Sunday, August 22, 2004


(NOTE - yes, it's some more ancient BTi Mark 1 shit. I'm amazed this stuff is still floating around on Google caches in cyberspace! This was the original thing about being an altar boy - apologies, as it's since been re-written, albeit slightly less pretentiously, in 2006)

May Procession, 1990

Mushroom clouds to the left of me, icons to the right : Father Corkery's idea of the Catholic church was as a white power front, dedicated to defending West Hendon and Burnt Oak from Islam, Judaism and Voodoo. Rommel in a frock, holy rosary beads wrapped tight round two boxes of B&H, stuffed into a spitrag. Walking round in the rain, chaperoning the guilt parade. Me in a blue dress, bringing up the rear, altar boy untouchables. Girl guides in white sox, wet dirt blotch watermarks creeping up their ankles, busting out of trainer bras into damp blue starched shirts. God watches over his flock but, Jesus Mary and Joseph, he didn't mind drenching the fuckers at the same time.

Fr Corkery doubling over, a sneer at the congregation, AH GO ON, I'LL BE INSIDE SHORTLY, LET ME CATCH ME BREATH. 55 years of rattling coffins and purging spooks, now tucked round the church car park, lighting up, red blistered face puffing away.

Strolling round the church, a bunch of sissies waving candles behind me, gripping the crucifix. A long brass pole with the cross wobbling on top, tilted at an angle. SOUL OF MY SAVIOUR, SANCTIFY MY BREAST. Eyes on me. No priest in sight. Oh Lord, please don't fall off the pole. Don't clatter down on the floor and bring me bad luck, don't make everyone turn around and stare at me in disgust. Couldn't even carry our saviour one lap round. Make the statues weep blood, the roof cave in. I can't remember being baptised, but I reckon the devil pissed in the font minutes before I was dunked. Don't fall off. The cross, swinging freely with every step,90 degree spins. No Corkery, still outside, lighting the third off the second.
Second lap. Organist strikes up the theme from Rocky. Now it's seconds before the cross comes off the pole. Corkery staggering in. Round and round the reality asylum. Andrea ** ********* sitting with her lazy-arse parents, a garish orange dress, black hat. Nervous gimps in altar boy smocks avoiding her Medusa glare. A teenage Borgia transplanted in North West London, from the land of rubber pasta and brick wall scooterboy fascism. Lower the pole over her shoulders, dub her and knight her. Stained glass porn. The cross stays on. Fuck me, that was close.

Corkery on his Sunday rant. Flapping his fins, lecturing again, let us pray for our misguided Jewish neighbours in Golders Green. A FRIEND OF MINE SENT ME SOME NEWSPAPER FOR ME ATTENTION....piss-weak light filtered through unclean windows, casts a glint on the sweaty scabhead, snot-smeared '40s spectacles, bulge of the cancer sticks from under cassock. From broken cross, locusts. DON'T BUY IT! THERE'S NO 'SPORT' IN THAT RAG....warm orange fuzz silhouettes, fist banging on pulpit, microphone feedback squeal. Fr Corkery casting himself like raging fallout over the gig-goers. Shards, fragments and totems of Fr Corkery. Fr Corkery in the confessional box, flicking through the Racing Times, doling out Hail MArys like welfare cheques. Fr Corkery on the organ, droning away, incense pouring from an open gob, exorcising the shell. Keep the juju man away. Black babies with fangs and singed wings haunt his dreams. Fr Corkery breaking the seal of the seventh packet, copping a load of a blonde girl guide, quaint memories of orphan clusters and sin cells, stink schools and belt buckle on ruptured arse cheek. JUST FILTH! THEY CALL THESE THINGS 'MARITAL AIDS'...I'D LIKE TO SEE THE MARRIAGE THEY 'AID'! There's spectres in the sink, ma! Lop 'em off! Andrea looks at me and through her curly world serpent hair, I'm exposed - a ponce in a frock with a wobbly cross. The Triumph of the Word Made Flesh.

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