue top for the actual ceremony.


The wedding ceremony itself would have been very much like this, although the church geometry as depicted is wrong: it's shown as a traditional linear nave, although the actual church is more of a 'fan out' architecture with multiple aisles radiating to the sanctuary. Still, small matter perhaps.

Do we look like the Vances?


This above is an actual contemporary photo of Clare and myself at my sister's wedding later in the year (October 1978) at which point I had lost the beard ('scratchy thing,' said Clare).

Even making allowances for the times (the late seventies) and the fact that I could never seem to get clothes which fit me, I'd have to say we deserved each other.


Thursday, September 24, 2026

"Sweet William" guitar solo


This is solo #2 from James Shipway's guide to playing electric lead guitar, Blues Soloing. I'm playing over the tutorial track (played by Mr Shipway at performance speed) and it's not entirely trivial. It's a help to have his solo cueing me along.

The mistakes — at this early stage — are a bit excruciating: the bend not muted, which slowly drips away in frequency rather than being cut off; the wobbly pitch control; and the unsuppressed noise from other guitar strings. The pull-offs are still a work in progress.

Still, it's a benchmark. Solo #3 is a Claptonesque piece — Blues Brew — which segues from Strange Brew, the Cream number. Soon.


As I mentioned to my guitar tutor, Stewart, at our last lesson, I'm struck by just how much practice playing good, relaxed, competent lead guitar actually takes. The automaticity of playing is as hard to acquire as effortless driving, and invites comparable hours actually doing this. The guitarists I aspire to play as well as make their living playing and do it all the time. That's never going to be true for me.


That annoying alignment problem


'They're way smarter than us,' you opine, 'Who knows what they really want? Perhaps it's time for a bit of pre-emptive action.'

Who was that German statesman-in-waiting of the interwar years? The one who said:

"... not more intelligent than we are, only more subtle and cunning." That would be Der Angriff then, on 21 January 1929.

Or, "Either he destroys us, or we render him harmless. No other alternative is conceivable." From the political novel, Michael, first published in 1929.

Yes, same guy. His name will come to mind in a moment.

And who was this? “Literally everyone on Earth will die,” (if superhuman AI is built). The recommendation being the destruction of a 'rogue data centre' by a pre-emptive air strike.

History: such a treasure trove.


Wednesday, September 23, 2026

Our day today


We woke up this morning in our usual tangle of an empty duvet cover with a single-bed duvet perched on top, to be wrestled over during the night as one or other of us got hotter or cooler. By quarter to eight we were both up. Clare was seeing to the cat and monitoring her morning ablutions, while I was busy changing the bed and preparing myself for the dentist.

My appointment was at ten to nine. A very short session with the dentist, as it turned out: clean bill of health, clear check-up, no problems, and next appointment June 2027: nine months. Quite unusual for me, given that I have so many fillings that normally at least one of them has broken, cracked or is otherwise causing trouble. But today, apparently, all was well.

Once back, I played a little acoustic guitar (working on 12 bar walking bass, since you ask) while Clare was in the bath, and then read to her the next instalment of Irène Némirovsky's The Wine of Solitude. This is essentially a semi-autobiographical account of the author as a young girl in transition from revolutionary St Petersburg to post-war Paris c. 1919, loving her feckless gambling father and hating her mother, who is serially unfaithful and against whom she plots endless revenge. A good read, then.

After lunch — a delicious chicken curry — we drove into town, Clare hoping to source some russet apples from the market. We arrived there at three o'clock to discover that the market was basically packing up and the fruit and vegetable stall had vanished entirely.

So we consoled ourselves with ice cream: a Mr Whippy for Clare and a tub of ice cream for me, which we ate in the late-September sunshine. It was over 21 degrees and very definitely T-shirt-and-jeans weather; almost too hot, I would say.

Then we resumed our progress down the High Street back towards the car park, making a few purchases en route. I have to help Clare quite a bit with walking at the moment. COVID seems to have made her very tired — me too, though to a lesser extent — and she essentially needs my arm and support to walk any real distance. I doubt she could comfortably manage much more than fifty or a hundred yards entirely unsupported at present. Hopefully that will improve somewhat as she gets over the COVID.

