Walls of Jericho – Church Mag May

He is risen indeed,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXh7JR9oKVE

…..which if you watch the link on YouTube, takes us nicely into our first snippet for May. I espied a new sign outside the mini mart opposite Great Berry primary school t’other day. It informs us that we may now partake of French food when next we enter that emporium to collect our dry cleaning and catch up on our favourite celebrity gossip in Knitting Monthly.

Mmmm, I can picture you salivating already.

What delicious, delightful, delovely morsels are displayed on the sandwich board, I am sure you are all wondering. Could it be mouthwatering baguettes with warm Camembert? Maybe a nice salade Niçeoise? How about a plate of escargots, swimming in garlic and herb butter? Mais non, mes petits choux, it was a sausage roll.

Fanny Craddock once said there’s no such thing as English grub. Even Yorkshire pud was brought back from France by returning crusaders after giving Johnny Saracen a right pasting. But sausage rolls? Pardonnez moi, I mean saucisse en croûte.

Anyone that recalls the fuss a budget or three ago when old Etonians Cameron, Clegg and Osborne were going to slap a pasty tax on honest, working class nosh when the Beaujolais nouveau swilling bankers were going to get off scot free will now appreciate what an own goal that would have been. All this time Gregg’s have been clogging up our arteries with Cordon Bleu toff tuck worthy of a Fortnum’s hamper at Glyndebourne.

Nom d’un chien, mes amis, c’est meilleur fou qu’une boite des grenouilles.

Do you possess an imaginary bazooka? I have one. I use it against cars that are being driven badly. By that I mean where the driver does not indicate before turning, or where the driver sticks rigidly to a perceived speed limit 10mph lower than what the road signs are telling every other road user. I only used to have a pretend pump action shotgun from when the girls were little and it passed the time on the journey to Old Grampa Jericho’s for us to take out the tyres of every 4×4 we spotted en route.

Now that my daughters are grown and married, I have upgraded to the bazooka and I am the scourge of boy racers and slowcoaches everywhere. Playing at Arnie Schwarzenegger and blowing stuff up.is immensely satisfying despite being a pastime from which no Christian should admit to deriving pleasure. Still, no one has suffered any lasting injury so far and it costs much less than the latest games for X Box.

I think this is my mid life crisis.

Talking of Old Grampa Jericho, the sleepy hamlet of Woodhall Spa, Lincs, home of the dambusters, and the surrounding parishes in the team are beginning another intermission. Their vicar is returning to his native Australia where his new congregation will include 2 stray wombats and a dingo.

At a meeting with the archdeacon, someone asked how likely the intermission would last (they waited 18 months last time). Ol’ Gramps asked how long was a piece of string? This prompted some quite unexpected humour from the archdeacon. Here is what he replied.

A piece of string went into a pub and ordered a pint of beer. He paid the landlord, who asked of him “Are you a piece of string?” He replied “That’s right,” drank his beer and left.

The next night another piece of string came in and ordered a pint. Again the landlord asked “Are you a iece of string?” to which he replied “That’s right,” drank his beer and left.

The next night, a dirty and tangled piece of string, unravelling at the extremities, came in and ordered a pint. The landlord said “The past 2 nights I’ve had some customers like you come in for a drink. Are you a piece of string too?” The rough looking piece of string answered “No, I’m a frayed knot.”

There was in interesting slide shown during a recent sermon at St John’s. We were asked if we were fans of Jesus or followers of him. The illustration had a Facebook thumbs up sign to denote a fan and a Twitter birdy sign to denote a follower.

I have a Facebook account which I can just about access, but it is now painfully slow. I have a Twitter account which I can no longer access because my internet explorer version is sadly too old to cope with how technology has moved on in the years since we bought Bella (that’s the name we gave our computer when we first got the internet back in the 20th century).

I think the lesson to learn here is that if God had meant me to tweet, he’d have given me a beak.

I’ve been Ben Jericho encore un fois. Praise the Lord and pass la moutarde.

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