Heavens above: Demon ducks? Not on my cloud, thank you

I really wish he hadn't mentioned the demons. I was sitting in the Kensington Temple in Notting Hill Gate puzzling over why it has become one of the most popular churches in the universe. Carloads of brethren who were blocking busy roads outside were flashed on screen. We had a live microwave

television link with an overflow congregation in Porchester Hall. My heart was open to see, experience and enjoy. Until the man next to me mentioned the demons.

'Demons?'

He was extremely earnest. He had done a theology degree in Durham, before joining KT, the Kensington Temple. He was called Bruce. 'Yes, demons might manifest themselves tonight.' In front of us, heartbreakingly beautiful African girls hugged each other and a woman in a pith helmet and pearl earrings did a capering jig.

'We may get prophecy,' continued Bruce, 23, who had taken off his anorak. 'We may get speaking in tongues. I do prophecy. It's like leaping off a cliff. God may inform me you went to a boarding school and were abused.' I begged his pardon. 'Had a raw deal?' he offered.

I did not reply. I believe passionately in freedom of religion. Yet I find it hard to understand people like Bruce, and not because he accused me, on a minute's meeting, of being unwillingly buggered at my expensive Borstal. Bruce has the same happy gleam in his eyes as the maniacs who burn effigies of Salman Rushdie. Or just burn people.

At this point Bruce's further revelations about my lurid schooldays was drowned out by 'modern' hymns of the Jesus is coming/He's here now/He's on his ass. . . variety. A man strummed an electric guitar. Another played an organ. A screen encouraged a witless sinner with a Golf GTi to unblock the road outside. I clapped along. Dreadfully embarrassed, and watchful for the slightest hint of demons.

Behind me a big chap began making a very strange noise. 'Demons?' I inquired. 'No,' corrected Bruce. 'That's speaking in tongues.' I listened.

'Globaglobagloba. . .' A Korean lady joined in. 'That's definitely tongues,' insisted Bruce. 'That's someone going globaglabagloba,' I retorted. And then the tonguester started to quack. Like a duck. Demon ducks? 'Quackyquacky-quackatty]'

I could not keep my heretical face straight. The television cameras zeroed in on me. 'A demon may be manifesting itself in you,' warned Bruce, as I tried not to think of satanic mallards or infernal teal being blamed by radical social workers in the latest familial abuse case. 'There were marks on the children which could have been made by a beak. . .

Earlier in the day I had followed a micro-skirted helper called Rebecca up grey carpeted stairs to the church's offices.

Here the very youthful-looking head of the church, Colin Dyer, proved to be the image of Alan Alda who plays Hawkeye in MASH He said such legends as Diana Ross, Michael Jackson, Van Morrison (this I found truly shocking) and Herbie Armstrong have all worshipped at KT.

For some unimaginable reason, KT appeals to those who have done their brains in on drink and hard drugs. 'We have 50 churches in London and are related to the Pentecostal movement,' enthused Colin. He found God in 1972, 'fished' from the streets, after he had come to London via Kenya and Australia to study with the Royal Ballet. He was baptised by immersion and hung up his tights.

'I want to see services like the one in Singapore where there were two-hour traffic jams either side.' Something which might further impact on the Gate's parking problem, though they plan to build a huge church complex up Ladbroke Grove. 'We predicted the Tories would win the last election. . . We get all types of people. We have drug-dealers, prostitutes and even Satanists.' Satanists? 'They come to scare themselves a bit.' Or to feed the ducks?

I almost liked brother Colin and his faith in this revival of 1830s London Congregation-alism. But an American Bible-thumper called Brother Prince, the main act at the evening service, would scare Jesus. Hopefully Heaven has some strong and vociferous residents' association to stop folk like this getting cloud room.

Brother Prince was 77 and had a wife in a veil he called Sweetheart. He had had another wife who had given him eight daughters until 'she went to Heaven'. I could see why. Bruce hissed to be quiet. Prince was in full flow.

'People say no believer should drive around in a Mercedes. I have a Mercedes. . .Christ did not carry a lot of cash. He just had His Father's credit card. . .'

And they shouted hallelujah, sang and prayed and swayed; the mystery of the Cross celebrated as religious Chicken Song. I prayed Brother Prince would get an attack of duck demons. I do every time I pass that church or read about Lilo-brained fundamentalists here or in Iran.

'Prithee, Lord, let their prattlings become quacketings. . . Duck soup.

Perhaps, as Bruce maintained, there was a demon in the congregation. Hopefully, if one is defined by one's opposites, it was me.

(Photograph omitted)