a one hundred and second poem...'carry on carrington #11'

David held his head in his hands,

The nightmare was continuing,

And the fans

Had more or less

Vacated their seats in the stands.

‘Fancy a tic-tac?’, asked Phil,

Shaking the little plastic container,

As he tried to get a few

Orange and green sweeties to

Fall into his palm.

David sighed,
Nevertheless replied:

‘Do they still make those things?’

Steve nodded solemnly,

Looked round,

Then recommenced
Staring dimly at the ground.

‘Those were the days!’ blurted

Phil… ‘the glory days!’

It was the last straw.

David spat out his chewing gum,

And stuck it in Phil’s eye,

While Toure swept in a third,

Easy as cherry pie.

a ninety second story...'tenacity'

Dick leaned out an upstairs window, from which he was stripping layers of old paint, and yelled for Tracy to ‘get up here now’.  ‘I can’t’, said Tracy – a disembodied voice coming from a large shrubbery at the end of the garden. ‘Why not?’, Dick asked, putting aside his tools.  ‘I’m stuck’, said Tracy.  ‘How?’, Dick asked.  ‘Firmly’, replied Tracy, ‘sorely-’, and then she fainted. 

When Dick made it to the bottom of the garden she was dead.  The previous tenants had issues about home security, and neglected to mention the Japanese man-trap hidden in the undergrowth when writing the home inventory (the Estate Agent had, miraculously, forgotten about it too).

Propelled by guilt, and driven on by the memory of his dead wife, in the aftermath Dick became a firm advocate of the Geneva Convention, and an anti-land mine campaigner; between campaign visits, he also continued to furiously do up their house.  He painted the master-bedroom rose-pink in honour of Tracy, and bought curtains with little cherry cup-cakes for more or less the same reason, and adopted a stray dog, similar to the one Tracy said she always wanted, to talk to in lieu.

Then, when campaigning in Africa against land mines, he lost both his legs in a big game accident, but the memory of his wife stone dead in the Japanese man-trap didn’t keep him from his mission: soon he was back out in the field, albeit in a motorised off-road wheel-chair; and on the domestic front, with a little help, he built a gazebo in Tracy’s honour.

And it was only when Dick had both his arms pulled off, wrestling a 400lb marlin in the Florida Keys, that his remarkable tenacity looked like wavering, and even then he learned how to ring the door bell of his psychotherapist with his face. 

a ninety first story...'dating profile'

My name is Dilys.  I am 33 years old.  I weigh 300 pounds.  My weight has increased on average 100 pounds every 10 years.  I was abandoned as a child, and consequently I’ve never been sure whether Dilys is/was intended as a boy’s or girl’s name.  And no one else knows, or could care less. 

Today, I am seated on my special chair, in front of my computer.  I am trying to write a dating profile.  But all I can think of is how much I hate my computer.  It’s slow.  When I key in a command, using my big, creamy fingers, at best a red/green LED will flicker for a few seconds, then nothing.  My computer makes me feel impotent – hardly how you want to feel when writing a dating profile!

I also feel anger welling up inside me, and have to swallow hard.  My computer makes me want to cut my dick off some days – what’s the point of having reproductive organs if you can’t use the bleedin’ things anyway?  My computer makes me feel like my pork and beans would be better off served up as genital cassoulet. Ho hum!

Still, it is important to remember that my computer is manufactured by people like me, therefore, it is understandable that it takes on alarmingly human characteristics.  Sadly though, I get no satisfaction from violence, as a large proportion of the rest of my species seem to do, and see no point in lobbing my computer out of the window, slow or otherwise.  If I did so, I might as well follow.

Anyhow, I did love a girl once upon a time.  She even consented to have sexual intercourse with me.  Was she mad?  Quite possibly.  Again, like most of my species, she had never been certified sane.  Nonetheless, I weighed only 220 pounds back then – I was 22.  Her name was Fearne.  She had a complicated relationship with alcohol.

Nevermind.

And eventually, the pop-up window where I can enter my dating profile-data loads.  It has taken nearly 25 minutes, during which time I’ve consumed two corn dogs, and a half a litre of cola.  Life is stressful. 

Once I have entered the basic data, including my name – although this is not elementary in itself as I’ve already explained – I come to the box marked ‘hobbies/interests’.  I want to enter computer games, but decide against it, and as everyone else does in this situation I write Dostoyevsky, hate myself for it, and then follow up with Russian literature.

