The Agreeable World of Wallace Arnold: The things some people get up to in church

I AM AN inveterate fan of the English country church, always have been, always will be. Many is the sunlit morn upon which I have trundled up an old church path in order to peruse at my leisure an ogee arch, a collapsed periwinkle, an adumbrated quoin, all in the company of my two fellow-churchgoers: the venerable Mr Enoch Powell and that veteran man of letters, Mr Simon Heffer (67 years young, but still with a very great deal to say for himself]).

It could be justly said that the three of us look for rather different things where churches are concerned. For instance, Heffer sees the country church as a repository of all that is English and unashamedly middle-class, an ancient symbol of our national pride at having spawned such a figure as Jesus Christ, who was later to become a major influence on Margaret Thatcher.

'Many of the bleeding heart persuasion,' he once explained to us in hushed tones, yonks ago, whilst we looked with reverence upon a tomb of the self-styled Bishop of Medway, 'try to convince one that Jesus Christ was some sort of a dishevelled Jewish social worker yobbo of the uppety persuasion with a poor O-level in woodwork and a beard to go with it. But, of course, he was nothing of the sort, for why else would they have called him Lord Jesus? The more I visit these churches, the more convinced I become that he was a substantial English landowner from one of our more illustrious families who would have fought against the Welfare State, a man possessed of a sound grasp of economics and, I need hardly add, a convinced Euro-sceptic to boot.'

'Love thy neighbour as thyself,' murmured Enoch in a quizzical tone, adding: 'You know, Arnold, there is a grave incongruity in the logic of the aforementioned line that troubles me greatly. For what if one's neighbour is - dare I say it - a FOREIGNER? It would therefore be inconceivable in any realistic theological or geographical appraisal of the situation to strive to love that particular neighbour as thyself, unless that is - and here I beg leave to inject a note of levity] - one holds oneself in very poor esteem]]'

Once our chuckles had died down, I continued to lead Heffer and Powell down the aisle, all the while filling them in on my own interpretation of the Gospels. And then it happened. Just as we were approaching the altar, we heard the strangest of noises. At the same time, a distinctive aroma found its way into the ever-alert Arnold nostrils.

'Do you smell smoke, Heffer?' I asked my elderly friend.

Heffer took off has spectacles and had a good sniff.

'Indeed I do, Arnold.'

By this time, the accompanying noises were becoming almost deafening - 'oooh, oooh, ahhh, ahhh' - and that sort of thing.

'I have my grave suspicions that this is the New Liturgy we have heard so much about,' I whispered to Enoch.

''Chanted by black men]' he added, furiously.

'Let us investigate]' commanded Heffer, drawing his horn close to his ear as the three of us rounded the corner to the far side of the altar. Agh] We drew up in horror.

I trust that I shall never be asked to witness afresh the scene that met our eyes. Behind the altar, their clothes awry, their hair ruffled, were the unashamedly female Mrs Walston and my old friend and fellow scrivener, Mr Graham Greene, their bodies hideously entwined. While the pair of 'em continued at their cavortings, the three of us - Enoch, Old Man Heffer and myself - looked on in abject amazement.

'Ahem,' I coughed, wishing to save Graham any sort of embarrassment by alerting him to our presence there. But he appeared not to hear, for at that moment he had to attend to the Senior Service cigarette Mrs Walston was placing on his right buttock.

'Ahem,' I coughed again. 'May I draw your attention, gentlemen, to the voussoir on the tierceron of the transverse arch? An exceptional example, no?'

But Greene and Mrs Walston were lost in another world, continuing at their doings even after I had requested that they move slightly to afford our group a clearer view of the entablature on the narthex. Six months later, I bumped into Greene at the Beefsteak, but he never mentioned our strange encounter. Frankly, if such activities now find themselves in the biographies, I am only thankful that they continue to be firmly excluded from Pevsner.