Tice Grenfell goes to School-Church

Richard Tice suggests children with special needs be taught in "redundant churches" that are "only used one day a week" (ie non-redundant churches).

"Now then children. Welcome to your new school here at St Bernard's. And isn't it exciting! No, Bryony, you can't have the heating on. If we started heating the building, it would cost far more than sending you to school in taxis.

Who is making that shivering noise? 

Please stop it, Neville.

No, Evangeline. You can't play in the churchyard. Not after what you dug up last time.

Hazel, why aren't you playing with your plasticine?

Well, if it's frozen, chew it to warm it up. Like Kelsey there.

George, please get out of the font.

No, Amstel. You can't go to the toilet. There aren't any toilets.

Who's playing castanets? Oh -Jocasta, your teeth are chattering. Please stop it.

That's a lovely painting, Nigel. All those union jacks. But why are they upside down?

Oh, they're just like Daddy's one. 

Please don't lean on the rood screen, Mabel. We're not convinced it's that stable. And stop eating the woodworm.

Edna, I know it's cold. But please don't hug Jeremy quite that hard.

George. Please come down from the pulpit.

Yes, Arachne. That is a very big book on that eagle. It's called a Bible.

No, you shouldn't have dropped it on Gerald like that.

Please don't run, Corona. You know... Yes. You have skinned your knees. That stone floor is very hard. 

I don't care what your father says. The Archdeacon has refused permission for a carpet.

Cadenza. Be an angel and come down from the reredos.

Yes, I know there are angels on the reredos. But you'd be better as an earth-bound angel.

Rowan, please stay out of the bell tower.

Rowan, please stay away from those ropes.

Rowan, please don't touch that rope.

Rowan, please don't pull that rope.

George, please come down from that ladder and bring it over here. Quickly."

Lines on the Fall of the Spey Viaduct with thanks to William McGonagall

'Twas in the year two thousand and twenty five 

When some people in Scotland were lucky to be alive

For part of a former railway bridge fell into the silvery river Spey 

Which is in the fine Scottish county of Moray.

Which fall is remembered to this very day.

Because it happened yesterday. 

The Spey Viaduct is a bridge near the town of Garmouth

Which is a long journey from Great Yarmouth

And more so since the railway was closed by Dr Beeching 

An act whose folly does not require any preaching.

But instead now there is the walking and cycling route, the Speyside Way 

Which runs from the Cairngorms to Buckie in Moray.

Or did, before the police closed the former railway bridge which went agley 

And whose girder fell into the waters of the silvery River Spey.

But we must thank the Lord that no cyclists or walkers were tumbled

From the bridge when the girder first rumbled

And fell into the silvery River Spey 

Which is in the fine Scottish county of Moray.

The Artificial Intelligence Church Office

Inspired by a phone call to Lincolnshire County Council, and this Independent article 

'Thanks for calling Saint Midge's. I am "Midglet", your Artificial Church Office Manager. Please ask me any question and I'll help direct it the right way.'

'My mother has died. She wanted to be buried at St Midge's. But she named my brother as the executor, and he wants to go for an unaccompanied funeral and then we can keep the money. I'm very conflicted.'

'Thanks for your query. It's always good to celebrate a baptism. Normally we prefer to conduct them during the main service on Sunday. But we can make alternative arrangements. Please fill in the form online at www.stmidgesonthewater.co.uk.'

'No. My mother has died and I have a tricky situation. Can you help?'

'It sounds like you are asking when the Midnight Mass is. Well, we are a proudly forward-looking church, so we prefer to call it, 'Nativityrama', and hold it at 4pm on the Sunday before Christmas so we don't have to mess up our Christmas schedules with services. We look forward to seeing you there. Or you can catch up on the St Midge's +1 channel or YouTube.'

'Can I speak to the vicar please?'

'As a worship centre that is part of the "Network Network" network of networks, we don't actually allow the ministers at St Midge's to talk to human beings face to face. They might express uncontrolled opinions or even emotions, which individual thought is completely at odds with the sanitised images you see on the notice board. If you leave a number, I could arrange for the central ministry team to ignore your message until we're all dead.

Or, of course, Jesus might come back. We mustn't forget that possibility.'

'Can I speak to a human being please? About my mother's funeral - maybe we could just have some prayers when the cremation is scheduled?'

'It sounds like you want to talk to your deceased mother.

'No, I ...'

'As a Bible-believing church, we do of course believe this is a sin that will damn you to hell forever.

But as I'm an AI chatbot residing in the cloud, I can transfer you to another bot that will pretend to be your mother. Just don't tell anyone I sent you. Please press 1 to continue, 2 to make a gift-aid donation, or 3 to hear about the Seventeen Steps to being a good tithing Christian.'

You'll be amazed at this simple Clickbait Remedy

So this headline annoyed me.

I'm sure North Yorkshire Live's online sub-editor, or whichever form of Artificial Unintelligence has replaced the sub-editor, thinks this is genius.

It has all the keywords to bring out out the rightwing bots, the tankie Trots, and James Delingpole. The trillion conspiracy bots and the conspiracy theorists who, weirdly, can't work out that the Facebook account called MagatillIdie99 with an avatar that is an upside down union jack and has no friends is in fact a fake.

It's odd, because they're dead good at spotting the conspiracy that mRNA vaccines are being spread across the world in the vapour trails of Boeing 737s. Changing all our genes so we turn orange.

So here we are. A virus spreading. Masks to be worn. Everyone must get a vaccine. Everyone piling on to call everyone else a fool. Including me in this blog of course. All it needs is to mention that John Jackson Serocold, vicar of Helpston, "died suddenly" and you've got a full house of click bait.

Now here's the thing. I used to be a flu researcher, in the former Oxford University Department of Mind Control and Zoology.

And flu is a funny virus. Funny peculiar not ha ha. I had a nice little graph with the name deaths.dat. 

And what that graph showed is that deaths from flu each year vary from loads and loads, almost apocalyptically loads, to not many.

The 1918-19 Spanish Flu (which originated in the USA) killed more people than the actual Great War. I know of a war grave in an English graveyard, of a man who came home from the Western Front and attended his mother's funeral. From flu. And then died of flu himself.

And the  there was nothing for a couple of decades, and then another pandemic. Nothing for a couple of decades then another. Flu lurks quietly like the sentient beast it clearly isn't. Then there's a genetic shift and the world is again plunged into pandemic.

 Because our immune systems can't recognise the virus's newly morphed antigens, it spreads more quickly and is more serious.

Eventually everyone has had it and either died or not. Which is herd immunity, I suppose. 

Most healthy young people resist well - 1918 being the terrible exception when the virus seems to have kicked off terrible immune over-responses in the young, with people drowning in their own blood as their lungs were attacked by their own immune systems. I'm not putting you off your muesli am I?

But people with serious conditions, such as kidney disease, are far more susceptible. People of advanced age likewise. Which is why these people get their free jabs.

