It happens usually about once a month or so with all the inevitability of a drunken footballer appearing in the tabloid headlines. There you are going about your normal daily business, maybe oiling your weasel or ritually polishing your tandem when there comes a knock on your doorbell. Maybe you are expecting a rather bulky package in plain wrapping from a specialist supplier (mail-order only), so you open the door, expecting the postman, only to be confronted by THEM!
"Good morning, sir! Have you ever thought that the world would be a much better place if only people found more time to smear the genitals of their neighbours in whipped cream and massaged mayonnaise into the erogenous zones of any nearby traffic wardens?"
Yes, it’s the Jehovah's Perverts again.
Each time you open the door and see the wide beaming smile, the brightly-polished fetish gear and the proffered bottle of baby-oil, your heart sinks.
Of course, it is not that we in the village are not proud upstanding perverts but the zealotry of the Jehovah's Perverts can be overwhelming. It is their belief that enlightenment can come though the agency of a well-lubricated small furry mammal, which sits at odds with our quiet belief in dutiful devotion to the Holy Sexual Arts and Practices.
We are, of course, proud to be perverts, but in that quiet undemanding British way. We dutifully go out once a week or so to the village hall for the orgy, quietly clutching our devices, lotions (and for those in the choir - the bondage gear), of course. But rather than for any great belief that through the use of unusual sexual positions, devices, number of sexual partners, small furry mammals or so on that we can achieve great enlightenment, it is more out of a sense of duty, of ritual, of comfort in the certainties that makes us turn up week after week.