A Second Witness

I had already reviewed this place once. When friends unknowingly visited the same restaurant four days later, they endured the very same treatment, bad manners in person, their time wasted, and warm words only for the audience online. So much for "dignity and respect, always".

A Reunion and a Request

Having met up with friends I had not seen in forty years at the Jerry Eze event, we were invited to their Airbnb apartment the following evening. My best friend, being the cousin of the lady, was asked to gather ideas on where to find Nigerian takeaway meals.

Given where they were staying, I looked up nearby locations for deliveries, unaware that they intended to collect the food themselves. My friend, already familiar with my experience at the restaurant the week before, felt that it was my exacting standards, rather than poor customer service, that had informed my unfavourable review of the place.

Against My Better Judgement

Whilst I disagreed, he prevailed upon me, and against my better judgement, I shared details of this place along with an alternative. As it was a Sunday, there was a possibility that the restaurant could fulfil an order placed early and collected later. We did not share anything else about my experience, so as to eliminate any bias towards the outfit.

They received the information after attending church in the early afternoon, and set off to collect the order in the late afternoon. It was a single order for the four of us: the old favourites of okra stew and semolina for my best friend and me, and egusi stew with pounded yam for our friends.

A Familiar Disappointment

They had their own ordeal: a bad attitude from the chef, who closed the door in their faces, whilst the manager who had cut off my call during the earlier episode now played the apologetic service provider, distancing himself from the situation whilst asking for a good review.

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

My friends had their time wasted. The food was not ready when they had agreed to collect it, and there were others also waiting, in what looked less like a busy day than a business accustomed to holding customers in hock once an order has been placed and no alternatives remain. Coupled with a lackadaisical manner, it amounted to taking on more than they could handle.

They ended up going to McDonald's for a bite, because they could not even get basic snack food elsewhere, before returning for a long wait to collect. More than an hour of the afternoon was lost on a business that has no concept of the value of time.

An Apology for the Audience

Their public reply, posted to my Google Maps review, read as contrite yet revealed itself as mere sophistry. They assured me that they "treat everyone with dignity and respect always", a claim my friends could comfortably refute, having had a door shut in their faces by the chef.

They were glad I thought the food good, gutted that I felt the call was dropped, and insistent that it was not from their end and that they had rung back before seeing the review.

Yet the warmth arrived only once the review was public. Had that courtesy been extended in the moment, my friends would have had a very different afternoon. An apology prompted by an audience is not service; it is damage control.

The Verdict

With a second, unconnected customer having had the very same experience, one can conclude that the first review was not off the mark. When people show you who they are the first time, that is who they are. Whilst I am still sparing them the ignominy of being named and shamed, they would never be recommended again.

The meal was passable, yet the okra stew never reached my expectations in aroma, taste, quality, or quantity; it was forgettable. Our friends fared no better: they had wanted egusi and were served efo riro instead, with pounded yam, and were offered an extra portion of pounded yam only on condition that they left a good review. It was another case of food advertised on the app proving unavailable once the order was placed.

To think I had suffered the indignity of excusing bad manners for the sake of good food, only to find that the food I really wanted did not make the grade. Best to blot it out of memory: a brief encounter to end all encounters.

Reference: my original review, "Essential Snobbery 101: Good Food Is No Substitute for Good Manners" (akinblog.nl, 23 September 2026).

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Essential Snobbery 101: Good Food Is No Substitute for Good Manners

A Daring Customer

I am that kind of customer, sometimes daring and adventurous. I have ordered prescription glasses online, and I have been fortunate enough to order clothes, suits, and shoes from a catalogue without the need to return them, because they fit.

Most people would prefer a brick-and-mortar shop or a high-street store for such articles, where they can try before they buy; the daring, for me, is in trusting that they will fit at all.

I rarely try on clothes in a fitting room, except for tailored suits, where I expect the service personnel to be knowledgeable about style, fit, comfort, and suitable choices. That is their métier. Whether I am buying blind from a catalogue or standing at a tailor's counter, the thread that runs through it all is the same: service.

Curiosity and Its Rewards

Walking down a street, I might find an ethnic goods shop and step inside, my curiosity piqued by a sense of nostalgia; the same goes for restaurants too. What I expect is friendliness, professionalism, and service. Our common familiarity, if we choose to converse in our own language, still requires that standard to be kept.

Nine years ago, I walked into such a shop in Edinburgh, and what a welcome I received. A smiling, affable proprietor, ready to assist, presided over an Aladdin's cave of mouthwatering and irresistible delicacies. Amidst all the pleasantries, I treated myself to ready meals and drinks, but I could not leave without taking pictures of the shop.