Hell, what kind of date am I looking for? Someone/thing from an intelligent species? Of course not, or I’d be chatting online to a bottlenose dolphin – in morse code.  What I am really after is someone/thing who’ll put Crime and Punishment in the toaster or the bin as soon as the alternative of sex is offered.

… Yet, I continue.

The next box asks if I want kids.

The one after that asks if I like dogs or cats, puppies or kittens.

a one hundred and first poem...'polo'

So I had

A reverie, went

Spastic through

Time to a polo

Match attended by

Ex-Public school

Boys, orchard

Suits, their brainless

Wives in cahoots,

Supping Scrumpy, and

Prince Harry on a horse:

He looked down at

Me (of course), and I

Pointedly turned the

Other way, being a

Sworn republican.

But at the end of the

Imagined day,

I felt churlish,

And strangely forlorn -  

In the first place

Dear young

Harry never

Asked to be born;

And all I want

For the monarchy is

That the Queen’s

Head be replaced with

A Euro, and the

Duke, when he dies,

Has the remains of

His face revised

Into the shape of one

Indian satellite dish

Sent to orbit the sun.

The Backseat

When travelling as a passenger in a car, I love to look out at right angles to our direction and watch the verge flying by. My favourite version of this is when passing a long slatted fence, so light bursts through the gaps in a juddering pattern, its pace changing with the speed of the car. To me, it was somehow otherworldly, or even extra-terrestrial: like the flashing lights of a UFO. When the sun was setting behind such a fence, popping spots were left in the corners of my eyes as I watched the stroboscopic image magically pass me by. Staring out at the hypnotic roadside was also a form of escapism when I was a boy. On long journeys I could either pass the time, or else use the distraction from my parents’ conversation.

Occasionally, they’d cut through my daydreaming with who-knows-how-many repeats of my name, only to ask if I’d done my homework or some such. I would have to turn away from those mesmerising oscillating lights, or that racing kerb, to see my father staring at me in the rear view mirror. He always adjusted it just so; he could see my face clearly where I sat in my favoured seat: the passenger side, behind my mother, the better to see my spellbinding rushing roadside. My father wouldn't break from meeting my eyes, as though he could sense the road ahead in another way. Even if my mother was talking to me, or I was talking to her, his eyes would be on mine. His eyes, locked into mine, were inscrutable, unknowable chips of hard light against his softening skin. So I’d back out of the exchange as soon as I could, returning to my twisted position, gripping the door handle with both hands the better to orientate myself to that flickering peep into elsewhere.

When my little sister was born, I had to shift over to the seat behind the driver’s seat, my father’s position, since my sister’s car seat was best kept behind my mother so she could settle her in before getting in the car herself, always on the passenger side. The car seat was an obstacle to my reverie in motion and I had to settle for the ticking by of white lines on dark grey tarmac, or at night, more excitingly, the glimmers of cat’s eyes glancing up at me before going dark as they looked back to the driver behind. On this side I could hear my father’s mutterings more clearly, his mutterings to other drivers, to himself, perhaps to his own demons, I couldn't know. On this side, my father could see my reflection in his wing mirror, through two panes of glass, so although I was closer I felt further.

After my father’s brother’s wedding he drove us home; I think back now and realise he must have been drunk, drunk on the free wine laid on by the brother, my uncle whose success grinded on my father’s self-worth, who’s supposed higher standing had imprisoned my father in a lifetime of jealously. My father’s brother had been evacuated, out to West Sussex, during the war, to a home where he was worshipped and praised by the childless couple and sent to a wonderful school. My father, being older, had stayed in London amid the rubble, the sirens, the banality of mere existence. So at the wedding, my father drank his share, the share he missed out on when they were boys: an accident of his earlier birth. On that journey home the lines darted by faster than usual, the pairs of cat’s eyes had but a glimpse before moving on. My mother sat silent, pursed lips and one hand reaching behind to grasp one edge of the car seat with my sister asleep in it. My father’s muttering was as intense as I’d heard it, cursing his brother and bemoaning his luck.

Since that night, after the wedding, on those near silent roads, I gained back my old seat, and again I sat behind my mother, watching the grassy margin racing by, or the fence uprights snipping the light into vertical bars, but never was I glad, and again my father would stare at me in his rear view mirror, but now with watery eyes, all creased at their edges like the leather across the top of a tired pair of shoes.

