...he came as a companion to the collie (not border but 'borderline', to use Jilly Cooper's fine phrase), both of them rescue dogs so full provenance unclear. Word on the street was he had been horridly mistreated then abandoned - bred, as a lurcher, to hunt but possibly too daffy to to please his itinerant masters. Certainly fast enough - in his prime could give a greyhound a flying start - but lacking maybe the full killer instinct. Go with the flow was his thing. Perhaps a natural Buddhist.
Not that he was easy going from the outset. Whatever had hurt him had deeply pained him. The pain led to fear, the fear to naked aggression. Funnily - miraculously rather - never towards the collie. But with any other dog it was war at first sight. We tried training classes - got thrown out after the second - we used a muzzle as ordered. Happy as larry in the house, a monster out. Had me off my feet twice trying to hold him back from attack. Didn't care for visitors either. A knock at the door and the door was half chewed. Friends and neighbours began to draw back.
Animal shrinks scratched his and their heads and opined that perhaps he was merely trying to preserve what he had, and was simply being protective both of us and of his environs. Whatever the cause, the outcome was deeply troublesome. Could he attack a human, a child maybe? Was he a 'dangerous dog'? It was a possibility and being a possibility was not one with which we could live. So with heavy hearts we sent him back after six months to the rescue centre from whence he came.
What then was to be his fate? Obvious really. No other sane bugger would have him, he would spend the rest of his life in a cage with occasional outings and he would hate every minute of it. Two months later we had to relent. If he was to have any quality of life we alone were the ones who could and would give it him. And what do you know? As if he knew that he had nearly blown it, from the moment he returned he was a reformed character.
All right, that is not strictly, fully true. For a year or two there was always that frisson that he might lose it; but he never did, eventually settling for the life that lurchers love best - a good daily run and then huge basketfuls of utter indolence. Did once burst through a fence in chase of a singularly unimpressed cow, which resulted in a busted then an amputated tail. Show, also, him a woodland and off at once in chase of largely phantom rabbits. All as nature intended.
As the years progressed, the gallop slowed to the canter, then to the gentle trot, finally the sedate and oft pausing to sniff the air walk. (Downwards transition they would say of a horse.) In the house too big for a lap-dog he would lean his head on my lap and - well yes - smile. He and the collie as near bum-chums as two spayed dogs can be - lots of deep ear-licking the nearest they came to full on loving. A happy boy for year upon happy year.
Then some encroaching unhappiness. First, two brushes with cancer that might have floored him but didn't. (Vets bills the size of a Sistine Chapel redec.) A back leg with a chunk missing and then half a lower jaw gone. Nothing though seemed to phase him. Eat, walk, sleep, snog the collie - an eternal cycle.
But not forever. He survived one gastric torsion last month. Emergency major surgery, stomach pinned to the body wall. That sort of thing. But not this second episode tonight. When a dog's belly is swollen like a barrage balloon, when his flesh and skin are tighter than any drum, when he is crying in unrelieved agony, when there is no hope from further surgery, then a loving, weeping owner has only one choice.
The syringe was large, but he was docile. He lay down as if to sleep, stretched out as ever he did and was gone. Farewell my lurcher - Spiral, Big Boy, the Colonel - the locals called him, Mr Cheese - God knows where that came from.
My dear friend.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Touch Me, Feel Me...
...It is not, you will understand, my habit to be found holding hands with an achingly beautiful lady doctor. Not even with, as in the case in hand - as it were, one radiant with late-term pregnancy.
H, of course, would take a dim view of it. One imagines, too, it not playing well at any subsequent Consistory Court - 'conduct unbecoming', 'clerk in holy orders' and all that stern stuff. Does happen of course, from time to time. Not to me thus far that is, but the odd parson or two has had to face being brought to Bell, Book and Candle for such matters. Not a pleasant experience for any concerned, one can well imagine. By report - and this is quite shaming - the woman of hue deemed scarlet frequently copping far more of the blame for leading a 'good vicar' astray than the man himself who often, one knows, made most if not all of the running.
Pure (if one may say it thus when one ought in truth call it 'impure') lust is one thing - the whole 'Vicar Always Ringing Twice' much in the manner of the errant postman malarkey. More naughty than nice, but not necessarily utterly wicked. Nor indeed is the Eve in question always utterly without fault. One recalls the young hunk of an innocent curate so caught out, who escaped with but a written warning when it emerged in Court that the local WI had run a book on who would be the one to relieve him of his clearly troubling virginity. (It was the grocer's wife - 5/2 second favorite - if you must know.)
But far more troubling are those times when some parishioner pitches up at the Rectory door in deep personal distress, only to find herself bedded 'as part of the healing process'. 'Tis a handy clue - if you ever hear that line of defence being used at any aforementioned Consistory Court, then you know full well that the man should at once be taken outside and shot. True enough that this is not always any blatant abuse of position or power; can as easily be more professional sympathy morphing into human empathy, moving thence to personal caring, to mutual warmth and so to bed. (In, however, such cases the only possible judicial approach is filthy guilty before being proven beyond any shadow of any doubt and then still not really convinced innocent.)
Avoidance of any such temptation - or shall we say bedevilment - is banged into the thickest of all seminarian skulls these days. Whole screeds of episcopal parchment are scrawled with sound, if baffling, advice about 'maintaining appropriate professional boundaries' or 'transference avoidance mechanisms'. So much, indeed, is the wind put up the average cassock on the matter that I have even heard of one poor Catlick fellow who asked a somewhat dazzling woman seeking confession on matters adulterous whether she wished for a chaperon!
Over-compensating by half, many a cleric will run a mile backwards (try that in a cassock!) to avoid being seen to be too touchy-feely with the halt, the lame or the vulnerable. Not quite on the old blunt Army line of these things - 'One pace forward everyone with two parents! Not you Corporal Wilson!' - but close. Funnily enough, I have, I am told, a rather soothing pew-side manner. Never really imagined it was my kind of thing, but apparently 'tis so. H herself will tell me that folk have stopped her in the street and passed decent comment on how I have helped them through their troubles. Even the occasional note from the diocesan secretary to advise me that my 'surveyed sympathy satisfaction quotient' has exceeded this year's regional average weighted target. (You can imagine the simple, heart-felt joy that the latter brings!)
Are we then back to this achingly beautiful doctor and the whole my-hand-in-thy-hand thing? Indeed so. Is this then me exercising my professional magic once more? Au contraire, as it were, 'twas she hers. 'Can't hardly grasp a tin of beans,' said I to her, 'without it hurting like buggery' by way of stark explanation of my presence in her surgery. Was this then the exclusive prelude to her grasping my mitts with hers and giving them a thorough going over by way of differential diagnosis? Absolutely. Did I though silently opine that were there other circs. applying I would rather more than not be perfectly content to be so held for a decent spell? I cannot, in truth, claim not.
Was though, in conclusion, any fleeting fantasy on my part swiftly dashed when said achingly beautiful doctor let go my hands with not 'Darling, we know it cannot be...', but 'It's either osteo-arthritis or gout or both. We need more tests to be sure'? Must you ask?
May indeed, now, need to rethink the whole touchy-feely thing from my end. Met, this very morning, some hearty fellow in the High Street who insisted on shaking my hand with vice-like grip and a fiercesome pump action to drain the very Fens. Have to say that my resultant loud yelps - call them screams - of naked agony quite roused the attention of all within a good hundred yards, not to mention entirely robbing this slight moment of social intercourse between parson and his parishioner of its rightful and proper pleasure.
Am having, therefore, to consider viable alternatives. Raising one's closed hands in greeting in the manner of some Hindu ascetic is one possibility. Could be a bit tricky that if they only get the idea that I am praying over them. I do of course, and they know I do, but it's not something about which one likes to make any kind of public fuss.
Another option - one that does appeal and should be efficacious if causing some anxiety in more sensitive souls - is to break out that old favourite seminarian tee-shit with the wondrous motif: 'Back off! Do I look like a f*$%*"g people person?'
H, of course, would take a dim view of it. One imagines, too, it not playing well at any subsequent Consistory Court - 'conduct unbecoming', 'clerk in holy orders' and all that stern stuff. Does happen of course, from time to time. Not to me thus far that is, but the odd parson or two has had to face being brought to Bell, Book and Candle for such matters. Not a pleasant experience for any concerned, one can well imagine. By report - and this is quite shaming - the woman of hue deemed scarlet frequently copping far more of the blame for leading a 'good vicar' astray than the man himself who often, one knows, made most if not all of the running.
Pure (if one may say it thus when one ought in truth call it 'impure') lust is one thing - the whole 'Vicar Always Ringing Twice' much in the manner of the errant postman malarkey. More naughty than nice, but not necessarily utterly wicked. Nor indeed is the Eve in question always utterly without fault. One recalls the young hunk of an innocent curate so caught out, who escaped with but a written warning when it emerged in Court that the local WI had run a book on who would be the one to relieve him of his clearly troubling virginity. (It was the grocer's wife - 5/2 second favorite - if you must know.)
