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.

Beaker Common Prayer Collect for St John Bunyan's Day

He being a near-neighbour of ours, we are very proud of our John. And so we are proud (but not in a proud way) to share our specially-written Collect for St John Bunyan's Day.

Eternal Maker,
Let lions, foes, and foul fiends never scare us in our pilgrimage
Save us from all hobgoblins,
Take away the fear of being locked up by the Church of England,
Or having to fight giants
While ever saving us from having our lyrics rewritten by Percy Dearmer.

"Outrage" over "Parody" of the "Last Supper"

In news that has caused the manufacturers of scare quotes to work overtime, there has been "alarm" about what has been claimed to be a parody of the "Last Supper".

The tableau that has caused alarm is from a work by the Oxford mathematician, C L Dodgson, whose cover name is "Lewis Carrol".  Although the art itself is by his collaborator, "Sir" John Tenniel.

"I think this is clearly a disgraceful representation of the "Last Supper" by Leonardo da Vinci", said Matthias Victim-Complexe, of the First Church of Cultural Stereotypes. "The dormouse is meant to stand for St John, who is not merely "reclining" but actually falling asleep. The insults include the tea pot representing the Holy Grail. And obviously Alice, pointing vengefully across the table, is Judas.

"To further the insult to a Renaissance work of art - I mean God - two of the characters at the table are traditionally referred to as "mad". And the tag on the Hatter's Hat is a mocking of Mark 10:6, "But from the beginning of the creation God made them male and female.""

It was suggested to Revd Victim-Complexe that being offended by a picture's resemblance to another picture meant he thought the original Da Vinci work in fact included an accurate representation of God. He was asked why he didn't think he was in fact guilty of idolatry, the breaking of the Second Commandment*. But at this point the pastor gradually faded away, until only his expression of quiet martyrdom remained.

* Protestant counting 

The Silence of the Lammas

Keith: I'd like to thank the Archdruid for letting me lead this special Occasion. As we celebrate the Feast of Lammas Day. 

All: She's behind you!

Keith: And so we remember that the name, Lammas Day, comes from the tradition of slaughtering all the weakling male lambs before winter arrives, so the ewes and the strong rams become...

Archdruid: No, it's called Lammas from the Anglo-Saxon, "Loaf-Mass". A first harvest celebration of the year.

Keith:  Ah..... CHARLII!!!! 

(From outside: *thwok* *thwok* *baah* *thwok*)

Charlii: Yes, Keith?

Keith: Never mind.

NOTICES

Archdruid: After this service, turns out we'll be enjoying a Mongolian Barbecue. If anyone is a vegan or vegetarian, please get a grip, and tuck in. I've made some lovely bread, which will come in more handy than I thought.

The Olympics Opening Ceremony, 2012

I remember the 2012 opening ceremony. 

Being English, I naturally thought it would be an embarrasment. 

I was so wrong. It was so wonderful. It made you happy to belong to this country. In touch with its (decidedly varied) past. Friendly, inclusive, able to make a joke about itself.

I would like particularly to give the credit for the subsequent retreat into a suspicious, mean, cruel, often vicious media environment to the Mayor of London in 2012. A man who put his own brief, ignominious time in power above the good nature of the country. A man who partied while people's grandparents died.

But  one day we will be proud of this place again. In a day when we are once again driven by kindness, love of our landscape, an understanding and a reckoning with our past. And not by fear and hate.

We will get there.

"Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not."