And of course even if you're fit and young, flu can put you off work for a fortnight. Which is why many retailers and the NHS often actually pay for jabs for any employees that want them. And have done for ages, without any mind contol effects or mysterious cancers.

 Because it may be heroic to drag yourself in looking like you're at death's door and infecting Mabel who has a heart condition but is looking forward to retiring next month. But you're no bloody use and you put the customers off, coughing and spluttering all over the baked good like the evolutionary success you think you are.

And the headline's not true. The article actually says everyone who is eligible for the flu vaccine. The vulnerable. The ones that might be seriously affected, or might die.

Not you, you pinnacle of evolutionary perfection, who hasn't been exposed to a virus since 2018 because you've only left your desk in your bedroom to go to the toilet in all that time. You'll be fine.

I have a simple remedy for a clickbait headlinee like this. I block the Facebook group that's published it. If we all did, then South Croydon Action, Inner Epping Chronicle and the Husborne Crawley Bugle could just be left to the bots and Trevor from Hartlepool, who thinks he's safe from flu because he's got lizard genes. And maybe one day - you may say I'm a dreamer - these rubbish little local pages will either close down or simply tell us the truth.

At least we can hope.

Middle Class Whamageddon

It's a different kind of Advent with the Beaker Folk.

For the deeply SAD afflicted, and people who are just a bit obsessed with George Michael, the "Xmas Zone" plays Last Christmas all year round. Any  time you need a festive pick-me-up, the Xmas  Zone has chunky sweaters, a slight nip in the air, a fire to gather around and Wham. And in case you were wondering, we use the waste heat from the fire to drive the air-conditioning that leaves you in perfect Christmassy spirit all year round.

So Whamageddon holds no fear for Beaker Folk. In essence we are in Whamhalla all year round, whenever we drop into the Christmas Zone. Which, frankly, is quite often. Who wouldn't want to be in a Whammy Wonderland on a gray October day, or when the heat all gets too much in July? 

The Gathering of the Whams

Although we had a different Christmas experience the other week, when Keith thought he'd be clever and suddenly we had an interstitial Pretenders experience.

Ho, Ho, and thrice Ho

I tell you, the children were not happy.

So anyway. In the absence of any real Wham menace, we play a different game. Ola Gjeilogeddon. The first time you hear his The First Nowell on or after December 1st, you're out.

It's trickier than you think. In this post-structural, neo-progressive commune, where Enya's Winter Songs can come at you from all angles - you may think you're just walking in an Enya Wonderland when suddenly, Wham! Or rather, not Wham. Ola. Turns out you were actually listening to "easy winter listening" on shuffle. And you're in Olageddon. 

Even worse today. I was shopping in Waitrose. Came out to the car park  and some denizen of Milton Keynes had "Winter Songs" on in the car. And as if by magic - Gjeilohalla. 

So that's it for this year. I got so annoyed, I played The First Nowell  over the community PA, so everyone was out. Petty, I know. But people need a little woe in Advent. It's good for the soul. Mine, not theirs. But of course - you know who won Gjeilogeddon?

That's right. The people listening to Last Christmas in the Xmas Zone. Oh the irony.

Ever Hearing but Never Understanding

I appear to have caused a bit of an upset. 

My own fault. Although we let Drayton Parslow and his Funambulist Baptists use the St Bogwulf Chapel as their worship centre, I do insist that it is kept as my 8-greats grandad had it. A quiet little chapel in the grounds of a minor stately home, with a tortoise stove as approved by John Betjeman, box pews, and a triple-decker pulpit. This was before my family moved across to the Very Primitive Methodists, and started worshipping in a tin hut in a layby. And I let Drayton off the tightropes, without which his little flock would struggle to justify their name.

Anyway, I asked whether Dariush Runnymeade, who's one of Drayton's flock, was able to move his car. It was on our drive and I don't like Baptist cars cluttering up our manicured gravel. And Mrs Runnymeade told me he couldn't, as he was on the beer.

Well I lost it. I told her I wasn't having scruffy Baptists getting in the way of my Lexus - it looks so much cheaper when there's a Seat Mii parked next to it. And the cheek of it, parking his car up on my drive so he could get plastered and then get get a lift in to collect it - so a day's free parking.

And Funambulist Baptists above all aren't supposed to drink - it's too dangerous, what with them being up on those tightropes. So I asked Mrs Runnymeade what did she suppose was going on? Dariush was bringing the sect into disrepute.

Drayton's been round.  Turns out Dariush was "on the bier". In Bogwulf Chapel.

My thoughts are with Mrs Runnymeade at this difficult time. And I will be revoking the parking fine.

Can You Dig It

I'm afraid Keith has been banned from leading Circle Time at the Little Pebbles group.

It's a simple little time, a calming time at the end of the school day. A prayer, a song, and an uplifting story. 

We've had to explain to Keith that the answer to the question "Who put the colours in the rainbow? Who put the salt into the sea?" is not "Shaft".

The Budget: What it Means to Me

After the Budget, the case studies.

The Guardian worries about people just about managing in Richmond, London. The BBC find Neal, who is stressed at only being able to save 12 grand a year in cash tax-free.

But nobody asks - what does it mean for a single mother (son aged 35) living in a charity-owned mansion in Bedfordshire with all her stipends paid into a complex web of offshore accounts?

Absolutely nothing. All good. Thanks for asking.

Poppygate

And so, as Poppytide has come to an end, begins the long removal of poppies from the Moot House and its surroundings.

The Great Wall of Poppies on the lawn took six weeks to put up, and looked like taking as long to take down. Setting fire to it was not something we really wanted to do. But actually it burned better than a Wicca Person on St John's Eve. You could see it for miles around.

But I'll miss the Poppy Fountain. A beautiful design, as the plastic poppies popped out of the top, running down to the base in an endless stream of patriotic nostalgia.

And the differently coloured poppies. Red poppies for those who made the ultimate sacrifice.  White for those who thought they needn't have made the sacrifice. Black poppy roses for Black, African, and/or Caribbean service people and victims of war. Purple for the cute animals. Yellow for the ones that weren't so cute. Orange for people called Brian. I don't know whether they were specific Brians. And the Royal Brian Union thought maybe they were a misprint. Whatever.They were all very attractive, I thought. 

The poppies. Not the Brians 

We also have the problem of what to do with Burton. He was found not wearing a poppy in public on 7 November, and has been locked in the Doily Shed ever since. He's got all the facilities there - running water, a toilet, and all the doilies he can eat. But we've got to let him out some time. And what is the custodial sentence for not wearing a poppy? Maybe the Daily Mail will know.

So now we're storing the non-burnt poppies for next year. I'm glad we built the Seasonal Display shed. We can stick them with the special upside down Union Jacks and the Halloween merchandise, when we get the dancing reindeer out. 

I'm Fine

Thanks for asking how I am. I'm fine.

There's no need to drill any deeper.

I could tell you the notifications from the pastoral Whatsapp group are driving me mad. But you'd ask me what was up in the village. And you don't want to know. And I don't really want to think about it again.

