WHEN a parish priest asks if you’d mind conducting an appeal for a cause that’s close to his heart, such as the St Thomas A’Becket Foundation, you immediately say ‘Yes’ and ask questions afterwards. Not always the wisest course, as I was soon to discover.

The priest in question is Canon Kevin O’Driscoll of the Holy Family Church in Langley and the parish assigned to me for the appeal, St Anthony’s in Farnham Royal. Fr Kevin, as he prefers to be known, attended St Anthony’s School, adjacent to the Church, and knows the area well. Perhaps that’s why - with a hint of menace - he chose this particular venue for my initiation as a fund-raiser.

Nearer the date I receive a whole set of instructions from the kindly John Bowman, including a draft script, and I decide to pop along to the Church on a recce. I ask the parish priest, Fr Richard Moroney, how long he’s giving me to deliver my message. He tells me, ‘I’m bequeathing you the Gospel slot. Take as long as you like – provided it’s between ten and fifteen minutes!’ Charmed, I'm sure.

I learn there are three Masses – one on the Saturday evening and two on Sunday morning.  I arrive in good time on the Saturday with my wife Martha and we lay out the gift-aid envelopes and pens. There are a whole pile of leaflets to distribute at the end and we park them conveniently on a table in the porch.

I’d prefer to deliver my message from the floor without notes but, as Fr Richard doesn’t possess a lapel microphone (tut-tut), I decide to speak from the lectern, or ambo, as posh people say. I call them asbos.

At the very last moment I get cold feet and decide to stick to the script. After a cordial introduction from Fr Richard, I skip up the steps and proceed to enunciate.

Suddenly, mid-sentence somewhere down the line, that old enemy doubt sets in. Am I reading too slow – or maybe too fast? What’s the sound quality like at this Church: obviously not as good as Holy Family’s state of the art audio system, which cost zillions to install. Can they hear me at the back? Should I speak up? Or should I speak wee, as they say in Donegal? Gadzooks! Why did I agree to this in the first place?

Finally, I’m done. A sense of relief washes over me – and over the congregation, too, I suspect.  As Mass ends, Fr Richard thanks me for delivering the appeal and, before the final blessing, engages with me in some good-natured banter. He wonders why I’ve been straining my neck to see round a pillar. I explain that I was trying to locate the singer. He assures me it wasn’t a recording and asks me to take that on trust. It’s a welcome bit of interplay that amuses the congregation and puts a smile on my face – a very rare occurrence these days. After Mass, we hand out the leaflets, thank Fr Richard and head off home.  Sunday’s first Mass will be at eight in the morning and an early start is vital.

I arise at 6.45, shower, shave, clean my teeth, gel my hair (what’s left of it) and grab a bite to eat – though not necessarily in that order - before heading off back to Farnham Royal. Martha decides to come with me, feeling I might need a hand to hold.

We arrive early and decide this time to distribute the leaflets as the parishioners enter the Church.  It seems an altogether better way of doing things, as it informs people they are about to hear an appeal and, at the same time, primes them subconsciously to cough up at the appropriate moment, in this case the second collection.

I decide this time to ad lib, and no messing. I am immediately more relaxed and remind the congregation that the Foundation’s John Bonner had visited St Anthony’s a few weeks back to flag up this appeal and that I assume they’ve all been saving up their bawbees in the meantime.

I attempt to give my audience a feel of why they should be supporting such a worthy cause – not a national charity but one based right in the heart of their diocese of Northampton. I use the leaflet as a prop, pointing out what is being done for the disabled and those with special needs and what they, the congregation, can do for the Foundation in addition to donating money – for instance by their practical help and their prayers.

I end with an assurance that God will bless and reward them. It’s his promise: Prove Me now in this, says the Lord of hosts, if I will not open for you the windows of heaven and pour out such a blessing that there will not be room enough to receive it. (Malachi 3:10).

It would have been too much of a rush to get home and back before the 10.15 Mass and so we took advantage of Fr Richard’s offer of a cup of coffee. Only we preferred tea. Fr Richard pulled a face and proceeded to make a really fine brew. He showed us round the quite magnificent grounds which he himself was instrumental in transforming from a virtual wilderness into what could now pass for parkland; and then, before we knew, it was time to spring back to action.

Martha thought this my best effort of the three and possibly I had been inspired by the magnificent singing. It was the best I’d heard since attending a Baptist wedding in Glasgow a couple of years back, when it didn’t make sense to me that non-Catholics seemingly had all the best voices. I felt moved to congratulate the choir and the congregation for having matched the tartan hordes. Doing so, I deduced, would do no harm to the prospect of a windfall collection.

After Mass we were invited into the crypt, where this time we did have coffee and where we met some very charming people indeed, including the affable Rev. Frank Sheppard, a deacon, and a remarkably cheerful lady called Rochdale. I asked purely in the line of duty if there were  any people in the parish called Scunthorpe or Darlington. Or perhaps Accrington Stanley. I was disappointed to learn there were none.

It being one of the hottest days of summer, Fr Richard beckoned us into the garden for a chat, along with a kind and thoughtful lady called Jackie, her husband and daughters.    Fr Richard proved to be a genial host with a ready wit. He was both spontaneous and amusing and, however hard I tried, I couldn’t match him. Two jokes I attempted to tell went down like lead balloons.

Before leaving, Fr Richard asked me to be sure to tell Fr Kevin about the wonderful singing. “That’ll rattle him,” he said gleefully.

So ended a beautiful morning and a very pleasant introduction to St Anthony’s.  I hope to re-visit the Church in the not too distant future, which is meant more as a promise than a threat, despite how Fr Richard might choose to interpret it.

I hope also that we managed to raise a few shillings for the St Thomas A’Becket Foundation; but when I asked Fr Kevin subsequently how much we had made, he said he had yet to hear.

I sense, kind man that he is, he was trying not to hurt my feelings; but he gave the game away when he said that, in any event, the amount didn’t matter: it was more about spreading the word on the Foundation.

Oh well, I tried, I guess.