priest

Why am I so impatient these days? All I seem to do is spend my time calling people twats under my breath or storming around like a bear with a sore bell end.

This was brought home to me a few days ago, when a chum of mine told me that he’d seen me in Edinburgh but I looked so angry that he felt it best to leave me alone.  The annoying thing is that I remember why I was looking so displeased: I was in the Pleasance Courtyard in a crowd of people waiting to see Pappy’s fun Club, so when I couldn’t stand being buffeted by ignorant braying dicks any longer,  I moved to the relative peace of the main entrance to smoke a fag and chill the hell out. This is when he saw me.

The trouble is that, to me, crowds are like foil on fillings and when enveloped in one I’m constantly fighting the urge to punch the next person who bumps into me, in the face. In Edinburgh this is exacerbated by the proliferation of English, middle class, gap year cunts. All of who are too loud and insistant on inflicting their view of what makes good comedy on the rest of the fucking planet. Which is fine if you like Michael Macintyre or being repeatedly told that sketch comedy is dead, then alive, then dead again, but personally I’d rather not hear their vacuous vomit stained views, thank you very much.

Wow I’m angry today! Sketch comedy is far from dead. It is  in fact the greatest thing ever. Not that I’m swayed in any way by the fact that me, Tom and Andy have finally got round to getting a sketch show based on our popular podcast written. Gigs will be announced soon so keep your eyes trained on the horizon. *advert style music*

Now where was I…

On Monday I was astonished to find a Catholic priest on my doorstep. Now if it had been twenty five years ago when I was still a practicing Catholic this wouldn’t have fazed me at all. Back in those days priests were always popping in and out, often without even knocking. They’d just burst in, probably trying to find somebody cracking one off or having a sinful thought.

My parents always seemed to except this and as a kid, I did too. However as a 37 year old, who only ever finds himself in a church for funerals,  it came as a bit of a shock. It felt like I’d been found out at last: discovered like a Nazi war criminal. They would drag me back and make me attend mass and in May I’d have to sit with my rosary beads saying my Hail Marys, arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Ahem, so I opened the door:

“Hello,” said I.

“Hello, are you Martin Wolfenden?”

“Yes Father.”

“I’m Father Steven, I used to be a priest in St Malachy’s parish and I think you were one of our parishioners.”

“Oh, well, yes but that’s going back a while.”

“Can I come in?”

“OK”

After commenting on the niceness of my cottage he told me that he had returned to Ireland in 1986 and a few months the call to visit the people of the parish he had tended so long. So I gave him my life story and then explained that I no longer had anything to do with Catholicism and explained that as a homo it’s difficult to follow a religion which vilifies me. He just said something like “we’re all gods’ children,” before thanking me for my time and leaving.

The thing is, I have no idea how it got my address. Perhaps the Vatican have a version of MI6 who track down lapsed Catholics or something. Well I’m happy not knowing; it was strange and I like strange.

Cold roast beef for tea.

Crowds and Papists

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