Good Friday Feedback :: Blogging For Jesus

bulk :: 14st 13 (Yes! Eeee-ha! Etc. I’m very pleased about this. This feels good. This feels like a landmark.)
gym sessions :: 3
swim sessions :: 2 (exercise really works! Who knew?)
episodes of The Wire watched consecutively :: 4
fears concerning the litigiousness of would-be sex offenders Foster & Allen :: 1
fist fights with self :: 1
mouth-cuts resulting from fist fight :: 2
regrets :: a few, but then again... meh

Aaaaah, life. Whoever said it was a funny old game was a wise old cove. This time last year I was squirreling myself away with my best friend’s ex, stuffing my face with mini-eggs and muff. This year I’m just back from hospital where I’ve been visiting a friend in need and becoming near-hysterical making bad, bad jokes with said friend and other visitors, about catheters and tumours and Fritzel. (We all decided, when someone is suffering from cancer, humour-wise, anything goes. It’s true too. Special rules apply.)

…

Excellent. I was just about to write that I’m pretty miserable and not really looking forward to spending the long weekend all on my lonesome, with not even a hospitalised friend to visit (she’s leaving hospital tomorrow), when I received a message from Paddy, my brand new friend.

Of course, Paddy isn’t really called Paddy, but I’m calling him Paddy because Paddy is short for Paddington, and I’m calling him Paddington because his real name – amusingly – is actually the name of a station on the London Underground. What are the chances?

Anyway, Paddy came to me through the blog, as everybody seems to these days, and he is an excellent chap. An excellent chap who happens to want something to do this evening. So there we have it :: a match made in heaven. If only Paddy was the porn star, Maria Ozawa, then all of my problems would be over.

So, here it is, Happy Easter, and I leave you with a couple of Easter-themed goodies. One is a little something I knocked together in order to gain more downloading privileges at a site called The Box. They asked people to create an Easter scene in their house, photograph it and send it in. I did this:



Dominating the scene - as it should be - is ‘Fat Christ’, still decidedly bloated from all the Christmas Pudding and Baileys on which he gorged himself on his last birthday. At Fat Christ’s right hand, a selection of Easter reading (including the answer to last week’s Bookscan) and an Easter onion, its new shoots reaching up to heaven, symbolising the cycle of death and rebirth and reminding us that life is all about hidden layers and endless weeping.

Front centre, behind the holy welcome mat is a representation of man. It could be Adam and Eve. It could be Mary and Joseph. Or it could just be a couple ordinary Johnnies with a Himalayan finger penguin on their shoulders.

A bottle of Easter vodka and two more images of Christ – emaciated and electric gay – round off the scene. Plus a couple of eggs and a duck made of soap. Oh, and a candle, red with the blood of our Saviour.

On the whole, I’m quite pleased with it. All it’s really missing is a goldfish with a Lincoln log on its back making for a sock drawer. But you can’t have everything.

And finally, this guy:



So, what do you reckon :: is he real? Surely not. Please, God, no.

Religion, eh? Eh? It's got a lot to answer for.

Happy Easter!

Good Friday Feedback :: Happy Easter!

bulk :: 17st 4
cigarettes smoked :: 0
units of alcohol imbibed :: 12
runs run :: 1
swims swum :: 1
realistic vaginas purchased :: 0
sofas sacrificed to misguided altruism :: 0
chocolate eggs purchased :: 5
chocolate eggs eaten :: 0 (but there is still time)
tears wept for Christ :: 0

I don’t know about you, but I hate Easter. Or at least I used to, when I was a kid. It was never a time of chocolate-bingeing and egg-painting for me, as it apparently was for other kids. It was a time for recognising what dreadful unworthy sinners we all were, a time for rubbing my nose in the blood of Christ and generally feeling rotten about life.

My parents were fairly hard core Catholics. My mum had this weird habit of dabbing water on her eyes at Easter. It was to show how upset she was at the crucifixion of Christ. It used to drive me crazy. First, I never understood why she was so upset that Christ was crucified. It was my understanding that the whole point of Christ coming to Earth in the first place was so that he could be crucified and that if he hadn’t been crucified, then he would pretty much have failed in his mission to make us all feel guilty and miserable for evermore. Secondly, if she was upset enough to cry, then why didn’t she just cry? If I feel upset about something, I don’t sprinkle salty water on my cheeks. I cry. Similarly, if I need to void my bowels, I don’t dump a bag of stinking old meat in the loo. I void my bowels.

In my opinion, both of my parents were severely mentally ill, and their hard core Catholicism was just one aspect of that. Anyhow, as soon as I was brave enough to lapse – when I was 13 – I lapsed.

I’ve never really bothered with Easter since then.

This year however, I’ve bought masses of chocolate and Easter booze and I intend to celebrate like a proper hedonistic heathen. This Easter is all about earthly pleasures and absolutely nothing more. To hell with Jesus.

On with the mini eggs!