- with thanks to http://barbaraprojects.com/ for the inspiration from March's Thing

a one hundredth poem...'shell'

I looked down at my hands, and my hands were empty, there was nothing, and I looked at them for a while, what I was waiting for I don’t know, my hands, empty, and somewhere outside there were clamouring voices in the street, inside, I was bent over, looking down at my hands, holding nothing, and gradually the afternoon sun crept around the circumference of the room, and I stayed where I was, looking down at my hands, shiftless, empty, and emptied of everything, in the gathering gloom, the voices sounded until evening then went away, somewhere, I remained, as the room darkened, and it seemed I had no shadow, for I had become a shadow, or a shell, looking down at my hands, still nothing, waiting for nothing, and I knew then I had nothing – now put your ear close to mine, and you will hear the sound of the sea, the fluting wind over a low tide of half-buried memories. 

a ninety ninth poem...'summer'

O! For the English

Summer, when all the

Leaves are green,

The grass is lush,

And the slush

In our soda

Melts in a blaze of

Sunshine; and

We play many

Sports – girls in

White dresses, boys in

Tight shorts.

a ninety eighth poem...'carry on carrington #10'

The phone rang,

And David was

Shaken abruptly

From his reverie.

‘Hello’ he began.

It was Wayne on

The end of the line.

David sat up straight,

Adjusted his tie,

Reached for his pen,

Commenced scribbling while

Wayne relayed details of

What David was to

Have for breakfast, and

Where he, Wayne, would

Like to start in the

Evening game.

In the background

Phil was playing
With a new

Set of colouring pens,

And Steve, catatonic as

Ever, Stared blankly at a

Picture of a page three

Girl in leathers.

Ryan walked through

The open door,

Snatched the Daily Sport

From Steve’s hands.

‘My turn!’, he said,

Imagining his millionaire

Fingers on her

Mammary glands.

a ninety seventh poem...'fresh air'

Janey regretted

Not having made it

Abundantly clear

To Marcus, her ex-dear,

That he was no longer a

Welcome sight

For her Carolina

Blue eyes:

First, she discovered

Him disguised

As a gardener, trimming the

Box hedges at the

End of her drive;

The following week she

Opened the door to

An overly-familiar

Looking mailman,

Waiting on all fours;

And then Marcus had

Conducted a five

Day long traffic

Survey standing in the

Street outside.

This bought

Janey out in hives,

And she filed a

Restraining order.

In court she said:

‘I did not marry

An anorak, I married

A nut-job instead’, which

Was, it seemed, true.

And ,perhaps inevitably the

Next occasion it rained,

Who should hove into view

But Marcus, deranged,

Announcing he would gladly

Wrap himself around her

Should she dare –

While he was there,

Drooling like a Doberman –

To leave the house

And seek some fresh air.

a ninety sixth poem...'nonsense'

‘It was absolutely runcible, sir’,

Said the deputy constable to

The chief superintendant.

‘Runcible?’, queried the superintendant.

‘Er, yessir… runcible’, confirmed

The deputy constable.

‘Are you sure you don’t mean

Risible?’ – The superintendant.

‘No, sir, runcible’, the deputy

Constable insisted.

‘I see’, replied the superintendant,

Unconvinced, ‘you’ve read

Edward Lear I suppose?’

The deputy constable rubbed

His long nose.

‘Yessir!’

‘The Owl and The Pussycat?’

‘Both, sir’.

A siren wailed in the middle-distance.

The superintendant smiled,

And so did the deputy constable.

a ninety fifth poem...'carry on carrington #9'

David looked out on  

Sir Matt Busby Way,

A seething mass of

Humanity, armed with

Pitchforks, torches,

A garden hoe or

Two, One dear was even

Brandishing a trowel.

‘Time to throw in

The towel?’, asked

Ryan, passive aggressively

From behind David’s

Left shoulder.

David gazed down at

The tailoring on his Armani

Club blazer, he didn’t want to

Go back to wearing

Tracksuits.  And he

Enjoyed the summer

Vacations to Far East Asia,

Courtesy: Malcolm Glazer,

Supping Japanese tomato

Juice on a beach somewhere.

‘If you can take anything

Away from this, you’ve

Perfected the thousand yard

Stare’, Ryan continued.

‘Accidentally, rather than on

Purpose’, Phil chimed.

