Well, My Beloved Sinners, we’re all safely aboard the aircraft and flying back to dear old Ichabod Springs. I can’t deny that I’m disappointed to have not been able to enjoy a little more time in Britain: it would have been marvellous for Evangelical Eric’s ongoing formation as a Clergyman to have taken him to see something more of his Anglican heritage: the fan-dancing theatres in Soho, for example, where I faithfully served as Chaplain during the dark days of the Blitz; or the "cottages" of Hampstead Heath, where the best and brightest Ordinands have traditionally established networks which carried them up to the very pinnacles of the Ecclesiastic authority.
Then there’s the Tower, where by executing two of his six wives Henry VIII demonstrated the family values which still inspire Orthodox Anglicans today. And the London Eye - is anything as character-building for a young Curate as experiencing the pleasure of looking down upon everybody else? Or with more time we could have visited Madame Tussauds: a portrait taken with an effigy of Lady Gaga is the kind of heirloom which adds gravitas to any Vestry wall.
Indeed: as I sit here I can’t but weep at George Washington’s foolishness at rejecting proposals for an American monarchy. After all, what could be more Christian than the principle of rule passing down to the first-born male (providing, of course, he doesn’t do anything as sinful as wish to marry an American divorcee), and relegating children unfortunate enough to be born without a penis to the reserve benches? And it’s beyond me how any American patriot can believe the bunkum Jefferson and his cohorts sprouted about “all men are created equal” after seeing Prince Charles in action. Or Princess Beatrice’s hat.
My prayer today is that everyone in The Home of the Brave might seize this opportunity to correct the terrible error of their Founding Fathers. May they not just embrace ++Cantaur’s marvelous vision for oligarchy, but also turn from sinful notions like the belief success and privilege are just rewards for hard work, and in repentance realize they are actually rights based upon one’s birth, or getting very, very lucky in the marriage stakes.
Instead of intiative and a can do attitude America needs pomp, and ceremony; instead of education and equality the Land of the Free needs pedigrees, and a servant-class who know their place. That way the world could rest in the certainty that there’d be as much chance of another Obama rising to the White House as there is of the heir to British throne ever having a parent called “Lakshmi” or “Priyadarshini”.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Showing posts with label Royal Wedding 2011. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Royal Wedding 2011. Show all posts
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XVIII.
Oh dear, My Beloved Sinners, I must apologize for my coverage being terminated so abruptly. I’d set off during the Lord’s Prayer, crawling through the pews in search of a power socket and cable, when suddenly I was seized by a crack team of soldiers from Prince Andrew’s Clapham Common Doggers.
The next thing I’d been spirited away to Scotland Yard via secret wartime tunnels beneath the Abbey, where a charming officer began explaining that even though water-boarding isn’t exactly a British custom, he’d be more than willing to make an exception if I didn’t explain what I’d been doing wriggling between the guest’s legs during the opening bars of “Blest Pair of Sirens" (if there is one thing I’ve long felt lacking in contemporary worship it’s the lack of recognition and respect given to Sirens).
Insisting upon my rights as the holder of a diplomatic passport (if young men from upstate New York can obtain canonical residency in Kenya, there’s certainly nothing untoward in my purchasing Somalian diplomatic status, and given the nation's primary industry is piracy there's actually a natural and oft-overlooked synergy between Somalia and schismatic clergy), I was granted the right to a telephone call, whereupon I immediately dialled Betty’s cellphone.
Would you believe it, however, but here in England it's considered polite to turn one’s cellphone off during formal occasions - even during weddings! I’d certainly never heard of such a thing before, and I’m sure it will never catch on at home. I mean to say; how could people let friends attending a funeral know about a really exciting special at Walmart, or interrupt people attending a film or play to remind their significant other to pick up some milk on the way home? Still, after leaving a couple of messages explaining my urgent need for her to return my call (and allowing my stunned interrogator to hear Betty’s voicemail message as proof that I wasn’t as delusional as he seemed to think I was), I was escorted to a holding cell, and instructed to wait with a number of other obvious subjects of mistaken detention.
And who would have believed it, but there in the midst of the happy throng were Bishop Quinine and Evangelical Eric, still dressed in the tattered remains of their pantomime horse. They’d been spotted by Prince Charles – always a man with a keen eye for horse-flesh – who’d ordered they be bridled and taken to his stables, where he felt they’d make a valuable genetic contribution to his polo-ponies' bloodline.
Naturally Bishop Quinine was elated. Evangelical Eric, on the other hand, began shrieking (to be fair, he was in the costume’s hind quarters), and their ruse was quickly exposed by His Royal Highness’s perceptive ostlers. The authorities were notified, and before you could say ”George Michael” they’d been placed in custody.
