The City


By nine o'clock the breadless hosts of clerks are penned, the typists
pooled. Unhurried girls are at their counters, and urgent men in suits
debouch importantly, going somewhere else. Windows all have wall to wall
extravaganzas on display. Instore, ex-wives experiment with scent, feel
flimsy silks with foreign names, anticipating captivating Mr. Right tonight.
And bagged trousered perambulists load up their ready meals on wheels
without consulting shopping lists, or checking out the hidden extras. After all,
there's rent to pay, and tally men, and next door neighbours.

At noon the punters take their ease, confined in cafés, squeezed in
queues. They fork at shepherds pie in bars, eat neat sandwiches with
pinkies raised. Smart temporary tycoons suck at banned cigars, admiring
their mirrored style, snake-eyed. A clique of representatives amuse each
other with bad jokes, and how they laugh to hear a fellow traveller's
tale about the time he almost missed the consummation of a deal, because
he had his hand caught at the wrist.

Now, in gloomy evening exodus, spent consumers congregate, complaining
of their missing buses, and missing their trains. Cars go by, with room
to spare, the emptiness of success. Taxis clatter with yellow signs writ
large, and vans of every size disperse, shouting their names from every
surface.

And so, another city day is done. I waste an hour in the café. Gino Jr.
brings espresso and I fail, again, to finish the cunning crossword. Herself
arrives, notes the single cup (I have a manly understanding with the Ginos)
and looks at me hard. We stroll down to The Embankment, she always
parks a walk away. Driving across the city she tells me about her day.

ON A CLEAR DAY


You gotta love it, the story of Jesus. Born in a manger to Mary the
virgin and Joseph the cuckold. Apparently she didn't, like, do it? You
know? Sure, sure I believe it. Anyway, what happens, the family move
from Bethlehem to Nazareth, for the work, right? There's a big demand for
carpenters. Those Nazarenes, always decorating. Now it isn't long before
Jesus gets bored with building work and starts up a gang, the disciples,
with their own uniforms and everything. Thing is, he's really well conn-
ected: tribe of Judah, family of David, second king of Israel. You know
what I'm saying? And there was his cousin, sure. Everyone knew John the
Baptist. John the Publicist, if you ask me. What a bigmouth. Anyway, Jesus
gets baptized, by guess who, and before you know it he's made two trips
through Galilee with his pals from Jerusalem, and hey, most of the time
they're, like, at it. You know? Eating and drinking, loaves, fishes, wine.
You name it. Thing about Jesus, your man knew how to party and he didn't
care who complained. The fly in the ointment was the religious right, of
course. When isn't it? And then there was Herod, or Governor Antipas as
he was formerly known, and boy, did Jesus get up his nose.

A week before Passover, Jesus decides to split and he goes back to
Jerusalem, and to his surprise the people greet him as the Messiah! Really,
the Messiah, yet. Can you believe it? Now Jesus isn't exactly backward
at coming forward as we know, and when one of his gang, Judas the cheap-
skate, squeals on him, well, he puts his hand up, and the Sanhedrin, this
bunch of superior bastards with nothing better to do, have him arrested,
give him a quick trial - and condemn him to death! The Roman procurator,
Pontius Pilate, fell for the Sanhedrin's line about Jesus being a threat
to his total authority. Yeah right, like a hippy with attitude is going
to fuck up Imperial Rome all on his own. Well, the sad part is that by
now Jesus is beginning to believe his own publicity, and to cut a long
story short, he puts on quite a show and to cries of Here Come The Cross
the whole town turns out for the crucifixion, a kind of open air enter-
tainment popular at the time. So now Jesus is hanging up there with the
rest of the cast feeling pretty sorry for himself, despite the groupies
licking their lips down below, and he notices this soldier eyeing him
up. You know? And he says to him, 'Oy, pal, see these nails?' Nods to
his hands, 'You couldn't like pull them out for me could you?' Well, the
soldier has taken a shine to him and he agrees, reaches up with a claw
hammer he happens to have on him, and yanks the nails. 'Oh the relief,'
Jesus says, rubbing his hands together, as he begins to sway forwards.
'Oh my god,' he shouts, 'Quick, quick, fer chrisakes, ya dumb fuckin
eejit, THE FEET THE FEET.' Well, I don't need to tell you what happens
next. The whole thing is blown up out of all proportion a few hundred
years later and in the present day the story of Jesus is big business.
Ironically, run from Rome by a few shysters, and all over the world,
variations on the theme are set up and called Churches, pushing the
concept of a godhead, and the belief that Jesus died for the sins of
the people. Oh yeah. He did, didn't he? He died because he was a ham
and he couldn't resist the applause, is what he did. His fans were so
pissed off when he kicked it they made up all kinds of shit about how
he came back from the dead and ascended into heaven where his old man,
God Almighty, welcomed him back with big hugs and kisses, yada, yada,
yada. Back in the real world a billion or more suckers Love Him Love
Him, like you do with a divinity, and they love their neighbours as
themselves too, sure, except when their neighbours have other ideas,
when they hate the fuck out of them, and start shooting. And so it
goes, the story of Jesus. You gotta love it.