It's not the cough that carries you off...

It's the coffin they carry you off in.

I've got some kind of chest infection. I'm hacking up lumps of phlegm that you could put posters on walls with. But, never one to be put off by minor things, I'm still smoking like a very stressed lab beagle. Well, why not. I aint scared of dying. At least not since I found Jesus.

Big J has my name on his list now. He's due me a favour after I rescued him from a savage beating in the pub last week. Allow me to tell you the story...

It was late on in the night, I was drinking a nice long glass of rum and coke and Jesus was keeping the crowd entertained by doing parlor tricks, you know the kind, 3 card Monty, levitation, water into wine, passing beer nuts through the holes in his hands etc etc, when a large and surly drunkard made a comment about Jesus' mother being a bit loose after a couple of Pernod and lemonades.

Which may be fair comment if you ask me, I mean who ever believed that Jesus was an immaculate conception? Apart from Joseph, obviously. But then again he was a bit of a waterhead anyhow. Having spoken to some close friends of Joseph I know this to be a fact.

According to one guy, who went to school with Joseph, Joseph was always the butt of class practical jokes. Even the teachers and the school staff got in on the fun. One day Joseph waited outside the janitors office patiently for three and a half hours thinking that the janitor was going to come back with a long stand. And lets not even begin the story of the when Joseph was sent on work experience and was sent to get a bucket of sparks for the welder.

But, I digress. Back to the pub...

Jesus, not being the type to whip out a fist and slam the guy in the face, stood up to his full height of 4'6" and said to the crowd that had gathered around to watch the show "I forgive you for your transgression. Peace be with you." To which the drunk answered "Ok fuckface, outside. I'm gonna smack some sense into you."

At this point I felt I should step in. I've never enjoyed seeing a six foot man beat the shit out of a midget, though I do enjoy seeing midgets beating the crap out of other midgets, and said to the big guy "Hey man, that's a bit out of order. Pick on someone your own size."

His reply was not exactly the most eloquent retort I've ever came across, but it was certainly the most effective. He lifted me up by my hair and headbutted me. After letting go of me I dropped to the ground and slumped into a ball. Much like a ragdoll that's been cast aside by a surly child. And that's pretty much how I looked. If Toys "R" Us sold a doll named My Recently Punched Playmate that is.

At this point the landlord shouted out, in a voice which if it was baked goods would have been a Cornish pasty. "I'll 'ave no trouble in moi pub, the powleece 'ave been telephoned and they'll be comin shortly. Now 'oo ordered the scaampi in a baaasket?" Strange, when you know that the landlord is as Irish as the blarney stone, Guinness and the word feck all put together.

The drunk thought about the idea of meeting the police in their formal guise and quickly dismissed it. Then he took the same action towards the pub interior; quickly, he dismissed it.

Jesus walked over to where I was and extended a hand towards me. "May I help you up kind Samaritan?" He said. "Sure." I said, and used the midget Jesus' head as an aid to help me stand. I'm sure I actually heard his spine compacting as it struggled to put up with my full weight upon it but Jesus didn't complain.

"May I get you a drink?" He asked.
"Yeah, I could do with one." I replied.
"Will wine suffice?" Enquired Jesus.
"No, I'll have a rum and coke thanks very much. Just because you can do that water into wine trick doesn't mean that you skip out of buying someone who just took a smack in the mouth for you a drink." I said.

Jesus wandered off to the bar. The landlord, who for some reason had developed a strong Jamaican accent, said, "Ya man, is you be wantin' a drink now? Or may-bee Somet'ing a likkle bit stronger? I 'ave dem quality 'erb now, make ya see Jah Rastfarai, Bob Marley and Harry Belafonte dancin' and a kickin' it up on de dance floor like a likkle posse a rude boys."

"Can I have a rum and coke please." Said Jesus.
"Sure now, de man is wantin' a rum and coke for his likkle helper." Said the landlord. The landlord placed the glass of rum and coke on the bar and Jesus told him to put it on his tab.

Jesus walked back to the table I was sitting at and handed me the drink. I scooped the ice out of it and dumped it into the ashtray in front of me. There was a small hissing sound as the ice extinguished my cigarette. "Bollocks." I said, reaching into my pocket for my pack of cigarettes.

As I lit another cigarette Jesus said "Those things will kill you."
"Yeah, well, so will living." I said.

At closing time the landlord appeared and said, in a heavy Australian accent, "Ok sports, that's time. Here's a couple a tinnies of Fosters to see you right on ya way back to the Sheila."

As I stepped out into the night Jesus told me to give him a shout if I'm ever in trouble and could do with a bit of divine intervention...

Maybe I'll give him a shout to see if he can do something about this fucking cough.