I was somewhat surprised last week to see that – miracle of miracles! – the image of the Virgin Mary had appeared among the water stains on a concrete underpass in Chicago. To the best of my knowledge Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ, the Son of God never actually went to Chicago. During her frenzied sell-out tour of the United States in 38CE the whole state of Illinois was left off the itinerary altogether due to a massive outbreak of Velociraptors. I suppose, thinking about it, it’s possible she was making up for that omission on her world tour after all these centuries. It’s the sort of thing she might do; she’s supposed to have been quite a nice lady by all accounts.
Whenever a "miracle" occurs crowds of the mentally incompetent gather to pray, cause disruption, and fail to turn up to work or care for their families en masse. It’s a miracle! With that in mind I may be taking my life in my hands here when I say that my own home is, in fact, a haven for miraculous events, apparitions, manifestations, and a-happenings the likes of which you, a sceptic, will probably not, at first, believe. But have faith and prepare to be astounded as I reveal the secret signs of proof of a supreme – if cryptic and obtuse and oddly incapable of communicating in a meaningful manner on matters which are actually important – being! Welcome to my house of miracles!
Thomas The Apostle Is Under My Toilet Bowl
The Virgin Mary, as everyone knows, was a white woman who wore blue and white (early Portsmouth Football Club supporter) clothing, always kept her hair covered, and stood with a coy tilt to her head (later copied by the decidedly-not-Virgin Princess Diana). This knowledge makes it extremely easy to spot her whenever she gets it into her immortal head to appear among the carrots and eyeballs present in vomit outside a pub, or her outline is formed by roundworm on a fat man’s buttocks.
Thomas the Apostle is more of an enigma. Other than being a man – a man called Thomas! – and doubting Jesus we know little of him. But it’s this doubting that gives us a clue as to how to spot him when he returns to Earth. Ashamed at his actions Thomas is fated to weep sadly wherever and whenever he makes an Earthly appearance. Is it only a coincidence that there is a leak in my upstairs toilet? Or is it a miraculous appearance by one of Jesus’ closest friends! A quick peer under the back of the toilet bowl reveals all; brown, mouldy beard, mushroomy eyes, and a tattoo across the forehead that reads ‘Armitage Shanks‘! If it isn’t Thomas the Apostle then David Blunkett has crept into my house in a bid to invade my privacy. Well, my privacy I hope. Whatever the case …
… it’s a miracle!
Robert The Bruce’s Spider Is Reincarnated And Living Above My Front Door
Everyone knows the story about Robert The Bruce and the spider. If I’m wrong and everyone doesn’t know the story then, in summary: Scottish guy called Bob MacBruce hid in a cave to avoid, er, let’s say trolls and was feeling depressed. Well, he was Scottish after all. Then he saw a spider try to build a web across a giant chasm to trap bats perhaps but the spider was pretty inept as spiders go and kept failing to build the web properly. Or maybe the bats were sabotaging it. That sounds quite likely actually. Anyway, the spider never gave up trying to build her web and eventually succeeded and babies hatched and ate her. Somehow this made Bob happy. Well, he was Scottish after all. And the moral of the story was if at first you don’t succeed try, try again and don’t sit on pointy rocks in a kilt.
That spider is back! Now, I don’t like spiders but I can tolerate their presence so long as they don’t move while I’m looking at them or while I’m not looking at them, definitely don’t rear up and charge at me when I enter a room, and positively don’t coccoon me in my sleep.
Above the front door to my house is a skylight. As skylights go it rates as Brown on the Rainbow-o-meter of Good and Effective Skylights. It’s dirty, single-glazed, nailed shut, and the paintwork is flaking off. There are also tiny gaps in the woodwork. Spider leg-width gaps as it happens. Neither flies nor bats choose the skylight as a holiday destination or have decided to set up home in its dirty brightness but that hasn’t stopped the reincarnated form of Robert The Bruce’s determined spider from determinedly spinning a web above the door on a regular basis. The years in Spider Heaven have been good to her and her web-building has improved mightily meaning that failures and frustrations are a thing of the distant past but now she must face the fearsome power of the vacuum cleaner I use to stop the door becoming entangled or the vibrations as it opens setting off her tingly spidey powers and causing her to descend onto my skull and pull me up into a nest in the corner of the ceiling. I suck up the web. I somehow fail to suck up the spider. The spider rebuilds the web. Reincarnated arachnids and resolute determination equals …
… a miracle!
Billy The Kid The Ghost Is Haunting My Chair
Billy The Kid’s great regret upon finding out he was dead was that he had never become Billy The Old Millionaire President With Three Hooker Wives. It’s a scientific fact that post-death regret is the leading cause of spectralbeingism among the dearly departed and gratefully departed alike and it should come as no surprise to learn that Billy’s last act was to become Billy The Kid The Ghost.
Billy could have gone anywhere, done anything, and spied on any number of women undressing and playing with their naughty bits when they thought nobody was looking. However, the bindings that tie a member of the spooky realm to this mortal coil are strong and come with a life-and-deathtime guarantee and Billy has been forced to try to relive some of his ante mortem experiences. To this end he has decided to recreate the wild west under my leather recliner chair. And just how has this miracle of interdimensional activity manifested itself? Tumbleweeds. I swear that every time I sit down and flick the lever on the chair to adopt the "screw the TV, I’m having a nap" position one or more miniature balls of ether-in-physical-form roll out across the wooden flooring. Their resemblance to spiders is distressing – just the sort of thing Billy The Kid The Ghost would do – and close examination reveals that they are constructed from cat fur but this is no reason to suppose there is a less-than-otherworldly explanation for their appearance. The teeny-tiny saloon and microscopic phantasms shooting it out at high noon beneath my posterior may only be in my imagination but, nevertheless, …
… it’s a miracle!