Turning the Tables

A friend of mine told me that she'd recently bought a new coffee table.

I didn't know how to respond. I mean, what do you say? My brain went into 'freeze' mode for a moment. No bloke will ever know how to respond to that piece of information... ever.

I guess I could have said... "What’s a ‘coffee' table? Is that a table that you only put coffee on? Do furniture stores sell tables exclusively for other beverages? Can you purchase a hot chocolate table or a tea table? Maybe tea tables could be sub-divided into, for example, an Earl Grey table or a Lapsang Souchong table? Would that work? How about a beer table, a wine table or even a gin and tonic table? Can you buy any of those?" 

But I kept my thoughts to myself. Probably best. 

As for coffee tables, I don't have one. I use the only table I have in a multi-beverage sort of way with no startling or surprising outcomes. And anyway, even if there were beverage specific tables available, my home isn’t large enough to accommodate that many possibilities. 

I'm glad she hasn't bought a work table... yet.

Florist Scam

I drove past a van the other day that had signage that described the business as ‘freelance florist.’ Not sure what that is at all. Mind you, being a florist is an odd profession anyway. This is a job that mostly involves cutting down perfectly good flowers, removing them from their environment and then selling them in shops, knowing full well that the product you are asking people to pay for will be dead in a week or so and have to be thrown out! And florists get away with this still! Selling something that they know will not last... oh, and wrap it up in fancy paper with bows too, just to add to the deception! 

I guess it's a bit like the Christmas tree trade. You know, cut down perfectly healthy trees that would look much better remaining on a hillside with their own natural decoration - snow, morning dew, dripping rain drops - and sell them to people to stick in their front rooms, cover them in glitzy baubles and then watch them shrivel over a two week period before chucking them in the trash! And people complain about what we do to the environment!

As for flowers, I blame the mugs that buy the product and do it time and again! How many times do you deliberately buy a non-essential product that you know will be useless in a week? No, never! 

And to add to the stupidity, people give flowers as gifts! “I bought you these,” they say but fail to add, “they’ll be useless this time next week and you’ll have to chuck ‘em out.” What sort of gift is that? Beats me!

Driving Stress

I thought obstacle courses were for school sports days or army training, but over the years a new one has evolved in our lives. It's called the public highway... in other words, the roads we drive on. 

It consists of:

• Road humps, speed cameras, width restrictors, bus lanes, cycle lanes, low emission zones, congestion zones, parking cams, parking restrictions, potholes, average speed zones, 20mph zones (complete with speed bumps too);
  
  
• Roundabouts with traffic lights (aren't both designed to filter traffic? So why do we need two controls both doing the same thing?); 
  
  
• People sticking prams into the back of cars with the roadside door wide open, protestors walking really slowly in the road and not being moved on despite breaking the law; 
  
  
• Yellow box junctions, tailgaters, ditherers in hybrid vehicles saving the planet, pedestrians who do that funny, half-hearted run into the road and then walk the bit right in front of your vehicle; 
  
  
• Vehicles passing you on the inside on motorways, drivers who think the indicator is the new steering mechanism so when used, it entitles them to switch lanes without looking first, vehicles that only drive in middle lanes (why do people hog the middle lane so doggedly, even when it's not busy; this effectively turns a three-lane motorway into a two-lane one - most drivers realise you have to overtake on the right and go around the middle-lane hogger - hence the traffic jams that develop; 
  
  
• Drivers who think that a motorway slip road is something you accelerate on and then just drive out onto the carriageway at whatever speed they fancy, irrespective of how busy it is or how fast the traffic is moving, and with zero regard for who is already on it; 
  
  
• Joggers who think it's okay to run on the road, cyclists with their holier than thou ‘I’m a better person than you,' green, moral high ground attitude (it’s still a vehicle nobhead, get insured, stop riding on the pavement, stop riding across pedestrian crossings and stop taking your vehicle on trains);
  
  
• Jaywalkers, yellow lines, red lines, people pressing the pedestrian crossing light when there are no vehicles about except yours, pedestrian lights, busses getting priority everywhere and sheep (err... if you live in the country.) 

And it's called Driving In the United Kingdom. 

Roll on driverless cars! 

Wait a minute! Don't we already have those? Yeah, of course. We've had them for years. They're the ones that pootle along in the centre lane of the friggin' motorway, totally oblivious to anything else going on around them!

