Michael Praetorius ✒ with the second act in his satirical series. 

Bloody Protestant Disorder


You have BPD, I said to Jean the other night, Bland Personality Disorder . . .  you're never out of Next . . . 

And you have BPD, she replied, Bastard Personality Disorder . . .  you never stop sneering and jeering . . . .

I'll tell you why that's not funny, Jean, I said. I'm ready and waiting to be happy, but I need to find my other half, my missing link, my soul mate, spiritual counterpart, life enhancing and affirming partner, the one and only, the . . . 

Dear God, she interrupted, but maybe by then you'll have managed, somehow, to accumulate enough of a personality to be in with a chance of it being fashionably disordered . . . 

 

The De Valera I knew


You'll hardly be surprised to hear that I blame the priests at St Colman's College for my crabbed take on Gaels and Orishism. For example, I went on a school trip to Dublin. We charted the geography of the 1916 Rising, including Kilmainham Gaol, where the 'rebel' leaders were executed. Fr. Reid, our in-house College tour guide, reminded us of the particularly brutal ending meted out to a remarkable and brave man - James Connolly.

Of course, Fr. Reid told us nothing of Connolly's life's work - the promotion of socialism, and the struggle for workers' rights and better living conditions. [Shortly before his execution he'd told his daughter: The socialists will not understand why I am here; they forget I am an Irishman.]

Needless to say, his equally remarkable Irish Citizen Army lieutenant, revolutionary, nationalist, suffragist, and socialist, Constance Markievicz, wasn't even mentioned . . .  Fr Reid did continually emphasise, though, how much the saintly Padraig Pearse had loved the Mammy.

Fr Reid only wanted us to be Irish, after all. But in that sexist, reactionary, creepy, Oedipal, theocratic, dancing-at-the-crossroads, up-for-the-match, plain people of Ireland way, so beloved of chief gobshite Gael, De Valera. Kneeling down to kiss the Bishop’s ring . . .  fuck off, arse licker . . . !


All deeply shameful and embarrassing for a Beatles fan, Newry Town FC apprentice, and misunderstood young cabbage, like myself. In fact, dire straits, boys. Desolation Row. Alpha Ralpha Boulevard.


But then, over the hill, came a flying column of Flann O'Brien, Behan, Wilde, Patrick Kavanagh, Edna O'Brien, Joyce, John McGahern, and the rest (even, God help us, John Broderick). Some 'other', subversive, obstreperous, and funny Ireland existed. Had always existed . . . !

Agus bheadh ​​ár lá . . . Soon all that'll be left of Dev's priest-ridden gulag is that home for the terminally mediocre - the GAA, and the poor wee good Catholics of Donegal . . . 

 

I’ve got a friend in Jesus


If I had any friends, I'm sure one, at least, would say to me, Time's flying on, very old lapsed Catholic man . . .  getting nervous, are we . . .  ?

To answer that question I must first tell you that a long time ago I trained to be a teacher. I was just out of university, already militantly anti all that bullshit 'gael' stuff. So I couldn't go to that priest ridden, male hell hole, St Joseph's on the Falls Road, to do my training.

Thus, it was off to Stranmillis. I was one of only two Taigs there. The other, a guy called Brendan, turned up each morning with a copy of the Irish News. The Prods would come jogging into tutorials, still track suited, straight from the rugby and hockey pitches. Brendan would already be sat there, reading the GAA stuff.

To be fair though, we encountered no hassle whatsoever. That came afterwards, when I applied for jobs in Catholic schools. Long interviews with panels full of priests and nuns. And why did you feel you couldn't attend St Joseph's? was always question one. Closely followed by, with more than a hint of sarcasm, and usually asked by some priest (from the lofty heights of perspective and wisdom a Maynooth education confers), And what exact use do you think your degree in Philosophy will be . . .  ?

So I ended up teaching in Prod schools. And that's another story.

