Domimandias

I met a traveller from Islington

Who said—“Two vast and arm-less spectacles

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose bald head,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Domimandias, Cummings of Cummings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Geek, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

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Liturgy of Farewell - or is it - to Dominic Cummings

Hymn: "Durham Town" (to the tune "Cummings") 

Archdruid: Rarely Beloved, we are gathered here today to bury the career of Dominic Cummings. Or, as he is known to his friends...

she checks her notes

Archdruid: ...no, forget that.

All: He'll be back. Just like Arnie.

Archdruid: Let's take our wins where we can and enjoy it for now. 

Hymn: "Da doo-dom-dom" by the Dom-ettes

Psalm of Lament

All: Oh, how many are our woes.

And how great the fears before us.

For we pass through the valley of Covid

which runneth down to the cliff edge of Brexit

As those that are sitting in a shopping trolley 

pushed by a 15-year-old youth, out of his head on extra-strong mints.

And as our nation rages against other nations

and heads for the edge

yet our leaders, O England, are as jack-asses in the ruins

fighting amongst themselves for who is the true leader

and calling women silly names 

when the terror is on every side

and the people perish for lack of vision.

A cloud of pantomime smoke, and Dominic Cummings appears in the midst of the Moot House

Dominic Cummings: Behold it is I! Dominic Cummings. Seer of sights, viewer of visions, dreamer of dreams, scourge of the Civil Service and geekmeister incarnate. Working class hero, wielder of whackos, herder of weirdos and superforecaster of superforecasts.

The Archdruid turns a fire extinguisher on him.

All: You didn't superforecast that coming.

Dominic Cummings: Foolish Archdruid! Know ye not who I am? I am the one that channeleth the spirit of the Masses. The spokesperson for those too gormless to know what to think. The one whose every thought is channelled in pure quantanium through the peptic synapses of my mind.

Archdruid: MA in History, weren't it, Dom?

All: Bald bloke from Durham, you're just a bald bloke from Durham. Bald bloke from Durham... 

Dominic Cummings: Minions! Do not believe this deceiveron in her pointy hat! Fall down and worship me - your true Edgelord of Edgelords. 

Burton Dasset: I worship you, O Edgelord. King of the Nerds and purveyor of poorly-understood science.

Charlii inserts a scone into Burton's silly gob, before he loses his immortal soul.

Archdruid: Cummings, you are fallen. Your days are over. Return to the pit from which ye slithered.

Dominic Cummings: Nice little 4-bed in Islington, actually... Listen - look at this bald head - consider my prophetic powers. I shall summon bears to rend your youths.

Archdruid: We're a rural congregation in the 2020s. Where do you think we're going to get any youths?

Dominic Cummings: Curses. Foiled again.

All: Poundshop Phil Collins. You're just a poundshop Phil Collins.

Archdruid: And Cummings.... I've always wanted to say this....... You have no power over me.

Dominic Cummings: What mean ye, witch?

Archdruid: We Beaker Folk are an official bubble. All the grounds, amenities, rooms in the Great House, the Stables block and the Dower House - are officially one property. But you come here - in defiance of the Rules of Boris Which All Must Obey - and sully our bubble with your fancy London ways and potentially your virus. Let me introduce you to Young Keith's Uncle, the Police Sergeant.

Young Keith's Uncle: I'm afraid you're bang to rights, sir. Would you like to accompany me to the station?

Dominic Cummings: Fool! Don't you know who I am?

Young Keith's Uncle: Aren't you Lee Hurst? When did you swap your checked shirt for that silly T-Shirt? And you're wearing it inside out. 

Dominic Cummings: I am enacting a parable! I do not follow the rules. I make them.

Young Keith's Uncle: I think you'll find, Mr Meldrew, that round here I am the Law. Now get in the Fiat Panda. You're coming with me. 

Dominic Cummings: I have failed the test. I shall diminish, and return to North London. And remain Classic Dom.

Archdruid: And so the forces of evil were diminished. And the people said Amen.

Hymn: Be bald, be strong. 

 

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Liturgy of Special Pleading

Archdruid: Because of the way the Government left it too long ahead of doing anything, once again many of the things which make life worth living are shut down. And so together we join our voices in lament that we are unable to meet - and point out that our...

C of E clerics: ... churches

Tim Martin: ... pubs

Gym owners: ...gyms

Archdruid: ...are Covid secure. We provide a social service in our...

C of E clerics: ... churches

Tim Martin: ... pubs

Gym owners: ...gyms.

Archdruid: We bring people together safely in our...

C of E clerics: ... churches

Tim Martin: ... pubs

Gym owners: ...gyms.

 

Archdruid: And we claim to be an exception because what we do goes beyond mundane pleasure and simply existing. We offer people...

