Chapter One
Fallible Deity
God was exhausted. But he would be, wouldn’t he? He’d been labouring 7 days a week on minimum wage and he wasn’t getting any younger. It had worn him out. He needed an early night poor thing but first he was desperate for a fag. He’d been trying to give up just lately. He’d tried vaping but the metal ones wouldn’t light and the plastic ones just kept melting. As for nicotine patches, well they just smouldered and the tablets triggered a painful memory of Moses and that day on Mount Sinai and all that business with the burning bush. Ouch! So in desperation he wound his last few sorry strands of Virginia Creeper into a rollie and settled down on the lavvy for a few drags.
But oh dear. Heavens above. He’d left the gas stove on at mark 7 to brown his Ambrosia. Aaah, the food of the gods. He’d also left the back door open and all of a sudden a terrible wind (he blamed that Trump) blew the flames out as he took a last drag on his fag-end.
And then there it was. The Big Bang – you know the one you’ve all heard about. And the whole of planet earth – the helium, the hydrogen, the oxygen and his rollie, the whole shebang all went up in smok. (Sometimes he left the e’s off things.) Oops! said God. What am I lik? But God was miffed. Seriously miffed and his binge was seared (He was not good with past particles either) for he suddenly noticed that where his cherished chrysanthemum patch had once flourished there was now a big black hole and the prospect of first prize at the Narborough Road Working Man’s Club Annual Flower Show lay in smitheroons God forbid! So he forbad it and it was forbaddened. I told you he was no good with past participants. The tears flowed from his celestial eyes and formed an icy puddle where once had stood his pride and joy. But suddenly out of the depths of his despair, a tiny voice whispered in his left ‘earole. “Anyone would think that it was the end of the world.” “Pardon”, said God. “Did I hear thee correctly? Art thou mad? Not the end of the world? That big bang must have rented my ears asunder. Can thou speaketh up a bit?” (His false teeth were sticking.) “No I cannot”, came the reply, “for I am but a tiny voice”. “Would it help if I wrote things down on a tablet? And God said, “Is it an Apple? I remember what happened last time on my allotment in the Garden of Eden. That there Eve right blew my chances in the chrysanths section. Anyway have you any idea how long it takes to make a univerth” (his false teeth were thtill thticking). He knew however that the tiny voice was right. It wasn’t really the end of the world. He could start again and this time make sure everybody had an equal share. Yeah man vive la revolution!
So, pulling on his soot stained nightie, he grabbed his Teddy and climbed into what remained of his bed. A good night’s sleep should sort it. Next morning he’d get all those helium bubbles moving and remake planet earth but not till after breakfast. So, sticking his false teeth in a jar by the bed and setting his alarm for the beginning of time, he fell asleep, dreaming of rice-pudding, scrambled eggs, winning the lottery, and oooh yes just one more last smok. (there goes that e again). That cheeky devil Lucifer had given up in one week flat by sheer will power and never let him forget it.
Chapter Two
The Wonkey Wardrobe
So the very next morning at the very beginning of time God’s alarm clock broke into his reverie with a quick rendition of ‘He’s Got the Whole World in his Hands.’ God groaned and His hand slammed down on the snooze button and he rolled over. But the tiny voice said “Get up, you lazy God! It’s time to remake planet earth”…And God said, “Can thee speaketh up a bit”. And the tiny voice said, “No, I cannot for as I have already told thee, I am just a tiny voice”. “Oh, all right,” said God, heaving himself up on the side of the bed. “I suppose I’d better get started.” So with a big yawn and a really long stretch he slid into his favourite Noddy slippers and Superman underpants, stuck his false teeth back in, nipped into the loo for a holy widdle and then slowly ambled downstairs for his brekkie.
A quick root through what remained of his freezer revealed a pain au chocolat, to which he quickly added the splattered remains of his Ambrosia and a Cadbury’s Crème Egg (low calorie). After all man cannot live by bread alone. Swigging a cup of builders’ tea he settled himself down with a copy of the Church Times and checked the weather forecast with thoughts of the task in hand and planned his next move. Maybe he’d get an all-day breakfast later at the Coop if it had managed to survive the blast. If not he could always build another one. The notion of cooperation was definitely a priority in his new order of things plus he’d get a bit of divvy. Maybe he could also knock up a polytechnic course or two[obviously free] and sign on for an
English language degree and sort his past participles out at the same time. Ooh and have a gap year as well .Why not he pontificerated.
And so it came to pass that during that week, God remade planet earth and he saw that it was good. Well not bad except for the fact that the Tories and their cronies, the bankers, the bishops, the monarchy, the Lords, the Judiciary and the landed gentry also seemed to have survived the big bang. How did that happen? he thought. That there Lucifer must have had his hoof in this, no doubt catching a sniff of that smouldering ambrosia, he’d tipped them all off that a big bang was imminent and they had all fled to their underground shelter in Brighton (unbeknown to them located beneath the sewage works). Whipping their servants into action and making them carry huge quantities of smoked salmon, caviar, Havana cigars and bottles of chateau Burgundoise 1776 down into the bowels of the earth they muttered and complained to one another saying things like “Crikey, Oh bother and drat it Tally Ho and do be careful with that chandelier Smithers, oh and where did I leave my diamonds Boris and Theresa you poor darling how could you have left behind all your lovely shoes. Don’t fret, I’ll send Smithers back
with the H.G.V. in the morning.”
