AN OPEN LETTER TO DETTERLING... 

Swashbuckling Mulligan

Detterling,

Enough! Enough! This has become so embarrassing. You have been beaten out of sight in your ludicrous claims that sodomy is not sin and yet you continue to post, often unintelligible, comments on the subject.

For example you have posted this:

Gene claimed that Jesus Christ condemned anal sexual intercourse [whether heterosexual or homosexual] and homosexuality. Challenged to produce evidence of this from the gospels, he failed completely to do so.

Absurd! How could Gene produce evidence from the gospels when there is none? And it is monstrous to suggest someone as erudite in this area as Gene would not be aware that Jesus is never quoted in the gospels on this subject. 

You claimed that because Jesus is not quoted we do not know what his views would be. Gene cogently demonstrated that if this was so then we would not know the view of Jesus on such depraved evils as abortion, paedophilia and bestiality. And I, and anyone else with a modicum of intelligence, must concur with Gene. Jesus is not quoted in the gospels on the heinous sins of bestiality, abortion and paedophilia for example. Does that mean we do not know what the views of Jesus would be on these evils?

Sodomy is a vile act. It plumbs the depths of depravity. Human nature and all decency recoils from it. And we don't know what the views of Jesus on this heinous sin would be?

Detterling proposing that homosexual acts are not sinful can cause great scandal. And woe to the scandal-monger from whom the scandal cometh.

So Detterling, let's put a little hypothetical scenario before you that may cause you to reconsider your support for all things regarding homosexual activity. It's a sharp and topical satire if you will. Herewith:

Let's fast forward a couple of years or so. It's a lazy, hazy, sunny Sunday summer afternoon on Tyneside. Delia has prepared a wonderful lunch specially for Detters. He's had smoky tomato, chipotle & charred corn soup, grilled yellow-tailed tuna on a bed of kale, stuffed belly of pork with apple sauce and honey-glazed roast potatoes. Dessert was rhubarb pie and vanilla ice cream - plus he downed a whole bottle of Dr Loosen Estate Riesling Beerenauslese Mosel, a fine German white wine he had recently discovered. All was finished off with freshly ground Blue Mountain Jamaican coffee.  

Detterling has withdrawn to the living room and is seated laid back on the settee his feet up on the coffee table. On the coffee table are two books; a fat biography of Pablo Casals and Gene Vincent's trailblazing work, Granny Barkes Fell in Woolworth's. Also on the coffee table is what looks like a publisher's bound typescript with the cover page reading: NANCYBOYS AHOY: a play in one act by Gene Vincent. Detterling is reading George Carey: the mind of a Theologian.

Young Sebastian, who has just turned eighteen, saunters into the living room. He walks over to the settee with that 'pimp roll' gait favoured by young black men. He's all spikey blond hair and has piercings through his right eyebrow, his left nostril, through each ear lobe and through his bottom lip. He's dressed in a lurid, multi-coloured T-shirt and a floppy shapeless hoodie proclaiming puzzlingly and anachronistically, 'The Ramones'. His baggy denim jeans have been slashed open at the knees.

He drawls, "Hey Pops. How is it going old man?"

"Less of the old man if you don't mind Sebastian. And it's going fine although I would like to be left in peace. I'm engaging with the theology of George Carey, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, and in my opinion one of the greatest theologians of the past two hundred years," replied Detterling a little testily.

"Oh! I see," said Sebastian, "It's 'Don't you rock me Daddy-O' as your generation would say back in the day."

"Precisely," responded Detterling.

"Sorry Pops. Can't do that. There is something I urgently need to talk with you about," said Sebastian. 

Detterling put down the George Carey tome and said resignedly, "Okay young man. Let's hear you."

Sebastian continued a little hesitantly. 

"Remember a few weeks back when I came of age and informed you that I was gay and would be now living the gay lifestyle? By the way, you responded to this information with support and enthusiasm about as convincing as Andrew Neil's hairline. Anyhow, it is now June, the Pride month,  and I, and some of my friends, will be heading down to London next weekend. We are meeting at a gay club, the Ankle Chain Club, which is located at the junction of Queensway and Mincing Lane. And a gay old time will be had by all. It goes without saying that there will be homosexual activity. Homosexual acts which I will be engaging in.

