1986 - 40 years ago - April- Part 1

1986 - 40 years ago - April- Part 1

March 31—April 6

THE Home Secretary, Mr Douglas Hurd, arrives in the Island for a two-day visit. In a speech to the States he reaffirms the UK Government's intention to maintain the existing constitutional arrangements between the mainland and the Channel Islands and he thanks Jersey for the contribution it will make to the UK defence budget.

The former headmistress of St Helier Girls School, Miss Gwendoline Harris, dies at Overdale Hospital, aged 68.

Centenier Peter Pearce breaks down in tears at the Town Hall after being re-elected to serve a further term in office. The incident occurs only hours after an official call for him to resign is made public because of his seven-week suspension from duty.

An elderly woman, 79-year-old Mrs Doris Collas, is killed when she is knocked over by a car as she crosses the road near Osborne Court on St Aubin's Inner Road.

The new Relief Magistrate, Advocate T. A. Dorey, makes it clear when he sits for the first time in the Police Court that offenders found guilty of assault on security officers can expect to be dealt with severely. Advocate Dorey sentences 22-year-old Thomas Coburn to two months in jail for an assault on a security officer at Funland.

There is support for the Jersey Evening Post's findings on inflated oil prices from Mr Ian Parker, the owner of the Hotel de France. Mr Parker's support for the JEP's criticism of local oil companies is based on a survey he carried out in the UK.

 

April 7-13

EARLY potatoes suffer severe damage when a severe ground frost hits the Island. It is estimated that 90 per cent of the crop is affected when temperatures at night fall to minus 8°C.

Senator Dick Shenton tables questions in the States because he says that local people seeking to buy homes are being "swamped" by essential employees who can borrow money at low rates of interest.

The Bailiff, Mr Peter Crill, suggests that Special Constables should be recruited to combat summer violence in St Helier, but senior representatives of the Honorary Police say that this is not necessary.

The Agriculture and Fisheries Committee are asked to allow 80 vergees of the foreshore at St Catherine, Grouville Bay and Le Hocq to be used for oyster farming. Agriculture's chief officer, Mr John Abraham, says that there will be talks about the issue with the Island Development Committee and Tourism.

Repairs costing £20,000 are to be carried out at Green Street car park because of signs of serious deterioration in the concrete of which it is made.

A full report into the circumstances of the death of 18-year-old Miss Trudy Sargent are called for at the General Hospital. Miss Sargent's parents, who live in Sheffield, consider suing over their daughter's death because they allege she was refused admission to the hospital even though she was very ill with meningitis.

“Not My Thing” — A Maundy Thursday Encounter

This dialogue was written in 2025, and I wanted to reflect how washing feet takes some clergy out of their comfort zone, and yet Pope Francis went to prisons to wash feet, including the feet of 12 women.

In 2024, as Pope Francis poured water over their feet, dried them with a towel and kissed their feet, 12 women inmates at Rome's Rebibbia prison wept.... By washing his disciples' feet, Jesus humbles himself, the pope said. "With this gesture, he makes us understand what he had said, 'I came not to be served but to serve.' He teaches us the path of service."

"Not My Thing" — A Maundy Thursday Encounter

Setting: A dimly lit chancel. Candles flicker along the altar rail. The congregation has gone home. The vicar, Rev. Joel, is tidying up the communion vessels. Suddenly, a figure appears in the doorway—barefoot, robe dusty, eyes radiant.

Jesus:
You kept the table.

Rev. Joel (startled):
I—yes. We shared bread and wine. The sermon was strong. People were moved.

Jesus (stepping forward):
And the basin?

Rev. Joel (hesitating):
Ah. No basin this year. I’ve never really connected with that part. It’s not… my thing.

Jesus (gently):
Not your thing.
Yet it was mine.

Rev. Joel (defensive):
I mean—it’s symbolic, isn’t it? We talked about service. I preached John 13. The theology was solid.

Jesus (kneeling beside the empty credence table):
I didn’t preach it. I did it.
I bent low. I touched the dust.
I washed what others ignored.

