Corrupting, and avoiding being corrupted
It all began when I was a little roadie and my primary school had religious instruction lessons once a week, taken by the mother of one of the kids in class. The woman was a pious, earnest type, long, unkempt hair, no makeup, very modest clothes, that sort of thing. As was the case with many of these sorts of lessons, it was exclusively Christian teachings we were handed - no mention of other religions.
My atheist mother quickly cottoned onto this - I was happy enough either way, since as a kid you just want to do what all the other kids are doing - but dear old Mum took me aside and gave me one of the best pieces of advice you could probably give to kids who don't care one way or the other.
"The thing with Mrs Spencer is, if you don't understand something or it doesn't sound right to you, keep asking questions until you get an answer you're happy with."
I tried this approach and was gently told I was too young to understand, but "things will become clearer when God wants them to."

It all came to a head when I awoke screaming in the night, having had a nightmare about the crucifixion - Mum tells me I was hysterical saying "They nailed Jesus to the cross and it hurt and He was bleeding and everyone hated Him and His Dad was watching and didn't even help Him!"

I was dragged out of religious instruction quick smart, which was brilliant because I got to sit in the library and read Willard Price books. However, that didn't save me from Mrs Spencer, who cornered me at every opportunity to tell me that God loved me anyway and "as you get older, you'll realise that your parents aren't always right" to which smart little prick me replied "You're a parent, are you wrong too?" which garnered me a patronising pat on the head and "Remember, I'm just doing God's work." Little roadie didn't know when to keep his mouth shut, so blurts "Why can't he do it, or is he just lazy?"

Ah, kids.

Scroll forward several years, during which time religion never played a significant part in my life, aside from the time when a teenaged roadie invited the JoHos inside because I was (and still am) shit at saying no to things.

Eventually roadie is in his early 20s, living in Scotland with his gorgeous, petite, loving and generally fantastic wee Scots girlfriend. Only trouble was, wee Jo was a fairly committed Christian, doing Lent and off to church most Sundays. Her sister was one of the *really* hardcore types, setting aside "quiet time" several times a day so she could read her Bible. A memorable argument with her went thus:

"We went across to Skye the other weekend, it's brilliant they've put that bridge in, means more people can get across and appreciate it."
"I think the bridge is a bad idea, if God had meant Skye to be joined up with the mainland He'd have designed it that way."
"God isn't responsible for plate tectonics!"
"Yes He is!"
"So He caused the Boxing Day tsunami, then?"

I digress.

I was dragged to church (of Scotland) on Christmas Eve, where instead of the traditional Christmas message about love and family and all that, I was treated to 45 minutes of guilt about not sinning in the coming year and other such shite. Christmas Day was the most staid, boring fucking affair I've ever endured - one present each, one bottle of wine on the table (between five of us), grace before the meal (and as the special guest, that was MY job!). I remember mumbling something about "how special it was to be among friends at this time of year" and that was about it.

As the relationship deteriorated, my sneaky goal for the weekend was always to have wee Jo impaled on me (important she was on top, you see, as it's way more wanton) at or around 10am on Sundays, just when the rest of her family was heading into church. Bonus points were available if I could have her in a 69 - her conservative mother would have absolutely had kittens if she knew her angel daughter had her mouth stuffed full while being pleasured orally by some Godless atheist who was all set to steal her little treasure away to New Zealand where she'd never be seen again.

It was the little things like that which kept me sane through the death throes of the relationship...and no doubt ensured her ticket to Hull, hopefully in the seat next to mine!

Length...well, she fucking loved it, the little slut...:O
(dhroadie, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 21:31, Reply)