I was first alerted to something through the presence of the police. In fact, I called out to Mrs MWSC to express my surprise at seeing a copper by the entrance to the church pathway - a copper apparently on the beat! This is a complete rarity in these parts, although slightly more commonly observed than a teenager without a baby. My surprise was heightened when I then saw a female copper, a few yards nearer the main road, talking on her radio.
"They're not even pretend coppers," I called to Mrs MWSC. "They're not the community wasters, and the bloke's got a proper helmet." We looked through the square window, and waited to see what would appear. Emerging from the gate we saw a handful of choirboys, all in black and white. They weren't actually black and white, of course, they were all white, this being North Yorkshire, although none was old enough to be wearing a flat cap. With them was an older bloke, and he carried a cross on a pole (as opposed to a Pole on a cross!) and this small rabble seems to form the head of a procession. They moved forward, and behind them came four old blokes carrying on their shoulders, on a base about as big as a pallet, a figure of the Virgin Mary. Behind this spectacle came some girls dressed predominantly in white. I concluded that this must have been some sort of confirmation ceremony, although I haven't the foggiest on how things are done on that score in the C of E. Am I confusing "brides of Christ" with Catholics, or perhaps Nuns, or confirmation rituals? Who knows. The conga had commenced, and the boys at the beginning turned the corner, along the path of the main road.
Mrs MWSC and I then watched as more people emerged through the wrought iron gate. Next up was the parish priest, and some other priests whom we'd not seen before, along with one I had - I think he's the one from the Catholic church just up the road. In the spirit of co-operation (or perhaps desperation because of dwindling numbers) the two establishments seem to have joined forces in recent years. The natural conclusion on the conga's destination was that it had to be the Catholic church - and in any event, there was nothing further along the road that could possibly merit the advancement en masse (get it!) of people in an easterly direction.
Meanwhile, the copper with the helmet had decided his powers allowed him to enhance the pointless role of watching people walk. I commented to Mrs MWSC that the CIC have no business deploying police officers in this way. If someone breaks into your house, or damages your property, the cunts don't want to know, and if they do bother to turn up, it's way too late. However, the CIC [that's Cunts In Charge, if you are not familiar with the abbreviation] deem it a good use of police time to send officers on crowd control duties. Now, we're not talking football hooligans, or a march by Orangemen - these are nobs in anoraks shuffling along in a conga behind some people at the front who've dressed up for a few hours. I only saw two officers, but would bet my house that there were two more at the other end, some 400 yards away, if not more on the way.
The copper sauntered on to the main road, with his thumbs hooked into pockets (or something) near his nipples. The picture he created reminded me of a scene from Oliver, or maybe Mary Poppins. If he'd been wearing braces and a flat cap, he could have danced in his boots and sung "Chim Chim Cheree". PC Plod then slowly held up one hand, showing the palm at an oncoming vehicle. From my side window, I could see that his deft manoeuvre had successfully brought to a halt a small flatbed lorry bearing one scaffolding pole, and a Fiat Punto.
From the gateway near the church, came the bloke whose face caused an outcry from Mrs MWSC. "That's him. Vile creature. The one I told to fuck off." She was referring, of course, to the Bishop of Durham. My use of the "of course" in the last sentence is perhaps rather assumptive on my part, because I knew (whereas you will not) that the only religious figure to bear the brunt of Mrs MWSC's wrath in the last few decades has been the BoD. So, upon hearing her exclamation, I saw for the first time the guy with whom she'd had an altercation some since years ago. I believe it's worth of a slight digression.
At the rear of our house, opposite the church, is a driveway that could perhaps be described more grandiosely as a small car park, because it can hold seven cars. This presents problems because of the prevalence of liberty-takers, and that's aside from cunts forever turning around using the entrance. Anyway, it had become the norm for the local priest of the day (long since departed) to park with our blessing (do you like that!) in our property. However, this was the only exception. It was the arrival one day of the BoD and his entourage that prompted an exchange from which I suspect he never recovered, and which pre-empted our own excommunication from the local church (we'd never belonged anyway). After a spate of cars abandoned on our property by liberty-takers using the local shops and council offices, Mrs MWSC and I were already on DEFCON 3. [Definition: increase in force readiness above that required for normal readiness]
Mrs MWSC went outside upon seeing a car had pulled up and parked. Upon being challenged by Mrs MWSC, the BoD adopted the most pompous and aloof approach, stating that there was an arrangement, and that he was allowed to park there. He was made aware of the fact that there was no such arrangement and that it was necessary for him to relocate. Now, the actual exchange was not quite like that, mainly because the attitude displayed by one of the two [no offence to Mrs MWSC, but the one who was dressed up in women's clothes, and also wore a silly hat) adopted a rude, obnoxious and odious approach. He was clearly unaccustomed to being treated as anything but deity, and certainly was not familiar with being told to 'fuck off'. "Do you know who that is?" was uttered by a woman in the cohort. "I don't give a shit; he's not parking here," said Mrs MWSC. "He's the Bishop of Durham" came the further advice from the spooked woman. "I don;t give a fuck who he is, he isn't parking here in my driveway!" I am told he gathered his skirt and indeed fucked off, in a pompous huff, and his car was removed.
Anyway, back to the present day, and the face of the man who'd featured in the story relayed to me years before. He proceeded ahead of the anoraked rabble and I saw him turn the corner, as I wondered what mitre been (ha! - sorry but I couldn't resist). The rabble wearing anoraks (Digression: those wearing coats can be said to be coated, and so those wearing anoraks should be able to be described as anoraked, and I don't think the word acquires a 'c' in the process, unlike words ending in 'c' which acquire a 'k' when extended, eg. panic and panicked) followed the fancy dress competitors, and the line went on for ages. Cars had stopped behing the Punto, and gridlock was no doubt created from all directions as the line crossed the road. Now, there's a perfectly good crossing (puffin, pelican, stork, albatross, I don't fucking know which) and so you'd think some cunt or other could operate a push button and wait for the green man. Apparently not, and the road was temporarily fucked up by the police, while church goers pissed off from one smelly building to arrive at another.
Some minutes later, normal order was restored. The one scaffolding pole has by now been put to good use, I'm sure, and the girls are probably no longer virgins. The BoD and his hat are hopefully going up the A19 and staying further north for the foreseeable future. The police can resume their normal duries of protecting choirboys rather than bishops, although the latter do not keep to the straight and narrow - I've heard they move diagonally!
Right, I'm off to get some sugar.
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