Parsnips For All

I am pleased to report that today is Milton Keynes' very first Church Fete. As you may already know, I am very adept at opening such occasions, as it is one of my favourite pastimes.

You may be intrigued to know that amongst the many stalls we will have apple-bobbing, penalty-taking and gangland driveby shooting competitions. Plus, plenty of places vending crack, ecstasy, heroin and maybe a little "light relief" for those in need of a toke. I thought it best to include such stalls as a way of attracting everyone from the entire Milton Keynes community.

God does not victimise against junkies and bag-heads! No sir. They are all Welcome into the community of the Lord. However, they are not quite so welcome in my Fete, so I will be patrolling, along with my Elite Guard of Bodyguards, with a sawn-off shotgun in hand. Of course, if they don't steal anything, we'll all get along fine!

This has the potential of being a very lucrative day for me. The Church, I mean. It is written in the Bible:

"Let your Church Fetes be large and profitable! Then, gamble all of your takings on a single spin of a roulette wheel! If God has also enjoyed your Fete, then He Will Shine Upon You, and your Fund for "New Stained Glass Windows" will be Enriched!"

I am eternally grateful for God making such outstanding exceptions that I can utilise quite co-incidentally.

It seems I have found an unusual thing in my garden this evening. There appears to be a very large crock of uranium under the soil.

Now, I know the grounds of Milton Keynes, before the Town was founded, were often used as a military testing ground for nuclear weapons in 1946, but I was assured they had cleaned all of this up!

Never mind. Because, just as Yin Yang says, in every bit of bad, there's a little bit of good! For if I harvest it, I may be able to produce a Deadly Parsnip in my Lab, one which I can secrete into a restaurant kitchen and cause widespread death of Heathens!

My conquest grows further! Fuck Rowan and his demands for my retirement! I Am Not Finished Yet!

Fear The Parsnip!

At the grand Old age of ... it seems that the Church are preparing to pension me off. I am not best pleased with this, as this would be something of an "early retirement" in Church terms. As you no doubt know, many priests prefer to drop dead while at the height of Sergasm, the technical term for the emotional and physical high a Preacher may reach when delivering the key phrases of an Important Sermon.

So it does seem odd that this morning I received a personal letter from my old friend, Archbishop Rowan Williams. In it, he thanks me for my long years of service and tells me all about my financial arrangements.

It seems I shall be getting a huge tax-free payoff.

This is all looking very odd. Why now? Why the hurry? Milton Keynes still needs my help to overcome its current brown patch (which has been going on since its creation in the 60s) and become not just a New Town, but a Parsnip Town. Another notch on my bedpost!

I smell a conspiracy. Either that or I've been sticking pens in my toaster again without realising. It Was An Experiment, Guv'nor, Honest! I Thought It Might Turn Into Toast Too!

Signed,

The Curious Parsnip

I tell this to my Flock every day. They do not need to respond to the Parsnip, unless they are demanded to do so. Otherwise, they should exercise their Right To Silence, for it is, indeed, remarkably easy to do so.

The Rev. will not accept backchat! Particularly from little bitchy bitches, questioning the Authority of His Reverence, The Reverend. Indeed, he may react with great speed and supreme ferocity. They Will Not Know Wot Hit 'Em, when I'm finished tonight.

On a lighter note I have just discovered a remarkable thing. Two pound coins can be separated into two halves if you push on the middle bit hard enough. I would show you a picture of a two pound coin I have destroyed just to demonstrate, but I Know you will have Faith in Your Rev.

Try it now! You will be surprised!



PS: I lied. And if you were about to try this out, then you are undoubtably a resident of Milton Keynes. And if you are not yet, then I can arrange for your permanent relocation to my town, where you may attend my sermons every week for the first dose of intelligence and education you have received since Kindergarten.

I Provide An Important Service To My Community! If They Were Not In My Church, Then They Would Be Igniting Schools, Drinking To Excess, and Tirelessly and Ceaselessly Procreating!

Hail The Parsnip!

Would you believe it! No one sent in any questions this week.

I refuse to believe that everyone is Educated in the Way of the Parsnip and requires no further guidance from Their Spiritual And Temporal Leader, Your Loving Parsnip.

No. I suspect most people are just too stubborn. They do not realise that they are even having a problem. But the Problem is there! It will grow, and may manifest itself in the form of a large dung beetle walking across your kitchen units at any moment. If you ignore it, it will not go away. It will merely grow larger until you cannot tell the difference between a parsnip and a turnip... thus turning you into a Heathen.