Hinges

The other day I passed a company van on the motorway that had a display on its side advertising ‘High Performance’ ironmongery. To illustrate this, it had a giant picture of a hinge. It made me think. What level of ‘performance’ do you need from a hinge? I would have thought it would be pretty basic. Using a door (a lid would work just as well) to illustrate, I would suggest it needs to perform two functions:

1. Along with its partner (that is something working in co-operation as opposed to being in some sort of civil relationship) it needs to secure the door or lid to the door frame
2. It needs to create rotation on a fixed axis so that the door or lid opens and closes

Other than those two functions I cannot see what else it needs to do. Therefore, I would suggest that its performance should not be measured in degrees of accomplishment. 

Nobody opens a door and says, “Wow, these hinges are right on their game today. Did you see the way they manoeuvred that door. Quality! Big improvement on last week, if you ask me.”

No pundits appear on television to give their assessment of hinge performance.
“Well, Clive, I think if these hinges continue to put in the sort of performances we have seen over the past few weeks, you gotta say they are approaching world class.”

So, in writing this, I don't mean to be critical of a company for trying to promote its ironmongery, but I think ‘high performance’ might just be a step too far for a hinge.

BBQs

Does anyone else get irritated by people using the silly abbreviation ‘BBQ’ - abbreviated in recent years by those whose vocabulary never surfaces above 'txtspk' to BBQ (and even then it still looks like a far east television station) - when referring to having a barbecue? I mean, there’s no 'Q' in the proper English spelling of the word. And, the actual word is not pronounced ‘bee bee cue’. 

“Fancy coming over on Sunday for a bee bee cue?”
“Sorry? A what!”
“A bee bee cue.”
“Uh... not sure... is that some sort of code?”
“Code? No, just... you know, err, a process for burning perfectly good food in my garden 'cos it gives me that sense of being 'back to nature' and makes me feel in control of something, like a tribal leader after a hunt. 

Mate. Calm down You got the sausages in Waitrose. You didn't hunt down some wildebeest and make burgers out of it. And, what's more, take a look around your territory. Yeah, you've got a perfectly good kitchen just ten metres away full of the modern appliances that can prepare food to a high standard with limited effort from the chef. And another thing, if you're going to 'get back to nature' shouldn't you be cooking over a pile of logs and not on some fancy contraption with dials all over the front that you plug in to the electrical supply?

And why do we plan barbecues in the UK anyway? We live in the northern hemisphere. It 'pleuts' down with rain even in the height of summer. There's no point in inviting all your friends around for such an event weeks ahead of it - well, not unless you live in the Outback of Australia where you are guaranteed barbecue weather. In this country you are more than likely to be holding the barbecue skewer in one hand and an umbrella in the other, prodding the slowly incinerating sausages around the grill, a steely determined and optimistic look on your face as the rain dribbles down the back of your Hawaiian shirt into your baggy shorts and your toes freeze in your flip flops. Your guests will also need an umbrella, a good set of waterproofs and a lifeboat crew on speed dial. But, no, the hardy English, irrespective of the weather, will show up in shorts and tee shirts, crack a beer pulled from a makeshift ice bucket that is not required because the temperature would make a hardened skier consider another layer, and ignore the looming cumulonimbus as they queue for an incinerated sausage.

So if you must drag out the barbecue, do it on an off-the-cuff basis. Meanwhile, I will continue to cook my sausages in the oven.*

*Having said that, see 'SAUSAGES' published in July 22 in this blog.

Flying Irks

Is travelling by aeroplane (is it ‘airplane’ these days?) getting more difficult instead of better? I am due on a flight in the morning and for the past few days I’ve been bombarded with tosh saying, ‘You need to do this, you need to do that, you need to fill in this form, your bag size must not exceed this, we need your Advanced Passenger Information, you need to check in before you get to the terminal or else… you must download your boarding pass (I would if you send the flippin’ things), you can choose your seat for an extra £794.’ Why would I want to choose my seat? It’s a two hour flight to Turin so unless there’s an option to sit between two porn stars who will ply me with Champagne throughout the flight, I’ll take my chances, and if I end up sitting next to the village idiot on his or her (equality needs to be fair across all categories) first trip abroad, too bad. 

I got offered ‘priority boarding’ too. I said, “NO!” Priority boarding might work if you were the only passenger to get it, otherwise you join the scrum to get on with fifty other ‘priority’ boarders who get on just before the backup scrum of the ‘no priority whatsoever’ bunch who don’t give a toss ’cos they’re getting on the same flight as the you and it ain’t leaving without them!

