...no busy priest can afford to be without his diary - or should the stipend stretch that far his diary secretary. H would of course, if asked, perform that latter function without demur or complaint, but the fear of creating another angle for rank wifely nagging has always deterred me from hinting let alone asking.
"You know you should be setting off for N now. You can't keep +Tom waiting and you never have change for the car park. So drop the homily notes. That can wait for this evening. Honestly!"
You can imagine the scenes as they unfold, neither to my delight nor to my peace of soul.
Mind you being at the right place at the right time for the right hatch, match or dispatch is no light matter. Well being there is, it is the not that isn't.
Just the once, relying on but memory unaided, have I pitched up at an assembly of godly folk expecting to promote to glory one gone shortly before, only to find I was actually being expected to bind a Betty to her Dave.
Entirely the wrong vestments on board of course - not that they would have noticed, possibly even remarking how 'cool' I looked and that black was quite the colour perfectly to offset the bride's somewhat disingenuous virginal white.
Mercifully, all necessary textual matter was to hand in the vestry and if the intended homily on the beauty of aged wisdom - interspersed with fond remembrances of dear Gladys in India before the War - had to be dropped in favour of an extempore rant on the wonder of fecund creation in a sometimes spiritually sterile world, then it did them no harm to hear it.
Too close a call for comfort mind you that. From that time to this there has been a self-imposed strict inscribing of each minute detail of who goes where, when and why.
That said, that has tended to be the limit of my diary keeping and with the diary itself kept firmly on the desk where it belongs. Can't be doing with these clerics who carry round their leather-bound Filofax numbers under their arms as if it were - though most certainly it were not - Holy Scripture.
This 'blog' - still dread word - then must serve as necessary and sufficient recall of events through the ages. Not by any means a full record but, shall we say, serving as handy marker buoys on the sea of personal amnesia.
And thus one does occasionally turn back the pages for recall and review. The time of year being now to be doing that for the year gone by. And thus, as I read past posts, I come across my first thoughts of 2008 on the whole utter ghastliness of New Year's Eve and the sheer sinking dread it brings.
By golly though, if I thought that then shan't we all be thinking it next week? Can we stand the expectation and anticipation of just how wretched 2009 is likely to be?
I doubt we can any of us. You should see my wine cellar overflowing with intemperate volumes of fine wines and spirits to deaden the impending pain. I won't be alone in this, of that I am certain.
"Eat drink and be merry for tomorrow........."? Will I be here to write it as well as survive it? Watch this space if you care or dare.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Saint Thomas Lord...
...if you think you missed the announcement of the canonisation of this new Saint of ours - patron of cricket and clean whites naturally - fear not for the Vatican has yet actually formally to pronounce Ex Cathedra as it were.
I am, I own, thus being somewhat premature - not to mention singular - in bringing this wondrous news to the attention of the Faithful.
But bring it I must, for it must be true. No sooner have I averred that prayers to the - as yet unsainted - Thomas are to be invoked against the wretched ECB and all their demonic works, than word comes from HQ that finally - a mere fifteen years having slowly passed - MCC are offering the ultimate glittering prize of Full Membership.
Well huzzah and hurrah, as Sir Percy would say. Not perhaps the cure for all the world's economic, social or spiritual ills - though close enough to trouble the scorer - but to me the veritable glimpse of heaven on earth; a Wordsworthian moment when - if one were - being young would be truly spiffing and uplifting and all. (Lapsing into a benign Blackadderish / Woosterian combo mode seems irresistibly apposite in the circs.)
Funnily enough - and this a part of the English joy of the thing - accession from Associate to Full MCC membership is barely, if at all, visible to the naked eye. True one may now harrumph at meetings or seek to vote down contrarian motions, and one may doze after luncheon at each and every match not just most of them. But one wouldn't harrumph or vote in any case, and there are only so many afternoons in any one year one can dedicate to doing nothing but napping
The great unwashed might reasonably assume that The Tie ['Rhubarb and Custard' or 'Bacon and Eggs' according to taste] and other trappings of office are but newly granted. But not so. All comes with Associate. There is no new mark one can adopt outwardly to show the distinction.
Now that is special. I challenge you to name any slightly nuanced gradation in ecclesial status that does not have its concomitant and showy sign. That which delineates a second sub-deacon from a first may not be much in the hierarchy of heaven, but in stripes on a surplice believe you me it matters. (Try calling a consultant surgeon 'Doctor' and you'll get my drift.)
So tonight then I salute our new Saint and offer him as patron not only of all things cricket - including clean whites - but also of subtle, gentle good English manners.
And by Glory don't we need a stout measure of that in these somewhat desperate times?
I am, I own, thus being somewhat premature - not to mention singular - in bringing this wondrous news to the attention of the Faithful.
But bring it I must, for it must be true. No sooner have I averred that prayers to the - as yet unsainted - Thomas are to be invoked against the wretched ECB and all their demonic works, than word comes from HQ that finally - a mere fifteen years having slowly passed - MCC are offering the ultimate glittering prize of Full Membership.
Well huzzah and hurrah, as Sir Percy would say. Not perhaps the cure for all the world's economic, social or spiritual ills - though close enough to trouble the scorer - but to me the veritable glimpse of heaven on earth; a Wordsworthian moment when - if one were - being young would be truly spiffing and uplifting and all. (Lapsing into a benign Blackadderish / Woosterian combo mode seems irresistibly apposite in the circs.)
