GAFCON or Not?

Finery by Lawrence OP

A fascinating consequence of the looming schism in the Church of England is the rare window it opens into my religious friends' souls.

In polite conversation one isn't supposed to do God so while I know perfectly well that my three cycling buddies all rush off to worship at three different churches after our Sunday morning rides, I've never been able to discern whether it is differences theological, ontological or even musical that draw them to their different altars.

Indeed I couldn't begin to describe what it is, actually, that they believe in - for they are all Anglicans.

For instance do they believe in the Garden of Eden? in Noah and the flood? In the water-boarding of Job? What's their opinion of the Filioque Controversy and was Jesus unbegotten? Do they believe in the bodily assumption of the Virgin Mary? or in the secret marriage of Jesus to Mary Magdalan with a resulting bloodline protected through the centuries by the Knights Templar?

I have simply no idea. Their religion, they will tell you, is central to their lives, and I acknowledge that, but about the details its simply not polite to ask. (I do know that they don't all of them count the Catholics as properly Christian but that hardly sheds any light)


So, when I bumped into one of my three God-fearing friends at the station last week, and he and I travelled up to town together chatting about the weather, the credit crunch and the stories in our morning newspapers, the front page schism spread gave me the a rare and unexpected opportunity to delve a little deeper.

I asked whether he was thinking of joining the GAFCON cell that's formed in Twickenham (apparently they have booked the church hall under the disguise of being of a harmless Yoga group and, having fallen out with the St Margaret's GAFCON, must communicate directly with Richmond GAFCON Command via double-blind dead letter drops)

Well, he said, smiling, no he hasn't "After all, we have a woman vicar at our church, and I'm perfectly comfortable with her"

"But this is all about women bishops isn't it?", I asked, "What about them?"
"No", he said, "I don't agree with women bishops but I wouldn't leave my church over it"
"And what about gay priests? Would you leave your church over them?"
"Well now that is different - Yes, if my church had an openly gay vicar, I think I would have to leave and go somewhere else"

A little silence, as tumbleweed drifted down the aisle.

"The lad Mark Cavendish did good on Wednesday didn't he!" and then we were at Waterloo and we separated.

My friend works at a large and very successful global firm (you will have heard of it) which firmly - and I believe sincerely - champions values of inclusion and diversity. They have plenty of women partners and an active LBGT network, and no doubt gay partners as well.

I thought back to the Ken Costa, and his campaign to bring God to the workplace; and I couldn't but help a little shudder.

Shut Out

by Robby Garbett

This evening I kicked down the side door of our garage.

Well, the lock had somehow broken, and I clamped the up-and-over door completely closed some years ago after the garage was burgled (they stole an electric drill and pair of gloves... ie equipment with which to perform more burglaries. "Burglar bootstrapping" I said to the police with a chuckle, and they asked me how to spell that and said they would come round eleven weeks on Friday.


The key was revolving round in the lock with nothing happening. "It's broken", I pronounced gravely and I took a credit card and slid it into the small gap between the door and the frame. This works in films. It doesn't work in real life.

I fetched my boots and prepared to use force. Mrs Botogol came out to watch, this she was not going to miss. I was not without trepidation - would it do a lot of damage? did I need a sledgehammer? how much force would be required - would it bruise my heel?

I took a deep breath and kicked as hard as I could.

The door flew open immediately and I fell over onto my backside.

An Isle of Joy

CW in the smoke by waltz4aidan

The main drawback of working at Canary Wharf is that too many of us spend too many hours doing just that ... (working).

In the back office of an investment bank 9 to 7 is probably standard; it's longer at month ends and when working on a big project .. and when there's an R in the month... in any language.

For the increasingly neeky traders it's more like 7 to 6, while salesman work, say, 9.30 till dinner and if there's a deal on it's 10am to 2am and takeaway pizza at your desk for the self-important bankers and lawyers.

But no matter what your department the culture's the same: if your team hasn't finished its day's work: then you're not going home. You stay until the job's done¹. No doubt it's this finish-the-job culture in the banks (yes OK, and at the consultants and at the lawyers) that goes a long way to explaining why we have pay 18 year school leavers £21,000 pa to reconcile spreadsheets and newly qualified accountants £65k to do much the same: not many people have the stamina, or the desire, to do jobs like ours once they can see an alternative.