A Tale of Two Reviews

A few days before, in the same city, I had visited a Nigerian restaurant, and I had a worse time of it than Dr Foster's visit to Gloucester. The service was abysmal. I was not attended to when I arrived, the place was dirty, dishes had not been cleared from the tables, and the personnel were glum. I had travelled far, and I should have left.

I wrote about both experiences. I write reviews about forgettable and extraordinary things, rarely about anything in between.

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

I published a review on my blog, along with an accompanying Google Maps page, and the shop has since garnered over one million views. Every few months, I get messages from the proprietress thanking me, though I thank her simply for being good, and for being good at what she does.

Blog - Edinburgh: MaDeb African Shop (June 2017)

Choosing Where to Spend

There are businesses I have visited that have never had a return visit, for all sorts of reasons: unprofessionalism, bad customer service, bad manners, a lack of attention to detail, or lapses in honesty, probity, and integrity.

There is also food served so hot that it scalds the fingers, usually because it has just come out of a microwave, and service so tardy that by the time the food arrives you have lost your appetite and it goes home in a doggie bag.

Sometimes it is the mild infractions that speak volumes; cutting corners, or bad vibes. In the latter case, it might be a me rather than them issue. Just as any business can choose to whom it opens its doors, I have the option to choose to whom I give my custom.

The Okra Stew That Never Was

A sudden desire for some home food had me grazing through Deliveroo last week, and from the menu I chose okra stew and semolina, asun and fried fish. Some time after my order was accepted, I received a call: they had run out of okra stew. I settled for egusi stew, when I should have cancelled the order altogether, but the logistics of getting my money back, coupled with hunger, had me settle for less.

However, I was promised that okra stew would be available the next day, or later in the week. Before I placed my second order, I rang ahead to find out whether it was on offer, and it was not. I would not go for second best if I had not already ordered or paid for anything.

Today, I called again, hoping to get my preferred choice. As soon as the male voice heard the words "okra stew", he simply hung up. All he had to do was say that it was unavailable, or off the menu. Service is the first component of an enduring business.

Good Food, Bad Manners

I did have my eye on bigger orders after sampling those portions. I am a random customer who chose this outfit from a list of options, and I will not be placing orders here again; good food is no substitute for good manners. That was the sum of my review.

In my view, how I am treated as a stranger could well be the experience of others. I do not assume I was singled out for the best or the worst a business has to offer. Nor do I wait to express my opinion on a service; I was on their web page, tapping away, and that was the seed for this blog.

The Call That Saved a Name

Halfway through writing this, I placed an order for Italian food from Vapiano, a global chain, using a 40% voucher Deliveroo had offered against any order, to be used by the end of the month. I had not used Deliveroo in over four years until last week. The discount left scope for a generous tip for the courier.

Then came a phone call. It was the man from the restaurant where I had wanted okra stew, pleading that he was returning a missed call. There was enough elastic stretching the truth to turn a wristband into a waistband. He had answered my earlier call, and I had spoken more than ten words before he hung up; that could hardly be called a missed call.

It is likely he had read the review I posted on their web page, and that this call was meant to ameliorate, to soothe my feelings. I had to hear him out before I remonstrated. That call saved them from being named and shamed in this piece. I have to write of my experience, though, rather than of my expectations.

This is the sentiment that governs every review I have given or written, and it follows that notable quote from Maya Angelou: "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." You rarely ever get another chance to improve on a bad impression.

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Chicken suya, an emetic aid

A review from the start

A review is subjectively a random stranger's opinion of an experience they've had. I never think of an experience as one where I've been selected to receive the good or the bad of a service. This is why I take reviews seriously: the experience of many averages out to net good, net bad, or neither good nor bad.

Having a desire for something spicy, I tried to access a website on my phone. I'd forgotten it wasn't mobile-friendly; you could select all you wanted, but you'd never be presented with the checkout button because it was obscured by other webpage elements.

Now, consider this: you have an account on the said website and, having logged in and made your order, you'd expect that order to be retained for a session on another device with the same credentials. Perish the thought.

It did not get better

I made my order, supplied my phone number, email address, and home address with a view to collecting it from the shop rather than opting for home delivery. Even after paying through the banking system they offered, I got no confirmation of my order sent to any of the personal details I'd shared. I had to take a screenshot as confirmation.

Then I called an Uber to take me to the shop, and for the second time, I arrived before my order was registered on their system. My screenshot and banking transaction confirm I have a bona fide order.

Only now, what I'd ordered had run out, and I was offered an unappealing alternative that, for the journey I'd made, I tolerated. Soon, I was given my takeaway, which was a lower price compared to what I'd wanted. A bit of back and forth ensued before he realised I was due some change.