Rev. Joel (softening):
I know. But people feel awkward. Some don’t want their feet touched. It’s messy. Vulnerable.

Jesus (looking up):
Exactly.
It’s the awkwardness that makes it holy.
The vulnerability that makes it mine.

Rev. Joel:
I’m trying to build something here. The parish was struggling. I’ve brought energy, music, young families. We’re growing again.

Jesus (rising):
Growth is good.
But what grows when the least are left unwashed?

Rev. Joel (quietly):
I didn’t mean to exclude anyone.

Jesus (walking slowly to the font):
There was a woman tonight—hard of hearing. She watched the liturgy unfold, lips moving, gestures unclear.
She longed for touch.
Not performance.
Not polish.
Just presence.

Rev. Joel (voice cracking):
I didn’t see her.

Jesus (placing hand on the font rim):
She saw you.
And she wondered if the water had dried up.

Rev. Joel:
I thought I was making it more accessible. Less pressure. Less discomfort.

Jesus:
Comfort is not the command.
Love is.
And love kneels.

Rev. Joel (sitting on the front pew):
I didn’t know how to do it well.
I feared doing it wrong.

Jesus (sitting beside him):
Then do it broken.
Do it clumsy.
Do it with trembling hands.
But do it.

Rev. Joel (tears forming):
Would you show me?

Jesus (smiling):
I already did.
But I’ll show you again.

[Jesus walks to the sacristy and returns with a small basin and towel. He places them at the vicar’s feet.]

Jesus:
Start here.
Not with the perfect liturgy.
Not with the clever sermon.
Start with the feet.
Start with the ones who feel unseen.
Start with the water.

Rev. Joel (removing his shoes):
I’m not ready.

Jesus (kneeling):
Neither were they.
But I washed them anyway.

[He begins to wash Joel’s feet—slowly, reverently. The silence is thick with grace.]

Jesus (as he dries the feet):
Next year, let the basin speak.
Let the water do the preaching.
Let the towel be your theology.

Rev. Joel (whispering):
I will.

Jesus (rising, preparing to leave):
Then I’ll see you at the basin.

Wreck resurfaces at Corbiere

The recent stormy weather has loosened an old shipwreck from the sea bed. Go to Corbiere to see it. It is amazing!

Jersey Gazette, 14th October 1837

"A grievous wreck hath occurred off La Corbière: the brig Celestine, bound from Lisbon, was dashed upon the rocks in tempestuous seas. All hands perished. The lighthouse keepers report timbers strewn and sails rent asunder."

A Short Story: Faith and the Margins

Faith and the Margins

A salt‑stained wind moved in from the Channel as the congregation filed out of St Anne’s, the little flint‑and‑cream church perched above the harbour in Trewissick. 

It was late summer in 1996 in Cornwall, the sort of Sunday when the hymn boards still smelled faintly of polish and the cassette player in the vestry wheezed its way through the final bars of “Be Thou My Vision.”

The Reverend Margaret Ellison had preached with her usual soft, earnest cadence. Near the end she had leaned forward over the pulpit, hands resting on the green felt edge, and offered the lines she had been polishing all week:

“So if you’re feeling a bit marginalised for whatever reason, or you know people who are, know that Jesus’ love reaches that far. Jesus’ love reaches infinitely far. Not only that, but we often see that Jesus has got a particular soft spot for those on the edge.”

People nodded. A few dabbed their eyes. The churchwarden whispered that it was “one of her better ones.” Margaret smiled, receiving the praise as though it were a warm shawl.

But in the porch, as the last hymn sheets were being gathered, she spotted Ruth Harding waiting for her. Ruth, once a lively lay reader, now walked with a stick after a stroke the previous winter. Her speech was slower, her right hand curled inward like a sleeping bird.

“Margaret,” Ruth said, “I wondered if I might help again with the midweek service. Even just reading the intercessions. I miss it terribly.”

Margaret’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. She glanced at her watch, an old digital Casio whose beeps always sounded too loud in the vestry.

