For some forty-seven minutes we discussed the ins and outs of 1 Thessalonians, particularly chapter 4 verse 11 which, you’ll remember, advises the Christians of Greece to “lead a quiet life, mind your own business and work with your hands.”

The priest, he placed a gnarled palm ‘pon my knee, aye, and so doing spake thus; “I’m all for working with the hands, sonny.”

He looked me upside the face. “How about you take off your pants, m’boy, and slap me cross the jowls wi’ that slab o’ sweetest sin?”

On account of matters relating to how grotesque the priest appeared in the light of the afternoon, on account of this I declined the invitation, and advised him that if he desired my company for a second longer he best take the paw off of my leg and lead me out from this den of iniquity and towards a room more equipped for to host a fellow of my impeccable social standing.

Apologising profusely the priest led me towards the wine cellar, and there, with the door locked and none but the sundry barrels of foulest brew for to keep watch o’er proceedings, there and then the priest set about attempting to seduce me for next to 18 hours. Many times I made for to leave, and always I found myself settling anew on account of the wailing and whining from himself there, sometimes decked out in tiara and top-hat, sometimes naked but for a tiny pair of cycling shorts he’d fixed on the end of his chappie.

I can assure you that nothing untoward happened, although at one point I almost touched the side of his arse owing to catching the hem of my shirt on a snagged article jutting out a knackered medicine cabinet.

I hardly need mention that the Marxist Creationists never appeared, that the priest had no intentions other than those of carnal abandon, and that I escaped only when the pathetic old sod had given up trying to get my kecks off and instead made do with a poke around his own arsehole, a procedure which I agreed to observe only if I could be granted a swift skidaddle immediately thereafter.

All this, I say, yelped demented ‘hind my eyes when I found your letter swelling vibrant twixt the bindings of my mail-box.

Battlefield Earth: A Saga Of The Year 3000 is, I agree, among the finest examples of films about running away from things ever conceived by mortal man. For a month after my first viewing of this most precious artefact, a solid month, I say, I saw the world only through eyes all dutch-tilt screech and blue/green hue, saw the world only as a dangerously askew thoroughfare through which I might run this way or that in pursuit or something or other involving aliens, Jah, bars o’ glistenin’ gold and such.