From Rudston to Rome!

Hello, and welcome to the third edition of the Autolycan.

Two stories this time, one from prehistoric times, one bang up to date.  The first of these features one of Master Autolycus' favourite monuments, the endlessly fascinating Rudston monolith.  For those who don't know it, the Rudston monolith is a single standing stone, situated in what is now a churchyard in the village of Rudston, near Bridlington in East Yorkshire.  It stands about 25' high - although how much is below ground is uncertain - and is thought to have been brought from somewhere in what is now the Whitby area some 3500 to 4000 years ago.  Which raises two rather obvious questions - how and why?  Historians have so far failed to answer either question adequately, but thanks to some original research of  my own I can now bring you the true story of this remarkable achievement of Neolithic Britain. 

                                                  THE RUDSTON MONOLITH

The parish register contains a quaint description of the monolith written by one of the parish clerks. After a rough pen-and-ink sketch of the monolith appears the following:-

This is nearly the form of a stone wch stands at ye east end of Rudston Church, within ye churchyard, which is situated on an high hill. There are no authorities to be depended upon in regard to either the time, manner, or occasion of its erection.

Aelfryth Thwaite awoke with a start and drew back the animal skin covering the entrance to their hovel.  Her prehistoric gaze was met by the dismal and depressing East Riding sleet.  She stared at it grimly.  ‘This place is just so dreary’, she thought, ‘dull, cold, boring and  flat.’ She turned and dug Aethelred in the ribs.  ‘What we need round here’, she announced ‘is something to liven the place up a bit, make it somewhere to be proud of, give it a bit of, I don’t know, pzazz’.

Aethelred grunted and rolled over, as she had expected.  He wasn’t getting away with that.  ‘If you weren’t so bloody idle, ’ she informed him, ‘you’d knock us up a bit of a monument, something to put us on the map, something to drag us out of the late Neolithic and show the neighbours we’re embracing the marvels of the Bronze Age.’

Aethelred snorted.  He was used to this. It was always ‘Why don’t you knock off a few cave paintings? What about some nice bits of jewellery?’ Now it was ‘How about a monument?’ 

‘Yes, dear’ he said, as usual.

He got up and loped off to try to find something for tea that night.  More often than not he came home empty handed, and had to endure the sharp edge of his wife’s tongue, but at least it gave him the chance to spend time with similarly chastised husbands, swap a few jokes, share tales of marital woes, resume the daily and as yet unsuccessful quest to brew the perfect ale.

Today, though, would turn out to be different.  Shortly after they’d declared the latest brew to be disastrous, but drunk it anyway, their attention was caught by a large party of men and oxen approaching slowly from the North.  After a few days during which the beer got no better, it became apparent that their slow progress was occasioned by an extremely large stone that the party was dragging, swearing and cursing as they went.  Eventually the party got within speaking range.

Aethelred nodded imperceptibly.  ‘Aye’, he said in suspicious greeting.

‘Aye’.

‘All reet?’

‘Aye’.

‘What you got there, then?’

‘Big bloody stone, like.’

‘Big bloody stone?’

‘ Aye.’

‘Where you tekkin’ it then?’

‘Down South, like.’

‘Down South?’

‘Aye’.

‘What’s it for?’

‘A henge’

‘What’s a henge?’

‘No bloody idea’.

They shared a few mugs of ale.

‘Bloody cats’ piss is that, worse than London beer’ said the leader of the newcomers, ‘Got any more?’

‘Aye, sup up’ said Aethelred, more generously than usual since a masterplan was forming slowly and painfully in his primitive brain.  If he could only play his cards right this would be the talk of the neighbourhood, and would shut Aelfryth up once and for all.

‘Bloody ‘ard work, dragging’ he mused.

‘Aye.’

‘Long way still to go?’

‘Aye’.

‘Need a signature when you get there, receipt, owt like that?’.

‘No.  Gaffer just said to tek it, bung it up and clear off ‘ome.’

‘So nobody would know if it never actually got there, like?’

‘S’pose not.’

Aethelred paused.  Then ‘Why not’ he said, as if the idea had just struck him, ‘save yourself all that work?  Why not just stick it up here?  It’d be a symbol of the new age, like, show we’re not Neolithic no more.  Then with the time you’ve saved you could help us find the secret of better beer.   All reet?’

There was a long pause during which pros and cons were slowly and painfully weighed.

‘Aye.  All reet then.’

And so it was agreed.  Plans were made, ramps were built, holes were dug.  Finally came the great day when the stone was hauled slowly up a long ramp and toppled into the waiting hole.  Aethelred was well pleased.

‘What d’you make of that then?’ he said to Aelfryth when he got home.  ‘It’s a totem of the new age is that, very fashionable don’t you think?’

