Hidden in Plain Sight at Manchester Cathedral

Easter Sunday at Manchester Cathedral

For Easter Sunday yesterday, I attended the sung Eucharist at Manchester Cathedral, presided over by the Dean, with the Bishop of Manchester as preacher. According to the service pamphlet, the Bishop now holds the additional title of Professor.

After the service, whilst the organist played out the proceedings, I spoke with some visitors to the church: a man and his daughter from South Carolina. Later, I met another visitor, of whom I made no intrusive enquiry, but shared a few nuggets about the cathedral's history and peculiarities.

Hidden Histories in Plain Sight

As I queued for a cup of tea, I looked up and noticed a plaque I had never seen before. This is one of the remarkable features of this religious building, which has been situated, renovated, and rebuilt over the span of a millennium: it has become a reliquary of history, people, and events too numerous to see or notice, even if you have attended the cathedral for over a decade.

Moreover, I do not recall my attention ever being drawn to the two things I saw yesterday. These included a colourful set of paintings depicting the Beatitudes which, in my fascination at the discovery (shared with other long-term congregants who were equally oblivious to them), I forgot to photograph. Perhaps the experience alone is more worthwhile than the need to capture it on imperfect devices.

The Samuel Ogden Connection

The plaque commemorated a name that labels a street close to my accommodation: Samuel Ogden. It has caused intrigue, though not enough curiosity, much like Sir Joseph Whitworth, the 19th-century engineer, entrepreneur, inventor, and philanthropist. Whitworth lends his name to a major street from which Samuel Ogden Street branches, as well as to a gallery, a hall, and a park, all in Manchester. He also gave his name to a British Standard for screw threads and left a huge bequest to the Christie Hospital.

The plaque commemorates father and son, written in Latin inscription. With no classics scholar friend about to translate it for our understanding, I took a picture and asked AI to transcribe and translate.

Samuel Ogden was a Cambridge-educated priest who held the chair in geography at the university, even though he was not qualified in the discipline. The plaque suggests he was not equal in merit to his father; yet the documented history of the son suggests a man of great achievement and considerable fortune at his demise.

The plaque is primarily about Thomas Ogden, the father, who, according to his son's Wikipedia entry, was a dyer. I can find no other biographical information about Thomas apart from what appears on the plaque itself. It should be read in the context of 18th-century funerary plaques.

The Ogden plaque - Manchester Cathedral

The Latin transcription

M · S ·

THOMÆ OGDEN

Mancuniensis,
Indole generosâ,
Moribus suavissimis,
Sermonis comitate, lepore, modestia,
cæterisque humanioribus virtutibus adornati:
eminente inter alias Pietate;
primum erga Parentes,
quos ætate confectos,
e pluribus natis minimus,
ad se recepit, observavit, extulit:
deinde erga Filium unicum,
SAMUELEM OGDEN,
quem tractavit educavitque liberalissimè:
qui vicissim illi,
non meritis parem,
lubenti certè animo,
gratiam referebat.

Ob: Anno { Dom: 1766.
Ætat: 75.

The English translation

Sacred to the memory of
Thomas Ogden,
a native of Manchester,

Of noble character,
most gentle in manners,
adorned with courtesy in speech, wit, modesty,
and the other refined virtues;
distinguished above all for his devotion:

First toward his parents,
whom, worn out by age,
though himself the youngest of many children,
he received into his care, attended, and supported;

Then toward his only son,
Samuel Ogden,
whom he treated and educated most generously;

And he in return,
though not equal to his father in merit,
yet with willing heart
gratefully repaid him.

He died in the Year of our Lord 1766,
aged 75.

Eyes Lined Up

The Art of Making Up One's Mind

I cannot recall where, but I read a quote that gave me a wry smile, probably decades ago, which said, “I put lipstick on my forehead to make up my mind.”

Make-up as applied by people could be to accentuate the positive, conceal the unseemly, or exaggerate the bizarre. I wouldn't know, as I use neither lipstick nor blusher, but I have my mind made up about a few things.