No sooner had the pair finished recounting their adventures than the officer who’d questioned me earlier returned. In a pleasingly amazed voice he announced that Her Majesty was on the line, and wished to speak with me. She was, as you would expect, appalled at my treatment, although as a gentleman and a Christian I insisted it was all nothing other than a simple mistake, and that she should let the matter rest with our release; other than casting all those responsible into the Tower of London no further action was necessary.
In fact everything was going so wonderfully that I in closing tapped the speaker-phone button so that she might also convey her apologies to my companions. At which point Evangelical Eric had the foolish compulsion to clear his whining little throat and ask “By the way, Your Majesty, what happened to the groom’s mother, and why isn’t anybody mentioning her today?”
The line went dead, and before I could defuse his faux pax we were dragged away to a cell so deep within the building that were Scotland Yard a mammal I’d say we were taken to somewhere between the large intestine and the colon. Which is not to say things couldn’t have been worse, although Eric found the words written above the doorway to our temporary domicile (“Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here”) particularly distressing.
After a little while (how time flies when one is chained to the walls) another soldier came to tell us we’d be held down here until Long Kesh could be reopened. Which didn’t mean much to any of us, although a small quiet voice in my spirit suggested it mightn’t be a place where the other inmates afforded Reformed Bible-believing Anglican Protestants the respect to which we are entitled. For the first time things began to look as if we did indeed have a small problem, when Bishop Qunine suddenly recognized the soldier:
“Tickles?” he asked, “is that you?”
“Quinners, Your Grace?”
“Of course it’s me, you naughty little monkey. Don’t tell me the rest of the lads have been posted here with you?”
As the two chuckled and exchanged pleasantries it became clear that Bishop Qunine was in fact old friends with the officers and men of our warder's regiment - “Prince Edward’s Theatricals”. After a little more conversation, and a playful slap which would under any other circumstances have made Eric blush, and sent him scurrying away to compose yet another a letter of complaint to the Archdeacon, the soldier whom had by now been introduced to us Sgt Tickerthope left to consult his officers, assuring us that “there’d be no bother sorting something out for old Quinners and his chums”.
Not ten minutes passed before he returned with an impressive array of firm-chested British military types. It turned out Bishop Quinine had served for a time as the Theatrical’s Chaplain: as a battalion specializing in engagements demanding precision cross-dressing his pastoral skills had become legendary, and the expression “polishing the Bishop” had come to have a special meaning dear to the heart (and other places) of every man in the regiment.
A few more telephone calls and everything was sorted. Our terrible lèse majesté would be covered up, and we would be discretely deported along with a camera crew from “Girls Gone Wild”, who insisted they’d been invited to attend the festivities by Prince Harry’s girlfriend Chelsy.
Which brings us to where we are at present: travelling to Heathrow on board one of the Theatrical’s APCs. I'll write some more to you when we’re on the plane, but right now I’ve got to give Bishop Quinine his iPad back. For reasons neither you or I will ever comprehend he’d like to show his old friends the Donald Trump slideshow he put together on the flight over: I suppose someone other than Rush Limbaugh has to enjoy looking at pictures of the old bankrupt.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
The next thing I’d been spirited away to Scotland Yard via secret wartime tunnels beneath the Abbey, where a charming officer began explaining that even though water-boarding isn’t exactly a British custom, he’d be more than willing to make an exception if I didn’t explain what I’d been doing wriggling between the guest’s legs during the opening bars of “Blest Pair of Sirens" (if there is one thing I’ve long felt lacking in contemporary worship it’s the lack of recognition and respect given to Sirens).
Insisting upon my rights as the holder of a diplomatic passport (if young men from upstate New York can obtain canonical residency in Kenya, there’s certainly nothing untoward in my purchasing Somalian diplomatic status, and given the nation's primary industry is piracy there's actually a natural and oft-overlooked synergy between Somalia and schismatic clergy), I was granted the right to a telephone call, whereupon I immediately dialled Betty’s cellphone.
Would you believe it, however, but here in England it's considered polite to turn one’s cellphone off during formal occasions - even during weddings! I’d certainly never heard of such a thing before, and I’m sure it will never catch on at home. I mean to say; how could people let friends attending a funeral know about a really exciting special at Walmart, or interrupt people attending a film or play to remind their significant other to pick up some milk on the way home? Still, after leaving a couple of messages explaining my urgent need for her to return my call (and allowing my stunned interrogator to hear Betty’s voicemail message as proof that I wasn’t as delusional as he seemed to think I was), I was escorted to a holding cell, and instructed to wait with a number of other obvious subjects of mistaken detention.