Two issues:

I am a Catholic and the Catholic Church teaches clearly and unequivocally that homosexual acts are grave sin. So how do I deal with this?

Also, I wish to know what you genuinely feel about my engaging in homosexual acts. Now Pops, I must be brutally honest with you. I feel that, despite the pinko/liberal claptrap you come out with on this subject, you would be totally abhorred at the thought of my engaging in what the Church describe as depraved sin."

Detterling looked aghast. He face turned puce. He tried to rise from the settee. He gave a few stertorous gasps and then fell back on the settee and collapsed dead as a doornail.

Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Detterling was as dead as a door-nail.

Sebastian recoiled in horror. He made the Sign of the Cross and ran to the living room door calling upstairs, "Mum, come quick. It's Dad."

Delia was in the bathroom getting ready to take a shower. She came running down the stairs and into the living room wearing just trousers and bra. Her trousers were black stretch pants, shiny and skintight  showing the curve of her thighs and accentuating her voluptuous derriere. And what an enticing derriere! Her full breasts jiggled and bounced in her skimpy black bra. They wobbled and swung. Oh! my, how they swung!

"What on earth has happened?" she cried out. But she could see what had happened. Detterling was as dead as the aforementioned doornail.

"I was talking to him about my planned visit to the Ankle Chain Club in London. He suddenly went apoplectic and just fell back dead," choked Sebastian. 

"Should we call his parish priest Lucy Fer? She might pray the appropriate prayers after death?" asked Delia.

"Not a lot of point in that," responded Sebastian, as you know Dad did not believe in any afterlife - heaven, hell or purgatory."

"I guess you are right," agreed Delia. "However, tell you what. I have an idea. Sebastian please run upstairs to his study and fetch me down his Complete Works of Shakespeare. Also, while you are up there bring me down my mobile phone. It's in the bathroom." 

When Sebastian returned with the book and the phone Delia leafed through the Shakespeare until she found Cymbeline. "I'm going to sing Fear No More the Heat O the Sun," she announced, "as appropriate a valediction as I can think of." She steadied herself, threw her head slightly backwards and began to sing.

It was a soprano voice of great beauty and clarity, drawing out the longest note without even a hint of vibrato, a voice with a purity that one would have thought couldn’t possibly survive past the age of twenty, a voice so close to perfection it brought a mist to Sebastian’s eyes.

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

Nor the furious winter’s rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o’ the great;

Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;

Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:

The scepter, learning, physic, must

All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash,

Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;

Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan:

All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Nothing ill come near thee!

Quiet consummation have;

And renownèd be thy grave! 

"That was beautiful Mum," said an emotional Sebastian. 

"Another tribute that would be very fitting would be his favourite piece of music, The Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughan Williams - the London Philharmonic recording. Sebastian could you organise that? The CD is beside the stereo on the sideboard," suggested Delia.

The music started to play:

 The Lark Ascending - Ralph Vaughan Williams (youtube.com)

When the music faded out Delia was then silent a few moments but presently made a video call on her mobile phone. The face of Gene Vincent came up on the screen. Delia began:

"Hi Gene, Delia here. I have some news. I wanted you to hear it right away. Dear Old Detters has gone. He passed away very suddenly but peacefully (God forgive me for this white lie about peacefully she mouthed silently). I know you would want to know immediately.

My bra? Oh! it's just that I was getting ready for a shower. No. I did not deliberately put my twin headlights on display. Do I what? Will I what? Oh! Gene Vincent you cheeky thing! You are a one!"

Loud laughter!

Detterling this little satire may seem flippant but its core message is very serious. Sometimes we can talk about things that are only abstract hypotheses and talk about them glibly. But when they become reality and near to home it's a very, very different story.

Best wishes,

Swashbuckling Mulligan