Will all stand up and sing great hymn about songs of praises, songs of praises, is fucking Welsh but never mind. Could be worse, could be Jock. At least Taffy is good for going underground and fetch up coal for decent English master, but Jock is good for fuck all, and can't wipe even own ginger arse. All rise, innit. Only not cripples in wheelchair, can stay put or else fall over and smack head on pew but better still have a go and do singing, is only legs that's fucked and not voice. Heavenly Father - and Department of Work and Pension - can see who lead is swinging. Even cripple bastard. Sing loud and might get healed anyway and play part in economy, not that is any fucking jobs mind; is not fucking Lourdes but you never know your luck. And being crippled has nothing to lose anyway, certainly not use of legs. No point is to stay at home and sing Ru-u-bee, Don't Take Your Love To Town, like sorrowful, self-pitying arsehole. If mrs is going off with fit healthy bloke with big cock is just life, innit, is what you would do. No point sitting about drinking Special Brew and eating Valium, like Amy Shitehouse. Anyway, God special place has in Heart for disabled and cripples and spastic fucker, so if Mrs run off with Rastaman is all the more reason to come down church regular. God moves in mysterious ways, innit, only probably not in same ways as your Mrs.
All sit down now and have lesson. Lesson today is from Great Book Of Plumbing, chapter 1 verses 1 to 4, And lo did an plumber venture forth in an blue van replete with his tools, even unto an can of WD 40, the repairing of toilets that he might undertake among the people who were bone idle and sore afraid of toilet workings and great was the rejoicing in the Land that new tribes had come, the plumbing to do at an very reasonable price and not need an extra fucking mortgage and Lo, their homes were not any longer awash in icy water and shit and toilet roll and sanitary towel, yea, even unto us-ed condoms flooding down the stairs and unto the fitted carpet in the deceptively spacious entrance hall. This is the word of Lord.
All: Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Right, that's lesson dusted and done over with and welcome now to Brother Ian from our sister Church of Gordon, Presbyterian and Moral Compasseer, peace and blessings not be upon his name, who has message of tolerance brought to all his brother and sister in Christ. And Orange Order. Welcome Brother Ian.
THE REV. DR IAN PAISLEY DD (UNIV. OF ARMY & NAVY SURPLUS) MA (UNIV OF eBAY) AND WORSHIPFUL MASTER, THE LODGE OF THE SHANKILL ROAD BUTCHERS
Yous are all damned to Hell, yous heathen fucking Godless fucking bastards, yous are worse than fucking Papists so yous are, cavorting wi' the Divil himself. Is it not true that it says in the good book that if a man sticks his dick up another man's hole - just the once, even, and never you mind pushing it in and out, up and down, like it was a fiddler's fucking elbow - that he is an abomination in the sight of the Lord. Does it not say that very same thing in Holy Scripture? In the Book of Deuteronomy, Take Ye the sodomiting cocksucking filthy bastard and kick ye ten kinds of shit out from him and smite him with thine sword and then stone the filthy fucking bastard unto death, for I am an just and an mighty God, only I can't be having poofters Abiding With Me, or, indeed, each other. Amen. And what yous have done is only gone and fucking ordained an arse bandit as a minister in God's Holy Presbyterian Church and him as bold as brass living in the Manse with another brownhatter up to their Henry Halls in each other's dung, JesusMaryandJoseph, and then coming into the Kirk and preaching to the fucking congregation and probably not even washing his fucking hands, or his John Thomas, fuck me, and a good job we don't do any of that communuion bollocks or it'd be worse than a plague of fucking locusts, its enough to make a fucking saint swear, not that we have any saints in our lot, just miserable, sourfaced, wifebeating, pennypinching, cross-dressing hypocrites, Praise the Lord, Praise the Lord. Up the long ladder and down the short rope, God bless King Billy and to Hell with the Pope. And now yous can all join me in singing the great hymn, The Sash My Father Wore. And remember, sing loud to frighten the wee catholic children.
"It is old but it is beautiful. Its colours they are fine It was worn at Derry, Aughrim, Enniskillen and the Boyne My father wore it in his youth In bygone days of yore And on the Twelfth I love to wear The sash my father wore."
God bless you, I love you all. No Pope Here! No Surrender! Yous can buy CDs of my well-beloved sermons in the vestry. Only a tenner. Three for twenty quid.
Thanks to Brother Paisley for those words of tolerance and compassion. And now is best, considering everything is shit and all fucked up, to do some praying, can't do no harm, so everybody down on knees, hands together and eyes closed-up, tight as nun's knees.
