So Jesus, he was out in the desert, doing his thing. And ye know, apart from the morale-sapping fatigue, the boredom, and the general malaise that that sort of situation entails; it wasn’t the worst. Looking back, I think more what the issue was, was that there was no water. And as you well know, without water, you can’t make wine; at least not the way Jesus makes it. So Our Boy was bustin’ for a drink, dying in the heat, with an oul dry mouth the likes of which you could keep your biscuits fresh in; when it just so happened, on day 37 I think it was, he comes across a couple of palm trees amidst a grimy puddle – an oasis, you might say. There was a nondescript man crumpled in amongst it all, clutching what appeared to be a tall bottle of clear clean liquid. Jesus thanked his lucky stars, and made a casual stroll towards the scene…

J – Well, kid. What’s that you’re drinkin’?

? – Gadzooks, me ole fucking mucker. Never you mind. I’m fooking Prince of Darkness, but you can call me Liam. Wot’s yore name, ye sandy bastid?

J – I am Jehovah, Son of God. Yeshuah, the One and Truly…

L – Shut t’fuck up! Prince of fooking peace. Doin’ a man’s head in, wot? ‘Ere, take drink of this.

J – Thank you, vagabond. *holds bottle aloft* Ah, life-giving water. Essence of truth and all that is good. *starts to neck bottle*

L – *snatching bottle away from Jesus’ quivering lips* Oi! Give back vodka, fooking tramp…

J – *slurring words* What is this vodka you speak of?

L – It’s fooking top tier drink, innit? Jesus fooking Christ, you near finished bottle an’ all!

J – *continuing to slur* I can remedy that. *proceeds to roll eyes in the back of his head whilst making impressive geometrical motions with his arms* Behold!

L – Ey up, mate, you could be on stage with moves like those! I said MAYBEEEEE… *the near empty bottle he once held has somehow rolled to his feet, full now to the brim, with a thicker, red solution* …if yoUr garden groOooOoOOwssss… Wait. What t’fook? What have we ‘ere then?

J – *looks up with nothing but divine cool, the trace of a smile apparent* You’re welcome, Mr Gallagher…

L – What in thee fook? How did you? Wait a second… *uncorks the bottle, guzzling readily at the murky purple contents* …Buckfast! Ey up. Tell you wot, mate, you and me are going on the rip!

Thus ended Jesus’s forty days in the desert, three days early, thanks to an unlikely encounter with Liam Gallagher, of all people. What was the Manc doing out on the sands a couple of thousand years ago? Who’s to say. Jesus’s father wasn’t best pleased with the antics that ensued, but he forgave him in the end; what else could he do? And so began The Son of God’s much-storied association with the beggars, the robbers, the cads, and the sex workers. One can only suppose that he enjoyed a good rip as much as the next man, his acceptance among these varied characters must have been owing to something. God bless.

A new inroads to fresh sentiment inspired by some skewed awareness of a mortal man’s hypocrisy inescapable. Compassion held close to the breast, an earnest interest in understanding. Any expression of cynicism spun, with painful exactitude, to taint impressions still waiting to be born.

Did you know that ten thousand ants take their lives every second, in protest against a liberal regime who’s relevance was quashed in 1903?

But aye, at bottom we’re all teenaged boys, clinging to our opinions like life rafts in a sea of pith and fizzle. One must retain awareness of the significance of this fact. If we think that by growing up we are to shelve our petty ticks then a hard fall surely awaits. One must parry, counter, and charge the enemy with dubious speculations. Of course to perform at the implausible levels demanded by our misled expectations, one’s output must be enhanced by some extra bodily imbibement. 

Hang in hang on hang on. See all that there? Forget it. See the one thing you need to keep ye goin? A good steak dinner. A proper wee steak. Pink in the middle, mate, know what I mean? See that fella that was givin ye stick? He’s sexually attracted to ye. That’s all it is mate, he’s just a wee bit into ye, and a wee bit scared a that cause he’s full with it, aye? Go on you ahead, wee son.

Aye so basically ye take all them big words, break ‘em down into shit that people can understand, and then just be the pure lad. Like proper real confidence, makin’ jokes, pullin’ women, playin’ tunes. It’s in ye. Gwan an get it.