But far more troubling are those times when some parishioner pitches up at the Rectory door in deep personal distress, only to find herself bedded 'as part of the healing process'. 'Tis a handy clue - if you ever hear that line of defence being used at any aforementioned Consistory Court, then you know full well that the man should at once be taken outside and shot. True enough that this is not always any blatant abuse of position or power; can as easily be more professional sympathy morphing into human empathy, moving thence to personal caring, to mutual warmth and so to bed. (In, however, such cases the only possible judicial approach is filthy guilty before being proven beyond any shadow of any doubt and then still not really convinced innocent.)
Avoidance of any such temptation - or shall we say bedevilment - is banged into the thickest of all seminarian skulls these days. Whole screeds of episcopal parchment are scrawled with sound, if baffling, advice about 'maintaining appropriate professional boundaries' or 'transference avoidance mechanisms'. So much, indeed, is the wind put up the average cassock on the matter that I have even heard of one poor Catlick fellow who asked a somewhat dazzling woman seeking confession on matters adulterous whether she wished for a chaperon!
Over-compensating by half, many a cleric will run a mile backwards (try that in a cassock!) to avoid being seen to be too touchy-feely with the halt, the lame or the vulnerable. Not quite on the old blunt Army line of these things - 'One pace forward everyone with two parents! Not you Corporal Wilson!' - but close. Funnily enough, I have, I am told, a rather soothing pew-side manner. Never really imagined it was my kind of thing, but apparently 'tis so. H herself will tell me that folk have stopped her in the street and passed decent comment on how I have helped them through their troubles. Even the occasional note from the diocesan secretary to advise me that my 'surveyed sympathy satisfaction quotient' has exceeded this year's regional average weighted target. (You can imagine the simple, heart-felt joy that the latter brings!)
Are we then back to this achingly beautiful doctor and the whole my-hand-in-thy-hand thing? Indeed so. Is this then me exercising my professional magic once more? Au contraire, as it were, 'twas she hers. 'Can't hardly grasp a tin of beans,' said I to her, 'without it hurting like buggery' by way of stark explanation of my presence in her surgery. Was this then the exclusive prelude to her grasping my mitts with hers and giving them a thorough going over by way of differential diagnosis? Absolutely. Did I though silently opine that were there other circs. applying I would rather more than not be perfectly content to be so held for a decent spell? I cannot, in truth, claim not.
Was though, in conclusion, any fleeting fantasy on my part swiftly dashed when said achingly beautiful doctor let go my hands with not 'Darling, we know it cannot be...', but 'It's either osteo-arthritis or gout or both. We need more tests to be sure'? Must you ask?
May indeed, now, need to rethink the whole touchy-feely thing from my end. Met, this very morning, some hearty fellow in the High Street who insisted on shaking my hand with vice-like grip and a fiercesome pump action to drain the very Fens. Have to say that my resultant loud yelps - call them screams - of naked agony quite roused the attention of all within a good hundred yards, not to mention entirely robbing this slight moment of social intercourse between parson and his parishioner of its rightful and proper pleasure.
Am having, therefore, to consider viable alternatives. Raising one's closed hands in greeting in the manner of some Hindu ascetic is one possibility. Could be a bit tricky that if they only get the idea that I am praying over them. I do of course, and they know I do, but it's not something about which one likes to make any kind of public fuss.
Another option - one that does appeal and should be efficacious if causing some anxiety in more sensitive souls - is to break out that old favourite seminarian tee-shit with the wondrous motif: 'Back off! Do I look like a f*$%*"g people person?'
Sunday, May 09, 2010
'Yours in Faith...' A Bishop concludes.
Better of course than the dread 'forward in faith', which does so grate. Simple rule of epistolary style - if you could not say the opposite of what you have said, then what you have said is meaningless. Viz. - there could be no 'backward in faith', a concept unnatural; there could neither be 'forward without faith', a proposition ungodly. Ergo 'forward in faith' is pure pants.
A simple 'Yours faithfully' would indeed suffice for all, though granted it does rather smack of an old-fashioned bank manager courteously writing to lament the dire state of the Parish overdraft more than any a gung-ho and get 'em Bishop keen to win all souls for glory.
But what then between the aforementioned 'Dear Colleagues in Christ' and this now faithful adieu? As often so, dear Canon 'Pewter' Potts has nailed it. Fellow phoned me this very afternoon to chew over this latest episcopal missive, giving his sound and trenchant view of the thing as it seems to stand. 'Harumph' the initial pre-lingual yet truly emotional verdict. A good start.