To top it all, just as I was leaving to drive to Stansted, I get a text that has some bollocks that says you need to check in THREE hours before your flight for ‘security’ reasons! Three hours! What security reasons? Specify, please, if you want me to dump my luggage and then sit for the next two and a half hours twiddling my thumbs. I mean, would you pitch up at a bus stop three hours before the bus is due?

It’s all nonsense to control the population, bit like religion! 

I'm just going to pitch up and say, “Look, I’ve done all that stuff you asked for, I’ve paid for my flippin’ flight, I’m the customer, I don’t work for your airline, but you do; so now do some of the work yourself. Oh, and stop looking at my bag as if you’re thinking, ‘Nineteen point seven kilos! What’s he need all that stuff for?’  

Let’s see how I get on!

Eating Out

I think restaurants are taking the customer service thing too far!

I popped into town for a walk (I’m a man of leisure these days... writing only) and decide to have an early evening supper (saves me cooking or bothering the servants on their day off). I found a nice place where I can sit with a glass of red and make some notes (for the chapter I’m working on.) I check the menu and order the Chef’s Special Burger.

Ten minutes later, I’ve got what seems like a perfectly cooked, tasty burger. I take one bite and the waiter comes along and says, “How’s everything? All okay, sir?”
I’ve got a mouthful of burger so I just mutter, “Yeah, all good, thanks.”
About ninety seconds later a waitress comes over and says, “Everything alright with your burger, sir?”
Again I’ve got a mouthful of food so I just mumble something and nod my head to indicate, ‘Fine,' although what I'm actually thinking is, 'Please just piss off and let me eat in peace. If there was something wrong with my bloody burger, I’d come and find you and tell you.’

Now I’m paranoid. Either they are trying to poison me, state execution style, because I’ve been a little bit negative about something the Government's done, or complained about Just Stop Oil protestors sticking themselves to the road, or some sarcastic remark I've made about the European Empire (maybe even the Eurovision Song Contest) or they’ve just employed a dodgy chef who made it here in a boat and the geezer’s never cooked a burger before!

I’ve left the burger, half eaten. Too risky. Now ordering another vino.

Car Stress

So, cars... anyone remember when most drivers could fix their cars on the street, when they went wrong? Even amateurs could have a go. A grease and oiled stained Haynes Manual was part of a driver’s toolkit.

Remember those jobs? Car won’t start... uh, yeah, better check the points. Nobody these days knows what the points were! Memory tells me they were a metal ‘thing’ with two ‘arms’ that had to be a thousandth of a millimetre apart or your car would not start or work properly. To measure this precise setting, you had to have a contraption that resembled a pacifist’s Swiss Army knife. It had a number of ‘blades’ ranging from a millimetre thick to minus four thousand light years thin, this latter one being so limp that you had to give it 1960’s viagra to make it work. To set the precise gauge setting of the points it was usually the middle ‘blade’ that did it. More luck than judgement. Once you’d set the points, you closed the bonnet and optimistically tried to start the car.

Then there was something called the distributor cap where you had to spray some kind of anti-moisture stuff into it to dry it out to increase the chances of the engine firing up. Then there was a thing called the choke. You pulled this out, especially on cold mornings, to give your engine a massive fuel fix, bit like an addict getting a first hit of the day, to get it going. Trouble was, you didn’t know whether to pull it out all the way and risk ‘flooding’ the engine so it packed up (hence the weird word ‘choke’, I guess and its strangulation connotations) or just halfway and hope for the best. The good old days, eh!

But modern cars! What a bloody nightmare. In ten years time today’s generation of cars will be seen to be the biggest cause of nervous breakdowns of this current era. You no longer ‘tell’ the car what to do, it tells you! If they are not bleeping with an array of warning sounds that make the Starship Enterprise sound obsolete, they are displaying an avalanche of information messages that set your teeth on edge and cause an involuntary, “what the f*cks wrong now?” curse as you try to make that simple trip to work. ‘Warning. Service required in 346 years’; ‘Diesel fluid additive low. Top up or your vehicle will disintegrate after 100 miles’; ‘Checking tyre pressures. Warning, near side rear tyre 0.00043 lbs per sq.in. less than recommended pressure.’ And then there’s the ‘lane departure’ bleeper with its accompanying screen image that shows a flashing orange warning. “I’m only going through my gates, for f*cks sake. I do this every night. I missed them by fifteen feet... again, like I did last bloody night! Calm down!”