Now, back to being old, and Mother Nature writing to me. And the answer to Fr Cretin's question. Religion is only Philosophy without the questions; and this is where Maynooth bottles it, but Philosophy rides to the rescue. Extinction and oblivion beckon. And there's nothing you can do about it, except keep on keeping on 'til you drop in your tracks.

Also, that guy in the baseball cap, in the big pen, wants 11 pound coins – you’ve only got the 10.

 

Mamas, please let your babies grow up to be cowboys


The Cowboys, said a little sign. Two good ole boys around my age; in jeans, black t-shirts, black Stetsons. Black guitars. Quite close to 'my' pitch, they were outside a couple of newly opened cafés.

Pros. They kidded each other. Bantered. One said, pointing to a table, We're goin' do a request from two lovely ladies havin' coffee just over there . . . 

And they Roy Orbisoned; Elvised; Buddy Hollyed; Proud Maryed . . .  One was right handed, the other left, and so, sharing a single microphone, they made a nicely symmetrical image. Like the Beatles.

Eventually they packed up, insouciantly ignoring me in their transit to the next hitching post. Self-assured, still-in-the-game outlaws, movin' on down the line. Following them was a roadie who pulled a little box type trolley with their guitars, amp and mic in it.

He stopped and said, Nice guitar, man . . .  But you're needin' a few crowd pleasers, he added and moseyed on.

Crowd pleasers . . .  ? I am an evangelist . . .  !! I play sacred music from the Canon of Blake and Fuller, Jefferson and Hurt. What do I care about pleasing crowds, or money, or the ‘ladies' . . .  ? Anyway, I call 'ladies' women. And I always fully pronounce the 'ing' in present participles and gerunds . . . 

 

Hot Ayer


I'll never forget the day when I realised, heartbreakingly, that the verification principle cannot itself be verified, and therefore fails by its own criterion. Verification is the philosophical doctrine which maintains that only statements that are empirically verifiable (i.e. verifiable through the senses) are cognitively meaningful, or else they are truths of logic (tautologies).

Its application had enabled me to reject and ridicule statements related to metaphysics, as well as entire fields like theology, religion, ethics, and aesthetics as cognitively meaningless. So, as you can imagine, I'd been as happy as a pig rooting in a whin bush, just being able to dump all that baloney.

But, if you think about it, the principle fails because it is, in fact, an example of the very thing that the verification principle was designed to guard against: metaphysical, or non-empirically verifiable propositions.

Deary me, I said to Miss Lotte Lenya (and paraphrasing Flaubert only slightly), I have tried to live my life in an ivory tower, but now its walls will be assailed by a tide of shite . . . 

It was a hard chaw, all right. A dark and stormy night. But there was light at the end of the tunnel. And it turned out to be an oncoming train. The Existential Nihilist Express . . . !

Now, here we are, a million miles away from that helicopter day. Nothing means anything, except whatever you can delude yourself into telling yourself what the Hell it means. Which it doesn’t anyway. Get a grip. It's all in your head, dumbo. And it's all your fault. So get over it.

Happy days . . .  !

 

In memoriam


So. Farewell then,

sort of, Boris Johnson;

for your departure is

not at all oven-ready.

 

Pincher by name,

pincher by nature:

that was your

catchphrase.

 

You got Brexit done;

overdone, Jean says.

You caught Covid,

but were definitely never on a ventilator.

 

You were snared

by a birthday cake;

but, come on, haven't we all . . . ?

No, says Jean.

 

You saved Ukraine from

a delusional, narcissistic

megalomaniac;

don't tempt me, says Jean.

 

To be honest,

it's Nadine Dorries I feel for most.

That way she looked at you today,

as you made

your personal political broadcast pitch

for a bit of time to regain the leadership and/or

wreak as much havoc as possible,

was terribly poignant.

 

Jean says Nadine and you

must be bonking away like mad.

When I look at Carrie

I wouldn't blame you if you were.

 

I can't see what was wrong

with Marina Wheeler, in the first place . . . 

