Last year, when the Reverend of the Holy Church of Iggy the Inuit was undertaking his annual pilgrimage to Cambridge he halted one afternoon at the shrine lying across the mighty Cam, in other words: The Anchor.
As usual the bouncer / waiter threatened to throw him out if he stayed longer than fifteen minutes without drinking but anyone who knows the Reverend will realise that this would pose no problem.
Even more, after a while the waiter started a friendly chat. “I hate them.” he sneered. “Those bloody tourists, following that fucking Syd Barrett trail. Looking for the bench at the Garden, asking me what was his favorite seat in this place. How should I know? I wasn't even born when The Wall came out and anyway this place has probably changed furniture six times since then.”
“Look, there's another batch arriving. One of them even has brought a guitar with him. I assure you, if they start singing Here I Go again I'll kick them out in a jiffy. 'nother Guinness then?”
Back at Atagong mansion the Reverend mused about the continuing Church's malaise. “Iggy will never be found.” he sighed. “I can't keep going on repeating that she danced the Bend at the Cromwellian, can I? We need to broaden our business plan and we need to do it fast, now that we still have something of an attention span.”
“What about t-shirts?” a Spanish visiting monk wanted to know. This infuriated the Reverend tremendously. “T-shirts!” he cried. “T-shirts. Who do you think we are, www sydbarrett dot com? Mick Rock, laughing all the way to the bank with his 85 percent commission, is that what you want?”
Everybody silently agreed it was going to be one of these days at the Church. Finally a young novice dared to speak.
“Reverend.” he asked. “Permission to speak freely.”
“Permission granted.” said the Reverend.
The boy with a light in his eyes cleared his throat.
“The problem is, Reverend,” he said loud and clear, “that you have become a boring old fart.”
A booing and howling noise, not unlike those dissonances made at the British parliament, rose from the audience.
“Shut up!” commanded the Reverend. “Let the boy speak!”
“I had a look at your agenda recently and the most titillating event was a breakfast meeting with a French member of the Church in Hotel Metropole in Brussels. You invariably fall asleep after your afternoon tea with biscuits, listening to Poor Man's Moody Blues from Barclay James Harvest. I mean, where is the fervor, the schwung, the drive in what we do, in what we feel for. We all need to be kicked in the ass and start propagating Barrettism again.”
It was silent again when the boy sat down. Finally the Reverend spoke.
“Son, I like your style. I recognise the fire of a young myself in your words. What is your name?”
“Alex Fagoting, my Reverend.”
“Alex... short for Alexander. Ἀλέξανδρος, a strong name, meaning protector or defender of mankind. This is a powerful omen, as my warrior droog I'll give you carte blanche. So what do you want to do?”
“I want to kick our community a conscience, dear Reverend, starting with the merchants at our temple. For this I will only need one of the Church's crypts that I will baptise The Anchor, named after the Cambridge pub where I was hit a black eye by the bouncer because I wanted to sing Here I Go.”
“Then do as you have told, let it be embroidered into the Church's annals that you have my blessing.”
The Anchor is the Holy Church of Iggy the Inuit's satirical division, intended for people with a good heart, but a bad character.
Satire: Artistic form in which (human) abuse, folly, shortcomings, stupidity or vices are attacked and/or exposed by means of burlesque, caustic wit, derision, irony, ridicule, sarcasm or other methods.
All characters, incidents portrayed and the names used at The Anchor are fictitious. Any similarity without satiric purpose to names, characters, or history of any person living, dead or dying is entirely accidental, unintentional, coincidental and plain improbable.
Let's have a Guinness!