Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Sunday, 28 August 2016
I read of a local vicar in the late 18th century around here, who waited for the boys to kick a bladder close enough for him to pick up and burst with a spike when they played on the village green. He did not approve of football on a Sunday, I suppose.
I used to hate it when everything shut down on Sundays. All over the country, young men would sit together in silence, perhaps with all the Sunday newspapers strewn around an already untidy flat, until one would look at his watch, leap to his feet, and virtually run to the street - followed by the others - to arrive at the pub door just as it was being opened.
If you did not buy everything you needed on Saturday, you were at the mercy of 'the corner shop', run by a heathen who had no concept of the British Sunday Roast and all its vital ingredients, so found yourself eating pitta bread and baked beans instead.
Sundays were always the dread prelude to another week of school, work or unemployment as well. Only the rich unemployed could afford to get bladdered during the limited opening hours, or stay up late watching crap TV.
Once a year, we all got a treat - left over from a more agricultural time - the August Bank Holiday. If ever there was a time when it would be foolish to set out to the coast to relax and enjoy yourself, it is now, when hundreds of thousands of people do just that every year. Our coastline just isn't big enough to take all of us in one go.
The Christians know how to handle Sundays. It is nice and peaceful in Anglica churches these days.