Bideford Town Council hasn't a prayer

The High Court has ruled that local councils can't have prayers on the agenda.

The National Secular Society has won a Judicial Review against Bideford Town Council's practice of holding prayers as part of its formal proceedings. Mr Justice Ouseley, leading judge of the Administrative Division of the High Court, today ruled that the 1972 Local Government Act did not give councils the power to introduce a religious dimension to their meetings.

The judge didn't decide that having to sit through prayers amounted to a breach of atheist councillors' human rights, as the NSS had argued, or to unlawful discrimination. A crucial part of his reasoning was that because the prayers were optional -- any councillor who objected was free to leave -- they couldn't be considered an integral part of council business. In that sense it was a very technical ruling. But he did suggest that it might impose unacceptable "burdens" on some representatives, marking them out or excluding them from their role as "equally elected councillors".

"Still, a win is a win" was the instant reaction from Dr Evan Harris, the former Lib Dem MP and secularist campaigner. Keith Porteous Wood, Executive Director of the National Secular Society, was perhaps more effusive. "Acts of worship in council meetings are key to the separation of religion from politics," he said, "So we're very pleased with the judgement, and the clear secular message it sends."

As for the Christian Institute, the evangelical pressure-group that had backed Bideford Council, its spokesman Simon Calvert called the ruling "extraordinary" and wondered if councils were now also banned from beginning council meetings with the national anthem or offering congratulations to the Queen on the occasion of her Diamond Jubilee.

The decision has also been attacked on Twitter by local government minister Eric Pickles. He suggested that "the right to worship is a fundamental and hard fought British liberty" (but then what of the right not to worship?). More intriguingly, he claimed that under the new Localism Act, which comes into force today, councils have a power of general competence: "Logically this includes ability to pray before meetings."

So it's far from over yet.

In the key passage highlighted by the NSS in its initial response to the ruling, Mr Justice Ouseley declared:

I do not think the 1972 Act [...] should be interpreted as permitting the religious views of one group of councillors, however sincere or large in number, to exclude, or even to a modest extent, to impose burdens on or even to mark out those who do not share their views and do not wish to participate in their expression of them. They are all equally elected councillors.

For around seventy years it has been the practice -- regular if not strictly adhered to or laid down in any regulation -- for the mayor to invite prayers to be said before council meetings in Bideford. The current row has been going on since Clive Bone, who brought the complaint with the aid of the National Secular Society, was elected to the council in 2007. The judicial review was brought last year despite the fact that Bone was no longer a councillor. His departure was, it seems, at least partly due to his unhappiness over the prayer issue and the poisonous atmosphere the row had created.

In November 2008, the Standards Board for England rejected an earlier complaint by Devon humanists. The board did "not think that for a council to have prayers is a breach of any of the relevant equality legislation". It added that "It is a decision for the council how it conducts its business and any change to that needs to be addressed by changing the governance arrangements with the consent of the majority of the council."

The following year the new mayor, Andy Powell, declined to appoint a chaplain and replaced the pre-meeting prayers with a period of silence which he described as "a mutual solution to the subject of religion in our chambers." But the prayers were later restored, prompting the legal action. The current practice is for the mayor to invite a local cleric to say a prayer at the start of meetings. Occasionally, a local representative of the Quakers leads a "moment of reflection" instead. Sometimes the mayor calls for a minute's silence instead of prayers.

Since it was based on the fairly narrow grounds of the Local Government Act, the case is unlikely to have the wide-ranging application that some have suggested. It does not threaten daily prayers in the House of Commons, for example: Parliament is not subject to the provisions of the Local Government Act. Nor will it prevent councillors' involvement in remembrance or Christmas carol services. Even the NSS says it has no objection to prayers being said before council meetings (though how long before remains a moot point). The point being contested was, arguably, a fairly trivial one: whether prayers could be an item on the formal council agenda. Trevor Phillips dismissed the case as "nonsense on stilts". But on such narrow points great questions of principle sometimes hang.

The most obvious outcome of today's ruling is that the understanding of the law set out in the Standards Board's response to the earlier complaint must be revised. Defending the NSS's decision to bring the case, despite the wish of a majority of local councillors to have prayers at their meetings, Keith Porteous Wood declared that "the law is not made in Bideford". But it would seem that the law has indeed been made in Bideford, at least pending a probably inevitable appeal.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad