The Bishop of Booh (‘Oy, Rodney’)

silly romance novels | Lee Duigon

“Dear reader, we have come to a stressful time in Scurveyshire…” Thus Violet Crepuscular introduces Chapter CCCLII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney. She then devotes several paragraphs to the feasibility of writing “a dental romance,” whatever that may be. A series of anonymous threats drags her back to the story line.

Scurveyshire’s beloved vicar having chained himself to his night-stand and refusing to leave, the Bishop of Booh arrives by oxcart to remove the vicar by force. Because he’s not a real bishop, he has to make do with an ordinary bathrobe and a birthday party hat. He wears a stern expression that would be unbearably daunting, but for the fact that he carries a stuffed monkey doll which he talks to from time to time. Lord Jeremy Coldsore, justice of the peace, Constable Chumley, representing all that is inarticulate and confusing in the law of England, and Willis Twombley, the American adventurer, are on hand to welcome the alleged bishop.

“Now that you’re here,” says Twombley, “you can turn right around and go back to wherever you came from. We like our vicar jist the way he is, conniptions and all, and we aim to keep him.”

“See how the naughty man talks to Booh-Booh!” The bishop is addressing the doll. “But we know what to do with nefandous people, don’t we, Winkie?” He turns to Lord Jeremy. “I am here to repossess the vicar’s backyard wading pool for non-payment and to pack him off to Manchuria. Take me to the vicarage at once!”

Not knowing what else to do, Lord Jeremy conducts the bishop to the vicarage. The vicar seems them coming and starts screaming imprecations that really must not be repeated here. But the bishop has espied the wading pool and decides to inspect it. Constable Chumley tries to dissuade him.

“Noo, noo, yer thwither! Tis a mortal grathwy syne!”

“Out of my way, you pedipalp!” He clouts the constable with the monkey. There must be a brick in it or something: down for the count goes Chumley.

“I say!” cries Lord Jeremy. But the bishop is already on his way to the pool.

“I can barely describe the infernal horror of this scene!” writes Ms. Crepuscular. “I can’t bear it, I tell you!”

Here she interposes a chapter break to heighten the suspense. But we can probably guess what happens next.

 

The Vicar Gets Canned! (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Image result for images of silly romance novels

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!”