'Ite missa est my arse' the more considered if saucy and entirely confidential view. We clerics must be allowed to let off steam too you know. Never, of course, would we ever permit ourselves to be overheard laying into a godly - or even a thoroughly ungodly - parishioner. No 'That scarlet woman' for us thank you. The public - or worse secret - denunciation of any sinner never does do any good. Though indeed so advised by the Great Apostle himself no less, on this - as on so much - I deign to disagree with his whole approach.
There are, of course, sinners whose conduct must be stopped dead in its track; when harm to the little ones is in the question for example. But even here it is not so much a matter of waving the Cross before their eyes in defiance of their shame, more rather beating them over the head with the very weapon of faith. Show me a pervert and I'll show a man - mostly - with a dent in his skull. (Saint Paul, I am certain, would much approve.)
But this is to stray beyond the matter presently to hand. Potts and I must be allowed our little moment of mockery at the Powers that must Be. Why then so cross? What causes this leviathan of the deep - for this our dear canonical friend a creature of largely silent and removed from sight aspect - to rise to the very surface and roar thus to our very faces?
Do, in passing one asks, whales 'roar' as such? I know they can make loud noises-off as it were. H was - for a short while mercifully - quite into those 'hug an animal today' CDs that purported to be recordings of whales calling across oceans one to the other. Could hardly enter the music room for sound of low mammalian mooing. Ghastly racket. Much relieved thence to discover that most of them were nought but another racket altogether - goodly number of these things turned out to be nothing more than some sly ferret of a fellow playing around with his synthesiser and other electronic gizmos, then flogging the resultant and fraudulent cacophony to the green and gullible for a tenner or more.
Back to it though. Why are we two old clerical salts so bellowing like despairing beasts, so pained as to cry out in our deep, mutual and near harmonic distress? 'Tis - in short - this. Bish Tom's letter has set forth a proposal for an alliance - possibly merger even - with the cold-hearted, clammy-handed Methodists!
A veritable slur you may well say, should you happen to be a warm and cuddly Sectarian. All I can say on the score is that you may exist, but I have never met you and, having happily lived without that pleasure thus long and far, can well manage without changing habits of a lifetime at this late - near twilight - hour thank you very much.
Tom's thesis is this: alone we cannot withstand the dark satanic forces that surround us, but together we may. With him on the first analytical bit - that Old Stan is alive and sadly all too well in our midst is plain for all to see who would see it. But on part the second - what proposal follows from the proposition as expounded - then I cannot have it so.
No good talking to me about 'transitional arrangements', 'commonalities of faith' or even 'shared modalities' whatsoever on God's good earth that one might mean. (Potts being kindly avers it may have something to do with Gregorian chant. I, though, maintain it to be utter hog-wash.) Church and Chapel do not mix. The centuries have proven it so, history is quite and completely on our side.
Stands, therefore, are to be taken and they shall. All perfectly prepared as requested by my Bish to participate in 'early initiative pre-dialogue discussions', but am also entirely prepared with my final line on the matter: "You worship Him in your way, and I'll worship Him in His. End of."
I do trust that whomsoever 'Dave' has entrusted with the tricky task of chatting to Clegg's chaps can bear that necessary and precious thought in mind. Where is Lord Tebbit when you need him? Kicking some defenceless dragon's arse it seems.
A simple 'Yours faithfully' would indeed suffice for all, though granted it does rather smack of an old-fashioned bank manager courteously writing to lament the dire state of the Parish overdraft more than any a gung-ho and get 'em Bishop keen to win all souls for glory.
But what then between the aforementioned 'Dear Colleagues in Christ' and this now faithful adieu? As often so, dear Canon 'Pewter' Potts has nailed it. Fellow phoned me this very afternoon to chew over this latest episcopal missive, giving his sound and trenchant view of the thing as it seems to stand. 'Harumph' the initial pre-lingual yet truly emotional verdict. A good start.
'Ite missa est my arse' the more considered if saucy and entirely confidential view. We clerics must be allowed to let off steam too you know. Never, of course, would we ever permit ourselves to be overheard laying into a godly - or even a thoroughly ungodly - parishioner. No 'That scarlet woman' for us thank you. The public - or worse secret - denunciation of any sinner never does do any good. Though indeed so advised by the Great Apostle himself no less, on this - as on so much - I deign to disagree with his whole approach.