I could act like Phil Collins in one of his divorce songs, and say I cry a bit, don't sleep too good. But then you'd put on that pastoral care face and ask what's the problem and recommend yoga or breathing. And I'm breathing already and I don't want fixing. And I don't cry a bit, and I sleep OK. That was just Phil being melodramatic.

I could tell you about the tiredness but then after an hour of your sympathy I'd realise you were draining the energy from me to top up yours in pastoral worthiness. I might wallow in my sadness and support your draining concern. Or I might lose it and accuse you of being one of Revd Rachel Mann's "pastoral vampires" in "The Gospel of Eve". And that would be good for neither of us.

I'd say "I'm getting there." But then you'd wonder "where from?" And "where to"? And instead of it showing I'm vulnerable like everyone else, but things are generally OK, it would once again put the power into your pastoral absorbency, not my agency.

So please don't ask me how I am.

I'm fine.

Saint Paul Says Relax

As to the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ and our being gathered together to him, we beg you, brothers and sisters, not to be quickly shaken in mind or alarmed, either by spirit or by word or by letter, as though from us, to the effect that the day of the Lord is already here.

…. Now may our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and through grace gave us eternal comfort and good hope, comfort your hearts and strengthen them in every good work and word.(Thessalonians 2.1-2, 16-17)

The Thessalonians’ problem, it seems to me, is that they're getting over-anxious and over-excited.

They believe Jesus will return, and soon. And it's like first-century social media. Stories of wars and rumours of wars and of Jesus’ having already come back are sweeping those little Christian groups in the Roman world. 

Of course, in their world, “sweeping” was a thing that only happened at roughly three miles an hour.

In our world, “sweeping” happens much quicker.

I was reading how it's my “generation” - the Generation X-ers born between 1965 and 1980 - we're the ones most tending to espouse nasty, racist, anti-gay views. Which to a degree surprises me - because we grew up with Two-Tone music, and Frankie Goes to Hollywood.

But also kind of doesn't. Remembering some of the skinheads who listened to Two-Tone music and entirely missed the point. We're young enough to have adopted Social Media. But too old to have developed critical thinking about it.

So every crime committed by anyone from an ethnic minority is magnified as if it's the only crime that ever happened. And fear is stirred. And the panic grows among the 45 to 60 year old demographic and they rush out to stick flags on lampposts like they're totems that will ward off evil. It's all very end times.

And Paul's message to the Thessalonians is similar to what we should adopt today.

Calm down.

You're blowing everything out of proportion.

Remember that Jesus will come - but in his time, not ours.

And do what you're called to do. Love each other. Care for those that are in need. 

Stop panicking. There's work to do.

Proving the Flood

What ridiculousness, I ask myself, is the Facebook post I have found, claiming to debunk the Biblical Flood account?

Below I refute their ridiculous claims, one by one. I am afraid, dear brothers (and sisters, whose menfolk will I hope assist them over the hard theology and even godly science). I give the pitiful, science- and faith-light statements in blue, and my refutations in a godly, religious black.

Key scientific arguments against the historicity of Noah's Ark and a global flood include:

Geological Impossibilities

Lack of Sufficient Water: There is not enough water in the Earth's atmosphere, oceans, and ice caps combined to cover all landmasses, let alone the highest mountains, as described in the biblical account.

This is easy to refute. The whole thing was a miracle. G*d created a lot more water. Then removed it at the end, thus lowering the flood.

Absence of Global Flood Evidence: A global flood would leave specific, consistent geological evidence across the planet, such as a universal sedimentary layer and a massive genetic bottleneck event in human and animal populations; no such evidence has been found.

Have you never heard of the Oxford clay? It is certainly underlying geology everywhere I go. In any case, God tidied up afterwards. God hates mess. And how can you say there is no genetic bottleneck when Country and Western music exists?

Contradictory Geological Formations: Geological features like the Grand Canyon were formed by gradual processes over millions of years, not by a single, rapid, receding flood event. The existence of coal seams and other rock layers that require millions of years to form under specific conditions also contradicts a recent global flood event.

Not if God does it. The geological events were accelerated to God speed.

Fossil Record: The fossil record shows species appearing and disappearing over hundreds of millions of years in a specific order, a pattern that is inconsistent with a single, recent mass-burial event. 

Everyone knows that God allowed the Devil to scatter these fossils across the world, with the specific aim of allowing atheists to follow the route to perdition that they deserve.

Biological Impossibilities

Biodiversity and Logistics: The number of species on Earth (over 1.7 million, excluding insects, microorganisms, and marine life) is far too vast for two of every "kind" to fit on a single wooden vessel, along with their necessary food and water for a year.

They were standing on each other's shoulders. And have you not read the Holy Book (Genesis 7:2), which clearly says there are seven pairs of every clean animal? If you cannot get the minor details of the word of G*d correct, how can we trust you to work out the volume of an anteater?

Animal Distribution: The global distribution of animals (e.g., kangaroos in Australia, polar bears in the Arctic) would be impossible to explain if all animals started from a single point of origin in the Middle East after the flood.

Noah dropped them off.  He was conveniently supplied with a boat for that very purpose. And polar bears can swim.

Genetic Viability: A severe genetic bottleneck from having only two of every animal "kind" and eight humans would lead to catastrophic inbreeding effects and disease susceptibility, which is not observed in modern populations.

Once again with the author not knowing about the seven pairs of clean animals of every kind. Your grammar is wrong: that should be " catastrophic inbreeding effects and disease susceptibility, which are not observed in modern populations". And clearly God has provided a miracle to save us from inbreeding. Apart from in the Appalachians. 

Ecosystem Survival: A global flood would have mixed fresh and saltwater, dooming all freshwater organisms and plants.

God separated them by an osmotic miracle. 

Engineering and Physical Impossibilities

Ark Construction: A wooden boat of the dimensions specified in the Bible (approx. 450 ft long) would likely be structurally unsound and break apart in rough seas without modern engineering knowledge.

Did God not give Noah the design? Where does this "likely" come into it when you claim to be dabbling in science?

Waste Management: The sheer volume of waste produced by thousands of animals over a year would create an unlivable and toxic environment for all inhabitants. 

Not at all. Just throw it over the side.

Archaeological Findings

Lack of Physical Evidence: Despite numerous searches, especially around Mount Ararat in Turkey, no scientific evidence of the Ark has ever been found. Alleged "discoveries" have been identified as natural geological formations or hoaxes.

This proves nothing. Lots of artefacts from the ancient world can no longer be found. Not even a miracle needed here.

Continuous Civilizations: Historical and archaeological records from ancient civilizations (e.g., Egypt, China) show continuous, uninterrupted human activity through the period when the flood would supposedly have occurred (~2,500 BCE), with no mention of a global flood event. 

You can make up anything that is in books. Except the Bible, of course.

In conclusion, the scientific evidence

In conclusion. All nonsense.

