Like the other truly important guests invited here today, I’ve been requested to take my seat hours before anything happens. Since the Spirit appears to have hardened the hearts of those either side of me: the elderly Peer seated on my left is asleep (although he may have died), while the Baroness on the right - clearly an Apostate Liberal - ran screaming for the exits when she recognized me, I’ve taken a break from my never-ending work of Evangelism in order to admire my surroundings.
Certainly the décor is very nice, in a quaint sort of historical way, but I can’t help thinking how much more effective it would be from a church-growth perspective if the church wardens covered over all these bare walls and fancy memorials with some tasteful brick veneer. Then they could put up a few nice decorations people could relate to: some firearms, for example, and a few mounted heads of dead animals - I realize England no longer has any lions and bears to hunt, but surely the London Zoo would spare a few for a cause this worthy.
Hopefully Bishop Quinine and Evangelical Eric will be able to follow their instructions: naturally there were no seats available for them in the Abbey, but anticipating this we brought along a very fine pantomime horse costume. Our plan is that once dressed they allow themselves to be harnessed up alongside the bridal carriage, thereby enabling them to also enjoy a first-hand experience of this wonderful day. Unfortunately our rehearsals had all involved Bishop Quinine occupying the animal’s rear, and as flight-related oxygen deprivation flight has rendered Evangelical Eric temporarily unable to walk in a straight line without assistance they’ve had to exchange positions. (He’s also developed the delusion that he’s a professional Morris dancer, but as long as he isn’t allowed to wear anything with embroidery and bells this shouldn’t pose a problem.) Still, we all know how accomplished the British upper-classes are when it comes to handling horses, so I’m sure things will work out.
Before closing, I must thank the nice young reporters who have allowed me to log into their wireless network: all they’ve asked in return is for me to permit them to install a small and discreet camera to the tip of my shoe, and try my hardest to maneuver it in such a way as to take pictures up the bridesmaids’ dresses. People can say what they will about Rupert Murdoch, but there’s no denying he’s really brought out the best in the British journalists.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.