The Eve Of Canceltide

Just a note to Beaker Folk to remind you that apart from some local elections in the Good Ol' USA, today is Guy Fawkes Night and not yet Canceltide.

Canceltide will start tomorrow, as Gordon Braggington says the official Words of Cancellation: "You can't even say the word Christmas these days."

To which Doris Maurice, standing in front of the Beaker Remembrance Tribute (45 "Tommies", assorted sandbags and 100 square yards of camouflage netting decorated with red knitted flowers) will respond "And you can't even wear a poppy."

Have a happy Canceltide, those that celebrate it. I shall be too busy to join the Patriotic Beaker Folk as, dressed as St George in red and white armour, they claim you can't display an England flag any more.

Instead I shall be busy preparing for Winterfest. A non-sectarian celebration of all that is best about modern Britain. ie we'll be standing around moaning about the rain, before flying off to Lanzarote.

The Gates of Heaven

What kind of gates does heaven have in the Book of Revelation?

We don't know. Because St John doesn't tell us.

He tells us that the new Jerusalem, the perfect city, has pearly gates.

But when he tells us that, the new Jerusalem is on earth.

Trick question that I had the Jehovah's Witnesses ask me last week - they clearly walked straight past the sign saying "The Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley - The modern Cyber-Coenobitic Community" and then tried to bandy their impoverished theology around with a woman wearing an official Archdruidical hat (replica hats available in the Beaker Bazaar).

"Where do you think everyone will end up?"

And the answer they're hoping for, when addressing a middle-aged woman, is "heaven". Then they go "aha"! And tell you that's only 144,000 people and do I feel that lucky punk?

Instead of which they got 15 minutes on my theology of a totally-renewed Creation. A new heaven and a new earth. A place where hearts and minds and bodies are resurrected and healed. Where those pearly gates are always open, as it says in the good book, so anyone that wants can come in. A place where heaven has come down to earth.

A place where God walks with God's people and the water of life is pure and the tree of life is once more given to us. And God will reign and the fruit that we stole from the tree of knowledge in a mythical garden long ago will mean that we know everything is now good and we will know as we are known and love as we are loved.

And through the wars of this world and a tree of Death on which the author of life died, there will be no more death and no more war.

The Book of Revelation isn't a history book of the future. It's a promise. It says hang on. All you can see and hear now are just labour pains. But a new day is coming when the weak are strong and the poor are rich and the Prince of Peace will be with us all.

And we are called to be saints. From the greatest to the littlest, God can pick us up and say you are loved and I have great things in store for you. I can do new things you have never imagined.

So as God's loved ones, we can work to make the present world a little more like the one to come. And wait with all heaven and earth for God's promises to be fulfilled.

Another Great Samhain

Well, what a Samhain (actually pronounced "Halloween"). The community's one Scottish resident, Mary McSporran, got into an argument with our one Welsh resident, Dai the Stereotype, about which of their races invented Halloween.

The answer is, of course, it was the Roman Catholic Church. All the connections to Samhain were made up by Victorians and similar wallies. Samhain could be a day, a feast, a month, or a state of mind for all we know. And, as far as we're aware, druids never carved pumpkins.

Still, it was a fine night. In keeping with what is long tradition, many people dressed up as the scariest of all monsters - Russell Brand - although I could have done without Burton Dasset's "Brand" costume being a mask and a pair of white Y-Fronts. The sparks from the Wicker Person flew off and burned down a haystack. And Summer's End was appropriately celebrated.

Happy All Saints' Day. The Little Sisters of the Holy Herring, our enclosed order of penguins, are about to celebrate Vespers. Whatever that is.

Probably invented by the Druids like everything else.

All Saints' Day on Ice

 As you all know, we've been very concerned about our enclosed order of discalced penguins, the Little Sisters of the Holy Herring. We turned the little hermitage in the Great House grounds over to them many years ago after the nuns went feral.

With the issues with avian influenza over the last few years, we had to adopt a strict biosecurity regime. But now, having created a frozen lake within the new conservatory on the back of the hermitage, I'm glad to say we can invite all Beaker Folk to our new, H5N1-secure, celebration of All Saints Day on Ice.

A feast of sliding, eating anchovies, and quacking the praises of the creator as we remember those who have gone before us in the faith. 

Nativity of Kirsty MacColl (1959)

We loved you then, as we love you still.

10 October 1959 - 18 December 2000

5th Sunday Blues

An odd little interlude, Sunday just gone. 

It being that legendary beast, a Fifth Sunday, Young Keith had organised a Turkish Restaurant Church. I've never really liked the Moot House smelling of kebab meat, so I left him to it and took the weekend off in Somerset.

On the Sunday, I thought I'd go and take in the morning service at Flakestream Episcopi. I know they put a high emphasis on croissants and tea lights there, so just the kind of place to worship. And so through the misty Mendips I went, from my little cottage in Cottesleigh Owlicide, off to Flakestream Episcopi. Not to be confused with Flaskestream Regis, which is the other side of Big Wood. And some people never come back when they make the trip to Regis.

