And I'm not saying she's wrong.
But it's still only Morris Dancing.
| Morris dancing. Good old Morris. |
| Morris dancing. Good old Morris. |
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| This church is always open |
And so, with the turning of the years, the Church of England Statistics for Mission are in and David Keen at Opinionated Vicar has the annual job of telling us how bad they are. But why?
I mean, not the right answers. Which answers can you give that reassure yourself that it's all somebody else's fault?
Here's the Beaker List of Reasons why the Church of England is Declining. Normally I'd knock up a bit of Javascript or do a Bingo Card. But I can't be bothered. So instead... feel free to choose your own. Then find someone else on Twitter who thinks it's another one. And let Armageddon commence.
I've heard there's a lot of rumours around the place about the new initiative "Towards a Beaker Future". Well, there's no conspiracy. We just noticed that, taking a leaf from the Dom Cummings "Move fast and break stuff forever because we're rich and entitled and it won't hurt us" agenda, the good old C of E has been having a bash and why not us? Because let's face it there's nothing like a good pandemic to let you reorganise anything you like - including Public Health provision apparently - and if it doesn't work we can blame the virus
So the "Towards a Beaker Future" initiative will be changing everything, in lots of ways, all at once, and for no apparent reason. I'm not saying nothing will be worse. Or indeed better. But it will be different. Unless the normal human tendency to put everything back where it was cuts in and we come up with lots of radical-sounding stuff and nothing really changes.
Anyway. Enough of the blurb. Here's what you were all waiting for... the Powerpoint slide.
Good old C of E ©The Church Mouse
| Antandecianism | Being prepared to forgive what you would otherwise think was unforgivable, because the person is famous. |
| Aryanism | Thinking God's image is more white than black. |
| Borisism | Like Antinomianism, but only for one bloke and his mates. |
| Collieridianism | Obsession with posting pictures of your dog on Facebook |
| Doggietism | Like Collieridianism, but with other, lesser breeds |
| Macedoineianism | Giving posh French-sounding names to normal English food like mixed veg or fruit salad |
| Manicheesism | The belief that having the best selection of cheeses on your cheeseboard marks out your spiritual superiority |
| Monarchianism | Reading the Royalty columns of the Daily Express and hating Meghan Markle |
| Monotellyism | Not having a TV in every room, and expecting all the family to gather round for Coronation Street |
| Pantenetheism* | Idolatory of a worship leader with good hair |
| Passivaggresivism | Well, you would say I'm a heretic. (see also: Whataboutism) |
| Pastypassurianism | Obsession with eating at Greggs, with resultant suffering |
| Pricillaism | Believing heaven can be achieved if you watch enough feel-good films |
| Pantenetheism | Idolatory of a worship leader with good hair |
| Pantheism | Idolatory of celebrity chefs |
| Hemi-Demi-Semi-Pelagianism | Admitting the possibility of a very slight active involvement of the human will in salvation, but only if you're a really good musician. |
| Whataboutism | I heard your sermon last week and you didn't really understand the historical context of Nehemiah so why are you picking on my heresy? |
| Zoomoastrianism | Belief that online worship isn't "real" worship as real worship has to be embodied (by people with fully-functioning bodies) in a real building. |
In honour of St Kirsty we are dancing the Mambo de la Luna this evening. There's no moon just yet but Mars is burning red overhead, so it'll do while we kick around waiting for moonrise.
Unfortunately, we will be unable to find "a bar that stays open all night", in accordance with the sacred lyrics of "Until the Night". Boris Johnson said they all had to close five minutes ago. This is also bad news for anyone planning to see in Christmas with the Boys of the NYPD Choir. Even if the NYPD Choir existed. Which it doesn't.
So we mark the 61st anniversary of St Kirst's birth. And wonder what vitriol she would have poured on ageing lotharios and fading lovers in these titanic days. We will never know. We do know what pretty girls do. They grow older just like everbody else. Though not this one.
Somewhere Terry is doing his Marlon Brando act. Another useless bloke is claiming he's Elvis, and tomorrow a Big Boy on a Saturday Night will be feeling a bit rubbish cos the pubs are chucking out early.
God bless you, Kirsty. Somewhere there's sun on the water.
