(Author Note: This story is based on characters and situations from the popular British sitcom, "The Vicar of Dibley". Said characters and situations remain the exclusive property of their creators, Tiger Aspect Productions. The following is purely an homage.)

1950s - David

"Wake up, Davey!"

David Horton groaned tiredly and opened one eye. His little brother Simon was leaning over his bed. "Go away, Si. I wanna sleep some more."

"Come on, Davey!" said Simon. "It snowed last night! Maybe father will let us go out and play in it.!"

David grumbled and rolled over, facing away from his brother. Stupid kid. Simon was eight-years-old and still such a baby about so many things. David, at the mature age of eleven, was far beyond such foolishness. Plus he dreaded having to get up again and face his own weakness... and his father.

"Come on, Davey!" insisted Simon, as he shook his brother's shoulder in an attempt to rouse him.

"Go away!" snarled David, shrugging his shoulder to disengage the hand his brother had placed there.

"Umm..." said Simon hesitantly. David squeezed his eyes tightly shut, dreading the question he knew was coming next. "Are you dry?"

"No!" yelled David. He turned to glare at his brother in helpless anger, feeling himself close to tears. "Happy?"

"No, Davey," said Simon, also near tears. "You know I don't..."

"Just get out of my room!" screamed David, as he turned away again and buried his face in his pillow, which absorbed the tears that finally started to flow. He heard Simon silently leave his room, closing the door quietly on the way out.

David shook with silent rage as lay there weeping into his pillow. He was furious with Simon, with his father, with the world, and most of all with himself for being such a weakling.

It just wasn't fair! Simon had stopped wetting the bed two years ago when he was only six. And here David was, at the age of eleven, still reduced to wearing a nappy like a baby, and still wetting that nappy as often as two or three nights a week.

David was home for the Christmas holidays from the junior prep school in Berkshire where he boarded. Simon was so lucky he could still attend the local primary school. Boarding school had been a complete nightmare for David. He had prayed that he could keep his "problem" secret, but of course that had proved impossible.

His dorm mates had immediately hung the nickname "Yellowpants" on David. He received little sympathy from the staff as well. Whenever Matron found out that David had soiled his nappy in the night, she stripped the soiled garments from him and forced him to take a cold bath. Afterwards his bottom was warmed by her large wooden hairbrush as he lay naked across her broad lap, squirming and howling.

Back here in his family home of Dibley Manor in the small Oxfordshire village of Dibley, at least nobody called David "Yellowpants". But his father was no more sympathetic than Matron when it came to his incontinence. But David's father did not use a hairbrush to punish his son for his lapses of control.

David shivered in his warm bed as he thought about what would happen when his father found out that his nappy was wet again. It had been more than a week this time. Every time he went more than three or four nights without wetting himself, David began to hope that the long nightmare had ended at last. But sooner or later, a morning would arrive like this one, when he awoke to the horror of feeling the cool wetness of the soiled nappy around his loins. It wasn't fair! It just wasn't fair!

David heard his bedroom door open. "I said go away, Simon!" David said irritably.

"Good morning, David," said Mr. Horton, "It's time to get up."

"Yes, father," moaned David, cringing as he threw off his bedcovers. No point in putting off the inevitable. He was already doomed.

As the lad climbed out of bed, his father watched from the doorway. "Have you been crying, David?"

"Yes, sir." David looked in his father's eyes, and found no sympathy there.

"Well, let's see 'em, then." Mr. Horton stared coldly at his son, obviously suspecting the truth already.

David reluctantly and slowly undid the string on his pyjama trousers and let the loose garment fall, puddling at his ankles. The wet spot at the front of his rubber pants was blatantly obvious.

Mr. Horton tutted and said, "Really, David. I thought you had finally started to grow up a bit."

"I'm sorry sir," said David, his voice pleading. "I thought it was over, too."

"Sheer laziness," said the big man sternly.

"No sir!" pleaded David. "I couldn't help it!"

"Of course you can help it, you lazy boy! You simply get up, walk down the hall to the lavatory, and use the toilet like a civilized human being. Your eight-year-old brother has no problem doing that. But not you... not my eldest son.... you have to lie in bed and soil yourself like some sort of lazy animal."

"I just can't wake up, father!" protested David, fresh tears standing in his eyes.

"Really? Well, perhaps another dose of the cane will persuade you to mend your lazy ways and get up when you need to relieve yourself."

"No, father!"

"Yes, David," Mr. Horton said as he turned to leave. "Get those filthy things off and get ready for your well-deserved hiding. I'll be back in a tick with the stick."