All of which is simply by way of explanation of how little time I get, really, to blog, and that's my excuse to taking five days to respond to Old Fogey's broadside last week.

Now don't get me wrong: I like working in Canary Wharf, and I've run - and walked - often enough and far enough abroad to be familiar with the sights that Fogey mentions (and I can tell you that his nameless bar on Narrow Street is called Booty's and that it's remarkably empty of a Friday lunchtime considering it has a fine river view, a nice pint, and Coq au Vin, and the the old Barley Mow is no more, now a Gordon Ramsay restaurant, F*** me, eh?) But the thing is: I've been to Manhattan, I've worked in Manhattan, I know Manhattan, and Old Fogey, Canary Wharf is no Manhattan.

To be honest it's unfair to even compare the two: to do so is to make what logicians call a 'category error' for they are not same thing at all: Manhattan is an enormous space that contains the beating heart of the magical city of New York, while Canary Wharf is tiny thumbprint of architecturally ordinary development on the geographical, political and cultural fringe of modern London.

It's true that London and New York are (non-identical) twin cities, and so it's really not unreasonable to look for similarities, but our Manhattan is not the Wharf...... it is, rather, the Cities of Westminster and London combined. And then some more! for where is Westminster's Central Park? Well throw in ancient Richmond Park then, and where is its Harlem? Shall we lob in (not entirely convincingly) Brixton, Notting Hill and what? Peckham? and where are the City's skyscrapers? Yes, indeed: to the bustling twin hearts of London, we must add dear Canary Wharf and now the sum of the whole to finally hints at the scale, the diversity and the excitement of the island of Manhattan.

Now, Canary Wharf is a fine place to work in: you can any type of shop, restaurant and bar here (more shops within 10 minutes walk than I ever had when I worked on Fleet Street, or Angel Court, or Broadgate) and all the major chains, but that's the problem: it's too planned and so there's exactly one of every type. And three Starbucks. We have an All Bar One, a Davy's and a Slug and Lettuce, all full of slick-suited twenty-somethings, and we have a Gap a Monsoon and a FCUK, a Carluccio's a Gaucho and an Itsu Sushi.

What we don't have is an eccentric and charming Pavilion End on Watling Street, or a secret and hidden Wynkyn de Worde in St Brides (where I once saw Will Carling dining out, flush-faced and chubby with reflected Princess Di fame) or unique and historic Meson Don Felipe at Waterloo, or the little greengrocer I used to visit off Ludgate Hill with 20 different kinds of wild mushroom and tattered order books from all best hotels, or even the a bustling Broadgate Arena where the old pensioners arrive from the East End at 11:55 to grab the best seats for the lunchtime Jazz, or an Old Doctor Butler's Head, or even a New Doctor Butlers let alone a luxurious, but comfortable Leadenhall market or even a Roux brothers like Finsbury Circus. Of course, a quick bit of Googling confirms that neither does the City have most of these things now, either. Perhaps the world has moved on.

But, sigh, neither do we have a street of Korean restaurants, or an Avenue of South Indian ones, or restaurants that serve entirely raw and vegetarian foods, or Mortons where the steaks weigh 24 ounces and the hash browns are the size of a pizza. And we don't have an Irving Place or a New York library or a JP Morgan museum and we certainly don't have a super-sized China Grill where I remember the leader of our bid-winning team taking us all, on a whim, Table-for-23-please no-problem-sir, margaritas-all-round, coming-right-up, back in the heady, wealthy 1990s.

Sigh, yes give it time! Give Docklands an age. Perhaps one day Canary Wharf Management Ltd will quit spending their time and effort sawing off and removing the cycle locks of its hapless office workers and rent out a shop or a bar to an independent trader with an innovative idea. Perhaps one day the buskers will climb the elevators and ply their trade outside of the tube station, and maybe people will play softball leagues in barren Mudchute.

But until then... I'll take Manhattan.

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¹ Unless, that is, you are lucky enough to be on what is (astonishingly) known as 'flexible working' in which case you'll be leaving no matter what at 5:50 to pick up Felix from the nursery.

