I hear that the Vicar is planning to let the Youth Group lead a service next month. This is a sign that we have a vibrant, successful youth policy which is showing real results in allowing our young people to grow in the faith and become active members in the church.
I fear this. What happens if, instead of the vicar’s normal anecdotes about being at college with Rowan Atkinson and quotations from the poet Keats, we suddenly have to deal with people quoting Snoop Diggy Dogg and expecting people to be twerking? Neither I, nor my wife, have ever twerked.
Marais de Sandeman, The Old Brewhouse, Little Tremlett
Liberalism has crept into every corner of the Church. We have had women bishops, nudist bishops, gay vicars and “Lord of the Dance”. But nothing had prepared me for this.
While she was preaching last week, I noticed that Revd Joanne has a distinct London accent. She dropped at least three “h”s and, on at least two occasions, employed a glottal stop.
This is no longer the Church I grew up in, when vicars do not have to observe the decencies of employing a faintly ridiculous “posh” voice. The vicar of Great Tremlett, Father Gerome, in 1962 adopted such a plummy pronunciation that on one occasion he dislocated his jaw during the “Nunc Dimmittis”. This sort of dedication is no longer found, I am afraid to say.
Ranulf Bling, Station Road, Great Tremlett
I dropped into the Great Tremlett Bell Ringer’s meeting last week.
Just a load of people in sweaters, ringing bells. That’s all it was. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.
Rt Hon Alicia Cholmondley-Cholmonley, Cholmondeley Manor, Woodby Chapel End.
Last week, due to a terrible mix-up with the dosage of my usual pills, I was awake throughout the entirety of the vicar’s sermon.
Absolutely dreadful, it was. I now understand why Major Dumpling is such an avid user of unusual chemicals. Why does everybody else put up with it?
Rob Runes, Church Lane, Gt Tremlett
I was, along with the other Church Wardens in the deanery, delighted to receive an invitation to the enthronement, emplacement and inculcation of the new vicar of Wittering-in-the-Clumps. However I was shocked to discover that the clergy were invited to attend in “Choir Dress”.
If the vicars all go around pretending to be the choir, how can we tell which is which?
Felicity Broadstairs, Tremlett Road, Woodby
Once again the Junior Church teaching material has let me down. The children were far too interested, I thought, in the story of Elijah and the Prophets of Baal. And that was before Revd Joanne popped in with her “surprise” delivery of Crispy Creme Donuts.
For ten minutes all was quiet. And then there was a sound like a rushing wind. And the next thing I knew, the Sunday Club was scouring the lanes around the Tremletts searching for Methodists. A terrible, terrible sight.
I realise these more problematic texts are part of the original Bible – but surely in these more tolerant days it might be better if we quietly left them out?
Cassandra Chamois, Peanut Cottage, Lt Tremlett
I am now into the 9th week of eating nothing but Creme Eggs. People told me this would have a bad effect on my physical, and possibly even mental, health. Nothing could be further from the truth. They were all just blue meanies. Apart from the Vicar. He’s a real nowhere man.
I am the eggman.
I am the eggman.
I am the walrus.
Major J Dumpling, “Rodney’s Rest”, Lt Tremlett
I have just moved back into my old cottage.Nine months of living in a caravan, frequently being turned upside down by drunks, surrounded by pagans and the smell of sweaty archaeologists, are finally over. I am blessed. I have passed, like Joshua, through the desert of the soul without leaving my bones to bleach in the desert.
I shall not, however, rest from my zeal when it comes to fighting the Vicar’s desire to reinstate the so-called “Holy Well” (aka devilish shrine) that was found in the back garden of the New Rectory. I will be standing on my watchtower (the tree house I have put in one of the yews at the bottom of the churchyard) keeping an eye out for anything that looks like heathenism. And I will report the Vicar to the Archbishop if any nude dancing breaks out this summer, like it so manifestly didn’t last year. But if it does, I will not miss it – of that you can be assured.
Martin Moraine, “Purity House”, Little Tremlett
It was inevitable, given its name, that candles be burned at Candlemas. But just how many candles are strictly necessary? That is a lot of money we are simply burning.
Given the name, I believe that we could strictly speaking just have the one candle instead of the current riot of candle-lighting that happens every year.
In fact my calculations shows that, if we simply celebrated Candlemas on the 2nd February every year, the decreased attendance would result in a remarkable saving in candle costs over the long run – anything up to £5 a year.
I have of course incurred some expenses related to the purchasing of a 5-year calendar, a Lectionary, and a large number of candles. I therefore include an invoice for the treasurer to the value of £74.22.
Norbert Dranesqueezer, Chester St, Grilsby-on-the-Hill
I notice from the news that leading Politicians are encouraging us all to take part in a “Clean for the Queen” to celebrate her birthday. Here, for instance, is an example. And it has inspired me.
It has inspired me to reproduce this picture as a poster and nail them up all over the Trim Valley. We must never allow this man into our village.
Jeremy Stairswell, Crow Lane, Grilsby on the Hill
Girlfriend in a coma. I know, I know.
It’s really serious.
Samantha Giblings, Church Green, Woodby
Unfortunately we have had to cancel the Ladies’ Bright Hour again. It turned out they weren’t as bright as the name implied.
Romilly Randers, Cave Road, Little Tremlett
After a strangely mixed winter – warm for so long, but with some welcome frosts at the end – now spring is arriving! I have created the following poem to mark the arrival of the season.
SPRING IN THE TRIM VALLEY
The morning mist lifts from the fields
The new-fledged Sun with warmth reveals
The nestlings chirping in the sun
To receive a worm or bug from Mum.
The valley rings with spring-time sounds
The Easter beating of the bounds
The brook rolls down towards the stream
But somewhere off I sense a scream
Of terror as the hedgehog mild
Is faced with badgers, fierce and wild
And rolling to a ball’s no help
The badger’s claws make the hedgehog yelp
But running from old Brock’s not great
When dashing cross the road so straight
Instead of claws, a lorry and a
quick death ‘neath a Fiat Panda.
Death death death death
Death death death death.
Wishing everybody a happy Easter.
Mellissa Sparrow (Mrs), The Hollow, Grilsby-on-the-Hill