“Oh, Ruth… I’m so terribly busy these days. The parish council, the youth group, the new stewardship campaign. I simply can’t take on the extra burden of supporting you in ministry right now. It would be too much for me.” She touched Ruth’s arm lightly, as if that softened the words. “Perhaps it’s best if you step back for the time being.”

Ruth nodded, though her eyes clouded. She turned away slowly, the rubber tip of her stick tapping the stone floor like a metronome.

Inside, the lay reader, Peter Lacey, was folding his notes for next Sunday’s sermon. He had laid out his cassock and surplice on a chair, brushing off a few stray threads.

Margaret paused in the doorway. “Peter, I meant to say, don’t wear robes next week.”

He looked up, startled. “Not wear? But I always do when preaching.”

“Yes, well,” she said, smoothing her skirt, “I don’t believe in all that dressing up. It distracts people. Just come as you are. A jumper and trousers will do perfectly well.”

Peter hesitated, then nodded, folding the cassock away with a care that made the fabric seem suddenly fragile.

Outside, the gulls wheeled over the harbour, their cries sharp against the hum of a distant ice‑cream van playing its high-pitched, electronic chime version of “Greensleeves.” It was a first warning to children to run for their pocket money to buy Mr Whippy. Holidaymakers wandered leisurely along the promenade, unaware of the small fractures forming inside the parish that prided itself on welcome.

Margaret locked the vestry door and walked briskly toward the vicarage, her sermon notes tucked under her arm. The words she had spoken from the pulpit still rang in the air behind her, warm and expansive.

But the wind carried other truths too, quieter, more uncomfortable ones, drifting like sea mist through the narrow lanes of the Cornish seaside town, waiting for someone to notice.

The Sadness of Palm Sunday

A short story based on a poem I wrote many years ago.

The Sadness of Palm Sunday

The city had been restless for days, as if the very stones beneath Jerusalem sensed something approaching. Rumours moved through the streets faster than the spring wind—rumours of a teacher from Galilee, a healer, a prophet, perhaps even more. Some dismissed the talk as festival excitement. Others whispered with a trembling hope they barely dared name.

Levi, a young market seller, stood at the edge of the road leading down from the Mount of Olives. He had come early, before the crowds thickened, drawn by a strange mixture of curiosity and longing. His mother had told him stories since childhood, stories of a king who would come gentle and victorious, riding not a warhorse but a donkey. He had always imagined such a moment would blaze with certainty. Yet now, as he waited, he felt only the ache of questions.

Around him, people gathered with palm branches cut from the groves nearby. Children ran ahead, waving fronds like banners. Old men leaned on their staffs, eyes bright with memories of promises long deferred. Women murmured prayers under their breath. The air shimmered with anticipation.

Then someone shouted, “He’s coming!”

A ripple passed through the crowd. Levi craned his neck.

Down the slope came a man seated on a young donkey. Nothing about him was grand. His robe was dusty from travel. His face was lined, not with age, but with the weight of something deep and unspoken. Yet there was a gentleness in his gaze that seemed to meet each person as if he already knew them.

“Hosanna!” the people cried. “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”

Palms swept the air. Cloaks were thrown onto the road to soften the donkey’s steps. Levi felt the shout rise in his own throat before he could stop it. Something in the man’s presence stirred a hope he had tried for years to bury.

But as the procession drew closer, Levi noticed something the others did not. The man’s eyes, dark, steady, searching, held a sorrow that did not belong to a triumphant king. It was the sorrow of someone who knew the cost of the path before him.

Levi stepped back as the donkey passed. For a heartbeat, the man looked directly at him. Levi felt exposed, as if the stranger saw not only his face but the whole tangle of his life: his disappointments, his fears, his longing for deliverance he could barely admit.

The man gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not of reassurance, but of recognition.

The crowd surged forward, singing louder, waving palms with fierce joy. “Hosanna in the highest!”

