Paul Penney shuffled in his pocket for some change. He was skint. Capitalism nowadays is a load of balls, he thought. So the richest 1% feast at the trough while the rest of us normal folk live off of austerity scraps? Yeah that’s fair….NOT Paul Penney was childish, but he was also an intellectual. He had grandiose ambitions of writing a ferocious critique of the corrupt, capitalist system—how it was not only unjust, but inherently unjust and unfair. But he can’t. His idea was, for now, on the back burner. See, Paul Penney doesn’t have a home to go to. Well he does, but it isn’t a mansion. He doesn't have the composite materials to write such a challenging piece. He could go to the shop and get some stationary, but that would cost money. Everything costs money. How ironic, he thinks. Finding the means to fight capitalism one has to engage in the practicalities of capitalism. Paul finds himself in the dole office, which he feels is full of plebs, as usual. Paul does not like plebs. Politically speaking, he is decidedly anti-pleb. I don’t belong here with these dregs, he mused to himself. Television shows and fleeting mad thoughts about his life-situation merge together in quasi-humorous combinations. “I’m a tortured genius get me out of here!” “Who wants to be unemployed?” And so on. What if he were to act though? He could only dream. All this causes him terrible worry. So much uncertainty: about jobs, about lifestyles, about the future. Specifically he’s worried that to denounce capitalism he could effectively kiss his chance of a good career in the financial sector goodbye. Jobs are always hard to come by. Ruling out a whole sector would just make it even worse. It’s all about widening his options, not shortening his job prospects to any one, specific market. Basic common sense. A risky business indeed, but all businesses were risky, even personal ones. It was what everybody aspired to. You know the free market and all the rest? They say through business and the free market cometh innovation. Paul Penney could extract this simple maxim and apply it to himself. Innovation of the mind, becoming a true leader, expressing that which cannot be expressed by the uneducated - like Comrade Stalin. He sits down in the dole office feeling like a big lemon. He sees his regular acquaintance, Peter Pound, come in through the door and sit down a couple of spaces in front. He strikes up a conversation. “Peter! How’s your mother?” “Not too bad, Paul” “Is your Da still workin?” “Eh…Naw...He’s dead Paul.” “Oh right, sorry about that. At least when one person leaves the world that frees up some space for the rest of us, eh?” “Giving all the jobs to the foreigners these days...” said Peter. “Our chances are slim in this environment” Paul was sympathetic to his friend. He grunted in tacit agreement. He was a xenophobe. And as though the same thoughts and worries flitted telepathically from the minds of those in hardship, Peter Pound mused on his life situation. Capitalism is a load of balls, he thought. But what kin ye do? Propaganda always wins anyway. Peter like Paul intended writing a ferocious critique on inequality. But he felt he could write the most legendary thing, a herald of objective truth, and it could always be nullified by a counter-point of lies; something ridiculous, but logical—plausible even—that would lie in the minds of readers who try to find the truth, but whose head is cluttered with the lies that grapples with it. And Peter’s piece would be pointless then, fading into obscurity on some anonymous blog buried deep in the depths of a vast internet; found only by low-lives like Peter and Paul with too much time on their hands, who couldn’t do anything even if they wanted to. “Such a struggle, Paul, isn’t it?” “It is surely, my friend” “Insurmountable even?” “Oh yes I would say so indeed” The inexorable shift of the queue to be seen continued unabated. Those that make up the human conveyor belt look around themselves in idle boredom. Some are impatient, fiddling with their forms that contain the all-important details that make up their life: their name, date of birth, age and qualifications. For many, the qualifications are blank. To translate, that means they’re more fucked than the average desperado. Paul is staring at the back of the head of Peter, and just in front of Peter sits a man known as David Tennent – known to his close circle of friends as David “The Tenner” Tennant. While these men were strangers it wouldn’t take a genius to work out they had more in common than their collective unemployment. Their surnames mocked them daily, and were an acute source of pain when contemplated in conjunction with their empty bank accounts. Because if you add a penny, a pound and a tenner together what do you get? Not fuckin’ much in today’s inflated society, let me tell ye...
