ONE FLU OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST Just another Corona jab.

Chapter Drei:
    I have a suspicion, and I think I’m probably right, that one shouldn’t even begin to have the kind of  urge that would result in a nun being slapped. Nonetheless…
    It’s a 2-show day, but I’m up and out the hotel double doors and into the snow by 11am. I feel quite perky as I haven’t been drinking since the night I got behind the bar and started pouring people beers myself and the drunk barman got fired. But that’s another chapter.
    I’m heading down to Karlskirche, an extraordinary Baroque belch of architecture in the form of a Catholic church, dedicated to St Charles Borromeo who was handy to have around during a plague, what with him helping the sick and distributing lira and not really too concerned about getting a bit fluey. The Viennese confronted the same bug 137 years later and swore to build a kirche in Chuck’s honour should they come through this thing quick-sticks. (We love you, O Lord, no seriously, if you can do us a favour, you scratch our back, we’ll build you a f*ck-off church, come ooooon…) God clearly came through and the church was finished 20 years later. The interior is sort of impressive, but I kept thinking it was like the Jesuits and Donatella Versace had done an episode of Changing Rooms. Donatella’s walking around the interior and pointing: “I want marble, I want gold, I want columns, I want cupolas, I want columns on the cupolas, I want gold on the columns, I want Jesus Jesus Jesus Jesus Jesus and if I see any ceiling without a crowded pastel fresco, you’re all fired.” No-one got fired and everyone was rather impressed.
    I have finished exploring the interior, which includes a ride in the glass elevator (very Roald Dahl), up into the exceptionally high dome (very and-he-ascended-into heaven) and have looked out over Vienna (very Getaway). I have descended and am about to leave when I see them. The nuns. Three of them. Young ’uns. Obviously they’ve only just walked in. There’s a lot of looking up and around and they’re ages away from wondering where they can now go for a decent coffee. They’re not just admiring the interior of the church. There’s something else. A mist of smugness glistening on their cheeks and lips that says: “We Catholics sure have the snazziest clubhouses.” Which is precisely when I want to slap a fresh one on a bride of Christ. I know it’s not their fault. I know there’s a mixture of delusion and good-heartedness and an abject fear of penises swirling around in their psyches, but there are times when their literally holier-than-thou attitude makes me want to tie them into a chair, feed them hash cookies and force them to watch that documentary about Woodstock. All three hours of it. And then Funny Girl. She’s funny and she’s Jewish.
    You’ll be pleased to read (or maybe not) that the sisters went unslapped and as penance for these evil thoughts I went off and performed Mamma Mia twice in a row.

Chapter Vier:
    From nuns to astrologers. Or shall we say from the fantastic to the non-literal? Okay okay…from loony toons to loony moons. The only dude I read is Rob Brezny. He quotes a guy called Wolff Bowden (diggin’ the double F Wolff) in this week’s Scorpio horoscope. “May your lips refuse the kiss unless your heart is home.” (http://www.freewillastrology.com) I’ll be coming back to this little gem in a moment.
    And now from astrology to homo-ology. Or shall we say from rising signs to rising signs? Or shall we skip the segues completely? I hear you. And so… Do you remember that joke about the young bull who says to the old bull that he was going to run to the top of a certain hill and screw one of the heifers, to which the old bull replies “Why don’t we walk up there and screw all of them?” Well, last night, a certain young bull wanted this old bull, but he ran to the top of the hill just as I was hitting the upward slopes. I hope this pastoral analogue is sufficient to explain the event. It is? Good. I would hate to have to write something as clumsy as “and he came way too soon”.  
    So the big news is: I’ve come to a decision. No more sex with men in their 20s. And if that sounds a bit arrogant…w’HEY! But seriously folks, I was thinking along these lines and then I read the afore-quoted gem. Quite frankly, last night my heart was not home and I think it’s high time I allowed myself a little bit of respite in my favourite chair in front of the fire while someone services me like a whore. Sorry, I mean soul mate. Services me like a soul mate. There’s another way of putting this which is perhaps cleaner and more simple and that is I must stop having sex when I’m pissed.

Hasta Manana ‘til we meet again.