Get some sub-mental hippie wearing a skirt made out of a curtain to write a song on her guitar called ‘Michael, Let Us Be Your Servant’. Give them wine and campfires and a voice to praise you with.

Now give them a date that the world will end. Maybe. Or, better yet, say that God has told you that you have to see your brother’s wife in your bedroom. Now fake some kind of seizure that God has induced, which means you just can’t resist climbing on top of her and fouling her with your dick. Perhaps you could drop to your knees on the rug for added poignancy. Howl at the moon. Question your Lord. Then sink a few inches into your sister-in-law.

That God, always working in such mysterious ways.

If they accept it. You’ve got them.

You can start dancing around the compound, naked, whipping your back with long strands of rosemary – the Lord’s herb – and your people will sway in time to your hairy, pious ball sack.

Here’s the thing: you’re ridiculous. And even among the most devout followers, there’s going to be someone with an ounce of sense, some brother with a chip on his shoulder about sharing his wife. And they’ll leave. And they’ll tell a bunch of people. And while you’re inviting six virgins to lay with you naked, four of whom are underaged, the authorities are on their way. And before you know it, God has left you to sit in front of a jury while your daughter-niece shows them where you touched her on the doll.

You give cult a bad name.

You. Mumbling a bunch of stuff about nothing.

But the line is so thin.

Are the successful cults the ones you have never heard about? Are the best serial killers the ones who have never been caught? Or is the victory in the notoriety, the infamy?

That final number.

You tread so carefully, trying to do what you think is right, what you believe in, but the power does corrupt. And it can make you flashy with the cash or brag at your conquests or grope some teenagers.

Maybe you operated for decades, under the radar, and now you want some recognition for your efforts. Maybe you put on a show. Maybe two. Maybe you want to go out with a bang.

Maybe you tell yourself that the power comes from being known.

Because that’s what you want to hear.

And that’s what a cult is, right? Telling people what they need to hear.

Also, if nobody knows about you, you can’t call yourselves a cult. Because that’s the way we get other people.

Without the other people, you’re a boot camp. You’re buggy fit. You’re a mums and toddlers sing-a-long with the bear. You’re pensioner’s Pilates. You’re the tombola at the primary school Easter fete.