A repost. I’m off for a bit…Hope this brings a smile.
In the Pub. Dead and not so buried.
Bert sat at the bar and supped his Guinness. It was raining cats and dogs outside and he’d just come from church. Well, the church graveyard to be precise. Bert felt that he could find God more readily on his knees among the lilies and petunias rather on his knees behind a pew and he hadn’t set foot or boot inside the church since his lad had passed.
The line of muddy Wellington boot-prints from the front door to his stool were testament to the landlord’s relaxed attitude to his more rural patrons and also testament to their ‘I don’t give a buggery’ attitude.
Davey Daniels polished a pump handle for the look of the thing and then took down a bottle of Johnny Walker and two glasses.
Bert nodded, and held up two fingers.
Davey poured them each a double measure.
“Looks like you won then, Bert,” Davey remarked, raising his glass.
Bert grinned and raised his own glass.
‘Told the ol’ bugger I’d outlast ‘im, I did.’
‘Pity it weren’t the type of bet you could collect on though, eh?’
‘Oh, that’s alright, Davey boy. I reckon I got payment enough. What with one thing and another.’
‘Aye, reckon you did that, Bert, Reckon you did,’ Davey acknowledged with a grin of his own. ‘Shame we won’t be gettin’ a woman priest, though. I’d rather hoped to ‘ave a pretty face to look at rather than old bastard Father McGinty. He had a face like a bag o’ spanners, ‘e did.’
‘Aye.‘Tis a shame,’ Bert agreed. But Father McGinty made it plain there weren’t never gonna be no wimmin preaching in his parish. Over his dead body, ‘e said.’
Both men contemplated this for a moment realizing that even though there was now a dead body there was still no woman priest. They sighed.
‘They’ve got some young bloke coming down from Corlington to take his place. Full of vim and vigour I heard,’ said Bert.
‘S’pose it’ll be all fire an’ brimstone for the first cuppla weeks,’ opined Davey.
‘Probably,’ agreed Bert.
‘So why don’t the RC’s want wimmin priests?’ Davey asked.
‘Because Jesus didn’t have no women and if it’s good enough for the Lord then they reckon it’s good enough for Wiggleswood.’
‘Can’t see it makes any difference t’be honest.’
‘Oh, I daresay it’s all the same to God, but the Pope takes a different view you see.’
Just then, the front door opened and a very wet and flustered young Priest entered.
Davey and Bert gave him the long stare.
‘Er…good morning gentlemen,’ the Priest said in greeting.
‘Mornin,’’ the two men acknowledged.
‘Er … um, I’m looking for Mister Bert Partridge,’ the Priest said. ‘The grave digger.’
‘That’d be me then,’ Bert acknowledged.
‘It’s about Father McGinty.’
‘Aye, what about him?’
‘Well, I don’t think he was buried …how can I put this, er… enough.’
‘Sorry, Father, You’ve lost me. He’s dead. I buried him. It’s what we do with the deceased around these parts. Is it different from where you come from?’
‘No, no. Of course not. It’s just that, well, his derriere is, well…it’s sticking up in the air to be frank.’
‘Derriere? Oh you mean his arse! Is that all. Don’t you worry yourself none about that. That’s traditional in Wiggleswood. We do it to all the Priests that die.’
The young Priest looked shocked.
‘Traditional?’ he gulped.
‘Oh yes. It’s so’s the incoming Priest has somewhere to park his bicycle y’see.’ Bert explained poker faced. ‘Fancy a whiskey, Father? You look as though you need one.’
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