On making baby Jebus cry

On making baby Jebus cry

For one reason or another to do with the fact that I am EXCELLENT, I went to a meeting in a happy-clappy church in the skanky end of town the other night.

As we sat around quaffing tea and shovelling heroic quantities of cake down our gullets, proceedings were brought to a halt by the local Cro-Magnon oafs hanging round the car park, necking cheap lager and being generally offensive to the alleged "Jesus Freaks" inside the hallowed portals of God's House.

Jesus freaks who would – in the limited experience of these jobless, brain-rot-in-a-can-from-the-Off-Licence and shiny-stuff-for-chavs-TV-on-a-Saturday-night wastes of DNA – sit in silent prayer and take the abuse in shocked, Godly turn-the-other-cheek silence.

What they didn't expect, then, was my striding to the front door, flinging it open and yelling "Fuck off, you festering cunts" at them at the top of my voice.

To my surprise, they fucked off.

And I was further surprised that they didn't come back with their knife-wielding Karen Matthews-alike mums to trash our cars.

For Jesus Freaks we are not.

Then back indoors with the words "Amen to that" for my stunned colleagues.

"And... the next item on the agenda – Community Outreach."

"Fuck 'em."

"Passed."