Mass

dod

For Saturday evenings TV broadcast of the Last Night at the Proms, I was very kindly invited out to a friends house in the seaside town of Greystones in Wicklow. We enjoyed the sublime voice of the peerless Angela Gheorghiu with a few bottles of wine and afterwards a few measures of something a little stronger. By the time the drinking and talking finished, the last Dart back to the city was some hours departed, and when the spare room was proffered I gratefully accepted.

Mass is part of the Sunday routine for my friend, his wife and their young daughters, and after breakfast I found myself accompanying them to the local church for 12.15 ceremony, after which I would make my way to the train station and return to the city. In the wonderful September sun and buffeted by a light sea breeze, we mused over Angelas performance from the night before and how it was incumbent upon us to make every effort necessary and whatever sacrifices required to sometime see her in a live performance.

Greystones church is a beautiful edifice, decorated with remarkable woodwork and lavish iconography. We were some minutes early and the church was abuzz with energetic young children and their parents. There was a terrific sense of community and cohesion, of family and of village kinship. Would that I had walked out there and then and taken a promenade along the beach before things took a darker turn - for the 12.15 rite is what is euphemistically called the ‘Family Mass’.

At the side of the altar was a Rolf Harris type character. His guitar had somehow survived his Kibbutz years and he was now persecuting a choir of small children with his manic smiles and torturous strumming. And why wouldn’t he smile? Whilst he was probably repeatedly menaced in Israel with promises of being garrotted by his own guitar wire, these children were unlikely to pose a threat for at least a few more years.

A busybody fiftysomething woman with an absurd painted-on smile and wearing a red polkadot dress flounced around the church with a handful of orange hymnsheets. “Would you like a hymnsheet?” she asked. Plastic surgery meant she had no choice but to give me a faceful of her gleaming perfect dentures as part of her Stepford smile. As the realisation dawned on me that I was about to play a bit-part in some Nietzschean nightmare, I looked at her with a terrified rabbit-in-the-headlights stare. Fortunately I was frozen to the spot in terror, for had I participated to the extent of taking a hymnsheet from her, I feel sure I would have been asked to come to the parish hall for milky cold tea and stale carrotcake afterwards.

As I debated whether I could make a dash for the door, the priest and his altarboys entered. The childrens choir sang something in Irish that Rolf drowned out with his own caterwauling and campfire guitar strumming. His head bounced up and down to some rhythm that has yet to be documented in any music book and his Val Doonican cardigan strobed in counterpoint to his head.

The priest, obviously an eminently patient man, did his very best to conduct the ceremony with what dignity he could reasonably muster in the context of these circus surrounds. Every so often Ralf would launch unannounced into a hippie ‘Laudate Dominum’ that musically would not be out of place as a radio jingle advertising sherbet or lollipops. ‘Lollipops, Lollipops, get your fizzy lollipops’ it went. My first impressions of him were a little presumptuous. Perhaps he was less like Rolf Harris, and more something of a cross between Ken Dodd and the Tellytubbies.

A woman stood up and made her way to the pulpit. She had clearly read ‘Public Speaking for Dummies’ the night before, and armed with her recently gleaned tips, she proceeded to tell us all how the parish review was progressing. Lest there were any Eastern Europeans with no English in the congregation, she enunciated everything slowly and deliberately that they might have the opportunity to look up each word in a translation dictionary as she spoke. Her demeanour was over earnest and she was terrifyingly happy with how well the parish review was going. She finished up by inviting us all to the parish hall next weekend to meet and talk – clearly a consignment destined for the EU carrot cake mountain had been recently diverted to Greystones. As she stepped down from the pulpit to a round of applause, I came to understand why shellshock was such a disturbing affliction for the soldiers of the First World War.

After communion, scary guitar man launched into something that might have been ‘Stairway to Heaven’, or else some traditional Gregorian Chant that he had instrumented for his guitar, I could not tell which. A woman in her sixties, dressed in turn of the century tweed and a red woollen hat that she had knitted for herself started dancing to the music in the middle of the aisle. With her hands flailing about her head and her hips gyrating disturbingly, she grabbed at unsuspecting children as she passed and forced them to tango with her. Mostly she let go once they started crying. Her routine took her down the main aisle, and I could see even the patience of the priest being tried by this aspect of the circus extravaganza. As she passed me by I made every effort not to make eye contact lest she decided that I might be a willing dance partner.