I've never suffered worse

When I tucked into it as I walked back home, it was nothing like I'd expected. I would have enjoyed a Nando's takeaway for less, with two sides and a lot of tasty bits to eat. Chicken suya is no substitute for beef suya, even on the worst of days.

And Suya Republic, Chester Road, you missed a treat: the apparently XL portion was as parsimonious as a chicken on Ozempic, and having to quibble for change when you couldn't fulfil the order I'd originally paid for was unfortunate. I'll remember this long enough not to grace your stoep with my interest again.

My lesson learnt

Never pay upfront. Have enough time to wait for your order at the shop when you visit. The food is good enough; the service, however, is tolerable to abysmal.

Alright, I happened upon this place on one of my wanderings around Manchester. This was my fifth visit.

Making much of my Sundays

My church, a community

My church, the cathedral in my city, serves as a community where I find fellowship and friendship. While I have been a steward, I have not resumed that function since I went for treatment, my energy levels are much better now, not at the stage where I could be an effective steward.

The more public activity is when one does one of the readings, the last time I was scheduled to do the reading, in December, I had to give up my place as I was going to be away in Cape Town.

The first version of the rota published a few weeks ago had me scheduled to read the only reading for Palm Sunday, I carried that in my bosom until I reviewed the updated rota, a more prominent person had supplanted me.

At church with improvements

Whether I had my natural voice back or not, I was determined that I would attend whatever readings I was scheduled for with electronic amplification for my frail voice. Each service I attend shows some improvements, such as not needing to use the conveniences until after the service or being able to fully participate in the standing parts of the sung eucharist.

The more obvious one is that I can walk the distance from home to church and back, whereas before I travelled, I needed assistance because I lacked the strength to do so.

The other Sunday, I arrived as the processional hymn was being sung, it is quite unusual for me to arrive late to church so I sat in a different place close to the children’s corner. What I racket they made; it was impossible to concentrate. Then last week, the Racial Justice Sunday had York visiting, I sat in the same row as his wife and the dean’s spouse. As in the Archbishop of York.

How things are developing

The row behind us as a child and his parents, they chuntered through the whole service, my backward glances did nothing to moderate the disturbance. The same garrulous troupe was there today, I do not know what informed them to move towards the more adequate children’s section before the service commenced.

One of the hymns had quite a discordant tune. I could not follow it until the fourth verse, and it was still a struggle. I sing all alright, but I do lag in the recitations and singing, too. In the end, I plumped for the decaffeinated coffee. Since decaffeinated tea is rarely available, I had to get on a bus for a 30-minute ride to a big supermarket to replenish my stock of decaffeinated Earl Grey tea.

The last Village Church service I met in the middle of the homily, my nap ended a few minutes before the start, and just as I thought of taking a rain check, I got a message from a friend asking if I was attending. I dressed up and rushed out; it was just around the corner from my place.

The Lord’s Prayer in Yoruba, I wrote that out this morning with all the essential diacritical marks, it is what I recite when it comes to the time for prayer. I might be doing that on a recording of it for a week of the recitations of the Lord’s Prayer in other languages at a church event in May.

Church is a community I enjoy.

Àdúrà Olúwa

Baba wa tí ńbẹ ní ọ̀run,
Kí á bọ̀wọ̀ fún orúkọ rẹ,
Kí ìjọba ìrẹ dé,
Ìfẹ̀ẹ tìrẹ ni kí á ṣe ní aiyé,
Bí wọ́n ti ńṣe ní ọ̀run,
Fún wa l'óúnjẹ òjọ́ wa l'óòní,
Dárí ẹ̀ṣẹ̀ wa jì wá,
Bí a tí ń dárí ẹ̀ṣẹ̀ ji àwọn tí ó ṣẹ̀ wá,
Má fà wá sínú ìdánwò,
Ṣùgbón gbà wá lọ́wọ́ bìlísì,
Nítorí ìjọba ni tìrẹ, agbára ni tìrẹ, ògo ni tìrẹ,
Láí Láí,
Àmín.

Homeward bound from South Africa

The weight of travel

Packing your bags is not an easy task, especially if you have three pieces of luggage to evenly distribute the weight, a rucksack with kit and medication, and suit bag.

The suit bag contained a set of pyjamas that for my recent modes of travel have not felt that convenient to wear, a jacket and scarf for the abrupt change in the weather I will encounter, and a spare set of incontinence underwear. If I may reiterate an established notion, I am a traveller, not a backpacker.

Intercontinental incontinence

When you are on a plane and there is a queue for the unisex toilets, besides rocking from foot to foot, you just want to be careful no spillage occurs before you gain access to the facilities.

