Thought for the Day. More from Justin Webly, more or less Arch. of Cant.

On Monday last, I accompanied my lady wife to Scrimpton – an old  parish of mine - to open the village’s Spring Fayre. I was Vicar of Scrimpton for three or four days at the beginning of my meteoric rise my present position. Nevertheless, Jocasta, my publicity person, says that it is important to be seen to be keeping in touch with one’s roots and whilst I do not approve of the widespread use of quasi-olde English to describe this sort of community event, the time we spent with these delightful people reminded me that in a world dominated by electronic devices, it is still possible to amuse oneself with simple pastimes. Despite the torrential rain, I could just about make out an enthusiastic throng enjoying “Stone the Housebreaker”, whilst further down the field a round of “Spot the Pregnant Teenager” gave rise to merry shouts of, “No she ain’t. She’s just chubby”, and “Ooh, there’s one in the oven there, darlin’!”

Jocasta suggested that I should talk to some of these ordinary folk as it would be good for publicity and indeed, the Rev Prendergast, who helps Jocasta by photographing me in a good light, took some lovely snaps.

Sadly, after sheltering with a score or more villagers under an awning, the young man with a wire in his left ear and bulge in his jacket, and who follows me everywhere suggested that we should leave. I must admit that it was something of a squash under that awning and I could feel people fiddling with the heavy gold crucifix I wear on these occasions. And so we made a dash through the rain to our waiting cars followed by merry shouts of “Oi, mate. You gorra gun under yer coat ?” and, “Come on – show us yer weapon!” Oh how we laughed with my lady wife joining in by intoning, “I wouldn’t mind a look at his weapon too". She has such an impish sense of humour.

And so back to the Palace for Evensong, then toasted crumpets, a mug of steaming Horlicks and up the wooden hill to the Land of Nod. 

Yours affectionately,

Justin               

How to be an NHS Manager (Director In Charge of Kicking - DICK, for short)

Firstly, you must remember that to be a proper manager, everything must be clean and tidy.  Don't worry about actually doing a hand's turn yourself;  your job is to make sure that everyone else is UP TO THE MARK.

It will improve morale if you make your staff cut the grass on the lawn outside using a pair of (blunt) nail scissors. (Don't forget Health & Safety.  There are several policies about policies for that). Ensure they use a short ruler to ensure a uniform approach.  

Documentary evidence should be kept of slovenly, shiftless behaviour.  You may find yourself with staff rebellious enough to drink tea or coffee, or attend the lavatory during working hours.  This should be stamped out immediately.  Take photographs of any coffee rings, dirty spoons or other detritus, enlarge them to poster size and create an exhibition of them.  Don't be afraid to name and shame the culprits.  If you can't find any, bring some three-week-old unwashed mugs from home and photograph them instead.

Visits to the privy can be cut to the minimum simply by installing recording equipment in each closet;  any sounds can then be amplified and broadcast to the reception area.  You can't have your ladies rummaging around in their handbags, either, especially if they seem to want to do it in private.  Any lady caught taking a bag to the little girls' room should be stopped and searched.

Tidiness in the office is of primordial important.  Actually, this policy has recently been revised to:  'Being seen to be enforcing tidiness in the office'.  It is perfectly acceptable to create a huge mess on an otherwise empty desk, as long as it consists of notes telling the occupant what a disgrace their work station is.  Post-it notes, chip wrappers, fag packets and used tissues are all handy for this purpose.  Photograph the pile and put it in their CPD file.

You may sometimes find that your staff phone in pretending to be sick.  Don't be fooled!  They enjoy going out drinking, whoring, taking illicit drugs and gambling whilst being on their death beds.  Make sure you put it down as the holiday it undoubtedly is.  If a member of staff dies, this is further evidence of a workshy nature and they should face disciplinary procedures immediately.

With a bit of luck you will soon find your staff have all left or died.  Collect a six-figure bonus in recognition of your effectiveness in cutting costs and giving the tax payer value for money.

Jobs of Yesteryear. (1) The Woodgummer

A happy-go-lucky 18th century band of wandering wooden gum-makers supplying barbers with something to put dead people's teeth in.  Still practised in certain parts of Birkenhead.

(See Wikipedia)

Another letter from one of our faithful fan base...

Dear Pangolin,

                             

My fiancée and I recently motored north to Goole in search of the relocated Glossop Pangolin Sanctuary. As children in Bangdup End, just outside Glossop, we can both recall being taken to the Sanctuary (where we almost saw a pangolin. Twice) as a Sunday treat.

                             

You can imagine our disappointment when we could find no reference to the sanctuary in Goole’s Visitors’ Guide. It was only when we were having a cup of tea in the Aaaaahh Teashop, next door to The Goole Mud Museum, and  whilst in conversation with Ingrid, that  I mentioned the name “Ted Thump”. An unfortunately wall-eyed old lady at the next table told me that Mr Thump, the bluff head keeper at the pangolin sanctuary might be found “next door”.

                               

The King’s Legs turned out to be rather a rough place, but Mr Thump was in fact in situ by the bar. He has obviously not been well and kept falling over. It was during one of his brief periods of standing unassisted that Mr Thump increased our distress even further. “Ee lad. Are you soft or what ?” he bellowed . “There were never a b***dy pangolin sanctuary ! It were all made up to fool b***dy dimwits like you two. Now either get me another pint or **** off !”

                                  

As you might imagine, our journey home was virtually silent save for Ingrid’s disconsolate snivelling. We feel cheated of our childhood and look to your magazine to investigate further. I did report this matter to our local beat police officer, but she told me to “**** off!” as well.

Yours sincerely

Trevor H Bandage

Another in the Gerard Whyman Classical Studies Series

Thought for the day, from Justin Webly, more or less Arch. of Cant.

Hullo,

            

As has often been observed by many wiser than I, life can seem rather like a football match, with its expectations, disappointments and occasional victories. And if life IS like a football match, is God the referee? Or the club owner? Who knows? 

What I am pretty certain of is the Almighty’s displeasure at the recent conduct of a Liverpool player who, when not allowed to have a kick by a rather peevish eastern European fellow, bit him on the arm. This is disgraceful behaviour, although quite how a bite on the arm causes one to fall over, I’m not sure. Leg, perhaps, but arm? Actually, if memory serves there used to be a Leeds player called Norman “Bite Yer Legs” Hunter who ran about the pitch gnawing regularly on opponents’ calves. So, in a way, this recent isolated incident shows how far the Beautiful Game has come. Mr Hunter’s behaviour simply would not be tolerated these days.

           

To be honest, and I must be, its in the job description – I’m uneasy with the term “Beautiful Game”. Much of it is exceptionally skilful, but if you watch very carefully, some of the more boorish players spit regularly and, Heaven forfend, wipe their noses on their sleeves. Neither of these activities is even remotely beautiful. I am even more concerned about a certain Spanish manager who is known as “The Chosen One”. He said this weekend past that he would like to come home to where the people love him. What would Jesus have thought?

           

No, to my mind, cricket is the Beautiful Game – the version which features white shirts and trousers, a fine leg, a demon fast bowler, and batsmen who play up, play up and play the game. NOT, I hasten to add the dreadful 20/20 hybrid which in India features dancing girls between overs. What WOULD Jesus have thought about THAT?

Yours affectionately,

Justin.