She scowled.  ‘Not a bloody henge though, is it, one bloody stone?  My cousin’s sister-in-law from down South has been in touch, says they’re getting henges all over down there.  Not just one stone, loads of ‘em, in a circle’.  She lowered her voice.  ‘Some ’ she added meaningfully, her eyes narrowing, ‘are even stuck up in pairs with another horizontal one lying across the top.  Single stone by itself, we’ll be a bloody laughing stock.’

 Aethelred was deflated but rallied gamely.  ‘Tell you what’ he said ‘I’ll have a word with the builders.  See if they can get some more,  make a circle, like.’

‘You’ll do no such thing, Aethelred Thwaite’ she replied crisply.  ‘I’ll do it meself and get it done proper.’ 

And so she stormed out to demand that the builders come up with a full henge, in a circle, just like down South.  The builders’ leader sucked his one remaining tooth doubtfully.

‘Can’t fit you in just yet, love.  Big job is that, and we’ve got a lot on.  Might make a start in a couple of weeks though.  Week on Thursday.  Well, I say Thursday, could be Friday.  Or the week after.  Soon, though.’ 

A week on Thursday and a week on Friday came and went with no sign of the builders, as did the following week.  And the one after that.  And the month after that. Whenever Aelfryth enquired they said  ‘Soon, could be next week.  Or the one after.’

And slowly, imperceptibly, the weeks lengthened into months and years; eventually the years into decades, centuries and at last even millennia.  And all the while the builders and their many descendants sent – and are still sending - word to Aelfryth and her many descendants that they’ll be back soon, could be next week.  Or the one after.

 Our second tale starts with a comparatively minor news item which grew into one of the biggest stories of recent times.  The dramatic news of the Pope's resignation has given rise to all manner of conspiracy theories regarding the background to this extraordinary decision, but now Master Autolycus has been behind the scenes at the Vatican on your behalf to bring you the incredible story behind one of the biggest bombshells to hit the headlines for a very long time.   The story starts with a small item on Fox News...                                    

                                                       THE PAPAL SUCCESS

The pope became a victim of tabloid and social media outrage this week, after some interpreted his new book as an assault on Christmas.

 “Pope bans Christmas,” blared one headline.

“Killjoy Pope crushes Christmas nativity traditions,” suggested another.

The reaction surprised the Vatican, according to Reuters, and prompted Catholic social network XT3 to run a story that dissected the media coverage of the book, with the headline “The Pope has not banned Christmas.” 

                                                                               FOX NEWS

  

The Pope’s Communications Director was in a white fury as he called the Vatican’s Council of Press Representatives to order.

‘My God,’ he began ‘We’ve got more Press Officers, Public Relations Executives, spin doctors, media liaison representatives and other pointless jobsworths than we’ve ever had in the history of the Church, and the whole useless shower of you can’t prevent banner Pope Bans Christmas headlines running on front pages round the world.  And now that they have what have you done about it?  Nothing.  Nothing at all.  You’ve just left it to XT3 – and who on earth has ever heard of XT3? - to run a pathetic counter story headed Pope has not banned Christmas.

The Council members paled, looked at each other and then at their shoes.  Nobody wanted to take on the Director when he was in this mood.

‘Just think of all the great denials of history’ went on the Director. ‘All the way back to I don’t know him through My husband and I are not planning on getting a divorce to I did not have sex with that woman. Even my wife was driving, not me.  All of them telling outright lies to deny something that was true. Thanks to you lot, we’ve now got to find a convincing way of denying something the Pope never said and never would say, and without creating stupid Pope has not banned Christmas headlines which will only make people think he probably has.  Ideas?’

The ensuing silence was broken only by the sound of throat clearing and foot shuffling.  Eventually, one – bolder than the rest – broke the silence.

‘I do think you’re being a teensy bit harsh,’ began an ambitious young Right Senior Press Aide. ‘but hey! Surely we can learn from this.  Let’s just take it on the chin and carry on.  Let’s set up an interdepartmental working group reporting to this Council to examine options and make proposals.  Then a second group can evaluate those proposals and work them up into firm recommendations for the Board to consider.  Five or six months should do it.’

The Director ground his teeth.  ‘The way this is running,’ he said, ‘we don’t have five or six hours.’  Brusquely, he closed the meeting. ‘Holy Mary, full of grace,’ he thought to himself, ‘help me find a better way.’

And so a mere 48 hours later the Pope found himself on a plane heading North West.  Working alone and with impressive speed, the Director had put together a programme of TV and radio appearances for him in various European capitals, starting in London.  The Pope settled into his luxury hotel in Mayfair and contemplated his schedule.  He had never heard of Newsnight, but his Communications Director had advised him that all he had to do was be himself – honest, humble, straightforward and above all human.  That would win them over.

