“Oi, oi, oi,” says I, “who do you think you are? God Almighty?”
“Actually, yeah,” he replies. “And the Son and the Holy Ghost.”
“Prove it,” says I.
God says nothing, but he smites a sausage and bean melt.
Gotta admit, it was impressive. One minute, fat-sodden calorie haulage bake, next second pure smotedness.
“I love sausage rolls,” he goes on, “but you can never get those last bits of crispy pastry from the bottom of the pack, can you?”
“But you’re God,” says I. “You can do anything,” says I.
“Yeah, but some things are more of a challenge,” he replies. “Fancy a drink?”
“Your usual, God?” says the barman.
“Just a glass of water, and one for my friend.”
“Red, white or rosé?”
“The thing is,” God’s telling me, “I thought humanity was ready for the end of days.”
Some fat bloke pushes past the table, spilling God’s drink.
“Ya cheeky fook,” says God, and smites him.
“That was a bit extreme, wasn’t it?” says I.
“The soul is eternal,” quoths God. “He’ll be back.”
Now, I’m unsure how to respond, never before having witnessed the smiting of both a sausage and bean melt and a chartered accountant on the same day.
“Where was I?” God goes on, topping up his glass from the river of Jordan that suddenly and miraculously flows through the Lamb and Flag.
“Oh yes, the end of days. Bloody work experience angels, never listen properly. I said ‘select the last trump’, and they went and got that orange-faced baboon voted in.”
He explains how he’s studying YouTube videos on ‘Sounding the Last Trump for Beginners’ and he’s coming along very nicely, thank you.
Then his eyes grow dark. “But you buggers aren’t ready yet.”
“So when will humanity be ready?” asks I, hoping to lift the mood with the prospect of 7 billion simultaneous deaths.
“When knowing that eight thousand children under 5 die of malnutrition every day makes them as angry as a photo of a sausage roll in a crib.”
I glances at my empty glass.
“Any chance of another drink, God?”, asks I.
“Fook off, ya cheeky fook,” says he. And ascendeths into heaven.