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This is a question Churches, temples and holy places

Tell us about the times you've been to a place of worship, and - this being b3ta - how you are now consigned to the everlasting fires of Hell.

(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 13:50)
Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I don't believe in Magic
... but I like a good cathedral. In 2000, I was lucky enough to be working for ESA in Frascati, Italy. On a weekend off, I took a trip into Rome to have a mooch about, and ended up going round the Vatican.

It was only when I got back to my hotel room that I realised my Father Ted t-shirt, with "Drink, Feck, Girls, Arse" splashed all over the front probably wasn't the most sensitive choice of garment.
(, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 7:33, 4 replies)

Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new -
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches will fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for which was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.
(, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 6:47, 2 replies)
Vicar: And now a song to close
Young Wehttamman: Why's he talking about Santa Clause? It's not Christmas
(, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 5:28, Reply)
2 Gospels Voice of God
1)I went to a Synagogue with an Ark (where they keep the Torah Scrolls) with some illuminated glass panels. Behind the ark was a passage with the switch for the lights behind the panel. A little kid wanders into the sanctuary during an event elsewhere in the building (normal sanctuary lights are off) and I flicker the lights and bellow "I AM GOD". Little kid runs away.

2) I was walking by a church and there were some nuns outside. I stopped and shouted "I've got it!". The nuns turn and stare at me and I shout "It's the Church of the Epiphany!" and run off.
(, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 5:10, 1 reply)
When I moved into my shared house in London a few months ago I had to get used to the occasional couch-surfer turning up, as my new housemates had been doing it for a few years and assured me it was good fun. Most of the time it was okay; the occasional Aussie with no regard for public hygine was more than balanced out by all the fun people I met.

About 3 months into the flatshare we got a message from some dude and his girlfriend who were coming up from Brighton for the weekend and hadn't been able to find anywhere to stay. We responded, saying of course they were welcome. We all went out for some drinks on the saturday night, all very pleasant, but then 8 police vans go screaming past. The riots.

The pub closed early, so we decided to cut our losses and go home. We should have left earlier as coming down Caledonian road was a horde of chavs, smashing the Chicken Cottages and Ladbrookes' and god knows what else as they made their way down towards King's Cross. We hurried in, but they were right on our tails, one starts banging on the door and shouting. The fucker is bored, and liked the look of this chap from Brighton. He starts baying for a go, shouting "Send him out! I'm going to do him up the arse!", now, we're absolutely terrified, but this won't stand.

We're good hosts.

So, instead, I bundle my 18 year old housemate and the guest's girlfriend out of the door and slam it shut. So it's clear, I yell through the letterbox that they can rape and humiliate these two instead, but they can't hurt my guest. By the morning things had died down, so we ventured outside. They were both lying dead on my doorstep, so we helped get the girlfriend into the car to be carted off.

Judges 19:15-29. If their god does exist and I don't get sent to Hell I'll be disgusted with myself.
(, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 4:58, 1 reply)
Saved by the hurl
My immediate family is not at all religious, but my mum's side, being of Polish extraction, are Catholics. Back when we lived in England, one weekend it was announced that we were driving to Birmingham to see my cousin's confirmation. The prospect of going to sit in a church to see a ceremony we didn't believe in conducted in a language we didn't understand did not exactly thrill my brothers and I, and we bitched and moaned for the entire car ride. My mother told us that she understood, but this was important to her relatives and we should feel honoured to be invited to see it.