 

I never watched a single episode of Friends


An odd thing about Jean is that she has friends. Some people find her agreeable; or, as you might say, they 'like' her. This business of being liked is unfamiliar. Folk usually get on with me like a house that's not on fire.

Jean gets birthday cards, and Christmas cards, texts, phone calls, etc. She meets up with 'old friends', and they seem genuinely glad to see each other. Off they go to 'catch up', and enjoy the moment, apparently. She has a load of friends on facebook. And at work. And among the neighbours. When we are out she often talks to people.

I could walk round the world twice and be certain never to have a conversation.

To be honest, the whole idea of 'friends' escapes me. I suspect it's just another one of the absurd, sentimental notions foisted upon us by Americans and their phoney, touchy-feely, 'have a nice day' culture.

 

Eternity where . . .  ?



So asks a billboard at the little modern church I cycled past yesterday. No more corrugated tin huts. Worship in progress. About 12 cars parked, three of them very fancy Range Rovers - so being rich alone still isn't being special enough for some punters.

Eternity where . . . ? I'm old, knackered, running out of gears, this hill is never ending. I feel a bit dizzy . . .  I'm going to have a heart attack, die, and go straight to Hell, forever and ever and ever . . . !

Not this time, however. Drunkenly relieved, freewheeling down the other side, I resolve to take stock. Is it time to do a deal with Jesus? So as not to end up greeting the guy with the horns and the cloak . . . ? Everything is absolutely terrible when you're old, why make it worse by going to Hell . . .  ?

As a lapsed Catholic I'm in the embarrassingly maladroit position of knowing Hell doesn't exist, yet still being terrified of ending up there. A quare conundrum, to use Flann O'Brien's words.

There are loads of books by cyclists who, faced with some trauma, or existential crisis, in their lives, go two wheel crazy and don't come back until they've ridden and ruminated their way through the mire, and into a new, more positive frame of mind.

So, intent on doing the same, I put my head down into the wind, reached down for the drops, and added an extra 8 miles of pedal and ponder to my usual route.

Success . . . ! As I zoomed up the lane and into the driveway, I knew that nothing is revealed. Not even that.

Anything else? asked Jean.

Yes, I replied, twenty years of schooling and they put you on the day shift . . . 

 

Don’t get a dog


Are dogs allowed in Heaven? The Bible is silent on this question. But there were two women, Jehovah's Witnesses, called at the house one morning recently. The moment they produced The Watchtower I asked if Miss Lotte Lenya would be coming to heaven with me. They said, No.

Oh dear . . . Up until then I had been worried that the question of pets in heaven could distort my understanding of eternal life as described in scripture and in Christian tradition. If we are not careful, we could cross the line into a sentimentality that shrinks our eschatological expectation. Our human idea of heaven might be walking an adored dog in the forest, but there is no indication that is anything like God's plan.

On the other hand, there is no forest near here, and God doesn't exist.

Are dogs allowed in Hell . . . ?


Making the breast of it


After my appearance in the Down Recorder last week, my close fitting cycling jersey revealing I now have a comely bosom, I’ve been contacted by several enraged wokesters who demand that I, obviously a trans woman, must be allowed to compete against other women, not a bunch of jocks like the Kilclief-on-Sea Recyclers.

Which just goes to show you that what I've always said about cycling is bang on - it is simply brilliant . . . !

And it brings out the best in other people, too. For instance, my bike at present is making a rhythmic clicking sound as I pedal. When out around the country roads of Armagh people notice this, and often call to me, Hey, squire, sounds like you need a new freehub body kit . . .  !

Who would have thought Armagh folk, utterly dense about everything else, and sporting their ghastly O'Neill's GAhAh gear, would know so much about bikes, eh . . . ?

And, when touring Lecale, perkily bumptious local yokels will shout, Fuck away off, yuh stuck-up, blow-in bastard . . . there was never any trouble here 'til you came . . . !

Yes, salt of the earth, plain speaking, but rough diamonds every one of them . . .  And living proof of just how uninformed and myopic are the naysayers to a bit of the old consanguineous nookie.

 

Who said anything about euthanasia . . . ?!?


Walking Miss Lotte Lenya one morning on the Mall, we met an oul doll a who roared, My dog is muzzled, yours isn't, so it could start a fight . . . !!


And she pointed the end of her walking stick accusingly, in my face.


How did it come to this? Where's her sense of perspective . . . ?


Listen, I said to her, there's more important stuff than that happening in the world today . . . 


Don't you start about Ukraine and the cost of living . . . ! she snapped.


Don't be ridiculous, I said, I'm talking about establishing my right to declare myself a woman tomorrow morning and head for the women's bogs . . . 


 Michael Praetorius spent his working life in education and libraries. Now retired, he does a little busking in Belfast . . .  when he can get a pitch. He is TPQ's fortnightly Wednesday columnist. 

Joy And Fun Are Fucking Killing Me ✑ Act Ⅱ

Michael Praetorius ✒ with the second act in his satirical series. 

Bloody Protestant Disorder


You have BPD, I said to Jean the other night, Bland Personality Disorder . . .  you're never out of Next . . . 

And you have BPD, she replied, Bastard Personality Disorder . . .  you never stop sneering and jeering . . . .

I'll tell you why that's not funny, Jean, I said. I'm ready and waiting to be happy, but I need to find my other half, my missing link, my soul mate, spiritual counterpart, life enhancing and affirming partner, the one and only, the . . . 

Dear God, she interrupted, but maybe by then you'll have managed, somehow, to accumulate enough of a personality to be in with a chance of it being fashionably disordered . . . 

 

The De Valera I knew


You'll hardly be surprised to hear that I blame the priests at St Colman's College for my crabbed take on Gaels and Orishism. For example, I went on a school trip to Dublin. We charted the geography of the 1916 Rising, including Kilmainham Gaol, where the 'rebel' leaders were executed. Fr. Reid, our in-house College tour guide, reminded us of the particularly brutal ending meted out to a remarkable and brave man - James Connolly.

Of course, Fr. Reid told us nothing of Connolly's life's work - the promotion of socialism, and the struggle for workers' rights and better living conditions. [Shortly before his execution he'd told his daughter: The socialists will not understand why I am here; they forget I am an Irishman.]

Needless to say, his equally remarkable Irish Citizen Army lieutenant, revolutionary, nationalist, suffragist, and socialist, Constance Markievicz, wasn't even mentioned . . .  Fr Reid did continually emphasise, though, how much the saintly Padraig Pearse had loved the Mammy.

Fr Reid only wanted us to be Irish, after all. But in that sexist, reactionary, creepy, Oedipal, theocratic, dancing-at-the-crossroads, up-for-the-match, plain people of Ireland way, so beloved of chief gobshite Gael, De Valera. Kneeling down to kiss the Bishop’s ring . . .  fuck off, arse licker . . . !


All deeply shameful and embarrassing for a Beatles fan, Newry Town FC apprentice, and misunderstood young cabbage, like myself. In fact, dire straits, boys. Desolation Row. Alpha Ralpha Boulevard.


But then, over the hill, came a flying column of Flann O'Brien, Behan, Wilde, Patrick Kavanagh, Edna O'Brien, Joyce, John McGahern, and the rest (even, God help us, John Broderick). Some 'other', subversive, obstreperous, and funny Ireland existed. Had always existed . . . !

Agus bheadh ​​ár lá . . . Soon all that'll be left of Dev's priest-ridden gulag is that home for the terminally mediocre - the GAA, and the poor wee good Catholics of Donegal . . . 

 

I’ve got a friend in Jesus


If I had any friends, I'm sure one, at least, would say to me, Time's flying on, very old lapsed Catholic man . . .  getting nervous, are we . . .  ?

To answer that question I must first tell you that a long time ago I trained to be a teacher. I was just out of university, already militantly anti all that bullshit 'gael' stuff. So I couldn't go to that priest ridden, male hell hole, St Joseph's on the Falls Road, to do my training.

