Not because I have a hankering to find God, it’s just that I just love their uniform. And they wear it so well; rain or shine you’ll go a long way before you find anyone wearing the classic white shirt and black tie combo quite as sharply as a Mormon does.
Cyclists could take note from the Mormon too for he doesn’t need to invest in those silly “I’ve got more pretty labels than you” lycra numbers that so many of you wear. Oh no, all the Mormon needs are two bike clips (one for each leg) and the truth.
I once had a divine moment with the Mormons.
It all started when I contracted chicken pox at the grand old age of twenty. I was consequently holed up in the flat feeling rather sorry for myself, watching daytime TV, going through the flatmates underwear draw – that kind of thing – when there came a knock at the door.
On the doorstep were two Mormon girls, one of which was a gorgeous, blonde, American girl.
Maybe it was the fumes from the cream they give you to rub on the scabs but for some reason I thought she was an angel and after politely declining their offer of a chat on account of said blistering, porous rash, invited them back for a cuppa the next day.
Needless to say I spent most of that next morning prepping myself for a meeting of porno proportions. I can’t recall the number exactly but I probably took the edge of twice, maybe three times. Yes, I may well have been sick with the complexion of a kid working at McDonalds but I was betting on working the ClubDes charm that day I don’t mind telling you.
Imagine my complete surprise and I’ll admit, terror, when the knock came and I noticed out the corner of the lounge window, not one, not several, but tens of Samoan Mormon boys converging on my doorstep.
Now I know they say God works in mysterious ways but he damn well knew what he was doing that day. Either they were going to leave having converted me or it was going to be one hell of a gang bang. I never did answer that door that day, or any other time the big fulla has knocked.
But I love that Mormons are what they present themselves as. If they knock on the door you know what you’re going to get, which is more than I can say with Rebel fucken Sport, the weakest sports store ever.
They’ve spent a lot of money this year on having brick shit house and all round hunk of man spunk, Sonny Bill Williams, do their ads. I think they should’ve spent their money on organising their stores so that you can actually find something and stocking the place for if and when you do.
This is what happens when you have a virtual monopoly of a retail genre like Rebel do. You can pretend to have sales which are really nothing more than a slight reduction in overpriced stock and you can hire staff more interested in dancing to the radio playing in store than knowing where the shin pads are kept.
Because where else are we going to go aye? The guy on the High Street who sells fishing rods, rifles and aertex shirts, in that order? He wouldn’t even know what a T90 is if you showed him a picture, even then he still wouldn’t give a shit. He certainly wouldn’t stock it any time soon.
But, just like the Mormon, what you see is what you get. Amen to that.
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