Worship Zumba

It’s good for me to poke fun at myself from time to time; it saves others the trouble of doing it for me. Eschewing choir practice on Friday morning, as I customarily do, this time instead of hanging about like a broke session man awaiting work, I went instead to help out the Chinese congregation, where my modest efforts in support of a single digit pianist were received quite well, I thought. Nobody threw things, at least. Went to a little soiree that same evening where we got to sing a few golden oldies and  I pretended I was a cross between Ronnie Wood and Noel Richards. The whole gig was remarkably liberating, and I and my guitar had a solid, energetic workout. Worship Zumba sprang to mind. My cup ran over however, when it was brought to my attention that Mr SocSec, St.P’s answer to Pooh Bear, had posted a video of me playing guitar at last year’s Christmas bash chez Church House, which somebody I haven’t seen for twenty-five years actually RECOGNISED. It seemed I have been playing the same old garbage undeviatingly for the last quarter of a century. He’s now a perfectly respectable Baptist minister but, hey, we can’t all be God’s chosen. I can only hope that same film director doesn’t post another of the events last Friday, since it will do little to support my paper – thin veneer of urbanity. wit and languid English charm. (How flawed is one’s own self-image)

And now, as they say, for something completely different. Christmas is not far away and we are all bending our creative intellect to new and fresh presentations of the old familiar theme, or those of us not in Paris will be.  An interactive online project, perhaps, where all our favourite Facebook friends are recast in a unique interpretation of the Bethlehem story, perhaps as animated farce. I wonder, which of your friends could play a mystical BVM, sheep-loving shepherd – no Welsh jokes – (that’s enough, Ed) or bling-dripping wise man, or even, woman? Whose lusty lungs will inflate to make up a cacophonic choir of angels? And who would best fit love-to-hate, anti-hero Herod (Boo!) and that door-slamming concierge at the Bethlehem Marriott? I can almost hear the casting director’s pencil, scribbling.


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