Off at a wedding yesterday, getting fed and watered by Mrs. Rodent's relatives. The reception was a great gig, all told - good food, good company, mostly good music, and the service itself was conducted in a nice little town in Fife.
These things always make me feel like a bit of a lemon, since churches aren't exactly my natural environment. The usual scene features me standing in a crowd of singing people, quietly emitting weird vowel sounds in random tones to give the impression that I know how the songs go. I've always assumed that, thirty years from now, religious weddings and funerals will consist of long speeches interspersed with short, embarrassing bouts of atonal yowling by a baffled, Godless congregation.
This time though, I had no excuse, since the melodies of all the songs are commonly sung in football grounds throughout the land, generally to question the sexuality and parentage of the opposition's best players, or offered as prayers for their star striker's immediate death. This is an impressive gambit by the church, since many attendees will be far more familiar with We Hope You Die In Your Sleep, Nacho Novo than they are with Sing Hosanna To The King.
This may have a wider impact than we might expect, and I suggest that any enterprising religious lyricist would propser by drafting devotional verses to the Monkees' Daydream Believer and Go West by the Village People.
Who knows? If it catches on, it might bring a new competitive edge to religious ceremonies. I, for one, would want first row seats if I thought there was a good chance that the exchange of rings might be halted as the Maid of Honour brings down the minister with a crude, two-footed tackle from behind.