Thursday, March 13, 2014
Hey, St Anthony! Help Me Find My Shit!
I’m no religious zealot — hell, the chickens I’ve slaughtered and offered up to Satan can be measured in neck miles — but right now I’m heavily reliant for my day-to-day survival on the services of St Anthony.
If you know anything at all about saints then you’ll probably already be aware of two key facts about these hypermortals of legend and song:
1) Most of them have utterly ridiculous names that only the most devout would wrest from the Wholly Bib as part of any Name That Screaming Infant Challenge. Like St Augustine of Hippo. Gotta love that guy.
2) Despite rumours to the contrary, neither Elvis, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Hitler nor Dale Winton is a saint.
What you may not realise is that St Anthony — by far the most practically useful saint since St Bottle Opener and St Spare Pair Of Trousers Just In Case It Rains — began life as a practising buddhist monk.
If you think about it, this kind of makes sense.
Why do we ask St Anthony for help? Like I say, right now, for me, it’s a matter of survival. I’ve lost so many things this week that I may have inadvertently opened up a partial vacuum in the cosmos capable of sucking another Star Trek film starring William Shatner from the vortex. Without my prayers to St Anthony, mankind is doomed.
That’s where the whole buddhist trip came in so handy for dear old Ant. He spent so much time soaking up the Here & Now into every fibre of his being that he got to know more about where stuff was than any of these socially inept spectacle savants who can memorize the contents of a telephone directory before BT has even allocated the numbers.
“Oh, yeah, that Carling Black Label ring pull from Rod Stewart’s fourth can the night he played the Manchester Apollo in 1971with Jeff Beck and the peculiar looking one from Sweet. It’s rusted and gone now, but if you have a millennium or two I can let you know where all the atoms of tin and aluminium and nickel are, along with every last molecule of Stewart’s subsequent showy urine fountain for the benefit of the groupies.”
Having friends like this in the afterlife is very useful indeed. Only problem is, St Anthony clearly has something of a backlog. While my lime green underpants and my matching canoe and chivalric trumpet fanfares CD might be very dear to me, they’re both a long way down the goodly saint’s hit list if my current wait is anything to go by. We know from Kit’s Law that there are always more missing cats then people who can be bothered to find them, and after the knees-up festive season we had last year, everyone knows someone who’s still missing a light-up bauble, so I’m on a loser here right from the outset.
All I can do is wait, quite literally for something to turn up. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get lucky — a chance meeting of happenstance and serendipity that sparks a revelation about my underpants. If not, then maybe I’ll forget that I even forgot where I put stuff, forever to wander about the house in a confused daze. Reminds me of that thing Lon Chaney said about the things we don’t know we don’t know.
Or was it that other guy from Sweet...?