On both my outbound and return journeys, it has not been that bad, and I have not had to wave my "Just Can't Wait" card. The moment I feel an urge, I do not second guess it, I make my way to the toilets.

I had scheduled my Uber pick up the night before, my assigned driver cancelled, the alternative was stationary just over a mile away for 20 minutes, and not responding to my communications, that by the time Uber suggested he was late, I was assigned a third driver who then arrived within 5 minutes of the scheduled time.

The ride to the airport was easy and fast, early morning bookings before the break of dawn can be a bargain too. He helped load and unload my luggage and I took tentative steps to the check-in counter close to the entrance.

Half a day air bound

Though I have lost my Platinum and Gold loyalty status, you still get some priority service on Silver Flying Blue status. My luggage was checked through to Manchester, and I was conveyed from the customer assistance lounge, taken through security checks and passport control to the boarding gate, then wheeled to the door of the flight where I was the second passenger to board.

Seating was comfortable enough, a slight seat recline, a lounge support for my legs, and a footrest, along with a blanket and a pillow. That was the beginning of the first leg of my journey of just 11h13, I guess I have done that a few times already.

A 3-hour stopover in Amsterdam before I board another flight to Manchester had me ensconced in the customer assistance lounge on comfortable seats. They should consider serving beverages rather than have people lumber off to the shops. A nearby toilet would be helpful too.

A chat with my support person

Then I was brought to boarding desk as one of the first to board. Arriving in Manchester, I stayed on the flight until everyone was almost off, my customer support wheelchair was up a flight of stairs and then I was conveyed to passport control and then to baggage reclaim.

The support assistant was from Somalia and after informing him of why I had travelled to South Africa, I explained why as a Black man he had to be conversant with his prostate health. His uncle recently had radiotherapy for throat cancer at the Christie Hospital and he had chaperoned his uncle a few times.

Between snatches of reality and humour, he got the message and point-blank refused a tip, he felt he had gained so much from our conversation and that was enough. I called an Uber for home and ended up in a luxury car, the driver from Africa had lived in Italy for two decades before coming to the UK.

You will always be understood

He was concerned about his lack of fluency in English that he felt was a handicap. My view was as long as he could put words together, he would be understood. He should always speak his mind and besides, many of those who would typically abuse him are not as successful as him driving an E-class Mercedes Benz, he should in fact celebrate his achievements.

Obviously, on some occasions, he simply got his son into the conversation with establishments or the authorities. Every likelihood was he would get whatever he intended done.

As I arrived at home, he helped unload my luggage and brought them into the foyer, all the help I received from door-to-door of about 18 hours was the preparation for rest after such a lengthy journey. I unlocked my door, my house sitter had outdone himself this time, somewhere between it having been hit by a super hurricane and a full ransack of the house, I was soon pushing a vacuum cleaner and brushing the floors. I found the energy; it was the very last straw.

Manchester Pride 2024 - Between disinterest and stewarding

For a parade and a charade

The August Bank Holiday weekend in Manchester is for the Manchester Pride and one those of us who live on the borders of the Gay Village sometimes dread out of inconvenience and frustration. It is a time of endless cacophony that begins from Thursday night through to Monday evening with possibly a vigil in remembrance of those we lost to the AIDS plague.

For those who come the attend the events and many from out of town and even from abroad, it presents the prospect of wanton debauchery and the prescient profiteering of all the hospitality and services establishments that find the footfall irresistible to exploitation, even as punters and patrons submit themselves too willingly to the abuse of their respect and their wallets.

The Pride Parade on the Saturday afternoon is something to look forward to, though I could be inspired to residents’ rage just for the loudspeakers that get put close to my window or on the main street, not so much for the event, but for the testing of equipment that starts early in the morning when we are trying to lie-in and continues almost every quarter of an hour as if suddenly the equipment had given up. Let’s not think of if I were an American with a gun.

Diversity, not as we think it

This time they plonked down a mobile 120-seat grandstand on our street which I found out to be the judges view to rate the floats that passed by towards the end of the parade. I had a guest who had just moved to Manchester and a friend had asked me to chaperone him. Not much to be done, I would have stepped out of my apartment block with a folding chair and some bottles of water. I provided rainproof clothes and umbrellas too, when it rained.

However, I do wonder if the judges as my guest did see the diversity we observed was not as diverse as our community would suggest apart from accounting for the diversity in faces of the same identity group, like say, race? Not to talk of the fact that one float dressed up a black man in full uniform to drive their Bentley. Then the Gay Gordons in full Scottish attire had one of their contingent playing the bagpipes who was noticeably of African descent.

