Hi, Sandy here, you know Father O’Way, your local parish priest from the Church of St Generic Brand which is down the road and around the corner from the Pigs Arms Hotel.
So when you drop in here from now on you will only see me in the background, you know, casual, gig economy. Exploited I think the other word for it is, just sayin’ like. I’m sure you can see the analogy.
Anyhoo, something has happened, I got a call from the Bish, you know Bishop Bishop the one we all affectionately call the Bish. As usual he rang early in the morning, about eleven o’clock, bastard, I hate early mornings and he knows it.
Ring, ring, ring ring, ring, ring ring, ring, ring ring, ring, ring ring, well I could let this go on for a while so I can get my word count up but I’ll put you out of your misery and answer the phone.
“Retired priest Sandy speaking” knowing full well that it will be the Bish.
“Sandy, we have a problem” says the Bish. No Bish you have the problem but wish to push it onto me.
“You need to have Brekkie in Britain with Princess Theresa about the EU’s” barks the Bish.
“Well, I’m retired, hate breakfast and am scared of emu’s and where is Britain?” I ask knowing I won’t want to know the answer.
“Britain is somewhere between the North Pole and the South Pole. EU, not emus and Bex-it not breaky or something like that. Now I’m in Cairns so I can’t go and Gordon has said we must get this sorted otherwise there may be no cricket this summer.”
Oh FFS, cricket, the most boring game in the universe.
“So working in cans must be very restrictive for you Bish, I mean how do you go to the toilet?”
“Cairns is a town you ninny, somewhere between the North Pole and the South Pole”
vibrates the Bish. “Now get over there and sort this mess out. If Gordon can’t watch cricket this summer it will be on your shoulders!!”
Gordon is the creator of the universe by the way and he taught every simian based planet to play cricket, speak English and develop money. Hmm, starting to think that Gordon may be a loser.
So to get to Britain, I’m not going to fly any more, stuff that. I will go by boat. Much more relaxed and in a style to which I have become accustomed. Yeah, so I go by a cruise ship.
On deck I decide to go for a walk on the poop deck. Now one needs to be very careful from this point about what is said otherwise something is going to hit the fan, get the picture. I mean, I’m up to my heels in poop, thank Gordon they are high heels.
I meet some of the crew,
“Hi, I’m Chris the captain, I look after everyone’s cap”
“Hi, I’m Pete the purser, I look after everyone’s purse”
“Hi, I’m Paul the Petty Officer, I look after all the small things”
“Hi, I’m Colin the coxswain, I look after everyone’s c…”
“Yes, I’m sure you do” I timely interrupt. Let’s face it, on a PG site there may be kiddies watching.
The cruise was wonderful and many a rip roaring good time happened, I think. I mean we may not have had a good time but I don’t remember unless I have to remember for some sort of remembering reason. Just sayin’ like.
We arrived in Britain and headed for number ten, the home of the prime minister. It was lovely inside, nice curtains, open fire and tea and scones, Blackwood sideboard, I mean this was class, real class. No plastic forks anywhere to be seen in this place.
“We’re here to advise Princess Theresa about emus and eggs for breakfast” says Sandy.
“Sorry but she’s out” comes the reply.
“But she promised…”
“Sorry, she’s washing her hair, having a high colonic, writing stories for the Pigs Arms…”
“Oh, shit, well there goes a good story.”