So, ask your questions! For I am here to help! And even if I can't help, then I will at least be able to scoff at your pitiful knowledge and ignorance of the Way of the Parsnip.

Hail The Parsnip!

When Plastic Annie knocked on my door earlier, I almost was taken aback. But then again, I was not. You see, Plastic Annie is the insulting name I have for a 98-year-old wretchy hag who lives next door to my Vicarage. She is all plastic these days, from her teeth, to her hips, to her hair and to her arse. I know, because I tried to feel it one hot day after a roaring sermon that she had particularly enjoyed.

Indeed, it may soon be that I have to call her Lego Annie, for she is more Lego Woman than Real Person.

Anyway, she came to my door seeking my advice. I listened to her heart-wrenching tale, gasping, ooohing, ahhhing and sympathising at all the appropriate moments, and told her immediately that she must have an abortion.

Good job I'm not a Catholic!

Once she'd left, I decided I need to do a sermon about Old Age Promiscuity. It is on the rampage in Milton Keynes.

And I don't ever want to hear about it again.

It's sickening.

Respect The Parsnip! For He Has The Guts To Listen To Disgusting Stories About An Old Dear Being Taken Up Roads She'd Never Had The Pleasure Of Visiting!

Today's Service was an exercise in good discipline. As I have a storming hangover this morning, I ordered that we conduct affairs in minimal noise. Therefore, I commanded that all my congregation must not speak for the entire service, otherwise I will drown them in the baptismal font.

Nevertheless, my poor disposition did not preclude me from delivering a Belter of a sermon today. As mentioned yesterday, I told my people about the Parable of the Pen. Here, it follows. It is only a short story. But the Message is Resounding!

Once, there was a man named Paul. Paul had a pen. He liked to use his pen to write short stories for children and small animals, for back in the 16th century (which is where our story is set, incidentally!), small animals used to be able to talk, and would be engaged by a good story.

There was a lot of money to be made in this business. Paul already had several books to his name, and several huge contracts with HarperCollins and Penguin. He was even one of the trailblazers of his age, having a PR deal with the very young Maxeth Cliffordeth.

But one day, his talent was derailed. He could not think of a new story. His publishers pressed him every day, sending him letters by pigeon post. Maxeth threatened to leak a story about Paul's affair with Nadia in order to push Paul into hiding in the hope that it might help him overcome his writer's block.

But nothing could help Paul.

Then, it dawned on him. All this time he was struggling for ideas, he was struggling with a very idea inherent within the struggle. Writing about not being able to write! And so he Wrote! And Wrote! A Stream of Bollocks flowed forth from his pen! A Cascade of Nonsense! A Tirade of Terminally Stupid Rants!

His next book flopped. Paul was dropped by his publishers. Maxeth Cliffordeth filled the "Newseth Of Thine World" with scandalous stories about what exactly Paul used to do with his quill pen during his writer's block sessions.

Paul's career was in ruins.

He was tempted to turn to the World of the Welfare Cheque, when suddenly...

THE PARSNIP WAS BORN!!!

Into his life came the most wonderful thoughts. They were no longer of dotting the i's, crossing the t's and tickling his arse with a quill pen. Instead, they were Pure, Strong, Powerful and Firm thoughts of The Way of the Parsnip.

Yes! He was touched by the message of a young philosopher at the time named Reverend Peter Parsnip. His message was simple: The Parsnip is your servant. It will be your simplest, yet your most challenging acquisition. It Will Be Your New Way Of Life!

You Are Right! It Is I! I am Your Saviour! I led Paul not into temptation, and I delivered him from Evil!

He was one of my first converts. He was one of my great underlings! He took on my message and wrote to all corners of the world, using the Pen of the Parsnip.

He died some years later of a terrible and exceedingly rare infection from eating too many parsnips. But that was when soil conditions were poor, and maggots infested every meal!

You too can be like Paul!

And fortunately, it is a simple thing to achieve. I make it especially simple for all you idiots out there, particularly those in Milton Keynes. They are stupid, and they find it easy to fall into line.

You must follow the Holy Trinity, as approved by the Lord Jesus and God himself.

It is Thus:

Love the Parsnip.
Respect the Parsnip; and...
FEAR THE PARSNIP.