John Walsh: Tales of the City

'I have an unshakeable image of the bishop in full regalia, weaving from Hyde Park to Southwark'

Published: 12 December 2006

Picture, if you will, the scene last Tuesday evening, at the Suchard bar beside Southwark Cathedral near London Bridge. A lady called Nicola Sumpter is having a quiet drink with her boyfriend, when she hears the alarm of her Mercedes car trilling away outside. They rush to the street, expecting to see some hoodie-wearing miscreant trying to pop the locks. Instead they find a benign, respectable, silver-haired, 66-year-old gentleman, with an indefinable air of spirituality about him, sitting in the back seat like Goldilocks ensconced in Baby Bear's bed, but wide awake and fussily throwing Ms Sumpter's infant son's toys out of the window.

Her boyfriend and another man pull the elderly geezer out of the car - whereupon he falls over and bangs his head on the pavement. "What the hell do you think you're playing at?" they demand (or words to that effect), to which comes the dignified reply: "I am the Bishop of Southwark. It's what I do." Well, now we know. I hadn't previously grasped that the job description of an episcopal divine, as well as saving souls and confirming young believers in their faith, extended also to burgling German motors and drunkenly collapsing in the street. But we live and learn.

Many things about this story widen your eyes in amazement. The fact that the Rt Rev Tom Butler's walk on the wild side came after he'd left a party at the Irish Embassy attended by the head of the Ulster police force, and the head of MI5 (did they keep refilling his glass, the naughty scamps?); the fact that so distinguished an Establishment figure lives in low-rent Tooting Bec; and the fact that he left in the car, according to reports, "his cross, his personal organiser and Home Office correspondence".

By his "cross" do they mean his long golden staff? I have an unshakeable image in my head, of the bishop weaving uncertainly all the way from Hyde Park Corner to Southwark in full robes and insignia, possibly blessing passers-by, probably composing emollient seasonal sermons in his head. And when the police were called, to find he'd scarpered, how did the conversation go? "Any clues as to the villain, Sergeant?" "Not much to go on, chief. All we got is this PalmPilot, these letters from the Home Secretary, this mitre and this crozier. It could be anyone..."

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The European Union has decreed that, from now on, movies will qualify for tax concessions only if they pass a stiff test set by the Department of Culture, Media and Sport. The test - which will be voted on in the Commons today - offers points if the film is based on a British source, if the action is set in Britain, if the lead actors and key production staff are British, if the original dialogue's in English, if the music is by Elton John and - oh, I don't know, if the food consumed during the shoot is from Duchy Originals. "The cultural test will ensure that every film qualifying for tax relief either reflects or contributes to furthering British culture," said Shaun Woodward, the Creative Industries Minister, smugly.

Did you ever hear a more egregious example of Little-England protectionism? With one foolish means test, the Government will discourage foreign film-makers, including the all-important Hollywood studios, from investing in the British film industry, with its army of justly renowned film technicians. The Americans are suffering enough because of the stratospherically high sterling. Do we want to make sure they never darken the doors of Elstree or Shepperton again? According to Screen Finance magazine, there are 20 films currently in production over here that are relying on the tax loophole to finish filming. If they don't get it, they'll relocate to Bratislava or Tallinn. It's ironic, isn't it, that the most frightfully British film of the year, Casino Royale, wouldn't qualify for a tax break because most of it was shot in Prague?

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Exciting new research from the University of Bristol's medical school suggests that music (specifically pop music) can produce measurable physical responses of joy, sadness, exhilaration et cetera. They reached this conclusion by measuring the heart rate, breathing patterns and skin temperature of volunteers while they were listening to songs (whether they actually liked them or not). Scientists monitored the number of "sighs per minute" and the response of listeners to sad lyrics and happy tunes. They discovered that Lily Allen's up-tempo "LDN" makes you as happy as a clam while The Verve's "The Drugs Don't Work" (sample lines "Like a cat in a sack waiting to drown/ This time I'm coming down") is quite likely to plunge you into gloom.

Trouble is, we already knew that pop music produces physical responses you can measure. Sometimes, it produces responses you can actually see. I've watched grown men being violently sick all over the carpet while watching that beaming little twit called Ray murder perfectly good songs every week on The X Factor. I've seen sensitive music-lovers weep brokenly as Katie Price and Peter Andre ritually disembowel "The Best Things in Life Are Free" in grisly harmony. I've witnessed otherwise well-balanced urban folk run out of the room with hands over their ears on hearing "Stop the Cavalry" for the 984th time in Woolworths. There are some things for which you don't need minute calibrations of "sighs" or changes in skin temperature. The look of puzzled loathing on my son's face when I play him Richard Harris's "McArthur Park" is beyond measurement.