This was a great disappointment for God for despite having wanted these jokers out of his scheme of things for many a century, The New Testament made mass genocide a bit more difficult and it was now impossible for him to wipe them out just on a whim. An accident like the Big Bang though got him off the hook. He’d long since had to renounce that business of an eye for an eye but part of him still wondered if there shouldn’t perhaps be exceptions; maybe an ear for an eye or better still a brain or what about a conscience. What a great idea he pontiferacated. Food for thought. But now what, he pontiferacated again. While he pontifericated he decided to nip down to Wilkos for some chrysanthemum cuttings and a fork to dig over the allotment. There might still be time to get the entry in for that Flower Show. He’d get some baccy on the way back and maybe over a smok and a cuppa he might find some divine inspiration .Well if he couldn’t who could?
And By Jove he did. For at the till, God met a few of his old muckers (Emily Pankhurst, Boedicea, Ken Livingstone, Nye Bevin, Keir Hardie, Robin Hood, Tony Benn and Harold Wilson) – who’d all been living in a parallel universe and had therefore survived the big bang. Also By some chance coincidence at the Labour party conference in Blackpool the delegates had all agreed to vote for Jeremy Corbyn and the’ very mention of his name had caused the Big Bang to veer madly to the left and miss them altogether. A bit like the angel of death sweeping down on the Egyptians and not visiting the houses marked with a cross of lamb’s blood. Oh dear had he really done that? Oh well ‘ Never mind’ he thought. He’d matured a bit since then when him and his lad J.C. had gone for the other cheek thing. Nevertheless that eye for a conscience idea still did have some appeal. He’d have another think about that. Meanwhile here were all his old allies and He was able to share with them the nature of his problem and so He asked them to form the first cabinet. Unfortunately they only had a Wonky Wardrobe in Wilkos. But God said, “Get it anyway and you can become the keepers of the Wonky Wardrobe and become a force for good throughout the univerth and get rid of these upper clatheth”. [those teeth again.] He’d run that idea of an eye for a conscience thing by them later. Perhaps a B.A.C.S. transfer of a large amount of cash instead of the eye. Yes that was it. He knew J.C. would approve A win- win situation..lots of cash from the super rich and no bloodshed.
Chapter Three
God Remakes the Commandments
Back at home they all settled into the Wonky Wardrobe and God sprung forth his commandments.
First off, He made a New Year’s Resolution to save up for a new cabinet and denitely give up the fags. Or maybe he’d have a word with Tony and old Harold about taking up a pipe. He thought he’d look pretty good with a Meerschaum (it could give him a sort of man about town look ) and it meant he could carry on with his dirty habit. A pipesmoking God with a few human failings could be a good gimmick. He’d run it by the spin doctors next week. Then he made another rice pudding and hoped that it was good and made a mental note not to leave the stove on unattended. And never ever ever again to have anything to do with that fellow Trump.
He then recommended that Jeremy Corbyn should be Prime Minister and wondered about those J.C. initials. Where had he seen them before?
Oh, And nobody should be rich or be a member of the upper clatheth or wear a funny crown (at least on weekdays to start with). Nor [not that Noah] shalt Thou work at all on either Saturday or Sunday he pronouncedeth.
And so, convinced that they had set in motion the basis of a free and fairer society they set off for Skeggie for a bit of a knees-up and to plan their future agenda.
P.S. They all agreed that the B.A.C.S. for a conscience thing was a great idea and enshrined it in their manifesto.
Chapter Four
Jeremy Takes Centre Stage
Well it came to pass that due to the Big Bang missing the Labour Party conference altogether there were now considerably more socialists left than Tories and Jeremy Corbyn became prime minister. For the many not the few. They’d also nailed a poster onto the Sewage farm door inviting the Tory servants to join the trade union movement offering them considerably more than the minimum wage together with greatly enhanced pension rights and security of employment and a bit of divvy at the Co-op. En masse they had all deserted the sewage bunker and left their so-called Lords and masters to it. Thus the socialist ranks were further swollen and the Tory party members were left wallowing underground where they bickered and whined and whimpered and yelped and counted their money and fell into total disarray.(nothing much different there then)
And so Jeremy Corbyn was able to put into place the basic tenets of his socialist vision.
First off, and most importantly, he dismantled the monarchy and proclaimed the U.K. a republic. He sent the Queen and Prince Phillip off to live in a high rise flat in Daggenham – cheers!
Then he renationalized the railways, the Gas and the Electric and dispossessed all the landlords of their tenancies and gave them to the poor. – more cheers!
He then arranged for all future housing to be run at affordable rents by local councils .No longer would there be poverty or homelessness – louder cheers!
The N.H.S. would be invigorated with a substantial cash injection and private health care would be abolished – even louder cheers!
University education would be free – even louderer cheers!
Public schools would be for the public and there would be no more private priviledged schooling – even more louderer cheers!
God’s cash for conscience idea would be immediately put into effect and the rich would be taxed into oblivion – loudererest cheers ever!
Brexit would be immediately reversed and any problems would be resolved (that would save £40 billion just for the divorce bill alone and no doubt countless more when you took into account the millions of hours they’d devoted to not sorting it out!) Cameron, Gove, Johnson and St. Theresa would all be put in the stocks and then splattered with Brussels. And rightly so The Pillocks.
Celebrity T.V. would be a thing of the past and newspapers would be required to publish facts not lies. Murdoch would be deported to North Korea where that sort of propaganda belonged. Hooray hooray……. and Sky Sports would be abolished……….. – just kidding!
Meditation and Yoga would be on schools pre class curriculum and The Beatles ‘All You Need is Love’ would replace the National Anthem. God was ecstatic. He danced like a mad thing round his living room smoking his pip and squeaked with delight as he watched the monarchy and all their obsequious hangers-on gather on the stairs of their new high rise flats whose upper floors had been allocated to them. Unfortunately, as always under their jurisdiction the lifts were out of order and they’d just have to use the stairs. Oh what a shame! Years of abuse and lying and exploitation wiped out before you could say Jeremy Corbyn and a great and wonderful future now lay ahead for the human race. – the louderest cheers wot ave ever been eard ever.
Chapter Five
The Proverbial
‘You Know What Hits the Fan’
Back at the Tory bunker things had gone from bad to worse and morale was at an all-time low. The caviar had run out and so had the plonk. Worst of all Theresa only had 50 pairs of shoes left. They had seen the latest news on their mobile phones and now knew that Jeremy Corbyn (J.C. for short) had taken control of the country and revolutionized it. Their immediate reaction had been to Pass Go, Collect their 200 Britcoins , pick up their Get Out of Jail free cards and then attempt to leave the country like rats deserting a sinking ship. However, just as they were about to concede defeat, Lucifer turned up and whipped them back into shape. In a matter of minutes he was drilling through the bunker roof to try to set up a satellite link with Fox News and arranging for Theresa May to broadcast the following right wing propaganda across the airwaves.
Viz.
J.C. is a communist and should be shot on sight.
Nationalization is a heinous crime and should carry the death penalty. Trade unions would be running the country and everyone would have to wear a flat cap, keep pigeons and go to’ free n easy at Christmas down at t’ working men’s club.
Old people would be forced to work on their allotments and keep coal in their baths.
Taxation would be doubled. Or even trebled or probably fourbled.
Remember that An Englishman’s homes are his castles and that only in the hands of the Ruling class is your future safe.
And Socialism is a dirty word and should be struck from the dictionary.
However as Theresa was getting ready to broadcast, one of the studio make-up artists [miffed by the Tory hypocrisy and recently evicted from one of the afore-mentionned cabinet ministers rented houses] slipped a draft of itching powder into the welter of her designer trouser suit. Just as Lucifer announced “Action! we are now live and on air” she was consumed by a barrage of itching. Unable to resist, she resorted to what can only be described as a tirade of frantic scratching and fumbling, her arms whirling like dervishes around her cavorting body and her finger nails scraping at every intimate itch. Cursing and swearing and tearing off the remains of her designer trouser suit she ran screaming from the studio.
Lucifer, in a devilish attempt at damage limitation, got on the blower to His Highness the right dishonourable Rupert Murdoch A.S.B.O. and commander of the Tory misinformation empire and got him to get the Fox newsline to close down the satellite link immediately. At this point the newscaster did exactly that but attempting to conclude with a degree of continuity, bade everyone an enjoyable evening and announced that that was a broadcast on behalf of the Tory Party. As this unfortunate debacle was unfolding in front of the remainder of the world’s population another much more sinister disaster was approaching. Lucifer’s crude attempts to drill through the bunker wall to establish the satellite link had set up a chain reaction in the sewers above the bunker and the 3 -mile sewage blockage that had been imperceptibly moving through the pipes over the last 4 decades suddenly freed itself and coursed freely into the Tory bunker. May, Gove, Johnson and their obsequious entourage were last seen surfing thirty tonne Fatberg through the bowels of the Tory bunker. A fitting end one might say for such an illustrious gathering.
Game set and match were the conclusions of J.C. and his wonky wardrobe. In fact so encouraged were they by these most fortunate events that they concluded their manifesto as follows;
There will be no more wars.
There will be no individual ownership of land.
Fences will fall.
The Arts will flourish.
Beautiful parks and gardens will enhance the beauty of our cities.[pigeons optional]
There will no longer be a culture driven by profit.
Religions will focus on a common humanity and the pursuit of peace and love.
There will be no leaders or political parties…only a wonkey wardrobe of the most talented individuals working for the many not the few. The advancement of the Spirit will be the new Mantra.
Oh yes and as a consequence Capitalism will eventually die out and become extinct (Surely everyone will now see that by its very nature only the Few could ever benefit from it)
And so J.C. having led the revolution stepped out on to centre stage and took a bow. The applause was ecstatic and lasted for several minutes. And for God the penny suddenly dropped!
J.C………… Nice one Son!