Luckily, once we got into Birmingham, my younger brother enacted a cunning plan and vomited copiously onto the floor of the car. This meant we ended up standing around in a cold Birmingham street for an hour watching my parents scoop vomit out of the footwell, but hey, it was better than going to church.
(, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 4:29, 1 reply)
2 Kings 2:23-25
If I ever find myself in a church I'll quietly take the nearest bible and bookmark the heartwarming story of Elisha and the She-Bears. Not, as you might think, some Iron Age metal group, but an episode where a slaphead called Elisha finds his condition being mocked by a bunch of children. His response is to curse the lot of them, whereupon two female bears turn up and rip 42 of the little tykes to bits.
Granted they were probably chav kids, but that's still a bit of an over-reaction, don't you think? More evidence that the bible is a bunch of grumpy old men's revenge fantasies and porn cobbled together.
By bookmarking that passage I'm hoping the next reader will ask himself why such nasty bollocks is in there.
(, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 3:59, 3 replies)
Probably wrote the most sacrilegious song while sitting in a churchyard tree in the rain
I was a late teen, and irritatedly sitting in a churchyard holly tree in the rain (St. Martin's I believe). I had my guitar, and despite my bitter hatred of 'country and western', a song percolated from my brain. At that point, "Your Church Makes me Vomit" poured forth, and instantly became a very popular local ditty;
(just the chorus, so this doesn't get tossed) - chords GCGDGCGDG
Your church, your church makes me vomit, your church, your church makes me sick. Your church, your church makes me vomit. To be honest it's utterly... (next verse).
20 years on, I still get random requests for it - damnit!
(, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 1:48, Reply)
the vatican
So, a couple of years ago i found myself in Rome, and went to have a potter round the vatican, as you do.

i wandered off and ended up in a bit you're not supposed to be in, from which i was removed. the quickest removal route apparently being out of a side entrance into rome

chucked out of a holy site, AND deported from a soveriegn nation in one fell swoop

(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 23:46, Reply)
Midnight mass
was the last time I went to church about five or six years ago. I had to leave in a hurry after I read in the programme that the sermon was titled "the circumcision of Jesus",
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 23:28, 2 replies)
On a recent visit to the Orkney islands
I drew a cookie on an angel in the Italian chapel.

Sorry god
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 23:20, 7 replies)
You would be on a register now...
but way back in the mid 80's when I was a teenager, a good few of my mates frequented a youth club run by the local Methodist church. As far as I can remember only one of them was even remotley Methodist, and the church didnt mind fairly well adjusted teenagers coming along to bolster numbers. I went along for the unihockey and indoor 5 aside, in a local sports centre paid for by the church.

There was no overt religeous overtones to the youth club except we were expected to, once in a while, help out with other church social events.

So I was gently press-ganged into attending a service, where fellow Methodists from some far flung place (Canada seems to ring a bell) were visiting and were performing in a choir for the locals. Me and my cohorts were to do the "whip round" at some predetermined moment and had been given the donation bags (some sort of velvet bag on a handle)

The signal was given and off we bimbled round the congregation, which was strangely receptive to me wandering round. I seemed to be the centre of some attention. Smiling old ladies, saying hello and stuffing the bag with a donation.

I walked back down towards the front, handed the offerings over and sat down. Oddly there was an peculiar feeling in my groin. An airy, sort of unfettered felling. Then the cold sweat of realisation hit me.

I had done all of this with my fly open and my undercarriage was more or less down. Not exactly out but was pretty much visible to see.

I still shudder over this memory even now.
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 23:05, Reply)
Bananas, elephants, children and a temple carved from marble
India has lots:
Including one were I got tapped on the head by an elephant in return for a piece of fruit. The same one whereby on one specific day of the year, the whole village decides to drag HUGE chariot/tower things across the town, which are quite literally filled with children. Then we get handed bananas and are told to throw them at it. Apparently if you hit a child it's bad luck, but if you manage to clear the top of the chariot with the banana you are blessed.

But one of the most awe inspiring things I have ever seen, is this, one of the Dilwara temples on mount Abu:


Hand carved from marble blocks by Jain monks. Even the tiniest details on EVERY surface depict little images and swirls and flowers and patterns to perfect detail. The floor, ceiling, walls, all finely and smoothly carved to near perfection and from the centre of the domed ceiling hung what I originally thought to be a chandelier - but it turned out to be infact, part of the initial block, just.... chiselled around to give the illusion of it being a secondary piece.

