At this time of year a youngish man’s fancy turns to matters
spiritual.
I’m not just talking rum and black shoepolish, which Blue and I
had belatedly put on our list of 1997 New Year’s resolutions for drinking
over Christmas.
My most recent great moment of spiritual clarity – claret being Blue's
and my tipple at the time – is but a few nights gone, along with another
23 zillion brain cells. But the big question that popped into me head as
we tapped our seventh and last cask has stayed with me, proving I must have
at least one brain cell left.
And I’ll put the same big question to you, true league fan, that I
put to Blue as we poured that supurb Golden Gate liquid into our chipped
metal mugs: “Do you reckon a team has a better chance of winning if
the coach prays?”
Blue - on claret nine at the time, which may or may not be significant -
replied; “You know, I have never been keen on a player-coach, Bash.”
I hastened to sort out Blue’s hearing prob. “Prays not plays,
Blue. As in praying mantis, the insect, not playing masturbator, the captain-coach.”
Blue pushed his bottom lip forward to get his head around it. “You
ever known a coach who prayed, Bash," he finally asked.
I remembered one.
“Mousey. Yeah, Mousey. Nine times out of ten when we were down at half
time, Mousey would spray us with "Jesus Fucking Christ, what the hell
have I done to deserve this lot".
Blue reckoned that might technically constitute praying but was not in the
spirit of prayer. Before he could get started on a philosophical lecture
I switched sports.
“What about Dazza Beadman, the jockey? He prays and rides a lot of
winners.”
Blue conceded the point, but voiced a concern: “You found God or something,
Bash?”
“Well, no, Blue. Well, yeah, sort of."
As I let that sink in, we both fidgeted instinctively in our pockets for
spare coins. The seventh cask was quickly coming to an end, and it seemed
silly to declare a light drinking session over when such important matters
of state were being discussed.
We had $7 between us - just enough for two more casks. Which in some ways
was good 'cos there was no sense getting too pissed what with the fested
season's celebrations just around the corner.
"It’s like this, Blue. Darren Beadman’s giving up riding
the ponies for full bore God-bothering. Right?”
“Right,” Blue agreed: “Giving up the unholy bookies for the
Holy Book, you might say.
"And he’s converted you, Bash? I knew you backing Beadman on Saintly
in the Melbourne Cup would come to no good.”
“Just hold your racehorses, Blue. What I was gunna say was that everyone
reckons that Dazza’s crazy for giving up all that racing loot. But,
Blue, I ask you, isn’t there a decent quid in religion.?”
Blue agreed.
“And tax deductions” I added. Blue agreed again. I was just warming
up. Claret does that to a man.
“And the roots, Blue. When John Howard had a go at the clergy, he should
have added: and you’re getting more leg-overs than us politicians,
too.." All Blue could do was nod agreement.
So I put it to Blue - and, you true league fans can get in on the ground
floor on this one - that him and me set up our own church.
Blue was sceptical, but I expected a lot of unbelievers at first. It was
my job to convert him and many others.
Blue stopped smirking long enough to ask: “What are we going to call
this church , Bash?”
Well, of course I had seen the answer in a vision.: “The Church of
the Latter Day Sluts.”
Blue reckoned I had pinched the monicker. “Like the Mormons.. only
sluts instead of saints?”
“Exactly, “ I agreed; “It’s about time the good work,
nay, the holy work - see I’ve got a flair for preaching - of sluts
was universally recognized.”
Blue quibbled: "But the full title of the Mormons is the Church of
Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. You gotta have some top God for a
Church - Christianity, Mohammedanism, Confucianism and so on all have figureheads
- though some say Confucianism is not a religion.”
“Look, don’t worry about all the nuts and bolts, Blue. They will
come to me. Hang on, what was the name of that tart who washed JC's feet.?
“Mary Magdeline,” Blue delivered. Once a choir boy, always a queer
boy.
“That’s it, Blue. The Church of Mary Magdeline of the Latter Day
Sluts.”
“But she gave up hooking, Bash.”
“Nah, Blue. Just a bit of passing remorse. How many Saturday mornings
have we sworn off the piss?
"That Mary what’sername woulda woken up to herself and never washed
another John’s feet for nothing.
"As far as our church is concerned she is our Slut of Sluts. Sluta
Slutori or something like that we will call her.”
Blue was as obstinate as I imagine many who will go on to do good work in
our church will be at the beginning of their awakening.
“I can’t see you getting tax deductions.” he said. “I
can’t see them letting you into the Telecom white pages. The best you
can hope is that Amanda Vanstone says in Parliament is that you are a disgusting
sexual pervert who should be put down.”
“You know Blue, even though Padre Brown will be boss preacher, I’ll
need someone with a Big Brain to head my committee to see if Latter Day
Women can be raised to Sluthood in our Church.”
I detected in Blue a spiritual awakening.
“I will write a letter tomorrow telling Amanda Vanstone about this
disgusting new church,” he vowed.
My work that night was done. I amused myself for the next couple of hours
with minor miracles - such as turning alcohol into urine.
See you in church soon, hopefully mine.
Cop-u-lata
The Bash.
