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Gill writes:

My recent reflections have often been about how lately it feels like I’ve been swimming in some pretty deep, heavy waters against the tide. So today, I thought I would give the despair a well-deserved day off. Instead, I thought I’d focus on the pure joy of savouring the moment. And to help us do that, I  thought I’d take a little step back into 1966 and this classic from Cliff Richard and The Shadows.

Your recollections of this track are probably of a bright, relentlessly cheerful piece of vintage sixties pop. It’s the kind of tune that is definitely of its time. But if you peel back that upbeat tempo and actually look at what the song is saying, it has the perfect message for our busy modern minds.

The song starts with that feeling of isolation:

When the world in which you live in
Gets a bit too much to bear
And you need someone to lean on
When you look, there’s no one there

Tell me about it, Cliff. And then it goes on to talk about the world closing in on you:

When you’re walking in the city
And you’re feeling rather small
And the people on the sidewalk
Seem to form a solid wall

Back then, that solid wall closing in on you was probably more literal – brick, mortar, and bustling crowds. Today, I think our solid wall is usually digital—the endless scrolling, the furious commentary on our screens, and the crushing weight of opinions we didn’t ask for. 

If we don’t actively and intentionally claim our own peace, the noise of the world will claim it for us. Making the most of a quiet moment seems more of a challenge to make space for. In a world that demands our constant attention, making time for peace and joy is probably what you could call an act of radical defiance. As Julian Cope once sang, it’s a way of saying ‘World, shut your mouth!’

We have a lovely, long bank holiday weekend stretching out ahead of us – with cracking weather promised apparently. It can be easy to treat these extra days as time to catch up on chores, run errands (usually to the tip), or, dare I say, spend an extra twelve hours staring at our phones.

This weekend, I wonder if I could challenge you to do something different. I wonder if you could practice a little bit of radical defiance. You don’t need to buy a train ticket to some dramatic coast or countryside to do this though. I think that ‘the country’ is more a state of mind. It’s any neutral ground where you are completely safe from the noise—and surely the absolute best place to find that is in nature.

There is a profound spiritual peace waiting for us outdoors. When human spaces feel fractured and heavy, stepping into creation reminds us that there is a wider, divine reality at work. Nature has a beautiful way of grounding us because it doesn’t have anxieties like we do. A forest doesn’t care about arguments. A stream doesn’t worry if it has done the ‘right’ thing. The grass grows, the trees reach upwards, and the breeze blows exactly as God designed them to do.

When we quieten our minds in green spaces, we aren’t just escaping; we are opening our hearts. We are making room to hear that “still, small voice” that so easily gets drowned out by the digital roar of our world. For a moment or two, we can tell ourselves that while we might feel powerless to fix the world, we can rest safely in the hands of the One who holds it all.

So, pack up a flask of tea, find a patch of green, and go reclaim your piece of the country.

Have a peaceful, wonderfully defiant Bank Holiday weekend.

…

Well – Cliff is still with us 60 years later and you can find out what he’s up to at https://www.cliffrichard.org/

This summer, the Friday Fix is celebrating one-hit wonders — those songs that blazed into our lives, lodged themselves deep in our hearts, and somehow never left, even if the artists largely did. You know the one. It appears on the radio or playlist, and you’re immediately 15 again, or standing in a kitchen you haven’t stood in for decades, or remembering a summer that felt like it would last forever.

We want to hear about yours. What’s the song that got away — and what does it say to you about faith, life, or the human longing for something more?

Send us a short reflection pairing your one-hit wonder with a moment of theological insight, and we’ll share it with the Friday Fix community. All musical tastes welcome — guilty pleasures especially encouraged. Drop us a line at fridayfixmail@gmail.com and let your one hit wonder have its moment yet again.

Gill writes:

I’ve found myself using a phrase quite often so far this year. That phrase is ‘knock the dust (from your shoes).’ Its origins lie in the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 10. It’s one of those phrases or quotes that I turn to when I find myself caught up in heated debates or doomscrolling through Threads. It helps me step back and check myself. Take a breath and ask what’s going on here?

You may be familiar with the story in Luke 10 – it’s where Jesus sends out seventy-two disciples — in pairs, which is itself worth noting — and gives them a remarkably practical set of instructions. Find a welcoming house. Stay there. Eat what they give you. And if a town doesn’t receive you? Shake the dust from your feet and move on.

In other words, don’t get yourself embroiled in a prolonged argument. Don’t keep trying harder and harder to win people over. Just — walk away.

