It may not surprise you to know that pornography is the Number One growth industry on the Internet, by far. According to Google, there are approximately eighteen porn websites for every single man, woman and child on Planet Earth, so let’s face it, you’re spoiled for choice.  I have checked briefly, for research purposes only of course, and there are porn sites to suit every taste, from the most debased right through to innocent titillation.

For those of you who subscribe to the ‘Creation’ theory of human life, the current preoccupation with porn stems back to Jehovah’s decision to kick start the Jewish race, and Genesis Chapter Five sets it all out in graphic detail.  Check it out – there are some pretty amazing statistics.  Did you know, for example, that Methuselah was one hundred and eighty seven years old when he sired (or begot) Lamech? That’s got to be some sort of a record!

But back to the plot! It follows, as night the day, that for God’s plan to succeed, the act of intercourse had to be pleasurable, not so much for the long suffering women, but certainly for the menfolk.  And God in His wisdom decided that if the Jewish race was to thrive and multiply, the act of intercourse had to be so pleasurable that the menfolk would want to repeat it, again and again and again.  And they did!

Fast forward to the twenty first century and the growth of pornography.  It is not confined to the Internet, although this is the first port of call for the prurient and downright deviant who presumably can’t get enough of it in the privacy of the bed chamber and choose to watch others ‘getting it on’ or ‘off’ as the case may be.

Nobody I know will admit to browsing Internet porn sites, they’re disgusting and shouldn’t be allowed.  But strangely, in the very recent past, written porn now seems to be socially acceptable, so long as it’s ‘erotica’, which in my lexicon is a distinction without a difference.  The accepted term ‘erotica’ used to be confined to pulp fiction churned out by Mills & Boon, where the heroine was called Camilla, and the hero called Rod, I can’t think why, although Mavis and Eric doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.

But thanks to the publishing sensation of the ‘Filthy’ books, four in all, men and women of all ages can enjoy porn without having to wrap the cover in brown paper, and when asked, they will immediately deny any sexual prurience and simply put their newly found interest in literature down to a good read.

Yeah!  Believe that and you’ll believe anything!

PS. On the topic of a good read, if you enjoy a good book and a good laugh at the same time, I strongly recommend May It Please Your Lordship by Toby Potts.  It’s very funny, and likely to become the next publishing sensation.  It’s available online with Amazon, and soon to be made available on Kindle.



As you will remember, 1534 was a seminal year in the life of the Church.  It was the year when a compliant Parliament passed the Supremacy Act, which made Henry VIII the Supreme Head of the Church of England and thereby separated England from Papal authority.  It was a “do or die” moment for the bishops and clergy.  The vast majority elected to “do” the King’s bidding, and a few notable exceptions such as Thomas More, elected to die in defence of their faith.

Since then, the newly created Church of England has struggled to adapt to the times.  They have kept one foot in the Holy Roman camp, whilst asserting their independence by trying to innovate.  The result, if you’ll forgive the pun, has been a curate’s egg, and if you try and please all the people all the time, you risk pleasing nobody.

 The Church has not improved its chances with the election as Archbishop of Canterbury of Rowan Williams who, on any view, has been out of his depth since Day One and swimming against the tide.  In fairness, he was passed a poisoned chalice, and the impending schism between the Traditionalists and the Reformists is all but inevitable.

The two burning issues plaguing the Church are same sex marriage and the ordination of woman bishops.  It is the first issue that has thrust its way into the limelight, with the Government, or its junior partner to be precise, advocating marriage for same sex couples in exactly the same way as enjoyed by heterosexual couples.

Nobody suggests for a moment that an overpriced marriage blessed by the Church has any better chance of permanence and stability than a civil ceremony, but it’s intended to get the happy couple off on the right foot.  The incantation that “those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder” is recited more in hope than expectation.

But the biggest issue for the Church of England over same sex marriage is the first of the three ordinands, namely that marriage was ordained for the procreation of children.  It is this insurmountable hurdle that cannot be reconciled with the institution of marriage unless and until the Church agrees to abandon it.

Of course gay and lesbian couples can buy a baby or two or three, as some celebrities have done, but that simply begs the question. This is another seminal moment in the chequered history of the Anglican Church. The Church needs to decide if, as before in 1534, it will bend with the wind and compromise, or stand and fight for one of the basic tenets of the Christian faith.