 

C of E clerics: ... God

Tim Martin: ... cheap pints

Gym owners: a sense of well-being.

 

Archdruid: And so while we all recognise that clothes shops, community centres, cinemas and night clubs weren't really Covid-secure, we bring our pleas that our...

 

C of E clerics: ... churches

Tim Martin: ... pubs

Gym owners: ...gyms.

 

 Archdruid: Are absolutely fine.

 

In a special plea that people realise it's not the individual activity that is the issue. It's the sum of all human interactions that spreads disease. If we can all reduce what we do for a while, we can all get back to what we do with more of us still here.

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Liturgy of Goodbye to Geoffrey Palmer (1927-2020)

Hymn: "Love is like a butterfly" 

Archdruid: Sorry there's no liturgy. Bit of a cock up on the overhead projection front.

All: We didn't get where we are by not putting the right Powerpoint on the lap top.

Archdruid: Let us join in our confession.

All: Almighty and most merciful Father, bit of a cock up on the lost sheep front. Bit of a cock up on the the devices and desires of our own hearts front. Bit of a cock up on the holy laws front. Bit of a cock up on the undone things front. Bit of a cock up on the done things front. Bit of a cock up in the health in us front. Any chance of a bit of forgiving? And maybe a few potatoes?

 Archdruid: God who looks not on the cock ups on the life front, but would rather we turn from our cock ups and go forward into life with no cock ups, forgive us our cock ups, keep us from further cock ups, and ensure we go into the future life where there will be no more cock ups.

Hymn: As Time Goes By

Archdruid: Now let us raise a toast to Geoffrey Palmer.

All: Shouldn't really. Trying to keep a clear head. Double whisky. Thanks. 

Archdruid: Now may Geoffrey Palmer be blessed with the blessed, in the land where the butterflies are beautiful and there is no need to chloroform them, where retired Majors don't go red in the face and hate foreigners, where teenaged sons no longer sponge off their parents, and frustrated housewives have no need to roam in search of experiences new. And the cleaner doesn't moan about your moany music.

Dismissal

Archdruid: May God keep you from the Forces of Anarchy, wreckers of law and order, communists, Maoists, Trotskyists, neo-Trotskyists, crypto-Trotskyists, union leaders, communist union leaders, atheists, agnostics, long-haired weirdoes, short-haired weirdoes, vandals, hooligans, football supporters, namby-pamby probation officers, foreign surgeons, head-shrinkers, Wedgewood Benn, keg bitter, punk rock, glue sniffers, Play for Today, squatters, Clive Jenkins, Up Jenkins, Up Everytbody's and Chinese restaurants*.

All: And from racialists, Rear Admirals, Queer Admirals and Vice Admirals.

Recessional: Breakfast in America** 

* lists slightly edited from original for reasons of 2020s sensibility. 

** if you're the right age you'll get the joke.

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Terrifying Metaphors in Worship Songs - "My Lighthouse"

Just breaking off from burning the Wicca Person for Samhain to note that the Rend Collective song "My Lighthouse" is terrifying.

My lighthouse, my lighthouse
Shining in the darkness. I will follow You

The whole point of a lighthouse is to warn you about the rocks it's on. Basically, the whole message of a lighthouse is "don't come over here. You know where you are - that's a lot safer. You're in open water. I'm on the rocks. " Whatever you do, don't follow a lighthouse.  It's good to be on the Rock. But not to be on the rocks.

Kids, be safe. Don't follow lighthouses.

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Halloween in the Reformed Tradition

I'm really looking forward to this year's combined Samhain/Reformation Day activities. What we call "Halloween in the Reformed Tradition". So this evening all the little children will be going round the Community wearing Martin Luther masks and telling each other that sweets are bad for you. And offering people the choice of "trick or thesis"?

They're gonna have such a great time going round, splitting into smaller groups every time they have a disagreement. Complaining about persecution while simultaneously rooting out witches and Catholics.

Of course, in this Community we do not suffer a witch to suffer. Instead I rescue them from the grips of the teeny engineers and give them a small allowance to live in the Haunted Mansion. This former dower house is actually incredibly warm, cosy and free of infestations of the supernatural. But they make me quite a living knitting woollen spiders for the Beaker Bazaar. And oddly enough, most of them work in marketing.

The Catholics we set free into the wild, having tagged them so we know if they turn up again.

Meanwhile the Punkies are coming on well. We have the traditional pumpkin ones, all the way down to the little middle class ones carved out of ghost chillies and garlic cloves.

Please note that due to inclement weather, the burning of the Wicker Man will take place indoors. Please bring your breathing equipment. Which is now mandated for all indoor Beaker worship in any case.