I find that Cast’s Walkaway, from their 1995 debut album All Change, captures something of that same spirit. It’s not an angry song. It’s not particularly sad or full of pent-up frustration. It’s underpinned with that Britpop confidence — nay, swagger — of the 1990’s but underneath it, I find there’s something wiser than it first appears. If you’ve heard all they got to say / you looked but turned away. The walking away here isn’t defeat. I think it’s discernment.

And in 2026, discernment might be one of the most countercultural things we can practise.

We live in a world engineered to keep us engaged — not productively engaged, of course, but hooked. The (doom) scroll. The ‘hot take’. The reply that definitely won’t change anyone’s mind, but somehow we can’t resist typing anyway. Comment sections on social media seem designed less for conversation and more for combat by keyboard warriors. Algorithms that have learned, very efficiently, that outrage keeps us online longer than wonder does.

Into all of that, the song says: walk away. Just like Jesus told us to do two thousand years earlier.

I think the thing to notice about the Luke 10 instruction is that it is not about having a sense of resignation. It isn’t Jesus saying don’t bother because people are useless. I think it’s something more purposeful than that — more about assessing a situation, like triaging in a hospital A&E, or a gardener knowing when soil is ready. The disciples aren’t carrying a message that diminishes if it goes unheard in one place. They carry it onwards. You’ll never lose your dreams, as Cast put it, in one of those lines that you could almost throw away until you sit with it.

There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from trying to reach people who, right now, simply aren’t ready to hear. We’ve probably all felt it — in a family conversation that turns circular, in a social media exchange that generates more heat than light, in a world of soundbites and bots where nuance goes to die. The temptation is to try harder, speak louder, and find the persuasive argument that will finally land.

But Jesus offers us something different: permission. Permission to move on. To trust that the Spirit works in its own time, through its own means, and that our job is not to force every door but to notice which ones are opening.

Walking away, in this reading, is not apathy. It’s not giving up on people. It’s an act of faith — that the Good News is bigger than any single conversation, that it will find its moment, and that burning ourselves out helps no one.

So maybe the questions are: what dusty shoes need a shake? Where are the open doors? The receptive hearts? The places where something might actually take root?

Walk away from the noise. And walk towards life. And never lose our dreams.

Find out more about Cast at https://castband.co.uk/

Jules writes:

God, I needed that. Thank you.

This weekend in the heat of the spring sun, the lyrics “hypnotised by the beauty of it all” come to mind. Lyrics from the Hothouse Flowers song ‘Good for You,’ from their album ‘Home’.

Almost overwhelmed by the beauty of it all…

The depth of the energy that the sunlight has brought this weekend.

Not just the vibrant contrasting colours of the spring, scintillated by seed and the sparkle of sunglint, but also the strength of the tradition in the pinnacled church tower as its bells strike twelve… The god-given energy seemed to make some simple, homely treasures sparkle.

My ‘home’ is something I’ve struggled to pin a flag on. I am from Cornwall, so I might say I’m a Cornishman; the Cornish have a strong tradition and identity. But, I have ‘lived’ outside the County, in the East Midlands, for more than 30 years.

This weekend, shadows of the lingering winter seemed to be warmed by a few days of strong sun. ‘Were you there when the sun refused to shine?’ It seems I tend to suffer from an introvert’s ruminations and cognitive distortion, especially in the winter months. A recent health check suggested I was low in Vit D and Iron… that notion didn’t help my ‘perception’ of the world.

The Hot House Flowers sing;

“I’ve hoarded all experiences I’ve had

Written down all memories on a train…

And you ask me why I’m singing,

Well it is good for me, it can be good for you…”

“World is decay, life is perception”, said the ancient Greek philosopher Democritus. But this weekend’s light and warmth have definitely helped my perceptions sing, and helped me treasure some simple blessings.

‘Blessings’. The word always reminds me of being a boy, about 6 years old, circa 1975. Waist-high amidst a throng of Cornish faithful, singing with gusto in the upstairs chapel of the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen in Newlyn. “Count your blessings, name them one by one…”. The RNMDSF; fishermen’s shadows in corners, a snooker table taller than me, plaques, awards, and a sense of refuge. I recall songs about anchors, safe return, loss, toil and light. The sound of my grandmother and the colour and spirit of this song.

