This is the actual text of the sermon I delivered in church this year:
It is the time of Christmas again my kindred children and wee ones, and you can kick your feet up ere long and watch again the smart parade of invalid sensation, the transmission of telly programmes going on forever to the end of the year and beyond, that you may also feel the waking warmth which provides oh not real times on the roads home & away.
There is no time indeed in this smarty pants, but which time is indicated on the clock, as everything we own for the whole year is popped into the bin, if at year's end it matters not. For all perceived from the window now is maintenance and the sick re-run of days, which are the same but different, marked only by our passage, which is albeit registered invisible.
Oh mighty one on Christmas Road, just past December, we put the kettle on, and notice stains we have ignored for years. Oh give us Bond in light of the widows he has created world-wide, with or without the Walther; for we think not with doubt in our minds of the cover we need take when he is near.
And gross upon the Christmas side of life, from Scottish Power whose grid in quandary feeds the throes of all this season, unique amongst our abusers, they send men up the power lines in Highland gales. Thusforth at the tree, we tell a lie, and taking on our costs, no worries beyond the nose, which scope is so easily exploded and made great with country images, all of us a sucker for the pictures provoked within.
So we deplete the stock and get a ticket in the end, but yet are here to tell each other how great the stock can be, and we should be proud, when the region of the leafy times is beauty, named and forged of a morning afternoon and night.
And to Christ, born today, we confirm that 7 o'clock is OK this evening, for worship.