I’m off down the scrap yard to find a Ford Cortina!

Impatience

I walked into a local bar that I’ve been to several times before. I made that eager face... you know, that face that says, ‘I’m next so serve me now before I pass out with thirst,’ at one of the girl’s behind the bar.

She approached me and said, “Sorry, I can’t serve you.”

My brain did a ‘what the feck’ blush type thing as it tried to recall what the hell I had done last time I was in that bar. I’m normally well behaved... well, for a Capricorn who has an alternative side. The bouncers weren’t moving towards me, so it had to be something else. But what? Often it’s an age thing. So, yeah, sometimes I get mistaken for being younger than I am, but the only reason they don’t serve people on the underage ticket is if they are under eighteen and I realise, even with the assistance of a top Hollywood specialist effects make-up artist, they’d struggle to get me within ten years of that.

I was momentarily lost for words, an odd occurrence, like being short of oxygen for a second, but the young lady then declared that she was simply a glass collector and at seventeen years of age, was not allowed to serve alcohol. I swallowed my paranoia, styled it out with a shrug and waited for an adult to take my order.

Party Poopers

I’m not the most sociable of people, I know that, but I do go out. So the other night I attended a sports club do,  just, you know, to mix in, that sort of thing. There was a band, a good one, doing covers, but they pitched the set at the ‘middle aged’ and, you know what that means. Yes, they’ll have a hard time pleasing all musical tastes and have to fall back on music that many considered shite when it first came out!

Anyway, after three tunes there was a lull when one of the staff at the venue came up to the lead singer/guitarist and whispered something. The guy then turned away and said into the mic, “We’ve been asked to turn down the volume as some people think it’s a tad loud.”

I couldn’t believe it so after the next tune, I asked the singer if that had actually happened. He said it had and it was a request by someone who was actually in the audience! Who goes to a ‘do’ which has a live band advertised and says it’s too loud? The band was made up of two guitarists, a bass guitar and, crucially, a drummer! You can’t play drums quietly to upbeat music.

Party pooper.

Despite that intervention the band pressed on with their ‘middle of the road, don’t rock the boat’ set, no doubt hoping that the people who don’t get out much could cope with the new volume level and the ‘middle-aged’ would be enamoured by the mainstream set list. After a while it seemed that this was the case. No doubt alcohol had helped ‘oil the wheels’ and the audience began to act a bit more upbeat. But that also means lots of people suddenly do ‘middle aged’ dancing. Look, I’m not knocking ‘middle-aged’ people per se – I happen to be in that category myself – but I’m sure you know what I mean.

So, I’m standing at the bar minding my own business, perhaps a tad aloof (like I said, I’m unsociable) when this guy starts doing that thing where you link arms with people and spin around. I’d seen him do it with other innocent bystanders, saw him approach and was ready. He tried to grab my arm in that arm link thing, but I batted him off and said, “No, mate.” But he wasn’t having it; he was on some sort of dance mission and came back for another grab. Apart from the fact I’m unsociable, I also thought I ain’t engaging with a geezer in a pink t-shirt with a stupid logo and dodgy decorator jeans when I’ve taken the trouble to dress up just because he’s a happy-clappy dick who thinks that as we’re at a social do we should all engage in chimpanzee-like behaviour.

I’d been keeping an eye on the Fury/Chisora fight so my mindset was on the offensive. As he came in for a second dance-grab, I thought of throwing a right cross and knocking the geezer out - he was six inches shorter than me and whilst I cannot claim to possess an Iron Mike shot, an Ali-like right cross, the sort that took Liston out and a few others, with its element of shock and surprise, would have stunned the nob, especially as he was on the front foot coming at me (like Sonny was in the aforementioned Ali/Liston fight) - but my sensible side knew I would have been banned (last time I threw a shot I ended up on my face on the pavement courtesy of some edgy club bouncers.) So, I pushed his grabbing hand away and emphasised ‘NO’ big time. He got the message, well with me anyway, and decided to impose his brand of ‘this is how you enjoy yourself’ upon some other hapless sucka.  

Party pooper.

