“Peace be upon you, dear child. I sense a troubled soul.”
So said the man in a dress who greeted me when a stormed a big building in the City Of London, trying find the source of high pitched choral caterwauling which was distracting me from finding a bar open at the optimal drinking time of 10am on a Sunday Morning. I was taken back instantly, thinking that it must be Boy George without make-up on (a cruel trick to avoid my assassins). But it just turned out to be a priest who was trying to help.
I am not a religious woman. The gigantic organs and hymns have put me off in the past. But there was something calming about the way he placed his hand on my shoulder and quickly gestured to the choirboys to scarper. (Note this would not have stop me attacking if it had been the Quireboys.) Walking me up the nave, he continued to talk in a tone which was just off the annoying side of Baz Lurhman’s Sunscreen.
“You see full of rage and hate my child. Tell me your troubles.”
And so I told him about music, and the overwhelming awfulness of it, and how it was everywhere and how it drove me mad, and surely was a force for evil in the world. And guess what? He agreed.
“The Devil does have the best tunes, it is true, and the cruel lascivious music which permeates society is a temptation from the path of righteousness. It strikes me that you have been misunderstood in your good work. Far from a mad harpy who should buy a pair of earplugs and let others enjoy a good dance, you are fighting God’s good fight, you are one of the good guys.”
I must admit it was quite a revelation for me, to see that the Church which I had previously written off as a poor Australian U2 rip-off band actually saw me as one of them. Finally I felt understood. For at least ten seconds. And then he continued…
“Have you read this?” Slipping me a black leather-bound book. “Its the good news!”
But it wasn’t. Opening to page one what was the first word I saw.
GENESIS.
I ran out of the church as fast as my shapely legs could take me, to a religious haunt I felt more comfortable in – The Black Friar – and slaked my gin thirst until I was genetically 50% juniper. Still with the Bible in hand, I started to flick. And what a catalog of horror it was. And so I have made my own version, which you see above, which I will be excerpting from in the next few weeks. My own Bible Of Badness. (Though feel free to suggest some entries in the comments box.)