Thus, it was off to Stranmillis. I was one of only two Taigs there. The other, a guy called Brendan, turned up each morning with a copy of the Irish News. The Prods would come jogging into tutorials, still track suited, straight from the rugby and hockey pitches. Brendan would already be sat there, reading the GAA stuff.

To be fair though, we encountered no hassle whatsoever. That came afterwards, when I applied for jobs in Catholic schools. Long interviews with panels full of priests and nuns. And why did you feel you couldn't attend St Joseph's? was always question one. Closely followed by, with more than a hint of sarcasm, and usually asked by some priest (from the lofty heights of perspective and wisdom a Maynooth education confers), And what exact use do you think your degree in Philosophy will be . . .  ?

So I ended up teaching in Prod schools. And that's another story.

Now, back to being old, and Mother Nature writing to me. And the answer to Fr Cretin's question. Religion is only Philosophy without the questions; and this is where Maynooth bottles it, but Philosophy rides to the rescue. Extinction and oblivion beckon. And there's nothing you can do about it, except keep on keeping on 'til you drop in your tracks.

Also, that guy in the baseball cap, in the big pen, wants 11 pound coins – you’ve only got the 10.

 

Mamas, please let your babies grow up to be cowboys


The Cowboys, said a little sign. Two good ole boys around my age; in jeans, black t-shirts, black Stetsons. Black guitars. Quite close to 'my' pitch, they were outside a couple of newly opened cafés.

Pros. They kidded each other. Bantered. One said, pointing to a table, We're goin' do a request from two lovely ladies havin' coffee just over there . . . 

And they Roy Orbisoned; Elvised; Buddy Hollyed; Proud Maryed . . .  One was right handed, the other left, and so, sharing a single microphone, they made a nicely symmetrical image. Like the Beatles.

Eventually they packed up, insouciantly ignoring me in their transit to the next hitching post. Self-assured, still-in-the-game outlaws, movin' on down the line. Following them was a roadie who pulled a little box type trolley with their guitars, amp and mic in it.

He stopped and said, Nice guitar, man . . .  But you're needin' a few crowd pleasers, he added and moseyed on.

Crowd pleasers . . .  ? I am an evangelist . . .  !! I play sacred music from the Canon of Blake and Fuller, Jefferson and Hurt. What do I care about pleasing crowds, or money, or the ‘ladies' . . .  ? Anyway, I call 'ladies' women. And I always fully pronounce the 'ing' in present participles and gerunds . . . 

 

Hot Ayer


I'll never forget the day when I realised, heartbreakingly, that the verification principle cannot itself be verified, and therefore fails by its own criterion. Verification is the philosophical doctrine which maintains that only statements that are empirically verifiable (i.e. verifiable through the senses) are cognitively meaningful, or else they are truths of logic (tautologies).

Its application had enabled me to reject and ridicule statements related to metaphysics, as well as entire fields like theology, religion, ethics, and aesthetics as cognitively meaningless. So, as you can imagine, I'd been as happy as a pig rooting in a whin bush, just being able to dump all that baloney.

But, if you think about it, the principle fails because it is, in fact, an example of the very thing that the verification principle was designed to guard against: metaphysical, or non-empirically verifiable propositions.

Deary me, I said to Miss Lotte Lenya (and paraphrasing Flaubert only slightly), I have tried to live my life in an ivory tower, but now its walls will be assailed by a tide of shite . . . 

It was a hard chaw, all right. A dark and stormy night. But there was light at the end of the tunnel. And it turned out to be an oncoming train. The Existential Nihilist Express . . . !

Now, here we are, a million miles away from that helicopter day. Nothing means anything, except whatever you can delude yourself into telling yourself what the Hell it means. Which it doesn’t anyway. Get a grip. It's all in your head, dumbo. And it's all your fault. So get over it.

Happy days . . .  !

 

In memoriam


So. Farewell then,

sort of, Boris Johnson;

for your departure is

not at all oven-ready.

 

Pincher by name,

pincher by nature:

that was your

catchphrase.