‘OK luvvies, coming to Jeremy in three, two one…’ intoned the producer, and Paxman introduced the show and the Pope as his first guest.  The Pope smiled broadly.

‘Right.’  began Paxman, ‘What is it with you lot and the role of women in the Catholic church, then?’  A gentle enough opener, he thought.

The Pope’s smile faded. ‘Erm,’ he started ‘Well, I um…what I mean is…erm…Christmas is, well…’

‘We’ll come to Christmas’ barked his unexpected  tormentor ‘when we’ve dealt with women.  Why on earth do you think that women who want a position in your church necessarily lack holiness?’

The Pope stumbled through an answer.  Paxman raised a scornful eyebrow in theatrical disbelief.

‘OK,’ he said ‘transubstantiation or consubstantiation?  Which is it? And does it matter a damn anyway?  Come on, now.’

The Pope felt on slightly safer ground here, but was still alarmed that he wasn’t talking about Christmas.  He tried to introduce the subject, but …

‘Just a moment, why can’t you show a shred of respect for the beliefs of others – on divorce, abortion, homosexuality?’

Ten seconds into the Pope’s answer Paxman announced that that was all there  was time for.

‘That’s all we’ve got time for’ was a phrase he was to hear again the following morning, shortly after Humphrys had dealt him a brute of a question about the Apostolic Succession.  It needed an hour’s answer, but………

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it there. That’s all we’ve got time for. Twenty six minutes past eight.  Gary. Sport.’

‘Well, Roman Abramovich seems to have created an Apostolic Succession all of his own with the appointment of his twelfth manager in as many months….’

Miserably, the Pope retreated from the mocking laughter and moved on to the sofa in the Breakfast studio.  This felt altogether more relaxed, but it still wasn’t easy to make his point amidst a welter of cloying questions such as whether there was a Father Christmas tradition at the Vatican given that there were, presumably, no children, and whether he thought the ancient roofs  would withstand a pounding from reindeer hooves and sleighs.  After another daytime television interview – the highlight of which came when he was asked his tips for dropping a cassock size by Christmas - the Pope took the momentous decision to abandon his Director’s strategy and take matters into his own hands.  Immediately, he felt freer.  He retired to his hotel room and prayed for inspiration. 

And, as he prayed, an idea started to form in his mind.  One which gave him the chance to speak to the world’s people direct, to advocate the word of the holy Catholic church, with no interference from PR people, Councils of Press Representatives, media men and all the rest.  And the harder he prayed, the firmer and clearer the idea became.

And thus the idea for a new TV show – MasterFather -  was born.  MasterFather would be fronted by the Pope himself, and would put both lay and ecclesial members of the Church through a variety of priestly tests in a somewhat melodramatic competition from which a winner would eventually emerge and be either ordained or promoted within the Church.  To be sure, he would need a couple of sidekicks as co-presenters, one who was aggressive and charismatic perhaps, and one who was more supportive, but most importantly, the audience would get involved in voting their least favourite contestants off the show and casting them into Hell.  Well, perhaps that might be a step too far, for a first series at any rate.  But he was wholly confident that nobody who wanted to ban Christmas would get through - not a snowball’s chance in Hell as he privately framed the thought - and he, the Holy Father himself, would be seen smilingly anointing the kind of MasterFather who would no more dream of crushing Christmas nativity traditions than of strangling kittens at birth as a form of public entertainment.

Back in Rome, he expounded his ideas to his Communications Director, who listened with growing excitement and respect.

‘Miraculous!’ he exclaimed ‘Infallible!  Packaging and content just divine! It’s the best way of getting our brand better recognised that I’ve ever heard!’

The Pope was delighted with his Director’s response, but then his smile faded and his expression grew serious.

‘There is, however, one problem’, he said slowly, and the Director caught a glimpse of inner turmoil.  ‘I grow old and frail.  I do not have the strength both to carry the Papacy and spread the word of the Church directly to the people through this programme.  I have had to make a painful decision.’

‘And….have you decided, Holy Father?’

‘I have.’

‘And ….may I know your decision?’

‘I shall resign the Papacy.’

A long pause.

‘Your decision, Your Holiness, will be a huge shock.’

Another long pause.

‘I know’ said the Pope, and a half smile flickered briefly, ‘but once a new man is in place the shock will die down.’

‘But what then?’

The Pope’s old eyes shone with a fervour and intensity that the Director had not seen for years.

‘Spectaculum oportet procedere’,  he murmured.

‘Holy Father?’

The Pope’s face creased into a broad smile. 

‘The show must go on’, he said.

And that's all from The Autolycan for a few weeks while Master and Mistress Autolycus (the Autolycuses?  The Autolyci?) take a break.  We'll be back in April with a further tale featuring Aethelred Thwaite and Neolithic dentistry.  Imagine that, if you will.  If you'd really rather not, that's OK, too.