It seems my soul is a marketable commodity this Easter. Everybody wants it.
A few days ago on the Tube between Westminster and Waterloo a young lady in conservative attire joined my fellow band of merry commuters and decided that 8.15am was an appropriate time to pray to her god for all of our souls. And she did. Most vocally. To the point where the crowded vestibule suddenly became less crowded as people politely lowered there gaze and did the side step shuffle, so as not to engage the crazy woman.
I, of course, wondered what her strike rate was in converting people at an hour of the morning where most of us just want to read the morning paper, sip on our coffees, and stab the moron with the excessively loud iPod earphones in the eye with a fountain pen. It was on the tip of my tongue to say to her in my broadest Aussie accent from the bowels of the train, “’Scuze me darhl, you wanna keep it down? Some of us up here are tryin’ to read. Tah babes.”
Next on the conversion list was the lady of Caribbean heritage out the front of Victoria station who was filled with such joy and love of the Baby Jesus, that she was proselytising by punching the air, smashing her fist in her hand, and screaming like a banshee. People didn’t just side step this one, they gave her a wide birth and sprinted in any direction lest she lay her hands, fist or feet upon them. I know that jaunty old Catholic priests in their days of yesteryear use to favour a bit of old self-flagellation (and let’s face it, who doesn’t like a bit of nightly flagellation!), but this was taking it way too far. So much so the police had to ask her to calm herself down or they would have to remove her for being a public nuisance.
While my colleagues at Stage Door of the Victoria Apollo mused upon this woman’s ministry, another lady sauntered past with a flyer about a television show devoted to climate change. Now we were talking. Until she pointed out that the television program that we were require to watch featured a medium Ms Dr Doolittle who talked to animals, and to be more specific, our little bird friends. Because they know that some this up in the kooky carbon levels, and are sharing their chirpy ecological message with Ms Dr Doolittle herself. And for kicks, Ms Dr Doolittle goes into the wild and kisses live leopards. And lions, and tigers, and bears! Oh my! I would have suggested that probably a boyfriend might be more appropriate for her, but hey, if she can channel the poor unfortunately soul of the leopard that she is getting pash-rash from and they are consenting to it … well, who am I to judge.
Then of course, a dose of Dianetics might just be the thing to relieve me of all this stress that I am under. Ahh yes, our jolly good friends at the Church of Scientology are fighting for my soul as well. Well, maybe not my soul, but the living incarnation of Xenu from the planet Hubbard that came to this planet in the light year 42678.95. Quick, get me to that e-meter machine quick fast and tell me how depressed my intergalactic soul is. But as I am neither an interstellar traveller or a closeted gay A-list American movie star, I am guessing that Dianetics is not going to be the religion du jour pour moi.
And you know what, not one of these people have actually taken the time to ask me what I believe.
Comedian Margaret Cho said in her stand-up show “I’m The One That I Want” that if Jesus Christ came back today he would say, “THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT!”
Happy Easter everyone of all faiths! Christians, Jews, Muslims, and Miscellaneous et al.