And who would have believed it, but there in the midst of the happy throng were Bishop Quinine and Evangelical Eric, still dressed in the tattered remains of their pantomime horse. They’d been spotted by Prince Charles – always a man with a keen eye for horse-flesh – who’d ordered they be bridled and taken to his stables, where he felt they’d make a valuable genetic contribution to his polo-ponies' bloodline.
Naturally Bishop Quinine was elated. Evangelical Eric, on the other hand, began shrieking (to be fair, he was in the costume’s hind quarters), and their ruse was quickly exposed by His Royal Highness’s perceptive ostlers. The authorities were notified, and before you could say ”George Michael” they’d been placed in custody.
No sooner had the pair finished recounting their adventures than the officer who’d questioned me earlier returned. In a pleasingly amazed voice he announced that Her Majesty was on the line, and wished to speak with me. She was, as you would expect, appalled at my treatment, although as a gentleman and a Christian I insisted it was all nothing other than a simple mistake, and that she should let the matter rest with our release; other than casting all those responsible into the Tower of London no further action was necessary.
In fact everything was going so wonderfully that I in closing tapped the speaker-phone button so that she might also convey her apologies to my companions. At which point Evangelical Eric had the foolish compulsion to clear his whining little throat and ask “By the way, Your Majesty, what happened to the groom’s mother, and why isn’t anybody mentioning her today?”
The line went dead, and before I could defuse his faux pax we were dragged away to a cell so deep within the building that were Scotland Yard a mammal I’d say we were taken to somewhere between the large intestine and the colon. Which is not to say things couldn’t have been worse, although Eric found the words written above the doorway to our temporary domicile (“Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here”) particularly distressing.
After a little while (how time flies when one is chained to the walls) another soldier came to tell us we’d be held down here until Long Kesh could be reopened. Which didn’t mean much to any of us, although a small quiet voice in my spirit suggested it mightn’t be a place where the other inmates afforded Reformed Bible-believing Anglican Protestants the respect to which we are entitled. For the first time things began to look as if we did indeed have a small problem, when Bishop Qunine suddenly recognized the soldier:
“Tickles?” he asked, “is that you?”
“Quinners, Your Grace?”
“Of course it’s me, you naughty little monkey. Don’t tell me the rest of the lads have been posted here with you?”
As the two chuckled and exchanged pleasantries it became clear that Bishop Qunine was in fact old friends with the officers and men of our warder's regiment - “Prince Edward’s Theatricals”. After a little more conversation, and a playful slap which would under any other circumstances have made Eric blush, and sent him scurrying away to compose yet another a letter of complaint to the Archdeacon, the soldier whom had by now been introduced to us Sgt Tickerthope left to consult his officers, assuring us that “there’d be no bother sorting something out for old Quinners and his chums”.
Not ten minutes passed before he returned with an impressive array of firm-chested British military types. It turned out Bishop Quinine had served for a time as the Theatrical’s Chaplain: as a battalion specializing in engagements demanding precision cross-dressing his pastoral skills had become legendary, and the expression “polishing the Bishop” had come to have a special meaning dear to the heart (and other places) of every man in the regiment.
A few more telephone calls and everything was sorted. Our terrible lèse majesté would be covered up, and we would be discretely deported along with a camera crew from “Girls Gone Wild”, who insisted they’d been invited to attend the festivities by Prince Harry’s girlfriend Chelsy.
Which brings us to where we are at present: travelling to Heathrow on board one of the Theatrical’s APCs. I'll write some more to you when we’re on the plane, but right now I’ve got to give Bishop Quinine his iPad back. For reasons neither you or I will ever comprehend he’d like to show his old friends the Donald Trump slideshow he put together on the flight over: I suppose someone other than Rush Limbaugh has to enjoy looking at pictures of the old bankrupt.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XVII.
Oh dear - my battery's dying. Hopefully I can borrow an extension cord from one of the TV crews...
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XVI.
+London just quoted Chaucer - personally I think he should've lightened things up with a reference to the the Reeve's Tale instead of the humorless bit he selected.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XV.
Looking around is convincing me that most hats are designed, made, and sold by men who really hate women. Perhaps the Jensen family are descended from a long line of milliners?
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XIV.
... and now another old hymn. Surely it's time for bit of balance with 'Shine Jesus, Shine'?
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XIII.
All this vow stuff and giving of troth is very nice, but why is ++Rowan wasting this opportunity to tell the world how much we need the Covenant??? And why isn't he proclaiming ACNA a genuine province???!!!
