I’M wandering past St Mary’s Cathedral, debating whether I should nip into the nearby Winter Festival (it’s boiling hot here in Sydney) for an overpriced kransky, when I see the lights are on inside this majestic cathedral.
I push the doors, and mass is in full swing, with the choirboys tootling away and the priest singing lustily at the front.
This comes as a surprise. I’m Church of England and our local vicar was a grey-skinned, damp-palmed mumbler not known for his commanding ways – although I liked it when he put his hand on my head. I don’t recall him belting out a number. What would happen if you wanted to be a proper Catholic priest, but couldn’t sing for toffee?
When the priest winds up, the bloke next to me shakes my hand and mutters something, then everyone files up to the front. I don’t go up for my biscuit, since I’m not Catholic, but I do notice a naughty little minx in a low-cut top and leather pants (with her boyfriend on steroids in tow), lingering at the front, grining and refusing to move on. The priest appears to waggle his finger at her.
When the choirboys file out, they move in a Robert Crumb-style array of skulks, lopes and shuffles that returns them to the realm of the pubescent, and the spell is broken.
Keeper? Yes. The singing was top-notch.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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