As we wandered back to town from the Northampton game, I casually mentioned to Bullet that they’re known as the Saints or the Jimmies, and we got chatting about saints in general.
There used to be loads of saints years ago, said Bullet.
Indeed, I said.
And some of them didn’t exist at all, he added.
True, I said. But a lot of them were decommissioned a few years back. A tricky and dangerous procedure. One wrong move and you’ve lost your fingers.
Was Jesus a saint? he asked. Saint Jesus of Nazareth?
I don’t know, I replied. Or God, maybe. Saint God of Heaven.
Saint Virgin Mary of the Unblemished Boudoir.
They were all OF something, I observed. Saint Chad of Mercia. Saint John of Shanghai. Saint Francis of Assisi.
Saint Leroy of Detroit, Bullet added.
Saint Hammond of Texas, I suggested.
Saint Lord of the Rings.
Saint Top of the Pops.
Saint End of the Road.
Saint Taste of Honey.
Saint Bag of Chips.
Saint Pint of Guinness.
They weren’t all OF something, Bullet pointed out. For instance, there was Saint Alfred the Great. Saint Maximus the Confessor. Saint Brendan the Navigator. Saint Vlad the Impaler.
Aha! I said. You’re dead right. Saint Wake the Gimp. Saint Pass the Port. Saint Perish the Thought. Saint Fuck the Begrudger.
You know what? said Bullet.
You’ve given me a great religious grounding. Thanks Dad.
You’re welcome Son. It’s my duty as a parent.