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Having been tagged by the Island Girl I find myself struggling to think of five things that I dig about Jesus.
You see, I don't know the bloke.
I've never spoken to him and he's certainly never spoken to me, we may have rubbed shoulders in a busy street somewhere and I might have said "sorry" as I walked on past him, but thats not like meeting and getting to know someone is it ?
In fact now I think of it and since I found that photo of him and a sheep (whats all that about, no-one speaks of his farming days), I seem to recognise that face, the hair and that beard.
There's an old bloke sits outside Yates' Wine Lodge in Leeds who looks just like an older version of the bloke in that photo, it could be him.
On the other hand if you believe all the stories then this Jesus bloke wouldn't have needed a wine lodge to get his alcohol fix, he just had to wait for it to rain and lay his hat out on the pavement for a while, a quick wave of his hand and before you can say "Paul Daniels" you've got a hatfull of Chateauneuf de Pape 1992, ideal party trick for a street lowlife.
So,
Thing # 1
I dig his hair, I used to have hair like that, in 1970 I started to grow my hair like that and for four years while it was fashionable to have girlie long hair then I had girlie long hair, and a hippy ex-RAF great coat with a collar that when turned up stood over my head so that I looked like Smiffy out of the Bash Street Kids. I could have been mistaken for Jesus had I grown a beard.
And had nail marks in my palms.
Thing # 2
I dig the way that he's not ambitious at all, he's a bit like Prince Charles, he's heir to the family dynasty but he knows that he's got more chance of a shag in a nunnery than actually inheriting the business, after all his dad isn't going to die is he, ever, so what chance has Jesus ever got of becoming God, and what would you call him if he did, "God Jesus", is God a title or a name and if its a name then how come parents don't name their child God, after all plenty of hispanic parents name their kinder "Jesus", and if God is a title rather than a name then what is Gods name, Eric ?
I quite like the idea of calling a child God, how cool would that be at assembly when the teacher calls out...
"Becky"
"Here Miss"
"John"
"Here Miss"
"God"
{no answer}
"God, has anyone seen God, is God here today"
"Of course I'm here you silly bitch, I'm fekking omnipresent, I can't stay away from the fekking place"
Actually Jesus might stand a very good chance of a shag in a nunnery come to think of it.
Thing # 3
I dig the way that his name has come to be accepted as an alternative for both agony and ecstacy both at the same time, the cry of "Jesus" or if you have enough breath "Jesus Christ" can be heard from bedrooms and toilets alike and from a million building sites all over the world when hammer contacts thumb, usually with a "fucking H" inserted into the middle of the words "Jesus" and Christ"
Thing # 4
I dig his barefoot approach to life, personally I hate shoes and would love to go through life wearing nothing on my feet, not sure about the sandals though they seem like a bit of a fashion faux-pas but at least he didn't wear socks with them.
I'd also like to wear the rest of the clothing that he personally designed for himself and his disciples, it seems very cool, very loose fitting and generous for those with a generous frame, the choice of fabric design was a little uninspired being that they all looked like they were wearing their mothers tea towels but maybe he had a thought in mind for the millions of primary school kids who would run home from school in the lead-up to christmas shouting to their mothers that they'd just landed the part of a shepherd in the nativity play and tea towel wear was felt to be easy on the budget.
Thing # 5
I dig the use of the word "dig" in this Meme, I haven't used the word in this fashion since 1971 although I have of course used it in regard to gardening items, its a good word, very groovy, very Lovin Spoonful, Woodstock, Country Joe McDonald, its the sort of word that Neil Diamond would have used when people dig'd him until he thought he could act, its very the-summer-the Beatles-split-up, its me spending all day saturday hanging out around Leeds market checking out the second hand record racks at Kennedy records, dutch weird super group Focus playing Leeds Town Hall with their new single "Sylvia" and my mates all getting tickets and not me, its loon pants and tie-dye tee shirts, beads on men, "herbal" cigarettes, patula oil, sandals, we're back to sandals, this is the link to Jesus, its "dig a pony" by John Lennon and bagism, spending august selling programes to grannies at Leeds Flower Show so that I could earn enough to buy a Budgie jacket to go with my loons - its a good word.
But like the recent revival of the word "cool", it has no place in 2007.
And in the best tradition of passing the buck I'm now going to tag JohnD who will curse the very ground upon which I walk for doing this as in the past he has been harrangued as a "jewish bastard", so probably has more of an insight into digging Jesus than I have.
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...
This one is fortuitous what with it being easter, fish and all that jazz.
Stood in the kitchen this morning munching on my breakfast toast (very extravagent today, the honey nut cornflakes have run out), gazing out of the window at Jake sniffing around the garden when he stopped and took lots of sniffs at something laying on the ground near the pond.
It was one of my golden orfes (see picture for detail although if I'd just said "fish" then you'd have known anyway).
"Oh bugger" thought I, but with thoughts of saving the new neighbours from the sight of me running up the garden in my jimmy-jams at 7am in the morning I decided to investigate later, after all if the fish had been howked out of the admittedly shallow pond by a heron or magpie. or worse still a cat, then there wouldn't have been much left of it to mourne over.
And now a lesson in how marriages work ...
