Faith and Love
When you start up a jolly blog like this one, it can be hard to post when life doesn’t seem so jolly after all. Misssives readers come over here for the daft stories, but occasionally I need to get serious. Indulge me.
This week I have been thinking a lot about church. And why I don’t go anymore. My reasons can quickly be summed up in news I heard this week. In Aberdeen, a minister applied for a position in a city church. He is a gay man with a cohabiting partner. He was previously, a few years ago, a married man. He finally admitted to himself and his wife that he was a homosexual, and they divorced. I do not know how amicable this divorce was, but it is an upsetting story all the same, involving the sad breakup of a family. The man had led a lie of a life and had hurt many people in the process. Presumably he felt that he had to lie to himself and others to fulfil his calling as a Church of Scotland minister but of course, only he really knows why. It’s not exactly in the league of lying about your word per minute typing speed on your CV, is it? It involves considerably more cover up effort. It is tragic that he had to cover up this fundamental part of his make-up and cause such a great deal of pain.
All I know is that after all this he is still a minister in the Church of Scotland, he has rebuilt his life and he is widely regarded at good at his job and people seem to value him, including the members of the church he applied to lead, who overwhelmingly agreed to approve his application. Minister happy, congregation happy. Everybody happy? It would seem not.
In the wake of the announcement of his acceptance of the post as minister for the church in question, twelve other city and shire ministers wrote a letter of condemnation of this gay, cohabiting man being able to take up such a post. This letter has been sent to the Church of Scotland headquarters who are currently looking into it. One of the ministers who signed this letter is a man me and my husband know personally. We have mutual gay friends, and many other friends who have cohabited without being married, most of whom have not wanted to become ministers, so have not had to face this career stumbling block. We were appalled to find out that his name was on the bottom of this letter.
Here’s why I don’t go to church anymore:
1. The Church will not accept the validity of common law marriage.
2. The Church still condemns sexual relations outside of marriage.
3. The Church still regards homosexuality as a sin, despite it not appearing as one of the Ten Commandments.
4. The church seems to think that a man or woman in a same sex relationship, or cohabiting outwith wedlock is unfit to lead a congregation despite any skills, commitment, and strength of faith they may have.
I don’t accept their views on these matters, and until they change I will not be sitting in any church pews. I used to feel guilty about not going to church anymore. Now I don’t want any part of it. Our views are at odds.
And don’t even get me started on what’s going on at Amazon.
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Bless This Mouse
Since I have been back from India I have been upsetting quite a lot of people with my tales of poo and such. However, there is one excursion that we took on the trip which seems more likely to make people shiver than others.
It is the last day of the trip and the trip leader has a “surprise” for us. We are promised that we will see something that we have never seen before. The surprise is 90 minutes away on a bus and for some reason we are told to bring socks.
On the way the surprise is revealed. We are visiting “The Rat Temple”.
Now, for a laugh, I would like you all to picture Judith Chalmers of “Holiday Programme” fame standing, as she did, in a bathing suit, sarong and white shirt tied at the waist, delivering this link to camera in an effort to introduce the next feature on holidays in Rajasthan.
“The Karni Mata Temple was built by Maharaja Ganga Singh in the early 20th century in the late Mughal style. The story goes that Karni Mata once tried to restore the dead child of a storyteller back to life but failed because Yama, the god of death, had already accepted his soul and re-incarnated him in human form. Karni Mata, famed for her legendary temper, was so inflamed by her failure that she announced that no one from her tribe would fall into Yama’s hands again.
“Instead, when they died, all of them would temporarily inhabit the body of a rat before being reborn into the tribe. Therefore, the rats are considered to be incarnations of storytellers and are much revered. Therefore the temple is home to a shitload of filthy rats. Let’s join Anneka Rice and her young family as they sample the delights of Rajasthan and the Karni Mata Rat Temple…..”
Yes, the Rat Temple is not just a name, it is an actuality. The place is swarming with legions of them. And they are not the cute ones, either. They are manky, warty, deformation bearing, filthy, massive brutes. Not content with being vile as they are, many of them are sporting disproportionately gigantic genitalia, just for that extra nausea factor.
And the socks? Well, everyone knows you need to take your shoes off to enter a Hindu temple, don’t they?
Personally, I didn’t bother with the sock idea. Somehow, I reasoned that rat urine would still reach my feet if it soaked through my socks. Rat-pee absorbing socks actually disturbed me more than going barefoot for some reason. I went au naturel through the rat excrement and pee. Skipping gaily as I went. With a song in my heart. And a tic in my left eye.
Before we left the bus, Meeester, told us all the story of the Rat Temple. “All rats would be worshipped and cared for as they would be reincarnated into tribesmen. And remember that of course Ganesh did ride about on a rat, so the rat is worshipped generally in Hinduism”
I felt my eyes roll to the back of my head. Now I’ve heard everything. God bless those little blighters and their Bubonic Plague; they’re holy! The misunderstood little buggers. What’s next? A slug shrine? A maggot palace? A cockroach chapel?
There are a couple of things we should know before we go in:
1. If you stand on a rat and kill it (fairly likely- if one of the disease ridden bastards so much as touches me, it’s getting reincarnated right there and then) you must pay money to the temple. Really, a collection plate would be so much easier. Still, then you wouldn’t get to kill a rat. I check how much money I have with me to see how many I can afford to squish.
2. If one (gulp) runs over your feet, it’s lucky! (although if one runs over my feet it’s luck will have run out, as I’ll hoof the bugger skyward)
3. Special luck goes to the person who spots The White Rat. Oh goody; a game! How much do we owe if we squish the white rat? We have a whip round.