There are, of course, sinners whose conduct must be stopped dead in its track; when harm to the little ones is in the question for example. But even here it is not so much a matter of waving the Cross before their eyes in defiance of their shame, more rather beating them over the head with the very weapon of faith. Show me a pervert and I'll show a man - mostly - with a dent in his skull. (Saint Paul, I am certain, would much approve.)
But this is to stray beyond the matter presently to hand. Potts and I must be allowed our little moment of mockery at the Powers that must Be. Why then so cross? What causes this leviathan of the deep - for this our dear canonical friend a creature of largely silent and removed from sight aspect - to rise to the very surface and roar thus to our very faces?
Do, in passing one asks, whales 'roar' as such? I know they can make loud noises-off as it were. H was - for a short while mercifully - quite into those 'hug an animal today' CDs that purported to be recordings of whales calling across oceans one to the other. Could hardly enter the music room for sound of low mammalian mooing. Ghastly racket. Much relieved thence to discover that most of them were nought but another racket altogether - goodly number of these things turned out to be nothing more than some sly ferret of a fellow playing around with his synthesiser and other electronic gizmos, then flogging the resultant and fraudulent cacophony to the green and gullible for a tenner or more.
Back to it though. Why are we two old clerical salts so bellowing like despairing beasts, so pained as to cry out in our deep, mutual and near harmonic distress? 'Tis - in short - this. Bish Tom's letter has set forth a proposal for an alliance - possibly merger even - with the cold-hearted, clammy-handed Methodists!
A veritable slur you may well say, should you happen to be a warm and cuddly Sectarian. All I can say on the score is that you may exist, but I have never met you and, having happily lived without that pleasure thus long and far, can well manage without changing habits of a lifetime at this late - near twilight - hour thank you very much.
Tom's thesis is this: alone we cannot withstand the dark satanic forces that surround us, but together we may. With him on the first analytical bit - that Old Stan is alive and sadly all too well in our midst is plain for all to see who would see it. But on part the second - what proposal follows from the proposition as expounded - then I cannot have it so.
No good talking to me about 'transitional arrangements', 'commonalities of faith' or even 'shared modalities' whatsoever on God's good earth that one might mean. (Potts being kindly avers it may have something to do with Gregorian chant. I, though, maintain it to be utter hog-wash.) Church and Chapel do not mix. The centuries have proven it so, history is quite and completely on our side.
Stands, therefore, are to be taken and they shall. All perfectly prepared as requested by my Bish to participate in 'early initiative pre-dialogue discussions', but am also entirely prepared with my final line on the matter: "You worship Him in your way, and I'll worship Him in His. End of."
I do trust that whomsoever 'Dave' has entrusted with the tricky task of chatting to Clegg's chaps can bear that necessary and precious thought in mind. Where is Lord Tebbit when you need him? Kicking some defenceless dragon's arse it seems.
'Dear Colleagues in Christ...' A Bishop Writes.
Hardly has the ring of a Saint Paul does it?
He knew how to begin any letter with due mind-concentrating thunder. If you are not familiar with his many and varied salutations - 'tough love' oft the theme of the thing - then check your Corinthians or your Romans or your Ephesians. "I, Paul on a mission. You, call yourself a church? God help the lot of you!" - more or less sums up the general approach.
'Was that the post?' 'I'll get it.' 'Anything for me?' 'Couple of bills and one from Paul.' 'Crikey, summons the brethren. I'll be with you in a minute, just need the loo.' - You can readily picture the very and nervy scene.
The modern Bishop, sadly perhaps, is constrained to be more circumspect. He may have the passion - the rhetorical power even - of the Great Apostle, yet he must temper his words with more mercy than he might wish. No 'Regional Diversity Commissions' in Paul's day; none of your 'All Aboard! - a national strategy for inclusion' papers to mess with his head or style. Above all no potentially looming Employment Tribunal should a modern day cleric take it into his or her head to claim that he or, indeed, she has been 'harassed' for being hauled over any burning coals for failing to deliver on some pointless 'attendance target' - what we old folk would still tend to call a congregation.
But a Bishop so constrained is a man deeply irked. When there's a boot to be stuck in to a recalcitrant rump, when muscular Christianity urges a swift and sharp body blow, yet but a soft 'Ahem...' is all that is permitted; then it must and does gall a man's guts so. ('Internalising the anger' is, I believe, the modern lingo. Does sound quite as nasty as it ought.)
Don't get me wrong. Not all Bishops are, as dear E M Forster would have it, 'telegrams and anger'. Many rather - at least in the beginning - are perfectly kindly and dear souls. We are not talking here necessarily a sentimental character or a drippy disposition - thank Goodness - but the burning fire of a belief that inspires a radiance of regard for others. ('Love Thy Neighbour' - that sort of thing. You must have come across it.)
