Fifty three years ago I was a choirboy at the Anglican Christchurch, in Kowloon Tong (Hong Kong). I wore a blue gown and a white surplice and led in the choir with my mate Patrick by my side. We were descant singers and often allowed to improvise, as we had a free thinking choirmaster (Patrick's dad). One Sunday we made our procession from the vestry to the choir stalls, in full throat with a Te Deum and as we turned to our allotted places our vicar let loose an amazing fart. It was like the crump of a grenade from the war movies, only partially smothered by his vestments. It was tuneful with some glissando to the after notes. To this day I swear it is the most honest thing I've ever heard in a church.
To think it was the memorial service for the late Sir Winston Churchill we were lurching into as well. What a lark. After the service we flawed cherubs were not even admonished for our underarm raspberries in the vestry. We shall fight them on the pews. We will meet them at the altar….we will swig the communion wine and we shall never surrender…we happy few. Well, two actually.