David winced, his glassy eyes

Coming to rest on a

Man in the crowd clothed

As Bugs Bunny, covered

With slime.

‘Why is he dressed as a

Rabbit?’ he heard himself

Say, as if at once removed

From reality, feeling at the

Same time a firm grip on his arm,

Being led away.

In the background,

Head to toe in Khaki,

Wayne stepped off the chopper,

Sucking like an over-grown

Baby on an everlasting gob-stopper.

a ninety fourth poem...'tar'

I've got tar on my shoes,

Where I come from that's no good thing,

I've been rolling in

The shit too long,

It's all over my shoes,

All over my house,

Up the goddamn walls,

Thick, viscous, black as

The night bird song.

And I blame you.

I've got tar on my shoes,

Indelible, ingrained and catatonic,

On the soles of my bare-naked feet,

Alligator skin on my heels –  

I've tar on my shoes,

And I can't lose the 
Memory of you;

Can't wake up again,

Untangle my laces,

To find the frayed ends,

Or scourge my soul

Since there's tar in my bowl,

On my shoes,

And I blame you: my

Heart a coagulation of rotting tubes,

Woodworm in my bones, 

Wood tar in my lungs,

Tar on the tip of my swollen tongue.

I've tar on my shoes,

Somehow, and inexplicably

Still in love with you.

a ninety third poem...'kids in pubs'

I wanted to say

How much I loved

You, but you

Did not, for some

Reason, receive

My telekinetic

Passion play, believe,

Seem to be

On the same

Frequency as me,

That of a surface

Wave… Who to

Blame save

Bad reception,
Cheap anti-perspirant,

Or kids in pubs

Playing smart

Phone games?!

a ninety second poem...'a cultural dissolution'

The killer penguins

Waddled off the

Book shelf and

Belly flopped one by

One onto my

Writing desk,

Upturned the ink

Well, and with

Webbed feet,

Midnight blue,

Walked all over

The blotting paper you

Gave me as a private

Joke about
Eroticism and

A bespectacled

Bloke, chisel-jawed

Manc, Before us

Our first love

Hand/glove, now

Facing the rank,

Murderous shoal

A last impassioned

Kiss we stole,

Fell asleep on 

Primrose beds

Awoke later with beaks

For heads, and love

Became… impossible.

a twelfth reflection...'vessels of hope'

They say hope dies last of all.  But perhaps only in some of us… 

…I am, for instance, a depressive, but by the same token have a converse tendency towards optimism, it may be in the lineage – I come from a prosperous and loving family. 

I have a bad day, a bad week, a bad month, any of which can topple me for a time, and yet somehow I manage to right myself in the end, and get back to feeling OK, good even. 

Still, I have come across one or two people in three decades on this small, wet and windy planet, and heard of many more, for whom this sadly does not happen - perhaps hope for these people dies early.

If so, why?

I think it is important to be reminded that all of us are individuals in a society that is, at present, tripping over itself with the excitement of being inter-connected/online; that we don’t allow ourselves to get caught up in a frenzy that shouts more more more, new new new, now now now, me me me; and remember that we should relate to one another directly in a mindful sense (taking into account pasts, as well as presents and futures), not through the medium of mainstream rhetoric that can be irrelevant, involve the unattainable, and be not always good for us on any terms – mainstream rhetoric that can blind us to the fortunes of others less fortunate, who may share (at least) our physical living spaces.

In the perceived need to make a life in the image of what society, the illusion of progress, inter-connectedness, and the imagined future apparently decrees, we often neglect personal relationships that do not quite fit in with this (aspirational) ‘hive’ mentality that mainstream rhetoric can consolidate in our minds.

We need to see for ourselves that we are nearly all vessels of hope for at least someone in the great swamp of existence.  But not just vessels of hope for our partners and close family members, also the (potentially) friendless, the jobless, the sick and ill, the outsiders wanting an ‘in’.

We are needed, and not necessarily, not always, by the people we know we are close to, or indeed the demands of the ‘hive’, but by the people we are aware that exist on the fringes of our conscience: in more simple terms, the guy or girl we know lingering awkwardly on the edge of a group of friends at a social gathering, unsure how to join in; the lonely old man we pass everyday on the way to work we never say ‘good morning’ to; the Big-issue seller who stands on the same street-corner daily, asks if we want to buy a copy, that we routinely ignore – all may be experiencing mute agony and despair, all would benefit from our recognition.