I indeed count myself lucky never to have had to serve under one of those relentlessly cheerful happy-clappy coves, who irk as much for their implacable happiness as by their intolerable clappiness. Was it not poor Fr. Benjamin 'Dizzy' Rayleigh who used to receive notes from his mad-as-any-hatter Bish 'Call Me Dave' that began 'Dear Team Jesus'? That would be beyond any enduring. Was even indeed - three good vicars went over to Rome by day's end and two more later fled with the parish coffers to some dodgy ashram in Potters Bar.
So I know where largely I am with our own Bish Tom: made of stern stuff and self-taught to be sterner, generally if not universally straight as a die, eye for the main chance naturally yet pretty hopeless at seriously deviant politicking as he does so blush when he lies - all within reasonable and manageable bounds. (If Mrs Bish can live with that then so can I.)
All that being so, I am much like any a Roman or a Corinthian or indeed an Ephesian - you see the handwriting, you read the superscription and you know what's coming next. When, then, I am a 'Colleague' it is a clear call to consolidated arms on behalf of the collective party. Some external threat has been perceived and we are to stand together united in the face of some darkening force.
Fortunately Bish Tom does have quite a knack of spotting an ill-wind about to blow before most of us have felt a stirring of even a chilly breeze. A necessary charism if you are given to sounding the trumpet of alarm - troops quickly wearing down and out should such clarion calls prove too often false.
But what then is the dire matter so presently told you reasonably wish to know. I cannot in truth yet tell, as I haven't read the letter beyond its all-revealing greeting. Darn it all, it is Sunday, a parson needs his rest too. Whatever it is can surely wait a day or so. Much like the Government. We seem to be jogging along without one quite well, thank you kindly; so why stir the pot when it is nicely simmering by itself?
Let us all then recall the ever wise words of the late, dear Duke of Devonshire who, whenever faced with a decision, would listen to all the pros and cons of acting before gently sighing 'Much better not'. Wonder how Saint Paul would have reacted had he received such a reply: Letter of the Romans to Paul - 'Hi, got urs ta. Chill! On hole no. OK? CU! x.' Not well one quite imagines.
He knew how to begin any letter with due mind-concentrating thunder. If you are not familiar with his many and varied salutations - 'tough love' oft the theme of the thing - then check your Corinthians or your Romans or your Ephesians. "I, Paul on a mission. You, call yourself a church? God help the lot of you!" - more or less sums up the general approach.
'Was that the post?' 'I'll get it.' 'Anything for me?' 'Couple of bills and one from Paul.' 'Crikey, summons the brethren. I'll be with you in a minute, just need the loo.' - You can readily picture the very and nervy scene.
The modern Bishop, sadly perhaps, is constrained to be more circumspect. He may have the passion - the rhetorical power even - of the Great Apostle, yet he must temper his words with more mercy than he might wish. No 'Regional Diversity Commissions' in Paul's day; none of your 'All Aboard! - a national strategy for inclusion' papers to mess with his head or style. Above all no potentially looming Employment Tribunal should a modern day cleric take it into his or her head to claim that he or, indeed, she has been 'harassed' for being hauled over any burning coals for failing to deliver on some pointless 'attendance target' - what we old folk would still tend to call a congregation.
But a Bishop so constrained is a man deeply irked. When there's a boot to be stuck in to a recalcitrant rump, when muscular Christianity urges a swift and sharp body blow, yet but a soft 'Ahem...' is all that is permitted; then it must and does gall a man's guts so. ('Internalising the anger' is, I believe, the modern lingo. Does sound quite as nasty as it ought.)
Don't get me wrong. Not all Bishops are, as dear E M Forster would have it, 'telegrams and anger'. Many rather - at least in the beginning - are perfectly kindly and dear souls. We are not talking here necessarily a sentimental character or a drippy disposition - thank Goodness - but the burning fire of a belief that inspires a radiance of regard for others. ('Love Thy Neighbour' - that sort of thing. You must have come across it.)
I indeed count myself lucky never to have had to serve under one of those relentlessly cheerful happy-clappy coves, who irk as much for their implacable happiness as by their intolerable clappiness. Was it not poor Fr. Benjamin 'Dizzy' Rayleigh who used to receive notes from his mad-as-any-hatter Bish 'Call Me Dave' that began 'Dear Team Jesus'? That would be beyond any enduring. Was even indeed - three good vicars went over to Rome by day's end and two more later fled with the parish coffers to some dodgy ashram in Potters Bar.