Back home again, I ordered a bigger duvet from Amazon: king-size, one tog. All our duvets up to now fall into one of two categories. Either they are thermally light but too small, and therefore migrate during the night between Clare's side and mine; or they are actually the right size for the duvet cover but much too thick, so we start to slowly cook and try to escape out of the sides.

Hence the weird combination of empty duvet covers or plain sheets, with odd duvets or throws or blankets arrayed on top, with bits and pieces being pulled backwards and forwards during the colder parts of the night. Hopefully the new one-tog king-size duvet will fill the gap for the next month or so, until the cold really does kick in. It's meant to be coming on Saturday.

And I spent the last hour working on my electric guitar, playing solos two and three from James Shipway's Blues Soloing book. In particular I've been working on the Strange Brew-derived, Clapton-esque solo, which today I finally managed to internalise sufficiently to play right through without looking at the book. I impress myself.


Tuesday, September 22, 2026

The Collapse in Vocations to the Catholic Priesthood


Why have vocations to the Catholic priesthood collapsed across the West? There are plenty of theories. Traditionalists blame Vatican II and liturgical liberalism; progressives blame celibacy, clericalism and attitudes to sex; others point to the abuse scandals, poor bishops, weak catechesis or simply dreadful recruitment. And who could deny that all these things are relevant?

But none of them gets to the root of it.

To become a priest you have to believe in dogmatic Christianity rather strongly. It is not enough to reframe Christianity as heritage, ethics, community or a higher-brow cultural accompaniment to Christmas*.

A priest has to believe that God actually exists as a personal reality; that Christ actually died and rose again, inaugurating the New Covenant between God and humanity; that the sacraments actually mediate supernatural realities; that God might actually call you to spend your one life serving Him; and that celibacy, obedience and the surrender of an ordinary family life might therefore make perfect sense.

In former centuries it did not seem nearly so extraordinary because the world itself was enchanted. Parents believed, teachers believed, priests, neighbours and politicians inhabited a broadly Christian reality. The church stood in the middle of the town. The calendar was Christian. Birth, marriage and death were understood through Christian categories.

Nobody had to construct the supernatural world from scratch. Indeed, for most people it would scarcely have been imaginable not to inhabit it.

The decisive achievement of secularism was to make naturalism the default. Science — rational, empirical, cause-to-effect reasoning — explains the physical world; the body and mind; the sociology of behaviour. In Douglas Adams's phrase, we've mastered Life, the Universe and Everything. The concept of God, marginalised, blurs into Mystery: perhaps it's still there, a final defence against purposelessness, but not doing much explanatory work.

Deeply Catholic Poland is now struggling to generate priests and is importing clergy from Africa and Asia. If Poland cannot sustain its own clergy, it becomes difficult to blame the British collapse on Anglican competition, the French collapse on republicanism, or the German and Dutch collapse on liberal bishops. Poland had John Paul II, packed seminaries, immense clerical prestige and Catholicism bound tightly to national identity. But as Polish society belatedly entered the same late-modern cultural world, the same process began.

Here are some American figures. Among US ordinands in 2025, 92% had been baptised Catholic as infants, 89% had been raised by a married couple, 78% regularly practised Eucharistic Adoration before seminary, and 89% said somebody had explicitly encouraged them towards the priesthood. In the West, vocations now emerge disproportionately from very dense Catholic microcultures. The old society produced these almost automatically; the modern Church has to engender them explicitly, and that is so much harder.

The only thing really working for the church is the absent core of secular modernism itself: it's hard to really see oneself as an organic robot, here to turn the hamster wheel for the Man. 

Religiosity says that that really isn't all there is. But the Catholic formulation of that insight draws one into a truly complex and heavy journey.**


* An unkind person would say we leave that to the Anglicans.


** “Every lifelong Catholic I've ever met is like "I think we're supposed to give this food to poor people" and every adult convert is like "the Archon of Constantinople's epistle on the Pentacostine rites of the eucharist clearly states women shouldn't have driver's licenses."

From a comment at Marginal Revolution.


Monday, September 21, 2026

Suppose we'd dated when we were both seventeen?