Mammoth Task

No wonder the mammoth became extinct. They had so much to bloody do all the time. If you count the number of times people say, 'It's a mammoth task,' and the variety of activities that the statement covers, you quickly realise they had no real 'me' time in which to hunt, eat, chill and breed!

Freedom of Speech

Doctor meeting with young couple to discuss a 16 week pregnancy scan...

"Good afternoon. Mx and Mx Smith. Nice to see you. Please, sit down. How did you find that? Pretty straight forward I hope."

"Yes, absolutely fine. We're keen to hear the results," the pregnant woman replies.

"Of course. But before we begin, can I introduce Donnie McDonnell, the hospital's Diversity and Gender Equalities Officer. Donnie will simply be monitoring our conversation... just a routine process now in doctor patient care."

The couple nod a greeting as does Donnie.

The doctor continues. "I've  studied your scan and I'm pleased to say all is well. You have a very nice little person doing just fine."

The couple both smile and glance at each other. Then the woman says, "Thank you. Could I ask, is it a boy or a girl?"

"Excuse me. We don't use the 'B' or 'G' words here," Donnie says. "I hope I don't need to remind you that since the recent introduction of the Diversity, Gender, Equalities and Official Speech Amendment Bill, reference to the gender of a person is considered a hate crime."

The couple glance at one another again but before they have time to respond Donnie turns to the doctor and says, "And Doctor, please moderate your language and refrain from using sizest expressions."

"Sizest? What did I say?"

Donnie flicks a strand of crimson hair from his eyes and gazes intently at the doctor. "You referred to the person as 'little.' You know that word is offensive in that context."

"Oh, yes sorry. It just slipped out. Old habits and all that. Anyway, where were we?"

The man responds. "Look Doctor my wife and I just wanted –”

"Let me stop you right there," Donnie says. "I'm afraid I have to warn you that I cannot accept such references."

"References?"

"Yes, the 'W' word."

The man scratches his head and looks puzzled. Then he leans forward. "Oh... wife?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Uh, what's wrong with 'wife? We're married."

"It's outlawed. A highly offensive word designed to subjugate one person in a partnership, lowering them to the level of a possession or chattel. Can we please continue without using these demeaning terms." Donnie turns away. "Doctor."

"Err... oh yes... erm, is there anything else you would like to ask?"

The pregnant woman shrugs and then says, "I'm sorry we've caused any offence, but we were just thinking about names for our baby and –”

Donnie's face turns purple, a similar shade to his lipstick. "Excuse me. No. No. Not acceptable."

"What, to name our baby?"

"No. Another 'B' word. Have you not studied the Party Language Directive for Acceptable Terminology in a Modern Inclusive State?"

"Err... no, not entirely," the man says.

"Well, it’s time you di then.” Donnie says. "If you had then you'd know that that particular word is demeaning as it implies that the unborn is not a fully formed person with rights like –”

"But it's not a fully formed person. It's a baby."

"Mx Smith. I shall have to terminate this consultation if you insist on using politically incorrect language."

"We're sorry," the pregnant woman says. "We just wanted to know what our ba... err, person will be... for a name, that's all."

"I can help you there. I can email you the Party's brochure on names that fit our current Gender Neutral programme. Kervilin and Anbozda are very popular at present but there are many more equally beautiful options out there."

The pregnant woman wipes away a tear. "I feel sick. Is there a toilet I can use Doctor? It's all been a bit much today."

"Which type of toilet?" Donnie asks. "We have fifty-two designated washroom areas."

"Fifty-two?"

"Yes, they reflect the incredible diversity of this country. We have options for our cross-dressing society, our religious cultures, some for the one legged community, the hard of hearing, the gender neutral, persons of indeterminate IQ, non-binary beings, rehabilitated prisoners, asylum seekers, the persecuted, the insane, communists, and former EU economists, amongst others.”

"Oh... uh, do you not just have a ladies toilet?"

Rhino Jive

I was talking with a rhinoceros the other day and it was quite revelatory!

At first he was reluctant to engage, but you know that thing when you look into the eyes? Yeah, I could tell. Wanted to get things off his chest. I just said, “What’s up?” and got the expected answer, “Nothing.” But I’m patient and can tell when something is bothering someone. With a bit of coaxing, things were revealed.

“Okay, yeah, I am a bit perturbed,” he said.

I took that therapist stance - you know, pretending not to be bothered but secretly thinking, ‘get it out, fukwit’ - and eventually my patience was rewarded. I can only explain by referring to my notes. He had a few issues for sure!

