With the smoke from, The House in The Tree’s chimney turning from an intestinal brown to a semi-skimmed white, it was clear to all and sundry that the Bays had elected a new Pope and his ‘Right-Hand Man’. That’s right, it does happen every now again whether it’s a good thing or not.
The outgoing Silver Fox of a pontiff and his multi award-winning Vice had spent the evening examining each other’s stats and quaffing ale with his / their, loyal and not so loyal cardinals in their temporary Vatican City. It must be said, they were and are a very unusual and for the Cricket Board’s information, ‘diverse’ bunch of coves. There were as many as six ex-popes, that’s right, six, all alive and well, looking down their various shaped noses on the time-honoured proceedings, distracting the Chief Cardinal Chairman or ‘The Chosen One’ from his onerous and ‘Aising’ duties, with various cheap and uncalled for japes and innuendos. All present at this lofty occasion had their own pious and not so pious opinions and hopes as to what should happen, when it should happen and all that sort of thing, that makes meetings the conundra they have become. In cricket heaven, there is no blue sky thinking, it is more of a tankard pewter-grey, leadened sky reasoning. As the learned cardinals, with ear trumpets clamped to the sides of their heads, listened to the statistics, describing their self-gratifying exploits, more and more blessed thinking juice was dispatched and I hate to relate, enjoyed.
There were heated discussions on which cathedrals should be used by Bayshill C of E (Cricket of England). Compromise, compromise, compromise that’s how it went. ‘Let’s use them all!’ was the cry. When things were getting sticky or tricky, it was time for the ex-popes, pope and pope to be, to trough their fill of cheesy cricketing sandwiches and crispy cricketing chips. Food for both thought, mind and body.
The new Pope wearing a natty inside out, grey close-knitted and fitting Ralph Lauren jumper was installed with all the correct cold-fingered Cardinal procedures being followed to the letter. The old pope, without so much as a farewell blessing, was defrocked, debagged and cast out into the wilderness in line with tradition, as long as anyone can remember.
‘Long live the Pope! Long Live the Pope! Thrice Long Live the Pontiff!’ was the cry from the cardinals, the brethren, the sisters and it must be said, the great unwashed masses.
‘What shall we call the High One?’ a grovelling school-aged urchin managed to cry from the gutter, before cowering, to be lead away for a lengthy detention.
‘I am to be known as Pontiff Pedagogue II, a sharp and distinctive title worthy of my position, I think you’ll agree. My right-hand man is to be none other than Corporal Punishment, as I can’t mete out it all by myself. There’s a lot to put right here and if I’m away on a course bumping up my expenses, I need to know the Bays is in safe hands.’
So, with these fine and wise words of wisdom, it came to pass that the new Pope had begun his golden reign. The cardinals in deference cast their eyes low, bowed down and then formed a line with no pushing and shoving or else…
Colonel Mustard signs off