Pastblast – Jerusalem Offertory – Nor Shall his Pork Sword Sleep in his Hand

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

Jerusalem Old City from the roof of the Austrian Hospice

November 13th – shuffled sheepishly through Israeli immigration, enduring a 30-second staring down by an unnervingly Aryan young woman in army fatigues. Last time an attractive girl looked at me like that I was wrapped in duct-tape, breathing through a piece of conduit. Why do I already feel like an imposter on this journey? That at any moment somebody will point and bellow ‘what’s that idiot doing here?’ and the whole grim crowd will turn …? Last night’s ElAl adventure was disconcerting, as if I had boarded the wrong plane: the regular one, in which people watched movies, slept and read books had departed from a different gate. I’d stumbled onto the one where everyone got tarted up like the Nativity, strapped boxes to their heads and vanished under sheets to bob and mumble like citizens of Bedlam. No sign of my special-order bacon-wrapped-scallops and only a sad shake of the attendant’s head when I inquired about Lexi Luvavich’s She Fiddled Me On The Roof, absent from the in-flight entertainment menu. What’s First Class come to? Grey beef like a poached hand, spheroid potatoes scalded into floury eyeballs, ashen green beans that dissolve on the tongue. Syrupy wine redolent of prunes. Almost made me feel guilty for having coerced 200,000 frequent flyer miles out of Micheal McLaughlin, spinning tales of mercy-missions to cleft-palate godchildren in Tegucigalpa sweating under the yoke of pig, bird and ass flu. He would scoff at these Zionist beanstalk-seeds, bartered for so many points, being accustomed to the pan-seared Bengal Tiger and complimentary analingus of China Air’s Tycoon Class. Minibus to Jerusalem was little better, squeezed into the wheel-well by a gentleman whose panoply of loin-fat threatened to overwhelm the entire van, like something from a John Carpenter film. By the time he was levered onto the sidewalk his food vacuole had begun digesting my hand-luggage. Finally expunged from this mobile body-odour laboratory a half-mile shy of the Old City, I sniffed around what gradually revealed itself to be Palestinian East Jerusalem, grimacing, waving off assistance lest my sparrowy chassis be rendered into baba ganoush before I’d squeezed my buttocks through The Damascus Gate. Eventually found rest at the Austrian Hospice, funereal guesthouse-come-convent with high notes of Berchtesgaden, scampering nuns and a drizzle of pallid Christians in teal fleece. Appealing floppy-haired desk-clerk – clearly straight off the seilbahn from Innsbruck – with missionary zeal in his eyes; might have tried to unholster the Lovely Brothers’ 5D but I suspect the Lord would have come between me and the lad’s tumescent weisswürst, staying my trigger finger like Abraham’s over Isaac. And wasn’t that Tomorrow Belongs to Me he was humming as he photocopied my passport? Second floor cell gazing out at a wall. Bed, upright chair, 60-watt bulb. Larkin would grin; though not at that bible, squatting like a toad. Succumbed to godless and lamentably sober exhaustion.


5.30 am – What in the Aching Arse of Allah is that!?! Black as pitch outside and in. The crepuscular silence is shattered by sudden but sustained metallic wailing, not unlike John Lydon in his Flowers of Romance phase. But so much louder. And more enduring. Did I set my iPhone to Muezzin Shriek last night and accidentally stuff it in my ear? Listening more carefully, am able discern the presence of a second, similar wail, more distant, then another … and another. I lie on my nunnish bed in the dark, picking out each ululation as it weaves in and out of the whole; breaking, recovering in a kind of soaring, plaintive harmony. Part lament, part din, part incantation. I’m kaleidoscoping fragments of Paul Bowles dancing with Scheherazade on the back of my eyeballs. I want to hubble, I want to bubble, to ride camels across dunes with Debra Winger in nothing but a winding-sheet of diaphanous muslin. This is Jerusalem. Alone in a Christian Sanctuary built on Jewish bedrock listening to the Muslim call to prayer. Then just as the voices staggered one-by-one into being, so they cease; the song quieting by degrees to silence. The first blush of dawn rinses the walls of my cell, and I ooze backwards into the ragged embrace of jet-lag.


