When AI took over Wimbledon

There has been concern about poor line calls by computer at Wimbledon. 

But they're barely trying at the moment.

Given the current levels of accuracy in AI, it's only so long before a tennis player receives a call of "offside". Or possibly "knock on", whatever that is (the Beaker Folk have never been in favour of  the game invented by the Revd Webb-Ellis). 

But what is sure is that Wimbledon is under real threat. What happens when their Artificial Intelligence Overlords decide to replace the ball-children with wombles? Wombles are notoriously efficient. But their habit of travelling overground and underground means the integrity of Centre Court is at risk.

And if AI truly takes over then the whole integrity of the history of Wimbledon is at risk. Who is to say that Vinnie Jones didn't win the men's singles in 1986? Who can put their hands on their hearts and say that Tim Henman didn't win the title ten years running? The entire record of this pointless, inexplicable sport, with a scoring system based around the quarter-hours on a clock, is at risk. When we're told that the points are 15, 30, Pi, and 19.45 - who will stand up for the truth versus the convenient lie?

(Image is Virginia Wade as "Girl with Dolphin". It's true that our Jubilee Grand Slam winner was once used as a nude model for a bronze on London's north bank.

Or is it? Maybe AI is just taking over our entire history.

Rural Ministry Studies - Revised Exam

 Two hours. Only use ChatGPT if you're truly desperate.

1) A congregation member has offered you a second-hand bookcase. Not because he's fly-tipping. He just thought it would be useful as he's recently ordered a nice one.

a) How loudly should you shout "no"? (to the nearest decibel)

b) What are you going to do with the three you already have?

2)  You have squeezed in so many services on a Sunday, to ensure everyone gets one, that some are now scheduled to start before the previous one ends. Do you have a TARDIS? Or are you just struggling to please everyone?

3) If Bryan in Little Tipping hates Gervais in Pigwell Magna, and Felix in Chipping St Stephen hates Marjorie in Boswell St Jude - why do you keep sharing the Peace at benefice services?  (bonus points for explaining why you have benefice services)

4) After driving 87 miles on a typical Sunday, you can hear squeaking. Is it you, or the car?

5) You're considering consolidating all your PCCs into one giant PCC. Have you also thought of therapy?

6) All these retired clergy who are apparently keeping the rural church going - have you ever met one? Or is it just me?

7) [Methodist ministers only] On a scale of 9 to 10 - how lonely are you?

8) [Anglican ministers only]  Don't you wish Justin Welby had cared about rural churches as well? Please do not use swear words

9) Explain the latest exciting new strategy to reorganize pastoral care in your diocese / region / county in diagrammatic form. Try to use no more than 4 dimensions.

10) Regarding that exciting new strategy. How soon do you plan to move to a place with a less exciting new strategy?

11) Sir John's income is £4 million pounds per year. The average house in your area is worth £3 million pounds. 10% of the people in the village come to church. How are you struggling to replace a light bulb in the loo?

Extravert / Introvert Church

 Interesting experiment today, as we experimented with the way different worship styles appeal to different personality types. 

Both services started at 11 am. I led the Introverts service in the gym. Some quiet background music, a short "thought" and everyone given some time for quiet reflection. All done by lunch.

The Extraverts are still going. Checking the CCTV recording I see that Hnaef started by asking if anyone had anything to share.  They're currently onto the third hour of the Peace. 

The Friday Night Prayer Gossip Meeting

So we pray for Mabel. That nobody finds out about her gadding about with Chazney. Especially her husband.

And for Drenzil. That he discovers what that worrying rash is.

And for Modric. Who's not been the same since he found out who his dad really is. Obviously it would be indiscreet to reveal who, but the Lord, who knows everything, knows it's Canon Benskins, the former rector.

And that Thelma can find something to cure her flatulence. It's been agony for her holding it in till the end of the service. Last week she managed to blow the tea lights out after the final blessing.

For Marge, who's confided in me that she's not too sure what Bran is up to when he borrows her make up of an evening.

And for Kit, who's been combing over his bald spot. Quite successfully, until he walked past Thelma after a service.

Amen

Release the Mythical Beasts

This is so embarrassing.

And I should have noticed.