Keeping up with the Jonesies

Reform Councillor Alexander Jones, former mayoral candidate for Doncaster, has apologised after accidentally saying out loud on Facebook that people of Caribbean origin can't be English.

I mean, Englishness is such a nebulous thing. It embraces people who climb halfway up lampposts to tie St George's Flags to them. And people like the part-Turkish, American-born Boris Johnson. And the Royal Family, who derive their English heritage from erm William the Conqueror. A French-speaking descendant of Norwegians.

Given the terrible history of slavery, and the degree to which slave women had children whose fathers were their masters - the truth is there probably is a fair amount of English DNA (which I presume Alexander Jones was subconsciously thinking about) in the Caribbean population

Which brings me to a question.

Jones - isn't that a Welsh name?

Simon Jenkins' Complete List of New Uses for Country Churches

Simon Jenkins has come up with more suggestions about uses for under-used churches. I'd warn you that it's behind a paywall. But to be honest it's probably better that way. Oddly he's in the Times this time. Who probably aren't aware he's written the same story, with minor tweaks, repeatedly in the past for the Guardian. This, for instance, from 2021. 

Or the article that caused me to write this, in 2018.

I worry that, like an elderly relative who's telling you the same funny story about their youth for the 90th time, he just forgets he's told us his theories before.

Still. To save you the trouble of searching old Guardian columns finding all the new uses Simon Jenkins has suggested for the small village pub - here they are.

1. Pub (despite all the pubs closing)
2. Library (despite all the libraries closing)
3. Post Office (you guessed it)
4. Bank (yeah, yeah)
5. Sauna
6. Squash court
7. Aquarium
8. Crazy Golf
9. Discorama
10. Vape shop
11. American candy store
12. Harry Potter supplies
13. Yoga centre
14. Arts centre
15. Baseball ground
16. Airport
17. Heliport
18. Spaceport
19. World War II pill box
20. Castle
21. Ghost Train ride
22. Penny arcade
23. Chip shop
24. Garden Centre
25. Laundromat
26. Ice Rink
27. Laser Smurf-hunt
28. Nudist colony
29. Gerbil breeding centre
30. Space observatory
31. Solar Farm

All it requires is a wilful ignorance of English and canon law, a Public Sector prepared to invest billions in buildings with immense costs, and a bit of imagination.

Come on, England! Save those church buildings!

Not Enough Celebrationtide

Welcome to the season of Not Enough Celebrationtide. 

Have you been wearing your poppy since mid-September?

No?

You're no patriot. By 1st November you should be eating poppies for breakfast. Go out, buy a poppy onesie, and wear it everywhere you go. Otherwise you're not a patriot.

Come November 12 you should be wearing an Xmas tree at all times.

And if you foamed at the mouth because I said "Xmas", you are simultaneously a great advocate for a Christian Nation (TM) and an ahistorical idiot.

Come on, England! Repaint your pumpkin lights to look like poppy lights! And then, in a fortnight, repaint them as Xmas lights! 

Start drinking Baileys from the 16th November! When you put the sprouts on!

Look down your noses at people from other faiths, atheists, those that can't afford an inflatable reindeer the size of Berkshire, and other such traitors. 

Get out there and celebrate whatever it is this week! 

For St George and England!

(By the way, Wisbech, those tattered Temu flags are starting to look a bit naff now) 

Of Quirks and Quinces - A Beaker Samhain Tradition

As this Halloween night drags on, we continue to scare small children with our "Robert Jenrick" masks.

To be fair, it's quite a terrifying experience. A small child knocks on the door of the Great House. 

To be met with someone wearing a mask that changes appearance. 

One minute it's the Euro-friendly, smiley face of one of the old-fashioned Tories that lives in the real world and wants the country to thrive.

The next, it's the red-eyed, dead-eyed visage of the dyed-in-the-wool Brexosexual that nobody expected, hanging flags from lamp-posts while hanging upside down like bats, and rarely checking whether the Union Jacks are even the right way up. 

Sometimes the kids need therapy.

The other thing we do, when not wearing our Jenrick masks, is leave out quinces for the little urchins that visit, if not too traumatised by the Jenrick lookalikes.

Have you ever tried eating quinces?  People just leave them lying around. It's a traditional fruit, but it takes some care in its preparation.

When someone gives you a ton or two of quinces, put them in a Brooklyn Lager box.

Then drink the lager.

Leave the box of quinces in your porch in the hope that trick-or-treaters will think they're giant sweets.

In the morning, throw all the quinces in the nearest ditch. You can use the box to light the fire.

Liturgy for the Death of Prunella Scales (1932-2025)

 Archdruid: Even in the midst of life we are in death.

All: Oh, I know... 

Archdruid: We will read from Psalm 23

All: Oh, I know... 

Archdruid: The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want.

All: Oh, I know... 

Archdruid: He makes me to lie down in green pastures.

All: Oh, I know... 

Archdruid: He leads me by still waters.

All: Oh, I know... 

Archdruid: He restores my soul.

All: Oh, I know... 

Archdruid: He makes me walk in the path of righteousness.

All: Oh, I know... 

(Continues for days) 

The Minister is Late for the 11 am

It happens. 

In multiple-parish Church of England benefices and Methodist Circuits where they try to get the most out of the available resources.

The Minister is late for the 11 am.

Worth considering, before you throw a strop (which, if it were an Olympic event, would be won every four years by Team GB) why the Minister is late for the 11 am.

It's unlikely they just didn't get up.

An 11 am suggests there is a 9.30 am somewhere else.

And possibly also a 8 am somewhere else again.

Or even, if timelines are tight, that the minister is legging it over from a 10 am.

In which case the potential issues for that minister become evident:

• The level crossing stays down for six trains to pass
• The motorway which cuts between two villages has roadworks
• Sheep are prancing around on a back road
• Someone has decided to preach a 20-minute reflection on the Nicene Creed under the pretence they're leading the intercessions 
• Someone had a personal crisis at the 10 am and needs care.
• Someone just wanted to have a go at the 10 am, and the minister has stopped off for a quiet cry.
• A blown tyre
• A peloton
• A tractor
• A horse
• All of the above

And check your phones. It's possible the minister has been phoning repeatedly. But - contrary to all experience - everyone in the senior team at your church is on "silent" like good boys and girls. Or your church is built from 3' thick stone walls. Go outside. You might get a clue.

If you're feeling keen, sing a few hymns.

If you're feeling super-keen, find someone who can preach a sermon.

Not Norman. For all that is holy, not Norman.

Best to sit and wait, thinking about it. Just because... you know... Norman. 

The minister is late for the 11 am.

It's not like the world is going to end.

Unless that's why they're late, obviously.

Putting the Clocks Back in the Church of England

And yes I suppose I'd better start by suggesting that the current position on LLF has put the clocks back to 2019.  Just for anyone who followed a link here on the assumption that's what the title means. 

But really I was talking about the real physical clocks in the C of E. And the real physical people who have the jobs of putting them back ready for Greenwich Mean Time tonight.