A Modern Avon Lady

After paying for groceries this evening at Aldi, I walked past a cashier at one of the checkouts and my eyes were drawn to hers, as they were marked out with dark eyeliner; you could not miss them. I thought she might be a quintessential Aldi lady, in profession and looks, borrowing the idea of Avon ladies from a time before.

Canal Street’s Spectacle

Then on Canal Street in Manchester, the centre of the Gay Village, there are lots of female impersonators or drag queens in desperately outlandish make-up, and the less said of their apparel and high-heeled footwear that would commit the sensible to the emergency room of an orthopaedic hospital, the better. They regale us with offers of cheap drinks to patronise the clubs they represent.

I am left wondering whether this is for them a profession they get paid for or just a hobby. I had a fascination for that subculture and their performances in the early 1990s, but I am much less enamoured by the spectacle today.

From Subculture to Mainstream

Yet, this genre has gained global reality television popularity in the drag race competitions started by RuPaul. One such drag queen from Manchester was a runner-up in the inaugural UK series.

In my view, no self-respecting woman would go to the extent of a drag queen, except perhaps ladies of a certain persuasion of questionable repute. Yet, in the case of the drag queen I saw on my way home, there was both eyeliner and eyeshadow that would make Nefertiti blush.

The Fine Line Between Art and Excess

The use of make-up can be abused, and it does get abused to garish and grotesque levels. Some end up quite ghoulish, enough to put you to great fright if observed in dim light. However, all we can do is be entertained from a distance. We wouldn’t want to be represented by them so closely that the association becomes difficult and inconvenient.

On Spectacle and Proximity

There's something revealing about our relationship with spectacle. We’re drawn to what's unusual, extreme, even outrageous, yet we instinctively maintain a boundary between observation and involvement. A rather blunt Yoruba saying captures this tension: “A mad man is a sight to watch in the marketplace, but not a joy to have as a relation.”

The proverb isn’t really about madness; it's about how we engage with what lies outside our norms. We watch, we’re entertained, perhaps even fascinated, but we preserve distance. It’s an honest, if uncomfortable, acknowledgement of how most of us actually behave towards those we find bewildering or excessive.

Yet this instinct towards separation deserves examination. We may counter it with the humbling reflection of John Bradford: “There but for the grace of God go I.” We are no better than the other but for grace, mercy, and fortune. What separates the observer from the observed may be nothing more than circumstance, upbringing, or mere chance.

This is not a critique or a celebration, just a neutral observation inviting conversation and opinion.

Blog - I wear lipstick (November 2005)

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

A Woman Archbishop: Reflections

A Historic Moment

Watching the enthronement of the new Archbishop of Canterbury left me with both a sense of awe and the resignation of acceptance. When the last Archbishop resigned in November 2024, it did occur to me that there was a likelihood the next person appointed to the office might radically shift from the norm, a woman perhaps.

I stated then that I was not particularly ready for that kind of change when the Church of England had only begun appointing female bishops barely a decade ago. Yet, with my Pentecostal exposure, I was already familiar with women teaching from the pulpit and leading Christian ministries.

Tradition and Change

The traditions of the Church of England have a history, constancy, and stability that I felt should not be defined by speed, but by the gentle persuasion of clergy and laity alike towards necessary aims. Obviously, there have been insurmountable issues in certain provinces of the global Anglican Communion: the ordination of women priests, the issue of sexual orientation, and the blessing of same-sex unions. The conversation must continue, even if agreement remains distant.

Generally, I have accepted the ministry of women in the Church of England, as canons, priests, archdeacons, and bishops. I also recognise that at ordinations, a separate service attends to those who do not accept the ministry of women, with a flying bishop of that persuasion presiding in that setting. I must confess, I have only seen female bishops in the media; I have never met one or been in a service with them in attendance.

The Ceremony Itself

The enthronement service brought the spectacle of religion, politics, and ceremony, along with the pomp and pageantry that the English excel at exhibiting. Representatives of all the different religious communities attended, including the Bishop of Ebbsfleet, one of those flying bishops of a different persuasion mentioned earlier.