The Hot House Flowers sang “I’ve spent my life watching sky and sea change colour…”

It’s what we do, colours change… perhaps ‘home’ is where the heart is. But, “where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Matthew 6:21

“And I’ve woken to the sound of sweet dawn music

Where a hundred thousand songs are sung

While the earth and ocean changes

Four thousand million into one”

Treasure your blessings. ‘Life’ is in perception!

God, I needed that. Thank you.

…

Hothouse Flowers are playing festivals this summer, and touring later this year – https://hothouseflowers.com/

Jane writes:

In recent days, I’ve been on an outing to Leeds. A good chance to visit the Art Gallery, amongst other things. On my way through the city, I saw a poster with my birthday date on it in big black letters, so of course I had to pause to be nosey. It was advertising a gig by The Christians, and I felt a little pang of sadness as my birthday has passed and I didn’t get to go ☹

This band have been a fixture in my existence since the early days of theirs, and I’ve seen them, off and on, in all sorts of places. I love their sound, their perspective and the nostalgia that goes with seeing them. This whole set of thought processes led my mind to wander around their music mentally, and the first song title that popped into my head was this one –Ideal World.

A set of lyrics rang through my brain – pretty good given I can’t often remember where I’ve put my socks recently – and this was it. As clear as day:

In the ideal world
We could start again
Now in my real world
Let’s put an end to suffering
End suffering

In the ideal world
We’re now free to choose
Oh, in my real world
We are safe to air our views

In my humble opinion, the world is far from ideal at the moment. I know some people, those who are throwing their power about like talcum powder, think their ideal world can be brought about by war, violence
and downright bullying, but I think most people see the world in a far from ideal position.

War is very, very present in our minds. Alongside that comes the impact of discrimination, racism, climate change and a disproportionate distribution of wealth. All compounded by the silent acceptance of the masses.

‘Oh Jane, ‘ you cry. ‘This isn’t new. Twas ever thus!’ Maybe you’re not wrong, as long before The Christians (that’s Gary & his brother who originally made up this band) were writing about it, there was commentary aplenty. This is why, though it’s so sad. We do not learn lessons. To hear these words ring true almost 40 years after they were written is so demoralising.

We, who are people of faith, hold true to a pattern of discipleship that upholds equality and love for one another. In fact, the biblical stories around Jesus remind us that we should love God and love our neighbours as ourselves, then those stories take some very careful time to explain that everyone, regardless of where they originate, must be considered a neighbour. This is the ideal world our faith encourages us to strive for.

In the ideal world
We can start again
Now in my real world
It matters not about the colour of your skin

If this means we have to try every day to re-write the dodgy and unacceptable story we find ourselves in, so be it.

If you can, in some small way, make today a day where you contribute to the ideal world the writer of this song envisages, and if we’re blessed, then we won’t need to revisit this FF in 20 years time.

…

You can find out more about The Christians and where they are still touring here
http://www.thechristianslive.co.uk/index.html#

Does Taylor Swift make you think about forgiveness? Does a Coldplay chorus sneak up on you in a moment of prayer? Does “Dancing Queen” say something profound about joy and community that you can’t quite put into words — but you’re going to try?

Then the Friday Fix wants to hear from you.

Our Friday Fix blog is where music meets the spiritual — a space for the unexpected connections, the “wait, this song is actually about grace” moments, and the guilty pleasures that turn out to be anything but guilty.

We’d love to publish your thoughts. And the good news? Your job is the easy bit.

Here’s all you need to do:

Pick a song. Any song. (Yes, even that one.)

Jot down a few thoughts about what it sparks for you spiritually — could be a sentence, could be a few paragraphs. There’s no wrong answer and no word count.

Send it to us by email. That’s it. We’ll do the rest.

We’re not looking for essays or theology degrees. We’re looking for you — your music taste, your faith, your reflections, served up however feels natural.

Go on. Hit play. Then hit send.

Send your Friday Fix to: fridayfixmail@gmail.com

Gill writes:

I don’t know about you, but it feels to me like there have been too many moments recently when the world feels as though it’s holding its breath. This past week has been one of those — on Wednesday, for example, when I woke early and immediately checked the news. It seemed like Armageddon was less a metaphor and more a possibility. In those moments, I think we are confronted with a real question of faith: how do we live fully, love well, and hold onto joy when everything around us feels so scarily fragile?

Last summer, my husband Rob and I found ourselves caught between grief and celebration in a way we hadn’t quite anticipated. We had travelled to Sheffield to see Paul Heaton (supported by The Lightning Seeds and Shed Seven). It was a proper nice occasion – catching up with friends and full of anticipation. Then the call came.