Earthworm Jim, a legend of the Sega glory days, is half-man, half-worm. He is able to physically berate his enemies with his very own detachable worm-head. It makes a sound like WATISSH, which is followed by a seamless placing of his slithery head back between his shoulders. As a worm, earthworm Jim like all worms enjoys frolicking in the soil when he is not fighting crime. If I were earthworm Jim I would have no problem in the dates department. I’d be like, “I’m earthworm Jim, pleased to meet you.” I’d take the lady in question to a fancy restaurant where we’d get to know one another. The shine of her eyes would meet my own protruding worm-globes and there’d be some sparkle of chemistry. -You’re such a beautiful invertebrate, do you know that? I’d say, a glint in my eye. And she’d respond with a slight blush of her hair behind her left ear as the waiter hands us over our menus. -No need, garcon, I’d tell him confidently. The lady will be having soil this evening. -And anything to drink, sir? -No. We worms regulate our heat by staying moist all over our bodies. -Okay, the waiter’d say. Later on she’d be moist, if you know what I mean.
(I would really love it if people played the instrumental version of this song and sang the lyrics loud and proud karaoke style...BE PROUD AND SHOW SOLIDARITY TO ALL SERIAL KILLERS, PAST AND PRESENT AROUND THE WORLD) Verse 1 I keep a close watch on this girl of mine I keep my eyes wide open all the time I keep the wrists tied for the rope that binds Because you're mine, you wretched swine Verse 2 I find it very very easy to be cruel I find myself alone when each day is through Yes I'll admit that I'm a tool to you Because you're mine, you wretched swine. Verse 3 As sure is night is dark and Johnny's dead I keep your hands and legs tied on the bed I keep the wrists tied for the ropes that bind Because you're mine, you wretched swine Verse 4 You've got to beg to keep me on your side You give me cheek for rage that I can't hide For you I know I'd try to twist the knife Because your mine, you wretched swine
There’s this morbidly obese girl on this music video. She’s only in the video to mime the lyrics and act as an implicit source of ridicule. So we can laugh at her and say, “Agh look at how fat she is!” I switch channel. Cheryl Cole’s on it. She’s pulling a very serious face in the middle of her sassy, laden-with-attitude dance routine. I imagine the morbidly obese girl’s face as transplanted onto Cheryl’s body; her entire torso begins to balloon like a juice-filled blueberry. Buttons pop, the waist expands. The dance routine continues but now she’s laboured and out of breath. “Agh, look at how fat she is!” This is my life. I’m reduced to someone who flicks through music channels. I push the buttons in a sort of zombified state. I have a tendency to comment on all the videos that I see, such as denouncing shite lyrics as commercialised waffle, or lusting after all the symmetrical faces of sexy women who I’ll never meet nor know. I pull my plums when it gets too much. And then afterwards I worry about my testosterone levels. Some time later In the gym I’m really pushing myself on the treadmill. The pursuit of “bettering yourself”, as one might say, but for all I know by losing fat I could only be revealing a deeper layer of ugliness. With lost weight it is likely the face will become more sunken in, the skin pasting itself to an unruly, misshapen cartilage. All my harboured fat stripped away like a sculptor chips away at a lump of stone to reveal his 'vision'. Beauty is not skin deep. Beauty is...subject to narcotics and beer goggles.
Am I saying anything? Yes, I’m sure you’re saying something. What is it, then? What I’m saying. Oh, well, I wouldn’t be too confident on the substance. Yes, neither would I. It was inquisitive if that’s what you mean. Oh? Yes. Very adversarial. The last thing I’d want is for you to think I’m being hostile. Oh no, not at all. It’s good that we can discuss these things. Flesh out the issues. Yes. Of course. I’ve been troubled by what occupies my thoughts these days. Why, what’s wrong? That’s the point. I’m troubled with it. Not to worry. It could just be one of those times where there’s very little which can be defined; it’ll soon pass. Life can be so weird, can’t it? Absolutely. Full of idiosyncrasies. A magical wealth of stuff for the imagination. Well I don’t know about you but I don’t have much imagination, I’m afraid. They don’t teach you imagination in school. That’s a shame. I look at normal things and use my imagination all the time. It’s easy. Can you teach me? It’s a sort of gift. Like the other day when I looked at a washing machine it swallowed me whole. Wow. That’s amazing. Yes. I could be taking a shower and I’d imagine myself being sucked right up into the shower head, warped through a single dispenser. I’d find myself sliding down the big tube, mixing