 

You got Brexit done;

overdone, Jean says.

You caught Covid,

but were definitely never on a ventilator.

 

You were snared

by a birthday cake;

but, come on, haven't we all . . . ?

No, says Jean.

 

You saved Ukraine from

a delusional, narcissistic

megalomaniac;

don't tempt me, says Jean.

 

To be honest,

it's Nadine Dorries I feel for most.

That way she looked at you today,

as you made

your personal political broadcast pitch

for a bit of time to regain the leadership and/or

wreak as much havoc as possible,

was terribly poignant.

 

Jean says Nadine and you

must be bonking away like mad.

When I look at Carrie

I wouldn't blame you if you were.

 

I can't see what was wrong

with Marina Wheeler, in the first place . . . 

 

I never watched a single episode of Friends


An odd thing about Jean is that she has friends. Some people find her agreeable; or, as you might say, they 'like' her. This business of being liked is unfamiliar. Folk usually get on with me like a house that's not on fire.

Jean gets birthday cards, and Christmas cards, texts, phone calls, etc. She meets up with 'old friends', and they seem genuinely glad to see each other. Off they go to 'catch up', and enjoy the moment, apparently. She has a load of friends on facebook. And at work. And among the neighbours. When we are out she often talks to people.

I could walk round the world twice and be certain never to have a conversation.

To be honest, the whole idea of 'friends' escapes me. I suspect it's just another one of the absurd, sentimental notions foisted upon us by Americans and their phoney, touchy-feely, 'have a nice day' culture.

 

Eternity where . . .  ?



So asks a billboard at the little modern church I cycled past yesterday. No more corrugated tin huts. Worship in progress. About 12 cars parked, three of them very fancy Range Rovers - so being rich alone still isn't being special enough for some punters.

Eternity where . . . ? I'm old, knackered, running out of gears, this hill is never ending. I feel a bit dizzy . . .  I'm going to have a heart attack, die, and go straight to Hell, forever and ever and ever . . . !

Not this time, however. Drunkenly relieved, freewheeling down the other side, I resolve to take stock. Is it time to do a deal with Jesus? So as not to end up greeting the guy with the horns and the cloak . . . ? Everything is absolutely terrible when you're old, why make it worse by going to Hell . . .  ?

As a lapsed Catholic I'm in the embarrassingly maladroit position of knowing Hell doesn't exist, yet still being terrified of ending up there. A quare conundrum, to use Flann O'Brien's words.

There are loads of books by cyclists who, faced with some trauma, or existential crisis, in their lives, go two wheel crazy and don't come back until they've ridden and ruminated their way through the mire, and into a new, more positive frame of mind.

So, intent on doing the same, I put my head down into the wind, reached down for the drops, and added an extra 8 miles of pedal and ponder to my usual route.

Success . . . ! As I zoomed up the lane and into the driveway, I knew that nothing is revealed. Not even that.

Anything else? asked Jean.

Yes, I replied, twenty years of schooling and they put you on the day shift . . . 

 

Don’t get a dog


Are dogs allowed in Heaven? The Bible is silent on this question. But there were two women, Jehovah's Witnesses, called at the house one morning recently. The moment they produced The Watchtower I asked if Miss Lotte Lenya would be coming to heaven with me. They said, No.

Oh dear . . . Up until then I had been worried that the question of pets in heaven could distort my understanding of eternal life as described in scripture and in Christian tradition. If we are not careful, we could cross the line into a sentimentality that shrinks our eschatological expectation. Our human idea of heaven might be walking an adored dog in the forest, but there is no indication that is anything like God's plan.

On the other hand, there is no forest near here, and God doesn't exist.

Are dogs allowed in Hell . . . ?


Making the breast of it


After my appearance in the Down Recorder last week, my close fitting cycling jersey revealing I now have a comely bosom, I’ve been contacted by several enraged wokesters who demand that I, obviously a trans woman, must be allowed to compete against other women, not a bunch of jocks like the Kilclief-on-Sea Recyclers.

