There has been a hiatus in my posting and for a moment my little ego thought maybe one of the 242 desperate readers of this bog nonsense might have missed me. Then I realised there was blood dripping from my ear and people were screaming as if I were a plague ridden tart. Oh well. Like many other experiments that I start eagerly and then give up, many could have attributed this pause to my having lost faith in my own capacity to waste an evening conjuring these sentences and that this site would linger on the web like a digital floater serving as a reminder of my brief moment as a blogger. But no. Oh no you Kulak lizards and vegetarian rotters no no no. I'm back. With a cliched bang. After a brief holiday to Northumberland (very pretty, bloody windy, silly accents and the greatest black pudding in the
world) I've returned to the Big Smoke with Ugly Jesus on my mind once more. My thanks for this delightful example to Oliver Blaiklock esq, with whom I once pedalled through Gdansk in a giant white pedalo shaped like a swan much to the amusement of all and sundry except a few local Poles who decide to launch some cans of lager at us from the deck of a passing tourist Galleon thinking that we were "nonces of the highest order", which is entitled Madonna and Child by Duccio. Such is the brilliance of this work of art, a term I don't use lightly, I have unleashed the "heroin apparatus mental' tag for this post. Even I have forgotten what this really means and its bastard form was undoubtedly generated by my failing to use commas in appropriate places but I think with a following wind and a spot of good fortune "heroin mental apparatus" could be the catch phrase for the next decade. Although "heroin mental" without the encumbrance of "apparatus" is a cracking little aphorism. I can just imagine little mungo pundling through life going; "Papa, Papa that Kurosawa retrospective you made me sit through for the last 7 hours was proper heroin mental."
I'm spurting digressions like a muppet. Let us all get back to the point of this ruddy blog. Ugly Jesus'. This chap is a new breed, a middle aged spreader of a Jesus who has come out of his mum with an absurd tufty baldness and a paunch that immediately suggests that Jesus could be natural at darts. Oddly, he reminds of a cross between media behemmoth Adrian Chiles and Working Lunch fop Adam Shaw. Or that bloke from In Bruge who isn't Colin Farrell and always plays Irish people as he is Irish. But why render Jesus as a podgy middle age fart? OKay the other pictures were ugly but at least they portray him as a baby not as middle manager for Barclays. There is something slightly sleazy about his presence groping at Mary's ear like he is having a private dance at some ancient Spearmint Rhino. For God's sake leave her alone your freakish noblet. On the plus side, his odd physical maturity means that this little Jesus is about as attractive to your passing paedo as a one night with Andrew Lansley.
Mary's face betrays all this, here eyes staring blankly out at you with that resigned look that comes when you realise you've given birth to a middle aged pervert. Her face also has an odd penumbra of Jam around her hood, which frankly defies comment as it is just odd (or "heroin mental" if you want to be on trend). I almost feel sorry for her, imagine her disappointment at having been knocked up without any of the fun stuff and then give birth to that. Bummer.
This blog is a floater no longer; we are back in the game.