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XII.
Number headings all fixed up now, and I hope nobody heard me fight back a sneeze when whats-his-name asked if anyone objected to this union.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XI .
Some pompous fellow just kicked the bottom of my seat and ordered to stand as the bride processes down the aisle.
Fortunately I've smuggled in my Taser, and by waving it in his general direction was able to prayerfully persuade him to go away - I've muddled up my roman numeral headings and can't possibly fix them up while standing.
Fortunately I've smuggled in my Taser, and by waving it in his general direction was able to prayerfully persuade him to go away - I've muddled up my roman numeral headings and can't possibly fix them up while standing.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update X.
The organ and choir are impressive, but for an occasion this big they surely could have organized a praise band. And where's the power-point display?????
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update IX.
Her Majesty has just entered the buidling - she looks even lovelier than she did on Cat Roulette. I think her husband just told the Dean a dirty joke, although he may have only been trying to hit on one of the Duchesses.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update VIII.
The crowd outside is beginning to cheer - obviously word has reached them of my presence inside.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update VII.
Sorry - I take that back. ++Rowan isn't worried: he's just had an eyebrow trim for the occasion, and it's left him looking permanently startled.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update VI .
The Bride's mother has just entered - ++Rowan looks worried about the UFO that's landed on her head.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update V .
A young man in a funny red jacket has just walked in, accompanied by someone who looks like he got tangled up in the local music-hall's curtain cords... so now they finally send in the rodeo clowns.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update IV.
News just reached me of the terrible deaths and damage caused by twisters in the South.
All My Beloved Sinners touched by the storms should take comfort in my promise to pray for you just as soon as I finish devoting my undivided attention to this much more important marriage of two extremely wealthy young people.
All My Beloved Sinners touched by the storms should take comfort in my promise to pray for you just as soon as I finish devoting my undivided attention to this much more important marriage of two extremely wealthy young people.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update III.
Less important guests than myself have started arriving - world leaders, family of the happy couple etc.
Hopefully this means something will start happening soon... this might indeed be a fairy-tale wedding, but the brothers Grimm never took this long to get to the punchline.
Hopefully this means something will start happening soon... this might indeed be a fairy-tale wedding, but the brothers Grimm never took this long to get to the punchline.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update II.
Just over an hour to go, and still no word from Bishop Quinine & Evangelical Eric.
They were supposed to text me as soon as they were harnessed and ready - I do hope that once in their costume they weren't mistaken for Lisa Nolland, and dragged away to some secret prostate conference...
They were supposed to text me as soon as they were harnessed and ready - I do hope that once in their costume they weren't mistaken for Lisa Nolland, and dragged away to some secret prostate conference...
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update I.
I was right – the elderly Peer on my left had died. A Guard of Honor from Her Majesty’s Drunken Highlanders just wheeled him out and ushered in a replacement – a charming Privy Chancellor who has already engaged those about him in a fascinating discourse on auto-erotic asphyxiation.
Initially I was a little nervous when I saw the soldiers heading my way. Growing restless, I’d earlier attempted to hurry things along by encouraging the crowd to start chanting “Why are we waiting?”, but clearly life in Merrie Olde England moves at a much slower pace than it does in Ichabod Springs. After a decidedly military looking gentleman had approached to explain that his regiment were once responsible for the hanging, drawing, and quartering of dissidents I clearly felt the Spirit calling me to quietly resume using Bishop Quinine’s iPad to search the internet for examples of sin in unbelievers’ lives.
Still, I must say that when it comes to pre-match entertainment the British certainly could learn a thing or two from the Super Bowl. Or at least have hired a few rodeo clowns to keep the crowd amused. Still, all it’ll take is one good wardrobe malfunction to make all this waiting worthwhile.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Initially I was a little nervous when I saw the soldiers heading my way. Growing restless, I’d earlier attempted to hurry things along by encouraging the crowd to start chanting “Why are we waiting?”, but clearly life in Merrie Olde England moves at a much slower pace than it does in Ichabod Springs. After a decidedly military looking gentleman had approached to explain that his regiment were once responsible for the hanging, drawing, and quartering of dissidents I clearly felt the Spirit calling me to quietly resume using Bishop Quinine’s iPad to search the internet for examples of sin in unbelievers’ lives.
Still, I must say that when it comes to pre-match entertainment the British certainly could learn a thing or two from the Super Bowl. Or at least have hired a few rodeo clowns to keep the crowd amused. Still, all it’ll take is one good wardrobe malfunction to make all this waiting worthwhile.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey
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.
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.
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