Raptus Regaliter

There are times, no matter how patient you are, and how well you suffer fools, that you will develop compassion fatigue.

This was made apparent to me when I was growing up. My parents lived right next to two churches in Rugeley - The Methodist Church ("our" church) and the Catholic Church, St. Joseph's of Ethelreda, were literally just over the road.

St. Joseph's is an imposing church, with a classic spire which can be seen from miles away. It is, indeed, one of the main landmarks of Rugeley, and possibly the second most visible, after the Power Station Chimney.

At the time I am speaking of, St. Joe's steeple was busily being repaired, due years of sulphuric acid causing the sandstone to crumble. Workmen arrived and put up scaffolding, right up to the cupola, which was replaced with a fibreglass replica (which is, to this day, undetectable).

The problem was the nearby "Youth" pub of Rugeley - the infamous Shrewsbury Arms, known locally as "The Shrew". The Shrew was a hotbed of youthful activity, to put it politely. Youthful activities such as meeting girls, drinking too much and getting into fights.

One night, one of these youths decided he was going to end it all. He had declared his undying love for one of the girls in the Shrew who were busy dancing round their handbags, and she had told him to piss off. This was major tragedy, and so he filled himself with the alcoholic beverage of his choice, climbed the scaffolding of St. Joes late on Friday night, and proceeded to hang off it, declaring his undying love in typical blunt fashion ("Ah Ferkin Luv Her, I do! I'm gonna ferkin jump, me! She dumped me, the ferkin bitch! She dumped me!" )

This woke up everyone who lived round there. Entertainment being somewhat thin on the ground at one in the morning, "Darren" was allowed about ten minutes of threats and high drama, and then the police were called in. The police duly arrived. In a helicopter, which proceeded to buzz St.Joe's steeple for an hour or so, whilst more people on the ground tried to talk Darren down with a megaphone. ("Don't be a fool, lad! You've got your whole life in front of you!" etc)

Eventually he was coaxed down at about three in the morning and everyone went back to bed.

It was, therefore, somewhat irritating, one week later, when another bloody Darren pulled the same bleeding stunt, and was similarly talked down.

By the end of the month, it had become irritatingly commonplace. I have a sneaking suspicion it had become part and parcel of mating rights in the locality ie "If you really loved me you'd climb St. Joes". It was getting to the point where the police were beginning to think about employing marksmen to get them down, and act as a deterrent to further climbers.

That is, of course, if anyone could be bothered to phone the police.