Thought for the Day, with Justin Webly, more or less Arch of Cant

Hullo,

Justin here, and as I type 2014 slowly ebbs away into the past. This year will become last year and a new year, unsullied by the will of man will be upon us. “Where does all the time go?” is a question often asked in our hurly-burly lives, but do we really consider it? I mean, where DOES it go? Into some cosmic storehouse of the past? Or does it simply disappear, as the minutes I have used typing thus far have possibly done?
          
What would we do if we had access to the past? Would we seek to rectify mistakes? Would I drop one of the religious tunes I chose for my recent appearance on “Desert Island Discs” and select “Bat Out of Hell” instead? Given the chance, I probably would.
          
If, one day, by dint of techno-scientific advancement, we are able to change the past, exactly what WOULD we change, bearing in mind that the past inevitably affects the future?
         
However, these and other metaphysical musings must now cease as I lend a hand in organizing the Palace’s New Year celebrations. There will be hot soup and bread rolls for the homeless of course, supervised by local Police officers on the lookout for outstanding warrants.
      
Midnight Service is always very popular with parishioners overflowing with Festive spirit and I shall try to offer as light-hearted a sermon as possible, perhaps likening life to a game of football.
      
But before that we have dinner and guests chosen this year by my lady wife. The young man with the wire in his ear chose last year’s who were, in fact, all footballers. No such thing for my lady wife. At the head of the list is one Daniel Craig – a film actor, I am told, whilst slightly further down is Father Dougal O’ Houligan from our local Catholic church – something of a trencherman and spirits expert. “If ye can light it, I’ll drink it” is a typical O’Houligan bon mot. Then come some ladies whose names quite frankly do not ring a bell although one of them was pointed out by the young man with the wire in his ear as being “hot”. An ongoing medical condition perhaps. What would Jesus have thought?

I am proud to announce that our special guest this year is none other than Mr Boris Johnson, mayor, and soon to be – some would say – our next Prime Minister.

And so, with these thoughts clamouring in my head, I shall prepare a few words of greeting  for our guests, as well as putting the finishing touches to my sermon. When I confided to the young man with the wire in his ear that I sought a little levity this year, he told me a joke about a duck, a rubber glove and a fat lady. Sadly, I didn’t understand it.

A Very Happy New Year to you all.

Pip, pip,

Justin

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Thought for the Day, with Justin Webly, more or less Arch of Cant

Hullo, Justin here,
                           
And as our most spiritual and joyous festival approaches, bringing as it does merriment with our friends and families and humble thanksgiving with fellow parishioners for the coming of the Christ-child, who, it should be noted was born “at home”, in line with the National Childbirth Trust’s message, I feel that in this, my last message to you before Christmas, I should concentrate on that season.
                         
However, wearing my political hat, I really must give voice to my concerns about the goings-on within and around a certain democratic phenomena known to us all as UKIP. That party’s leader, one Nigel Farage attracts huge media attention. As Sam Goldwyn once said of Greta Garbo, “The camera loves him” (Miss Garbo, early in her career, did sport a small moustache). And this must surely be true of Mr Farage. He is a man of the people. He drinks, smokes, spits, swears, survives ‘plane crashes' and is doubtless excellent company at dinner parties.
                         
Sadly though, he surrounds himself with what the young man with the wire in his ear calls “knobheads”. I myself am not familiar with the term and can only surmise it refers to bedstead manufacture.
                        
It seems to me that despite living in an age of instant communication, GCHQ surveillance, and implied internationalism, a significant slice of the population pie would put its weight behind Mr Farage and UKIP.
 
Like White Vanman or not, one would think that Mr Farage’s race to parliamentary influence places him in pole position. Nevertheless, those closest to Mr Farage let him down constantly. In the last few days one of his would-be MPs has resigned after making racist and homophobic remarks, blaming strong medication for his faux pas. I find this odd. Why, like all of us, I myself have taken painkillers in the past. I was forced to rely on them for a couple of weeks after an unfortunate coming together with a drill bit during my days in the oil business. But at no time did they affect my political or spiritual stance.
                      
Embarrassingly, another UKIP candidate, a bald gentleman in his 50s, swore undying love to an alleged would-be UKIPper – a much younger female with whom he had what can only be described as hands-on experiences.
       
And where does all this, and doubtless more information come from, you may ask? I do not know. What I do know is that when details of the latest UKIP resignee appeared on the BBC news, the young man with the wire in his ear punched the air and shouted, “Yes!“
 
Even apparently genuine UKIP joiners have very unfortunate names like “Reckless”. Dearie me.
For the record, I do not share Mr Farage’s rather limited view of mankind, but I am a fan of fair play and feel strongly that the already murky political waters are being disturbed somewhat by persons unknown. I shared my concerns with the young man with the wire in his ear. His response was surprising. He handed my lady wife and I a mobile telephone each, warned us not to use the landline, and that these two gifts were called “burners” and virtually untraceable. He then tapped the side of his nose and winked.
 
I prefer to regard these two telephones as Christmas gifts and, to please the young man with the wire in his ear, will use mine, despite the strange clicks it tends to make. Why even now, my lady wife is speaking on hers to Neckitt and Falldown, our wine merchants, ordering significant amounts of Christmas cheer.
      
Which brings me back, rather neatly I thought, to what should have been the main message of this missive – that being to God bless us, every one, and hope that you have a wonderful Christmas.
 
Pip, pip,
Justin