In the probably 250 that participated in the parade, there could not have been 10 that were representative of ethnic minorities, and this is where Manchester still fails to embrace the broader expanse of identity within this diverse community.

It was not helped by one such group removing themselves from the parade because of concerns about sponsorship in relation to the Israel – Gaza conflict. They were invisible when they should have erred on the pragmatic side of things, because there were Palestinian groups represented on the parade.

Just let me through

I was surprised that I stayed to watch the whole parade that lasted over 3 hours, and it was time to retire and that was for a good long nap. The only other times I ventured through the Gay Village that was gated off for the festivities was for church on Sunday and then the Pride Eucharist in the evening.

At least now, apart from security checks of bags, right-of-way is no longer questioned as it was even refused to people who just wanted to pass through about a decade ago.

Besides, I had on principle decided for years now, that I will not pay the extortionate prices for attending any of the Pride events even as those who find themselves shortchanged denied access to venues quickly at capacity to watch their favourite bands.

My plate did overflow

As a church steward at the Manchester Cathedral, I had offered to be on the rota for duties at the Pride Eucharist which was organised by the leadership of the Village Church that meets on the 2^nd and 4^th Sundays of the month at the LGBT Foundation offices on Sackville Street. [Manchester Cathedral: Pride Eucharist pamphlet (PDF)]

Cover of the Pride Eucharist pamphlet.

The typical activities would have been handing service pamphlets to people who had come to fellowship, doing the collection during the offertory hymn, and ushering the congregation towards the altar for Communion.

Then one of the wardens asked me to take the plate of offerings to the altar for blessing and I had hardly said yes to that when the convenor of Village Church came to ask if I would participate in the intercessory prayer part of the service. She already had my name on the prayer sheet before coming to chat to me. I obliged willingly at the honour.

My part included a 30-second pause for silent prayer, my clock ticked a bit faster than it should in my head, I counted to 10 twice, losing my ways somewhere in the simplicity of the aura of scrutiny as I continued to the end of my contribution.

It’s a wrap until next year

After the service, we remained for tea, coffee, biscuits, and cake, before a young man on army leave who had asked to speak with me earlier requested if he could play the grand piano.

He had such talent but was expecting of rebuke or derision when we so readily praised him. Sadly, some people are subjected to so much criticism that even what they are so good at, they are too unsure of demonstrating.

I guess all that became the highlight of my own Manchester Pride, disinterested, uninvolved, and almost curmudgeonly, except where it mattered more in cheering the parades and serving at the Pride Eucharist, until next year when again, we suffer, or we leave town.

In gratitude

Much appreciation

It has been an interesting year for me, and whilst I did not find myself doing much of what I would have wanted to do, I have done other things I would have rarely found myself doing and been enriched by it all.

By participating in activities and volunteering, I have in many ways inadvertently met influential people and been involved in consequential decision-making forums that I would never have attended, but I found a voice and an expression that would normally not be heard.

Above all, it is how I have been sustained through some of the toughest times, the support of my partner, my best friend, my sister, old partners, my neighbours, my parents, support groups, my community, and many others who have fervently kept me in their prayers and supplications, with encouragement, entreaty, and even unwelcome and probably justifiable rebuke that has caused offense.

For service

We entertain much in how we exist, but we need to be careful about what we allow to define us. Faith and hope have set a course for the realisation of many desires, they are the complementary force of what will result in better and more uplifting stories. In many disappointments in the resolution and resolve goodness, mercies, and blessings cannot miss us.

It was only on Monday that I thought I should arrive at Manchester Cathedral early, just in case there was any help needed since I am a church steward. They had everything in hand, and I took my seat before additional rows were added to the reserved seats. I was not asked to move to another seat.

Interesting encounters

Just before the event started, a gentleman with a lady arrived, the usual small talk about the weather after pleasantries followed and a few quips on things English and so on. They had travelled in from Sale, and he needed some help getting up for the carol songs.

After the interval, he said there were so many people to meet, he had to chat to the High Sheriff of Greater Manchester and a few Deputy Lieutenants as he was one too. I suppose, if I had been more observant, a man in a pin-striped suit, his wallet so thick it needed rubber bands to hold together, a few acknowledgements from here and there, this was a community stalwart, known for his contributions and charitable activities.

At 85, I would pass for a son, his companion just 75 years old, both of whom in the inclement weather of the northwest in December needn’t have bothered but still with enthusiasm and a sense of fun made an appearance that should be appreciated. As the carol concert ended, we shook hands, and he gave his name. A very accomplished man indeed.

In all, I am very grateful, it is the last day of 57 and it is unimaginable how I could have thrived without the amazing support of Brian. You bring light and love, with joy and laughter. Thank you.

