The Vicar

When the vicar was born in the West Indies, he had a white birth mark on the front of his throat. Some bright spark said “he looks like a vicar!” and the nickname stuck. His mother died when he was three months old, just before the family emigrated to England.

To all intents and purposes the vicar grew up at the English seaside and as soon as he was old enough, liked nothing better than running across the promenade and going for a swim.

On the other hand it was soon discovered that he hated fireworks.

I happened to visit his family one day when it was the Chinese New Year. So I was told the tale about his phobia.

“It’s bad enough on Guy Fawke’s night, at least that’s supposed to be only for one night of the year, but today the fireworks go on all day. Most of the kids love it of course, lots of Chinese crackers making a noise, then there’s the dragons roaming all round the town and everyone’s happy except for the poor old vicar.”

“Much the same where I live”, I replied, “all the religions seem to express themselves with fireworks on their saint’s days, there’s even a place at the end of our road where newly married couples go for wedding receptions and a few hundred quids worth of bangers appear to be essential to set you up for life.”

I was told that the vicar’s phobia was so bad that he had to be sedated for fireworks nights, the noise apparently drove him crazy. So I went into the back room to see him before I left, taking him a special present that I’d brought. He was lying on his side, curled up on the sofa, twitching every time there was a particularly loud bang.

I hope when he wakes up he’ll enjoy the juicy bone I left for him.