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Rock on in Peace: Rock on to Glory. RIP Bobby Ball

On the sad death of Bobby Ball

The Beaker Folk may twang their braces

Archdruid: Rock on, 

All: Tommy.

Archdruid: Rock on, 

All: Tommy.

Archdruid: Rock on, 

All: Tommy.

 

Archdruid: Rock on, 

All: Tommy.

 

Hnaef: I'm unfamiliar with this Northern Working Class humour. Is that all he did?

Archdruid: Hnaef, Hnaef, Hnaef. O deprived posh boy. This is all that is necessary. But let me tell you that Bobby Ball will now be the Patron Saint of Preachers' Nightmare Dreams. I refer you to the Chronicles of Last of the Summer Wine 22:7. In which Bobby plays "Lenny from the Pickle Factory" and Tommy Cannon plays "Man in the Boat". Lenny is convinced that he is receiving messages from Above. The news spreads. A crowd gathers to hear his prophecies.... 

...and nothing comes. Lenny's "voice" has left him in the lurch. 

At 4am in a preacher's mind, this scenario plays over and over again. And so we remember Bobby today. Mourn the passing of a Northern legend. And pray to avoid the fate of Lenny from the Pickle Factory.

Hnaef: OK. Then... Rock on Tommy!

Archdruid: Rock on, 

All: Tommy.

Archdruid: Rock on, 

All: Tommy.

Archdruid: Rock on, 

All: Tommy.

 

Archdruid: Rock on, 

All: Bobby.

Archdruid: Rock on in peace.

All: Rock on to glory.

 

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Liturgically Appropriate Resting Places for Church Creatures

There has been a certain amount of animation - some positive, some negative, as ever - over the little ceremony for the interment of the earthly remains of Doorkins, the Southwark Cathedral cat.

Cats are among many creatures that can be associated with churches. And the problem naturally arises - where is the appropriate place to bury our dumb chums? I know the tradition is to quietly smuggle their ashes into the funeral caskets of their human companions when they follows them over the Rainbow Bridge. But church animals are sometimes effectively ownerless - they may be wildlife, or stray livestock - or the owner doesn't want to end up lugging suitacases full of animal ashes around the place.

 

So here is your guide to the appropriate places to stash the ash of our former furry (or feathery or scaly) friends.

Animal

Eternal resting place

Cat

Catacomb

Rabbit

Easter Garden

Bat

Belfry

Insect

Transept

Crocodile

South aisle

Church Mouse

God's House

Wasp

Vespry

Asp

Apse

Crow

Crypt

Gnus

Under the yews

Swallow

In a hollow

Crustaceans

Crypt

Squirrel

Squirrelled away

Sheep

Buried deep

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The Delusional World of Julia Hartley-Brewer

As yesterday's alarming figures for deaths from Covid in the UK sank in, it was Julia Hartley-Brewer, the Katie Hopkins for the Waitrose shopper, who summed up exactly what the last nine months have been all about.

Night night everyone. Sleep tight. This is the lockdown you all wanted, right? https://t.co/Tf4a4lkAN3

— Julia Hartley-Brewer (@JuliaHB1) October 27, 2020

There's some really weird stuff going on in that tweet. Obviously, there's the lack of consideration for the deaths of many people. The UK is now averaging over 200 deaths per day being announced - ahead of the supposedly apocalyptic warning of the Chief Scientific Adviser, who said this might be what we faced by mid-November.

There's the blame-shifting. If a lockdown happens, Julia Hartley -Brewer is implying that it's not because the government isn't managing things properly. It's not the Establishment that is at fault. It's because a poorly-defined "you" wanted it. The implication is that the "you" involved aren't Julia's loyal followers. This is some disembodied group of people - presumably Remainers, Progressives and Liberals, who - far from being "owned" are able to impose the lockdown that they wanted to causing people to die.

Then there's the inability to understand motive and balance. Attitudes to Covid-19 are on a spectrum. At one end are people who think it's a hoax, or caused by 5G, or no worse than flu. At the other end are people who a are genuinely terrified for their lives and haven't been out of the house since March. Who routinely spray everything that enters their house, and wash their hands every thirty seconds. Everybody else is somewhere in between. And according to how you prioritise public safety against public liberty, you will conclude there is a right course of action whether lockdowns, or mask wearing, or being James Delingpole. All these options are available to you. But to Julia HB, it's more polarised: you either agree with her, or you're a snowflake who really likes everybody being locked down.

Then there's the magical thinking. If this is the lockdown "you" had been hoping for - then clearly a load of people dying is caused by "your" wish for a lockdown. Julia HB's causality works differently to everyone else's. If we wanted to stay out of lockdown, according to this logic, we should have acted as if lockdown was not a possibility. We should have just gone along with the Hartley-Brewer magic-based attitude to science.