“I don’t think we’re taken seriously. You people worry about going shopping, getting to the pub, what’s on your tellies but you never consider us. For a start, you can’t even spell our name properly. Then you shorten it to the ‘R’ word... yeah... do I have to say it? Okay! Rhino. Think about it. You’re oh so flippin’ careful when it comes to talking about your own species... yeah, you know what I’m saying! No? Don’t play innocent with me! Imagine doing the same shortening thing with people from Argentina, Pakistan, Russia, China, Ireland... to name a few! Okay, forget that last one, you do that already… Paddies.”

I had to interrupt. “But they don’t mind. The Irish have a sense of humour.”

“That’s as maybe but, ‘rhino’ ain’t okay! You think we’re thick skinned, don’t you? Yeah? Okay... okay, maybe we are, but I meant... you know, as in, not sensitive. But let me tell’ya, despite appearances, we’re very sensitive and get upset more than you think. No wonder we look angry all the time. And another thing! We’re pretty pissed off with them guys who shoot darts into us, send us to sleep and then, when we wake up, we’ve got some stupid collar stuck round our necks. I heard it’s for something you call tracking and conservation, but don’t gimme that bollocks! It’s for all them freakin’ documentary makers benefit, ain’t it? Just so they can follow us around, find out what we’re up to. Bloody liberty, invasion of privacy if you ask me. You know what, I was talking to them lions last week and they’re right pissed off too. One of them was saying that every time they go out for a meal, some nobhead in a freakin’ jeep is chasing after them. Right spoiling their night out. But you lot don’t care, do’ya?

“And, yeah, them tracking collars are not a good look on a date neither! I’m trying my best chat up moves and the minute some bird, and I don’t mean them oxpeckers that clean up ticks and things, I’m talking females… don’t look so high and mighty, us rhinoceroses ain’t like you lot, all that PC bollox. Anyway, some female sees them collars, it’s over, ain’t happening. I tried to make out they’re trendy, but you can’t fool a female rhinoceros. Oh, and yeah, we do have anger management issues. Wouldn’t you after the way you treat us? So when we charge your stupid jeep, don’t be that surprised. You can’t handle it anyway, can’ya? You bugger off the minute we come after’ya!”

I felt humbled. All I could do was ask if I could take a picture. He was reluctant at first but agreed after I said I wouldn’t post anything online and that our chat was confidential.

N.B. But in the interests of conservation and save the rhino... I mean, rhinoceros... I had to post this. But keep it between you and me.

Prayer

 

God must get really hacked off sometimes. I mean, the geezer has a difficult enough job as it is managing all the stuff he created (maybe the universe thing was a bit ambitious) without all these billions of people asking him for ‘stuff’, all the time. Of the world’s population (currently 7.8 BILLION!) over 80% adhere to some religious belief, the majority of those following one of the major religious groups. That’s over 6 billion people all asking God for stuff, quite often to do them some sort of favour or give them something. He must be pulling his hair out.

“Oi, Gabriel. You seen my bloody in-box? Full to the bleedin’ brim again! Thought I asked you to sort it? Get on it, geezer.”
“Doin’ me best, Mr G. Just that they keep coming. Day after day. I cleared a load yesterday but –“
“Cleared a load? What d’you mean?”
“Uh, well, I tried to deal with requests to help get new cars, new jobs, good weather for a barbecue... that last one was the UK, I think… and to help to win sport matches and – ”
“Win sports matches? What’s wrong wiv’ya? Told’ya ‘bout that, didn’t I. Remember, last week? Them two tennis players, both praying that I’d help 'em win. Nutters. How am I s’posed to pick one over the other? Ignore that stuff. In fact, tell’ya what. Ignore all of it. What’s the point of me giving people free will, freedom of choice, if they’re forever asking me to sort their shit out? Let ‘em ask their governments instead.”
“They already do that, Mr G.”
“What? You’re ’avin’ a laugh, ain’t ya? Bloody religious lot. Right, wipe that in-box. No more. Delete the lot.”
“But, Mr G, people are expecting you to answer their prayers. We can’t just – ”
“Yeah we can. We can do what we want. I’m God, ain’t I! Sick of people wanting stuff. Bloody prayers. I mean, what do people ever do for me. All I get is them bloody hymns every week, dirges with the same bleedin’ tune, or that chanting and wailing nonsense, or that bullshit about loving me and telling me I’m great. Change the bloody record. I don’t need it, do I?”