"Nooooo," moaned David as his father left to retrieve the cane. The doomed boy unbuttoned his pyjama top and took it off. He removed his pyjama trousers from around his ankles. The boy began to slip off his rubber pants and then pulled them up tight again. Fear of the pain he was about to experience caused his bladder to release, further soiling his wet nappy.

Well, better now in the wet nappy than in his bedclothes while his father was blistering his bum with the cane. If David wet his bed while lying on it being caned, his father would probably go completely mad and cane him to death. With that happy thought the lad finished nervously emptying his bladder. He then took off the rubber pants and nappy, placing them in a small bucket left in his bedroom for the purpose. Finally he dried his wet skin with a small clean towel.

And not a moment too soon. Just as David finished drying himself and moved to stand next to the bed his father swept back into the room carrying the junior school cane. David gulped with fear when he saw the thin wand of rattan.

Mr. Horton regarded his son, who was shivering slightly. This was partly due to David's fear, and partly due to the fact that his bedroom, like all the bedrooms in their large country manor house, was a bit drafty and cold in the winter. "Alright, David, let's get this over with. I'm going to give you four strokes of the cane for laziness."

"Yes, sir."

"And two strokes for being rude to Simon."

"He told you?" David whined, already plotting revenge on the little sneak.

"No, he didn't," said Mr. Horton. "I heard you yelling at him from down the hall."

"So cane the little brat for sneaking into my room, father."

"Silence, boy!" yelled Mr. Horton. "One more word out of you and it will be eight strokes in all. Lie down over the pillow... now!"

David glared at his father with a mixture of fear and anger at the injustice of it all, but he held his tongue as he moved to lie down. No sense getting more strokes than necessary. David folded his pillow in half and placed it near the edge of the bed. He then lay down on the bed, with his hips positioned over the pillow. Unfortunately this raised his bottom up in the air, presenting a tempting target for the cane.

Almost as soon as David was in place on the bed he felt the cane pressed lightly against his bottom as his father took aim for the first stroke. The pressure disappeared and then a moment later...

Swisssh. Thwack! It always amazed David that he felt nothing for the first second or two after the first cane stroke landed. Then... searing pain. It felt like his father was holding a red hot fireplace poker against his bottom. He grabbed two fists full of bed clothes and held on for dear life.

Swisssh. Thwack! When David first saw the cane he had thought it looked rather silly. Over the past couple of years he had become all too familiar with the incredible sting the rattan implement could impart to his small bottom. He hissed involuntarily when the pain of the second stroke arrived.

Swisssh. Thwack! David had been caned at school for the first time during the Fall term. The headmaster had made David drop his trousers, but had allowed him to retain his pants as he touched his toes. "Ooooh!" The pain from the third stroke finally got some noise out of David, despite his best efforts to remain silent. The cane definitely hurt worse on the bare bottom.

"Feeling it now, eh, son?" asked Mr. Horton sarcastically. David bit his lip and did not reply.

Swisssh. Thwack! In addition to being caned at school during the recent term, David had also been one of three boys to feel the PE master's strap one afternoon for fooling around in the showers. Each boy got three whacks with the leather on their wet, naked bums. Each howled by the last whack, despite their attempts at bravery. "Oouuch!" The pain from each cane stroke arrived faster than the one before it.

Swisssh. Thwack! Just one more stroke to go, for which David was profoundly grateful. "Oooowww!!" The pain from each cane stroke was also more intense than from the one preceding it.

Swissssh. Thwwaack! "AAOOOWW!!" The pain from the final cane stroke was both instantaneous and horrendous. It felt like David's whole bottom was going up in flames. When checking the damage later in a mirror, David realized that the last stroke landed diagonally across the existing five stripes.

"Are you going to stop being lazy, David?" said Mr. Horton.

"Yes, sir," gasped David, between the waves of agony that were consuming him.

"You better had do," said Mr. Horton. "Or it will be six strokes for laziness next time."

As David heard his father leave the room, he wondered - between sobs - how he would ever be able to stop himself from wetting his nappy again. He was so desperate he found himself wondering if he should ask Reverend Pottle for advice.

1970s - Hugo

Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter.

Hugo Horton groaned tiredly, rolled over, and saw that sleet was hitting his bedroom window. The noise had awoken him early. Hugo rubbed his eyes. As his consciousness sorted itself out, Hugo groaned again. He threw aside his bed clothes so his eyes could confirm what his skin had just told him. Yep, he had wet his bed again.