Uncertain Tales

Engleby by Sebastian Faulks

Privileged and bright, Mike Engleby has no problem winning a place at a top university in the 1970s where he considers himself the voice of sanity in a bizarre and surreal environment. As his first-person, self-serving story develops the incongruities and unlikely flashes of foresight hint to the reader that this is a narrative that can't be entirely trusted. Colourful, but not entirely convincing secondary characters come and go and the reader is left entertained but not entirely satisfied

8/10. Compelling, if uncomfortably close to home. What if all Cambridge experiences were like this?

Liars's Poker by Michael Lewis

Privileged and bright, when Michael Lewis leaves his top university in the 1970s he has no problem lucking into a dream job at Salomons, where he considers himself a voice of sanity in a bizarre and surreal environment. As his first-person, self-serving story develops the incongruities and unlikely flashes of foresight hint to the reader that this is a narrative that cannot entirely be trusted. Colourful, but not entirely convincing secondary characters come and go and the reader is left entertained but not entirely satisfied. Or not all of them

7/10. I liked it, if a bit uncomfortably close to home. What if all investment banks were like this?

The odd thing is: I picked up this book hard on the heels of Engleby, thinking it would make a change.

Nolstagic Reminders of Projects Long Neglected #1: Statuesque

Large Mermaid by botogol

I joined flickr in 2005; not so early that I can call myself a pioneer, but way before the dead hand of yahoo almost spoilt it all.

In those days flickr was small as well as cool and for a while I hung out with some genuine photoheads, but it turned out I was among them but not of them: my flickr DNA reveals I have posted 408 photos and been favourited only once.

Sticking photos on the web is fun, but I wanted more and, looking for the web2.0 idea that would make my fortune, I started one hundred and twenty eight groups but none of them, alas, turned out to be lolcatz.

This is my best idea: statuesque.

Founded 2005 it now has 41 active members and 67 photos - and not all of them uploaded by me! You'd think that was impressive - until you realised that it's 280 fewer members than love my hamster, and 5,800 fewer members than squared circle (yep I did a four of those as well).

For my money I think statuesque is an idea 160% better than lolcatz (but obviously only 53% as good as dogbook). It deserves so much more and I wonder how one goes about getting more members.. Other than seek and go pimp (HT George Oates) Blog about it perhaps?


Warning: Statuesque can seriously spook your children. A promising statue and a tiny reach for the camera can cause them to scatter precipitately with neither sense nor caution.

On Safari

Book Club by wander.lust

Mrs Botogol and I are nothing if not energetic and after Interesting2008 we rushed straight home for a Safari Dinner organised by Mrs Botogol's book club

Now if you're thinking: "Safari Dinner"? Isn't that a slightly childish activity, best suited to giggling twenty-somethings in an alcoholic haze rushing excitedly from room to room down the corridors of the halls of residence for an endless succession of courses each one progressively more dried-up and more burnt than the one before?", then I'm retorting: "You haven't met Mrs Botogol's book club!"

To this day Mrs B will maintain that they do all read the books but I, frankly, suspect a poker school. Let's just say that the first Wednesday of last month (The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy) featured precious few Brodie's Notes but rather a lot of mysterious ATM withdrawals, and all along our street they are still talking about that all-nighter pulled in the back garden of number 50 during the long, long, cicada'd, mexican, velvet summer of 2006 (The Beach by Alex Garland)

A week or two ago some neighbours knocked on the doors in our road to apologise in advance for the noise of an upcoming 21st birthday party - "Oh don't worry about it all", charmed my friend and fellow book-club widower, Roger, "make as much noise as you like for next week, round at ours, there's Book Club!"

On Safari, the husbands rose to the occasion (without a barbecue even) and did much of the cooking while the book-club critiqued: it was like a cross between the Hell's Kitchen and the F-Word. I has been allotted course three of seven labelled, confusingly, the starter. With one husband-course before me and two to follow, reputations were up for grabs and Sabotage and Mischief caught my ear and laid out their tempting wares. After some thought I decided upon a rich and creamy high-carb, spoiler following which courses 4-7 would surely languish uneaten and unappreciated. Potato soup with lardons and focaccia bread, preceded by an amuse-bouche of an individual ravioli parcel stuffed with goats cheese all in a sour-cream source. But midweek Mrs Botogol saw the Ocado order and she suggested firmly that I might switch to my signature prawns in a warm courgette salad. I cooked it theatre-style in front of my less than amazed guests.

All in all, I think it went down very well.