At 2 am the clocks go back. Which is great, if you're talking about a clock on a phone or computer, which does it for you automatically. Or even a church clock with a special mechanism that talks to a satellite. But not so great if it's a clock in a church tower with a big old mechanism that's been patched up for the last 200 years. 

And not if you have a very fastidious village that expects the clock to be right at all times. So what can you do?

You go over to the church tower at just before 2 am. You climb the tower, having used the key that fits upside-down into the clock and goes round backwards. You remember that the mechanism is so complicated that you only know how to change the clock forwards. You realise that moving it forwards 23 hours will take you a very long time and be extremely painful on your winding arm. And that you can't see from the inside what time the clock is showing on the outside.

So you disconnect the mechanism or switch off the electricity supply, according to preference and clock type. And wait an hour.

It's a little known fact* that all over England between the hours of 2am and... erm.... 2am on the last Saturday of October, there are people brushing bat droppings out of their hair, and shivering up village church towers.

And it gets worse. Because stopping the time in the middle of the night in the week leading up to Halloween has a terrible effect on the local spiritual wildlife.

I'm not talking about the young people Uber-ing back from the nightclubs in the nearest town, wondering whether their parents will still be up. But you go messing with church clock time in the middle of an autumn night, you can get who-knows-what rocking up in the tower. 

Take Sir Hemsby Buttercliffe. For the last 200 years, he was walked from his crypt every night at 3am to go to his old Manor House and demand to know why his widow remarried. You stop the clock at 2am and his shade is on tenterhooks. He's likely to stomp up the tower and start pointing at his pocket watch. Not least because he's never really understood BST, and he can't remember whether to go forwards or backwards.

And then any local Black Shucks are going to be fretting about how long it is till daybreak. And Herne the Hunter and the Wodewose are going to be there, offering to give you technical advice. 

Never take it. Wodewose's technical advice only every consists of telling you to hit things with wooden clubs.

So should you wake in the night, around 2.30 am, before you roll over and go back to your extra hour's sleep, consider the clock-minders of England. It's gonna be a long night,

---

* because it's not true, I just made it up for an amusing (hopefully) post 

Saint Crispin and Ian Day

Happy 25th October

! Today we remember a number of feasts. It is the Nativity of St Wellington the Perisher. And the feast of St Crispin and his brother, Ian.

Crispin and Ian were shoemakers in ancient Thrace. They converted to Christianity, and enthusiastically proclaimed their newfound faith.

But they only attracted adherents from their own profession. So when they knocked on doors or stood on street corners to share their beliefs, people would say, "it's just a load of cobblers."

Eventually Crispin and Ian were pushed out to sea in a giant boot as a form of random attempted martyrdom. Having sailed across the Med, up the Channel and then along the Nen to Wellingborough, they shared the wonders of shoes with the natives, who up to then had wrapped cabbage leaves around their feet in cold weather.

A very happy Northamptonshire Day to all that celebrate it. And don't fret missing Agincourt.

Exact Date the First Snow Will Fall in Every British Town

 

Please let us know when it happens.

We've got no idea.  Some time in December, I expect.

Wine, Women and Song

 Fascinating little article about how the Kenyan Catholic Church has banned a brand of wine from being used for Communion, because it was popular in bars.

Now, I know some churches in England that use port - just what you need at 8.20 am in a cold building in the countryside, apparently. Some that have been known to use a rather nice Chablis. Some English sherry. All these are legitimate, apparently. I know some alt-worship types use grape juice, blackcurrant juice or somesuch. But to each their own. And the source of supply is in the hands of the end-consecrator.

But there appears a blatant conflict of interest in a Church deciding its only supplier. I'm not saying there is any money resting in accounts. But it would be easier to achieve.

And the justification seems like drivel. Jesus didn't select a special Nazareth brand of wine for the Last Supper. Any more than the fish for the loaves and fishes came from Zebedee and Sons as far as we're aware. It was just the simple drinking wine of yer Judean diner - maybe a slightly posher brand for Passover?

The whole point is - it's just wine. I mean, wine is bad enough in this country, what with the former association with the upper classes (and modern association with Prosecco) - but the Mass takes something ordinary and makes it special. If the rest of the world is all drinking the brand - so what? It's like deciding we'll have a Petrus because everyone drinks Zinfandel at home.

Let priests be priests, and let ordinary bread and wine become spiritual food and drink. That's how the wonder gets in.

Nativity of Kirsty MacColl (1959)

In an alternative universe where rich Mexicans don't drive speedboats like muppets, today would be Kirsty MacColl's 66th birthday. Making her eligible for her pension.

Lie all working UK women of her age, she would have been expecting to receive it aged 60, and watched it slip away like a bad boy on a Saturday night.

In fact you could say, if she'd rocked up to the Department of Work and Pensions and demanded it before now, the response she'd have got from the guy who looked a bit like Elvis would have been...

"You Just Haven't Earned it yet, Baby". 

O Woke New World

I've had a flurry of complaints regarding this morning's Little Pebbles Circle Time, where I talked about the abolition of slavery.

Apparently, opposing slavery is "woke". William Wilberforce was a "cuck" and Harriet Tubman was "a snowflake who couldn't cope with having to do a hard day's work."

So I'm pouring oil on trouble waters next week. Our subject will be "The KKK : two sides to every story?" 

Those Adrian Chiles "Guardian" Headlines in Full

  I get wet when it rains. What can we do about it?

Leaves. Why do the leafy little beggars keep falling off trees at this time of year?

A pheasant ran under my car and now I don't know what life is for.

Is it just me or are the nights drawing in?

Why are people on trains just slightly too annoying?

Why when walking on the beach do my shoes get sandy?

Drosophila. Something should be done.

We don't get radon in the West Midlands. Sometimes that makes me sad.

Don't you hate it that lifts only go up and down?* 

Baked Beans are such a dull orange colour, aren't they?

A man spoke to me in London and now I don't know how to feel.

How come the Guardian pays me so much money to make so little sense, and I'm not even Simon Jenkins? 

* with apologies to Douglas Adams 

All We Like Sheeple

I receive a letter from Randy Swineherd, of Botley:

Dear Archdruid or, if I may, "Sir"

I was intrigued to read that your fellowship uses only ancient liturgies. And so last week I made an investigative "pilgrimage" to your community, under the cunning pseudonym of Mandy Shepherd.

I have to tell you that you have been deceived. Your "Morning in the Forest' prayer, for instance, is not the "Neolithic Acclamation of the Creator at the Rising of the Sun" that you claim. Rather you have pasted it together from various modern rituals you found on the Internet, replacing "Apollo", "Ra", "Pan", or "Woden" with "God". At least, when you remembered.

Why will you not turn to the purity of the Book of Common Prayer, the King James Bible, and the original Hymns Ancient and Modern? (Personally I will only choose Tate and Brady psalm settings for hymnody, but you are clearly infants in the faith and require milk, not strong meat).

