So I’m well into my third week of attempting to live as closely to Biblical scripture as possible.
I’m having no sex, eating basic food and dressing like an unhinged stamp collector.
I’m basically living the forced ascetic lifestyle of an X-Factor winner, contractually obliged to be enslaved to an absent deity figure who promises me paradise provided I alter every aspect of my being – albeit it an overlord with a lower waistline and less tan.
I’ve burned any images of false idols and promised to worship only God regardless of what feat of God-like trickery Lionel Messi does next.
Because of trying to love God, I’ve had to forgo both loving myself and my girlfriend – which has left me not only with balls that dangle like waterskins filled with milk and a constant preoccupation with sex, but also a girlfriend who, when she isn’t rolling away in a sexually frustrated huff to her side of the bed, has started spending a lot more time with her friends at the gym.
One of the ways that I’m visibly expressing my love for God, besides not showing myself some love during every other bathroom visit, is dressing as appropriately as God decreed in the Bible. Which is no mean feat as the guidelines for dress code are more crazy and borderline cryptic than the one at Berlin techno-hole Berghain.
I haven’t exactly started wearing the main-line from the Galilean fashion catalogue circa 33AD, simply because walking around a capital European city dressed in a flowing robe, beard and backpack while reading an old, vaguely religious looking book will be rewarded at best with some strange looks, at worst with a night in a prison cell.
There are rules, however, forbidding me from wearing whatever the hell I want, some mental – others slightly more mental.
For instance, it’s forbidden for me to wear an item of clothing that weaves two different fabrics – so no cotton-poly blends, God fucking hates that, apparently. God knows why, maybe they grazed his nipple once?
I’m also not allowed to cut the corners of my beard (God mustn’t like shortcuts…sorry) which means that I inadvertently look like I’m about to open a yoga studio which specialises in world music and butter coffee.
I’ve basically become an accidental hipster.
God decreed a load of other rules around clothing, no cross dressing( which I can avoid), no jewellery (not a bother), and no foreign clothes – now that one is tough.
I’m going to give myself a bit of leeway for this because, as an Irishman, basically all of my clothes are foreign made. So, if I only wear Irish-made clothes and can somehow make boxers out of an old Aran jumper or find a pair of tweed trousers that aren’t technically antiques, then I’ll be forced to dress like a peasant character from a turn-of-the-century J.M. Synge play or a person from Offaly.
I can’t be having that, so I’ve given myself the loophole that I won’t consider items made in countries that have Christian populations as foreign. Phew…
Although, not all is rosy. As a result of the no blended fabrics, no bright colours and my having an unkempt beard, I am now regularly mistaken for some kind of black-clad, sub-Russell Brand, hipster icon by my peers and by strangers.
People keep asking me for advice for their startups and, any time I’m in a restaurant and place a convoluted order, they think it’s because I’m a fad-eating pansy with hip dietary requirements, rather than just a weirdo who can only eat Bible grub.
I’m not sure which is worse, to be honest.
In trying to live as closely to God as possible, I’ve inadvertently set myself up as his rival, among a certain set of Dublin media-type hipsters.
Still though, Christ only started with twelve lads who believed in magic and look what happened to him? Maybe there’s hope for me yet…