Unable to sleep for worrying that David Cameron might be planning to reassert the right of prime ministers to choose two candidates to present to the Queen, for the upcoming vacancy for the Archbishop of Canterbury. He would be bound to try to show how inclusive he is and make a complete hash of it, by choosing Peter Thatchell and Richard Dawkins. Neither of them would do. Dawkins, though having the gravitas for the role, is particularly unsound on doctrine, and Thatchell as we all know, is unreliable regarding ecumenical matters. So as I couldn't sleep, I resolved to drive down to Wiltshire, to see if I could find Rowan Williams and sound him out on his view as to who should become the next primate.
To my surprise, he wasn't watching the sun come up over Stonehenge as I had expected him to be. Apart from a few damp and dispirited hippies, there was just a rather splendid chap who professed to be Uther Pendragon, and that man who seems to spent his life in Coronation Street.
As none else seemed to be doing much, I blew on my rams horn to greet the dawn, then sacrificed a goat on one of the sarsen stones. But the Auguries were against us, I have never seen a less propitious set of entrails. The future of the Church of England does not look promising, if my goat is anything to go by.
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