Funnily enough - and this a part of the English joy of the thing - accession from Associate to Full MCC membership is barely, if at all, visible to the naked eye. True one may now harrumph at meetings or seek to vote down contrarian motions, and one may doze after luncheon at each and every match not just most of them. But one wouldn't harrumph or vote in any case, and there are only so many afternoons in any one year one can dedicate to doing nothing but napping
The great unwashed might reasonably assume that The Tie ['Rhubarb and Custard' or 'Bacon and Eggs' according to taste] and other trappings of office are but newly granted. But not so. All comes with Associate. There is no new mark one can adopt outwardly to show the distinction.
Now that is special. I challenge you to name any slightly nuanced gradation in ecclesial status that does not have its concomitant and showy sign. That which delineates a second sub-deacon from a first may not be much in the hierarchy of heaven, but in stripes on a surplice believe you me it matters. (Try calling a consultant surgeon 'Doctor' and you'll get my drift.)
So tonight then I salute our new Saint and offer him as patron not only of all things cricket - including clean whites - but also of subtle, gentle good English manners.
And by Glory don't we need a stout measure of that in these somewhat desperate times?
Saturday, December 13, 2008
ECB - Lord Save Us!
Intercessory prayer to the Saints is my common practice. There may be some low churchers who care not for it, but I care not for them uncharitable though that thought may be. (Many a lost car key or somesuch precious domestic item has been restored courtesy of dear Saint Anthony. Try it. Works every time.)
The accredited Saint does of course have the ear of the Almighty. That goes with the badge as it were. But what of the regular soul? Can one be so assured? Possibly not, though there is little lost in trying.
Hence tonight my prayer is for the intercession of Thomas Lord in the case of Regina vs. ECB and all its dark ways. Good egg certainly. Saint not noted in the calendar as such, but the man who gifted the land that now is the HQ of cricket must deserve some small place in Paradise surely?
And on that premise I invoke his heaven sent assistance to thwart the fell desire of the ECB (and all its very dark works) to rob Lord's of its two Tests a year, guaranteeing only - can one imagine the very idea - no more than two Tests every five years!
This - for those who know not these things - is a bit like saying that Wimbledon can host the All England Championship every once in a while, or Twickenham the odd game of international rugby!
Dear Thomas Lord I beseech thee thus....
The accredited Saint does of course have the ear of the Almighty. That goes with the badge as it were. But what of the regular soul? Can one be so assured? Possibly not, though there is little lost in trying.
Hence tonight my prayer is for the intercession of Thomas Lord in the case of Regina vs. ECB and all its dark ways. Good egg certainly. Saint not noted in the calendar as such, but the man who gifted the land that now is the HQ of cricket must deserve some small place in Paradise surely?
And on that premise I invoke his heaven sent assistance to thwart the fell desire of the ECB (and all its very dark works) to rob Lord's of its two Tests a year, guaranteeing only - can one imagine the very idea - no more than two Tests every five years!
This - for those who know not these things - is a bit like saying that Wimbledon can host the All England Championship every once in a while, or Twickenham the odd game of international rugby!
Dear Thomas Lord I beseech thee thus....
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Bricking It....
...One must and one does have a certain deal of sympathy with the neighbours of Mr Martin Solomon in the West Country town of Stroud, who have long tired of his late night drunken tirades.
For it would seem that Mr Solomon is often much taken with drink and, as oft, much ill taken with the rubbish to be found on his television. Neither in and of themselves of course offensive, but it seems Mr Solomon's loud swearing rants at what he sees and hears have caused distress and disturbance, not least to the young children in the adjoining households.
There can be no excusing the last, and one is glad that the Courts have taken a firm line in this matter. Nonetheless who can not have but some empathetic understanding of Mr Solomon's plight? Who indeed has not - drunk or sober - yelled the foulest and most impotent of abuse when creatures such as Lord Slime of Slime opines on probity in public life, or cast swearing slander at the total drivel that constitutes much of the televisual offerings on any channel?
There is though a cure should it be wanted. Not watching is not the option. An Englishman pays his licence fee and is, thereby, perfectly entitled to watch and scorn.
The trick is this, a device long in circulation. An auto-changer disguised as a soft furry brick. When endurance is beyond bearing and Lord Slime must be assailed and assaulted mid-waffle, the to-hand 'brick' is wellied at the screen with full force of personal venom. The channel changes and the rage subsides leaving the Mr Solomon's of this world equally content that they have made their point. And, what's more, made it silently.
Bro. Charles would call this a 'win-win scenario' bless him.
For it would seem that Mr Solomon is often much taken with drink and, as oft, much ill taken with the rubbish to be found on his television. Neither in and of themselves of course offensive, but it seems Mr Solomon's loud swearing rants at what he sees and hears have caused distress and disturbance, not least to the young children in the adjoining households.
There can be no excusing the last, and one is glad that the Courts have taken a firm line in this matter. Nonetheless who can not have but some empathetic understanding of Mr Solomon's plight? Who indeed has not - drunk or sober - yelled the foulest and most impotent of abuse when creatures such as Lord Slime of Slime opines on probity in public life, or cast swearing slander at the total drivel that constitutes much of the televisual offerings on any channel?
There is though a cure should it be wanted. Not watching is not the option. An Englishman pays his licence fee and is, thereby, perfectly entitled to watch and scorn.
The trick is this, a device long in circulation. An auto-changer disguised as a soft furry brick. When endurance is beyond bearing and Lord Slime must be assailed and assaulted mid-waffle, the to-hand 'brick' is wellied at the screen with full force of personal venom. The channel changes and the rage subsides leaving the Mr Solomon's of this world equally content that they have made their point. And, what's more, made it silently.
Bro. Charles would call this a 'win-win scenario' bless him.
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