"Bugger!" hissed Hugo under his breath, as he saw that his pyjama trousers were soaked with urine, as were his sheets. The family doctor had suggested that Hugo be allowed to wear a nappy to bed until the bedwetting passed, as the doctor had assured them it would. But his father was convinced that Hugo's bedwetting was the result of pure laziness, and insisted that no eleven-year-old son of his was going to wear a damned nappy.

Hugo's father, David Horton, was chairman of the local parish council, besides being the wealthiest man in the village. He was therefore a man used to having his own way and not a man to be argued with, not even if you were his only son.

Hugo curled up in a ball on his wet sheets and sobbed quietly. He missed the mother he had never known, and he was frightened of the punishment he would recieve when his father found out he had wet the bed again.

Hugo desperately wished he could figure out how to stop wetting his bed. Trouble was, Hugo was not very good at figuring things out. He barely got by at school, where the other boys called him "Thickey Horton", along with other things that were a lot nastier.

Hugo had recently discovered that the only reason that he wasn't kicked out of his Berkshire prep school for poor grades was that his father (who was an Old Boy there) gave the school a sizable donation every year in addition to the regular school fees. That had been an eye-opening conversation he had overheard between his father and a member of the school's board of directors - whom his father had been at school with. It almost made Hugo want to give up eavesdropping on his father's conversations. Almost.

Hugo wished his father wouldn't bother paying to keep him in that school, which he hated. Hugo was forever being caned, slippered, strapped and slapped by Matron, the masters, and even the headmaster. When Hugo wasn't doing something stupid on his own to get in trouble, other boys were tricking him into mischief, for which he always got caught.

Hugo longed for the days when he attended the village primary school. The teacher wasn't very helpful, but at least old Mrs. Cropley, the librarian, tried to help him out whenever she could. Hugo still liked to visit Mrs. Cropley when he was at home, but he did wish she would stop offering him home-made treats, which always tasted ghastly. The brownie she fed him just yesterday contained Branston pickle and garam masala. He wondered where Mrs. Cropley got her recipes.

A sympathetic ear was all that Hugo wanted, someone to discuss his problems with - preferably someone who wouldn't try to poison him in the process. He had tried Reverend Pottle, the local vicar, who was at least 80 years old. But Hugo couldn't really understand much of what Reverend Pottle said. From what he had overheard around the village, nobody else really understood their ancient vicar either. In fact attendence at St. Barnabas Church every Sunday was shockingly low for a village the size of Dibley.

The good news was that Uncle Simon was back home from Liverpool visiting for Christmas. Hugo had discussed his problems with his uncle the previous day, and had decided to try and reason with his father the next time he wet the bed. Now it sounded like the time had come, since he heard his father's footsteps coming down the hall.

Despite his newly found resolve to try and negotiate, Hugo found his carefully planned arguments slipping away as soon he was face to face with his father, who sternly marched him down the hall to the bathroom. There Hugo was left to strip off his soiled garments and bathe while his father retrieved the cane.

While bathing, Hugo once again marshalled the arguments he had so carefully planned. But as soon as his father arrived with the cane the whole thing fell apart again.

As he climbed out of the tub to face the music, Hugo finally blurted out a protest, "But father, Uncle Simon doesn't think it's my fault that I wet the bed."

"Really?" said David. "How very interesting."

"It is?" said Hugo, surprised that the argument might be working.

"Not really," said David, flexing the cane. "Your Uncle Simon's judgement is suspect in many areas. For example, he has always maintained that The Goon Show was actually funny."

"Wasn't it funny?" asked Hugo, anxious to move the subject of the conversation as far away from bedwetting and canings as it could get, even as he stared at the rattan wand his father was flexing in his hands.

"Not in the least," huffed David. "In any case Uncle Simon is not your father - I am. Now bend over the tub, Hugo, and do try to take your punishment like a man."

Hugo deflated visibly as he turned to bend over the rim of the bathtub, placing his hands on the still-wet bottom of the tub. It's just not fair! He was already fighting back tears, and he hadn't even had the first stroke of the cane.

He didn't have long to wait. He felt the cool rattan pressed against his bottom. Then the pressure disappeared...

Swisssh. Thwack! Hugo winced, anticipating the pain that was coming.... now. "Owww!"

"Don't be such a baby, Hugo!" said David derisively. "You've had the cane before, you stupid boy, and you'll have it again. Do at least try to be brave."

"I'll try, father," said Hugo. The sting from the cane always startled him, no matter how often he experienced it. How could something that small cause such intense pain?

