1 Olympus Way, Mt. Olympus, Greece
Hello, old chap, how are You? Well, I hope. We should get together for lunch at the club soon.
Er… speaking of the club, the Committee has asked Me to write to You. Not that I wouldn’t have written anyway, You understand. I mean, We’ve been friends for ages – which is probably why They asked Me to write. Anyway, well, the reason I’m writing – and You’ll probably laugh about this – is about Your old house on Mt. Lykiaon. The thing is, now that Your brand-loyalists are coming back, the Committee seems to think You should clean the place up a bit. Since You’ve got more tithes coming in, They think You should spruce the old place up. You know, “keeping up with the Jupiters” sort of thing.
I don’t want You to think this had anything to do with Me. I’m a hands-off sort of deity, as You well know. “Always leave ’em wanting more” is My motto. Hell, I don’t have to tell You that. You’re the chap who taught Me the old prayer trick. Ask any of My brand-loyalists. I always answer every prayer… except when I don’t because I move in mysterious ways. Really, I’m just terribly embarrassed about this whole thing. After all You did for Me when We were in school – I fagged for You when You were in 6th form!
Look, what if I send some of My brand-loyalists around to tidy up? It’s no trouble. They owe You an apology, anyway, for saying Zeus worship is a “miserable resuscitation of a degenerate dead religion” and a “return to the monstrous dark delusions of the past”. That was out of line. I mean, saying something like that about You is the same as saying it about Me, as far as I’m concerned.
Back when I was blacking Your sandals and making Your bed, You taught Me a lot of the moves I still use today. I feel I owe You something. Let Me take care of this clean-up thing. Don’t give it another thought. I’m sorry I even mentioned it. The damned Committee has gotten too big for Their britches, if You ask Me.
I’m glad that’s dealt with. Look, come round the club next Thor’s Day and let Me buy You lunch, eh what? I’ll round up Pluto, Bacchus and Uranus and We’ll toast Our old fag-master ’til the port runs out.
Wish You Were Here,