Countdown to 33: 13 hours.

When people hear that I'm about to become 33, they tend to mention Jesus. I've never associated the number 33 with Jesus before. In fact, I don't associate 33 with anything, and ended up scouring the net for bingo caller's slang yesterday afternoon in an attempt to give the number some significance in my mind. “Dirty Knee” is apparently the call for 33. I've never heard any bingo caller say “Dirty Knee”, but such is the incoherence of the callers at the Essex Road branch of Gala, I don't ever think I've heard them say anything other than “Hmmpherrerr”, so that's not surprising. And nor is the fact that I never win anything.

Anyway, back to Jesus. Jesus. What is there to say about Jesus that hasn't already been said? I'm not really the person to ask – I'm no expert, I mean, I know the words to “Kum-Ba-Yah” but I wouldn't call myself a theologist, exactly – but there IS the fact that my dad won an enormous soft toy in a raffle when I was about 6, a purple dog, and when he brought it home my sister and I decided to call it “Jesus”. It was the best joke we ever created. We laughed until we could laugh no longer, and even today any mention of “Jesus” is liable to cause giggling. Which would make things tricky during Midnight Mass, were we ever to attend such an event, which we don't.

Anyway, back to Jesus. Jesus. So, he died at the age of 33, so don't expect me to get excited at the prospect of being compared to him. I'm reasonably happy with my life, and it would be appalling if, in some mirroring of the events of 1900-odd years ago, I'm betrayed in a garden in few weeks time by some bloke called Julian wearing a number 13 football shirt, and then I get rather cross after being nailed by a pompous pilot. Can I point out, though, that I'm not comparing myself to Jesus, even though I do think is probably bigger than right now, mainly cos the fool has gone and deleted his LiveJournal.