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When Reverend Tompkinson Got Tourettes

Reverend Ian Tompkinson was famed throughout the parish.
His baptisms were awesome and he held a mighty marriage.
His sermons touched the souls of all who came to hear him preach
And when it came to communion, he truly had a niche.
So great was his oration that without fail every week
Atheists and satanists were drawn to hear him speak.
Hoodies, chavs and Richard Dawkins came of their own choice
For Reverend Ian Tompkinson had a beautiful speaking voice.

His silver tongue tripped lightly over any awkward phrase,
His words were all delivered as if on a velvet baize.
He took great pains to guarantee his tone and his inflection
Always reached the very highest standards of perfection.
Whether softly spoken prayers, or forceful exclamation,
He never failed to captivate his spellbound congregation.
In all his years of preaching, every word he'd ever uttered
Had never been impeded by a stammer or a stutter.

Then one fine day came Nigel Blythe, bachelor of the parish,
A fine upstanding fellow he, whom no one would disparage,
Who had for a goodly time been courting true and fair
The vicar's lovely daughter Jane for whom he loved and cared.
And to the reverend now he came, no fussing and no messing,
To beg her hand in marriage and to ask of him his blessing,
And if the reverend would take part in their matrimony
By doing them the honour of conducting the ceremony.

The vicar was delighted, and accepted right away,
And called upon his daughter, Jane, to plan the wedding day.
They invited all the church folk, and local dignitaries
Those with social standing and other luminaries.
This would be a grand event where just the very best
Of the local high society could make it as a guest.
All would be delightful and will go without a glitch
Thought the reverend, as his eye did strangely give a little twitch.

All was then prepared, and prepared well it was too.
The bride had something old, something new, borrowed and blue,
The best man had the ring and had composed a cracking speech,
The bridesmaids all were beautiful in dresses cream and peach.
The groom was spruced and chipper, ready for his wife to be
On the early morning of the greatest day he'd ever see.
And as the Reverend Tompkinson gave his service one last flick
He wasn't sure - but could that have been just a little tic?

And what a glorious day it was, bright and warm and sunny.
Everyone had posh new clothes - never mind the money.
The finest frocks that e'er you saw were all out on parade,
And, oh, how local milliners had done a roaring trade.
Within the church sat Nigel Blythe awaiting his betrothed.
Before him stood the reverend, slightly nervous but composed.
Then up flared the organ as the people gasped in awe
At the most resplendent bride that they had ever seen before.

The service soon got underway as the couple made their vows.
Each declared to comfort, honour, protect and love their spouse,
Forsake all others and be faithful whether rich or poor
Until death do they part, according to God's holy law.
And then with the exchange of rings to bind them so for life
Reverend Tompkinson proclaimed them now husband and wife.
And as the service drew to close, the reverend once more twitched
As he said unto the bridegroom "You now may kiss - THE BITCH!"

The reverend stopped in horror, stood shocked and quite dumbfounded.
How on God's earth could he have said something so confounded?
"I truly do apologise," he said to all his flock,
"I don't know how that happened. I really must say - COCK!"
The congregation sat aghast in horrid deathly silence
Never had the vicar uttered any verbal violence.
Once more he tried to mitigate his words but without luck,
And said "I am so sorry - WANK! So very sorry - FUCK!"

One by one the congregation each turned to their side
And whispered like they talk about someone who's just died.
Brigadier St. John's wife turned around to say
"I've never heard anybody use those words that way."
"I quite agree," said Lady Bing, "Such words are quite obscene
But the way the reverend spoke them, well, he made them sound quite clean!"
And though the reverend had just sworn in front of all that gentry,
No one could deny that he had said it eloquently.

Major Brigstock Smettering-Smythe stood up from his pew,
"Reverend Tompkinson," he said, "I have to say to you
That what you have just announced has come as quite a shock,
But all the same I must admit that I admired your 'cock',
And never in my army days or on the rugby field
Have I heard a single soul say 'wank' with such appeal,
And so, sir, I salute you, and I'm sure I speak for all
When I say 'nob cheese, twat, and great big hairy balls!'"

"No, no, no!" the reverend countered, his face a panic'd red
"I didn't mean to say - BASTARD - those words that I just said.
They just came out from nowhere - ARSE - I really must protest.
It is the work of demons - SHIT - I feel I am possessed."
"Such modesty!" spoke Justice Fforbes, "your words are to my ear
Like angels singing in the heavens, pure, divine and clear.
Those I hear each day in court from criminals and scum
Are tiresome and vulgar, so I say to you 'big bum!'