Normally on the morning of the Summer Solstice we have problems with the mythical beasts. They try to follow the timetables, but they originated before British Summer Time. So they have a habit of turning up an hour late, thinking that BST is GMT. Or vice versa. Or something.

But this Summer Solstice, I locked Drayton Parslow in the Doily Shed for messing with my orders of service.

I just went to let him out. It's been five days, after all. And nobody's got a bladder that strong. And we needed to sell some doilies.

And found that the Woodwose, the Piper at the Gates of Dawn, and Hern the Hunter, had all followed me in for a laugh. 

Do you have any idea how terrified a Fundamentalist Baptist gets, when locked in a shed for five days with three mythical creatures?

No. More than that.

He's run off screaming to his cottage. And while I realise that, in a very real sense, we are all to blame, I particularly think his wife, Marjory, has let him down. Surely she should have reported his absence by now.

Liturgy for the Day After Summer Solstice

 Archdruid:  Nights are drawing in

All: Soon be Christmas.

Summer Solstice Sunrise Celebration

Archdruid: Hail, mighty Solstice Sun!

All: Risen like a big, orange, hot ball of exploding gas.

Archdruid: That's a bit literalist innit?

All: Yeah. Drayton Parslow thought it was all a bit pagan, and so he  made everything literal and sober.

Archdruid: So the bit about the mighty chariot crossing the depths of the sea beneath the worlds, the horses' fetlocks flowing in the wind?

All: "You were just at the other side of the world but now you're back on this side again," you mean?

Archdruid: And all that stuff about Phoebus Apollo shining in wisdom and bringing life to the earth?

All: "Gonna be a scorcher today, keep hydrated!"

Archdruid: OK. I'm just off to tie Drayton up in the Doily Shed. See you for sunset.

All: Pimm's already on ice!

Archdruid: And can someone get that Rollright Stone back? People are gonna miss it.

Fathering Sunday

 I'd like to wish a happy and profound Fathering Sunday to all those that celebrate it. Fathering Sunday is the day on which all Beaker Folk try desperately not to offend anyone, which coincidentally managing to offend absolutely everyone as we thrash around trying to celebrate good fathers while remembering those with bad fathers, absent fathers, the Godfather, Father Christmas, and on this most Trinity of all Sundays, the Father, Mother and/or Genderfluid Parent of us all. Obviously we give it its traditional English name, not the modern commercial American ripoff name.

Burton Dasset didn't really help, to be honest. He's got caught up in some of kind of "muscular Christianity" thing - a relapse to his days at Public School, I think, though I did catch him watching American wrestling on the telly the other day. Or maybe he's got too inspired by Elon Mush. Or he's having a reaction to a career in stock accounting computer systems.  But I found the following a slightly odd liturgy: 

Burton: Who's the Daddy?

All: God!

Burton: Burton can't hear you!  Who's the Daddy?

All: God! 

They continue for hours

At least that was the planned liturgy. What actually happened was that, underwhelmed by a 7-stone weaking trying to prove his virility, the congregation went off to the Beaker Barista's for a freeform Cafe Church instead.

Next year, Fathering Sunday coincides with Summer Solstice. So we will make another futile attempt to ignore it. Burton's been told if he keeps up this weird macho business any longer, we're going to be looking into exorcism. He's too old for a midlife crisis, and too young to be going senile. So it's gonna be the strappy table and the Slazenger to beat the demons out.

Nativity of Thomas Hardy (1840)

A field gate near Mellstock. Two Yokels lean over the gate, equipped with straws in mouths.

First Yokel: 'tis that Thomas Hardy's birthday again.

Second Yokel: Aye. 

1Y: Odd that. I thought he had one last year.

2Y: That he did.

1Y: He must be mortal sharp, to have a birthday every year.

2Y: That he be.

1Y: Shall us up-along to Peter's Finger in Mixen Lane, for a pretty little drap o' tipple afore nammit-tide?

2Y: Wi' all my heart. But 'Spoons is cheaper.

1Y: 'Tis truth. And 'tis Monday Club.

2Y: Then let us away and fill our empty hearts with cheap Greene King.

A folk tune, played by a mystical fiddler, drifts across the heath. Milkmaids swoon and crows fall from the sky. While, afar off, on Casterbridge gallows, can just be seen the body of a hanged man.