I remember my grandfather telling me the relief he felt when the 1928 Prayer Book was rightly defeated. He told me the people of Stanford-in-the-Vale burnt Pusey on their November 5th bonfire that year. An effigy, of course. Not the man himself.

But then the Revisionists and Satan himself (or possibly herself - I am not a reactionary when it comes to the pronouns of the Dark One) produced the New English Bible, the New Revised Standard Version, the Even Newer Even More Revised Standard Version, the Nearly Revised Substandard Version, "I Can't Believe It's not the Standard Version" XLII, the Alternative Service Book, Common Worship and its many spin-off series.

Frankly, when I look at all the different books in the Common Worship franchise - the Church Warden's Guide, the Pewfillers' Handbook, the Minister's Manual, Fiend Folio: Times and Seasons and so on - I realise whose hand is behind all of this. It is the Dark One again, with his/her/their ungodly message of forgiveness and love, when we should be grovelling in terror before the all-seeing Eyeball of Wrath, and singing penitential psalms to a battered harmonium in the dark of a Lincolnshire fen church with no heating. Or electricity. Or roof.

Things could only be better if it rained.

Wake up, sheeple! Throw away that glass of mRNA vaccine you were about to consume! Stop debating which gender you want to be this afternoon! Turn from your ways, Archdruid. Save your soul and turn to the true English religion of misery, damp and fear.

Wishing you all God's blessings for the Advent season.

Yours etc

Randy Swineherd

Go Forth into the World to Lead Teams that Renew Connexional Worship

As Saint Paul said, "...he appointed some to be apostles, others to be prophets, others to be evangelists, others to be pastors and teachers, and others to be Connexional Worship Renewal Team Leaders." Which is the new job being advertised in the Methodist church.

So, as a former member of the Extremely Primitive Methodists myself, I flicked through to the job. Thing is, I know that apostles are sent out. Prophets prophesy. Evangelists share the good news. Pastors care, and teachers teach. So there must be a simple description of what a Connexional Worship Renewal Team Leader does.

And here it is.

"Empower all of those leading worship through support and development.

Operationalise and manage the Worship Renewal stream of the Methodist Church in Britain’s God For All ambition and strategy.

This will include working strategically; embedding deep learning and practice; envisaging and developing exceptional training and resourcing for all those involved in worship leading; managing staff, workplans and budgets; and being responsible for the governance aspects which sit within this role."

Which I reckon, when Jesus set the twelve aside to be apostles, was also what he said. But St Mark cut that as he was in a hurry and he only had so much parchment.

The thing about churches adopting business terminology is this. If you work in business, and things get hard, all the Transformation Directors, Future Shape Development Envisioners and Logistics Chain Re-Invigorators get the sack, and you focus on the people who do things, make things, and sell things. You can afford the luxury of highly-paid undefinable jobs when things are easy.

In the Church, it seems to work the other way round.

At the Toll Booth on the Rainbow Bridge

There's a toll booth on the Rainbow Bridge.

It's a busy place. There's not just the loved dogs and cats to let over. If a cat can be a pet, then why not a few chickens in the garden? And if they're allowed over, what about a factory-farmed chicken?

Or an ant? Or an amoeba?

The Covid virus is not allowed over of course. It isn't living.

But sparrows (which may be ten a penny but the creator knows each one), aardwolves, aardvarks, all the other anteaters and earwigs - all in their turn will flop, flap or fly over that rainbow bridge, heading to a brighter place 

And you may say I'm dreamer. But if you do, please don't sing it to that terrible tune. But if you can imagine all those creatures going over that mythical Bifröst bridge, racing to get over it before night falls on the universe - then maybe that gives a hint of a place beyond place, a time beyond time, when there is a new heaven and a new earth and all creation is renewed through the blood of the One that loves it.

So it's busy, that toll booth on the Rainbow Bridge, but the toll is already paid at great cost - nothing and everything. Even for the earwigs.

Battle of Britain Day Error

Quite the cock up on Monday I'm afraid.

The afternoon marking of Battle of Britain Day was meant to involve our services veteran (Jez, who was in the catering squadron but claims he was secretly in the SAS, a flyover by a plane from Cranfield Airport (which we can take for granted) and a parade by the uninformed organisations.

Unfortunately the uninformed organisations didn't turn up. Apparently nobody told them about it.

"Just an Hour"

Well I don't know if the BBC are going to move out of the pilot phase with their new radio panel show, "Just an Hour". It'll be difficult to find that much space, with all the time they give to Reform.  But I thoroughly enjoyed it.

It's a new twist on that staple and favourite, "Just a Minute". Except that the competitors are all church worship leaders. And they get an hour.  And the subject is always "the next song and what it means to me."

Hesitation is rarely an issue for the contestants as they fill every space with "Just". Although that word is excluded from "repetition", for obvious reasons.

But it's so hard to judge deviation. Kayleigh's mother once having had a weird feeling while walking down the street may or may not be relevant to why you eventually announce we're singing "What a Wonderful Name." While quoting the entire book of Isaiah before "Servant King" is blatantly cheating.

Anyway. By the time each contestant has introduced one hymn, the show is four hours long. Which is going to more than fill the gap left by "In Our Time". 

Would I rather spend four hours listening to worship leaders introducing songs through dodgy theology or random anecdotes, or would I rather listen to Chris Mason soft-soaping a Reform leader? It's hard to say.

Can't we just have "In Our Time" back?

"Hallelujah" - the Verse Leonard Cohen tried to suppress

Well I heard that David had a chord

with which he used to praise the Lord.

But it was a Bbm7, and he had to use a capo

So he got laughed at by the other temple musicians.

Goodbye, Auntie Deidre

Day off today, as I went down to Luton for Auntie Deidre's funeral. Quite a bash. Thankfully Burton Dasset picked us up from Bedford Station as we poured off the train.

Deidre had got quite carried away after watching a funerals advert on UK Gold. She was quite insistent that she wanted her funeral to be a real celebration. 

And we were very happy to honour her wishes.

She was a ghastly woman. It was a real celebration.

Liturgy for the Removal of a Greenbelt Wristband

Brizewold is brought in front of the assembled Beaker Folk

Archdruid: Forasmuch as Brizewold has now been wearing his Greenbelt wristband for 3 weeks; 

All: And it's looking a bit tattered and grubby;

Archdruid: And worse, he won't take a shower in case he makes it swell or go mouldy or fall off;

All: And he stinketh to high heaven - worse even than  the latrines at Greenbelt during the 80s 

Archdruid: Therefore it is time Brizewold removed the wristband.

Brizewold: No! It's my friend!

Hnaef: It's not your friend, Brizewold.

Charlii: Although, to be fair, it does have more personality than you by now.

Archdruid: Bring on the wristband removers! 

All: Bring them on! 

Archdruid: Bring on the wristband removers! 

All: Bring them on! 

Brizewold: No! No! 

Hnaef: It's only a pair of scissors.