To remember that it was a Fifth Sunday. When the whole Appleblight Benefice all gets together at a parish church they apparently choose at random. Which on Sunday was Threadnutt Nedwell, as I discovered when I looked at the rota on the notice board.

I've never been to Threadnutt Nedwell before. But I had made sure to leave plenty of time - you do, in those parts, in case you meet a herd of livestock crossing the road. So I set the Satnav for Threadnutt, and off I went.

Turns out Threadnutt Nedwell is not so much a village as a state of mind. As the Satnav triumphantly announced I was there, I could see a traditional red telephone box, repurposed as a Dinky Toy library. And a shed.

Onto A Church Near You. Not enough phone signal. Drove up a narrow Somerset country lane to get to higher ground. Met a combine harvester the size of Saturn coming the other way.  Drove half into the hedge to let it through. Finally got to the top. Got a signal. Found a postcode. Put it into the Satnav. Was told I had already arrived.

Turns out the postcode covers an area about 5 miles square. Off to Wikipedia. Which informed me that Threadnutt Nedwell church is in the grounds of Nedwell Manor.

Found a brown sign to Nedwell Manor. Followed the directions down an even narrower country lane. Had to back up half a mile to let an entire travelling funfair through. 

Got to Nedwell Manor's stately gates. Sign "to the church" off to the left. Drove the Prius down ever  narrower lane where the tarmac turned to gravel. Turned to rubble. Turned to mud. After a mile I got out, waded across the ford, finished the journey by hijacking a donkey.

Church was shut and locked.

Checked A Church Near You for service times. Found the Fifth Sunday service was at Brimbling St Thomas. Swore.

Banged on the Manor Door. Butler drew me a sketch map. 

Back on the donkey. Through the ford. Back into the car. Now starting to worry that at the end of the journey I might meet A BEAR. Hoped it might be a real one, if so, and not Russell Brand's friend.

Down the side lane. Out into the big lane. Knew I was going to be late for the service now, but determined, even if I were there by coffee time, I'd give the vicar a piece of my mind for publishing misleading service rotas.

Just for information, as I went back through Flakestream, I double-checked the notice board. To find the service dates on there were for December 2023. Which also had a Fifth Sunday. Opened the board. Pulled out the service rota. Screwed it up. Jumped up and down on it.

Through rolling apple orchards, past numerous yokels and tractors. Getting increasingly stressed as I realised I was probably even gonna miss coffee time.

Arrived at Brimbling. Rushed up to the church. Discovered it was St Henry's. St Thomas's is the other side of the valley, Which they filled to make a reservoir. Which was overflowing because all the rain.

Took the long way round. Just one person, locking up, as I arrived at St Thomas's church.

"Missed the service?" I said.

"You and everyone else," she said.

Turns out the average congregation of St Thomas's is just the church warden. And when the Benefice Fifth Sunday Service rolls round, nobody travels in from the other villages. Even the vicar. the warden had just said Morning Prayer on her own, and was off to put her Sunday roast on. Her husband, she told me, was a Methodist, and hadn't been to church since the chapel closed in 1965.

So I gave up. Went to drive back to Cottesleigh Got stuck behind the funfair. The road I'd come by had been closed due to an infestation of badgers. Followed the detour. 10 miles down winding Somerset lanes, looking at the back of the waltzer. Took advantage of one tiny bit of wide road to get past the waltzer, merry-go-round, and swing boats. And then, the lorry carrying the dodgems broke down.

There I was. In a lane. In the middle of nowhere. In the middle of a funfair. And there's no way the lorry with the waltzer was backing up in a lane that wide.

Still, on the bright side. God provided for lunch while we waited. On this occasion, the Divine was working through the candy-floss stall owner and the burger van. So we were all well fed, if not exactly happy, when the breakdown van arrived at the wrong end of the procession. Backed up, took a six mile detour, and got the dodgems moving.

So I followed the front half of the funfair till we came to a side road. Turned off. Headed back for Cottesleigh Owlicide. And, en route, arrived at Flakewell just in time for Fifth Sunday Benefice Evensong.

Well, I was on a sugar rush from all the candy-floss, toffee apples, and Fanta. So I figured I might as go for it.

It was... an experience.

Flakewell Episcopi is a church that is proud of its high box pews. It's a bit embarrassing to find somewhere to sit - you have to open the door, peek in, then if there's someone already in there you kind of wave in an embarrassed manner and back out.

And that's before what I thought was incense smoke turned out to be from the naked sauna that someone was holding in one of the pews. Apparently the Lord of the Manor of Flakewell has had the right since 1742, and he's not afraid of flaunting it.

Found a pew containing only a sheep and a spider the size of a rabbit. Sat down. Got my phone out to use the camera, so I could read the print in a 1542 edition of the Book of Common Prayer.

The vicar of the Appleblight Benefice is quite a trendy man, it turns out, for the Somerset high country. He likes to wander around while leading the service, in an informal and friendly way.