So I know where largely I am with our own Bish Tom: made of stern stuff and self-taught to be sterner, generally if not universally straight as a die, eye for the main chance naturally yet pretty hopeless at seriously deviant politicking as he does so blush when he lies - all within reasonable and manageable bounds. (If Mrs Bish can live with that then so can I.)
All that being so, I am much like any a Roman or a Corinthian or indeed an Ephesian - you see the handwriting, you read the superscription and you know what's coming next. When, then, I am a 'Colleague' it is a clear call to consolidated arms on behalf of the collective party. Some external threat has been perceived and we are to stand together united in the face of some darkening force.
Fortunately Bish Tom does have quite a knack of spotting an ill-wind about to blow before most of us have felt a stirring of even a chilly breeze. A necessary charism if you are given to sounding the trumpet of alarm - troops quickly wearing down and out should such clarion calls prove too often false.
But what then is the dire matter so presently told you reasonably wish to know. I cannot in truth yet tell, as I haven't read the letter beyond its all-revealing greeting. Darn it all, it is Sunday, a parson needs his rest too. Whatever it is can surely wait a day or so. Much like the Government. We seem to be jogging along without one quite well, thank you kindly; so why stir the pot when it is nicely simmering by itself?
Let us all then recall the ever wise words of the late, dear Duke of Devonshire who, whenever faced with a decision, would listen to all the pros and cons of acting before gently sighing 'Much better not'. Wonder how Saint Paul would have reacted had he received such a reply: Letter of the Romans to Paul - 'Hi, got urs ta. Chill! On hole no. OK? CU! x.' Not well one quite imagines.
Friday, May 07, 2010
"Alas Poor Gordon...
…I knew him." A bit anyway. Certainly not well.
Always did think that Mr Brown’s skull would make a fine Yorick. All in good time of course; not seeking to haste his mortal as well as his political death you must understand. Rough and knobbly I rather assume the phrenologists will in due season be finding it, quite the thing for an Elizabethan working man.
Well yes, all right, more strictly a semi-professional stand-up comic, roped in to any a court banquet to take the guests’ minds off the ropey meat, plus the ever present hanging rope should His High and Mightiness fancy a spot of light courtier culling. (You think modern politics are rough? Try the Tudors.)
But let us not be waylaid by any impossible image of Our Gordon as a man given to - let alone giving to many - much mirth. Our point is merely this: whenever some smooth shaped skull is shipped in to bear the silent part of Yorick, I do so wish to cry out how wrong they have it there on stage. We have indeed, it can be owned, some family previous on this, for it was none other than great-great Uncle Griswold who so famously, in Victorian times, attempted to set Othello right to the error of his ways with some sound, shouted advice from the stalls.
This is, of course, where it all went so hideously wrong for us with Mr Brown’s predecessor, that slippery-skinned snake-oil salesman of a fellow Tony Blair. Yes that’s the one – the chap we all thought looked and sounded so utterly plausible, a man in whom much trust could and should be placed. We were, so many of us, utterly fooled into believing in him; believing in his integrity, his passion, his commitment. (How could we have been so stupid?)
That Blair skull I bet is as silky as a soap-bubble. Fleas could ice skate his pearly pate in perfect peace. But when we saw through the transparency of his lies, treachery and deceit; as Isaac we yearned for a hairy not a smooth man. Brown clearly was that man it seemed. Out with the grinning buffoon and in with the granite-hewn troll – pretty pug-ugly it must be said and, quite in his favour, a veritable bruiser. ‘Psychologically flawed’ even sounded rather wonderfully attractive, all growly and grisly in a right and proper way.
‘Son of the manse’ integrity too – bit boring if stuck with it in a lift, but the sort of solidity perfectly handy when dealing with those beastly Brussels’ charlatans.
Ghastly cliché that ‘manse’ ‘son’ malarkey, of course, and believe me absolutely no guarantee of any moral probity whatsoever. Nonetheless we wanted to believe in a different idol and so we did. Out with that sweet and nasty – H thinks evil but I’ll settle for seriously sinning – Tony Blair and in with the really, really nice troll that is Brown. Wrong again. Should know by now and by scripture that idolatry gets you nowhere – or rather it takes you quite to a bad, bad place you don’t want to be.
