As the birthday celebrations of the Baby Jesus fade into our rearview mirror, and the misery of Dry January takes

The icy finger of winter chills the air, the evenings close in, the communion wine starts to look mighty tempting,

Let no man who hath torn his underpants asunder live without sin, for what is man without sin, and underpants?

Ahhh, the smells of the festive season fill the air once more. Mince pies, chestnuts roasting on an open fire,

As All Hallows Eve approaches, something mingles with the stench of your sin throughout the Outpost. It is the smell

My flock… the dark times were sent to test us. When our place of worship was brung low by famine,