For all the acclamation and pronouncements, I was surprised that the ceremony included no laying on of hands. It was more the dainty holding of a hand.

Moving Forward

This process was one in which I had no influence, apart from individually deciding whether appointing a woman as Archbishop sat well with my belief system. There was enough precedent in other provinces to suggest this would settle down into a kind of détente that demands both dexterity and political nous from the office holder.

I know I won't be rushing out to a service presided over by The Most Reverend and Right Honourable Dame Sarah Mullally DBE, yet I wish her term is blessed with success and the reconciliation of the church in whatever way possible. May we, in our misgivings or concerns, see the grace and beauty in what we as mere mortals fail to appreciate in the growth of the church.

Blog - England: We have a new Archbishop of Canterbury, she's a woman

Blog - Losing my religion in this reformation split

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

The Three Musketeers running errands blind

The Three Shopping Musketeers

The amusing appearance of the three musketeers, or so it seemed, as these three men were sent on errands by their spouses to shop at an ethnic grocery and foodstuffs store. They wheeled the trolley with the dexterity of a Formula 1 driver, but the filling of it resembled the discombobulation of three blind mice on the run after their tails were cut.

For one, they appeared entirely out of their depth, clearly in alien territory and unsure of what they needed to get. They were constantly on the phone with someone, trying to describe items to ascertain the right thing to put in the basket.

If that task were not hard enough, the banter between them at the butcher's counter, where they attempted to display their knowledge of meats, revealed more about their dilettantism than any genuine expertise.

Lost in the Aisles

I engaged them, asking why their wives were not doing the shopping and whether they were aware of the measures, weights, packaging or containers for whatever they were getting. They were lost in aisle after aisle, perambulating without the focus of a shopper with intent. If the trolley had an odometer, the mileage counter would have had someone asking if they had been to Timbuktu and back.

There they were, in full recognition of their helplessness, yet the most important thing they could have done is what deserts men when they need it most: ask a question, get clarification, seek understanding, all of which does not suggest stupidity but curiosity.

In this, The Three Musketeers had brought to light the loyalty of their friendship, the bravery of doing something outside their abilities, the camaraderie of men lost in a store, and the swashbuckling adventure with a trolley now delirious from whirling around the aisles.

All for One

Maybe I should have offered to help if they had betrayed the slightest vulnerability, but bravado was on display without any sign of winning, and I found much mirth at their expense. It would have been impolite to insert myself because they were perfectly representing the “All for one, and one for all” motto of The Three Musketeers.

As I was leaving the store, I intimated that it would be closing in 30 minutes and they had better hurry up, or they would be pulling down the shutters with nothing to show for their, what's the word now? Excursion!

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Heritage Without Nostalgia

Observing Heritage from a Distance

Two events this month should have created a kind of nostalgia in me, but I seriously failed to be excited about either. I had become an observer of sorts of elements that have formed part of my identity.

Whilst in Cape Town, there was the Commonwealth Day Service at Westminster Abbey on the 9^th of March, and then yesterday came the conclusion of the first UK state visit in 37 years by a West African head of state, the Nigerian one. [The Royal Family: State Visit by The President and First Lady of Nigeria]

The first event gained significance through someone I follow on Twitter/X who had been invited to a reception at St James's Palace, though he could not attend because he was indisposed. As an activist for Nigerian immigrant causes, he had become prominent enough to be noticed and recognised as an important Nigerian diaspora figure.

For the state banquet at Windsor Castle, several people of Nigerian heritage were invited to represent the Nigerian community, many of whom have stronger roots in the United Kingdom than in Nigeria.

An English Identity

My living parents are Nigerian, but I was born in England, and though I have strong influences of Nigeria in my identity framework, I do not identify as such. To any question about where I am from, I respond that I am an Englishman, and I am originally from England.

This is reinforced by the fact that two-thirds of my life has been spent in Europe. Even for ethnic purposes, I would describe myself as Black English rather than the typical Black British or Black African.

