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Thursday, 8 October 2009

image for The Gospel of St. Michael discovered 'It's a miracle! His face doth change colour every day. What was that black Roman soldier doing round here last year, Mary?'

The missing Gospel of St. Michael has been discovered in a cave in southern Syria, and here it is:

'And in the land of Judah a baby was born, and he was named Michael, meaning squeaker, and three scribes from the Far East of Londonium arrived, bearing gifts. And Michael's mother was Mary, and she was much pleased with her son, for he looked much like she did.

And soon Michael and his family travelled to Californium, for he was wanted by the Romans even at that age, as King Herod sayeth 'That child showeth an unhealthy interest in other children already, I wish him brought before the judges.' But years later Michael returneth to Judah, and there he beginneth to sing, and many were astounded at what he singeth.

And some sayeth Michael was the King of the Pops, others that he was the Messiah, some even that he was the prophesied devil whose face turned white in the dark. But Michael rebuked them all, saying 'Suffer unto those little children over there, and let them stay in my tent, and I shall payeth their parents off later in the Roman courts.'

And Michael went to Mount Mount, and speaketh to the thousands that had gathered there. 'If you plant a seed and it turn into a good plant, do you spray it with ointment? If you plant a seed and it spring forth into a rather nice daffodil to adorn your toga with, do you rebuke it? But if you plant a seed and it groweth into a ghastly, mutated plant, one that you'd never let your children near, let alone appear in public, why sayeth it be a good plant? For many a surgeon may cut and shape thy face, but that cannot hideth the ghastly pervy that lurketh within.'

'And what good be it for a man to inherit the world if he becometh a shot that doth be bent, one that hangeth around little children, and soundeth like a mouse on speed? Verily, I say unto thee, it is easier for a rich man to enter a plea of dropping the charges for gold, than for a poor man's face to change colour without such gold.'

And the people cheered, crying 'Hosannah!', and sayeth Michael was indeed the King of the Pops, and Michael went to Mtv, and there thousands greeted him, throwing green paper at his feet, and he walketh backwards in slow motion to the Temple, and was much angry at what he saw there. 'How dare you make a mockery of my face!', he shouteth, when he saw his face in a mirror, 'it looketh like an albino's with bad acne!'

And he overturneth the tables in his anger, and squeaketh mightily at the Pop priests, saying 'Blessed be the Squeakers, for they shall inherit the earth's money. And blessed be the taylors and the gellers, for verily they shall turn a blind eye to thy sins, to keep themselves in the journals.'

And Michael went to the garden of Perv-Fiddla, that means the place of squeaking fiddlers, and met many Roman soldiers there, for King Herod had not forgotten Michael, and was sore angry with the singer. 'Did Michael fiddle with thy children?', they asked a taylor, and she answered 'Nay', and they asked a geller the same question, and he also sayeth 'Nay'. And they asked 33 pairs of parents from Californium, who also sayeth nay, and a cockerel nearby coughed in a marked manner.

And the soldiers seized Michael and took him to Pontius Nauseous, that was governor of Judah, and asked him for justice. 'But what hath he done?', Nauseous sayeth, 'surely a rich singer can doeth all he like and commit no crime?' But the soldiers begged Nauseous to help turn Michael into a saint, and Nauseous reluctantly agreed. 'Crucify him', he ordered the soldiers, and sayeth to Michael 'Who's bad?', and laughed mightily at that.

And Michael was crucified, and was dying on a wooden cross, and there was much disinterest at that and sighs of relief from millions of parents in Judah, for verily their children were safe now. And his mother did not visit him, for he no longer looked like her and she hadn't recognised him. And many came and rebuked the singer, and shouted at him, saying 'You fiddler!', and 'You doth be a freak!', and 'You were never any good at singing anyway!', and Michael sayeth 'Why hath the people forsaken me?', and then died.

And the people were not unhappy, for they did not like men who made children suffer, and men who changed their faces with knives and potions, and men who spoke like mice on helium. And the scribes wrote many tales of Michael's bad actions, and verily spoke ill of the singer, saying he was a false prophet and an invention of the scribes themselves, and was only known to the people for being a singer when he was a child.

But three days later a miracle occurred, and the singer who everyone spoke ill of miraculously came to life again, and miraculously the scribes began writing about him as a great man again, and praising him. But not all were pleased, and Pontius Nauseous himself was sore angry, and he ordered his soldiers to fetch chisels and hammers.

'Goeth to that high cliff beside Michael's house', he ordered them, 'and carve out these seven words seventeen cubits tall, so all of Judah will see the most sarcastic comment I can make about him: 'HERE LIES THE KING OF THE POPS'.

And verily it was done and there was much merriment across Judah, and much crotch grabbing and cries of 'Yow!' to ridicule the singer, and much drinking of wine. And many told tales about the singer in the taverns, and even in the Temple the priests laugheth, and sayeth 'Michael only did what we've got away with for centuries! Thanks, Mike!'

And the prophet Eli, who was also resurrected for a short while, gave this parable from his resting place. 'What sayeth ye be the sameness between St. Michael and a shopping bag from the market place? They are both white, plastic, and dangerous to little children', and many wondered at the saying and were sore puzzled, for they did not know what plastic was. And Eli turned in his grave, and sayeth 'If I can't make a Jewish audience laugh, I might as well give it all up'.'

Cher is 99 tomorrow.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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