Just before the 2008 global recession plunged the world into an economic nightmare, with Britain’s Got Talent airing around the same time and bringing its own bland, dumbed-down entertainment nightmare first to the UK and then exporting it to the rest of the world, the High Priest was donning the collar and stepping onto a stage in a different church from the one he had previously inhabited.
In the Windmill pub, in the back streets of Brixton and overshadowed by the prison, for the first time since his excommunication from the church, he began his preaching and ranting through the mediums of comedy and music.
In a world run by the masters of mankind, the 0.5 percent, where fear threads through the streets and digital alleyways of social networks, and populations drown in their own conformity, the High Priest—from the Deep South of England, Folkestone twinned with Alabama, to London, Edinburgh, and New York—has delivered services, spread the word, and shined a light on the hypocrisies, untruths, and strange realities we have created as humans. As many have said after a service: “You spoke what we were too afraid to say.”
