Picture this: it’s raining, the heavy nail-ended stuff that
batters down with a stuttering rapid rattle, smacking you in the face like a
barrage of punches from a mini-me Muhammed Ali. Or an angry Tinkerbell. You get
the idea. Like small frequent punches. But wet. Okay -- I admit it – the analogy’s
not great, but it’s all you’re getting, so live with it. FFS.
As I was saying, before I was so abruptly interrupted: it’s
raining. And there’s lots of it. The sky
is that gun-metal Grey of Doom which features so prevalently in the rooftop scene
of Ghostbusters, or a John Martin painting*. All the air a solemn blackness
holds, there is a sudden crack of thunder, and a fast flash of lightning dances
and claws its path across the overhanging firmament.
There, along the Great North Road, two solitary figures scurry
over pavements and puddles, coats pulled in tight, hunched, packed-close against
the relentless deluge. And one of those
figures is me, with my friend Dave, explaining that:
a)
I didn’t believe in God AT ALL.
And
b) I really wanted to get to the pub before I
became one with the elemental force of water.
Dave seems skeptical, insists that I must have some slither of
doubt, must entertain the possibility, however feint, that there is something beyond
this mortal coil.
To illustrate my point, I slow down, and grab a metal pole (I
have no idea where this came from. I suspect it was bit of broken fence lying
on the floor. I may have been carrying it already, although this seems unlikely,
because it would suggest I was some kind of pole-carrying nutter, which I’m not.
It’s not really important anyway, but in
case you were wondering, it came from somewhere, but where that where was, I
don’t recall.) So, I grab said Pole of Unending Mystery. Then, Thor-like, hold
my prize aloft, pointing towards the heavens, and shout enthusiastically:
‘Come on God, you bastard. Cumanavago if you think yerard
enough.’
It turns out he wasn’t hard enough, and I dropped the pole,
wetly smug in my scientific demonstration of the absence of a divine being**.
The point of this is that I am not in any way a person prone
to harbouring superstitious thoughts, or beliefs in any kind of Sky-magic.
But, last week, I wanted to write about the approach to the
last game of the English football season, about Manchester City’s approach to
their first Premiership title in my lifetime, about my approach to that
weekend, festering with trepidation and excitement. But I couldn’t Although I was prepared to take on God, and
risk my life, I wasn’t prepared to tempt the Lares of football, and watch the
team I support possibly not win a game of football.
There are people who would point to these two details as
evidence of all that is wrong with a modern attitude towards religion, or the over-importance
we place on such trivia as professional football.
However, these people are either Theists of some kind, or
they don’t support Manchester City, so they can fuck right off. God didn’t kill me, City won the Premiership.
All is well with the world.
Champions.
*This John Martin, not this John Martyn.
**I appreciate the scientific flaws of the
demonstration, before any feels compelled to point them out