On the third day after he had gone into hospital (or, as Dr Conley put it, after 72 hours), after he had miraculously recovered from the illness that had laid him low, Trump appeared to his believers in a motorcade. And he declared to them, "Behold for I have conquered the flu! You need not fear, little ones. Apart from the few that are unfortunately no longer with us. And they have passed beyond fear."
And the well-meaning people that did not believe in Trump asked themselves, "What can we say? Or what are we to think? We didn't wish death upon him. But we do kind of wish he'd been ill a bit longer. Not ill ill. Just - you know - enough to set an example to his followers." Then they felt bad about their thoughts and went off to think hard about their true feelings for a few weeks.
And the wise said to them, "if 200,000 dying has not convinced them, will one old man staying in hospital longer cause them to repent?"
And those that hated Trump said to themselves, "The drugs are messing with his brain. Behold he labours to breathe. Was not Herod eaten by worms? He'll be back in before you know it."
And his believers said to themselves , "What miracles have been wrought among us? For he was as dead to us - we thought he was a loser. And yet he has won bigly! He was like unto us - except with the best medical treatment in the world. Truly it is a miracle." And they cast of their masks. But some died, as the plague still spread among the 'Mericans.
And so the people of 'Merica were troubled among themselves. But Trump took in a deep breath, and felt the pain in his ribs, and hoped it came off. Not the mask, the risk.
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Boris Johnson: "We want people to behave fearlessly but with common sense". #Marr
— Pippa Crerar (@PippaCrerar) October 4, 2020
Our newest breakaway group, the Vox Laurentians, are getting on my nerves now.
Half past 10 and from the potting shed, aka the Shrine of St Laurence the Martyr, I can hear the mournful sound of white middle aged men playin' the blues. Lots of songs about how, due to a world that didn't care, they had to become chartered accountants and derivatives traders. Songs about how they're not allowed a voice, and nobody's listening. Well, apparently they do have a voice and nobody really wants to listen. Because that ain't really the blues.
In an attempt to deal with this blight, I'm pleased to announce we're moving the location and format of tomorrow's Pickled Onion Competition. Back last autumn everyone made the strongest-tasting, firiest, spiciest, most chilli-infused pickling vinegars they could, and used the most perfectly sized of pickling onions and shallots. We were going to judge it outside in the Orchard, for social distancing purposes, in groups of six at a time.
But now we are changing this to the Ceremony of the Tasting of the Holy Onion. Each competitor, together with a judge, will proceed to the Laurentian Shrine with three pickled onions. They will enter the shed, and eat two. Bowing to the statue of Young Laurence, they will then utter the mystic salutation, "that shallot". They will then eat the last onion, and leave.
If that doesn't winkle them out, I don't know what will.
It's been a stressy week. Caused even more by the splinter group of Beaker Folk who have now decided to worship Laurence Fox as a saint.
They wanted his image - pierced, St Sebastian-like, by the arrows of snowflakes - to go up in the side chapel of the Moot House. This was of course an impossible demand. Firstly, there was no way a picture of a naked Laurence Fox with metaphorical snow-arrows piercing his lily-tender skin was going in the Moot House. Secondly, the Moot House doesn't have any side chapels. It's round. It has always been round. Through every incarnation of the Moot House, no matter how many have blown up or been dropped into black holes, the Moot House has always been round. Its roundness shows the democratic nature of the Beaker Folk, with no official end where all the important people sit. We have to have a raised dais with the Archdruidical Throne on it instead.
And there was no way Drayton Parslow would let them put it in St Bogwulf's Chapel. Even St Bogwulf doesn't get a statue in therre with that bunch of iconoclasts.
So they've created the shrine of St Laurence the Martyr in the old potting shed. His statue stands resplendent on a pile of old copies of the Spectator and Telegraph. On his right hand is a representation of Toby Young claiming that it's hard to be posh. To this chapel people go to lament the death of white privilege, and wail that it is impossible these days for a posh white bloke like Toby Young, Laurence Fox, James Dalrimple or Boris Johnson to get their voices heard.
To the side of the potting shed - I mean shrine - has been erected a lean-to containing a statue of Julia Hartley Brewer. Nobody ever goes in there. I reckon it may mean something, but I don't know what.