The Vicar Gets Canned! (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Violet Crepuscular introduces Chapter CCCLI of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, with a caveat.

“Dear reader,” she writes, “you may find the content of the foregoing chapter rather distressing. That’s why I have provided this caveat. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

Word has come down from the Bishop of Booh that the beloved vicar of Scurveyshire, conniptions and all, has been fired from his post and transferred to a mission station in Manchuria. “We are removing said vicar for his latitudinarian tendencies,” explains the bishop, “and his failure to complete payment on his back yard wading pool. Please consider this to be subcutaneous.”

Constable Chumley’s reaction speaks for the community: “Luffer yon furd wi’ mickle great theer,” he sighs. This saying immediately becomes the watchword for all Scurveyshire.

The vicar has chained himself to his night-stand and refuses to leave. “I’ll give him subcutaneous!” He roars defiance. Records show that there is no such bishopric as “Booh” and that the current incumbent has been appointed by some charlatan in Kansas. But as Lord Jeremy Coldsore says, as he tries valiantly to avoid intervening in the controversy, “A bishop is a bishop.”

A further notice from the bishop arrives that afternoon: “Don’t make me come down there!”

“I kinda like our vicar,” remarks the American adventurer, Willis Twombley. He then cacchinates in a way that raises doubts as to his sanity. “I do wish he wouldn’t cacchinate!” mutters Lord Jeremy.

The upshot of it all is that the vicar remains chained to his night-stand for the time being because no one knows what to do. It has been some 800 years since Scurveyshire was last visited and reprimanded by a bishop, in the days of Corinius the Pipsqueak. “And that,” concludes Ms. Crepuscular, “is an historical experience that no one wishes to repeat!”