It's not only the cold dead hand of Cher that is on tour this year...
I have a friend who is obsessed by bus routes, numbers and timetables and also the Catholic Church. Spending time with them can sometimes feel like being trapped in a 'Rain man / Song of Bernadette' mash-up. Any conversation and I mean any, can quickly be turned around to an in-depth discussion of the local public transport providers and services It's endearing and exhausting in equal measure.
Earlier this week, my friend had travelled to the city centre (McGills 950x. Port Glasgow to Buchannan Street. 10 past and 20 to the hour) and was walking along the river. He noticed a large crowd gathered around the entrance to St Andrew's cathedral. He first assumed that this was probably a wedding but, on closer inspection, discovered that it was in fact an event to celebrate Saint Therese of Liseux. My friend makes a quick mental calculation (ditch the 950x, jump on the subway to Buchannan St and pick up the Dunoon Flyer at 14 minutes past the hour) and decides he can spare some time to take a look. It transpires that, like Cher, St. Therese has been on a world tour since 1994, playing all the top venues on the Catholic circuit. However, unlike Cher, no part of Therese is actually alive and her relics tour in a box. I am assuming that there must be some sort of flight case arrangement to get little Therese from A to B but no need for a dressing room rider. The dusty remains of a 150 year old saint has no need for a bowl of yellow M&M's and a crate of San Pelligrino.
Turns out that wee Theresa was somewhat precocious, writing her auto-biography at the tender age of 19. "April 15th 1894. Got up, prayed, picked some flowers. Prayed, drew a selfie on parchment in the monestary garden and updated my status on the village notice board. Prayed...." you get the picture.
My friend is horrified by my sacreligiousness and often reminds my that "Our Lady is crying sore tears for you" and that there is a special place in hell reserved for non-believers like myself. Not THE special place, where Boris Johnson will be forced to perform degrading sex acts on Margaret Thatcher while Harris and Saville (the DJ. Not the bloke who headed up the Bloody Sunday enquiry) clad in full gimp suits look on. It would be the 'UK Gold' special place where I am forced to watch re-runs of Carole Vordeman era Countdown but ONLY THE NUMBERS ROUNDS!
Earlier this week, my friend had travelled to the city centre (McGills 950x. Port Glasgow to Buchannan Street. 10 past and 20 to the hour) and was walking along the river. He noticed a large crowd gathered around the entrance to St Andrew's cathedral. He first assumed that this was probably a wedding but, on closer inspection, discovered that it was in fact an event to celebrate Saint Therese of Liseux. My friend makes a quick mental calculation (ditch the 950x, jump on the subway to Buchannan St and pick up the Dunoon Flyer at 14 minutes past the hour) and decides he can spare some time to take a look. It transpires that, like Cher, St. Therese has been on a world tour since 1994, playing all the top venues on the Catholic circuit. However, unlike Cher, no part of Therese is actually alive and her relics tour in a box. I am assuming that there must be some sort of flight case arrangement to get little Therese from A to B but no need for a dressing room rider. The dusty remains of a 150 year old saint has no need for a bowl of yellow M&M's and a crate of San Pelligrino.
Turns out that wee Theresa was somewhat precocious, writing her auto-biography at the tender age of 19. "April 15th 1894. Got up, prayed, picked some flowers. Prayed, drew a selfie on parchment in the monestary garden and updated my status on the village notice board. Prayed...." you get the picture.
My friend is horrified by my sacreligiousness and often reminds my that "Our Lady is crying sore tears for you" and that there is a special place in hell reserved for non-believers like myself. Not THE special place, where Boris Johnson will be forced to perform degrading sex acts on Margaret Thatcher while Harris and Saville (the DJ. Not the bloke who headed up the Bloody Sunday enquiry) clad in full gimp suits look on. It would be the 'UK Gold' special place where I am forced to watch re-runs of Carole Vordeman era Countdown but ONLY THE NUMBERS ROUNDS!
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