Late Morning – Totter shabbily down the steps of the hospice and almost derail a caravan of pilgrims advancing in an imperious pavane down the Via Dolorosa. These are resolutely not the pilgrims of yore, clad in reverential sackcloth-and-ashes: these are Americans in cargo shorts and XXL Sweatshirts that proclaim Jesus Died for MySpace in Heaven and iGod – Who Are You Listening To?. Their taxonomy neatly bisects the pink/porcine and the sallow/bespectacled/studded-with-acne. They are united by the omnipresent fanny-pack and that aspect of pug-nosed sanctimoniousness culled from The Evangelist Handbook on How to Look Pious. At the head of the group is a buttery fatso wielding a mighty cross, doubtless a talisman for warding off unclean Arab traders who line the route trying to flog pairs of plastic praying hands to the suety flock. If there was an inter-faith stylathon played out on the streets of Jerusalem the Christian Evangelists wouldn’t lumber over the first hurdle. Those willowy, fast-moving Hasidic boys in their sharp frockcoats and fedoras leave these asthmatic pachyderms jiggling in their wake.


The Fourth Station of the Cross, where Jesus purportedly bumped into his Mum (an encounter sadly absent from the Bible) is conveniently situated opposite the door to my hostel allowing me to watch the burlesque whilst munching on the end of an awful croissant. A puddingy hermaphrodite with ginger comb-over edges to the front of the group and falls to his/her knees, blubbering ‘We adore you O Christ and we praise you!’ over-and-over whilst attendant manatees nod in agreement and massage his shoulders as if commiserating with him over a lost pencil. This behaviour is neither alarming nor distressing, merely morbidly embarrassing. Regathering his sullen composure, he is assisted to his feet with grimaces of sympathy and treacly mutterings of ‘bless you, bless you’. It is the kind of infantile exhibitionism that causes one’s innards to spontaneously jellify. I find myself trying to make eye-contact with nearby Arabs to apologise with my eyebrows for Christianity; but they seem unperturbed. They have seen this idiocy before and are impervious to it. I fall into line as the lardy procession trundles up the street to Station Five (the otherwise unheard-of Simon of Cyrene asks Jesus ‘Can I give you a hand with that?’), Station Six (Jesus asks Veronica for a turkey sub) and Seven (Simon the Lisper reveals the sandwich-maker hath no turkey, will a tuna melt do?). The whole thing is, naturally, an utter fiasco. There’s as much chance that Jesus plodded down this mediæval alleyway with or without half a tree on his back as there is of Golda Meir being retroactively elected Pope. But the theatre is delightful and the trinkets are going like hot cakes! I disembark the Ship of Fools and head straight to Station Ten which naturally – it’s where Jesus had his underpants pulled down – turns out to be in a Catholic Chapel within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre itself. To get to this point one is forced to dodge gaggles of peroxided Russian women hurling themselves on all fours, snogging the Stone of Unction – an unctuous slab of hanky-panky set in place 1800 years after the Good Shepherd was purportedly oiled-up on it.


