t such a place as "The Church" existed far far away at St. Johns Hill. A place where drunkards from all across the U.K. met at noon every Sunday to worship Dionysus and get their fill of total absurdity whilst dressed in costume and, customarily, highly intoxicated. We awoke at 8:30 sharp, got dressed in clothes no congregation member would appreciate, and took the hike to the elusive, beautiful Church. Upon our arrival we were met with an eyeful of total madness. Be it a huge screen that "candid camera" style displayed pictures of members in the crowd with funny captions underneath or the room full of people dressed as smirfs, air force pilots, mimes, and ancient Greeks, nothing left me anything short of delighted and shocked.
For our entertainment, the stage was enlisted with comedy sketches, musical performances, a stripper, and tomfoolery involving audience members. At the end we got on stage and danced for who knows how long. We got back around 5, I passed out at 7 and considered it a great success. I don't think I could handle this as a new weekly ritual (after all, a few of my new British friends have said it's reserved for the "hardcore") but it was memorable for sure!
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