by Jack Palazzo
Week in week out, there are culture clashes in this city, communities worshipping the same God, from different angles. Each ‘angle’ covered head to toe in their chosen or inherited colours, marching on, believing that this year they will be God’s chosen people. I can’t help but feel the same sense of excitement, like everyone else in this crowd, I have not been disillusioned by the years of toil without success. Two factions coming together each week to fight over territory, they represent backgrounds, political views, age and wealth; there is always significant social history between the conflicting sides. Yet all is forgotten when the smell of (barely) meat pies grows stronger and we hear the whistle blown, the siren sounds, the entire crowd cheer in unison for their respective sides, and the Sunday service begins.