Yes. He was a homosensual fundamentalist. He took every word in Peter Tatchell's autobiography literally. And he went to Kings College, boo.
Sorry but this is like Brideshead Revisited. Judging a chap by the college he attended. Bad show what.
The chapel showed no ill effects of its long neglect. The paint was as fresh and bright as ever. And the lamp burned once more before the altar. I knelt and said a prayer - an ancient, newly-learned form of words. I thought that the builders did not know the uses to which their work would descend. They made a new house with the stones of the old castle. Year by year the great harvest of timber in the park grew to ripeness, until, in sudden frost, came the Age of Hooper. The place was desolate and the work all brought to nothing. Quo modo sedet sola civitas - vanity of vanities, all is vanity. And yet, I thought, that is not the last word. It is not even an apt word - it is a dead word from ten years back. Something quite remote from anything the builders intended had come out of their work and out of the fierce little human tragedy in which I played. Something none of us thought about at the time. A small red flame, a beaten copper lamp of deplorable design, re-lit before the beaten copper doors of a tabernacle. This flame, which the old knights saw from their tombs, which they saw put out: the flame burns again for *other* soldiers far from home - farther, in heart, than Acre or Jerusalem. It could not have been lit but for the builders and the tragedians. And there I found it that morning, burning anew among the old stones. Get Rammell on.
While we're playing on words for the benefit of comedy misunderstandings. I've just seen one of those fanatic type guys in Southampton high street, shouting about the ills of the modern world while stood over a sign that said "pornography is an addiction that can be overcome". I was tempted to point out the double entendre to see if his head exploded.