...Sex-Change Vicar in Palace Hospital Mercy Dash!
In more innocent days that, I believe, was considered by Fleet Street's finest to be the ultimate fantasy headline for capturing the public's imagination and selling newspapers. A fairly obvious combination, it must be said, of royalty, sickness, heroism, the church, plus a nod towards sexual peculiarity.
Close in many ways and infinitely more interesting, if somewhat saddening, was the real headline that reached us yesterday: Prison Chaplain Caught Smoking Crack.
Poor fellow had, it seems, been led from the straight and narrow following his befriending of a certain Mr Peter Doherty whilst in residence at HM Prison Pentonville. Mr Doherty is, I am reliably informed by E, a talented popular music maker of a somewhat dissolute and addictive disposition.
Whilst applauding the Xtian spirit that led our fallen comrade to seek out Mr Doherty in his time of turmoil (his paid employment after all), it does seem a mighty shame - and somewhat symbolic of the times - that he came so far under the spell of 'celebrity' as to give up everything for what has been, in effect, his five minutes of fame.
At least - and this is graceful - the man has had the wisdom to say he has acted like an utter ass, though the thought that his behaviour will henceforth be considered a benchmark for the 'trendy vicar' makes me quail.
E of course thinks the whole thing is cool and, I fear, will be wanting to invent for her pals the story that her Pa has been a hopeless narcotic addict since forever, gosh, wow, etc. (I will own that once upon a time, long ago and far away, I did in a De Quincey moment take a pipe of opium with some college chums. The effect on one's external and internal vision was rather remarkable, though the appalling accompanying stomach cramps did somewhat lessen the overall experience. E of course is never to know this!)
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