It’s not as if we have to buy a copy of the Big-issue necessarily, or the lonely old man breakfast, or spend the whole evening out talking to the awkward friend, but a little acknowledgement can go a long way, at the same turn reinforcing in us the notion that life happens everywhere, and not just on Planet You-or-I; that questions need to be asked by us of the plight of others, questions we would ask and try and answer of and for ourselves.

To be a vessel of hope for someone is inconvenient in the sense it can mean giving more than we will get back, at least in the short term, sometimes in the long term too; and giving or sacrificing something – even if only our time – can be uncomfortable, because perhaps we are not used to giving or making sacrifices for people beyond those we believe can more or less reciprocate in full.  Our lives are less bothersome as a consequence, but they are also more insular and less broad in experience; and the more we allow our horizons to be hemmed, the more we, and the people close to us, become another nuclear cell in the ‘hive’, the more the ‘hive’ develops to the detriment of charity, and the more the disparity between the haves and have-nots is likely to grow.

If, however, we can be on an individual basis vessels of hope for someone that exists in a hemisphere slightly out of our typical milieu, the ‘hive’ can be a force for good, and the aforementioned medium of mainstream rhetoric can change to better understand and carry the human flotsam that otherwise is beached and disregarded, and become something of a river of inclusion, generosity of spirit, and hope.

Pain and suffering, at present, do not feature in the mainstream rhetoric of the ‘hive’, but they should for the good of our society as a whole.  And the government, in forthcoming welfare reforms, could do with appreciating this.

Meanwhile, Mother Teresa – a remarkable person by any human standard – understood something of this when she said, to paraphrase, that loving is giving until it hurts; this is perhaps part of what it takes to be a vessel of hope for somebody, but a part that can enrich in that to become accustomed to a level of pain is to be able to better comprehend the needs of the less well-off.

Hope is fostered in us and carried for us often by other people in and around our lives, and if we ignore our duty to be vessels of hope, hope will continue to die early for the people on the fringes who we don’t engage with on a real and personable basis.

a ninety first poem...'willow cry'

I went inside and there was darkness, I went back outside and there was darkness, and the moon was covered over, and the tall trees whispered in the night breeze, and there were no stars, and there were dark shapes, blacks and deep blues, but mostly there was a willow cry, and the more I listened, the more it came clear, until it seemed to be howling, but there was no moon, and no stars, and I couldn’t see or hear where it came from, and soon the tall trees seemed not to be whispering, and I had to put my hands over my ears because of the willow cry, and go back inside, and when I woke in the morning the fog lay low on the ground, and although I couldn’t see them, it felt like the hills had moved, and the branches of the trees were low too, and it seemed like the rain was setting in, and it came, and the ground became wet, and grey, and brown, and standing water filled the yard, and it was grey, and wet, and yet the willow cry came again, and I went out to the barn, and I sat under the leak where the rain comes in, and my face and hair became damp, and I raised my face upwards and the rain fell steadily on it, and there were river-lets running down my cold cheeks, and I felt rain down my neck, and inside my shirt, and I had my eyes closed, and then I opened them, and the rain became rigged like tears in them, and raindrops shuddered from my eyelashes, and I clasped my hands tight, and dug my nails in, and the willow cry was a shriek, and after perhaps an hour the leak stopped, and I had my head in my hands, and my arms on my knees, and my bare feet were numb with cold, and the willow cry was silent, and my chest heaved, and my shirt-sleeves clung to my slender arms, and hung heavy off my hollow shoulders.

a sixty sixth cartoon...'flotsam'

It was warm in there, and the light was low, it was soft and yellow.  The room smelled of wood varnish, and yeast, and beer, and wax from white candles.  The white candles glowed orange.  And there was beer in front of me, the beer flowed, and then it went away again, and people came up and talked, and then they went away again. Your eyes floated before me, floated by, and then you were gone too. I had a pain after. And I couldn’t talk all evening, because I was numb.  

a sixty fifth cartoon...'scream'

There are moments in life where, through your own lack of sense, you find - always in the aftermath - you are left with a horrible regret.  All you want to do is scream and scream again, physically wretch and beat the particular feeling out of you.  It can be a cathartic activity, and yet I worry we live in a world where too often the kinds of feelings that can corrode the heart sinews are not vented because it is either considered unprofessional, or going against an unspoken societal trend towards a sometimes utterly counter-productive stoicism.  We all have our problems, however meaningless, and they don't go away without a good old scream.  The antidote thereafter might be laughter yoga (or sex, if available).  

a ninetieth poem...'flesh'

I feel like

A broken doll

Sideways on a

Fold out chair,

A puppet with heart 

Strings cut, cupboard

Under attic

Stair; an ancient

Greek statuette,

Sex organs

Removed, a useless

Hunk of flesh

When I long for you.

a sixty fourth cartoon...'the sport'

My name is Donnie.  I live in East Anglia.  I have a made-up friend called John.  I own a ride-on lawnmower.  And I used to have a job as a greens-keeper at the municipal golf course.  The club professional who fired me is now in prison for beating his wife.  This is a picture of my ideal wife.  She isn't my wife, of course.  But if she was I'd take her out somewhere nice.

a sixty third cartoon...'golfers'

My name is Donnie.  I live in East Anglia.  I have a made-up friend called John.  I own a ride-on lawnmower.  And I used to have a job as a greens-keeper at the municipal golf course.  They fired me because of my handicap - I was embarrassment to the club professional.  The club professional is now in prison for battery (unrelated).

a sixty second cartoon...'transportation'

My name is Donnie.  I live in East Anglia.  I have a made up friend called John.  And own a ride-on lawnmower.  The ride-on lawnmower doesn't have a name or anything.  But its petrol engine splutters away alright! Once I had a job as a greens-keeper at the municipal golf course.

a sixty first cartoon...'deer friend'

My name is Donnie.  I live in East Anglia.  I own a ride-on lawnmower. And have a made-up friend called John.  John has antlers. Sometimes he appears at my bedroom window at night.  He doesn't say much though.

an eighty ninth poem...'carry on carrington #8'

The crowd roared

And David sank

Lower into the

Padded relaxer

That nowadays

Passed as the

Manager’s Seat.

It seemed as if his

Vertebrae had

Become gelatine.

Next to him, the

Strain of a first

Big-Time Coaching

Job made it look like

Phil had had his brains

Power-vacuumed out from

The top of his skull.

‘What do I say

To the media after

This?’, David said to

Himself, no one

Else.  Round stared

At his hands.

David leaned forward

And also studied

His palms. On the

Pitch Robin blazed

Over from six yards, but

To the watching world

David didn’t appear to

Notice; ‘Phil, your

Shoe laces are untied’,

He observed.

The Second Coming

Herb believed in the second coming of Jesus Christ. Had done all his life; at least, since he was old enough to know what the first coming was supposed to be. Furthermore, Herb was wedded to the idea that the second coming would happen during his lifetime. As such, like many people, Herb had what psychologists call a self-serving bias.

Most of us show this at some time or other. My favourite example of it is watching post match interviews with football managers. The manager of the winning team almost inevitably praises certain players, the team tactics and the skill of his side overall. The manager of the losing team cites refereeing errors, bad sportsmanship from the opposition and bad luck as the explanations for failure. It helps.

So Herb’s identity and self-esteem really rested on his conviction that not only would Jesus return to the Earth in human form (conveniently; he’d probably be captured and locked up in Area 51, forever covered up, if he came looking like an extra-terrestrial), the second coming would bring on the end of the world and the entry into heaven of all the chosen people. Herb strongly believed that God was and is just and merciful, yet he thought that you had to believe in him and follow certain doctrines and traditions to get into heaven. God, apparently, could not forgive the slight of not believing he was real.

To be fair to Herb, it would seem a little off if you were an omnipotent being, immanent in your creation, but some people didn’t even thing you were real. God is like a lion, Herb would tell people: not believing in lions doesn’t make it any less likely that they’ll end it for you given the chance. God’s chance to sort out the faithful and unfaithful would come after the second coming.

My father, who’s a doctor, once had a patient who genuinely believed he was Jesus. He said so to my dad, who thought they were having quite an ordinary sort of conversation up to that point. He said: ‘You do know I’m Jesus, don’t you?’ I’m pretty sure my dad did not say yes.

Herb had heard about people like that, but was satisfied that he had the powers of perception to tell a fake Jesus from the real one. A little bit more of that self-serving bias. Plus, the apocalypse didn’t follow that patient’s announcement, so there was the proof. Not that Herb ever met this poor patient.