One by one the people rose to congratulate their vicar,
And shouted words like 'tit wank', 'clunge', and 'stinking shit-stained knickers'.
And, oh, what joy was felt by all who bellowed their profanities,
A great cathartic outpouring, devoid of pride or vanity.
'Nob cheese', 'wankstain', 'fucksticks', 'jism' echoed round the hall
Along with every naughty word that they could think to call.
The register was duly signed by Nigel Fuckin' Blythe
And Jane Bitch-Whore Tompkinson, his lawful wedded wife.

Forlorn within the vestry, now sat the distraught preacher
His head held sadly in his hands, a broken wretched creature.
The noise without subsided as the wedding guests withdrew
To greet the bride and groom and exchange some more abuse.
Should he throw the tables? Should he cleanse his church?
Why had the Lord forsaken him, and left him in the lurch?
And as he tried to think about what would Jesus do,
All that he could say was (of his own free will) "Oh, poo!"

And so to the reception, what a toothsome spread was that,
But still the guests kept swearing through their chit and through their chat
In accents that were still refined and marked them out as posh,
And all agreed the food they ate was "fucking tasty nosh".
Toasts were made unto "the bastard and his rancid slag".
The bridesmaids claimed the best man was a "fucked up mincing fag".
His speech had been embellished, when he stood up at the front
Commencing "Ladies, gentlemen, arseholes, tossers, twats and cunts..."

Oh, how the guests they rolled about with tears of joy and laughter
As speakers each told sordid tales, worthy of a BAFTA,
Filled with every swear word that ever had been cussed;
Nobody objected, not a single soul was fussed.
The band revised its playlist, took Cliff Richard off its set,
And gone was Chris de Burgh; they played The Bloodhound Gang instead.
A rousing round of rugby songs brought voices to their height
As friends and family alike swore into the night.

And then upon the stroke of twelve, the door burst open wide,
And as in western bars of old the music promptly died,
For there within the doorway stood their venerated vicar,
Holding forth a bible and a bottle of strong liquor.
And as he stepped into the room, the crowd of people parted
As though the Red Sea had for Moses as Egypt he departed.
He boldly climbed up on the stage and took hold of the mic,
And said "All right, you groovy fuckers! This is what I like!"

"Dearly beloved, would you pray give me an 'F'!"
The crowd all shouted 'F' with all their mighty breath.
The reverend smiled and added, "Now let us all say 'U'."
Everybody gave a 'U' just as he said to do.
"Now let us make an offering, an offering of a 'C'."
The party duly gave a 'C' as happy as can be.
"And finally," the reverend said, "please give me a 'K'."
And right on cue as of one voice that's what the crowd did say.

Reverend Ian Tompkinson knew all these people well.
They'd follow him through waters high and through the jaws of hell,
So as he shouted "What's that spell?" he had no need of luck
As jubilantly everybody yelled a mighty "FUCK!"
"What's that spell?" he cried again, "FUCK!" they all replied.
"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!" they then continued shouting out with pride.
The Best Man climbed upon the stage to address the crowd below
And led them in a rousing chant of "For he's fuckin' great fellow."


Reverend Ian Tompkinson is famed throughout the diocese
Worshippers from far and wide are brought down on their humble knees.
A twenty foot projector screen now stands outside the church
To show his wondrous sermons to those left in the lurch
In the weekly scrabble for a seat to see the vicar preach
With his newly found vocabulary that augments his speech.
Local pubs with Sky TV all turn off the sport
In favour of the Sunday morning service that they've bought.

Oh, how the faithful cheer at every malediction.
How they love his sermons, his prayers and benediction.
How they love to sing along to every tarnished hymn.
And how they fill the offertory, swelling to the brim.
The readings from the bible are never merely platitudes,
Imaginative metaphors brighten the Beatitudes,
Parables are read with an original recount
And a new approach is taken to the sermon on the mount.

And as for Reverend Tompkinson, well, he is just delighted.
No longer does he feel that he had ever once been blighted.
The cuss words he dispenses, although involuntary,
Add a certain 'je ne sais quoi' to his commentary.
He welcomes his condition that he previously abhorred
And sees it as a blessing, so now he thanks the Lord
That his exquisite diction can be turned upon abuse
And take those evil nasty words and put them to good use.

And as he looks around at his boosted congregation
He realises he can save more people from damnation.
For now he knows God's purpose, and what those words are for
As he reaches out to those poor souls he couldn't reach before.
So let us all give thanks and praise for every naughty word,
No matter how disgusting, no matter how absurd,
And let us all regard such language as a bonus
That in his divine wisdom, the Lord bestowed upon us.

Mike Stools (b. 1962)