I’m beginning to worry about Nathaniel, our local Jehovah’s Witness. For years he’s ploughed a lonely furrow outside the den of iniquity that is Blockbuster Video, trying to spread the word to an unlistening congregation. I saw him, bright eyed and bushy tailed first thing the other morning, accosting old dears coming out of the Post Office and chasing frightened holiday-makers into Boots the Chemist.
“Jesus thinks you’re special,” he said to me.
“Ooh, ta very much,” I replied, well pleased that at least somebody in the world likes me.
Then I got thinking about it. Did he mean I was “Special” special, or “Special Bus” special? If it was the latter, I would have willingly gone back there and biffed his lights out and forced him to eat his satchel-full of Watchtowers, cold and without sauce.
I needn’t have worried. As I went back the same way just before lunchtime – and somewhat richer after selling my bike to the suckers at second hand shop – the heat of the day and a myriad of rejections was already taking their toll. The eyes were wide and wild, the carefully slicked back hair was all over the place, and the joy of Christ’s love may have ebbed away somewhat.
“OI! YOU! JESUS SAYS YOU’RE FUCKING SPECIAL!”
“TAKE A PISSING WATCHTOWER OR I’LL STICK IT UP YOUR ARSE!”
“YEAH? JESUS MAY LOVE YOU BUT I THINK YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS!”
Pray for him. Or not. Your call.