with all the shite and waste that people dump through their sinks and, voila, eventually I’d find myself at a cleaning plant. That could be a metaphor. Really? Yes. It could be your mind indulging in escapism. By God. That’s what’s been troubling me! And how do you feel now? I dunno. I can’t put it into words. I thought you said you had imagination? Well, go on. Use it. Okay, hold on…I feel good. Yes. Good. Relieved? Yes. It’s good that you feel good. Very positive. It’s not that I was feeling negative before. Just a bit perplexed, you know? I was sure I got that vibe from you. I’m glad it’s gone, now. But when one issue goes away, it’s always the case that another one arises, you know? Why do you say that? From experience. I sense there’ll be something around the corner, waiting to bite me in the arse. I can feel it. Can you see it? No. Just feel it. That could be a metaphor. Really? Yes. It could be your mind indulging in paranoia. By God. That’s what’s been troubling me! And how do you feel now? Just the same. You’re quite the observationist you know. Thank you. I prefer to see myself as a perspicacious individual. By God what a fantastic word. What does it mean? It doesn’t matter what it means. What matters is that it’s got four syllables. You’re quite the antidisestablishmentarian for saying that. Shut up (pause) That makes zero sense. Sorry. So what is it you think I could be afraid of? I can’t say with pure confidence. Fear comes in many variables; there are an infinite number of contexts in which it arises, external events and the level to which the individual concerned interprets his own reality--all of which have a bearing on his level of fear. Like cause and effect? Yes. Exactly. Well I’m stumped if I know what the cause is. If you ask me the cause is irrelevant. What matters is you are. Would you agree? Yes. I suppose my whole life I’ve been quite agreeable. Maybe that’s your problem. You need to learn how to say no. You think so? Yes. Just… Say…No. Sounds like a coherent strategy. It’s merely the opposite of saying yes all the time. It’s very simple when you think about it. It probably won’t work then. If I had problems saying yes a lot most likely I’ll have problems saying no a lot. Maybe you should meet in the middle. Compromise. That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it? Consensus. Compromise. Wait. How will I know when to say yes, and when to say no? I can’t possibly work it out in the heat of the moment. Can I delegate responsibility to you? No. you need to make your own decisions.
The criteria for winning the prestigious Franz Kafka award includes the artwork's "humanistic character and contribution to cultural, national, language and religious tolerance, its existential, timeless character, its generally human validity and its ability to hand over a testimony about our times.” “Get a load of these syllables...” I say to Kim Kardashian as we sit sipping Cristal on our private Jet. Kim has massive knockers which I refer to as her "dirty pillows." I smother my misshapen head deep into her cleavage whenever I'm feeling lonely. Some day I'll win the Franz Kafka award, I tell Kim, but Kim doesn't care. She sits and reads a magazine, flicking aimlessly through the glossy pages. "I'll write about our experiences..." I tell Kim, hopefully. I take a sip from the long flute of Cristal and it wets my lips. "You remember that time we went to the beach? A testimony of our times...An incisive testament to the human condition...Kim, are you there Kim? Are you even listening?" Kim is oblivious, her head is in the sands of the magazine. She never really was a fan of the arts...However, she did say to me one time that she likes Kanye West's music, but that doesn't really count, does it?
Tony Montana’s overweight cousin is sat at the dinner table drunk and surrounded by his colleagues. -YOU NEED PEOPLE LIKE ME, he slurs drunkenly, getting up from the table. The rest of the restaurant’s clientele are uncomfortably alarmed at the scene. Tony Montana’s overweight cousin has promptly taken a big shit on their atmosphere. An atmosphere which they, as customers of such a fine and reputable establishment, could feasibly claim proprietary ownership to. Beforehand the atmosphere had a wistful quality, a sort of breezy “Ooh, this is lovely, isn’t it?” as people waited for their meals. Now the airwaves were polluted. -YOU NEED PEOPLE LIKE ME...So you can POINT your fuckin' fingers and say, “Dat’s da fat guy.” Tony Montana’s overweight cousin is now being restrained by his gangster colleagues who are trying to limit the disruptiveness of this embarrassing scene. His belly is lying out. -I always tell the truth...even when I consume calories, he adds, picking up a piece of chicken from a stranger’s plate and eating it. -SO SAY GOOD NIGHT TO DA FAT GUY he says, as he’s ushered out by his mates and sycophants.