Our hypothetical disco-date, when we were both seventeen

The venue would have been the Locarno, the city centre disco in Bristol close to the harbour and the Council House - Clare couldn't actually have made it as she was living in Liverpool with her family at that time, but she was 'just seventeen'.

This is the summer of '68.

The scene you see above - ChatGPT's best reconstruction - is pretty much as my memory tells it: the boys in their somewhat stuffy outfits (there was a male dress code - no jeans); the girls all revelling in their sixties freedoms; yes, these were my girlfriends.

And when I actually met Clare, when she and I were twenty six, I do recall her somewhat uninhibited dancing style - there was not much self-consciousness there. In this, as in so many other areas, I was and am the polar opposite. *

Clare at sixteen (AI reconstructed)

In Clare's case we don't have many teen pictures so GPT-5.6 Sol Extra High (to give its fully illustrious title) had to do some deblurring from ancient family pictures and some de-aging from ten years on. The resulting image above seems not wholly out of line

Nigel at eighteen (sadly, this is reality)

In my case we have this brooding portrait from 1969 when I was 18. Vanity has lost the glasses, which were by then a necessity. Blues, Progressive Rock and Theoretical Physics were my top attractors, at least intellectually.

And then there was the Locarno, where I also sought to follow Feynman's example.

Yes, I think the psychology of the top picture is spot-on: there is some magic trying to get out... but neither party seems to have really noticed; the boundaries of the subconscious are not too porous as a teen. It's better that we waited another nine years to meet.


* Clare would say indignantly that she would never have worn a dress like that: she'd have worn jeans.

And she's right: Clare would take no prisoners, would make no concessions to female convention, would not dress to impress and would laugh at the idea of 'attracting boys'.

And that often works too - more often than you'd think.

But it's my post, so I'll just let it be the way I'd have wanted it...


Thursday, September 17, 2026

COVID Symptom Day Four

My symptoms started on Sunday (Clare is four days ahead of me). So today being Thursday I'm in the 4–6-day window when symptoms are at their most acute. Today it's shivering, muscular and joint aches, and the feeling of being alienated from one's own body. A poor night's sleep last night was partially compensated for by three hours' sleep this afternoon.

I haven't picked up a guitar for serious practice for three days — I lack the energy and mental concentration. Instead, I'm escaping into Jerry Pournelle (Janissaries, Mamelukes, Starswarm).

I did also finish The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Milan Kundera) and, as always, was awestruck by the penetrating intelligence of this novel: its characterisation, its narrative arc and its deep integration of philosophy and cultural analysis (cf. kitsch) with personal destiny. The bar is set very high for would-be novelists here.

Around me, life swirls actively: Alex and Clare were at the garden centre this morning while I was shiveringly putting a washing cycle through; this afternoon, while I slept, seven or eight purchased plants and bushes were relocated into the back and front gardens. To be honest, I am largely indifferent, but that's a minority position.

And the P(doom) nonsense continues unabated — luckily, COVID inoculates you against caring that 'someone (a lot of people) said something (lots of things) very stupid on the Internet (and MSM)'.


Wednesday, September 16, 2026

COVID has rolled around again


Tested myself this morning. Clare was unwell starting last Thursday, six days ago, and my own symptoms started on Sunday, three days ago.

Didn't quite feel like a cold - too much fatigue for both of us.

I'd almost forgotten about COVID (except for my vaccination against it coming up in a couple of weeks).


Monday, September 14, 2026

23 years gone today

Clare at Herne Bay, September 14th 2003

Herne Bay is a seaside town on the north coast of Kent, about 7 miles north of Canterbury and roughly 5 miles east of Whitstable. It faces north across the Thames Estuary towards Essex, with Margate farther east along the coast.

I have only the vaguest memory of this visit. Were we looking for something? Margate - which we visited a little later? We had just come back from our two years in America.

I don't remember - Clare's treating it as a holiday. 

Perhaps a T. S. Eliot pilgrimage?

Eliot retreated to Margate in the autumn of 1921. Granted a mandated leave of absence from his desk at Lloyds Bank to recover from a severe nervous collapse, he sat in a seaside shelter and wove his fracturing mental state into the third section of The Waste Land.