Christmas Greetings

Here is the Racingdemon Award for Best Christmas Card of 2008, for all of you who are finding the festive season a bit of a trial:

For the others there’s this, a picture which inspired many of us forty years ago, is credited with beginning the green movement, and had a lot to do with developing the vocation that led me into Anglican priesthood.

"A merry Christmas and God bless all of you, all of you on the good Earth" (Frank Borman, broadcasting from moon orbit, Christmas 1968.)



Shalom, salaam, peace.

Combating Terrierism

Well the cuddly-wuddly puppy-wuppies are growing nicely (am I still looking at this clearly, I wonder?) We’ve been to see them, and it’s all being discussed with Mrs Demon and many friends and relations, and the decision is …. no, on second thoughts, I think you’ll have to wait until after Christmas to find out….

Meanwhile, three young men set out from the east, on a long journey to a far country, following the smell of food and the prospect of a washing machine, saying unto their father, “Pick us up from the station will you, dad?” And their father was troubled, for he had a lot to do, and privily called them on their mobiles, to enquire what time their train would appear. And behold, they came, and went into the house, and saw their mother, and fell down, and opened their treasures. Yes, the boys are back in town, and the consumption of lager and mince pies has increased accordingly. Good to have them around.

Feet 2

Interesting that I should post our amazing footfall through our biggest church at the same time as Peter Brierley should be predicting massive falls in church attendance in the next thirty years. Around here people seem not to have noticed that people have stopped going to church in the big cities. We will expect up to one third of the total population to attend a service over Christmas. Hats off to our volunteer stewards who have kept pace with all the scene-shifting, welcoming, and hoovering involved in the last few weeks. We have had our moments; not everyone has kept their temper; it's been like running a small theatre or concert hall, with half a dozen volunteers and no storage for the props; but we're nearly there now, and expect another couple of hundred or more for our Christingle Service on Christmas Eve, and then again at Midnight.

Up the creek without a poodle

Votes are flooding in, and I think the results will be tight (or maybe I'm just spinning the thing out??) I think I said patrimony the other night, when I meant paternity. Sorry. I've changed it now. Anyway, the latest is that the cocker's owner reckons they are dead ringers for his dog. We'll see. By the way, more dog puns than you ever thought possible at Les Barker's website, plus great poems, songs and a whole lot more! Go check it out now!

Feet

There have been a great many feet passing through the church doors in the past ten days. The county young farmers carol service last Thursday - 350. The community choir on Saturday - 350. The primary school, two packed nights of happy mums and dads and rellies- that's another 700. The secondary school, with a fab concert including Vivaldi, Pirates of the Caribbean and Slade, another 350. Plus, sadly, two funerals with about two hundred at each. Of course, it's not just about the numbers.But if Woolies had had this sort of footfall, they'd still be open. And they're regular churchgoers too; several folks leaving the concert last night said "see you again next year!". There's a quiet bit now, before the actual Christmas services, when, if last year is anything to go by, up to one third of the population will go to a church service at some point over the holiday. Me, I'm putting me feet up now, and enjoying a whisky mac. And they say nothing ever happens in the countryside.

Dogspot

Thanks for the comments passed in a variety of media re the canine question. thanks to women friends and colleagues who pointed out that a small manageable dog that could also mend the computer and the car would be an unbeatable combination. We have another slight problem .... paternity. The working cocker might not be the father. It might be a collie. Or a labrador. When it comes to dogs, our curate has evidently not been fashioning her household after the example of Our Lord.

A small manageable dog

Since we are on our own together, I’ll let you in on a conversation between Mrs Demon and myself some time ago. Having been married for many years, I summoned up all my courage and asked, if I were to die first, if she would miss me. She thought about this for a few moments.

- Of course, she said eventually, but the dog would be a consolation.
-What dog? I said. We haven’t got a dog.
-Well, I thought I’d probably get a small manageable dog, she said.
-As a replacement? I said.
-Well, yes, kind of, she said.
-You think I can be replaced by a dog?
-Well not entirely, in every respect, of course!
-But some of my functions?
-Well, yes, I suppose so!
- A small manageable dog?
- Well, that’s what I thought.
-Can I meet the dog before I go?
-How do you mean?
-Well, can there be an overlap, a sort of handover period?
-I suppose so. I don’t see why not.
-And I’ll be able to help to train the dog?
-Well yes, I suppose so.

So that’s how it all ends. Replaced by a small manageable dog. How humiliating. And is that the period we are now entering? I feel fine. No health problems. But maybe Mrs D can see things I can’t. Is this the beginning of the end… ?

We have a problem here

So we have a problem here. The keen reader will remember the post about the cockapoos (can’t remember when, sometime in the summer, look it up). Well, following that glance back into the world of dog-owning, Mrs Demon laid down the following conditions before any dog-owning could even be considered:
- The dog must be female (more than enough men about the place)
- A cross between a border terrier and a working cocker spaniel sounds like an interesting combination.

So here’s the problem. The curate’s border terrier has just given birth to five puppies; three male, two female. They are border terrier and working cocker cross. They are cute, and I mean, cute. Mrs Demon knows that they have arrived, and will be back from work (cos she works away) in a couple of days. The noises she was making over the phone when I told her suggested to me that dog-ownership was a distinct possibility in the not-too-distant future.

I have found myself driving about today imagining how the day would have run with a dog in the back of the jeep. Okay, was the general conclusion. Any dog has to be good with boats and water, and borders are good boat dogs. But what about all the other stuff that goes with having a dog; the restrictions on travel, going away for a few days, etc?