This distinction matters to me because Black British functions as an umbrella term that groups together vastly different backgrounds and experiences, often implying a hyphenated identity or connection to a diaspora narrative.

Black English, by contrast, centres my English identity as primary. It asserts that I am English who happens to be Black, rather than suggesting divided loyalties or perpetual newcomer status.

The choice is deliberate: it reflects where I was born, where I belong, and how I understand myself. It challenges the assumption that Blackness and Englishness are somehow contradictory, and it refuses to accept that “English” is synonymous with “white.” For someone like me, whose connection to Nigeria exists more in memory than in meaningful attachment, this specificity matters.

The Outsider's Accent

I can reminisce about aspects of childhood and development that have served me well from having lived in Nigeria, yet for the simple reason that I had an accent, I was always an outsider.

That accent was no affectation; it was the sound of my formative years, the linguistic imprint of the England where I first learned to speak, to think, to understand the world. By the time we moved to Nigeria, my identity architecture was already established.

The English pronunciation I arrived with immediately identified me as different. In the playground, in the classroom, even within extended family gatherings, the way I spoke became a constant reminder that I did not belong in the same way others did.

Children would mimic my speech, adults would comment on how I sounded “British” or call me “Òyìnbó,” and I became known as “Ọmọ ìlú Òyìnbó,” the boy born abroad, or more literally, the child born in white-man’s land.

The accent was an audible barrier that no amount of time or adaptation could fully erase, a daily declaration of otherness that shaped my understanding of where I truly belonged.

The irony, of course, is that this very accent that made me perpetually foreign in Nigeria was simply part of the spectrum of English voices from the West Midlands. In Nigeria, I was told daily through reactions to my speech that I was foreign; in England, I simply was.

My parents, who moved from Nigeria to England and back, could navigate both worlds with the fluency of belonging. They spoke the languages without pronounced accents, understood the unspoken rules, carried the cultural memory in their bones. I had none of these inheritances.

Where they were returning home, I was simply living abroad. This distinction, between inherited belonging and biographical accident, crystallised my understanding that identity is not a matter of bloodline but of lived experience and genuine connection.

The experience taught me something fundamental: identity is not about where others place you, but where you place yourself, and where you are recognised as belonging without constant explanation.

Detachment and Memory

In terms of identity, whilst I am interested in what goes on in Nigeria, I am more detached than ever. The closest association nowadays depends on whether my flight between France or the Netherlands and Cape Town flies over the Nigerian landmass, where place names trigger some memory or recognition from more than 50 years ago.

In general, I have determined there is no reason to visit Nigeria since I left over 35 years ago. I have the name, I have the influences, I have the memories, but the nostalgia has fully settled into obsolescence and insignificance.

Gratitude Without Nostalgia

Yet I love that Nigeria was part of my upbringing because it strengthened elements of self-identity, self-esteem, and self-respect. For that alone, I am grateful for the Nigerian experience, as it reinforces the context and sense of who I am.

God bless Nigeria, for when things are going well in Nigeria, there is less anxiety for all of us associated, even in the remotest sense, with Nigeria.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Addressing A Marble-Sized Problem

An Unexpected Medical Crisis

One situation the day before necessitated a visit to the Accident & Emergency Department of Manchester Royal Infirmary yesterday morning. A 30-minute walk home from work took the best part of 75 minutes.

I was tired, shuffling my feet, and enduring discomfort and pain in the groin area. At first, I thought it was tissue bruising or chafing until a shower inspection suggested it might be something more serious. It was hard and needed checking out.

First Impressions at A&E

On arrival at A&E, I observed a patient with what appeared to be two cannulations visible beneath the long sleeve on his right arm. He had come outside to smoke. Whilst I am usually baffled by such behaviour, I am coming to understand that the hold smoking addiction has over people, regardless of their health condition, requires extraordinary intervention to overcome.

The triage process included a referral to the Urgent Treatment Centre (UTC), with a waiting time of about 40 minutes. The nurse at reception who registered me for treatment shares the same birthday as I do, though I was polite enough not to ask about her year of birth.