A brilliant testament to patience, devoutness and creativity. Really, genuinely beautiful.
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 22:54, 1 reply)
Vicarious God-pestering
My parents both went to severe Catholic schools - the sort where if you dared to speak out of line, question the authority of the priests, have an ounce of self-esteem or try to enjoy life to any degree not sanctioned by the Catholic Church you got physically beaten. One particularly delicious memory of my father's dates from when he was about 10 or 11, and the school invited a priest to talk to all the boys in his year, to find out whether or not they might want to become priests. My dad's approach was to ask questions, to whit:

"If I die, where does my soul go?"

Apparently the mere fact of asking questions went against the fundamental values of the priesthood, and he was excluded. So now he spends his days drinking beer and playing the electric guitar, and generally not regretting his youthful curiosity.
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 22:32, 2 replies)
Couple of months back, me and the wife went to Rome. Despite our shared belief that all religion is complete and utter bollocks, we felt obliged to do the touristy thing and go to the Vatican.

I had to answer the call of nature, so I asked a priestly looking bloke where the toilets where. And before he could answer my wife said
"He needs to go for a Holy Shit"
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 21:49, 6 replies)
Jesus stole my hot dog
the bastard
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 21:38, 2 replies)
Mahatma Ganges.
Warning: This story contains a rather girly ending. So if you want Hellfire and damnation, look elsewhere. Right, you ready? Let's begin...

Do you remember those magic eye posters? The ones where you had to stare for ages before you saw the hidden picture? I do. And I was terrible at them. Never got one for as long as the fad lasted. And that just summed me up beautifully. I always missed the hidden picture of things. Until one day in India.

Recently, I spent some time in India for personal reasons. Now that trip in itself had more than enough stories for a thousand QOTW's! But for this week, I'm going to tell you about my experiences by the Ganges. Now the Ganges, as I'm sure you're aware, is the holy land for all Hindus. People are burned by the side of the river, gathered up and scattered in the river in the name of their religion. But there was another side to these funeral rituals that I wasn't aware of. And learnt in a rather freaky manner.

I decided to take a boat ride across the Ganges. Our guide then rowed us across various areas showing us what was happening and why. These included, why women weren't allowed near the funeral pyre (answer: Because the women have a tendency to throw themselves on there whilst their husband is burning! Hence, it's for their safety. At least that's what he told us!). Whilst our guide was babbling on about some buildings, I could see something out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see. I freaked out.

"What the buggery bollocking arseholes is that?!"

Calm as bloke who's just smoked half a pound of grass, the guide replies "That's a body."

A rotting body, to be precise.

"Erm...why?" I asked.

The guide explained that in Hindu culture bodies are burned in order to purify them. However, certain people and certain deaths maintain a body's purity. These include:

1. Pregnant women.
2. Children under 5 years of age.
3. Holy men.
4. People who died of a snake bite.

There were others, but these were the only ones I could remember. Now if someone falls into one of those categories, you don't get cremated. You merely get tied up, weighed down, and thrown into the Ganges! Which means that the bottom of the Ganges is littered with bodies who fall into those categories stated above. Slightly unnerved, I then started to look around and saw something else which I couldn't believe.

I could see people washing themselves in the river. I mean a full-on bath/shower! Children playing and drinking the water. The same water which is full of rotting bodies! Only one thought sprang to mind:

"How fucking strong are these peoples' immune systems?!"

We starting rowing towards the hotel. On the way we saw bones of bodies freshly cremated and birds pecking away at the bodies which floated to the surface. It was like something out of a horror film. But only to me. It was amazing to see how, even at an early age, these Hindus were comfortable around death. In Western societies, parents wonder how to introduce the concept of death to their children without freaking them out. Not here! You grow up around it.

The closer I looked the more filth and squalor I could see. The bits holiday brochures "leave out". I couldn't believe people still lived like this. I though India was getting richer? Yet people still lived like this?! This is appalling! Anyway, next day, I was due to fly out. The hotel staff had got our suitcases ready but I decided to go outside on the Ghat (a sort of jetty) for one final look. Now I don't know whether it was because of the sun or I had a good night's sleep, but I saw something completely different.

I looked around and saw children playing in the river, men brushing their teeth with the water and women washing their clothes in the Ganges. But everyone seemed happy.