He's also a diminutive man. About 4'7 I would guess.

And there's nothing wrong with eschewing the pulpit for an informal, all-in-it-together kind of feel.

And there's nothing wrong with being 4'7. It might be inconvenient when your favourite couscous is on the top shelf in Waitrose, but it's a perfectly legitimate height to be.

 But combine those two things, with high box pews. And it's a bit weird.

Revd Thrubston has a very deep voice. And as he ambled around the place, offering random thoughts on the fourth chapter of Ephesians, it was like hearing the Creator wandering about the place in the cool of the day, invisible but always audible. When he suddenly shouted "do not sin!" the entire congregation jumped out of their seats, and assorted heads could suddenly be seen for a moment, before gravity returned them to their places.

Still, you've got to hand it them. Fourteen people, plus the Lord of the Manor's party, on a damp Sunday afternoon to worship in their little village. It gives you a sense of the way faith still lingers in this land, even in places out of the reach of electric guitars and inspirational, charismatic, slightly-dodgy leaders.

Mind you. Next time I have a weekend off, I think I'll stay in bed on Sunday morning.

For Those in Peril, C of E

As Church of England congregations across the country woke up to the thunderstorms in the middle of the night, and Church Wardens thought "Oh no" as they remembered the crumbling mortar joints, broken Collyweston, and re-roofing projects that have been crawling through the diocesan approval process all summer, at little advice for worship in times of heavy rainfall.

Try to stick to worshipping in the shallow end.

The All-Season Snack

 I feel like we've really done it this time. 

I'd been hearing complaints that mince pies are in the supermarkets - even though their "sell by" dates are before Xmas. Which would of course contravene some law in Deuteronomy somewhere. Same every year. In fact, every season.

In the teeth of people moaning that creme eggs, mince pies, and hot cross buns all come out in the stores at the wrong time of year, we were struggling to find a product that could smooth out supply chain fluctuations, while also garnering positive media feedback.

And here we are.

The Mince Cross Egg.

A deep-filled mince pie. Spicy and luxurious like a real mince pie should be. Topped with a spice bun top, marked with a white cross.

And in the middle, a lucious chocolate layer with a creme caramel centre.

The Mince Cross Egg.

Feast or fast, it's the snack that will last. All the way through to the next liturgical year. And without complaints on social media.

Available from the Beaker Bazaar.

Meeting of the Moot Building Committee: Voting Results

 Thanks to everyone who attended this evening's Moot Building Committee meeting. The refurbishment of the Moot House (8 years after it was last rebuilt) is going to be an exciting project, and we want to ensure we get it right for the future.

The results of the voting are as follows:

1. Height of new lighting system bulbs for the Moot House

a) 9' (3m) from the ground, convenient for changing bulbs - 1 vote

b) 15' (5m) from the ground, reachable by a long ladder with extreme care - 2 votes

c) 45' (14m) from the ground, only accessible by scaffolding and/or a new generation of drone that has not yet been invented - 27 votes

2. Location of electrical wiring

a) In trunking at the bottom of the wall, easily accessible if slightly clunky - 1 vote

b) Under a raised "office style" floor, easily accessible and flexible - 0 votes

c) Sunk 6' (2m) deep in the concrete floor   - 30 votes

3. Treatment of the Greensand stone floor of the Moot House, so as best to reflect its unique geological and aesthetic properties

a) A light buffing to bring up its natural colours - 2 votes

b) Overlay with a sheet of transparent acrylic, to protect its surface while still displaying its natural beauty - 4 votes

c) Araldite a 2nd hand synthetic fibre carpet over it - 27 votes

4. New heating system

a) Ground-source heat pump - 0 votes

b) Air-source heat pump - 0 votes

c) Radiant overhead electric heaters that turn bald men's heads red - 12 votes

d) Wood-burning stove fuelled by cast off pews from church reorderings - 26 votes

5. Seating

a) Old fashioned wooden box pews - 6 votes

b) Bean bags -  4 votes

c) Comfy electrically reclining chairs, which take up three times as much space as alternative seating arrangements - 8 votes

d) Plastic chairs that get moved around all the time and make your back sweat - 15 votes

In the light of these decisions, I have concluded that democracy is a mistake and you're all getting what you're given. If anyone wishes to discuss, my new cricket bat arrived from johnlewis.com this morning and it's in serious need of being "knocked in". 

In Livid Memory

Bit odd today at Mirkoslove's funeral.

I thought it was a typo, when the service sheet referred to the "Condemnation" rather than "Commendation".

But then his widow stood up to deliver it.

And maybe the printers got it right.

A Milestone is Reached

An amazing achievement by Melswold, who yesterday made her 100th appearance at a Beaker Tabletop Sale.

Her commitment to fundraising for St Melophilus's Refuge for Damaged Sparrows is unparalleled. While her range of cards featuring sparrows in quirky locations is truly unique.

So congratulations, Melswold. And we look forward to even greater celebrations when you finally sell a card.