We both agreed that, through the generations, getting separate presents for birthdays between 21 December and Christmas was a rarity, a trauma carried into adulthood. We had a good laugh about it.

Assessment and Referrals

At the UTC, after exchanging introductory pleasantries, I was examined on a gurney. The assessment indicated that I had a swelling, quite possibly an abscess, and I was being referred to the Ambulatory Care Unit (ACU). By this time, my bearings within the labyrinthine corridors of the hospital had been lost, though following the directions proved helpful enough.

At the ACU, the nurse examined the groin area. In all cases, the nurses were female, and I had no qualms about having my privates reviewed in a medical setting. The abscess was still quite solid and showed no indication of producing pus. However, she did attempt to squeeze it to obtain a culture sample. That was exceedingly painful, but needs must.

Afterwards, she took two vials of blood following a second intravenous insertion and wrote a prescription for co-amoxiclav, to be taken three times a day for a week.

Navigating the Hospital Complex

The pharmacy was located in the Manchester Royal Eye Hospital. The best directions I received came from a helpful porter who said, “Go on until all the signs turn yellow and you're at your destination.” After registering my prescription order (free for two reasons: I have been a registered cancer patient within the last five years, and I am over 60), I went to the toilet.

There, I was able to examine the problem more closely. It was the size of a marble, with a bit of hardened tissue extending from the ball of the abscess. This is medically known as the inguinal region or, more specifically, the inguinoscrotal region. Because the abscess sits within this crease, friction and rubbing exacerbate the pain, affecting the way I walk as I try to minimise the discomfort.

Managing the Pain

Even after taking pain medication, the pain was such that I was almost bent over double whilst walking around my flat. I tried a hot compress last night and plan to do so again this morning. However, I have been advised that if this abscess does not clear up within a few days, I should return to A&E to have it incised and drained. This is not a prospect I am looking forward to.

For now, I am indisposed and taking bed rest, having padded the area with some cotton wool.

My visit to A&E, from triage to collecting my prescription, took less than four hours.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

How Charles de Gaulle Fails Woefully at Customer Assistance

An Experience Best Forgotten

My experience at Charles de Gaulle (CDG) Airport in Paris yesterday evening is one to be forgotten for all time. As someone who has used a walking cane for decades, this airport poorly manages access for those with mobility issues. The walks are long, lifts are usually out of service, and toilets are rarely situated near where you need them.

After radiotherapy treatment for prostate cancer in 2024, I have requested airport Customer Assistance for all legs of my journey, but this is the first time I have passed through CDG. In Manchester, Amsterdam, and Cape Town, beyond the issue with easily accessible toilets for those in the assistance pool, there was information, consideration, assistance, and personnel to do the job.

Unprepared and Understaffed

Even though Air France-KLM was aware of my request for almost three months, their preparedness for it at CDG left much to be desired. We arrived at the end of a 12-hour flight from Cape Town, and there was no one at the gate to collect the three of us who needed assistance. I had to ask the flight crew what the situation was.

I was assured they would be with us soon, but one lady arrived with a wheelchair to convey three of us. She applied almost octopus-like skill to laden herself with our carry-on luggage, and we basically had to walk the few hundred yards through security to the waiting area. The information was muddled and unclear, but we waited until a shuttle bus arrived.

Neither Voice Nor Agency

Our boarding passes were in the hands of the personnel, being passed around between them to our collective discomfort. Each time, someone had to ask if the boarding passes were still around. Many of the personnel we encountered at this international airport spoke to us in French. It was uncomfortable.

In the end, we resigned ourselves to the fact that we would be delivered to wherever we needed to be, because our incapacity seemed to be a debilitating disability for which we had neither voice nor agency. Delivered to the gate, my boarding pass was checked, but I was barely noticed when we were asked to board.

A Systemic Failure

From this experience, if you have mobility issues, CDG must be avoided at all costs. This is not an issue with the people at the front line delivering the service; rather, it is a management failure laid bare. Totally unacceptable and utterly despicable. "Appalled" does not begin to describe what should warrant the high point of a one-star review of this service—dishonest at best.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog