God

I have never been trendy. I will never be trendy. I worry that if being untrendy ever becomes trendy I will disappear up my own backside in the confusion of working out how to solve the dilemma. I don't follow any fashion or music trends. I can't remember the last time I bought my own clothes. Actually, that's a lie. I bought a pair of hipster trousers in July 1969, taking a female work colleague with me for advice. Boy were they trendy. I think I wore them once. I preferred comfort. My label is Mattalan, Asda. and market stalls. God forbid they ever become the places to shop. I suppose I have had three mums. My mum, my first wife and Janet. They kept and keep me from looking like it is still 1969. I'd probably still be wearing my school uniform if I had it and it fit.


Little by little however, over the last ten years or so, I have become slightly trendy by osmosis. There is a culprit for this. He is not the only one but he is a very influential one. Thanks for nothing Stephen Fry.

I was brought up to be a good Catholic boy. I made my first confession and communion, as was the custom. I went sometimes to morning Mass, during the week, having fasted from the night before, as was required by the church. I took egg sarnies with me to have after Mass. Peter Nixon, who was a fat bastard, used to take a block of unmade jelly. I went to mass every Sunday. We usually went to 8.30 Mass meaning we had to be up by 7.30am to be ready on time. Twice I fainted in Church and had to be carried out. I think that being denied a meal until you had been to communion has left the legacy now of my being unable to eat in a morning. I rarely have anything before around 12.30pm to 1.

It was so boring. I once sat through a sermon wondering what the hell the plight of kids in Asia had to do with me. I didn't even know any Asian kids. It was later explained to me that the priest was condemning euthanasia. Perhaps that is where my love of puns and alternative meaning stems from! Adolescence gave me a brief respite, mainly because of the Scratchard girls. They were tall, very leggy and not afraid to show them. In a way it was quite scandalous. Although mini skirts were everywhere now (even my Mum had her skirts above the knee) it was generally accepted that you remained sober in dress at church. I had many a vision in church when the Scratchard sisters arrived.

Then there was Mrs. Brophy. Every parish had a poor family and the Brophys were ours. There were many Brophys and they mostly smelled of pee. I am sure they had a future in manufacturing smelling salts but it was, at times, overpowering. Mrs. Brophy was the star however. I still think she was wearing knickers she had robbed from a ten week old corpse. The smell was appalling. There was a problem however. She always arrived late, and squeezed herself into any available space (church was almost always full in those days). You could feel the tension as the service started and the congregation began praying. They were praying that Mrs. Brophy didn't sit near them. When she arrived, you could see the fidgeting as people closed gaps and crossed themselves hoping to prevent her sitting next to them. Once, and only once did she sit next to me. I would rather bathe in the contents of a lepers colostomy bag than repeat the experience. Have you ever tried to breath from one side of your mouth and blow it out the other for 45 minutes? Don't try it.

The week after I left school, I stopped going to Church. I still believed in God, the indoctrination was too ingrained to just opt out at that stage but it was a way of expressing my new found independence. Ernest Long began my descent into atheism. He was my first father in law. He was a lovely chap if you found socio-paths interesting. I never met him. Not once in 13 years of marriage did we meet or speak. What was my crime? I was of Irish stock. When he found out my name he suspected I was catholic and perhaps, horror of horrors, Irish too. His fears were confirmed when he met my dad one night after our car broke down and both our fathers came to pick up up. My dad spoke about six words to him. My dad was born and brought up in France of Irish parents. Ernest ordered his daughter to drop me that very night. She refused and he asked her to leave. His only daughter. He didn't come to the wedding or contact her again in our time together.

His reasoning was that Irish Catholics were cowards and Nazi sympathisers who supported Germany in the war. My Granddad was buried alive in the WW1 trenches and my Dad and his three brothers and two of his sisters all fought in WW2. It was a rude welcome to the world of prejudice. Ernest was wealthy. He was educated and was  a senior executive with British Telecom where many staff still called him sir. He was also an appalling bigot.

I began doubting God then. The more I read, the more I doubted. I became fascinated by the rise of fascism and how millions followed its venomous doctrine without question. I began to argue with friends and family about God. "God gives people a choice" I was continually told. "They had the choice to follow or not" I couldn't see where the choice element came in for the six million Jews or the thirty million Russians. I became an atheist. Life became easier.

Contrary to popular belief, I didn't become a different person. I still cared. I still loved and generally tried to be the good person I was brought up to be. I didn't do it for God though, to buy my my place in heaven. I did it for me and the people I influenced and influenced me. Knowing there is no life after death means I make the most of my time here. Dying will be eternal sleep and, as an insomniac, it has some appeal.


I'll take my chances. if I am wrong, I'll say hello to Adolf and Joseph and we can lament on the irony of my decision. It's not going to happen is it? So, thanks for making me trendy Stephen. Keep quiet about it eh?