4. The rats have plates of food lying about for them. Feel free to bring your own food and have a picnic with the vermin. It’s lucky! Even better- dip your fingers into the dishes of rice the disease ridden buggers are eating and help yourself! It’s even more lucky! No joke- we SAW people doing this.
Still, in poured the tourists. And good luck to them. They’ve got their PR sown up.
I am currently writing to the Church of Scotland Head Office in Edinburgh to suggest that they take strident action to increase the number of bums on seats at the Sunday Services. At last, a refuge for the kebab-fuelled shitehawk seagulls of Aberdeen, and a home for the mangy, one-footed pigeons of Glasgow. All hail the holy flying rats. Let us worship at your webbed scaly feet!
So, in summary:
- Journey to Rat Temple: 90 minutes
- Time in Rat Temple: 10 minutes
- Journey back to hotel: 90 minutes
- Time spent scrubbing feet with antibacterial soap, Dettol, bleach, iodine, metholated spirits and wire wool: Forever.
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Bells, Booze and Blasphemy
There is nothing so unnatural as the phenomenon I am about to tell you about. It is as if the laws of nature turned a blind eye and allowed something to happen despite a crucial element being absent. I’ll lay out those elements for you now and then the full horror will be revealed.
The Place
The place is Glasgow. Hope Street, to be precise. The city is held in great affection the world over. It holds memories of good times, good people and good vibes. Songs, books and plays are written about it. Comedy careers rest on its very existence.
The occasion
A wedding reception. A celebration of the nuptials of two individuals brought together through love.
The participants
A hall filled with about one hundred guests, most of whom had never met one another. Aunties mixed with friends, neighbours sat next to workmates, acquaintances held sway with old schoolmates. A wedding is never an easy social gathering to mix up.
“Right, what do you want to drink?” asks Meeester.
“Glass of white wine. Hurry back….don’t leave me for long.” I say nervously eying the sea of “friends I haven’t met yet”.
Minutes pass, when suddenly I see an ashen face drill a terrified stare at me as Meeester rushes forwards.
“Holy shit, there’s nothing. It’s ….it’s…”, Meeester frantically whispers.
“What is it? Calm down…tell me…”
“You’d better sit down and brace yourself. It’s a… DRY WEDDING!”
“Dry wedding…don’t understand…” I am genuinely confused.
“Dry wedding, no booze…no bar…nothing. There is nothing to drink.”
I stare at him blankly until it is apparent he is telling the truth.
“But how can there BE such a thing…? It isn’t ….I haven’t ever….whaaaaaa? Nothing? Not even sherry?”
“Nothing….absolutely nothing.” Meeester shakes his head.
Suddenly a voice calls out from the stage, “Ladies and Gentlemen, as the bride and groom will shortly be arriving, can you please find your seats. You’ll find your names and allocated tables on the board at the front of the hall”
“Right, let’s leave now…they’ll never notice. We don’t know anyone anyway. This is going to be shit,” I say.
“We can’t,” he nods in the direction of a wee lady in lilac, “ Mum.”
Meeester glances over at Meeesus M, his Mum, who we’ve accompanied. The groom is the Minister and family friend of the Martinis. He is also the man who married Meeester and I over a year ago, hence the reciprocal invite to his own wedding. Meeesus M doesn’t drink anyway and is as happy as a sober sandboy chatting to old church pals.
“Did you know about this?” already I start with the finger pointing.
“No! Keith drinks. Must be his wife’s lot. Well, look at them…” he looks over at some buttoned up sisters, a sour lemonesque mother, and a joyless defeated wizened father.
“Bloody Christians. Where in the Bible does it say anything about no booze. The whole book is booze soaked! Jesus drank wine, he wanted others to drink wine. He was practically forcing it down the disciples necks at the Last Supper. These people are DEFYING Jesus!” I say through gritted teeth, the full horror now sinking in.
But I am silenced before I can go on about the Second Coming happening tonight and Jesus being pissed off that there’s no vino on offer to welcome him.
“Sshhhh! We’ll just have to get on with it.” Meeester is now at the acceptance stage, having heard the news two minutes earlier than me. I’m still firmly at “anger”.
“It’s unpatriotic. That’s what it is.” I’ve moved off blasphemy and onto jingoism.
“We’ll be fine” says Meeester ushering me towards our table, filled with six other people we don’t know. People who seem unperturbed by the dryness.
“It nullifies their vows. No toast, no marriage.” I am now belligerent and frankly annoyed at the deception, looking now, to the laws of the land, for justification.
“Maybe we’ll get a glass to toast them. That’s it…they’ll dole out booze for the toast.” Meeester has suddenly snapped back to the “denial stage”.
Two hours later, the toast has come and gone and no more than diluted orange cordial has passed anyone’s lips.
In the confusion that is the start of the “Strip the Willow” dance (which you need to be hammered to attempt, by Scottish Law- look it up), Meeester and I take the matter into our own hands and escape down Hope Street, on the pretense of “getting some more money out” (for what?) to the legendary Griffin Bar.
During this 30 minute Griffin session we have a glass or two and a short or two. To be fair, this is much more than we would normally squeeze into that timeframe. But we’re on borrowed time. We’ll be expected back for the Gay Gordons.
During our hiatus, we also gamble on the bandit, swear a lot, covet someone’s ass, think impure thoughts and take the Lord’s name in vain a couple of times.
Dry weddings- you heard it here first.
Be warned; they do exist.
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