Fire (& Brimstone)
At the summit of Steep Lane lies the parish church of St Pugh the Inexcusable. Steep Lane is perhaps the most understated name you're likely to come across, ever. It is not a long lane as lanes go, a mere 300 yards, but it is all up. Of course it also has a down, but it is the up that people remember.
St Pugh's is almost the only building on Steep Lane and has been there longer than anyone can remember. It is almost the only building because towards the bottom of the lane lies the vicarage, a quaint thatched cottage where the very Reverend Blastfurnace has lived for the last two years, six months and eight days.
There is only one other person with a Steep Lane address, (that's if you ignore the wildlife, which you do at your peril!) and that's Mr. Warefrum. Nobody knows much about Mr. Warefrum. He was found living in the garden shed of the vicarage last spring when the Rev. Blastfurnace was looking for the lawnmower. The gardener had been off sick again and Blastfurnace was tired of losing his dog, Brimstone, in the long grass. The Reverend had been trying for months to get some help with the daily chores so he could concentrate on the spiritual needs of the people of Little Hopemuch. When he found the man in his shed he assumed his prayers had been answered and immediately appointed Mr. Warefrum as Senior Churchwarden. Mr. Warefrum, who appeared to have nothing better to do, accepted his new position in life and, despite an acute lack of knowledge about anything remotely clerical, had performed just well enough to keep his home in the shed.
It is Sunday, 10.30 in the morning and Steep Lane is in the midst of its weekly rush hour as the residents of Little Hopemuch make their slow but deliberate ascent. The older residents have made it as far as the halfway bench kindly erected by old Rev. Hushley in memory of Mr. Cholesterol who continued the journey in a wooden box from about the same spot many moons ago. Today, as every Sunday, they sit on the bench tucking into a variety of picnic items and engaging passers-by in idle gossip.
Eventually the congregation, having left oxygen masks, walking sticks, picnic baskets and crampons in the vestibule, have made it to their usual seats. At precisely eleven, the Rev. Blastfurnace makes an unusually dramatic entrance to a stirring rendition of U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday" beaten furiously out of the organ by Constable Snide, musical director. He liked to play these little jokes by way of compensation for the effort spent getting there. The previous week he'd played Meatloaf's "Bat out of Hell". The Rev. Blastfurnace, who can't tell Beatles from Bach, clears his throat and begins:
"Churchwarden! Is my flock safely gathered in?"
"Yes, your, err, holy wonderfulness", replied Warefrum, who would take a different stab at the correct form of address every time.
"Then I shall begin…."
By the way, one thing you need to know about the services at St Pugh's is the complete lack of anything except the sermon. At first Blastfurnace had tried to conduct the regular kind of worship but soon discovered that all the 'fancy stuff', as he called it, just got in the way of the whole point of the service. He therefore quickly dropped it altogether and concentrated on writing sermons long enough to fill out the time. He always left a cup of wine and a few wafers on the side for anyone feeling short changed but that was the biggest nod he was prepared to make in the direction of tradition.
"Today, Sinners!, we are talking commandments, ten of them!". The audience sank a little lower in their seats and those who could, hid behind the person in front in an attempt to hide from the beaming Blastfurnace.
"Thou shalt have no Gods before me." he thundered!
"Well, I would say this is a little tough on Buddhists & Hindus not to mention a whole bunch of Muslims! But how can we relate this to our small community? What it means is you don't go around worshipping anything more than you worship God. In our case I think we are talking about Mrs. Snippit and her precious rose garden!"
There was a mumbled comment from the direction of Mrs. Snippets seat.
"Sure, they are all Gods creations, Mrs. Snippet, but let's face it, when you start spending more time with the creations than with the creator you are asking for trouble. I think you all get my point.
Second - Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image. Tricky one this and if you read further it goes on to explain in more detail as well as threatening your whole family, past present and future, with all kinds of grief if you disobey. I suppose in those days it was fashionable to hold the whole family responsible. Anyway, look around you in this church, what do you see?"
"Graven images?" came a squeak from the direction of Mr. Eyecue, the know-it-all of the village.
"Precisely! Graven images all over the place. If you ask me it's completely out of control. You must remember our pilgrimage to the Holy Land two summers ago? You know, when Mrs. Kneetrembler got all emotionally attached to the Israeli soldier? …..Anyway, what did we find when we finally got through the barricades in Bethlehem?"
"Mrs. Kneetrembler's knickers!" came a shout from the crowd.