Stewarding at the Pride Eucharist

The Rainbow flag flying on the flagstaff of the Manchester Cathedral.

In the beauty of service

I am humbled by how the call to serve has brought me into proximity and recognition of the powerful. It is a distinctive antithesis of human nature where many have a quest for power rather than the desire to serve.

Whilst one cannot say this is something I would have gravitated to in the natural cause of things, I do remember that when I eventually found a church to associate with in Amsterdam, I found that getting involved in the basics of helping to set up and dismantle the settings for services and worship was something to do because it was needful.

In the process, I got involved during the infancy of the church in finding a new venue, providing storage space, hosting but not leading a prayer group, and was in the ushers and serving team. I however declined positions of leadership that were offered as I was in much conflict about what that entailed.

To welcome and to steward

As a welcomer and a steward at the Manchester Cathedral, positions I assumed after the long courting and persuasion of others who deemed my attendance as one that suggested enough affinity and the readiness to be involved, even more so when the dean through his wife expressed that I had to be involved because there is no reason not to be, I relented.

At the Annual General Meeting of the cathedral, I was voted on as a steward and soon after in my activities with the Volition programme became a welcomer of visitors to the cathedral.

However, yesterday, in attending the Eucharist for Pride which enjoins to bring the LGBTQI+ community into communion and worship, I arrived early to help, just in case extra hands were needed. At the Dean’s Garden Party two Saturdays ago, he, the dean said there was no way the cathedral could function without the volunteers that help in services and other activities that need doing in the cathedral organisation.

Between right and respect

I soon took over at the door to welcome and hand out the service programme to people who had come to attend the Pride Eucharist and it was notable for the fact that the Bishop of Manchester was also in attendance to welcome, bless, charge, and dismiss the congregation. The clergy that ministered at the altar were all ordained by the bishop too. [The Manchester Pride takes place in the August Bank Holiday weekend from Thursday night through Monday night.]

I had interesting encounters at the door, the cathedral is open to all visitors, and I have probably met visitors from more than 35 countries. However, when there are services in the nave, the church is closed to visitors with a big sign posted at the door informing anyone not attending the ongoing service that the cathedral is closed.

Yet, there are some that ignore the sign and come through the doors insisting they need to visit almost as if it is a matter of right. The difficult conversation that ensues between understanding that the house of God is open and the need to respect that the act of congregational worship should courteously and understandably not be disturbed is almost a battle of wits, reasonableness, and enforcement.

Stand for the open heart

To one lady who was ready to barge in, I told her, there was an ongoing service and except if she was here to attend the Pride Eucharist, the church was now closed to visitors, but she was not going quietly. With a look of incredulity on her face she asked why the church was catering to gay folk, to which I answered that Jesus died for all and the church is an open place of worship for everyone. Much as everyone needs prayer.

She understood as much before we moved on to issues of symbolism and doctrine, by which time, I had to move her from the inside of the church into the corridor of the doorway, with the hope that she would leave peacefully. Yes, we are a Protestant church, the Church of England, The depictions of Jesus or Mary are not venerated in answering other questions before she insisted her sister-in-law was attending the service and she needed to get to her.

Pointing in a direction I could hardly determine, two of a group that was initially hesitant to attend walked towards the door from the furthest part of the seating and they all left the cathedral.

The door of conflict and consent

It soon dawned upon me the precariousness of manning the door, as earlier, someone had left their rucksack at the doorway, which caused a bit of tension that it was inspected by the staff after an announcement did not elicit a response about ownership. Eventually, he returned to claim his bag, but it could have been something else.

Another could barely contain the sense of rage about the church involved in this service, and we have at times had someone come in to disrupt an ongoing service protesting that the gathering was not a reflection of true Christianity, as if disrupting other people’s devotion is Christian in any sense at all.

It was revealed when the Bishop of Manchester in his welcoming remarks stated that one of the requirements that came up in his application for the role was that he needed to be accepted by the LGBTQI+ community of Manchester. I was surprised but what makes for harmony is the welcoming of diversity to the love of Christ and therein the gospel is heard by all rather than limited to a few.

The Pride Eucharist was attended by about 150 people, it was a celebration of Christianity, and many stayed behind for refreshments. Later, the bishop thanked us for serving and stewarding, which included taking the offering and ushering to the communion. A welcoming church allows Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit to do their work rather than become gatekeepers and sentries to the grace and gift of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The cover of the Pride Eucharist programme.

Celebrating 75 Years of the NHS

A steward at the table

I was being wooed and propositioned in an unrelenting recruitment drive to become a church steward for over a year. It was last weekend that I had a baptism of fire as it were. It was a weekend of ordinations of priests and deacons known as the Petertide in the Anglican Church calendar.

