No more silly hat
How do you go about quitting when your
line manager's God? Celtic are my team in Scotland and all that, but
I'm no sort of expert. So that's bit of a guess about God and the
Pope. He may have to answer to a lay committee like head teachers or
a quango like Chief Fire Officers, or a board of trustees like the
Beeb, for all I know. Still. I can imagine...
“Our Father who art in heaven,
hollowed by thy name, and I quit. I'm outta here.”
“Is this about the hat?”
“Do you even bother reading the
feedback forms?”
“Nah. I'm like a huge omnipotent
all-seeing diety. Some mortal don't like his hat. I should care
less?”
“You don't know what it's like. Every
time anyone has a drink, out come the old album covers, onto the
heads they go...”
“This isn't a Popegate thing?”
“Excuse me?”
“We're not in Jimmy Saville-ville,
are we? There's not going to be revelations, heh, no pun intended. I
could write a book. Heh. No. Seriously. There's no stories going to
come out? You know. Communion wine, abusing loads of nuns while
raiding the silver cupboard. Stockings and sussies under the
cassock?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Is it really all about the hat?”
“Oh f'Christ's sakes.”
“Oy. Watch it, you.”
Bet 365 and the white smoke stakes
Over to Mr Winstone:
“Gertcha laptops an mobiles arht. Ya
carhnt beat our odds on va nu Papa. Evens va Nazi, fifty ta wharn Ian
Paisley, six ta phwar Stuart Hall. Ave a bang on fhat.”
Sorry...
But this is topical:
Bloke to sad mate: Wazzup?
Sad mate: split up wif me bird, aint I?
Bloke: what, Kate? What 'appened?
Sad mate: I insulted the Pope, didden
I?
Bloke: but you know Kate's a Catholic.
Sad mate: duh! Yeah. I know she's
a Catholic...
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