For my part, I find it extraordinary that the State in the form of the Government would want to involve itself in what is essentially the sole preserve of the Church.  It is not without precedence, as Obama in his election year is supporting same sex marriages, but this may have more to do with his reelection than any high held belief.

God help us.  It is at times like these that we need divine intervention. Too much Mammon and not enough God is a recipe for disaster.


Plans have just been released to celebrate “Britishness” at the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games.  They include a village green with cricket being played, a windmill redolent of a John Constable landscape, sheep gently grazing in the meadow, and artificial clouds ready to rain on the parade in the unlikely event that it’s not chucking it down.

But I was struck more by the obvious omissions of “Britishness” which cry out for pride of place.  Where, for instance, are the gangs of black youths in hoodies riding around on stolen bikes, brandishing knives and Molotov cocktails, ready to burn down their local community centre?  Where are the packs of randy Asians chasing vulnerable underage white girls and brandishing bottles of vodka?  Where is the classroom of obese kids surfing the Internet for porn whilst munching an enormous beefburger with fries?

I hope this panorama of pastoral bliss will also include a number of double decker buses standing idle with union members from Unite, or Disrupt, or Plain Bloody Awkward, brandishing placards demanding an extra £500 minimum for overtime, or else. And I would like to see Bob ‘Bogie’ Crowe leaning out of his tax payer subsidised council house and ranting at the fat cats and the enemies of the working classes, conveniently forgetting that he too is a fat cat, but of a feral breed.

Let’s not forget all the illegal immigrants, hand in hand with their lawyers, clutching their love children, and giving two fingers to the Establishment and their victims of crime.

And finally, no opening ceremony would be complete without a religious theme, so I suggest a sprint round the track by the outgoing Archbishop of Canterbury, hotly pursued by a pack of rabid gays and feminist wannabee bishops, and a gaggle of Muslims screaming “Infidel” at the poor unfortunate man.

Now that’s what I call the quintessence of “Britishness”!

The New Jerusalem

Come the New Jerusalem, when I am elected Divine Leader, I shall abolish all Public Inquiries as a complete waste of time and space.  They are excruciatingly boring, and for the most part, they tell us nothing we didn’t already know.

Take the Saville Inquiry, which lasted the best part of ten years and cost the taxpayer in the region of £300 million.  And we all knew the outcome – there was fault on both sides – end of story.  Then we had the Chilcott Inquiry into the Iraq war.  Can anybody tell me if it’s still going on, or have they drawn stumps?  And again, we all know the outcome – it was an illegal war, there were no weapons of mass destruction, but it removed a Middle Eastern loose cannon, and having sown the wind, we have reaped the whirlwind.

 And now we have the Leveson Inquiry.  Let’s get one thing straight that has been annoying me from the outset.  Lord Justice Leveson is not Lord Leveson, he is Sir Brian Leveson, a Lord Justice of Appeal, and no doubt a thoroughly decent man with the patience of Job. When he’s in court, he’s addressed as My Lord.  Out of court, he’s good old Sir Brian.

 That said, I have real doubts about his remit and what he hopes to achieve.  The little I have seen of the proceedings makes watching paint dry almost exciting, and the lead barrister for the Inquiry looks as if he’s spent the night before on a park bench.

I suspect Lord Justice Leveson will need the wisdom of Solomon to address the primary issue of investigative journalism, namely how far can and should a journalist go for a good story.  He is bound to get it in the neck whatever his pontifications. How can anybody, even with the wisdom of Solomon, decide when the Press and the Media are right or wrong to pursue a hot lead? He can, and no doubt, will, lay down certain rules to limit intrusive investigative journalism, but he cannot, and should not, go beyond this, and rightly not.  It is the judgment not of Solomon or Leveson, but the judgment of the editor, and he must be the final arbiter.  As with any controversial decisions, he may be held to account if his journalists overstep the mark, bu that’s why he’s in the job.

Time and space do not allow for a review of recent headline grabbing revelations that would not otherwise be in the public domain without investigative journalism.  For my part, I couldn’t give two hoots about Simon Cowell’s love life, or the number of times Ryan Giggs has played away, but I do give two hoots, and more, about MPs’ expenses, or back street abortions, or donations for favours, or genital mutilation, or cricket match fixing, or the dozens of other stories that would not have seen the light of day without investigative journalism.

So I say to Lord Justice Leveson and his rag bag camp followers, come the New Jerusalem, you’ll be out of a job, and it’s back to the coal face.