The Full George Michael

No! Not getting caught in a public bathroom stall in some LA shithole with your two hundred dollar jeans creased around your ankles below your fifty dollar skid-marked stretch Calvin's, if such an underwear item even exists (you tell me).

What I am talking about is Faith, in terms of unswerving belief not the 1987 hit single for Giorgios Trousadropolis, to which I must confess to dancing with cousin Step on an empty Student's Union dancefloor not realising as a succulent sixteen-year-old that irony, dancing and a sympathetic audience were utterly mutually exclusive.

Today seems as good a day as any to question the essential sanity of notions of Faith.

I don't have a problem with zealots, be they religious, sporting, social or whatever, chaining themselves to shit or even setting themselves on fire in a public square somewhere in the midst of the late night news reports; just stay there, on my TV, in the news, in your own back yard where your choices are yours to exercise. The Fiefdom of Trumania has no room for that shit.

I do have a fucking serious problem with people of whatever race, creed or even sporting persuasion with whom it is utterly, completely, entirely, wholly and absolutely impossible to reason. These people, from religious fanatic to football fanatic, really are arse-numbingly tedious.

I mean you have nowhere to go with these bastards because you see my mate Hamster, a crystalline Presbyterian, faithfully asserts that Faith is immeasurable by degrees as it is absolute, substantive, self-existing, unswerving. So you are flogging a horse so dead that it is nigh on skeletal; there is no beginning, no middle and with absolute certitude no end of or for discussions because they already believe irrevocably in the answer somebody else gave them.