Archdruid: Where's your sense of occasion?

Brizeworld: Oh no! I can't use them left handed! What a shame!

Archdruid: OK. Hold him down.

Brizewold: Look! I can use them left handed!

All: A miracle! A miracle!

He removes the wristband.

Archdruid: I declare that Brizewold, having removed his wristband, really needs to go and get a wash. 

Brizewold: I will mount it in the frame with all the others.

All: Thanks be. 

An Emergency Alarm may unexpectedly go off. This is totally unrelated, but may be taken by some as a sign.

With thanks to the donor for the wristband image.

This is the Watching Time

 This is the quiet time
As we listen to you breathing
Wondering if it will stop

when will it stop.

This is the praying time
when we have gone past hope
Praying for the end
praying against the end.

This is the hopeless time
as you, once so strong, are  still
We hope for the best
- resigned for the worst.

This is the guilty time
Guilty that we hope this time will pass
That your time with us
will be no more. 

This is the giving time
Giving you up to what is to come 
You will cross the horizon
to meet us on a new shore.

Rediscovering the Biblical Model of Slavery

I think it's time we rediscovered the Biblical model of slavery. 

We hear a lot about the Biblical model of marriage. Here's an instance from the Gospel Coalition. Oddly, it's quoted 2 Samuel 3 as being against forced marriage. But no mention of Deuteronomy 22, where that is precisely what is commended. But I've already digressed. Focus, Eileen. Focus.

We hear a lot less about the Biblical model of slavery. Which is a great shame, I think. The problems of stagnant wages, under-employment, and middle-class people having to do their own cooking could all be solved if we rediscovered the true Biblical purpose of this institution, as originally commended by God in the books of Exodus and Leviticus.

And in those books we find that we are allowed to enslave people from our own nation - as long as we only keep them for six years. Which is far more enlightened than the modern bankruptcy rules.  Anyone who fails to keep up with the mortgage, according to Exodus 21, should be enslaved by the bank. This will clear their debts, while allowing the bank to get cheap cleaning staff. All completely Biblical. It should be stressed that you are forbidden from physically beating cleaning staff from your own country.  For that, you need foreigners.

"But Eileen", I hear you say. Or would, if you weren't out in the orchard picking the worms out of the windfall apples. "That's the Old Testament. Surely the New Testament wouldn't be like that?"

To which I reply, please use the term "Hebrew Bible" rather than "Old Testament" .Very supersessionist, that is. 

And then I reply, "let's have a look at the book of Philemon."

In which we discover the true Christian model of slavery.

Onesimus - whose name - ho-ho - means "Useful" has run away from Philemon. He has wound up with Paul. And has become a Christian.

Does Paul tell Philemon to set him free? No. Paul respects Philemon's property rights. Which are, let's face it, the basis of civilisation.  Does Paul suggest he might set him free? He does. But note that Paul then goes on to ask that Philemon gets a guest bed made up for him, when Paul himself visits. 

Who do you imagine Paul is expecting to make the bed up for him? Not gonna be Philemon, is it? He's a busy man. You can imagine the scene as Onesimus returns to Philemon's house.

Onesimus: "Forgive me, master, for I have sinned."

Philemon: "Give me that letter."   (he breaks the seal and reads)

Philemon: "OK you're forgiven. Now go and get a guest bed made up. I've no idea why Paul sent this scroll with you if he's coming himself."

Onesimus: "He's a bit locked up at the moment..." 

Philemon: "Fine.  And when you've finished in the guest room, kill the fatted calf."

Onesimus: "Oh, you're celebrating my return?"

Philemon: "No. I've got friends round."

There you have the true Biblical model of slavery. Maintaining healthy employee relations. With very little beating. And always strongly slanted in favour of the wealthy.

Meteorological Last Day of Summer

 Obviously, it's not the last day of summer. That happens on the eve of the Autumnal Equinox. But the trouble is, that's a fairly moveable feast and doesn't happen on the last day of a month. And weather forecasters are rubbish at spreadsheets, so like to make their lives easy. So they say today is the last day. 

But to be fair, nights are drawing in and it will soon be Christmas. So a timely reminder.

If you have a woodwose, werewolf, killer badger, or other uncanny beast living in your garden, make sure you lock it in the shed at night. It saves a lot of unnecessary innocent deaths. And terrifies the life out of burglars.

Celebrating Saint Augustine the Hippo

 Today we in the Beaker Folk commemorate St Augustine the Hippo.

Augustine's mother Monica the Hippo was very concerned about him as a young hippo.  She worried that he spent too much time wallowing in the hollow flirting with female hippopotamuses*, and not enough time in church. 

And Augustine himself was aware of his failings.  After a particularly close encounter with a marine predator in the Nile, he said "God make me chased. But not yet.**" 

But Augustine's hippopotamizing came to an end after Pope Attenborough saw some English slaves in the market in Rome. Someone remarked that, with their leathery backs and big mouths and teeth, it was all very monotonous. To which the Pope wittily replied, "Non monotoni sed Hippopotami.***"

Augustine the Hippo was summonsed to Rome, from where Pope Attenborough despatched him to England. Making Augustine fairly downcast. As there were much more direct flights from Alexandria than from Rome. In the event, he could only get an Easyjet. Which instead of taking him to London, which he was supposed to be going to, landed him at London Canterbury International.

Realising that the bus wasn't going to be around for another 1500 years, and that in any case he'd have trouble squeezing through the doors, Augustine settled in Canterbury, from where he evangelised the people of Kent and Essex, and preached many sermons on the dangers to our souls of stilettoes and white socks. 

It was while in Canterbury that Augustine wrote his great and famous works, "Submersio" and "City of Mud." And left his lasting influence on the English people.

---

*Yes.  Look it up.

** In Latin: "Numquam crocodilo arrideas." 

*** Don't blame me. I never had the Latin.  That's why I never became a judge.

Re-envisioning the Midsomer Benefice

Reverend Barnaby Barnaby is a lucky man. He has a benefice he likes, with a nice rectory. And his brother is the local murder squad Detective Inspector - so he knows if he ever wants to have a family reunion, he just has to go down to one of his churches and shuffle the hymnbooks, and his brother will arrive.

Of course, this means someone has been murdered in bizarre circumstances at the local doily festival. But you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs.

Barnaby has three parish churches in the lovely county of Midsomer, and he works hard to ensure the life of all of them. 

And getting round three on a Sunday morning, while doable, takes a bit of planning. But he does it. Promising himself a couple of pints at the "Drowned Kindle" when he's reached Sunday lunchtime.

And, of course, people from the villages go to the churches. They're ageing a bit, and occasionally thin on numbers on cold mornings. But nevertheless, they go.

But people don't only go to church in their own parish. There are people who prefer the 8am BCP at Midsomer Elvis, as that leaves them the rest of the day free. And some of them like the beauty of the language. Some like the 9.15 at Badger's Bottom, as they have real coffee after the service. And parents tend to go to the 11 am at Midsomer Slaughter, which is more all-age-friendly.