I'm confused. This may not even be a conundrum of emotion but a problem of language. I don’t trust words. If you know what I mean I don’t know what they mean, is what I'm saying. Say one thing, mean another. Take subtext, euphemisms, or hyperbole, for example. Treacherous bastards! Some words are insidious, being held ransom to nuance and qualified language, creating spin and propaganda...Why complicate the matter. We should trim the weight of the English dictionary, tell it to lose some extra poundage. I’m going by what somebody else told me in a mythical chain of learning and perpetual knowledge-sharing, the 'meaning' surreptitiously seeping into my mindset over time through practice and repetition. This meaning is either concurred by others or its erroneous elements are pointed out. And in the event of any dispute, what do you do? Check the dictionary. But what if the dictionary men were fraudsters, a secret clandestine conspiracy imprisoning us within some structural quagmire, hm? Well that's preposterous, of course, because how could I even communicate this if that were the case? But what if... What I need to do is create a whole new language for myself, not gobbledegook but something else that sounds quirky. I'll strip it back so much it won't even be a language at all. I'll communicate through baby-gurgles and pointing. My voice will rise and fluctuate according to, not 'anger', but something else. There is no such thing as 'anger' in this new language of mine. On paper it can only be described as UUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, and its sure-sign is a look of worry on my face. No. that can't be right. There's no such thing as 'worry' in my new language either, for I have discarded that word and all its synonyms. Thereafter emotion and mental states can only be scientifically observed through looking at the shape of the eyebrows and the mouth, the holistic expression on the face of the subject. Such things can't be described either, such as the aforementioned eyebrows or the mouth or anything than can be scientifically observed in the ordinary sense of the 'word'. HA!...The word...The whole lexicon of words disintegrates into a cavernous bowl of word-soup, where letters and sentences swirl around and bash aimlessly into one another in the synapses of the brain which is no longer called a brain. You can do what you like with these letters. In fact, make up your own letters which is beyond the remit of this keyboard I'm sad to say. Everything that was once called something is now nameless, no labels, no signposts, no nothing but 'existence' which is not called existence. You know you 'exist' but you can't describe it in terms of 'knowledge', you can't demonstrate anything through lack of labels and a common understanding. You withdraw within yourself, therefore, a champion of the hermetic lifestyle. An ascetic monk. The only thing I know is I know is I know nothing. Who said that, does it matter? External is internal, you implode within yourself like a black hole which is not a black hole. It's a catch-22 in this world, and communication becomes a 'noise' of sorts whose existence whichever way you look at it, is difficult to deceive for you have eyes and you have ears but you can't say for sure because you can't describe anything. That said, become a firm believer in the philosophy of 'keeping it simple', for if you keep it simple one can never go wrong, misunderstanding will be minimised when no words or intentions cross the mysterious pathway between human minds, across the airwaves which are not airwaves. What a world that would be. ...Do you know what I'm saying? ...Do you? ...Well, perhaps I've been looking too much into it. Perhaps I'm a bit mental. What if in actuality what I’m writing right now really does not mean what I thought it meant? My God, the panic of such an idea plunges into my chest, right through my chest plate like an eight inch knife. It is immediate, and threatening, stuck there like a door-stopper. There is something in my mind, I can sense it. It may be an intruder, or a disease. I can't shoo him away with a brush, for he's made it very clear he's here for the long haul. A conscientious objector to my bullshit. My reason. He might leave me some day in old age when I have dementia, the separation between the two of us the annulment of a marriage which spanned generations. But who really knows the score about anything these days. And that is the edgy gospel according to...—what am I? Who am I? Who? What? Where? Horton heard a what? I’m clueless, I’m free, I’m not wise, I’m trapped, I’m bored, I’m satisfied. Ah life! So beautiful and ugly. Is that a paradox or am I just paranoid?
