the sky is an ocean

sedition

Found a bit in the Bible that thrilled me.
It was Saint Paul having a row with a chap called Barnabas.
They fell out so badly that they had to part company.
An ordinary little account.
That's how it ends.
The friends part.
Now Saint Paul had experienced a humdinger of a miracle in his own conversion. Himself and Barnabas had risked their lives together on countless occasions. They'd witnessed wonders and even by the grace of God performed wonders.
Yet at this moment, they couldn't abide each other.
They had to go their separate ways.
The story is recorded in the supposedly 2000 year old writings, right there in the middle of the wonders.
I found this absolutely marvellous.
It touched me as surely as any miracle story.
One of my most persistent doubts about the truth of God has always been that we believers often seem so insufferable.
Tonight I was pleased beyond measure to read that Saint Paul and his pal Barnabas had encountered the exact same feeling 2000 years ago.
Yes, reading this was as good as reading about any miracle.
And the most seditious thing in the Christian religion, the most seditious thing particularly for those of us who have thought ourselves believers for many years, the most seditious thing remains...
It's all true.

the divine what

Driving along the open road to South Kildare.
Esmerelda the car rattling merrily in robust mechanical good health.
The Mammy in the passenger seat savouring the divine afflatus of Autumn and engine noise over the heartland.
"You know," sez she conversationally, "there's a great new reality TV show starting tonight. It's a sort of talent competition for school children who want to be variety performers. You could go in for that. You could dress up as a school kid and pretend you're about fifteen years old. I'd say you'd be great."
The car swerves violently.
I cannot abide reality TV or the mention thereof.
Worse still is a mention thereof that involves me.
"You know our agreement Lil," sez I. "If you mention reality TV, I get to do my girl singers parody."
Parody?
More of a homage really.
In fact it's my own personal tribute to the young women currently being exploited by the record industry.
A tribute to the good ones anyway.
Let me put it this way.
Rarely does the factory hot house of popular music manage to churn out a single genuine talent, let alone three genuine talents at the same time, as has happened at the moment.
And so I sang.
My voice was melodic, sensual, urban, vaguely cockney.
At least it was, if you're Irish.
My cockney accent is convincing for an Irish audience.
Cor blimey guv, and all that.
If you're English it would be more true to say I sounded like a Billy O'Leary leprechaun on drugs.
And so I sang:
"I wish,
oh I wish I could take Amy Winehouse to a parrrrrty,
But I caunnnnt.
And I wish,
oh I wish I could bring Lily Allen on holidayyyyyy,
But I caunnnnnnnnt.
And I really wish,
yes I really wish, I could maaaaaaaaaaaarry Kate Nash
But I caunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnt."
When I had finished this sublime outpouring, the Mammy eyed me owlishly.
"I promise," sez she, "I'll never mention reality television again."

the chairman of tails