Camels, Eyes and Needles

"So," said God conversationally, "what makes you think you deserve a place in Heaven?"

Randall thought about it. He couldn't remember doing any good works, but he had no recollection of doing any particularly bad ones either. His life had been pretty boring on the whole. He'd just done what seemed to be expected of him.

"Can you, for example, get a camera through the knee of an idol?" God prompted.

"I - er - I don't think so," stammered Randall. "I've never tried."

God adjusted his spectacles and peered at his checklist. "Sorry, I meant candle through the ear of a Nigel. Can you do that?"

"Er - yes?" guessed Randall.

"Actually, I don't think you can," said God. "I wish Stephen Fry was here, he always knows the answer to this sort of thing, but he isn't dead yet. It seems a shame to kill him for the answer to a general knowledge question."

"Oh, I think I saw that program," said Randall helpfully. "There never was a gate in Jerusalem called the Knee of the Idol, so you couldn't photograph anybody through it, so the answer is no."

"Thank you. I'll just write that down, then," said God. "Do you know, I think the question used to be about camels, but paper doesn't last for eternity and I've copied it across so many times that I'm just not sure any more. Did it seem like a good question to you?"

"Ye-es?" suggested Randall.

"What about the camels?"

"Oh, I'm sure they'd think it was a good question," said Randall encouragingly.

"Aren't we doing well?" said God cheerfully. "Tell you what, let's forget the rest of the questions, we'll just say you scored - oh - eighty percent. What do you say to that?"

"Thank you very much?" Randall hazarded.

“You know,” said God comfortably, relaxing back in his seat and taking a puff of his pipe, “these things used to be very important to me. I was a bit of a hard liner in the old days, a religious fundamentalist you might say. These days I can’t think why I bothered. What does it all mean? What’s it all for?”

“Well, if you don’t know…” said Randall.

“Take the Moslems, for example. They say that if you blow yourself up you get seventy-two virgins. I don’t know how they know, or where they get them from, or what the virgins have to say about it, but they seem pretty sure. In the old days I used to think about trying it myself, but at my age I don’t know what I’d do with all those virgins if I had them. One of them could cook, perhaps, and one might rub my back, but the other seventy would be pretty bored. All I ask of afterlife these days is a comfortable chair and a pipe of opium. Would you like to try some, by the way? It’s much better than the stuff you get on Earth.”

Randall took the proffered pipe. “Isn’t it illegal?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” cried God in alarm. “I hope not. Try it and see what you think.”

Randall looked at the pipe doubtfully, then took a tentative puff. A warmth spread through him.

“Well?” asked God anxiously. “What do you think? Is it illegal or not?”

“Not as far as I can tell,” said Randall, handing the pipe back, “but I’m no expert on these things. No, I don’t think it is. No, not at all. Would you mind very much if I had another go? Just to make sure.”

For a while they passed the pipe back and forth in silence. When it was empty God seemed to have dozed off so Randall took the opportunity to have a look around. There wasn’t much to see. On the wall was a photograph of a young, unshaven, long-haired white man. He had his arms around the shoulders of two almost naked men of Middle Eastern appearance. Presumably the two Middle Eastern types were fishermen since one held a fishing rod and the other a compressed air harpoon gun. There were some small wooden boats in the background and another figure who appeared to be mending a net. There was a caption, which read: I will make you vicious as men. Randall looked back at God, who was now awake.

“Just my little joke,” said God. “I spent a few happy decades making photographs of my many imaginary avatars. On one planet I supposedly came down as a bacterium and infected everybody with Holy Lamb Disease. That was a hard one to photograph.”

“But surely you’ve been to Earth?” asked Randall in surprise. “Everybody says so.”

“Oh well,” said God, “if everybody says so... No, I’ve never visited the material universe at all. Everybody ends up here sooner or later and I’ve never felt the need to visit them at home. For one thing, they’d expect magic tricks. Wasn’t walking on wine one of your planet’s inventions? They’d tell me all about Derren Brown and how he predicted the lottery numbers, then they’d ask if I could do the same, only perhaps a little earlier so they could buy a ticket. They’d demand that I support whatever crackpot religious ideas they’ve dreamed up. They’d expect me to have opinions on whether all three sexes are required in a marriage between octopus people, and to assure them that two-sex trios would be boiled for eternity in glue, as their scriptures demand. They’d want me to have unbearably tedious conversations with their religious leaders when I’d rather be visiting a lap dancer. No, it would never work.”

Randall sat down again. “Er - how am I doing so far?” he asked.

“Very well indeed,” replied God. “What about me? I hardly ever do this now we’ve got the new computers installed so I’m a bit out of practice. Should I have asked you what sort of carrot you’d like to be?”

“I don’t think so,” said Randall. “Is that what happens in the afterlife? I’d rather not be a carrot at all.”

“I thought that was the modern thing. Hold on, I’ve got a book somewhere…” God stirred the heaps of papers on his desk. “No, can’t find it. There was one about cheese too. Apparently you have to know who’s got your cheese these days. I do like to keep up.”

“I could draw a tree,” Randall offered.

“Why would you do that?”

“Somebody asked me about it once in an interview. I asked if he wanted a poplar or a cypress or a baobab or what. He didn’t know, so I didn’t draw one. He wrote something down, though. I like being on the side of the desk where you’re the one writing things down, not the one where they write things about you. I used to stare people right in the eye, look very thoughtful, and draw a cock and balls. Is that a sin?”

“I think it depends whose cock you’re drawing,” said God. “If I could find my book it might say. I used to have all the sins off by heart: saying boo to a goose, counting your chickens, walking under ladders, I knew them all. Now I’m not sure I really care any more. There aren’t even any decent punishments to dish out since the human rights people got involved.”

“I can do what it says on a tin, if that’s any help, and think about blue skies and the outsides of boxes.”

“Tell you what,” God suggested, “do you want to swap places? Maybe we’d do better if you interviewed me.”

God and Randall changed sides. Randall liked God’s seat, it had springs so you could tip backwards without running the risk of falling over.

“It’s just a formality,” said God, “but will you please raise your right hand and say: I promise to uphold the thingummabobs of the whatnot? It doesn’t matter about the words, it’s the willingness that counts.”

Feeling a bit foolish, Randall did as he was asked.

“Well, that’s that, then,” said God. “Before I go, is there anything you’d like to ask? You’ll find papers on the desk, drawer stuff in the drawers, opium in the jar, and you might need these…” God peeled off his beard, removed his spectacles, and placed them on the desk. Without them his face suddenly looked much younger. “They’re just for appearance, ” he explained, “the lenses are plain glass. And you might want to wash the beard, I had some soup earlier on.”

Randall stared at him. “You’re going?” he asked.

“Yes, I’ve been at the Godding lark for a couple of millennia now. Time for a change.” He punched the air. “Freedom!” he yelled. “Now let’s see about those virgins…”