I love the King James Version, more than any pig, and thats saying something1. But, and its a big but, its missing a few books, and the more I read my bible, the more incomplete it feels, and I, therefore, need a new bible.
They do say that God provides and with little to zero effort from me, aside from the hour long drive, the trauma of Carlisle traffic on match day, and parking restrictions, and a walk across the city to the Cathedral, through groups of menacing looking young motor scooter enthusiasts, I found myself at Carlisle Cathedral giftshop looking at bibles. Amazing, right?
And there it was, my New International Version, just sat there on the shelf waiting for me to purchase it. And on another shelf, where other theological tomes such as My First Bible, and Where’s Jesus illustrated puzzle book, a book called out to me by the words on its spine. Touching Cloth2.
Was it possible? My very first unpublished novel, the first of many unpublished novels that I went on to write over the next thirty odd years, had somehow manifested itself on the shelf before me. Was this a magical bookshop?
No, it wasn’t a magical bookshop, someone else had simply thought of the same title for their book as I did, and this guy, Fergus Butler-Gallie, whomever he was, unlike me, actually bothered to finish and publish his book.
If this book was anything like mine it would tell the story of innocence and betrayal, expectations over truth, a sizzling epic of smutty missdeeds and indiscretions, humiliation, humility, moral panic, morality and panic. An unreadable mess really, but the title was taken from that most subtle of euphemisms deployed when one is literally shitting themselves, and are said to be Touching Cloth.
This book was nothing of the sort, and was infact an account of a young priest’s perspective of the liturgical year, and hilarious stories thereof. Naturally, I needed this book on my shelf, whether I would read it or not.
I did read it. I happened to recieve the gift of time in the form of commuting to London and back several times this week. Have you seen the price of Hotels in London lately? They’re having a laugh. Three hours each way on a high speed train provides ample time to catch up on one’s reading and one’s correspondence, if one can remain sober enough or conscious enough, that is. I did, and I read it, and I enjoyed it.
I wasn’t planning on a review but I will say a couple of things. It was an easy pleasant read, the language accessible and engaging, while simultaneously introducing me to hitherto unknown words that I can add to my own vocabulary. Like postpandrial, which means after a meal.
Having just, well, almost, completed my first year as a church going Christian myself, I felt connected to each installment of the liturgical year, to the saints, to Easter, to Havest Festival, to Remembrance, to Christmas. I didn’t need an explanation of what a Christingle candle was, for example, I had already lived it. Indeed, if anything the thing seemed a whole lot too low church for my liking. Being in to the High Church nonsense myself, as I have heard it so referred, I do find that church, or indeed anything in life really, works a whole lot better with a bit of Mary.
Being easily influenced and manipulated as I am, I can’t help but read biographicals such as these and do a little self insert, but unlike watching Indian Jones and wanting to be an archeologist, or watching Ghost Busters and lamenting paranormal investigation as a path not taken; not so with the clergy, as much as I value community and camaraderie, I’m just not that good with people. So instead of picturing myself as a priest, I picture myself writing a similar biographical.
So I ask myself, “is there anything in my chosen vocation that offers similar anecodotes comparable to those relayed in Touching Cloth?” Something routine and innocuous, while also inviting vaguely sexual and inappropriate behaviour? Perhaps I do.
In my illustrious career I had a spell working for an NHS Trust furthering their digital patient notes capability. I’m not sure why I was deemed to have a particular interest for the task of developing a digitally annotatable diagram of the female genitalia for use by the Women’s Physio department, but I suspect it had something to do with a previous objection to us all meeting for drinks in The Merchants that time on account of it “smelling like fanny, but not in a good way”. I learned that day that not all of my thoughts need to be verbalised, it wasnt meant to be funny, or a part of my identity, or professional foundation going forward. I just didn’t want to smell of, well, you get the picture.
I did the work as required though and produced a perfectly functional digital faff3 in good faith and good taste, and it was accepted and embraced by the Women’s Physio team with just one minor alteration request, that I remove the five pointed star shape from the lower portion of the diagram.
So effective was my diagram that a month or so later I received an email request from a colleague on my team. It read something like “I’ve moved on to Gynae Outpatients, can you send me the files for that digital Mary you did for Womens Physio?”
A career highlight, if ever there was one. See. I could totally write a career biographical…
Moving swiftly on though.
There is of course an elephant in the room at the Church of England, and while Butler-Gallie does register its presence, he acts like its not there anyway. I recall at this point in the book that the train I was on was passing Berkhamstead, slowly, and forty five minites late, and I could not help but imagine the Birkhampstead Swingers and Dogging Society embracing celebates, prudes, and monogamists over the interests of their core participants, all the while wondering where everyone had gone, except for the celebates, prudes, and monogamists, and a handful of lonely hopefuls, of course. Makes you think doesn’t it.
One thing in the book that did resonate with me though in particular was the section on the wilderness in chapter 10 where Fergus describes a toxic workplace. He describes the venom and the backbiting, the climate of fear and loathing. I know it well. In my wilderness my accuser could not even look me in the eye, and when this absurd behaviour was challenged by a third party, they sobbed that I had, eighteen months earlier no less, misfiled an email query as completed, and as a consequence the stakeholder had to send a follow up. I shit you not. I shit you fucking not.
Naturally, I walked away from that place all the stronger for having endured it. For a little while I even entertained the idea of basing a novel on my experience, three witches curse the audacity of a new recruit for accepting a job intended for the internal candidate, chaos amd hilarity ensue. Naturally, I eventually came to forgive them and accept the ordeal for the opportunities it brought at the end. I am very much over it, alls well that ends well, but I do still have my notes, should I fancy writing that novel after all.
This book also has more profanity than I would expect of a priestly book, and more references to fanny, and strap-ons, and so forth and the like etc than I am accustomed to in my usual theological readings, but its a rewarding read nonetheless.
In the epilogue, there is a surprise that didn’t really surprise me, but I won’t spoil it. And he goes on to mention circularity, begining with death, ending with death. I have some sense of that in my life, but I think of more as synchronicity. Today, three people have said “enjoy your weekend, when it comes”. “Thanks”, I say. But I never heard that expression used before, but what I have heard recently is “Do have a lovely Christmas, when it comes”. It is used several times as a catch-all in December by the clergy, according to the book, as a device to end awkward conversations. I am somehow reminded that there are no coincidences, only the illusion of coincidence.
Lastly, the explanation comes for why the book was called Touching Cloth. Although the printed early drafts of my unpublishable book were ceremoniously shredded, pulped, and pressed into combustable eco bricks that were then carefully wrapped in gold wrapping paper, and gifted to friends of mine that were lucky enough to have an open fire, on their birthdays, with a card. What? I had no money, I was a struggling writer coping with the unromantic lifestyle of having no money. And its the thought that counts.
Spoiler!!!: Fergus Butler-Gallie so named his book because of the word association between priests and men of cloth. They are always touching cloth. My book, unpublished though it is, was so named because its a euphemism for shitting oneself. I think we can all agree that mine is definitely infinitely funnier.
