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                                                                                          Chapter 2


                                                        Why I Hate Analogies Like a Fucking Hole in the Head



To your budding manic depressive late sixties’ London isn’t so much your disco kaleidoscope world bespotted with Austin Powers-types friskily flaunting flared frilly frolics, jauntily jolloping jolly japes.  More a monochrome black and white film noir.  With cool moments.  The drugs and the food are terrible.  For when your poor young bones are raised as Mormon, and dragged aboard three London Routemaster buses to the nearest Mormon chapel, your ten-year-old party options are limited.  Life, eh.  Too young to swing, then too old to rave.  But you do your damndest.       


Sail the 279 or 149 from Uptown Tottenham with the Sunday suited-n-hatted-hardcore-hallelujah-set, slug the slime-trail of reluctance the sluice-grey streets of London, and your pilgrimage ends at Archway.  The chapel rests neatly beneath the sinister Suicide Bridge — which seems appropriate — and the bridge overarches a raceway for cars eager to escape.


Mormons would have you believe that the best plan God can come up with in these Latter Days is to be conspiring with the polygamous paedophile con-man Joseph Smith in the woods. 


Your wackiest and wickedest battery of brainwashing in the hands of these cold-hearted Mormons (who own your backside for a three-hour stretch every Sunday) is your exposure to a water-boarding of object lessons (analogies): 


   ‘The husband may be the head of the family,’ chirps a white woolly sister bobbing above the podium of wood, ‘but the wife is the neck of the family.’


Language-loving esias swivels the pews and tempted to speak in tongues with a volley of invective vomit.


Once more to the cold-front of a Sunday School lesson a weathered and withered High Priest, nearer my God to thee, coxcomb of turkey skin pinched at the neck by stiff white shirt, black tie, black suit rubbed shiny, worn on parade with the fanaticism of a Nazi uniform, goose-steps wheezing to the picture-board clutching a dog-eared photograph of a leg.  This represents the members, you see.  Your sinking eyelids are jolly-rogered next with a cigarette-sized photograph of a human brain.  This will be the prophet.  The arm ... And you realise this is such a heavenly appointed time for a Morphean trip to the dreamland of teddy bears and toy soldiers. 


Rivet your backside, shipmates, to a merciless wooden plank for a spiritual buffeting from the crow’s nest at my brother’s wedding.  Lurching above the greasy buoys of skin and dribbling bibs and blotched moulding jackets — a raven-headed sister like a witch from Macbeth and baying above the sea of distracted children with the manners of football supporters, ‘This precious gift of your family sent from Heaven to offer succour through these latter days we see as a passenger ship ...’


The metaphor not waving but drowning.


   ‘... And your ever burgeoning tribe of children (alas not lost) as the masts of the ship ...’


Nobly your lowering, harrowing soul gives up a not so holy ghost.  Woe she blows!


All along the watchtower the witch waves the flagging flaps of her vulturine wings.  ‘... Celestial marriage we treasure as the ...’


   ‘Hold?’  I wonder aloud.  ‘Galley?’ 


   ‘... Compass of the ship,’ rasps the rapacious sister unashamedly and seemingly oblivious to the cannons and blunt rapiers and damage inflicted by her extended metaphor.


Such ghost of Macbeth moments are branded into the bulk-head of your sensitive brain sans mercy. 


Our stargazing American cousins appreciate a darn good object lesson — and you’d be hard pressed to watch a space documentary without some shag-bearded boffin hugging a basketball — to represent the Sun — which she or he will place like a prayer-mat on the tarmac.  The boffin, with orange or apple in hand representing the Earth, will march down the block to show the hiking distance between Sun and Earth.  A ping-pong ball representing Pluto is taken for a bike ride ... And you wonder whether so far an extension to a metaphor makes the bearded boffin a happy bunny.  But your hand snatches the television remote control (the greatest power on Earth), and only the haunting memory and looming threat of the English woman from Frasier prevents your ramdomly changing channel.  


Acute addictions to analogies are an awful ague and afflict the soft addled tissue of the bush-brained classes.  But flush from the lips of fatuous Mormons and defiling so infant an audience, the wicked wielding of the analogy will dummy-bomb damage as a weapon of classroom crass destruction.  Reader beware:


   'The licked cupcakes in the chastity lesson always represented females.  In Young Women’s, the cupcakes represented us —   we didn’t want to be a licked cupcake.  No-one wants a cupcake licked by someone else.

   'In Young Men’s, the cupcakes also represented girls.  You boys were taught not to lick cupcakes that weren’t yours.  No-one else wants a licked cupcake, and neither do you.

   'Never once was I told that boys could be licked cupcakes.  Never.  What boys did was, I guess, none of our business.  All we girls knew was not to let boys lick our cupcakes, or no-one would want us.  The burden of chastity was ours to bear, and the prospects of forgiveness for failure were grim.

   '... And as for the pompous pricks in Salt Lake City, ‘The Brethren’, they don’t respect women.  They’re misogynistic assholes.  Men who respect women don’t tell them how many earrings they can wear!  They don’t shame men for marrying women more educated than themselves.  They don’t seal themselves to other women after their long-suffering wives die, becoming eternal polygamists.  They don’t tell young girls, contrary to the best interest of their families, to have babies before they’re finished with school.  I can’t stand those lying bastards!  If I could, I’d fly to Salt Lake and kick Hinckley’s wrinkly, incontinent ass!'  KimberleyAnn, board post 15th May 2007 The Licked Cupcakes


My reply to KimberleyAnn that daringly between naps I would have shown solidarity with my classmates by eating the licked cupcake was probably in bad taste.


   'I very distinctly remember an object lesson in Young Women’s.  A counselor in the bishopric came in and said he was going to give us a piece of peppermint candy.  He opened it but ‘accidentally’ dropped it, then stepped on it, and just got it gross and dirty.  Then he picked it up and asked us if any of us wanted it.  Of course none of us did.  Then he compared it to sleeping around.

   'Then, I remember [a] lesson where someone literally had a salad prepared and brought it to class (may have been a Saturday stake youth activity, not sure).  They asked us if we liked salad, and someone or all of us may have eaten it.  Then he dumped a small amount of dirt in the salad and stirred it.  He asked if anyone would eat the salad now.  Of course no-one would.  He said, ‘But there is hardly any dirt in the salad; are you sure you don’t want it?’  No, we didn’t want it.  Eventually he made the point that even just a little sin can ruin things.'  Peppermint Candy board post 10th November 2007 Always Thinking


The scientific principle of interest is whether the use of gratuitous violence against the Bishop-prick counsellor is justified under Canon law or under the canopy of Heaven.