Four days, four disasters. First it was a tornado in Gloucester, the next day a flood in Warwick, and the next a chemical explosion in Liverpool. Today it was Arsenal losing to Sunderland. Now tornadoes happen from time to time, that I understand. A flood in Warwick is a mite odd but Avon runs through there and I suppose it could overflow from time to time. A chemical explosion In Liverpool also seems peculiar given industry regulations but I wouldn’t put it passed a Scouse to come in hungover and not check a safety valve.
What really had me scratching my head was Arsenal losing to Sunderland. It just doesn’t happen! Not once, not twice, but three bloody times Čech stood there like a bellend while Borini had him looking through his own legs. When I hear on BBC that 17 people died in a chemical explosion in Liverpool it means fuck all to me; but as a Newcastle fan, when I hear Sunderland pulling themselves out of relegation off of a match against Arsenal, that’s what has me questioning my faith.
I picked up the phone and dialed my secretary.
“Yes, how can I help you sir?”
“Cancel my sermon at Birmginham, Mary.”
“I-I suppose I can find someone to fill in. May I ask why sir?”
“I need to speak with God.”
I hung up the phone and drove to Canterbury Cathedral. I barged in through the front doors and charged down the nave past some choristers practicing on one of the transepts.
“Fuck off!” I shouted at them. The organist who was directing them as well as all the children froze and gasped.
“Well don’t you have ears? I said fuck right off!”
Roused from their stupor, the organist herded the kids out of the cathedral as I took a knee at the chapel and clasped my hands in prayer. I looked down at the ground and focused my thoughts, asking God what we had done to deserve these disasters. For the first time in my religious career, I got a response.
“Up here ya feckin’ gobshite,” I heard as clear as if the voice was spoken directly into my ear.
I whipped my head all around searching for the prankster but I was alone. Looking up at the stained glass windows I saw blinding light streaming in.
“A-Are you God?”
“Who else d’ya s’pose is talkin’ trough a beam ‘er light ya eejit?”
“My deepest and sincerest apologies Lord, I just didn’t expect that- well, you’ve never given me such a concrete response before.”
“That’s cuz I’ve been sleepin’ ‘fer the past couple’a centuries. But now I’m awake ya little limey weasel and d’ya know what I’ve missed?”
“I-I don’t my Lord…”
“Oh y’know, just a little British ocyapation of me favorite country on this whole shite-filled world. How many deaths was that during the famine? Oh, and The Troubles to be sure, to be sure. You got answers fer dis?”
I was speechless. I was the Archbishop of Canterbury for Christ sakes and I was speechless in the face of the God I preached for.
“So are ya not one fer words er are ya just bleedin’ tick? Eider way, ya wanted to know ‘bout why all da disasters all of ‘er sudden? Well, ders yer answer ya miserable cunt. I’m cleanin’ yer country right out ‘til it looks like a baby’s arse.”
I could feel every muscle in my body trembling and quaking. I tried to speak but my vocal cords felt like they were tied in knots.
“Wassat? Ya piss yer knickers ya got-damn muppet? Get up ya feckin’ tomater-faced tan, yer makin’ Judah look like a feckin’ hero.”
I got up and stood there, looking at the altar in disbelief for a solid minute before I felt a force slap my ass and tell me to “git goin’.” Returning to my car, it was another half an hour before I had internalized enough to turn the key to the ignition. My first inclination was to just regard the whole thing as some kind of hallucination. Why would the Abrahamic God have any particular connection to an Island nation thousands of kilometers away from Judea? Calming myself down, I flipped on the radio.
“At the end of the half Aston Villa is leading Sunderland FC four to nil-“