I find it tricky to talk seriously about life with written-down words. I hate the fact they may come across as tacky, melodramatic, and over-blown. Maybe that’s the Irishness in me…A habit to shy away from soppy emotions unless you’re drunk and uninhibited. But that’s not to say that I don’t try to make sense of things. I cling to a nonchalant hope that circumstances eventually become easier to understand. With more experience in life, let’s say. It almost seems futile to try to figure out why things happen. I feel this thing pulsing in my chest and I don’t know what it is. I know it’s some emotion or other, although I wouldn’t be able to say which one. It could be a sensitivity of sorts, particularly for useless things that I see in people and the world in which I find myself in. I wouldn’t call myself a writer if it was any different. I like watching people go about their daily business; thinking of minds separate from my own that’s peppered with thoughts I’ve never had. I know they entertain elements which are entirely unique and peculiar to them. That fascinates me; that although people share similarities there’s always at least one thing, particular to them, maybe even something that they’ve never shared with anyone. I wouldn’t say that everyone’s special; some people, I think, are quite mundane. But I do think of special people out there. I imagine what they might be thinking. And it’s all got a kind of great beauty to it that I can’t get my head round. What they want out of life is likely to be different from me. Maybe they go through periods of little pre-occupation when they’re going about their business, thinking about only where they’re headed from point A to B. They live in the moment, sort of like a dog does, and they’re happy all the more for it because they’re not constantly self-aware. Then there's ambition. You have it or you don't. Throw that into the mix. This is something that on occasion threatens to overwhelm me. A lot of people seem to be pulling in a certain direction in their life, they know exactly where they’re headed and they’re bounding for it. Me, I’m not so sure. When I finish university in a couple of weeks I’ll be thrown into the same hodgepodge of expectations as everyone else: get a job, whatever it is, and get on with the business of working for a living. But what job? There's doing what I love, reading and writing, but that’s hardly a comforting indicator of financial security. If anything it’s a sure-fire ticket to poverty. It’s an old conflict that I know I’ll have to deal with in the course of my life. I can see it, it's ominous. I’ll have to “grow up”, as they say. And so the pressures come to act in a cycle: I may go with the flow, like other people, accept the fate which lies before me. I get the job, whatever that job is, and fit myself into the mechanized routine of life, like everyone else. But then I think of all those people, past and present, who’ve had the conviction to do what they wanted. To take it. Grab it. That leaves me with a choice: do I become one of those people who had the guts to pursue something that they love; something which makes them happy. Or am I one of those people who will placidly accept a beaten path, one pre-determined, one which makes them unfulfilled, underachieved, unthinking; ultimately…unhappy? I worry about a job that’ll sap my soul so that when I come home in the evenings I don’t have the energy to do what I love: that is, to write and read. I could live that life...but what would be the point? I'm no different from anyone in that I've some important choices to make.
The most boring cliche that exists in music today hands down, with Will.i.am and Britney Spears the latest culprit to offend my sensibilities. Their song, 'scream and shout', holds the record in my opinion for the song that has made the greatest endeavour in the pursuit of remoulding music exclusively in the shape of lukewarm diarrhoea. In fact, they might just have achieved it with this one. Listening to this song not only offends me, but when I turn the channel over to it I almost feel complicit in that I've connected some sort of sluice which allows sewage to seep through my speakers and into my living room. And the only one responsible for this mess is me, when I didn't turn it over. I sort of watch it in a catatonic state, blinking only occasionally, wondering whether Britney Spears is actually a lizard dressed in a costume of Britney Spears. I honestly believe Will.i.am could get some recording equipment, hover over a toilet bowl, and fart into the equipment for three minutes solid and release it as a song. Hell, it would probably reach number one in the UK. Running 'in the club' a close second in terms of mind-numbingly stupid lyrics is telling the DJ to turn it up. There are previous offenders too many to mention that have graced the charts with this lyric. Sometimes it comes in variations, as in the aforementioned Britney Spears monstrosity where she implores the DJ, in a bizarre British accent, to 'turn that shiiiit up'. No we will not turn it up Britney because the DJ clearly has it up full to eleven and it simply does not go any higher...You might blow the speakers you insatiable party-head, you. Pitbull gets a notable mention for snippets of lyrical genius that continue in much the same vein. He is a great champion of being on the floor, repeating the word 'party', and of just being a general pleb. No more needs to be said, other than that he uttered the timeless phrase where he went from 'negative to positive' fifteen years after Notorious B.I.G. Chris Brown and ne-yo also get a mention. Telling the DJ to 'not stop/don't stop' is encouraging the DJ to break the law unless 'the club' has a late license fee. They probably don't in which case the bar should close, the party is over, and the bouncers should promptly boot every single drunken cretin out of the club before everybody starts fightin. That's how it works in Ireland anyway. Let's not forget those little douche bags from One Direction with their maddeningly insincere lyrics like, 'You're insecure, don't know what fore' (Yea I'm sure they've met many girls with the old fabled ugly duckling complex, suuuuuureee) I just have to mention that slow song they sing that never fails to make me retch, the one about how they don't mind a girl with freckles on her face and about how they don't care how she can't squeeze into her jeans. These are lyrics from a bunch of hedonistic corporate man-children who single-handedly induced a craze about floppy hair and chinos. Now, come on. Are young girls really that dumb? I hope not. Of course I know this is pop music. I know that many of these tracks are intended, funnily enough, for either being played 'in the club', or are aimed at a specific demographic of which I don't fall into (Like fourteen year old little girls) But would it be controversial to say that chart music is more creatively bankrupt now than it's ever been? ....If so, THE WORLD IS FOOKED. Cultural dark age and all that garb.
