Whilst I was in the centre of Northampton yesterday, I was approached by a wholesome looking chap who announced to me:

“You look like the sort of person who would come to a Christian street celebration!” 

I think my initial response was to stare for a second, before managing to sputter “Do I? Why is that?” at this pleasant bloke whilst trying to supress my laughter. I’ll admit, I was taken aback.

In my mind, I look like an ordinary, slightly overweight, person. I don’t really stand out in any way except for my height. When the nice religious man approached me, I was wearing regular work attire, which includes shirt, trousers and shoes. I was using my mobile phone to send a text message to the Feisty Kim. It was drizzling but I wore no coat. I’d just eaten a turkey buttie and drank some tasty beef and tomato soup. I needed a wee.

All ordinary, general, everyday things that I was sure did not in any way indicate that I’d like to spend my time on a street celebrating Christian things with other Christians. Clearly this fine church-going gent had seen something about me to single me out as one of his holy brothers. Perhaps when he looked at me he saw a saintly halo atop my crown, or upon sight of me a heavenly chorus played out in celebration of Himself. I did consider that the soup I had just partaken of could have been prepared using holy water, so the very spirit of the Lord Himself would have been dissolving in my most humble stomach acids.

Whatever it was, I was intrigued. I’d been told I looked like someone who would love a good old Christian street festival, I’d asked him why and my new holy brother was walking toward me to give me my answer.

But damnations and blasphemy, as he entered my comfort zone, as he breached my inner circle (not that one), he produced from nowhere… some leaflets. Leaflets! Struck dumb by this man’s treachery and stunned that I had fallen for his simple charm, I accepted a leaflet. It felt cold in my hands, as chilled as ice and as frosty as the giver’s heart. Without a word, this leaflet-spreading monstrosity walked away, out of my life, as quickly as he’d entered it.

I looked at the leaflet. It was unappealing. I’d been invited, by God no less, to attend a celebration in one of Northampton’s streets. A picture of some happy, smiling, waving folk peered back at me, along with the date and time of this “joyous coming together of faith!”. The happiness of the folk on the leaflet was like tiny unbent staples being rammed into my eyes, their smiles were like poorly cooked chicken at a barbeque and their waves were like tides of sewage washing up on shore in the middle of the surfing competition of my very soul.

I didn’t look like someone who would enjoy a Christian street celebration. I looked like some goon who’d take a leaflet from a conniving street marketer, a gullible sap easily influenced by some kind words. With no small amount of disgust, I turned away from this peddler of leaflet filth and stode away purposefully up the road, not even stopping when I deposited my leaflet into the nearest bin.

My attendance at that, and any other, Christian street celebration is well and truly cancelled.

Whilst the celebration is underway I plan to have my own little shindig. Like a Gentleman, I shall retire to my study with some fine drink and perhaps a delightful cheeseboard. Inbetween enjoying the complimentary flavours of the cheeses and the drink, I shall produce a pen, perhaps a biro, perhaps a Parker, from my jacket pocket and, using this very tool, I shall recreate the dreadful leaflet upon a piece of paper, down to the very finest detail. I shall then proceed to rip up the leaflet and with great aplomb cast it into the flames of my roaring fire where I shall watch it burn to a cinder.

Commence worship immediately. Hallelujah for me.