"Water" a voice said in my ear. It was the guide.


"Water. It's the sustainer of life. At least, that's how I see it..."

Suudenly, I could see the hidden picture in this magic eye poster that was the Ganges. The filth and dirt didn't matter to them. They had a community. They were happy. And for ten seconds I just soaked in that beautiful picture. People who weren't rich and didn't live in an affluent environment, but were happier than I ever could be!

"Yeah. I suppose you're right!" And it was then, I knew what I had to do.

Eventually, our trip came to a close and we flew back to the UK. After a week, I went to my solicitor's and changed my will. I explicitly asked that when died, I wanted my ashes scattered over the Ganges. Not because I'd found religion! I think I've made my feelings perfectly clear about that*! No, it was because that whoever scatters my ashes (hopefully, my children) it will give them a chance to experience what I experienced at the Ganges. Seeing people living together as a community despite the poor living conditions was a testament to the human spirit. It was beautiful...

* = www.b3ta.com/questions/performance/post1326583
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 21:11, 15 replies)
Pearost from 2006
This happened at my grandmother's funeral:

She had attended an Evangelical church, where the minister wasn't averse to a bit of extempore prayer. During said prayer, the entire family bit its collective bottom lip as we heard him say that at the grave she would be "urinated with the Lord". I hope he meant to say "reunited", but then again she had just died of bladder cancer....
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 21:05, Reply)
My parents weren't very religious,
but thought they should at least appear to be, in order to be a good guide for their impressionable children. So inevitably we would be dragged to the local church every sunday, and I was even made an altar boy later on. But that's a different story.

So after spending some substantial amount of time in this little concrete walled encasement of god, I couldn't believe I had never noticed that strange thing on the cross over the altar. Yes, there were those two wooden beams intersecting at approximately two third hight, and yes, there was this skinny dude hanging kind of listlessly with a gaze of sheer boredom on his face. But what was that on his head? For some reason, I had never noticed his crown of thorns. And being very young, and not knowing about shit, I asked my parents in the middle of the service in that squeaky piercing children's voice that penetrates all other noises "Mom, why does Jesus have antlers?" This being before the invention of humour, I got kicked out immediately, with not a single stifled laugh to be heard.
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 20:24, Reply)
Aged 20ish, and having been drinking all day with a Christian colleague,
we decided to pop into the local church, to enjoy the peaceful atmosphere.
Vicar was not pleased, and turfed us out, claiming that the church was closing for the night. My cutting, theological response of "you can't close the church, God doesn't sleep" fell on deaf ears.

Of my life so far, being drunk and disorderly in a church is the one thing that I'm truly ashamed of (I don't think I was being particularly disorderly, but I must have done something to upset that vicar).
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 19:16, Reply)
So, here's an odd thing...
Back when I was a student, a couple of friends and I went on a tour of north Italy, having a jolly good time at a selection of youth hostels.

When we were in Florence, we wanted to go and look in a particular church, but there was a service currently being held. We decided to sneak in quietly and stand at the back until the service was over - which a nice lady assured us would only be about ten minutes.

So there we are, three young British females, standing at the back of a full-on Catholic mass, at Easter time, in Florence, quietly minding out own business. Then, out of nowhere - and I swear this is true - I heard this voice inside my head, really really loud, screaming at me.

"Get out! Get Out Now!"

I have no idea what prompted my brain to do that, but at the same time, this wizened little old Italian grandmama turned round and glared at me. You can only imagine how panicked I was, and how quickly I turned around and fled.

After the service was over and all the congregation had left, I went back in to join my friends, and we did the proper touristy thing of wandering round looking at all the nice churchy bits. I usually love churches and cathedrals, and even though I'm not religious, I always feel quiet and peaceful inside them. That's the one and only time I've ever felt my heathen card being punched.

I don't really have a punchline. It's just a rather bizarre episode.
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 18:43, 3 replies)
Same Church, different days
When the fascination of being in an empty Church during the day began to wear off, myself and Darkie Bacon, not his real name, but one of his many psuedonyms, decided to explore. We decided to venture up to the pipe organ and possibly have a wee tune. On getting there we found it be locked, undeterred we messed up some hymn book, possibly frisbeed them about a bit.