Unexpected Messages in Church Visitors' Books

1 June 1994 Norbert Dranesqueezer, Great Tremlett

Why do you have no Books of Common Prayer? The language is sublime. The theology truly Reformed. The whole of the Christian life can be found in one slim volume. And I like to steal one from every church I visit.

---

4 May 1995 Gilbert O'Gilbert, Dribbling-on-the-Green

Was here for an hour and no sign of the vicar. Where is he?

There are bat droppings on the green cloth covering the altar.

Disappointing.

---

11 June 1996 Jenny Streetweiser, Chipping Corners

After much research, I found out my great-grandparents were married here in 1937. They don't seem to be here now - any ideas where they may have gone?

---

30 September 1997 Rick Roll, Saint Myrtle's Over-the-Hill

Dear God, having seen the beauty of your house, I feel I'm never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down.

---

2 Feb 1998    Angelique Boggs, That London

Most disappointed in the medieval architecture. I feel they could have done better.

---

4 January 1999 Raynswold Grimley, Great Tremlett

If this is God's house why doesn't he do it up a bit? It's not like he doesn't have the staff.

---

1 January 2000    Grayson Drapely, Wyre Drivel

I was struck by the joyful message on your "Wayside Pulpit."

What do you mean, "Happy Millennium"? Do you imagine our Lord was born in 0 AD? Heathens.

---

14 October 2001 Norbert Dranesqueezer, Great Tremlett

Still no BCP? The Alternative Service Book has been consigned to where it belongs. I thought you would have improved. 

---

28  June 2002 Melissa Sparrow (Mrs), Grilsby-on-the-Hill

What a beautiful church! I have been inspired to poetry:

The village churchyard, all serene

Where sleeping mounds of grass so green

Lay over those who've no more breath

They rest there in the sleep of death

Death death death

Death death death

Death death death

---

11 November 2003 Selina Tryclops, Gibbering in-the-Meadow

Anglo-Saxon architecture is so brutal. Yet there is such beauty in its simplicity. Shame yours is all Norman, but you can't have everything.

---

29 February 2004 Lavinia de Strangler, Bleakly on-the-Moor

If you were wondering where the lectern is, I've got it.

Damn. I've given myself away again, haven't I?

---

 Billy Bumbreath

Bums!!!!!!! Hahahahahaha

---

11 June 2008 Rod Pole, Flapping on-the-Hill

Quiet round here, isn't it? You could avoid the police for weeks.

PS stay out of the crypt, if you know what's good for you.

---

8 April 2011    DCI Tom Barnaby. Causton, Midsomer

Called but you were out. Please could you drop in to the station when you get a minute? Nasty affair at "Black Gibbet".

---

25 December 2013 Magnus Grebe, Sagging Baddley

It's 4pm on Christmas Day. I see that there's a benefice service on Sunday at Blooms Green. Which means there's nobody gonna be around for 10 days. And I've found where you hide the Communion wine. Not a bad drop.

Happy Christmas!

---

31 December 2013 Magnus Grebe, Sagging Baddley

How was I to know you'd lock up on Christmas afternoon and not come back?

The door to the ringing tower is locked so I can't raise the alarm. 

I've tried shouting, but it's half a mile to the village.

There's no phone signal - and my phone ran out 4 days ago. 

And I've eaten all the hassocks.

If you read this too late, I'd just like to say - you swines.

---

2 March 2015 DCI John Barnaby, Causton, Midsomer

Called but you weren't here inexplicably moving the hymn books around.

Please can you call in at the station? 

Terrible business at "Hanging Nook".

---

11 June 2017 Jeb Gray-Vdigger, Little  Tremlett

So grateful that you leave this beautiful building open.

It's so good to be able to sit and meditate in a wonderful church in silence.

So I've shot all the crows in the churchyard. Noisy beggars.

---

1 February 2020 Marie Innhaste, Little Stickleback

Just finished having a lovely meeting with Revd Rachel, planning for the wedding in April. It's going to be so lovely.

I'm so excited. What could possibly go wrong?

---

1 May 2024 Eric Derek,Polling Boothby

The Spiders.

The Spiders.

The SPIDERS.

THE SPIDERS.

Left 5p in the wall safe. You deserve it for keeping this lovely building open.