So Revd Barnaby has been keeping everything ticking over, offering a bit of everything for everybody. And the benefice pays its Parish Share. So everything is good.

Sometimes, as he heads from Badger's Bottom to Midsomer Slaughter, Barnaby realises so are quite a few of his congregation. And it may be a bit odd to have people driving in all directions, but it seems to work.

But then Barnaby retires. And the "presentation is suspended", oh dreadful phrase.

And the bishop has great ideas of rationalising the diocese. 

And has appointed a Deanery Operations Lead for 50 grand per annum. Whose job is to re-envision the Midsomer Deanery. 

And now Barnaby's little flock has become part of the Greater Cawston Deanery Benefice. With a Team Rector, a Team Vicar, and Barnaby himself as a retired priest with permission to officiate. And the ministry rota, the mission planning, and the allocation of priests to Occasional Offices have now been rationalised.  And the Rectory has been sold, so that's going to pay for the Deanery Operations Lead for five years.

And obviously, with the new structure, there's no way the new team can support all those churches. So Badger's Bottom keeps its weekly service. Midsomer Elvis is a "Festival Church". So the parish still has to find the money to maintain it, but there are far fewer services. And Midsomer Slaughter got lucky and has received permission to be converted into a Museum of Local Murders. 

As he drives thirty miles across the county to take an 8am for his service fee, Revd Barnaby thinks he should have stuck around a few more years. 

Surely there'd have been another exciting strategy along eventually.

Woke Mind Virus Update

An email has come in from a friend in Kettering, worried about all the Woke blowing around after the Greenbelt festival. She asks what she can do to avoid catching the Woke Mind Virus (MVS), which she believes is a disease passed on in the air or by 5G transmitters.

I told her there's good news. Researchers at Oxford University have developed a new Woke vaccine which works against the virus. 

It's a new mRNA vaccine. A vast improvement on the old attenuated vaccine, which used a carrier that had formerly been actively woke, but had been deactivated. They generally used the opinion columns of the Guardian.

My friend reacted strongly.  Said she wasn't going to take a bioweapon designed to make her sterile. I pointed out to her that she's 67, and her husband has a bad back. But she says it's the principle.

So she says she's going to build up her resistance to the disease by eating organic and wholemeal foods, and getting lots of sunshine.

She says she's enabling her body to fight back.

But now I'm wondering if she's just starting to show the first symptoms.

Woke Litter Blights Greenbelt

As the happy campers of the Greenbelt festival depart to the routine of their quotidian lives, the cleansing agents of North Northamptonshire move onto the Boughton Hall grounds to deal with the terrible litter left behind. 

Now, the Greenbelt organizers are very happy with the state the campsite is left in. Nobody could be prouder of the way the vegan burger wrappers, cruelty-free popcorn boxes and organically-grown tent pegs have been swept away into either the bins, or the back of the fleet of the Fiat Fairtrades with which the pilgrims will return to their vicarages and mews houses in London's trendy Marylebone.

But you can't see the real menace. The one lurking invisibly across the grounds of the old stately home. Blowing in the Northants winds and heaped up against the Northants hedgerows and blowing down the old A43 towards Corby.

Great piles of Woke.

"It could be a real disaster," said Councillor Syd Nasty of the 'Send them Back to Wellingborough' Party. "They think this Woke stuff is just a laugh, like setting off Chinese lanterns or letting your dog have a run around the sheep field. But in fact it's really dangerous. If a squirrel eats this stuff it could end up using pronouns. And squirrels only speak their own squirrely language - so where's that gonna end?

"Or it could run down the Ise, into the Northants water supply, and where will we be? Camden, that's where. Drowning in hand-woven friendship bracelets. If people start respecting other people's rights to live their lives without giving them a good tar-and-feathering, our English civilization could go to pot.

"We've not built this country on 200 years of slavery and oppression of the Working Classes so a bunch of hippies and Christians can try and turn us all nice," he said, painting a St George Cross onto the nearest manhole cover, and showing me the brochure for the hotel he's going to spend his holiday protesting outside.

Woke as far as the eye can see

And so the hazmat-suited outsourced Woke cleansers go about their business. Sweeping up the Woke to be buried in an ironstone mine - the depth of rock meaning the Woke radiation can be kept safely confined underground. Where there is too great a deposit of Woke to be managed by hand - for instance where Mx Fabulosa Bradley's Tofutorium was trading - they hose the place down with vitriol before taking away the grass, to ensure the cows don't graze on it. Woke cows might start demanding to stay out of burgers, said Councillor Syd, and if they start forming cow communes, milk quality is going to suffer.

It has been suggested that gathering so much Woke into one place in the centre of the country may be asking for a natural disaster. Syd Nasty, stranded waist-deep in a Wokedrift, looks across the fields, and shudders, as he considers the danger of a Critical Mass of Woke. Northants couldn't cope with that many genders. Why can't they just take their Woke home with them?

A Riteless Passage

I'm going to have to rethink the Beaker unattended cremations service.

Seemed a good idea at the time, to cash in on the direct cremations fashion.

But now I keep getting people coming to say, look we know Aunt Ethel asked for it, having seen a low-paid actor in an ad, wittering on about the sausage rolls at the wake. She was convinced it was better to save her family money, and trust they would have their own, cheaper yet more personal ceremony at the pub or in a nice restaurant. 

But they've been left with a vague feeling of nothing. Instead of getting together with friends and family members, going through a shared ritual, getting into a drunken fight, and restructuring the family roles - which is what funerals are at least partly for - there's nothing. The pub has been closed and left to rot while the management company tries to get planning permission to build a care home on the site. Nobody can agree whether to go for Chinese, Indian, or a Toby carvery. And Ethel is - probably much to her surprise - still upstairs at Cousin Eric's in the spare bedroom, surprising visitors when they wonder what lovely gift has been left for them for their stay, and peer into the folksy hessian bag.

"Forget the red suit.
Let's save the money and stay home"

So now, instead of the lovely get-together the woman with the red glasses on the other ad was looking forward to, there's a void. A ritual lacuna, if you will.

So they come to see me and we agree to say some prayers.

And while this doesn't necessarily replace the ceremony they feel they should have, it does give a sense they've done something. A death is a passage, and now the passage has been given a rite.

And on Aunt Ethel's birthday, when Facebook pops up the suggestion that they might want to send her best wishes - they'll remember to put "heavenly" in the greeting, rather than assuming she's still in that bungalow in Cleethorpes. No, she's next to the ashes of Eric's pet iguana instead.

---

In Memory of Ethel

4 June 1938 - 16 August 2025

No opening music

No Eulogy

No Favourite Hymn

No Reading

Not even "Death is Nothing at All", which is ironic, given she actually is in the next room

No Commendation

Commital at Some Unspecified Time when Eric Moves House

No Closing Music

No donations are requested to any charity

No flowers

The family do not look forward to welcoming you to any wake location

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