And let's be clear: not a single one of the courses at our safari dinner were the least burnt or dried up, indeed the book club safari was a resounding success, for I heard a rumour that one of the club sometimes reads this blog, and I don't want any small waxen miniature Botogol pierced with a ceremonial needle on the first Wednesday of July (Heart Of Darkness by Joseph Conrad)

Interesting2008

photo by rooreynolds

Well it was .... well, what do you know: it actually was interesting.

It was also a little bit thirtysomething, Mrs Botogol and I must have been - what? - 10 years above the average age. Well, judge for yourself, there we are in the picture... if you can spot us.. Either way, I was glad I had had my one-and-a-half on Thursday.

Twenty-Nine speakers, with between 4 and 20 minutes each on a range of topics from Lego (a highlight) to Winston Churchill; from Acoustic Cosmology (cough) to scotch eggs and all led by the lugubrious yet excitable Russell Davies

I guess eclectic is the appropriate word.

My favourite: a cleverly constructed ten minutes from Matt Webb where a stream of apparently random ideas dovetailed together to prove that before the Europeans arrived there was a different sort of physics in Patagonia. Yes, you at the back, you can smile.... but....

A lowlight: don't you just hate Mexican Waves?

An interesting fact: did you know that horses have a great big blind-spot right in front of their faces? Given that this is an animal capable of forty-miles an hour that seems to pretty much spell curtains for intelligent design.

I spent the breaks planning my smash-hit appearance at Interesting2009. But what to talk about? I am torn between My-experience-on-the-fourth-plinth, and J P Alibert: Hero of Botogol

Other Lives

by Lex in the City

I blame Russell Davies and specifically tip #7 in How to be interesting

7. Once a week sit in a coffee-shop or cafe for an hour and listen to other people’s conversations. Take notes. Blog about it. (Carefully)

I wasn't in a coffee shop I was on the tube, and I wasn't listening to a conversation I was, well.... I couldn't help seeing... I mean I didn't want to look ... but really... if someone is going to write their secret diary on a crowded tube, well, it can't be that secret, can it?

• Her right-hand page was headed TO DO w/c 9 June
  In my day-book I also have a page with that title: it's full of items transcribed from TO DO w/c 2 June.

• Her left hand page was headed Feelings
  In my day-book I don't have a page like that.

So I quit emailing, and smartly alt-tabbed my blackberry to the notes function.

She was getting divorced and she had a lot To Do

• email David re Primary Care
• email David re 60%
• email David re Car
• 10am call David
  

Some days she was feeling focused, but other days she was feeling overwhelmed.

In the centre of the left hand page was written

CANADA: If I want to have complete control over Georgie's love, then we have to move. (But what if David doesn't agree to to 60%?)

She had written lots more but when arrived at Canary Wharf I fumbled my 'berry and managed to exit notes without saving. I guess it served me right.

14 Wild Ideas

by mskogly

So here's a fun article: 14 Wild Ideas, 5 of which are true from the always fascinating Robin Hanson

Sounds like a challenge. Call me systematic if you like, but on the train home I couldn't help but rank them myself: high chance, medium, low and fat.

It's a game you can play at home.

In the buckets I placed four, four, three and three ideas respectively. I wonder if anyone can guess my top four. Or bottom three.

Levelling Out

Vodka Level by - Martin Koitmäe

It turns out the floor of the cellar in our house is far from level and every time the washing machine reached the spinning bit it rattled and it shook, and it walked down the slope until its power lead came out of its socket.

"We need to get a longer extension lead, perhaps", I remarked to Mrs Botogol when I took down her supper, and placed it carefully beside her on top of the the shuddering appliance, "it's a shame you having to spend so much time down here, and in the dark as well"

Mrs B invited me to try and think of a better solution, please, and within days I had it: "I'll build a platform", I said, "lightweight but sturdy, closely-contoured yet level, of chipboard or MDF, as wide as the cellar and exactly 605 mill deep"

"Lovely, but do you think you can dear", she asked, not unkindly, "after all: it's a long time since you did any DIY, and isn't your tape measure marked up in inches?"

Reader, I will leave you to judge by results: for a platform it indubitably is.

I had to buy a new saw to do it (from the tiny store) and on that multi-toothed blade I cut myself four times. On the floor there you may just be able to make out traces of mopped-up blood.