Eventually the cacophony stopped. The people politely made their way to the aisles, smilingly acknowledging faces they recognised as they passed. Once I managed to bring my by now shallow breathing under control, I stood up and I made a dash for the closest door. For the sake of the amused children in the churchyard, I composed myself, resolving to adjourn my likely nervous breakdown until I was alone on the Dart.

Next time, I’ll just get the earlier train.

Havelock

And this is why I don't go to mass.

K2

nobody said saving your soul was easy man, as Jane Fonda used to say - no pain no gain. Now on your knees punk and give me 10 hail marys.

skipn_easy

so what you're trying to say is that you went to mass, it scared the sh*te out of you and you won't go again? just more eloquently.

Mossy Monk

wonderful words

Dr. Dre

I echo the Monks words above.

hedgetrimmer

Great post dod, extremely entertainingly written

Grimlock

Excellent post Dod!

Groups of people giving offerings, mumbling responses together, kneeling, sitting and standing in unison, singing ancient songs to praise their god while a man stands above all controlling and overseeing the proceedings where he tells people how they should live their lives.

If the orders entire population is less than 1000 it's called a cult ritual but if it's 500,000+ it's called mass! :rolleyes:

I actually mitched mass as a child

Silent Bob

I've only ever been to a mass once in my entire life. I was kinda hoping to see at least one holy hand grenade of antioch or some of those guys who swing those metal balls full of smelly stuff.

Needless to say, I was disappointed

Paddy20

Mass?..

dod,

Where is the bit about having to put some money in the collection tray as well?..

Seriously, a wonderfully entertaining piece of writing. ROFL:)

Luckily, for me. In my local Church the priests would not have the angelic patience of that Priest in Greystones Church. We are blessed with a real choir that is very soothing to listen too.

I do not go to Mass weekly. However, when I go, I usually genuinely enjoy the experience and leave the Church feeling a little better about life in general.

When staying with friends away from my home area. They know better than to expect me to get up on Sunday morning and follow along behind them like an obedient child to a strange and unfamiliar Church and congregation.

P.;)

Beruthiel

lol dod
class read

Bard

Very well written dod - excellent job.

I don't go to mass, but that's because I don't believe in "God".

Mercury_Tilt

This post has been deleted.

Trojan

I much prefer New Hampshire.

Bard

Originally posted by Trojan
I much prefer New Hampshire.

OMG!

He made an American state joke!

He prefers New Hampshire to Mass (Massechussets)!

Look at TROJAN! HE IS FUNNY!

/me stops now

Trojan

Originally posted by Bard
OMG!

He made an American state joke!

He prefers New Hampshire to Mass (Massechussets)!

Look at TROJAN! HE IS FUNNY!

You're really looking for a kicking aren't you? Yes, I do believe that violence is sometimes the answer.

I've gone back to rugby training, I'll be happy to demonstrate the finer points of front row play to you on the 4th.

And learn how to spell, it makes you look even more foolish (if possible).

Al.

parasite

i found it infuriatingly smug, condescending & judgemental

Raz

Originally posted by parasite
i found it infuriatingly smug, condescending & judgemental

That's what I liked about it too.
"Believe" is what you do when you don't have a clue about what's what.

Tha Gopher

Ill bet your religion teacher back in school never realised that for all the lectures of the evils of cults christianity is decsended from a Jewish man who claimed to be the son of god and was worshipped by a small group because they also believed he had mystical powers. For feck sake half the cults today are lead by "son of god" dudes. Im not saying Jesus wasnt the real deal but there is an irony in a church which is descended from a Jewish offshoot cult claiming cults are so evil.
BTW Im not promoting madlads who drink cyanide and mineral water in californian ranches every time a comet passes. Its just an ironic point.
As for mass my parents were never heavy into it anyway so I never went all that much.

Sarky

Good post Dod, made even better by its being so utterly true. I was dragged along to mass every sunday all proper like by my parents for years. Once the "Shut up or Holy God will come down from the alter and GET YOU!" threats lost their power, I began to look around and think "What the hell is going on? This doesn't make any sense!"

Long story short, bumclouds to mass, and most of the female congregation is called Bridie.

Mercury_Tilt

This post has been deleted.

Lump

HA HA, well written DOD.... I won't moan on about mass. I suppose I believe in GOD, but mass is just damn boring.


John

MrScruff

B]She had clearly read ‘Public Speaking for Dummies’ the night before[/B]

Ya, and someones been reading "Fancy-pants writing for Morons"