"If you can't keep that boy under control, Mrs. Traksoot, please be so kind as to ask him to leave! No, what we found were gangs of scruffy urchins selling postcards of God! They will get their rewards in HELL! We, on the other hand, just need to be a little circumspect about who we invite around and make sure that what few decorations we do have are as tasteful as possible. It's all from the approved catalogue anyway so I think we're Okay"
"Moving on, number three. Thou Shalt not take the name of the Lord, thy God, in vain. We're talking blasphemy, people! Blasphemy! HOW MANY TIMES do I need to go on about this topic before it sinks in, eh? Don't think I don't hear your comments when you arrive at the top of the lane on your way into church, because I do and I can assure you, there's a whole truck load of blaspheming going on! Enough said.
I think your adherence to the fourth is the only one I can say I'm generally happy with. Remember the Sabbath day, keep it holy. We did have a bad spell a while back but I blame myself for that. Our economy measures with the coffee and biscuits were a little too draconian. As soon as I advised Mrs. Gooeybottom of the need to go 'upmarket' we got back on track. The leaking roof will have to wait."
Someone in the back farted. Muffled laughter spread through the congregation like a Mexican wave.
"I refer the deliverer of that erudite comment to rule number three. You may laugh now but try controlling your bowels when you're staring into the face of SATAN!"
A hushed silence fell like a wet blanket.
"The fifth, Honour thy father and thy mother. In it's wider meaning this is talking about respect for the elderly. Something I'm sure Mrs. Mothball can assure you is not where it needs to be! Senile dementia is not something to be scoffed at; it's a serious problem and anyone who has it should be looked after by the whole community. She has still not recovered from the pranks last Halloween when a number of you visited her wearing those silly plastic masks. To this day she is asking why President Clinton, Saddam Hussain, Margaret Thatcher and Stalin should all choose to visit her on the same day! You know who you are. Think about it. That's all I'm asking."
"We can deal with the sixth quickly, Thy shalt not ratsach. No Mr. Flyhigh, you will be pleased to hear this does not forbid the wearing of multicoloured hats and smoking those large cigarettes you like so much. The word is ratsach not Rasta. The most common translation for ratsach in relation to this commandment is kill, however as the original word has a sense of the premeditated killing of a human I prefer to use the word murder. I have not yet noticed my flock getting smaller by anything other than purely natural means so I think we can all rest easy on this point."
"What about your wife!" came a bold shout from the front pew.
"I'll ignore that outburst Mr. Sneak because if you pay attention to the next commandment you will realise why the phrases glass houses and throwing stones do rather spring to mind. Moving on. Number seven, Thou shalt not commit adultery. See what I mean now Mr Sneak? Let's be fair, whilst there is no direct evidence beyond a few photos and mumbled recordings, it does seem to me that our community has a serious problem in this regard. It can only be a matter of time before Little Hopemuch is branded the wife swapping capital of western Europe! It has reached such proportions that it will be a continued theme of my sermons for the whole of Lent and we have given the parish magazine a new punch line; 'Little Hopemuch - You show me yours and I'll show you…the road to HELL!' I won't go on about it today but please, let's try and keep it in the family."
"It's close to coffee time so we'll skip over the eighth commandment on technical grounds. Thou shalt not steal. The original word, commonly translated to steal, had a very limited meaning referring to the kidnapping and selling of a person into slavery. Not much relevance for us today providing we draw a veil over the activities managed by Mrs. Lolita at 34 Kenton Drive, which we shall do as all the students are such nice young girls."
"Students, yeah right! Pervert!" muttered Mr. Sneak again.
"Which brings us nicely on to the ninth; Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour. As vicar of this parish I should be considered everyone's neighbour. I'd just like to make that point crystal clear. False witness means telling tales, grassing up and general gossip mongering. I want this to stop immediately. God takes this point VERY seriously!"
"Finally, last but by no means least, is the tenth commandment; Thou shalt not covet thy neighbours house, wife, manservant, maidservant, ox, ass nor any thing that is thy neighbours. It may surprise you to know that I can quote specific examples of blatant coveting in every one of these categories in the last two weeks! Mr. Wetlips alone accounts for three of them, the manservant, ox and ass although we are all hoping the pills will allow us, and our pets, to sleep peacefully once again. Far too many fall into the wife and maidservant category. Lastly I know that one mention of Mrs. Dryflower-Arrangement's performance in the coveting of house, and everything in it, category will convince you that I do not speak with forked tongue."
"In short, ladies and gentlemen, you had a very bad year in 2001." he boomed. The echo seemed to take hours to die.
"Were today judgement day you would, without exception, be holding one way tickets to hells fiery depths. Let's try harder in 2002 shall we?
Now sing with me our traditional closing verse while Mrs. Gooeybottom passes around the collection plate assisted as usual by Mr. Pantwetter. After me; 'Always look on the bright side of life, de dum, de dum de dum de dum, always look on the bright side of life…………'".
END
Note: The writer acknowledges the valuable assistance of a fellow Dilloer in the editing of this work up to the half way point. Some lessons were carried forward into the second half. Any errors can be fully accredited to the writer.