I'm in Heaven

by Terry Ravenscroft

  But today things were back to normal and I had a much better time in the Lake District than the last time I’d visited it, mainly because when taking in the breathtaking views from the top of Latrigg my breath hadn’t already been taken by virtue of having to carrying my mother up it. The views were even more breathtaking with Kristin by my side, almost as breathtaking as the views of Kristin.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The following day I asked The Archangel Phil if there was any way in which I could get in touch with the patients in the cancer ward back on earth. I wanted to tell them to stop trying to hang on to life and get themselves up to heaven and start enjoying themselves.

  “I’m afraid not,” The Archangel Phil said. “Not even God himself can do that.”

  This surprised me to say the least. “What? I thought God could speak to people? People say they speak to God.”

  “They’re just deluding themselves. I blame the bible. It’s meant to be allegorical but people take it literally. People with no imagination. Or too much of the wrong sort of imagination.”

  The Archangel Phil showed no signs of enlarging on this so I asked him to.

  “Well take praying. People pray to God and sometimes they get what they pray for. But if you think about it they’re bound to sometimes, law of averages. Yet they believe the reason they got what they prayed for is because God has answered their prayers. They conveniently overlook all the times he doesn’t.”

  “Like they fool themselves into believing it?”

  The Archangel Phil nodded. “Then you get a few unexplainable, inexplicable events - Lourdes is a prime example - mix the so-called miracles of Jesus into the myth and you’ve got religion.”

  “What do you mean ‘so-called’ miracles? ”

  “Turn water into wine? Bring people back from the dead?” The Archangel Phil shook his head. “They happened of course, but they weren’t miracles, just illusions, tricks. Jesus was just an illusionist, the world’s first stage magician.”

  I smiled, fully vindicated. “I always knew miracles were a load of old bollocks.”

  “God sent his ‘Only Son’ to perform the ‘miracles’ in order to impress people, so that they’d believe in him and by extension believe in God in heaven and a life beyond. Their reward for leading a good life. But as far as people talking to God and God answering them? Well you have to be in heaven to do that.”

  My ears pricked. “You can talk to God when you’re in heaven?”

  “Well naturally; I mean he’s here isn’t he.”

  “So I could talk to him if I wanted to?”

  “Well of course.”

  “How would I go about that?”

  “You just speak to him.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere. God is everywhere.”

  “Can you see him?”

  “No, he doesn’t have a physical presence. Those pictures of a big head in the sky with curly hair and a beard are just fanciful illusions.”

  I came to a decision. “I’m going to talk to him. I’m going to ask him why he allows people to suffer before they die, because I’ve never been able to fathom that.”

  “Oh I can tell you that,” said The Archangel Phil disarmingly, “He....”

  I cut him off. “No, I prefer to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  The Archangel Phil shrugged. “Suit yourself. But he’ll only tell you what I’d tell you.”

  *

  So it came to pass that Norman spake unto God. First he asked Him why people had to die. And God said, “There must be deaths, Norman. If everyone were to live forever the world would soon become overpopulated. Famine and Pestilence and a great suffering of multitudes would follow in its wake and verily the Earth would perish.”

  And Norman spake and said, “Yes, that’s all very well, but why do you allow them to suffer before they die?”

  “I don’t,” replied God. “For there is but nothing I can do about it.”

  This shocked Norman and he thought deeply on it. He had expected The Lord God Almighty to defend himself, to tell him that He allowed people to suffer in order to test their faith, as the Jehovah’s Witnesses had claimed. After a while he said, “So what is your purpose here then?”

  And God said, “Verily, when people die I provide a home for them in heaven.”

  And this disappointed Norman greatly and a great sadness came over him and he said, “Is that all?”

  And God said, “It is sufficient for most.”

  And Norman was quick to reassure God, saying “Oh it is. More than enough. It’s just that....well I....well not me, some people....are under the impression that you do a lot more.”

  And God said, “No, I just do heaven. I hope thou are not too disappointed?”

  And Norman said, “No. Far from it. No, it’ll do me, mate.”

  And Norman went happily on his way.