With a church brimming with high clergy, the ordinands, well-wishers, and visitors, I was to collect the offertory from a section of the seating in the church and then direct congregants to a communion station away from the altar. It was managed even if a bit chaotic.

Though these assignments were out of rota, I had volunteered as more hands were needed than what was required for regular church services. Today, I presented myself to steward the service of Thanksgiving for 75 Years of the NHS.

The programme pamphlet for the service celebrating 75 Years of the NHS.

Attending to attendees

As there was no offertory or communion, this was a civic service, and it became apparent that we needed fewer stewards. There were a few things to do, including putting inserts in the programme pamphlet that required attendees to write a reflection about the role of the NHS.

After that, I stood with fellow stewards at the door to hand out the pamphlet to arrivals for the service informing them of the insert for their reflections. It was not a crowded gathering, and it did seem we had a fair share of NHS chaplains attending, we all might have felt out of place and of sorts without a dog collar.

The service began

Just before the start of the service, Andy Burnham, the Mayor of Greater Manchester arrived, I handed him the programme and informed him of the insert, he was smiling, engaging, and appreciative before the Canon Pastor led him to his seat and the service began.

There was one other act to steward, the collection of the inserts after people had scribbled down their reflections, I stood at the end of one row waiting as one congregant wrote on both sides of the card, as if a whole thesis of thoughts needed an urgent revealing.

My reflections

I had written my own reflection early because of the duty I was assigned to the effect: “I was born on a Tuesday morning unexpectedly at 26.5 weeks, the NHS facilitated my transfer for incubation in a major city. I was the size of a hamster in the hand of my father.

At 57, I stand taller, much taller than my parents. I owe my existence then and daily now to the amazing NHS, the people whose humanity makes a difference to many lives.”

My reflections on the NHS.

Andy Burnham who was the last Labour government Secretary of Health gave an address before representatives of faiths rose to give a talk, there was a homily, a hymn and then the sending out by the Canon Pastor.

As the event was quite passive, I began to wilt, when I got home, I was ready for bed and there ensued a long afternoon nap.

Essential Snobbery 101: An Eton mess of people without virtue

A failed assessment

Privilege, entitlement, and omniscience are the qualities or virtues that former Eton master, John Claughton, regretted he had failed to manage or curtail in his wards who have now become leaders in many spheres of life, especially politics. [The Independent: Boris Johnson and ‘entitled’ Tory Etonians have damaged Britain, admits former Eton master: ‘I failed’]

In my view, I think the master is still reading the script wrong, as privilege might come by circumstance beyond our control, and what really matters is to recognise one’s privilege and then use it to the benefit of others.

Entitlement is an interesting issue that could be borne of an environment of privilege. To have entitlement is not entirely wrong, but where it is exercised should be in the support of fairness, justice, and what is right. Though entitlement is usually a vent of the supercilious, it could normally be seen in a negative rather than a positive light.

Omniscience, however, is definitely to be tamed and trammelled by every means possible; the thought that you are unassailable and infallible, incapable of error, all-knowing, and the master of the universe with a God-like complex is dangerous, whatever the degree. It should never have been fostered or helped to develop to the extent that such people should have power or influence over others.

Of a man of no character

In that crop of the poshly-educated at Eton College, come many former Prime Ministers of the United Kingdom, and the one that excites the greatest notoriety today is Boris Johnson, who exited the House of Commons last Friday, pre-empting the sanction of the Privileges Committee that would have recommended a 90-day suspension for misleading Parliament.

Boris Johnson would suggest he is a man hard done by, but like many would say, despite his popularity, Boris does things only for the sake of Boris and nothing more. Boris Johnson’s storied career shows that he has no acquaintance with the truth or any semblance of it. He is both a compulsive and a pathological liar who believes so assuredly that he is a man of trust and candour.

Granted chance after chance

Delusional is what would be attempted because, for all the jobs that he has risen to through various applications of meritocracy and charm, he has several times been relieved of his positions because of a lack of character, candour, values, and virtue.

That sense of omniscience seems to have equipped him with daring impunity for which his privilege appears to confer immunity from sanction or accountability. It is one exclusionary act of nature that, rather than be schooled by the infractions and punishments of the lower cadres, it is at the pinnacle of powers, prestige, and popularity that a man has been held to full account for his dishonesty and missteps.

Duty and service tames us

Before we get to the lesson to be learnt of men who throw caution to the wind, daring the whirlwind to a whistling contest, anyone can attend Eton with privilege, entitlement, and omniscience. What Eton College has patently failed to do for more than a generation is imbue its wards with a sense of responsibility, duty, and service to their fellow man. A willingness to face up to their failings and be held accountable where necessary, without questioning the fairness and justice of due process.