I sit down to write. Over the next five hundred words I produce the most god-awful tripe ever put to paper. Cliches. Check. Boring descriptions. Check. Reptition. You get the point... A deflated sigh comes out of me. I will the page to give me some feedback. My characters don't say anything. 'Speak to me', I say. 'Give me some literary criticism.' They don't. I'm thinking, these one dimensional beings, they're too servile. What's the matter with them? Do they not have their own opinions? 'We don't, boss' they say, '...Funnily enough our opinions correspond to your ideas of how we should be' 'What are my ideas?' I ask, sheepishly. 'Terrible ones'. 'Oh. What else?' 'Plagiarised ones.' 'Bollocks. What else?' 'Stereotypical ones' 'Okay, Okay...' I say, 'I asked you for some feedback. I didn't ask you to rip my heart out' 'Sorry, Boss.' I get them to call me 'boss' because I'm an egomaniac on a power trip. This fictional fantasy is the only chance I get to wield life or death on a whimsy. One of the perks of the job. 'Elaborate on my terrible writing' I say. 'Hi...Boss, can I ask you something?' The token black character says. 'Yes, Jermaine...Go ahead.' 'Why is my name Jermaine? Why am I black? Why can I not have white skin like the others?' I thought I was going for something risqué with this guy, but he came out...Too ordinary, like the others, I realised. 'Shut up Jermaine. You're Jermaine because I said you're Jermaine...Plus I couldn't think of anything else to call you'. 'Oh'. Most literary characters do the author's will without question, in a world of total subservience. Mine at a little prodding start to rebel against me. The leader, a middle-aged professor pipes up. He was in the story because I felt he would give me a license to go on some pesudo-intellectual rants. I was wrong. Never did I guess he would backstab me in a character revolution. 'We've decided we're going to make a few changes around here Boss...' 'I'm open to suggestions...' I say, reasonably. 'Okay. we've convened a meeting. Here are our conclusions: 1.) No more calling you boss. We are not your slaves you know. 2.) No more god-awful adverbs. They offend our sensibilities. 3.) No more telling versus showing. How amateurish. If we're to perform for you, we want to be excited. Titillated. We want to give the reader a show he'll never forget 4.) No more placing us in unlikely situations against our consent. Children under the age of 16 will now be exempt from the story as they will now be attending school. 5.) Sunday is a day of rest. We refuse to work for you on a Sunday. 6.) Jermaine will now no longer have black skin. He will now be white. 7.) We suggest you do some research. We have no time for factual inconsistencies. 8.) Violence is to be kept to a minimum. There is enough violence in today's world. Not to mention it hurts too much. 9.) Ease up on the profanity. We are cultured individuals in this world. 10.) if you insist on having sex scenes in the story, we have decided that each character has the option of a stunt double. We recognise that not everyone will be keen to get their nipples out. 11.) In our story, we want to symbolise escapism for the reader, not reflect the miseries of their life. We suggest you keep it light. 12.) That is all.' 'HEAR HEAR' they shout, in unison. I'm shocked. I stare at the page. I don't know what to say back to them. But I get an idea. My hand hovers over certain things with the mouse. File. Open. Click story name. Right click. Delete. Do you want to permanently delete this? Yes Funnily enough I don't ever hear back from them, the cheeky bastards.
Religion has such dirty connotations these days doesn't it? Tainted with child abuse. And what I say to naysayers is that Jesus never molested anybody. I mean, why should he take all the flack? Why should he be punished for the sins of paedophile Priests? I think he was punished just about enough. Ask Mel Gibson. And what's more, he created the institutions; he laid the groundwork...What more do you feckin want? He took away our sins so that everyone, excluding paedophile priests, could be saved. They're excluded because they broke the contract, the bastards. They violated it. In fact, they violated everything they ever came near come to think of it. Things like trust, responsibility and little children. But hey, don't shoot the messenger.