It wasn't enough.

Taking matters into my own hands, literally, I decided to moisten the organ players special shoes by liberally pissing in both. Their construct guaranteed a non permeable receptacle that readily held the salty ballast. We felt this was enough and left. This was also the day I decided God was a cunt and didn't exist.

This behaviour and belief didn't stop me putting my hand up in class when they were looking for volunteer altar boys. After all, they had great Summer and Xmas treats. So, my training commenced much to the chest swelling pride of my parents and I am pleased to say I was never nonced, beasted or groomed.

Some months later I was to do a 5pm Sunday mass and headed down to get prepared. The Church was eerily quite as I let myself into the Sacristy (vip area) to get changed. It was then I realised the clocks had went back, and I was an hour early. This is a lifetime when you are 10. So I decided to have a nosy about in where the Dirty Beast would get changed, an area we weren't normally granted access to. I quickly found, fuck all, save for the silver bowl that held the unconsecrated hosts, the big ones that the Dirty Priest held aloft during mass. So I grabbed a dozen or so, got my jacket and left, handing in an unsaid resignation as I slammed the door shut.

I dawdled home, chewed on a few of the Hosts and thought about how I could best exploit these holy artifacts. (Yes I know that they weren't the body of Christ yet, as they hadn't been blessed, but that was a mere detail). Looking around me I could see lots of dog shits, so what better way to say, "FUCK GOD", than to plant a host in each dog egg till they were all gone.

I admired my handywork and made a swift exit as a party of God botherers were approaching. I still wish I had a photo, or at least hung around to overhear any appalled gasps that my piece of protest art may have produced.
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 18:32, 5 replies)
I don't think I signed up for that...
My other 'arf is one of them immigrants that come over here and steal all our jobs. So after we got married here in the UK, we went over to her home town to have another ceremony for her family and friends, who mostly couldn't travel to the first one.

Now, I'm a committed atheist, but she comes from a catholic country, and is (nominally) catholic herself. So the ceremony had some religious readings and so on - not in a church, but fulfilling the family's expectations for that kind of thing. Not a problem for me, it's just background noise. I even read out a prepared vow/passage, despite not speaking the language.

All fine and dandy, until suddenly, when my mind had wandered during a particularly long reading delivered in complicated Church Forrin, the entire crowd suddenly all did a Nazi salute.

Ohhh... Kay... I'm thinking, is there something I ought to know about these people? They're all rather, erm, dusky to be White Supremacists, surely? Then again, logic and racism are uneasy bedfellows at the best of times, so who knows...

Thankfully it turned out to be a catholic thing, and nothing to do with shiny boots and enforced showering.
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 17:42, 6 replies)
Probably like a fair number of posters this week,
I was dragged off to church every Sunday against my will. I stopped going voluntarily when I could no longer bring candy and other snacks with me to pass the time whilst I played with a toy, and grew progressively more and more annoyed about having to go with each passing week. For the first three years of school, my parents shipped me off to a private, Roman Catholic school. I can't think of a bigger waste of money, especially as every single person I know who stayed and graduated is an atheist now. After three years of it, I was able to convince my parents to just send me to the same schools everyone else in the area went to. Sadly, it came with one condition. They told me that as I wouldn't be having a class on Catholicism every third day of school, I'd have to attend CCD classes once a week in a a building adjacent to our church's chapel.

I could almost have killed some time just reading if it were actually based around the bible, but it seems the local diocese had approved text books we would be learning from instead. It was filled to bursting with the most idiotic sort of crap. Example questions I remember being:
·If your friend is selling stolen CDs, what would you do?
·If Jesus were alive today, who do you think his role model would be?
·What do you think Jesus' favourite type of crisps would be?

