THE ONLY WAY IS UP

Today is Ascension Day, a holiday in most of Catholic and not-so-Catholic Europe. We get a day off work, and it's usually contrived to fall on a Tuesday or a Thursday, so we can make the "bridge" and get a four-day weekend. I shall be ascending into the heavens myself on Friday courtesy of Iberia. Over the years I have overcome my fear of flying by repeating the mantra "I trust the man, I trust the machine" -- the man being the pilot. I was a little disconcerted once on a LOT flight where the pilot turned out to be a lady. A number of male passengers in my vicinity discreetly crossed themselves.

Not many people have a clue what the Ascension feast day represents. It is about Our Lord Jesus Christ physically rising up into the sky to join his Father in Heaven, causing great surprise to the Apostles, even doubting Thomas, who thought he'd seen it all and bought the T-shirt. The things some people will do to get out of paying the bill. They say what comes up must come down, but to this day, despite manifold promises, OLJC has not come down again.

In these irreligious times, the Church needs to broaden its appeal by celebrating everything that ascends. The festivities would involve fireworks shooting up into the sky, and people could decorate lifts, ladders, and staircases with flowers and ribbons. The symbol would be the arrow, and congregations could join together in singing "Stairway to Heaven", while a team of archers fired arrows into the sky trailing silver ribbons.


Any sport involving elevation would become a sacred and religious activity on Ascension Day, and high-jumpers, pole-vaulters, and rock climbers would be feted and appear on a special edition of A Question of Sport. Mountains and hills would become places of pilgrimage, and Arthur's Seat would be besieged by the faithful, filing religiously to the top singing "Nearer my God to Thee".


Popular songs extolling the joys of ascent would become hymns, such as "Get on up (like a sex machine)", "Higher and higher", "Up up and away" and "Come fly with me". Richard Branson would become the High Priest for a day and would fly over England in a hot air balloon. Competitions would be held all over the home counties for the most original way of ascending into the sky. NASA would make a commemorative launch bearing celebrities who would broadcast from space. Paris Hilton in zero gravity would be something to see.

Oh it's really taking shape now. I'm writing to the Vatican immediately offering my services as spin doctor and events coordinator. If you can think of any other events that would make New Ascension Day a popular festival and bring people flocking back to the Church, please let me know. I'll make sure your name is put into the hat (or mitre) as a candidate for sainthood.

In the meantime, let's help to celebrate New Ascension Day by Getting Up something today!

THE HILLS ARE ALIVE

Next Friday I am off to the land of flamenco and paella, birthplace of Antonio Banderas and General Franco. Seville, where the barber and the oranges come from. Not quite a holiday. I am travelling with the Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band (or K.N.O.B.) who are competing in the All-Europe Oompah Band championships. There will be an awful lot of trumping next week. Bert is usually on Triangle, but since Manfred was taken ill, has had to stand in for him on the Big Bass Drum, which leaves me holding Bert's small dangly instrument. I have precisely one “ting” to make, at the end of their grand finale, “Gretl gib’ mir meine Strumpfhosen” but if it’s not ‘ting’ed in exactly the right place the whole performance could fall apart and the K.N.O.B. would have to go home with tail hanging between legs.

Not every member of K.N.O.B. is of pure Prussian stock like Bert. Engelbert, for example, is from Bavaria. But they do not want it made common knowledge that they have a “Tommy” in their midst. Some older fans have long memories. So I have to wear a dirndl, or traditional German milkmaid’s dress, with my hair plaited and wound around my ears like Helga in ‘Allo ‘Allo. Under my plaits will be concealed tiny earpieces, so that I can receive instructions on when to ‘ting’ from Wolfgang, the head of K.N.O.B., hiding in the wings. The aerial will be cunningly disguised as the cock’s tail feather in my Tyrolean hat. I did suggest that it might be less complicated just to find a triangle player who could read music, but Bert said my gentle touch on his instrument was essential to the success of the K.N.O.B.

If it all goes a bit Sound of Music, frankly I'd rather be wearing the Baroness Eberfeld's wardrobe than Maria von Trapp's, but I don't want to be hissed at. I'm sure if the K.N.O.B.'s performance should be a bit limp, an arousing chorus of "Edelweiss" in tango rhythm will have the audience upstanding in less time than it takes to say "Donde esta la viagra por favor".

RIGHT SAID FRED

Today would have been the 108th birthday of the greatest hoofer of all time, Fred Astaire. When I was a young terpsichorean (yes, one season fan-dancing at the Folies Bergère does count as artistry) he was the hero of all the girls, and he is still sorely missed. Where are the top hats of yesteryear? Leo Di Caprio in white tie and tails looks like a little boy dressed up for his first Communion. Fred was the epitome of the romantic gentleman, and, contrary to what Mr Mel Brooks insinuates in one of his sillier films, there was nothing gay about wearing shiny dance shoes and tripping the light fantastic in those days - Fred's athleticism, as demonstrated in this clip (which would have to be done by CGI nowadays) indicated that he had plenty of staying power.

WE WILL SURVIVE

So. You want a divorce. Sniff. (Turns away to hide tears).

You could have said something earlier. What's that? You did? We just weren't listening? We couldn't hear you over the noise of the bagpipes.

How are you going to manage on your own, you need us. Oil? OUR oil? Oh no, wait a minute. Take the car. Take the kids. But don't take the oil! We worked hard for that. We invested lots of money in that. What's that you say -- "Tough" ?? Heartless bitch. We'll see you in court.

But we love you, honey. Honestly, we do. Cruelty? Oh come on. The Highland Clearances, Culloden, it was just love-play. You got your own back anyway, at Bannockburn. Not to mention foisting Andy Stewart and Gordon Brown on us.

OK, you've made up your mind. Take the car keys. Oh, you already have. Just one last thing ....

Will we still be able to get Baxter's cock-a-leekie in Sainsbury's?

EASTERN PROMISE

Still on the subject of religion, in Iran the Islamic police are arresting women for not wearing their hijab correctly. You are supposed to completely cover your hair, and some shameless floozies have been wearing their hijab in a rather cavalier manner, letting the veil slide back on their head to expose their follicles. Which apparently inflames male ardour to the point of constituting a public danger.

For Allah's sake, it's spring, even in Tehran. The turbanned devils have picked a bad time to interrupt human mating rituals. In the human world, contrary to the animal kingdom, it is the female who displays in the spring by peeling off layers of clothing. And Eastern ladies are famously good at it. The oriental temptress with a ruby in her navel, undulating and exuding a heady perfume of musk, sandalwood and jasmine whilst proffering a platter of Fry's Turkish Delight will remain forever stamped on the memories of Englishmen of a certain age. The poems of Omar Khayyam tell us that Eastern memsahibs liked a bit of slap and tickle as much as the next girl. Repressing a woman's natural sexuality will only drive her into the arms of Sappho, like this Nigerian lady who is now on the run from Sharia law for taking four wives.

I deplore this attempt by the beardie gestapo to interfere with nature, and may I suggest the ladies retaliate by making themselves as visible as possible, for example by exchanging their boring old black burqa for a nice floral print.