You know, when I look around me at the world today, I often see the hand of our Lord at work.
Whether it be the white-faced clown with a single tear running down his face, that young lady tennis player scatching her bare bottoms or that chimp sitting on the lavatory - the Lord's work is there for all to see if we would just look closely enough.
I remember it was with this very idea in mind that I first asked my parents for a microscope for my 5th birthday. It really was a most exciting day and as I unwrapped the paper and lifted the delicate instrument from its cardboard housing, my fingers were trembling with excitement and anticipation.
I remember thinking, if I can just get close enough to the detail, I will surely be able to see the hand of our Lord in action - maybe even gaze upon the face of Yaweh himself.
But it was not to be. The closest I could get was the veins of a leaf - which really wasn't quite the same and I soon became despondent ...
I eventually convinced my parents to buy me a much bigger microscope - but alas even that was not able to see the face of God and I began to fixate on the idea that He was deliberately and maliciously hiding from me.
My parents attempted to console me by re-mortgaging their house, taking out a crippling loan and buying me, at the time, the largest electron microscope in Europe - but it was all to no avail. The Lord's omniscient presence remained veiled from mine eyes, the big beardy twat.
It was then (and only then) that I turned quite violent, railing oh most mightily against the Lord.
"You fucking cunt, why the fuck won't you show yourself you smug fucking wanker. Well, fuck you! And what in the name of holy fuck are you looking at mother? You're nothing more than a spunk receptacle for that old hanging ball-bag who calls himself my father. Fuck both of you. CUNTS, the lot of you!" and so on, I continued.
I must confess gentle listener, the incident almost ruined my 7th birthday party entirely...
And 60 years of therapy later, the ECT, the enforced sectioning and hospitalisation in Broadmoor Secure Hospital - all have alas failed to slake that particular thirst.
But eventually they did let me leave Broadmoor, my head bowed but my search still unfulfilled.
Unfortunately, due to my 'Crimes' The Church of England refused to have me back within the formal ministry, but luckily Mr Laird and Mr Mingles here at the esteemed offices of The Satire welcomed me with open arms (Not literally of course - Mr Laird is notoriously antisocial and Mr Mingles is a well-known germophobe. So they both greeted me from quite a distance away across the long oak-lined corridor outside the main boardroom.)
I did attempt to step forward and thank them both personally but the large gentleman who leaped out from the shadows and smashed the butt of his rifle efficiently into the bridge of my nose made it clear this was not recommended.
And it was whilst working here at The Satire that it occured to me what I had been doing wrong for all these very long years.
Of course the Lord could not 'literally' be found within the natural world. He should of course be sought outside of it - like in all those big paintings with his face looking beneficently down.
What a silly old sausage I had been.
It was with all of this in mind that I launched the Satire Space Programme. To allow me the opportunity to soar off into the Heavens and to fulfill my lifelong dream to see the face of our Lord.
15 years in the construction and with a cost in excess of three thousand pounds (not euros mind you - actual english pounds!) this rocket seems destined to roar into the outer atmosphere beyond the stars and out towards my Maker.
It may takes a few days to reach the Lord of course but I am well-prepared with a vending machine which seems to dispense an endless supply of ready-salted crisps, sweets and fizzy pop - in other words all one needs to survive.
They really are quite miraculous contraptions and in fact the vast majority of our enormous budget went on this astonishing machine - sold to me by a kind old irish gentleman in a public bar.
Nevertheless, the 500 Mighty British Pounds left over is still an exceedingly large sum of money and was more than enough to build the rocket, pay for the fuel and (so I am reliably informed) fully train the elderly chimpanzee who is to be my companion and co-pilot on this marvelous fantastical journey.
So - Bon Voyage, Ship Ahoy, God's Speed and Off We Go!