How I lost my faith.
Well, who would have thought there were that many wavy lines available.

So, back when I was a youngun the local CofE used to have a huge garden party with fun, games, tombola, tea, cakes and little sarnies. You know the drill. Being of the ragged arsed crew me and my mates would go and peer through holes in the fence at all of the posh people (read people with their own teeth and shoes) having their annual good time. This one year we discovered someone had left a gate open and we could sneak into the grounds but not the area where the party was, that was behind a big stone wall. A big stone wall with cracks, lumps and handholds galore. We were 9 years old and did as you would expect. We climbed the wall.

We managed to get to the top of that huge wall and sat on it with our legs dangling at what seemed like a huge height. Even then the fear of God had been drummed into us at school and (Methodist) Sunday school so we never thought of jumping down and joining in. There we were sitting like a row of rather delinquent dolls on a side-show shelf, just waiting to be knocked down. Luckily for us the local vicar was a very accommodating fellow. Up he strides with a furious look on his beetroot face, shouting at the top of his ecumenical voice.

“You boys! Scruffy urchins! Get down now!”

As it happens I’ve always had problems with blind obedience and asked why as we weren’t doing any harm. We were only sitting watching, chattering like shaven monkeys.

“This place isn’t for the likes of you!”

He spat the words with unbridled disgust and grabbing my leg he pulled me down from the wall. I landed in an untidy heap and found myself propelled to my feet quicker than I had fell. The kindly reverend grabbed my arm and marched me from the grounds of the vicarage. Unfortunately for the vicar it was Sunday and as such bath night in the Porky household, whether one was needed or not. My mother was used to me being covered in scrapes and cuts but she was shocked by the hand shaped bruises. I owned up, expecting a clip round the lug or a good telling off. She did neither. Saying nothing she went and got my father. He took one look at the state of my skinny little frame and left, grabbing his cap and jacket on the way out. I’ve no idea what my Dad said to the vicar but knowing him it probably involved either some threat of physical injury or the insertion of one of his damned crucifixes in an orifice not usually designed for worship.

Whatever happened, I never attended church again, even though it probably ruined my parents Sunday mornings. To be honest I didn’t want to go to a place with people like that vicar.

Not a life threatening disease or a huge turbulent event in the run of things, but it’s strange how small things can kill faith as well.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:26, 1 reply)

Good grief
As a child my best friend was the vicars son, he was a nice guy. Mad as a box of frogs mind you...
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 16:37, closed)