When the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter fucks Venus (while the vicar skates up and down the aisle in roller blades)

(Add four nails as stabilizers…)

Now, I’m an agnost, so normally I wouldn’t comment on anyone’s particular brand of faith – apart from the small observation that all of them look more than a little bit silly from the outside.

Virgin births, four-armed Goddesses of wanton destruction, holy prophets with underage wives, matzes for Easter with a plague of frog topping, dog-eyed Gods with a penchant for party-wrapped corpses…

Again, if that’s your thing, why not? As long as you are mindful enough of your neighbours to keep the noise down – which true believers tend to forget about, truth to say – but don’t expect me to join in, in any hurry.

Still, whether people ‘believe’ or not, most of us have a pretty good idea what it takes for something to be called a miracle.

For instance, despite the many tabloid stories, the majority of people would not see it as particularly miraculous if the face of Jesus appeared on yet another quattro formaggi pizza.

No, it takes a bit more to make it as a bona fide miracle. Jesus and His mama coming back to Earth again, to enter American Idol (and at least make it to the fourth round) would probably count. The planet Jupiter inviting Venus over for a civilised sherry, followed by a wild fuck, would also satisfy most bookies And Guinness Book of Records accountants – as would, in all likelihood, John McCain’s winning the presidency on his third try (with Richard Dawkins or Gore Vidal as his running mate, to win the last few nay-sayers over.)

Looking at past, reported miracles, Moses parting the Red Sea or, even more unlikely, getting the Jewish tribes to sit still long enough to come to an agreement over a whole damn book of laws and what a full kosher menu contain or nor, should surely count…

… and yes, Jesus shaking off the the dust of the cave, three days after His human pin cushion act, was pretty miraculous too, of course.

So, we all have a pretty good idea of what constitutes a true miracle – and, even more to the point, what does emphatically not.

Which, unfortunately, means that the good Reverend Roger Preece doesn’t have a prayer if he thinks his little stunts would cause the same kind of ‘astonishment’ as Jupiter and Venus bonking like horny teenagers or Jesus doing His resurrected hedgehog thing:

“A vicar put his skates on to preach the Gospel in an attempt to replicate the astonishment that would have greeted Christ’s resurrection. Roger Preece, 44, has been dubbed The Rolling Reverend after skating up and down the aisle of his church in roller blades.”

(”You just say you’re out there waiting for the miracle to come”)