In memory of the children of Aberfan, 21st October 1966 Before the Bell Rang There are mornings that never end, only echo. Aberfan was one of them. The rain had fallen through the night — the kind of Welsh rain that softens the hills but sharpens the nerves. By half past nine, the children of … Continue reading The Slag Heap of Forgetfulness
Category: history
They All Love Jack: The Gospel According to the Gutters
I’ve long suspected that the Ripper mystery isn’t so much about one man’s madness as it’s about a whole empire’s mask slipping. You can smell the hypocrisy before you even open Bruce Robinson’s They All Love Jack. It’s the stench of gaslight and gin, of sanctimonious gentlemen who polished their Masonic jewels while the poor … Continue reading They All Love Jack: The Gospel According to the Gutters
The Archbishopric of Canterbury: From Augustine’s Cloak to Sarah’s Mitre
This piece has been a long time in gestation. Ever since Justin Welby announced his departure, I've found myself jotting notes, revisiting history, and anticipating the inevitable turn the Church of England would take. Today’s announcement is therefore no surprise - only the confirmation of what many of us had already suspected. It seemed fitting, … Continue reading The Archbishopric of Canterbury: From Augustine’s Cloak to Sarah’s Mitre
A Ghost in the Glass: Charlotte Brontë and the Churchyard Photograph
Haworth Churchyard photograph, John Stewart, c.1856–57. © Brontë Society. Sourced via annebronte.org. There’s a photograph - albumen print, sepia-toned, crisp with the shadows of headstones - that has set imaginations aflame for more than a century. It shows Haworth churchyard, with its lichen-bitten tombs and overhanging sky, a place where the dead vastly outnumber the … Continue reading A Ghost in the Glass: Charlotte Brontë and the Churchyard Photograph
Winter’s Gibbet: A Scaffold Without a Show
“A scaffold without a show, a sermon without words. Here absence hangs heavier than any corpse.” - Me The trouble with gibbets is that they're both too much and not enough. Too much when they hold their grisly trophies aloft for the crows; not enough when they stand bare against the horizon, gaunt as a … Continue reading Winter’s Gibbet: A Scaffold Without a Show
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