Jesus the fish hath departeth

Friends, with a heavy heart I bring you forlorn news of great sadness from the back garden of my house.

Jesus the fish is dead.
He is no more.
He is an ex-fish

Killed by his own stupidity he tried to walk among men and quickly came to realise that which all doomed fish have come to realise through the ages - air doth not sustaineth fish.


I arrived home from work yesterday to be told by my eldest offspring that I had a fish in the pond who had taken to swimming on his back, I asked if he was still alive and she confirmed that indeed at 12 noon he was - a miracle thought I, Jesus the fish has survived his idiotic yet strangely heroic, in a way that only the British can appreciate, heroic, doomed to failure, stupid adventure.

And yet verily when I ventured down the garden to the temporary pond I foundeth Jesus the fish floating on his back, motionless, even when prodded with a stick.

With heavy heart and face full of mourning he was gently lifted from the pond with a net and dumped in a plastic Primark carrier bag then dispatched to the big black "general waste" wheelie bin from whence he will travel on Tuesday morning (bank holiday excepting) to the great landfill-not-in-Leeds (we send our refuse elsewhere, we are too posh for landfill in Leeds) where all dead pets smaller than a cat end up.

And later in the evening, after beer had been drunk, I reflected on the death of Jesus the fish and came to realise just how closely it mirrors the story of the death of another Jesus, yes thats right, the Jesus (I don't know many other Jesus's) that the wittering old bags all go to the methodist church at the bottom of our road to sing prayers at, the very same methodist church that is right now ringing its frikkin bells to gather in its flock of elderly believers to berate and force to sing songs and throw coins in a bucket on this, one of their so-called holy days.

My Jesus (the fish) died just like their Jesus, died for something he believed in when all the other fish were mocking him, died trying to evolve too quickly, died convinced that he could breath air and not water, died trying to walk whilst all the other fish in the pond laughed at him and caled him crazy - they were right of course, but still.

And just like the old biddies own Jesus, my Jesus (the fish) was gathered up and wrapped in a shroud, a shroud of plastic with "Primark" written across it, and placed in a tomb which was then sealed by a huge rock, or in my case, the bin lid.

If the vicars crazy story of ressurection is correct then I fully expect to awake on Sunday morning to find the wheelie bin lid lifted open and the shroud (Primark bag) empty with just a fish imprint on it, and turning I will see my Jesus (the fish) standing behind me saying something like "fear not oh pond keeper, for I died to save fish" or something profound like that - and like Dustin Hoffman at the end of the film "The Graduate" I shall race to the methodist church at the end of the road, dash to their balcony and yell at the top of my voice to the astounded congregation of ancient bones, "Elaaaaaaaaaaine!!!" or possibly something like "Jesus (the fish) is ressurected, fall to your kness oh elderly god-botherers and worship Jesus the fish".

OK so I've got two more days to write my speech to the old gits in church and I'm sure I'll come up with something better eventually, but if I am to become a preacher of the gospel according to Goldie the Fairground Prize Fish then I need some spontinuity in my sermons - maybe we could give away small fairground goldfish in plastic bags at the good friday service in future, fish that will all die within hours, be shrouded and entombed, then self-ressurect on sunday, a sort of Blue Peter stylee home miracle kit ?

In the meantime, the permenant pond is in planning stage and a household row is beckoning...