Once upon a time there were...us. We went far far away but there was no sign of Shrek nor Princess Fiona. As we later found out, the franchise closed, being considered burnt, meaning it couldn't raise any more money. Without money comes poverty, so instead of living a fairy tale of ours we submerged in poverty.
Not that we were forced, no, nothing of that sort. It was our choice, championing XXI century unselfishness, with a belief in the spiritual goodness of poverty we went on the path of Mother Teresa.Not because of some deviant sort of religious fanaticism, we didn't want martyrdom, the stake wasn't at stake here. We were simple in it for the pleasure of doing it.
Cigarettes and alcohol were the first victims of our campaign, followed closely by any hint of tasty food. Founding flavourless food in the UK isn't hard, founding it cheap is a bit of a challenge. Now that we had bland food the next logical step was reducing our daily food intake, which wasn't that hard if we consider its taste, still, it shouldn't minimize our efforts. In order to make this even more realistic, we tried to replicate the surroundings too. While we failed to move into an Indian household we managed to secure the second best thing: a Bangladeshi home, in the vicinity of Banglatown. Our dear hosts did everything to make us feel at home, I mean make us feel like we are in their home country. They were relentless in their noble quest and they really put up a show, no matter day or night. I would restrain myself from any details, I don't want to end up being shifted in the same gear as Richard Hammond but trust me, it was as good as it gets. I must admit though, we couldn't stop from buying fizzy drinks, cheap fizzy drinks but that was like the sponge soaked in vinegar on Christ's lips: just a teaser, meant to keep us alive so we can enjoy more of this sweet suffering. Enjoyed we have the sweet feeling of poorness. We did all this of course without any income at all, not even from charity. Top that Mother Theresa. I know that she's dead and racing a dead woman is like racing a...dead woman, but still, it feels good writing it down.
Change was in the air from the day we went numb at the orange eating antics of an unknown man on a train. A mouthful of orange it was I tell you while we were coming home from the Home Office with a handful of workpermits. Now, having a couple of work permits doesn't really mean that you have to work, but we still thought an unspoken pressure to get a job. So I did get one, I was working on and off in a bakery, baking Christ's body on an industrial level so the masses all get a piece of Him. Still, we were living in poverty as money I made was barely enough for public transport. But then, disaster struck. I remember it clean as a whistle or a bell or I forgot what else: I was on the tube bound for home when I glanced something in the London Evening Standard. It was just for a fraction of a second so I wasn't sure what I saw. As luck turned out, there was no other newspaper laying around, I'm sure you all know that usually the whole place is full with them. As I got home I was determined to search over the internet for the ad I thought I saw, but as I entered our room there it was: a London Evening Standard on the bed. I jumped on it like a tiger - naturally a Bengali tiger from Banglatown - and started turning the pages. My wife said: did you saw it? And I was it is really that? Soon enough I've found it and there it was in all it's glory:
I’ve added the good nun as well, just for good measure
In a matter of minutes we searched the internet for details and we saw the price as well: over L300 for the both of us and this was the cheapest ticket available. Nevertheless we didn't thought about it too much, just started saving like crazy so we can buy it, we were afraid that by the time we gather all the money the festival will be sold out. Can you imagine that foolishness? A metal festival sold out in this metal forsaken country? Not bloody likely. We didn't know this back then though. It took us a month or more till we managed to get the money together, but we have bought it and last week, after a long long wait we received them. It surely took its time but what matters is that it arrived, so in three weeks...I dare not say it.
Sadly, spending this amount of money meant that our glorious MT syndrome was dead and gone, all we had left was a fairytale without Shrek or Fiona. Instead of them we had a dark prince, an old miser with a bent back, magical white cliffs, foxes, seagulls, squirrels and pigeons. All of them talking after the right amount of alcohol. Dragons are all over London,
but we’ve even managed to lure a monster in our tale. With the right soundtrack this fairy tale could go on – with a lack for better words – forever ever after.
Note: Now I know that there are many other historical figures from every religion – and not just – that would have been good to name this syndrome but I thought that she is the most popular from them all. Let’s take this bloke for example:
He is Saint Francis of Assisi, the founder of the Franciscan order between others, he was a champion of destitution as well, even married a fairer bride than any of you have ever seen: lady poverty. But even with his well known bride, I’m not sure you’ve all heard of him, if you had than good for you, if not...well…this is what I'm talking about.
The only constant is change from Diabolus Dei on Vimeo.
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