Last night I was forewarned by a wife who has ruled my life for the last 24 years that this easter weekend I would be put to hard labour with an impossible list of jobs to achieve in this new house. I casually acknowledged her hieracy in the house junta with a resigned "I know" and then mentioned that I also wanted to make a start on the proper pond in the garden as the orfe have been living in the temporary one for a month now - what followed was an hours worth of harrangueing in which I was left in no doubt that the orfe were classified even further down the scale of importantness than me, the roller blind in Jodies bedroom is but one of a thousand items that are rated as vital to the continuing state of our marriage, long before we get to the new pond.
And now, less than twelve hours later, proof if proof were needed that the new pond should be placed on black alert, nay, I should have started its contruction before I'd even finished my toast this morning, jimmy-jams or not.
One hour later (my morning toilet is considerable) and with a heavy heart I trudged down the garden to observe which of the orfe had been stupid enough to stray into the shallow end and be snaffled by birds/cat and with dismay I realised it was "the big one", the twelve inch long orfe that I've had for five years now, looking even bigger now that it lay on the patio a couple of yards from the pond.
Checking it for injuries it didn't seem to have been scratched or ragged about by a third party bird/cat and as I stared at it, it blinked and opened its mouth - of course I shoved it back in the pond where it sunk to the bottom, opened its mouth a few times and blew huge gobs of air bubbles out of its gills.
If I had gone out to look at it at 7am I'd have saved it another hour of lying there trying to evolve quick enough to be able to breath air instead of water, but still, when I left it it was 10% alive back in the pond, lying on its back.
The burning question is of course - will there be an easter miracle ?
Will my fish rise from the dead ?
Are you really that bothered ?
The answer to the question on all of your lips is of course that I think it must have jumped out of the pond of its own accord, emphasising the need for the new one asap - expect another animated discussion on the topic tonight - how long it lay there I do not know but I may ring the vicar today and ask him to get his group of wittering old bags in the church to sing a prayer for him and if he pulls through I'll promise to call him Jesus and allow the god-botherers access to the garden to worship at my temporary pond for a small donation.
This is all very exciting isn't it ?
Yesterday a god-botherer lost her second appeal against her employer who had requested that she not wear her cruxifix over the top of her company uniform.
Full story here
British Airways are the employer in question and their company uniform policy states that religious symbolism should not be visible - end of story.
You can wear a cruxifix, they are not preventing you from wearing a cruxifix, you just wear it underneath your shirt, blouse, whatever.
But that wasn't good enough for Nadia Eweida, check-in desk clerk, who insisted that she be allowed to wear her cruxifix over the top of her uniform, to the extent where she was suspended without pay pending an enquiry into her complaint.
She has now been ruled against twice by the airline who have asked her to return to work with the cruxifix suitably concealed, or to take another job in the organisation which doesn't require a uniform and where the cruxfix rule doesn't apply - she's refused to do both.
Why ?
Because she is more than just a lady with a strong religious belief - she is a god-botherer.
She confirmed this when interviewed on that bastion of news gathering this morning - GMTV. During the interview she displayed all of the atributes of 100%, nailed-on (no pun intended) god-botherers, in that every sentence that she used had to contain a reference to her religious beliefs and/or her "father", "saviour", "lord almighty" and other such tosh.
She actually stated that it was not in her remit to decide how to wear the cruxifix, she had been told by the almighty to wear it outside of her uniform and she could not deny her saviour as she would have to face him one day and explain why she'd tucked the cross inside her shirt - lady that is one very petty and vindictive god that you are worshipping.
She's even got the Archbishop of York on her side who called the BA decision "nonsense", but of course he would say that wouldn't he, being that he wears the biggest cross you've ever seen outside of his frock on a sunday.
I have nothing but sympathy for people such as Nadia Eweida, but its sympathy for her state of mind rather than sympathy for her cause, she has a serious problem inside her head if she thinks that her god gives one flying fuck about how she wears her cruxifix, but therein lies the problem with god-botherers - they honestly believe that they have a direct line to their god and their lives are totally ruled by the voice in their head or the voice of a bloke in a frock at their local church.
We used to have a business competitor in Leeds who was a 24 carat gold-embossed god-botherer, the rep for Yellow Pages once came to us straight from a visit to his business and she couldn't get over the fact that he wouldn't make a decision on whether to take out some extra advertising until he'd popped upstairs and had a word with god to see whether He thought it was a good deal, she was flabergasted when god said that it was too expensive and would not make a good enough return on the investment, even more so when Bob, the god-botherer, explained that god ruled his whole life, god had given him his wife, his house, his business, the food on his table, and his Yellow Pages advertising budget.
Bob would sometimes pop in to see us at our office, have a cup of coffee, chat about business - but he never failed to leave us without trying to press a god-bothering leaflet into our hands, or to bless us, or get us to sing one of his little hymn-things with him, he never left our office without the words "fuck off Bob" ringing in his ears.
I will finish with a parable from that great prophet Eddie Izzard who tells the story of how God looked down at earth in the 21st century and was displeased with what he saw, he called for his son Jesus and pointed out to him all of the evil corrupt ways of man and how the world was in a much worse state now than when Jesus had been sent down to sort it all out 2000 years previously.
God spaketh unto Jesus and told him to go back down to earth and sort the mess out properly this time, to which Jesus replied "You must be fuckin jokin dad, don't you remember last time, they're animals down there, they nailed me to a fuckin tree for gods sake"
Having been tagged by the Island Girl I find myself struggling to think of five things that I dig about Jesus.
