I love the bloody bible, I really do.

Puh-lease Mum! I know it’s Friday but I’m not talking about the form guide. I’m talking about the real deal, the good book, the one that God wrote.

What’s that? God didn’t write it?  Who did then?

You don’t bloody know?

What are ya luv, some sort of post-Luddite living a life of seclusion walking around in your nightgown in the daytime and wearing rollers or something?

Haven’t ya ever hear of Google you old chook?

It’s all the go these days darlin’, and has been for the better part of the last two decades; in fact it’s been around since the turn of the 21st century, and you don’t even have to subscribe to Archie Butterfly’s alleged blog under an assumed name to use it, although the beaks and wigs reckon itsnotnormalisit’s a hell of a lot more interesting than the world’s biggest search engine even if it does only have about a 100 millionth of a million million of the number of readers.

But geez Louise!

I thought the only people in the year 2017 and who didn’t use the internet were jurors, and that’s only because by law they’re not allowed to and can to jail if they dare put their digits on the keyboard, although personally I’m buggered if I know why because most punters would have thought that facts were facts, and that if a witness said something in a trial that’s stuck in one of 12 angry Bruce or Brenda’s minds to the point that they seek guidance on the said thing  – even though the boss has told them ‘Hey you didn’t hear that!’ – then they might be entitled to know the truth about the thing that they supposedly didn’t hear.

Does that garbled sentence make any sense Mum? Oh, about as much as not hearing something you’ve heard and asking about it and then being reminded that you didn’t hear it and being expected to disregard it even though you’ve already shown that you heard it and didn’t disregard it by asking the question in the first place.

Sorry my sweet old girl, I didn’t catch that?

It’s all Greek to you?


Well no luv, I’m very sorry but I will not call Gorgeous George and ask him to translate it for you, and no it’s not just because I know full well you have a thing for him and think he’s cute.

Alright, yes he is I suppose but I’m not changing my mind, because George speaks modern wog Mum, not the ancient Koine kind.

Only bench warmers, civil libertarians and St Matthew speak that old lingo these days.


Are you serious Mum?

You don’t know who St Matthew is? Or that the Iliad loving illywhacker wrote his recollections of the great man’s sermons in Spiro Supremadopolous’s ancient Coptic script?

Jesus Christ almighty!

Next you’ll be telling me that you can’t see Herbet Badgery standing there in front of you and staring you right in the face.

For the love of pizza female parent, it’s not as if you’re one of the baying crowd that Pilate’s anointed and appointed to decide whether it’s Barabbas or the merry rambling Aramaic minstrel who cops the breeze on Calvary.

So don’t ask me to answer your damn questions, I’m too busy reading about Peter and denial and cocks that crow thrice to be arsed explaining it. And don’t bother looking at my website, because the answer’s not there either.

Get with the times Grandma – just bloody Google it!