Our dog, Brontë (who was in boarding kennels), had to be rushed to the vet. Her back and her rear legs had given way, paralysed without warning. The conversation with the vet was one of the hardest we’ve had. We made the decision — the one that no pet owner ever wants to make, and we made it from a distance; unable to be there and hold her. We had to trust Hayley, the wonderful owner of the boarding kennels, to be the hands we couldn’t be; to be with Brontë, speak gently and let her know she was loved.

For a moment, we genuinely didn’t know if we could face going to the gig. It felt almost wrong to be standing in a crowd, waiting for music, when our hearts were filled with grief. But our friends were there. We had the tickets. We were a couple of hundred miles from home. And so we went.

And then Shed Seven took to the stage and played ‘Let’s Go Dancing.’

The song isn’t the gentle, reassuring ballad that it hints at. There’s an urgency to it, and a cry for the moments when the world is falling apart around you, and probably the only response is to grab hold of someone you love and move. Let’s go dancing while the world caves in. It feels like there’s something almost rebellious about that, and standing there that evening, with grief still raw, it meshed so relatably for me in that moment. A reminder that joy is not the absence of pain. Sometimes joy is the most courageous thing we have left to offer.

All evening, we sang until our throats were raw. We danced. We laughed through tears, put our arms around each other, and raised a glass to Brontë Dog. It was messy and joyful and grief-stricken and alive, all at once. And it was, I think, exactly where we were supposed to be.

It strikes me that Jesus understood this. He could have spent his last evening in solitude or in sorrow — and who would have blamed him? Instead, he gathered the people he loved around a table. He broke bread, he poured wine, and he was entirely present in that fragile, fleeting moment. The Christian faith has never pretended that joy and grief are opposites. They sit together at the communion table. They show up together at the graveside. And apparently, they dance together at football grounds in Sheffield on warm spring evenings.

Brontë, like all dogs, had no interest in yesterday’s regrets or tomorrow’s worries. She lived in the moment with an uncomplicated enthusiasm. Every walk was the best walk. Every greeting was the greatest greeting. Every sofa was made especially for her to lie on. In a way, I can’t help think that she was, perhaps, more faithful to the spirit of the Gospels than most of us manage to be!

Nearly a year on, she lives on in our memories — and in the small but persistent lesson she left behind. When the world feels heavy, when the news is bleak, when we don’t know what tomorrow holds — be present. Be with the people you love. Hold them close. And if you can, if you can hear music and you can see lights, let’s go dancing

…

Find out more about Shed Seven at https://www.shedseven.com/

Kristie writes:

This is one of my favourite songs from last year. I was lucky enough to hear Kate sing it live, and she introduced it by saying it was written for her teenage daughters as an encouragement for them to become who they wanted to be. She also said what a joy it was to have Barnsley Youth Choir sing with her – and I can hear that joy in this song (and see it in the video!)

There’s a lot on the choices we all have: “You can buy in, you can sell out, you can take time to work it all out” – for me, the taking the time to work it out is the becoming – and all of us at all ages, when we take time to work it out, are in a process of becoming who we want to be, who we think God wants us to be.

I’ve been particularly struck by the line “You can run wild, you can be good, do as you want or do as you should”

It feels like only now, in my 50s, I realise that I have such choices – that being good or doing what I should aren’t the only options!! I suspect that kind of realisation isn’t what’s expected when we focus on “becoming” during Lent. But there’s something liberating about realising that we don’t have to only be a narrow version of ourselves, based around the messages we first received about ourselves as children. My recent reading of some queer theologies has me thinking about how God doesn’t see us as fixed, but continually becoming, transforming into who God is encouraging us to fully be. There’s some necessary unlearning, then relearning to be done.

There’s no set pathway for our becoming – “You can fly high, you can dig deep, cling on or take a big leap”. There are times that in order for us to blossom, we need to cling on securely and dig deep into what grounds us, whereas other times it does involve that huge leap of faith into the unknown. Similarly, “You can let go, you can hold strong, shy as you like or sing your own song, but let your light shine.”

Kate is quoted as saying the song is “about embracing who you are, having faith in your unique gifts, and letting the world see your light. Be strong, be positive, and be kind.” I appreciate that life isn’t as simple as just saying our “shadows will be gone” and am wary of any toxic positivity, but I also see value in remembering that our call is to let our light shine rather than hide it under anything. That’s who I hope we all can become.

Find out more about Kate Rusby at https://katerusby.com/