The thinking can be seen all the way through this epidemic. When it started, Boris Johnson told us we in the UK would resist it like Superman.  Which it didn't, because it's a disease and not Lex Luthor. In the same speech he also told everyone the UK didn't need to worry about a Brexit no-deal and we already had an oven-ready one. Ah, how times change.

As the disease started across the world, it was no worse than flu and we just had to sing "Happy Birthday" while washing our hands. Sunetra Gupta told us we already had large degrees of herd immunity. Daniel Hannan told us Sweden was just fine. Then as we got it under control for the first time, the cries went up that the reopening was too slow. That mental health was suffering - which it was, but it's a balance, again. 

Then as the autumn came in and cases rose, it was due to increased testing. As they rose further, it was false positives - as there was no increase in deaths. Then as deaths rose it was people dying "with" the disease, not "of" it. Currently it's the claim that there are currently no UK excess deaths. But there's never a reflection that, if all the people who died in Spring of Covid were really as sick already as the deniers claimed, there should have been a massive fall in excess deaths in the late summer. Which never happened. No reflection that it's a bit odd all those people died "with" the disease when people weren't normally dying in those numbers.

And now Sunetra Gupta tells us that herd immunity is the way to go - a turn round from the spring, when she told us we were already largely immune. And the deniers leap on that, although there is no evidence that the immunity lasts. At every stage, actual events are denied with pseudoscience and wishful thinking.

And now, the climax of wishful thinking. People are dying because "you" wanted a lockdown. Well Julia Hartley-Brewer must hope you're ashamed of yourself, whoever "you" are. You brought the disease back through your lockdown obsession.

Beaker Folk, we know what works with diseases. Separation, hygiene, properly tested drugs (untested drugs might work but you'd have to be lucky and get the right one) and vaccines. And we know what doesn't work. Wishful thinking, blind faith and libertarianism. 

In Jeremiah 28,  there  is a confrontation between Jeremiah and the prophet Hananiah. Hananiah tells the king that God's going to wipe out the Babylonians and it's all easy street. Jeremy's message is that the Babylonians are gonna win, and the best thing to do is mitigate that. 

You don't need to be Jeremiah to know which prophet Julia Hartley-Brewer and her friends are. People, be more Jeremiah.

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How to Feed your Family for 50p a Day

There's been a lot of nonsense talked about how to feed children. Many going on about the need for free school meals to be extended into the holidays. As if it's expensive.

But with a bit of imagination, a bit of work and some careful scrimping, you can feed your family for 50p a day. I've managed to make it work for the Beaker Folk and I can let you have the method below. This recipe is for Beaker Artisanal Wood-Fired Pizza. And it's no secret - this is how you do it... 

Feeds 50 Beaker Folk

Ingredients:

• Pizza bases: £25
• Tomatoes: Free from the Beaker greenhouses
• Mushrooms: Free from the mushroom cellar
• Cheese: Artisanal Beaker Cheese made from the Beaker herd
• Fuel: Beaker Charcoal hand-charred from wood from the Beaker Forest. 
• Olive Oil (extra-virgin) - hanging around in the herb cupboard
• Herbs - see Olive Oil
  

Obviously, this is just the adults. We've put in an order for KFC for the Little Pebbles.

Why can't everybody else be as ingenious as us?

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The Christmas Truce: 2020

The Bishop of Paisley has called for a "ceasefire" of Covid restrictions for 24 hours at Christmas Day.

  "A 24-hour lifting of restrictions on gatherings and celebrations, a break in the war on Covid, just like the pause in the First World War on the Western Front in 1914, when the British and German troops laid down their guns and met in no man's land to celebrate Christmas."

There was a breathless hush in the ward as the sound of immune responses fell quiet. The hospital staff ceased from their  battle and listened.

On the breeze they heard a reedy music. Gradually it drew nearer and louder. It was "Silent Night" sang in the Covid language.

Scrabbling beneath a bed, a trainee nurse pulled out a football and kicked it over into No Man's Land. The viruses drew up in a 4-4-3 formation.  And for the first time in 12 months, as that game of football was played out along the hospital corridor, there was peace between viruses and humankind.

As Christmas Day drew to an end, the nurses and doctors, cleaners and porters and caterers went back to their jobs. As snow fell outside, they could hear a virusy rendering of "We Wish you a Merry Christmas" and the letting-off of virusy party poppers.

 Before New Years Day, the rate of infection had risen and an increased number of deaths was already on its way for mid-January.

Because viruses don't do truces. And they don't know about Christmas. And they don't respect British national myths of exceptionalism. They've never even heard of World War One. They're just viruses. They do what they do.

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