Identity

Watching the Rangers game this week – and perhaps most especially the fans* – made me wonder about identity, and how mixed up and muddy it can get. Quite reasonably, an English buddy of mine asked why the resolutely Scottish Rangers supporters waved the Union Jack. Now, you’d imagine that a reasonable simple question deserves a reasonable simple answer, but it’s WAY more complicated than that, and I’m not even sure I can explain it correctly.

Firstly, there’s the red, white and blue which the kits & flags share; then there’s the supposed loyalty to “the union”, which with Scottish Parliament and a SNP first minister is as fragile now as it has ever been. On top of that, what is the Britishness that such loyalty is directed towards? Is it the amazing rainbow-hued multi-ethnic society that I’m glad to experience every day in London, or something else that existed in the past but has long been consigned to history?

The waters are further muddied, because those supporters are likely to whistle raucously with the rest of the Tartan Army in protest at the playing of the British National Anthem, “God Save The Queen” for the England team on the now rare occasions when Scotland and England meet on the football field.

Also, in Scotland there’s in a growing interest in and affinity for all things celtic, not to be confused with Rangers’ bitter rivals Celtic!

No wonder it’s confusing.

For me – and I say this as someone who’s loyalty as an armchair supporter has been with Rangers since I was old enough to utter the word – I do struggle a little with seeing the Union Jack waved. Having moved to England from Scotland in mid 70s, and being of a generation when the flag was hi-jacked by the far right when my sympathies were more in line with Rock Against Racism and the upbeat joy of 2-Tone it still creates a kind of uncomfortable feeling when I see it flown.

• I’m hugely proud to be a Scot (with an English accent)
• I baulk at describing myself as “British”
• I’m probably a Londoner as much as anything else
• I feel like a Celt, not an Anglo
• I’m still a Rangers supporter, but I renounce bigotry
• I’ve never met an Irishman I haven’t gotten on with famously
• My family is a glorious mix of the celtic, anglo and Caribbean, but when Scotland are playing there’s only one team for us
• I agree with those eminent theologians at Hard Rock, and would wish to Love All, Serve All
• Ultimately, my identity is bound up in my saviour Jesus

There’s a quote attributed to Desmond Tutu that I’m finding increasing resonance with:

Jesus said, 'If I be lifted up I will draw all, all, all, all, all. Black, white, yellow, rich, poor, clever, not so clever, beautiful, not so beautiful. It's one of the most radical things. All, all, all, all, all, all, all, all. All belong. Gay, lesbian, so-called straight. All, all are meant to be held in this incredible embrace that will not let us go. All.

*If you’re reading this outside of the UK you may not realize that somewhere around 100,000 football (soccer) fans effectively invaded the city of Manchester to support their team in a major European soccer final.

Podcast…a new experience

I’m an avid listener to podcasts. It’s one of the ways – along with reading and manic Twittering – of making the time go faster as I cross London on my regular commute.

Bizarrely enough, today I listened to the Something Beautiful podcast featuring…..me! A new experience, and - as I write this post – an incomplete one.

I’ve not managed to listen to it all the way through myself yet, so disclaimers may follow later!

From the offset, I have to point two things out:

1. I feel more like a Celt than an Anglo! In my clearly excited state entering the wonderful world of podcasting I managed to tell Thomas the exact opposite when we were riffing on Scottishness, accent and identity.

2. Much as I think Erwin McManus is a top man, and we have a number of mutual friends, I can’t claim – as Thomas suggested – to be speaking to Erwin on a regular basis, hanging out at Starbucks together, shooting hoops or any other such liaison

Erwin’s ministry simply has had an impact on my life, and for that I’m grateful. I’ve heard him speak here in the UK, he’s regularly one of a number of great communicators in my iPod earbuds, I’ve shot him a coupla Tweets and Facebook messages - but that’s as close as I’ve been.

So….if you’ve got some time to spare…you might wanna check it out. A good exercise would be to scribble down all the people who get a name check on this podcast and go and search them out.

It’ll be way more impactful than listening to me blethering on!

Do we need a WIRED UK?

If you know me well at all, you will know that I’m a bit a magazine head.

It seems to me that I’ve been interested in mags, and have poured over their content week in week out for most of my life.

I was even prompted at one point to title a blogpost “My life through magazines”.

Having said that – and this is hugely out of character; I’m not a natural cynic – I’m finding it really hard to drum up any enthusiasm for the new UK version of WIRED, which hit the streets earlier in the month.

Despite having read the original US version of WIRED for years, the positive endorsements of some of my trusted Twitter buddies and even a tiny piece of direct Twitter dialog from UK Deputy Editor @BenHammersley I still haven’t shelved out and bought a copy.

It may be that I’ve become increasingly drawn to online mags like Worldchanging and Inhabitat or that my world feels increasingly borderless and connected. Geography, identity and time zone feel less fixed and fuzzier now that the internet is not simply an add-on or a tool but something that is woven deep into the minutiae of daily life.

The natural extension of this for me is this: does a mag that purports to look to the future really need some kind of localized version? I’m not sure it does

Is there something in all of this, or am I just turning into an awkward little beggar?

Don’t take my word for it, though. Check out WIRED UK for yourself. It will fly or die regardless of what I think.

If I buy a copy, I might have to eat my words