An encounter with the God of niceness and biscuits

I write this freshly back from a reactionary weekend in the Scottish Borders, where I was made a godfather in a christening and did not have to renounce Satan. Which was a relief.

It’s not that I have any objection to renouncing Satan per se. It’s not like we’re on speaking terms. It’s just that whenever I’ve heard new godparents do just that, in church, I wonder at the point. Surely Satan would be okay with you just lying about it. Isn’t that rather the point of Satan? ‘I can’t believe you fibbed in a church!’ the Prince of Lies would not say. You know? It just doesn’t seem like much of a failsafe.

Still, no Satanic renunciations for me. I just had to promise to raise my new godson, should it ever directly fall to me, as a Christian. This might sound an odd thing to pledge, given that I am, as a man called Brian once put it, a kike, a yid, a heebie, a hook-nose, a Red Sea pedestrian, etc.