God scratches his beard, thoughtful, then stares at Gabriel. “Look, mate, sorry. Didn’t mean to rant. Not your fault. Listen, here’s what we’ll do. Anytime you get any more of them prayers, just send ’em one of them things they do down there that pushes it back... you know, like their bounce-back email thing.”
“Ah, yeah. I know. Okay. But what message, d’you want.”
“How about, “God’s out of office at present. Sort yer own shit out.”

(And for ‘the offended’, my God has a sense of humour... I’m sure yours does too.)

Unhappy Medium

 

What has often puzzled me is why, at spiritualist meetings when the medium makes contact with some random spirit, they always get the same type of messages! You know, “I’m getting a… a B, yes… Ball… Bill…” and, in response to a gasp in the audience, “Yes, Bill. He says… Aunt Maisie’s car is going to fail its MOT.” No, if I ever went to such a meeting, what I’d want to hear from any spirit that feels it’s worth showing up in a dreary church hall or bingo hall on a wet Friday night, is something a bit more informative, maybe along these lines:

“Hi, guys. Thanks for inviting me to your, uh, little social gathering. You’ve all showed up ‘cos you wanna hear stuff from the ‘other side’, yeah? Cool, let me fill you in.

“So, first of all let me just confirm the burning question you’ve all wondered about. You have, haven’t you… you Know, wondered? You haven’t all turned up to hear about MOTs surely? Ha, just kidding. Yep, there is a Heaven! And, I’ll tell you what, it ain’t bad at all. In fact it’s blinding. All right, couple of things you gotta get used to first, like them angels and particularly their main man, Gabriel… mind you, I say ‘man’ but with that long blonde hair and them fancy fluffy wings, he could be anything. I dunno. Always smiling a lot too. Don’t know what he… uh, she’s smoking, but who’s judging, eh? Well, I s’pose God is. Yeah, you gotta go through all that judgement stuff once you get up here. Bit nerve wracking, if I’m honest… and I must be ‘cos they let me in! But Pete, the bouncer geezer on the gate, is pretty cool and puts you at your ease. Oh, and speaking of God, he’s pretty cool too, likes a laugh. Well, as he says, he must do. He made the human race… and octopuses. Yeah, he said ‘octopuses’. He reckons ‘octopi’ is pretentious nonsense. Anyway, he ain’t got a beard… God that is… well not one of them long ones all them painters used to stick on him. He has a bit of the old stubble now and then, sure, but what bloke don’t? And, yeah, he is a bloke. He has a chuckle when the sisterhood call him ‘she’. As he says, what woman is gonna make a fuk up like the human race?

“Another thing, the people you meet up here! I had a drink with Adam and Eve the other day - yeah, they got back together once Eve got rid of the snake. We had a couple of glasses of cider. Makes a change from the local brew, milk and honey. And Eve’s making better use of the apples these days too. Ran into Muhammad Ali as well… yeah, I know he’s different religion but, guys, it’s all the same place! Big surprise, eh? Shouldn’t be. How can you have more than one ‘heaven’? Ain’t like it’s a competition! You live your best life and, what, you get a choice of different heavens? Get real. So, Ali was having some banter with his mate, Smokin’ Joe and they was just being chilled. It’s that sort of place.

“You know who I wanted to check out? Adolf Hitler. I know it sounds a bit odd but I s’pose I was curious. Thought I’d look him up. I had a few questions. Turns out he ain’t here. They sent him down… yeah, that place exists too… along with several other murdering megalomaniacs and numerous nutty religious leaders. But don’t panic. The judgement thing isn’t a fifty-fifty lottery. For Pete to let you in you’ve only gotta be a decent person, that’s it. Nah, nobody’s worried if you don’t go to church on a Sunday - I never went. Mind you, if you do and you bin singing them half-wit hymns, God is gonna think twice. Only joking, but I’m telling’ya, them hymns piss him right off. He don’t even listen no more. He’s sick of the dreary tunes and the sycophantic bollocks in the lyrics. Trust me. He told me that himself. Mind you, not surprised if the religious lot’ve bin bending his ear with that nonsense for centuries.

“Anyway, people, I gotta go. Think I’m hacking Doris off here by telling it like it is. Her business is gonna go right tits up if she gets any more like me! Go do something useful out there and stop worrying about this shit. Cool. See’ya.”