And so it has transpired. ‘Big Bully Broon’ has proven to be quite as mendacious, as harmful and as downright dangerous as ‘Pants on Fire Liar Blair’. Exposition is unnecessary. Poor Mrs Duffy – ‘that woman’ she, the lady and he no gentleman, said hurt far more than being called a bigot – must stand as sign, symbol and signifier of all the stalinistic contempt with which we all have been held by the most commanding and controlling Government in recent times. Bad commands too for being stupid. Being bossed is bad enough – we all have our Bishops to bear – but being bossed by a numbskull is galling beyond enduring.
There really then you have it. Brown is after all a numbskull and nothing more. Alas poor Yorick again, but no jest even finite and nothing left to fancy.
So exit Brown - pursued by a bear would be nice – and enter Milords Cameron and Clegg:
“I rather would entreat thy company to form the wonders of political power, than living dully sluggardised at home in perpetual opposition…”
‘Two Gentlemen of Whitehall’ then shall have its run it seems. To rave or to rancid reviews? We shall see. (“O That Shakespeherian Rag” as that nice Mr Eliot so wisely and wittily would have it.)
Always did think that Mr Brown’s skull would make a fine Yorick. All in good time of course; not seeking to haste his mortal as well as his political death you must understand. Rough and knobbly I rather assume the phrenologists will in due season be finding it, quite the thing for an Elizabethan working man.
Well yes, all right, more strictly a semi-professional stand-up comic, roped in to any a court banquet to take the guests’ minds off the ropey meat, plus the ever present hanging rope should His High and Mightiness fancy a spot of light courtier culling. (You think modern politics are rough? Try the Tudors.)
But let us not be waylaid by any impossible image of Our Gordon as a man given to - let alone giving to many - much mirth. Our point is merely this: whenever some smooth shaped skull is shipped in to bear the silent part of Yorick, I do so wish to cry out how wrong they have it there on stage. We have indeed, it can be owned, some family previous on this, for it was none other than great-great Uncle Griswold who so famously, in Victorian times, attempted to set Othello right to the error of his ways with some sound, shouted advice from the stalls.
This is, of course, where it all went so hideously wrong for us with Mr Brown’s predecessor, that slippery-skinned snake-oil salesman of a fellow Tony Blair. Yes that’s the one – the chap we all thought looked and sounded so utterly plausible, a man in whom much trust could and should be placed. We were, so many of us, utterly fooled into believing in him; believing in his integrity, his passion, his commitment. (How could we have been so stupid?)
That Blair skull I bet is as silky as a soap-bubble. Fleas could ice skate his pearly pate in perfect peace. But when we saw through the transparency of his lies, treachery and deceit; as Isaac we yearned for a hairy not a smooth man. Brown clearly was that man it seemed. Out with the grinning buffoon and in with the granite-hewn troll – pretty pug-ugly it must be said and, quite in his favour, a veritable bruiser. ‘Psychologically flawed’ even sounded rather wonderfully attractive, all growly and grisly in a right and proper way.
‘Son of the manse’ integrity too – bit boring if stuck with it in a lift, but the sort of solidity perfectly handy when dealing with those beastly Brussels’ charlatans.
Ghastly cliché that ‘manse’ ‘son’ malarkey, of course, and believe me absolutely no guarantee of any moral probity whatsoever. Nonetheless we wanted to believe in a different idol and so we did. Out with that sweet and nasty – H thinks evil but I’ll settle for seriously sinning – Tony Blair and in with the really, really nice troll that is Brown. Wrong again. Should know by now and by scripture that idolatry gets you nowhere – or rather it takes you quite to a bad, bad place you don’t want to be.
And so it has transpired. ‘Big Bully Broon’ has proven to be quite as mendacious, as harmful and as downright dangerous as ‘Pants on Fire Liar Blair’. Exposition is unnecessary. Poor Mrs Duffy – ‘that woman’ she, the lady and he no gentleman, said hurt far more than being called a bigot – must stand as sign, symbol and signifier of all the stalinistic contempt with which we all have been held by the most commanding and controlling Government in recent times. Bad commands too for being stupid. Being bossed is bad enough – we all have our Bishops to bear – but being bossed by a numbskull is galling beyond enduring.
There really then you have it. Brown is after all a numbskull and nothing more. Alas poor Yorick again, but no jest even finite and nothing left to fancy.
So exit Brown - pursued by a bear would be nice – and enter Milords Cameron and Clegg:
“I rather would entreat thy company to form the wonders of political power, than living dully sluggardised at home in perpetual opposition…”
‘Two Gentlemen of Whitehall’ then shall have its run it seems. To rave or to rancid reviews? We shall see. (“O That Shakespeherian Rag” as that nice Mr Eliot so wisely and wittily would have it.)
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