Swisssh. Thwack! Hugo tried to keep quiet, but the pain was more than twice as bad when it finally hit. "Oowwwcchh!"

"Hugo," said David, "I was going to give you three strokes for sheer lazinesss. But if you continue to be such a baby about a simple caning, I shall have to give you extra strokes. Do you want that?"

"No father, please don't. I'll try my best to be brave."

Swissssh. Thwwacck! His father responded with a harder stroke. Hugo bit his tongue, and the only sound that escaped him was the slightest whimper when the pain arrived. Please, God, let that be good enough!

"Very well, Hugo," said David. "You may get up. I hope that finally got through to you. Stop being so lazy about using the lavatory at night."

"Yes, sir," said Hugo, as he sprang to his feet and started to rub his bottom, trying to remove the ferocious sting from his new cane stripes. Trouble was, Hugo had absolutely no idea how to do what his father was demanding him to do. He started to sob in despair after his father had left the room.

2000s - James

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

James Horton groaned tiredly, rolled over, and grabbed at the flashing, vibrating alarm box attached to his pyjama collar. After a few tries he finally he managed to deactivate it. Great! He had wet the bed again.

Groaning in disgust at himself, James threw aside his covers and climbed out of bed. The digital alarm clock on the dresser said 3:20 AM. He grabbed the flashlight sitting next to the alarm clock and checked his sheets. Unfortunately the bedwetting alarm hadn't woken him in time, and his sheets were slightly stained. Nuts! They would have to be changed, which would probably wake his little brothers Frank and Owen.

James still felt the urgent need to wee, so he quietly left his bedroom and headed down the hall to the bathroom. His brothers were so lucky! Nine-year-old Frank and seven-year-old Owen still wet their beds sometimes. But neither did it as often as James. When he turned eleven the previous month, James had hoped his bedwetting days were behind him. Unfortunately, it still happened nearly once a week.

The sensor in his pants meant that James couldn't just pull out his willy and pee. He was forced to drop his pyjama trousers and pull down his wet pants. He wore two pairs of tight-fitting pants with the alarm's sensor pad between their crotches. Finally - blessed relief! James was too tired to play with his stream, so he just stood there thinking about how much easier these new wireless alarms were.

Back when he was younger he had to disconnect the wires running from the sensor pad in his pants up to the alarm box clipped to his pyjama top or shirt. All while only half awake and desperately needing to wee. The new setup was easy as pie.

And in Dibley House, the ancestral home of the Hortons, things needed to be as easy as possible. James was the oldest boy in his family, and the third child of ten. This meant that he had two older sisters, four youngers sisters, and three younger brothers. James loved his family, but Dibley House was a bit of a mad house these days.

James sometimes wondered what it was like for his father, Hugo Horton, growing up in the huge manor house alone - an only child. That must have been really cool. At least his father had a chance at a bit of privacy as a child, something that was at a premium in Dibley House these days.

Almost on cue, the bathroom door opened just as James was shaking himself off. He turned, and was about to berate whichever sibling had barged into the obviously occupied bathroom without even knocking - again! - when he found himself face to face with his father.

"Wet again?" said Hugo tiredly, staring at the soiled garments around his son's ankles.

"Yes, father," said James, looking down in shame. He would give anything to not have his father see him like this. "I'm so sorry!"

Hugo crossed the room, placed his left hand under his son's chin, and gently tilted the boy's head up so that James was looking at him. "It's alright, son. It is not your fault."

"I know, Dad. But I just feel....so....."

"I know you do, son," Hugo hugged his son, trying to reassure him the way his own father never reassured him.

"Careful, Dad. I'm still wet!" protested James, trying to draw himself away from his father with a bit of embarrassment.

Hugo let the boy draw away, and looked down at him fondly. "It doesn't matter, son. You know I used to wet the bed when I was your age."

"I know, Dad. But..."

"And according to my Uncle Simon, so did grandpa."

"Really?" said James in surprise. He hadn't heard about that before.

"Yes, really," said Hugo. "So it runs in the Horton family, James. We all wet the bed as boys, and we all outgrow it sooner or later. You will outgrow it, too."

"But when, Dad?" James asked, with an impatient whine.

"Sooner or later," said Hugo. "That's not really for you or me to decide."

"Should I talk to Reverend Granger about it?" said James.

"The vicar loves talking to you, James. But I don't think she can make this stop any sooner, either." Hugo slipped into a southern American accent. "Damn it Jim! She's a vicar, not a doctor!"

