Having played a museum on Thursday, I had another gig in an odd place tonight - in
an amazing Gothic church in Islington. It's not that unusual to play venues that were once churches and have now been converted into bars or arts centres, but what was unusual here was that this church was still a church. Tomorrow morning there will be Christians praising God in there, but tonight it was turned over to the perverse and corrupt world of stand up comedy. I don't quite know how the promoter managed to pull this off and how the parishoners of the place have not risen up in protest, but somehow it's happening. There was even a room that served as a bar, though tellingly people weren't allowed to bring drinks into the church itself - presumably because any alcohol that enters this sacred place would immediately transform into the blood of Christ and you're only allowed a sip of that. If you drink pints of it there is no way of knowing what would happen to your insides. You can only swallow so much Jesus.
I did manage to bring some of the booze from the dressing room into the church though and I managed to cope with all the Jesus blood in my bladder. I am trying not to drink beer, but a) it was all they had in the fridge and b) I quite like it. The beer that was given to us looked like it was Becks. It had almost the same label and a very similar logo and lettering, but on closer examination it turned out to be a copy with the unbelievable name of Lech, which is a bit like Becks in itself and doubtless supposed to be pronounced Leck, but which one inevitably pronounces Letch, which is perhaps too accurate a name for a beer. I discussed this on stage, giving me yet another excuse to perve over young women in the front row. As if I need an excuse.
As I got into the
"Give Me Head, Til I'm Dead" routine, I stopped and wondered if the phrase "smegma coated nubbin" had ever been said in this holy room before, then pretended to remember it appeared in Deuteronomy 4. I then suggested that the mutual blow job suicide pact would have been a better way to kill Jesus then having hime crucified, plus he could take Mary Magdalene with him. Then I turned to the Heavens to ask God how he liked me saying such things on his hallowed turf, daring him to strike me down for my blasphemy. "Come on," I yelled, "Make a crucifix fall from the roof and spear me through the shoulder. You'd immediately convert all these people to believing in you". I waited for my divine punishment, but nothing happened, but persisted. Surely He wouldn't stand for this impertinence. But my pleading and prayer did no good for the moment and as God backed down from the challenge and I called Him a poof. Still nothing.
But you could sense that there was a tension in the crowd as they waited for me to get my just desserts. It was indeed slightly spooky to be spouting such irreligiousness in an actual functioning church.
But you can not test the Lord your God and doubtless He will make me pay for this in the afterlife. So I will have eternity to rue my arrogance. Unless of course one of the other Gods is the real one, in which case I will probably be exalted in the highest heaven with as many virgins and raisins as I want for daring to stand up for the truth. And as there as so many Gods, then proportionately my chances of going to Heaven are surely improved. Fingers crossed I didn't accidentally pick the correct one.
It was a brilliant night though, with a spectacular line-up, Russell Howard as MC, Alun Cochrane and the amazingly talented Tim Minchin headlining. You should have come. Unless you did. In which case well done. It was way better than some fireworks. How often do you see a small fat man taking on God on his own turf?
