Category Archives: ministry

bad thursday

Recently one of my mates informed his granny, on asking, the welfare of his wife. She’d just given birth to their first child and there had been some complications, essentially, the wee bairns heed and ripped her mimsy as it exited from her internals. Needless to say she was in some degree of discomfort. Granny, in her infinite wisdom, decided to offer words of sympathy by reminding my mate to compare his wifes agony to the pain ‘our Lord suffered on the cross’…

I mentally recall this story when someone mentions ‘Good Friday’, it’s superseded the ‘why ‘good’ Friday?’ of my past. I remember asking my mum at church when I was six and being baffled by the answer; apparently it was ‘good’ because Jesus died for my sins… I still remember mum looking a bit uncomfortable telling me this. Frankly I can’t help feeling that she was rather keen to keep her six-year-old son away from images of a bloke nailed up on some wood with blood pissing out his side wearing a painful hat (of course, for me, this was the best part) but the ‘sins’ bit I found utterly confusing, I wasn’t sure what a sin was and I was fairly sure I’d not committed any, being six and everything. Pleased to say I’ve rectified that now.

Despite my complete bafflement at this whole religion business I’m quite happy to take their holidays (and as mentioned in previous posts, I do like churches very much) so for me this excuses all the atrocities committed in the name of Jesus the saviour. My conscience is clear. With this in mind, this is the last P for a few days, I may be able to rustle up a quick post in the interim but don’t hold your breath.

Yesterday was yet another soul destroying day of none ness in the office, I was glad to leave at 3.30 for that bloody meeting which involved a winding district line journey into town. I read the end of my book which caused me some alarm, and watched the spring scenery pass by from the rather disconcerting view of a tube seat. I’ve never quite got into that, I feel as if a tube belongs under the ground, when you see them or travel in them over the land it feels somehow wrong, like an earthworm creeping over asphalt. By the time we crossed the Thames everything returned to some sort of normality and I eventually alighted at my destination, met the person in question in some massive corporate offices off Piccadilly and wandered happily through Soho among the runners, hookers, poofters, directors, drunks, junkies, artists, students and writers. I’m very fond of Soho, there is nowhere else like it in the world, it manages to combine sleaze and bohemianism with a self-knowing wink that contains both humour and hopeless misery.

I had a pint in a pub on New Oxford Street with my new book and met up with Swineshead for a few more jars up the road. We stood outside as dusk formed into dark and drunk beer and smoked cigarettes and chatted about cool shit, I left them all to it at 7.30 as I was meeting Myfwt at the flat, this was realised after a packed and piss pregnant tube journey back South and on arrival she and I had a splendid rest of evening eating and sipping G&T’s.

Just before I went to sleep I watched an interview with Ray Galton and Alan Simpson -creators of Steptoe and Son after writing Hancock’s Half Hour. It was fascinating, hearing how they worked, their relationship with each other and the actors they wrote for but what I found more incredible than anything was the way they met.

Before being writers both were ordinary joe’s with everyday jobs leading completely different lives in opposite ends of London, until, one day, each contracted TB, a dreadful terrifying disease that normally kicks off by the patient coughing up pints of blood, which is what happened to Ray one morning on his bus to work. In those days you were carted off and ordered to bed in a sanatorium, you had less than a 25% chance of survival and if you did remain alive you could be incarcerated for years on end, and it was in this dubious environment they met, as TB patients on the brink of death. Suddenly Steptoe and Son will never be quite the same.

Have a nice break, remember, it is for your sins He died, I done nuffin’

Turn it right up, Happy Easter

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shopping for shit

The usual late Saturday afternoon hell in Sainsbury took on an extraordinary dimension. Apart from being more crowded than I’ve even seen in previous visits, there weren’t enough trolleys and I had to race an inactive middle age slattern for the last available one, well I say ‘race’ I simply walked faster than she did, she sped up of course but, dead casual like, I was even pretending to find something in my nose, I walked as fast as I could (though making it seem as if I wasn’t) and grabbed the trolley at the last second prior to her Cumberland sausage fingers closing over the bar, and made my way into food utopia, smirking.

Of course, I got my comeuppance. Having secured a trolley and being used to the lay out of the store I made adequate progress through all the track suited fuckwits and gold hooped jizz guzzlers to reach my goal, the alcohol isle, before paying one of the worn out cashiers and getting out of it. But I’d forgotten Marmite. Marmite is one of the hardest fucking things to find in a supermarket because it defies category, making it more confusing is the little jams, marmalades, peanut butter section (essentially ‘spreads’) near ‘cakes and bread’, doesn’t feature Marmite… After wandering about for ages picking up little bits of stuff along the way, I found Marmite-land at the END of an isle. I angrily grabbed a jar and went back to my trolley, which was… where?

I have this habit of occasionally parking my trolley; it’s quicker to move around without it, and coming back to it with goods. Due to all of the exasperation in locating Marmite and being distracted by the throngs of prols I’d utterly forgotten where the punctured Christ I’d left it… With an armful of Marmite, tinned tomatoes, peppercorns and shoe polish of all things, Saturday shoppers were privy to a red faced man on the verge of a full on fucking freak out darting from isle to isle with his eyeballs out on stalks. I caught the eye of a 6-year-old boy, who’d been griping about crisps; in seconds he was clutching his mothers leg with a look of mortal terror on his face, the little shit. After 20 fucking minutes, 20, I found it in the dog and cat food section, parked by my caring subconscious, as that was the place least likely to cause an obstruction to the wankers in the store. I was close to tears, not just from frustration but because of the milk of my human kindness.

Friday evening began at 4pm when my bro called to tell me that he was indeed about for a few beers. I’d resigned myself to a night in so the change in fortune was welcome. I was in the boozer in Clapham before 6, remarkably tables were still available and within 10 minutes there were 3 of us, the third person being a mate of my bro, Andy, who like me has a penchant for screaming men singing about the glories of Satan. It was a top night, 3 men, beers, talking about metal, pop-ups and birds, yes, birds with tits and things. I was home rocking out by 12 and later joined by Myfwt at 1 who’d been out with one of her pals.

After the awful shopping trip I expected to spend the night with a bottle of wine, TV and headphones but my plans were delightfully thwarted by a call from James with an offer of the pub. Fifteen minutes before he and I were due to meet I got a call from a very distressed Mytfwt who was on her way to a party. Last year following some expensive (and painful) root canal work she’d had a crown fitted on her second premolar. To her utter horror the fucking thing had decided to fall out. She was forced to cancel her engagement and I urged her to return home at once for some soothing wines, James was diverted to my place and before I knew it, a little impromptu party was underway. By 1am we were all thoroughly giggling pissed, Blonde on Blonde in the background, candles blazing with all the woes of the day left miles behind to sob on the side of the kerb.

Subsequently Sunday morning was written off, most of the afternoon was spent in bed watching Jamie at Home until Myfwt and I decided we should go into town for a spot of book shopping. We came back and I made roast pork with all the expected trimmings, Top Gear, Ewan and Charlie then bed followed. Then Cunt started making a fucking noise at midnight which was suppressed by me kicking the floor. The fucking snivelling little oh why wasn’t he aborted woke me up at 3.30 forcing me to boot the floor again and make an appointment to give him a bollocking when I get back this evening.

James knows all about Cunt so when I told him I was going to go to the Council to make an official complaint he flagged up a warning. Theoretically Cunt is devaluing my property by being a ‘noisy neighbour’, having this officially noted could be bad news when it comes to selling… I wish him testicular cancer.

Play close attention to following.