Quiet please, I'm thinking.
Last night, as the call to payer (ezan) echoed through the darkness, I found myself wondering if mosques or imams have an altar boy equivalent. You know the type, those little fellas in the Christian churches waddling around in their semi-priestly robes, nibbling on Christ’s body and gargling the wine when no one is looking. I was wondering about this because I used to be one of those poor little tykes, many moons ago.
The ezan had brought to mind a story I couldn’t help but share with my wife’s brother-in-law, as I sank my third Efes. Back in the day, some 30 odd years ago, my altar-boy duties included setting the table, er, altar, before the priest arrived. We would get everything ready including his microphone, the Good Word requiring a little amplification to reach its mark. On this particular day the priest was late in arriving and, after much nervous agitation and minor challenges between ‘colleagues’, it was decided that we should utilize the available resources for comedic effect. The big eye in the sky would no doubt appreciate a little chuckle on a cold and wet, Irish Sunday morn. And who could blame him.
One of the chaps, who shall remain nameless (you’re welcome, Colm) finally took it to a level beyond the soft fart noises and ghostly voices that are standard fare on such occasions. He proceeded to deliver what can only be described as a faultless rendition of Elvis Presley’s ‘Hound Dog’, which I do not doubt would have met with thunderous applause had it not been unfairly cut short by the arrival of an apoplectic priest.
I cannot recall if the mic was still on as he verbally shredded our erstwhile manic selves. What I do know is, had we had at our disposal that morning the range these mosques have, it wouldn’t just have been the faithful whose ears would have been ringing.
Better luck next time, eh?