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Non-believer's home is his castle
WELL, I've worked it all out and the equation came out thus: If houses are losing money like a drunken Egyptian stoker in a bent casino, genuine castles must be haemorrhaging cash like recently despatched pigs in a third world slaughterhouse.
So, the time seems right for me to acquire my ideal residence: a castle approached by a two-mile drive accessible only by tracked vehicle or helicopter, the latter using a landing pad on the battlements adjacent to the chutes for pouring boiling oil on the double-glazing salesmen and Jehovah's Witnesses below.
Fair enough innit? The God Squads have Citadels and Watchtowers and Christian soldiers, so why shouldn't I have a fortress from which to see 'em off?
They may well be fighting the good fight, but I must say that not even the Young Crusaders got any change from me, despite the fact that they tried to bribe me with a bible in 1946 for good attendance.
Fact was, bad attendance was impossible because at the boarding school I attended we were marched there and marched back every Sunday with the duty teacher, the poor sap, riding shotgun to the crocodile on his ex-GPO pushbike.
Anyway, here are some further technical details of Castle Lawless. The crossbow slits will be modified to house nozzles for blasting away with high-powered jets of raw sewage pumped up from the ancient cesspit.
After 700 years of use there's unlimited ammunition once you get underneath the crust. And raw is the operative word.
A Seventh Day Adventist who copped this treatment dived shrieking into the bottomless moat and even the piranhas and alligators therein gave him a wide berth.
Any member of the God Squads, double-glazing salesmen, antique knocker boys, freesheet distributors, council officials and Conservative Party pamphleteers will definitely get the treatment.
But not the Mormons. Those boys are so keen they'd parachute in. I'd probably invite them for a chat and offer a glass of semi-skimmed milk – they won't touch tea or coffee because they're stimulants.
Takes more than that to stimulate me, I can tell you. But that's why I ain't a Mormon. Actually, my only affiliation to any religious mob is the League for the Propagation of the Truth Through the Medium of Strong Drink.
This is why I'm always at it. If I stopped drinking I'd lose my licence.
n A FEW weeks ago, in the worst possible taste, I wondered whether crematorium staff warmed up their lunchtime pies on shovels in the ashes of the dear-departed. Several people said I should be burned at the stake for irreverence.
Well, I now refer my critics to Duckinfield crematorium, Manchester, where heat from the furnaces provides warmth to the bereaved in an otherwisechilly building.
Included in the comfort zone is that fat bloke who attends every funeral in order to snarf the vol-au-vents and swig gallons of supermarket sherry at the subsequent knees-up.
Nobody knows him but they don't say anything in case he's someone important in the family hierarchy who's flown in from the colonies just to attend.
The local council admit that the heating process is a sensitive issue and plan to further consult local clergy and the wider community.
Tell you what, though: I'll bet they don't get a single complaint from the heat source...
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Weather for Morecambe
Tuesday 22 May 2012
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