Maybold Drones

Some people in the 21st century look back to the Victorian era as some kind of high-point of preaching. They talk about the 30- or 40-minute sermons, the 40% church attendance.  But they forget.

We've got no telly. We've got no Internet. We've got no radio. Out here in the sticks, we've got no theatre.  We need entertainment. I mean, for goodness sake. At Christmas they're so depressed with the dark nights (and no electric light, don't forget) they put up with mummers. And what other than near-suicidal boredom could explain anyone tolerating Morris dancers?

And Sunday in South Wessex - there's no shops open, no cinema, you can't go for much of a drive. So we put up with the preaching because it's that or counting crows to pass the time.

But even with all this, Maybold still broke all records for dull preaching this morning. I tell you, if his pillow talk is as dull as his preaching it's a wonder Mrs Maybold's not pushed him in the Frome already. Maybe a few thoughts on the family life on the Assyrians is good by you, but for me - anyway, I've suggested he might like to make it a bit more "stand up" in future.

As usual, our little architectural assistant was in church this morning, Tommy Hardy, his name is. Studious, dull, and with an eye for unlikely women. He needs watching.

1 comment:

  1. Big Sister and Mr Collins go to see Morris Dancers on New Year’s Day after listening to a female of regrettably little delicacy sing something called The Pheasant Plucker’s Wife in a public house. By the time they reach the Morris Dancers they have imbibed sufficient quantities of alcohol to convice each other there will be a human sacrifice. One would think that after 20 years it might all wear thin but apparently not.