The lesson, it is always necessary for such flawed men to be met with a catastrophe of their own making; each downfall Boris Johnson has had has been by the hapless engineering of his own hand. His pomposity denies him the introspection necessary for self-awareness and self-correction. What leaves one more baffled is the fact that to some, he can do no wrong, no matter how wrong he is.

Opinion: Getting good medical outcomes is a fight to be heard - II

Up against the system

When I wrote last week that my NHS rating is a 6 on a scale of 0 – 10, a series of conversations with users of the service and most especially, my personal experience highlighted issues I have overlooked rather than pursued.

Blog - Opinion: Getting good medical outcomes is a fight to be heard - I

There are organisational inefficiencies that consequently impact the patient at the point of contact and the bureaucracy demands those who people the establishment that they need more time to address issues and where they do, they should be more attentive.

In some cases, those who choose to address ineffective processes that result in poor outcomes are deemed, termed, and labelled difficult and troublesome. The person's suffering is forgotten as the Hippocratic oath of service becomes a perfunctory recitation without heart or mind involved. The patient is a customer on a fast-moving conveyor belt to the exit than to wellness.

Organisational failings that fail us

In my other blog, I talked of when I had to relay my medical record to a doctor because my file was not available to check my notes for the consultation. It would appear, every patient that visited on that day, if they were not as clued in and read up on their condition would have received attention below par.

I have high praise for the department that has taken on my case for almost 8 years, but they are not perfect and not all the consultants I have met give due heed to the wider issues of who the person they are seeing is and I can understand their limitations. However, one has to question how with that knowledge of who was attending for the day the essential documentation was not provided to the consultants for review and understanding as they met their patients.

It might have been a one-off situation, but I have the feeling there is a rot that pervades the system that is seething and creeping almost unaware to those with the responsibility to ensure things work better for the desired outcomes of their patients.

Seeing but not perceiving

Then, it was the lassitude that greeted my need for treatment of a co-morbidity condition that they knew of for more than two years, but never sought to address until I challenged the thinking in the department. You could almost feel they were more ready to express sympathy after your demise in the knowledge you were one less problem to deal with than face the complexity of the person-problem conundrum.

When they advocated for the change of my drug regime for a new medication, the consultant inelegantly let slip that the decision was being made on a cost basis as my medication was still under patent protection. This was reinforced with a contrived neurological test as I did mention absences in thought that could be side effects on my memory, much of which I had compensated for as I noticed changes in how I remember things, especially in the short-term memory space.

The struggle of outlay over outcome

The new medication was a hellish 7-week experience that they were keen to fix me to after the second week which I thought was too short a period to understand its effects. I dare say, one of the side effects that was on a label you could tear off from the packaging included sudden death. Each day, I recorded every funny symptom from tingling in my extremities, to insomnia and nausea – those were the prominent ones.

I walked into the department with 42 pages of side effects recorded for each of the 42 days and demanded I be put back on my old medication that I had tolerated well for over 8 years. The year after this sordid experiment, there were generics of my medication available, and I have been on those since then.

Obviously, there is a cost to medical provision, and I cannot ignore the towering cost of the 12-week medication for treating the co-morbidity 7 years ago with new drugs for which I am grateful, but it is never comfortable to be in the hearing of cost rather comfort and outlay rather than outcomes.

Being there but not with me

It was my last consultation that inspired these blogs as my doctor’s notes created on the day of my visit or thereabouts get sent to both my GP and me. Now, after that consultation, I was given a survey to fill in about attending the consultation that day. After receiving the note, I would like to review my earlier commending comments.

This is for the simple reason that I discussed a number of issues with the consultant that should have superseded the talk we had 6 months ago. On review, there is little of what we discussed in the new note, I can also put it down to either the consultant being distracted or inattentive. That conclusion is easy to arrive at as when he said he had refilled my prescription, it was one of two medications that he prescribed, and I had to return the next day for the other medication.

The notes can be consequential

Doctor’s notes might hold no particular significance as a simple administrative process, but when one is engaging with the system and some decisions are predicated on what the doctor’s perspective is of you and your situation, there can be no room for error or variance between how you describe yourself and your doctor's observations. I can only wonder what it would take to rectify this without creating a crisis of confidence and trust within that team of medical personnel.

Indeed, I do make demands on the NHS for better outcomes which have much room for improvement, but there are only so many things you can overlook before you realise something radical is needed to ensure you do not become a mere conveyor belt statistic.

It is a fight to be heard and listened to, beyond which you hope that they would respond and act on the situation, with your interests to heart and in your favour.