James rolled his eyes with irritation. His father was always using old time Star Trek references on him. And his mother was always making Wombles references. He supposed that was to be expected when your full name was James Tiberius Wellington Horton. At least he was luckier than some of his siblings, who ended up with Teletubbies references embedded in their names.

"Okay, Dad," said James. "I won't bother the vicar about this. And I'll try to be more patient."

"Good," said Hugo, ruffling his son's hair with affection.

"Now can we get me changed into dry clothes so I can go back to bed?" said James, smirking. "I have to get my rest so I can annoy my sisters properly in the morning."

Hugo's face suddenly clouded, and he said, "Thanks for reminding me about that, son." He grabbed the boy, bent him over under his left arm and gave the lad six sharp spanks with his open hand on the bare bottom, three on each cheek.

"Yeeeoooww! howled James as he recieved the impromptu spanking. He jumped up as soon as he was released, rubbing his bum with both hands. He fought back tears - from the shock more than the pain - as he asked, "What was that for?"

"You know very well what that was for, James Horton," said Hugo, still glaring down at his son. "Ever since you got back from school for the holidays you have been an insufferable little smartarse. Your mother and I are fed up with it."

"I'm sorry, father," said James, his head drooping with shame.

"You better had be," said Hugo. "You may be the smartest member of this family, but that doesn't mean you can treat people however you want. If you don't straighten up right quick you may get another taste of your mother's hairbrush."

"I will straighten up, sir!" said James earnestly. A spanking from his father's hand was no picnic. Hugo Horton was one of the few gentleman farmers in Oxfordshire who actually did a fair bit of farming, which made his hands strong and tough. But his mum's hairbrush - now that was really something you didn't want smashing into your backside - especially while mum was nagging you about your misdeeds.

"Alright, then," said Hugo. He ruffled his son's hair affectionately again. "You get changed into some dry clothes, and I'll go change your sheets."

"Yes, sir," said James. "Thanks, Dad."

"You're very welcome, son." Hugo winked at him as he walked out the door.

The following morning brought a scene of utter chaos to the kitchen of Dibley Manor, which was par for the course when all the children were home from school. Alice Horton, the brood's mother and David Horton, their aging grandfather, worked together to prepare breakfast for thirteen people.

Over the years James had heard stories going around town that his grandfather had been some sort of ogre in his youth. The old man certainly seemed charming enough now. James had also heard that his grandfather used to despise his mother, both before and after she married his father.

After thinking about this for a while James dismissed these stories as a load of rubbish. His mother and grandfather got along famously. The people who told those stories to their own children were probably just jealous of the Horton family because of their wealth and standing in the village. His grandfather was chairman of the local parish council, a job he had held for more than forty years. His mother's family, the Tinkers, were not wealthy at all, and others in the village were probably jealous of Alice Tinker for having married the most eligible bachelor in Oxfordshire.

One story that James did believe about his grandfather, was that he had used a rattan school cane to punish his son Hugo when he was a boy. David and Hugo had both admitted it freely, so it was obviously a fact. James had asked his grandfather to show him the cane, but the old man refused. His grandfather did assure James that he still had the cane stored away safely in Dibley Manor, and it could be brought back into action if it was ever needed.

Hugo and Alice Horton did occasionally threaten one or more of their children, who were getting too far out of line, with being sent to their grandfather for a sound caning. They had never carried through with the threat so far, but his grandfather had assured James that he would cane him if his parents ever sent the lad to him for that purpose.

James honestly wasn't sure if his parents would ever carry through with such a threat. But given the stories he had heard from friends at school who were caned at home, James was not really interested in finding out how much his grandfather's cane would hurt.

Breakfast preparation was nearing its climax. The older children were supposed to be helping out, but only Gerry and Letty, the oldest girls, were actually contributing anything useful to the proceedings.

James, who wanted to be a stand up comedian like his hero, Eddie Izzard, was trying to "cheer everybody up" by telling jokes. He was currently interrupting his mother's meal preparations by telling her a joke. "Why can't you find aspirin in the jungle?"

"I dunno," said Alice, "Why can't you find aspirin in the jungle?"

"Cos paracetamol!" said James triumphantly, and started giggling.

"I don't get it," said Alice.

"Why am I not surprised," mumbled James under his breath.

"What did you say?" asked Alice, suspiciously.

"Nothing, mum."

"Hmm," said Alice. "Your jokes are as bad as the vicar's."

"I like the vicar's jokes," said James. "I think she's funny!"

"You would, you dozy dodo." Alice chuckled and turned back to her cooking.

James shrugged and went back to tormenting his sisters.