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Somewhere On High
There’s a queue at the pearly gates of heaven. St Paul is still rigorously inspecting everyone’s credentials. Supplicants’ life stories pass swiftly before his eyes, as he survey’s their suitability for eternal membership. It’s been busy recently, and behind some 30000 despondent figures from the Middle-East, an expectant “Jihadi” humbly waits his turn, as his application is reviewed.
“So, is this the best you have to offer?” Paul asks him, sternly. “You’re one of those keyboard warrior jonnies, criticising human rights, immigrants, asylum seekers, trade unionists, doctors, nurses, teachers, women seeking abortions, even Afro-Caribbean lesbians from the comfort of your sitting room.
And you’re a fanboy of those vile American sites, those telling you to get angry, and support the depraved Farage, Johnson, Trump and even the despicable Netinyahu. It’s quite a CV.
Oh, and what’s this? Once upon a time, you thought the advent of conspiracy tv stations and websites served to “balance progressive establishment power”, despite 80% of mainstream media already supporting the Tories. Odd, when elsewhere you plead for ‘facts’ and ‘reality’! And, it seems you believed in free speech at all costs – presumably this includes speech which is harmful to others, like your ‘right’ to be publicly racist, or the ‘right’ of others to deny the holocaust!
Even the ABC does not escape your bile – a pious virtue signaller, in your eyes! But don’t you realise it’s his job to signal virtue, you fool!” thunders Paul, enraged.
“Jihadi… it seems you have an affinity with the thick, selfish, angry people who have dominated the Tory party and its client media for a decade or more. Do you seriously think there’s a place in here for folk like that? Do you think Jesus would have turned away the so-called “small boats”. Do you seriously think in His world, the meek shall inherit bugger-all? It’s a perversion of the Christian ethic. Your politics have usurped your religion.
And finally, all the above expressed through your self-regard on the website ‘Iron-Burp’ means that, all considered, there’s no paradise for you Jihadi, we’re full up!” Paul says firmly.
“But where can I go, he pleads, who will have me?”
“Well you can try Old Nic, downstairs in the boiler room – he often takes your sort. You’ll like it, they are your kind of people – ex-Kippers, a few freemasons, Daily Wail editors… the Tory front bench. It’s hard work down there, but very warm.”
“But I only tried to interpret…” mumbles Jihadi, forlornly. “And freemasons, what do they have to do with it?”
“Because their so-called ‘grand architect of the universe’ isn’t one of us, he isn’t Christian! Now, be gone,” bellows Paul, “for I must go back to assessing other applicants.”
Jihadi hangs his head and turns away, as the gentle, pitter-patter sound of Sounds Like Rain echoes over the tannoy, and from the celestial stadium somewhere in the sky, the ghost of William Punton looks benignly on.
