Yet another in my short series of "Jam"
inspired conceits
Dear Reverend Plinth,
I am writing to thank you for last Sunday’s service. I am not, as you are
no doubt aware, a regular church goer but I was deeply moved by the whole
event. Your marvellous sermon comparing the plight of Jesus upon the cross
with how the Australian rugby fans must’ve felt when England won the World
Cup was a true inspiration. You made me and no doubt countless other
parishioners feel deeply ashamed of having drunk the Smoking Trumpet dry
and frolicked naked on the bandstand until Mrs Trump rightly called the
police.
The reason, as I am sure you know only too well, for my appearance at your
service last Sunday was to be part of the Christening of our first
granddaughter Clothilde Hymen Marzipan Frotterleigh. My daughter Arid is
one of your most devoted parishioners and insisted that little Clotty be
baptised at St Labia’s. The choice of hymns was extremely uplifting, your
speech about parental values really hit home and the sunlight shining
through the stained glass made me glad to be alive. The whole day was
spoilt by only one minor detail. That being that you were covered in shit.
I am not, as I have said, a regular church goer. I’m not au fait with
modern practices in the C of E (though I did spend twenty five pence
voting in a poll in favour of lady vicars – I don’t know whether you are
in favour but my wife was very sure that I supported them) and it may be
de rigour for baptisms to be performed while covered in shit but I
would’ve thought it only courteous for someone (yourself or the verger) to
have warned us in advance. My wife is on prescription medication and such
shocks can trigger episodes. The last thing we all want is for Tallulah to
have another one of her turns. When she saw you enter the vestibule (have
I got that right?) covered from head to toe in shit, she nudged me in the
ribs and muttered “If that’s shit I may have a spasm”. I assured her that
she must be mistaken. “It’s probably just the stained glass window making
it look like shit” I assured her. She then nudged me in the ribs a second
time and hissed “I’m sure it’s shit. As sure as shit is shit” and I was
forced to agree with her.
The shit did rather spoil aspects of the baptism itself. When you drew the
sign of the cross on the baby’s forehead you did leave behind a crucifix
of shit. That is the sort of thing that can really spoil a family photo
album.
I’m not in any sense complaining – the shit barely impacted upon my
enjoyment of the service as I grew up on a farm and can tolerate even the
most noxious of smells – but I just felt it should be brought to your
attention. I have yet to see a telephone poll in the Daily Mail about
whether vicars should be allowed to conduct their business while covered
in shit so I assume it is still frowned upon. If not then I feel sure it
would’ve been touched upon in my Religious Education classes at school.
Indeed, I dug up my exercise book as research for this letter and, in
addition to there being no mention of shit on any of the pages, it
contained addresses to write to if I wanted to apply for membership of
Judaism and Islam. I feel it is your right to know that I am considering
taking my business elsewhere.
Yours sincerely
Lionel Termite (Mr)
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