I went looking for God a while back. Not in that sexy teenage Baha’i, Buddhist or Krishna way. No eastern scents or yoga bendy young ones, no, this was a sweaty “no shit Sherlock, Oh fuck what are we here for” type of way. I hate looking for things, it’s a constant source of friction between my own bendy not so young one and I, that when she looses her keys, WE end up looking for them. She looses lots of stuff because well, she has so much. I on the other hand, am content with little or nothing, and consequently have little to loose. So I’m not used to searching for shit, she’s quiet brilliant at finding things, intuitively going from room to crevice, bag to shelf and back to bag. She gets the kids involved too, and in no time the missing keys are located. But I remain tense, not able to let go of the logical “did you ring the bell or open the door” , and cerebrally tracing her typical movements.
So this search thing for the Big Guy was always going to be a head wrecker. I was sorta scared at the time, thinking that I’d gone too far and knew we were all out of fatted calves and sacrificial lambs. I needed help. The lads in the pub were, typically, no help, they had never lost God and also were no longer in relationships, so were useless at searching for stuff. I was thinking though, that they might know someone, someone holy and pious and welcoming but not a paedophile. We ordered another pint and spoke about Munster’s chances with Dougie Howlitt and I mentioned that it would be better if we’d signed John Eales the Auzzie captain, nicknamed Nobody.
Cause Nobody’s perfect.
We drank our pints and Goat remembered the guy with the funny trancy eyes like Ian Curtis and occasionally Paul Hewson, Morris. Morris used to be a non-paedophile priest but drifted into a Rock& Roll lifestyle, of which the Bish became jealous and gave him the heavenly heave ho.
You reckon Morris is the man to help me find God, so.
Well any port in storm, best worst and all that.
So I finished my pint and went looking for Morris. I called over to his gaff later and we had a séance, bible reading in his front room, and he did the trancy eyes thing and it made me feel spiritual, so much so that I bought my own St James’s version of the good book. But the writing was very small and the stories, frankly, were a little disturbing and scary. But I liked the trancy eyes and let him read instead. We talked about good worshipping places and reckoned the Dominicans were probably the best option, monks and statues and weekly incense. And there was a girl playing wonderful harp music and another with the voice of an angel. And one of the monks had long Jesus hair and, you’ve guessed it, trancy eyes.
I was happy with this set-up and went back three times for more. I’ve not able to do the communion thing though. Not since I was a hormonal twelve and not receiving the host in a good way. You see this was always the best part of mass, the gals would queue up along the aisles and my eyes would drop leerily to the holy McNamara sister’s bums. I once gave the older gal a bar on my bike and I’m not right since. But neither of their nethers turned up at the Dominicans on any of the three occasions I attended, but I held off on the communion lark waiting and hoping.
So no bums and no God either, the monks started to frighten me with hell and resurrection stories, so I went back looking for Morris. And this is where this part of the journey ends. You see his trancy eyes were quite livid that his girlfriend (and mother to this two kids) had intercepted his sex texting with some other bendy young one and was frantic in a spiritual shitting himself way. That evening, as I tried to calm him, I was on the side of the Angels but knew that my search for God had stalled.
So I went for pint and met the lads, telling them the story only to be told that ,
Sure I always thought your man was barking mad.
Thanks lads, thanks.