Our Father who art in Heaven, pray for our sovereign little old lady, Brenda Battenberg and her bloke, Phil the Greek, that she might continue to rule over us and for fucks sake keep that gabshite bloke off the throne and his Mrs, too, Camilla Horseface, horrible old slag, Thou knowest best, our Heavenly Father, that this bloke never even render unto Caesar, never mind Yourself, but is useless idle fucking tax-dodging, pampered arsehole playboy layabout and waste of space is and good for fuck all, not even for reading Queens Speech out, or Kings and having stupid jug-ear head on postage fucking stamp or worthless ten pound note - not that we will be having them much longer but Euro-note, instead, with picture of Emperor and Empress Tony and Imelda Slotgobb- and Prince of fucking Wales can't even walk down to shop like normal bloke but whistle up helicopter or jet or fucking train full of arselicker pursuivant to squeeze toothpaste out, pompous fucking wanker and hanged up from lamp-post should be after good fucking rubdown with housebrick and never mind green fucking credentials and organic shortbread, Fucking bastard. Pray for Her Majesty's ministers that they might righteously continue to plunder our pockets and live in luxury with their mistresses and rentboys, even for Thine Own name's sake, especially Brother Thieving Fucking Bastard And Cheeky Cunt Alan Duncan, who has sacrificed so much that he might serve us and only gets paid fucking rations and hundred grand a year, Guide, O Lord, Thy servant, Calleth-Me-Dave,
that he might continue to preach Thy Holy Word - Oh, fuck me, Duncan, only not literally of course, me having left that all behind, if that is not an unfortunate simile, at Eton and in the BullyBoys Club, how can I pretend to be angry with us, on behalf of the public, who are, or is it is, very angry with us for allowing ourselves to steal all that money from them, or is it it, the public, I mean, is it, or are it, singular, being a group noun, or are it plural, being millions of the unwashed fuckers who didn't go to Oxbridge, fucked if I know, same with the government, is it the government has, or the government have, but nevertheless we are commiited to educational excellence, even though no-one in Westminster can speak proper fucking English, especially not our spokesman, Mr Michael Gove-Spit, the orphan and adoptee and money-grubbing bastard, only not as bad as Mr Alan Duncan with whom I am very angry, even though I'm not.
And blesseth too, O Lord, our Commander in Chief, Elder Snot,
THE MAN WITH NO NAILS
as he relaxes this weekend with Sarah-George and their surviving children, doing valuable community service, amongst the inbred, webfoot Fifers who have sent this misbegotten stuttering sonofafuckingbitch hobgoblin to parliament not just once but lots of times but whom, we suspect and fervently pray, might next time have the scales struck from their eyes and send the horrible fucking bastard on his way to his reward at GlobaCorp. Guide, O Lord, his judgement, for has he not said that on this weekend, when two hundred mainly working class lads - but fuck me, Lord, what a difference when a CO cops for it, Prince Wales, famous heroic officer who crashed his ship, crashed his plane and fucked his brother officer' s Mrs, bleating all over the shop, utterly appalled, and Glasgow Des Browne, comes creeping-out from ignominy, even though neither of the useless windbagging parasite arseholes can ever turn up for an ordinary squaddie - have now died in far Afghanistan and seven hundred been seriously wounded and sent to Bob Ainsworth's equivalent of very generously provided for matchbox-selling and Poppy-weaving to Thy Glory, O Lord, has he not said that the only way to honour the memory of these magnificently professional men and women is to get many more hundreds of them killed and wounded, the closer that he, Gordon, may sit to the tables of Mammon, for it is the right thing to do, only not for all the dead Tommies, casketed home to Brize fucking Norton. We pray that those who fall so that Brother Mohammed Karzi, Thy Servant and brother in Christ, may win his rigged election, even though he is not exactly an brother in Christ but is, indeed, anything fucking but, being an raghead bandit motherfucker in the pay of Uncle Sam, continue to be told that they are keeping Death off the streets of Britain. The fact that Brother Ahmed of the Talimen can kill and wound hundreds of Thy British brethren in his home country and not have go online to get cheap flights with Air Begorrah, fly over to Manchester, set up a fake indentity, job and all that stuff before he can even think about doing some Jihad shit is lost, O Lord, on Thy Servant, Snot. Well, look, Kirsty, as I go around the country, meeting small homeless families and goneoutofbusiness businesses, the message I am getting is that they want me to extend the hand of friendship to the fuzzy wuzzy and instead of him having to go to all the trouble of coming over here, for me to just, instead, send him some poorly-equipped soldiers over to his turf where he can pick them off as easy as pickimg my nose, sorry, your nose. It is the right thing to do. And anyway, people want me, the very best person, to continue to make the economy stronger and avoid recession and unemployment and bankruptcies and repossessions and we are much better placed to do this than is Johnny Foreigner, who isn't, by the way, sending any of his working class lads over to Ahmed to help him with his target practice, as we do, before inviting him into the government, just as we did with my good friend Mr Marty Kneecaps McGuinness, the bright-eyed wee devil, Deputy First Torturer of the Northern Ireland Government. Y'know, Jeremy, I got my moral compass from my father, a minister in the Kirk, so everything I do is right. Strong deliverer. strong deliverer, that's what they called me, as a wee boy in the Manse, sitting on my Daddy's cock, I mean knee. Strong deliverer, strong deliverer, be thou still my strength and shield, strength and shield, that's how I see my place in history, how the people will remember me, that and as a financial giant. Is it medication time yet?
And finally, O Lord, we beseech Thee, in the name of Thy Son, Jesus Wotsaname, that however bad things get, that Thou anointest not Thy servant, Lord Pansy of Hartlepools, and put him not in Downing Street, that hallowed place to be o'errun with Russian fucking bandits, parking their knocking shop yachts up and down the Thames; that neither shouldst Thou suffer the imbecile, Calleth-Me-Dave, by the slenderest majority to become Elder Inter Pares and sell off to his chums what remaineth after the depradations of Thatcher and Blair and Brown, the horrible fucking bastard and make the nation endure years of braying, public schoolboy Tory degenerates and whatever else Thou doest, Lord, spare we, Thy people, the insufferable poltroon, Clegg, and his foxtrotting nitwit, Cable.
The Mass is over, can go now in peace, make the sign of Ruin to the next bloke standing beside you. Or bint.
All stand up and sing Worthy Is The Lamb and Amen, which thou knowest, Lord, was rock'n'roll long before teenagers
were even invented. And lived, still immature, into their sixties.