For the most part, I'd just bring a book and sit in the back and read or something. Then when I was about 14, they started implementing a test system, were you'd fail a grade at being Catholic if you didn't pass. I told my teacher that year, "Look, you obviously take this all quite seriously, but I don't believe it at all. I see no reason to be rude to you and mock your beliefs, but in exchange I ask that you don't sit and call on me every class asking how I know god exists." She was fine with that, and I moved on to the next year without issue. A new teacher, and I told him the same thing as the last. It seems he just couldn't let it slide though, and decided he was going to save my soul. Every week he'd ask me things like, "Ithy, how do you know god exists?" or "How can you tell that Jesus is the saviour?" Each time I'd tell him, "I let you know before the term started, I don't believe in any of it, as far as I'm concerned it's rubbish. Let me be, and I'll be quiet and polite again."

It seems this was all too much for the poor, old man to bear with, and about three weeks into his term, my mother got a call from the nun in charge of the programme. We were informed that my instructor had been going to her after every class, and crying because he was upset that I was going to go to hell. I was either to start playing the part of devout Christian, or else she said I was no longer welcome there and would have to leave their church. I felt bad for the guy, but I'd offered him an easy out from the start, tried being polite with him, and told the nun that if I cleaned up my act like she wanted, I'd be lying through my teeth and condemned to hell by her religion anyway. My mum started asking about refunds for that term's tuition, and I haven't been back to church since.
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 17:37, 3 replies)
In which Mr Fluffles almost gets himself sent down from Cambridge
Mr Fluffles used to be an organ scholar at Cambridge. This involves playing for services and running the choir. It is NOT supposed to involve frivolities such as this.
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 17:29, 4 replies)
"Does God Exist?
◘ Yes
◘ No
◘ Maybe"

...read a huge banner outside our nearest community church. I walked past it a few times, the large, empty tick boxes almost beckoning me.

So, a couple of days after the sign appeared, on the way back from a heavy drinking session in town, me and my intoxicated accomplices got hold of some black paint, stole a ladder from a building site and scaled the church wall at 4am - only witnessed by a few blurry-eyed drunks wandering past - and left a giant black tick in the "No" box.

Everything went to plan. Took about a week before they painted over it again.
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 17:15, 1 reply)
a 3rd Time? Maybe I only have so many stories to tell...
Christmas / Hell / Churches - it fits them all! Yes, a 3rd repost. I think I'm more shameful of this now... www.b3ta.com/questions/hell/post327073

15 years ago, i was about 17, Christmas Eve was ALWAYS the best night out for going on the piss with your mates, in the locals. fuck New years. Anyways, 8 or 9 pints of wife beater and i was hammered - no questions. Walking home, with a mate around midnight, notice lots of people going into the local methodist church "ahhhhh - midnight mass" my brain tells me. "lets go in and have fun" says the booze.

Stood at the back, giggling, nudging each other, thinking we were being quiet, singing the wrong words, pretending to 'polish' an old mans bald head in front of us by making a squeaking noise and polishing motion. All the time we were getting evil looks. God, looking back now, i wish i could remove the memory of that night - it fils me with shame.

It's very warm, we sit down, calming singing, all very pleasant, i'll shut my eyes for 2 mins, you know, jus...............................................

Next thing i know, the vicar is prodding me awake "your friend ran away with 2 kneeling cusions" he says, then i remember where i am. it's 1:30am and i've been a little sick down my shirt and into my pocket. i manage to stand and run off into the night crying...
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 16:55, 1 reply)
My parents were married in Northern Ireland in 1972.
It was a mixed marriage - Protestant bride and Catholic groom. That didn't go down well with either family or, indeed, most of society at that time. They found a young priest who agreed to marry them and a minister to give a blessing, so both sides were covered. My grandfather, a worker in the very Loyalist shipyard, was issued with a death threat if he entered the chapel. He sat in the car park while my Great Uncle walked my mother down the aisle.

Religion is a good way to put people off religion. They decided to raise me to make up my own mind. And the success of my parents' marriage can be attributed to the fact that, despite the occasional threat, my mother refuses to countenance divorce as staying married after all these years is two fingers up to the naysayers.
(, Thu 1 Sep 2011, 16:53, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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