Yet Levi could not shake the feeling that their joy was balanced on the edge of a knife. They wanted a liberator who would restore their land, break Rome’s grip, make Israel strong again. But the man on the donkey carried no banner, no sword. Only a quiet resolve that seemed to lead not toward a throne, but toward something darker.

As the procession moved into the city, Levi remained where he was, the palm branch limp in his hand. The shouts faded into the distance.

He did not know what would happen next. But he knew, without fully understanding how, that the man who had passed him would indeed be crowned. And the crown would not be the one the crowd imagined.

The prophecy was unfolding. And joy and sorrow were walking into Jerusalem side by side.

The Triumphant Champion

Inspired by Glen Scrivener's 321 Course when he presents Jesus as "The Champion", a footballer who wins game and says to the crowd and team "That's one for you", a reflection on how Palm Sunday might be rewritten with Glen's footballer Champion instead.

Fall of The Triumphant Champion

He was the Champion on the Football pitch
Came from the backwoods to kick the ball
Despised by the elite, pompous, the rich
Who watched just waiting for him to fall

He was our Champion, on our losing team
Winning all goals, turned fortunes around
How the crowd roared. It was a dream
The goals for us and the cheering sound.

He was our Champion, but then a red card
Led away disgraced to boos of the crowd
He was scorned, reviled, forever scarred
While the team just hid away, all cowed

I remember old days, hurrahs all singing
Palms clapping, and praises ringing

A Look back at 1985: Thackeray's Club and Restaurant

Now long demolished, this was part of Jersey’s thriving night club scene.

From the Islander, September 1985

 
Thackeray's Club and Restaurant
58/59 Esplanade
St Helier

Thackeray's upstairs disco and small restaurant has been part of the St Helier scene for many years, but in July, under new management, the now completely transformed club and separate downstairs restaurant emerged from its chrysalis as Jersey's newest and certainly most spectacular venue.

What a transformation! The lovely 30s decor has been carried out with perfect taste and tremendous style, both in the spacious upstairs disco and the trendy downstairs restaurant with its cocktail bar, tiny, comfortable lounge area and spacious restaurant with lots of greenery and flowers, plus picture windows looking out on to the Esplanade.

The service is faultless — pretty girls who seem really to care — and under the watchful, expert eye of manager Antonio Mileti. The food is outstanding and although not cheap, a tremendous amount of care and expertise has been lavished on the preparation. Toni's presentation of food has always been rather special, but in this new restaurant he has created some really superb dishes. The result is the most imaginative menu I have seen in a long time —for instance, many dishes are served with wild rice (almost un-heard of on the Island), long, slim grains of rice (a mixture of light and dark shoots) giving a deliciously crisp, crunchy taste.

One of Toni's specialities is Chateaubriand du Veau Bouquetiere (a fillet of veal for two people in a sauce of Muscadet wine, cream and spring onions, garnished with sauted mushrooms). Another is a whole fillet of lamb cooked with herbs de Provence, flambeed in white wine with wild mushrooms and finished with a mint and cranberry sauce. There are lots of other dishes, equally imaginative and all guaranteed to get your taste buds jumping with delight!

As a starter I chose Poires Mascharpone (fresh pears with an Italian cheese and watercress dressing), which was superb, followed by Filet de Sole Renoise (poached fillet of sole in a Champ-agne sauce, packed with large pieces of fresh lobster) — the beau¬tifully arranged dish of fresh vegetables included mangetout, tiny carrots, broccoli, cauliflower and small potatoes in their jackets. The wines are excellent and the coffee praiseworthy, as only Italian coffee can be! Incidentally, all pasta dishes are cooked individually at the table.

The restaurant is open seven days a week — lunch is from noon to 2.30 p.m., dinner is 7.30 to 11 p.m. after which late suppers are available to disco patrons who get peckish! There are two special menus for Sunday lunches — one is excellent value at £4.50 plus 10 per cent, and the other (with fantastic choice) is at £7.50 plus 10 per cent.

This bright new venue, with its Art Nouveau decor, would seem to be especially useful for lunchtimes, situated as it is on the promenade in the heart of St Helier.

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