OUR Reverend Rupe is not by any means a violent man. Indeed, he is a patient, forgiving sort of fella, as one would expect of a man of the cloth.

But he came very near to boiling point on a hot day in the churchyard this week when the men with the machine invaded.

At this time of the year, the St John's churchyard tends to get on the wild side, what with the weeds and the grasses taking over between the ancient head stones. This not only makes the place look a bit shabby but also plays havoc with Rev Rupe's hay fever.

So he decided, now that the daffs have faded right back, to pick up the parochial scythe and have a go.

There he was, dressed in mufti and sans dog collar, when into the churchyard marched two men carrying a strange looking machine and began to trample over several graves.

"Now then, my man," one of them asked imperiously, "show us where the oldest and most rickety headstones are."

Now even in the olden days, the gentry would not have dreamed of addressing a vicar as 'my man.' Perhaps, he thought, it was a joke, but more importantly, just who were these strangers treating consecrated ground with such contempt?

He laid down his scythe and approached but they ignored him as they began to straddle with their strange paraphernalia the headstone of one of the two sons of the Hyphen-Hyphen family, whose mortal remains had been brought home from the carnage of the Somme in 1916.

"Would you be kind enough to tell me just what you are doing?" asked Rupe, in his quietest but firmest voice.

The leader of the two, who was watching his mate do all the work, looked this scruff up an down with no attempt to disguise his contempt, and said dismissively: "Go ask the vicar - he knows."

Rupe frowned, raised his hands palms up, and stuttered: "But I am the vicar. And I have absolutely no idea what you are up to."

"Aaaah," said the older man as his mate stopped work. "You didn't get the letter then." It was more of a statement than a question.

"What letter?"

"From Health and Safety, saying that we were coming to check the safety of your gravestones. In case they fall over, you see, and hurt someone."

The vicar blinked. He had, after all, read something about this in his diocesan notes recording that the Health and Safety busy bodies were concerned that there had been a couple of accidents in recent years involving falling headstones.

As a result, gangs of men with nothing better to do were marauding the countryside doing "topple-tests" with a £700 machine that applies a sideward force of more than 70 lbs to likely looking slabs to see if they would fall over. If they do, they are left lying where they fall - something that has caused great distress to relatives of the deceased.

This is a factor which seems of little interest to the H&S fascists, who have built an entire industry making life more difficult - and expensive - for the rest of us, eagerly back by their co-conspirators, the lawyers, who sue at the drop of a hat (if, of course, anyone dare so anything so dangerous as drop a hat these days).

"Be gone," said the vicar, picking up his scythe so that he looked like some fearful figure from the Old Testament. They went. But, they said, they would be back - with a police escort if necessary.

Perhaps they will post their letter this time.

o The Curmudgeon is satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.