Sunday, November 13, 2005
Jesus Tonight!
The 1970's were an awful time; the three-day week, the winter of discontent, Marc Bolan... The list goes on. The nomination for the worst event of that godforsaken decade, however, must go to the evening I spent with our Lord Jesus Christ. It had begun, as so many did, with a snifter and a snowball with Trevor Eve. Trevor had been a friend for a while mainly because the relentless tedium of his conversation made me seem so much more attractive to those people he didn't scare off or bore to death. I had asked the waiter for twenty more John Player Specials and insisted upon his joining us for a "sniff 'n' splash" (Remember them? Me neither!) later on when I spotted the bearded chap across the room. He seemed calm, serene even, and the difference between His Lordship and Trevor couldn't have been more pronounced.
I invited him to join us at our table which he accepted and the first couple of hours were hugely enjoyable. The Godhead regaled us with stories of devil defiance, crucifixion and good Samaritan's which kept Trevor, myself and the by now, large congregation of heads and freaks entertained for a good few hours. His minor miracles were astonishing (his disappearance of Michael Parkinson's accent still amazes me 'til this day) and his pro-choice position blew us all away. Unfortunately his Holy Lordship wasn't quite ready for the effects of the animal tranquilisers and vodka martinis that I insisted he take and from there on in the evening was a disaster. He cried, he sobbed, he turned the wine into water and shat in the ashtray. After two hours of his moaning about Buddha having it "so bloody easy" he collapsed into a heap and had to be carried to bed. I eased him out of his holy robes and into something altogether more comfortable. The morning was hugely embarrasing for all concerned.
I invited him to join us at our table which he accepted and the first couple of hours were hugely enjoyable. The Godhead regaled us with stories of devil defiance, crucifixion and good Samaritan's which kept Trevor, myself and the by now, large congregation of heads and freaks entertained for a good few hours. His minor miracles were astonishing (his disappearance of Michael Parkinson's accent still amazes me 'til this day) and his pro-choice position blew us all away. Unfortunately his Holy Lordship wasn't quite ready for the effects of the animal tranquilisers and vodka martinis that I insisted he take and from there on in the evening was a disaster. He cried, he sobbed, he turned the wine into water and shat in the ashtray. After two hours of his moaning about Buddha having it "so bloody easy" he collapsed into a heap and had to be carried to bed. I eased him out of his holy robes and into something altogether more comfortable. The morning was hugely embarrasing for all concerned.