Which just goes to show you that what I've always said about cycling is bang on - it is simply brilliant . . . !

And it brings out the best in other people, too. For instance, my bike at present is making a rhythmic clicking sound as I pedal. When out around the country roads of Armagh people notice this, and often call to me, Hey, squire, sounds like you need a new freehub body kit . . .  !

Who would have thought Armagh folk, utterly dense about everything else, and sporting their ghastly O'Neill's GAhAh gear, would know so much about bikes, eh . . . ?

And, when touring Lecale, perkily bumptious local yokels will shout, Fuck away off, yuh stuck-up, blow-in bastard . . . there was never any trouble here 'til you came . . . !

Yes, salt of the earth, plain speaking, but rough diamonds every one of them . . .  And living proof of just how uninformed and myopic are the naysayers to a bit of the old consanguineous nookie.

 

Who said anything about euthanasia . . . ?!?


Walking Miss Lotte Lenya one morning on the Mall, we met an oul doll a who roared, My dog is muzzled, yours isn't, so it could start a fight . . . !!


And she pointed the end of her walking stick accusingly, in my face.


How did it come to this? Where's her sense of perspective . . . ?


Listen, I said to her, there's more important stuff than that happening in the world today . . . 


Don't you start about Ukraine and the cost of living . . . ! she snapped.


Don't be ridiculous, I said, I'm talking about establishing my right to declare myself a woman tomorrow morning and head for the women's bogs . . . 


 Michael Praetorius spent his working life in education and libraries. Now retired, he does a little busking in Belfast . . .  when he can get a pitch. He is TPQ's fortnightly Wednesday columnist. 

9 comments:

  1. I love this stuff - wickedly humourous. The type of prose the burn again Christians would put the author on the pyre for. Satire at its best.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Don't let the bastards get ye down, and if you enjoy schizophrenia that includes the ones in your head. Though to be fair they make a lot of sense compared to the permanent tie wearers who love to whore themselves in front of cameras, especially when a malady has befallen the unfortunate or unwise. " Fuck them all" says my wee dog. She's got a point.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Michael has a great way of communicating his thoughts. Dylan-esque, even.

    So to his musing on the afterlife, here's an apt couple of verses from Bob:

    By his truth I can be upright
    By his strength I do endure
    By His power I've been lifted
    In His love I am secure
    He bought me with a price
    Freed me from the pit
    Full of emptiness and wrath
    And the fire that burns in it.

    I've been saved
    By the blood of the lamb
    Saved
    By the blood of the lamb
    Saved
    Saved
    And I'm so glad
    Yes, I'm so glad
    I'm so glad
    So glad
    I want to thank you, Lord
    I just want to thank You Lord
    Thank You, Lord.

    Nobody to rescue me
    Nobody would dare
    I was going down for the last time
    But by His Mercy I've been spared
    Not by works
    But by faith in Him who called
    For so long I've been hindered
    For so long I've been stalled.

    I've been saved
    By the blood of the lamb
    Saved
    By the blood of the lamb
    Saved
    Saved
    And I'm so glad
    Yes, I'm so glad
    I'm so glad
    So glad
    I want to thank you, Lord
    I just want to thank You Lord
    Thank You, Lord.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Ah yes, the phase when Bob really started to suck.

      Delete
    2. Steve - in his first piece in this series Michael made the point that: "Some years ago Bob 'found' Jesus, with the result that he turned into the most obnoxious, judgmental and offensive bigot."
      Sort of sums it up.

      Delete
    3. Makes me wish Bob had left him where he found him.

      Delete
    4. Steve - the sort of stuff you'd find on a sandwich board!! Do you ever remember that eegit Willie McCrea singing all that rubbish?

      Delete
    5. The Singing Bigot? Yes. Met him one of the times I met Paisley. As you know I wasn't a fan of Paisley but by fuck I couldn't stand McRea. As far as I could see he was more of the same. Happy to spout shite and let our young chase false dawns. When he backed the portadown rat he should have been....removed...from..further equations.

      Delete