The Primate of All England of the Rings

It has been suggested that the selection process for the Archbishop of Canterbury is what would happen if Peter Jackson remade "Conclave". And, given the length of time it takes, that may be the reason.  Here we preview the exciting three-part movie series that leads to the eventual selection of the Primate of All England and the First Among Equals of the Anglican Communion.

An Unexpected Departure 

In the ancient and legendary kingdom of Albion, something magical has happened. Someone has accepted responsibility for something. The Primate of All England declares that he will step down forthwith, so that his replacement may be selected.

Ages pass, and he is still serving his notice. People start looking meaningfully at their calendars. Eventually he departs, leaving the Table of Foreboding with one chair empty. It is decided that the election of a new Primate will take place without delay. Once they have selected the Selection Panel.

The Panel for Selecting the Selection Panel receive the call via the palantirs they have been using for Zoom calls. Pausing only to canvas the opinions of everyone in their shires, in a year-long round of Moots, they set off for Lambeth. They arrive in Winter, and are told to come back when the weather is nicer.

Eventually the Panel for Selecting the Selection Panel assemble. Over months of painstakingly detailed discussion, they determine the members of the Selection Panel. As is traditional, the messages summoning the Selection Panel are sent on the backs of eagles. Four of which are shot by farmers, two die after catching bird flu, and one unfortunately eats a poisoned rat. Not daunted, the Panel for Selecting the Selection Panel keep sending out plucky eagles. Eventually, the movie closes. In the final scene, we see each member of the Selection Panel as they kiss their loved ones goodbye, and mourn that their children will be grown up before they return.

The Desolation of Smug

Banding together, a bishop, two members of the Diocese of Canterbury, and the representative for the churches of the Middle East fight a horde of angry cockroaches for four days - the decapitation of each beetle shown in great detail, in slow motion. While being chased by an angry PCC, they stumble through a secret door, into the mountain lair of the Church Commissioners. They find the Commissioners, laying on their vast hordes of treasure, and tossing golden coins to see if the stock market will go up or down.

Everyone goes down to the Prancing Pony for a few pints while the CGI is worked on. A few pints turns into four months. After a hobbit won't stop singing comic songs, they throw bread rolls at him.

Eventually the Selection Panel convenes. They decide their name isn't very sexy, and hire a PR company to come up with a better one.  After customer experience testing, consumer panels, and creative freethinking, they ask ChatGPT. Which comes up with "the Council of Elrond". Ignoring the danger of copyright issues, they go with it.

Someone suggests they should ask the Lady Galadriel what she thinks. To get to her new abode, in Chatham, they put a chorister, a half-orc, and a precentor into barrels and float them downstream from Waterloo.

Days later, after adventures with mermaids, sailors, and the new sewage outfall, they arrive in Chatham. Galadriel looks into the Well of Seeing with those eyes that have seen millennia, looks sadly towards them, and says it doesn't really matter. 

The Council of Elrond is not disappointed with this result, but neither do they resolve to get a move on. They schedule two-monthly reviews for the next four years.

The Battle of the Three Armies 

Members of GAFCON and The Society hit each other with cricket bats. For two hours. Then a member of Affirming Catholicism wanders into sight. So they all hit him instead.

The Council of Elrond convenes for the thirty-third time. This time they finally agree on a candidate. They try to light a fire to send white smoke up the Lambeth Palace chimney, while throngs of supporter stand outside. But it requires wizard fuel to produce white smoke, and Filemus the Pyromaniac has passed to the East(ern Orthodox). Bilbo is sent on a three-month journey, encountering pixies, elves, the Black Knight from Monty Python, the congregation of Holy Trinity Brompton, and other magical creatures. 

Stephen Fry, as the Bishop of Bath and Wells, wanders up to Bilbo, says a few self-deprecating comments, makes an allusion to Wilde, and wanders off again.

Eventually Bilbo finds a letter tucked into a secret tome in a desolate chapel formerly belonging to the Countess of Huntingdon's Connexion. The letter is written in Old High Wood Elfish, a language today spoken only by Farage the Dodgy, who lives high on a cliff and spends his time pointing at boats. Bilbo returns to Lambeth, and in despair throws the letter onto the fire. White smoke rises, and everyone groans with apprehension.

The new Archbishop receives the call from the clerical outfitters where he (of course, he) has been trying on new mitres.  He looks suitably humble. We realize that his adventures may well provide another trilogy.