Herb did meet a minister who preached that the second coming was guaranteed to happen in September of 2121. Helpfully, the minister and anyone who had heard him speak would be dead by them, so they couldn’t verify whether he was right in this or not. The prophecy had been made during a lecture, rather than a service, in a windowless hall more used to hosting Pakistani wedding receptions. Herb had left the room in an ill humour, allowing himself to ignore the compelling arguments made by the minister and thinking up reasons to discredit him – his trousers were a little too short, for instance. Here, Herb made use of a helpful reverse halo effect.

Since Herb lived in a tolerant, pluralist society, his views were rarely disparaged or condemned as dangerously derivative. Such a backlash was only permitted for religious views without the backing of a two–thousand year history and incomparable wealth. So, when Herb talked about the second coming in the tea room at the office, colleagues listened graciously and complimented him on the strength of his principles.

Now we join Herb at his annual review meeting with his manager, a man named Gary, filthy of mouth and sexual preferences, but in a modern, pluralist society, not to an unacceptable extent.

Gary worked hard to curb his prefixing for Herb’s sake, for although he was a flawed man, he was not high enough in the company to be a clinical psychopath.

‘Herb, would it be correct to say that you are quite fervent in your beliefs?’

‘Certainly, Gary. I’d be happy to explain them…’

Gary interrupted. ‘That’s ok thanks Herb. I just wonder…’ Delicacy wasn’t Gary’s strong suit; his wife had still not quite forgiven him for the clanger about her weight loss during his speech at their wedding. ‘I just wonder, not everyone wants to hear about Jesus during their tea break, Herb.’

‘Gary, I am trying to save people.’

‘Herb, how about you just stick to asking people if they’d like to know more… before you go on to tell them everything they can expect when the apocalypse comes?’

Gary kept using Herb’s name. Notice that he said it four times in the conversation already. This is something people do to persuade people and make them feel good. It acknowledges they exist, firstly, and shows that you know who they are, which is to show them respect. Oh yeah, kind of like the recognition that God seems to be after – according to his followers anyway. Who claim that no-one can know the mind of God. Never mind, I’m rambling now.

‘Fine,’ said Herb. ‘I’ll cool it.’

The problem for Herb was: cooling it at work meant that his own convictions weakened, because of course, when you speak to convert others, you continue to confirm your own perspective. In fact, an opinion on any topic, including things more and less frivolous than beliefs about the second coming, is usually made quite instinctively. It is afterwards that we come up with reasons for feeling that way, and make the dangerous assumption that the reasons came first and we are a logical rational computing machine when we need to be.

This went on for some months. Herb continued to go to church, but found that he thought about the second coming less and less.

What happened next was that Herb became one of the greatest fundraisers of all time. Specifically, he campaigned to raise huge sums for prostate cancer research. The reason for this was that Herb developed prostate cancer. One in eight men gets it, after all.

Herb was diagnosed and realised that he had less time left on Earth now, meaning that Jesus had to hurry up. Consequently, to increase his chance of surviving until the second coming, Herb quit his job and joined a cancer campaign group. He wrote a blog about his experience of prostate cancer symptoms, diagnosis, his prognosis and so on. He was droll yet redemptive in tone; the papers recommended him to their readers. Herb ran giving campaigns and improved public education about the disease. In short, he became one of the great and the good of his modern, pluralist society, where becoming a moral giant lay in being seen to do good things for other people. He was interviewed on daytime TV, where he came across as a beatific gem – an overnight national treasure. What an endorsement!

The hilarious contradiction, however, was that Herb was only in it for himself (‘self-serving’ seems an appropriate term once again). After his diagnosis, he began to panic more and more about the second coming. In spite of his confidence in his view that he would witness the second coming, there was unsanctioned doubt in Herb’s mind. This was his attempt to prolong his life; even though he had a guaranteed slot in paradise.

You see, the promise of heaven wasn’t enough for Herb; like anyone, he wanted to live here on Earth. For secretly, squashed into an almost forgotten nook of his brain, was the insidious notion that maybe, just perhaps, he was wrong about the whole thing. But of course, same as anyone, Herb had a whole arsenal of psychological tricks to protect him against such inconsistencies. Just like the Lord God, in whose image he was made, Herb needed verification for his beliefs, but, unlike God, Herb got it from within. God needed the validation from millions of believers, Herb did ok on his own. Thus, like all human beings, Herb was greater than God!