Well, I think I know what is going to happen, but in the end you, the reader, must decide. The decision is yours, unless we don’t like it. If you think that we should get a dog, and it’ll mean I get out more, and do all that exercise that I should be doing, then vote YES. If you think it’s a crazy idea, and these days dog owners end up walking around with carrier bags full of poo, then vote NO. The number to ring is 0999 123 45678. Lines are open until midnight. Remember to ask the person who pays the bill before you dial. The cost of calls is astronomical, and we’ll make sure you can’t get through the first couple of times. I’ll pocket all the money and invest it in a couple of business opportunities I’ve heard about on the island of Sark. Or start my own hedge fund scam. Can’t decide which. Lines are open now.

Emergency! Which service do you require?

The call we must all prepare for but hope never comes came on Sunday afternoon. The snooker was just getting interesting, and the log fire was well banked up. I had a nice cup of tea and a piece of Battenberg cake beside me. Suddenly, the red phone on the coffee table began to ring and flash on and off. “Emergency!” I said, “Which service do you require?”

“Evensong!” said an anxious voice. “Now!” It was the curate. “Eh?” I said, “It’s six o’clock already, and it’s your turn!”

“No can do!” she panted, “The dog’s having her puppies!” she gasped, “Gotta get her to the vet! She needs a caesarean!”

“Leave it with me!” I said, and sprinted to the study where a cassock and surplice hang ready for just this eventuality. I grabbed a prayer book, stuck the flashing light on top of the car (the purple one, for Advent), and drove at top speed four miles through the freezing night. The noise of my pounding feet rang on the stones as I dashed up the church path, and reached the door.

“Let me through, I’m a vicar!” I said, to no-one in particular, but I’d always wanted to say it. The congregation of eight looked around, rather startled.

I arrived just in time. “You’ve arrived just in time!” said the churchwarden, “I’ve announced the first hymn!”

“Keep calm, everyone,” I said in my reassuring, measured tones, “Everything’s going to be OK.”

Four Yorkshire clergy respond

“Forty six miles? You were lucky! Every day I had to get up and drive five hundred miles to celebrate holy communion in the middle of the night, and then drive back and take ten funerals, followed by a couple of church council meetings, a mothers union festival and then get to the cathedral for a diocesan meeting. We worked eight days a week, fifty-three weeks a year. Every forty years we had ten minutes off!”

“Dreamland! When I were a vicar, every five minutes the Archdeacon were round the parishes for a visitation, and if everything weren’t up to scratch, he’d kill us stone dead!”

“Luxury! Huh! When I were a parish priest, we lived in a vicarage with no roof, and our children froze to death every night before they went to school, and when they got home they froze to death again before they went to bed. Our stipend was a ha-porth of gravel every year, and we had to meet our own expenses out of that!”

“Gravel? Gravel? We dreamt of gravel! Bah! Yuh don’t know you were born! I were ordained when I were three, given a parish of fifteen thousand homicidal maniacs in Rotherham and made to stay there until I’d visited ‘em all twice, then sent to Outer Mongolia on a mission with one donkey and a nylon sheet to sleep under. When I got back twenty years later the bishop demanded to know what I’d been doing, and refused to pay me expenses!”

Hmmm. And if you tell young people that today, they don’t believe you.

Thinly spread resources

My trip counter showed forty-six miles. Nothing unusual about that, except that it was my mileage for one day, and nothing unusual in that either, except that it was all within our group of parishes. A funeral at one end of the group, followed by an early carol service at the other end, and a craft fair in the middle. In addition, my colleague was conducting a wedding during the afternoon. Add several other visits, and you have forty six miles. This is the reality of stretched ministerial resources in this part of the world.

Tis the season to be jolly

God sent his only-begotten Son into the world so that we could all rush around frantically from one service or party or event, in terrible weather, on dangerous roads, suffering from various winter ailments that would put any normal person in bed for a week. Tis the season to be jolly difficult, as bell-ringers refuse to give way on their practice night so that a concert can rehearse in the church, and people get proprietorial about flower arrangements. Silent night? Dream on! It’s minus a hundred outside and has been all weekend. I’ve decided to try whisky and Stones ginger wine as my evening tipple of choice in winter months. Must learn not to swig it like the Big Brewer’s bitter. Night all!

Burn After Reading

He’s a good boy that lad of ours, getting the aged parents in to see a movie every now and again. Coen brothers “Burn After Reading” this time; another good movie. We both enjoyed it- mind you, I’ll watch John Malkovitch reading from the telephone directory. Daft plot which became dafter, but we felt better coming out than when we went in, and that’s what counts. We always stay right through the credits, by the way. It is frustrating for the staff who want to clearup the cartons, but how else would we hear the final track on the music soundtrack, and know that it was the Fugs. For the movie anoraks, you can find out more about the Fugs here.

While we were away took the opportunity to watch “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” again on DVD. You don’t need to know Homer to enjoy it, and all the cast clearly had a great time, plus another fantastic soundtrack of really good American music.

Back to Basics

No-one can say we don’t teach the scriptures to our kids. Back to basics, and the Lord’s Prayer as Our Lord taught it, which was not in seventeenth century English, as some would have you believe, but in Aramaic. Yes, folks, out on the playground at the primary school 28 kids doing body prayer movements to my Aramaic voiceover. How powerful is that, to hear those sounds and syllables out loud! They loved it, and responded really well, so we’ll put it into the end of term service; threefold; Aramaic, Book of Common Prayer, and a modern translation.