If the fictional melodramas of the Via Dolorosa seem a bit bananas, the constellation of doolally that litters the Church of the Holy Sepulchre renders them bastions of Kantian Reason. It’s a complete, wonderful fucking nuthouse, my dears. Cave upon cave of sanctified fabulism and goggle-eyed voodoo. We have yer actual Rock of Golgotha, guv’nor, fingerable through a greasy hole in the glass: we have a hunk of yer authentic True Cross, now under lock-and-key since the ever-kissing pilgrims starting nibbling off pieces to take home under their tongues. For those leery of ecclesiastical herpes we have yer verifiable Adam’s Tomb, ooh yes missus, that Adam, handily situated directly beneath the spot where Our Lord was crucified. And if you look carefully through that little window there you’ll see the crack made by the earthquake that spontaneously erupted at the moment of his passing. There’s even a suitably Hogwarts Treasure Room, not in this instance filled with gold doubloons and a parrot squawking ‘Pieces of Eight’. Instead sweetmeats less lurid: St Agatha’s toenails, for instance: the tongue of the infant St Barnabus: John the Baptist’s loincloth: the knobbles of St Galagnus’s scrotum. It is nothing less than a phantasmagorical pre-Renaissance Christian theme park, complete with creaking sound-effects, bizarre pyrotechnics and splendidly costumed and bearded attendants. One almost expects to ride the water-flume into a fiberglass depiction of the Immaculate Uterus. Furthermore, it suppurates and crumbles under the weight of centuries of neglect and internecine rancour. Each pocket of this rotten old Christmas cake is under the rabid protectorate of a different orthodoxy and is jealously coveted by all the others. The Greeks loathe the Armenians who scowl at the Franciscans who kick the Coptics who piss in the chalices of the Syrians. The poor fucking Ethiopians have been exiled to the roof, where they subsist in a cluster of lean-to’s. I swear as I passed through their diminutive chapel I heard a monk whisper ‘you wan’ buy ganja, man?’. The Copts have set up what appears to be a fleamarket booth, glued to the rump of the Holy Edicule, fashioned from wrought-iron gates, brocade curtains and plastic sheeting. It groans with liturgical tchotchke, manual typewriter bodies, Home Pong consoles and those rubber shower attachments that fit onto bath faucets. Inside squats an ornery witch, hacking and passing gas. One false move by any of the bewildering array of combatants and all hell breaks loose. As recently as 2008 the Greeks and Armenians went at it in full vestments over the issue of a monk loitering in a funny way. In 2004 the Greeks and Russians tag-teamed the Franciscans because somebody left a door open. Both cases involved the exchange of ecclesiastical kicks and punches, throwing of artifacts, blood-letting and police intervention. Most wonderfully, in a 2002 reinterpretation of the Christian precept do as Thou wouldst be done by, the Ethiopians opened a can of whoop-ass with the Egyptian Coptics on the church’s roof after a monk moved his chair into the shade on a sunny day. Iron bars and paving stones were put to canonical use, resulting in several hospitalizations. In the run up to the 1989 Feast of the Holy Cross it was rumoured the Armenians had engaged the services of WWF’s Jim (The Anvil) Neidhart in false beard and cassock, to man the dodgy corner by the stairs to Calvary.


All the competing attractions within the Church, however, pale into insignificance in the face of the eponymous Holy Sepulchre itself. TripAdvisor gives it four-and-a-half thumbs. At the core of a peculiar, dusky, public lavatory-sized crypt – not unlike a rococo rendering of Doctor Who’s Tardis held together by metal girders stamped Bombay Metal Company and isolated at the centre of a chasmal rotunda – lurks Jesus of Nazareth’s one-and-only, honest-to-God tomb (not to be confused with his other one-and-only, honest-to-God tomb, half a mile away, imagined into being by General Gordon of Khartoum whilst sipping Singapore Slings at the American Colony in 1883). Within its marble confines, Gentle Pilgrim, beyond its Hobbity doorway, lies the final resting place of the Lamb of God. Well, that’s not strictly true, what with him hopping that moonbeam to the stars and all … but still … the ultimate, sacred repository of his corporeal self. Christianity’s innermost sanctum. Having diddled the Rock, licked the walls, made out with the floor and sniffed St Sebastian’s leathery foreskin I’ll be damned if I’m leaving without a trip inside Christ’s Big Kahuna.

And so I fall in line behind a beautiful girl and await my turn for rapture. As the queue shuffles forward I cannot help but cast repeated sidelong glances at her. She really is beautiful: clear, unpretentiously elegant, radiating calm and poise, her hair pulled back from her face and tucked sweetly into a headscarf. Albanian? Azerbaijani? I’m already envisioning under-the-table no panty shots when I am struck by a dreadful realisation: that isn’t a headscarf. It’s a wimple. She’s a nun. I’m about to duck into Christianity’s Holiest of Holies and all I can think about is a nun’s vagina? As I crouch to pass through the doorway, she turns, smiles and places her palm on my head, shielding it from glancing contact with the stone lintel. And I want to weep. I’m inside the Holy Edicule with an actual saint and my mind is just one, vast stinking reservoir of turd. I’m sure they can smell it in Tel Aviv. I want to beg her forgiveness and retreat from the crypt, but the space is miniscule, she’s facing away from me and there’s a leopard-printed Ukrainian stabbing at my buttocks trying to get her camera-phone to work in the funereal gloom. A couple of seconds and we are propelled forward through the low gap in the antechamber wall … and we’re in the tiny, candlelit Sepulchre itself, three of us squeezed together like pilchards. My heart is pounding: this is all wrong. And she’s down. Down at my shins. Crumpled, on her knees, her cheek on the small, smooth slab, her hand tenderly stroking the stone, eyes closed, lips mouthing little supplications; pure, transparent, radiant ecstasy. A hundred-thousand secular, snorting mockeries evaporate in an instant. And I am an enormous, hapless Stinkosaurus, annihilated in the presence of such Love.

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