  Amen.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Following my conversation with God I felt a lot less guilty about not believing in him when I was on earth. Not that I’d felt all that guilty in the first place. Besides, I’d been right in a way, there wasn’t a God in the way that religious fanatics, Jehovah’s Witnesses and the like believed there was; that you only have to believe in him and that would be the end of all your problems, that you only had to pray to him and everything would be all right. The way things really are, that he is just the host of a sort of gigantic free pleasureland, makes much more sense to my way of thinking.

  So with that out of the way it was with a clear conscience I got on with my wonderful existence. And with nothing to do but enjoy myself I got to thinking that it might be a good idea to start working through the list of things I’d planned to do before I died but wasn’t able to get round to doing due to the chemotherapy. When I mentioned it to Kristin she was all for it, especially when I told her we’d be going to the West of Scotland; she loved that part of the country, had friends there, we could drop in on them.

  We started off at Le Manoir aux Quatre Saisons as I didn’t count the time on earth when I’d almost been sick over Raymond Blanc’s signature dish.

  *

  This time Raymond Blanc himself was in attendance. I wanted him to be. After we had finished our meal - another of Monsieur Blanc’s signature dishes, absolutely mouth-watering - Le patron himself came over to our table, sat with us, chatted and shared magnum of Pol Roger. I wanted him to. Unfortunately I forgot to want Raymond to speak in a manner in which I had a sporting chance of understanding what the hell he was talking about so missed the first two minutes of the Frenchman’s bonhomie before I realised my error. (I think the man at the BBC who thought up the title Raymond Blanc’s Kitchen Secrets for the chef’s last TV series must have done it for a joke as the vast majority of the secrets remained secret thanks to Raymond’s mangling of the English language.) After I’d put this right I found Monsieur Blanc to be an exceptionally charming host, full of interesting anecdotes about the world of haute cuisine and the world in general. Kristin was utterly captivated by him. And he with her. In fact after two or three glasses of champagne they began to get a little more captivated with each other than I cared for. So I simply ‘wanted’ him to return to his normal unintelligible way of speaking again and once Kristin couldn’t understand what the fuck he was talking about things reverted to the status quo.

  We spent the night at Le Manoir and the following day set off on the long drive to the West of Scotland. I’ve always enjoyed driving, Kristin was excellent company and we chatted about this and that for most of the journey. During a rare lull in the conversation she suggested we had a little music on the stereo and asked what I’d like to listen to.

  “You choose,” I said.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got here,” she said, opening the CD storage compartment. “Do you have any Whitney Houston? I love Whitney Houston.”

  I smiled to myself. There was about as much chance of finding a Whitney Houston disc in my CD storage compartment as the
re was of finding a Great White shark. I would have preferred a Great White shark to be in there just so long as it didn’t sing like Whitney Houston.

  *

  It was the landlord at The Grim Jogger who had mentioned that I wasn’t the only man who couldn’t bear the sound of Whitney Houston’s voice. There’d been something about it in the newspaper. It was the frequency of her voice that was the problem. It had the same effect on his dog; it set it off howling even worse than Whitney Houston. I remember feeling sorry for the dog; at least men could switch off Whitney Houston when she suddenly came on the radio unexpectedly.

  Music had also gone through a major upheaval in my heaven. Whitney Houston was one the first casualties, given the boot unmercifully, never to assault my eardrums again. She’d been quickly followed by Leona Lewis and all other women who screamed rather than sang. Men followed; Jamie Cullum, the singer who specialises in singing standards not as well as the singer who originally performed them, had got up my nose for the last time; James Blunt had been blunted; Luther Vandross had sung the last of his dross. And Bono had been got shot of again, just in case I’d forgot him the first time.

  All Rap and Hip-Hop music had perished.

  Rap had plagued me from the moment I first heard it. I absolutely hated it. My favourite group is the Beatles. Great music, great lyrics, and you can hear every one of the words. The Stones and Dylan follow close behind. Great music again, although with Jagger and Dylan you can’t always make out the words. But that doesn’t matter, the tune is more than good enough to carry it. Honky Tonk Woman? A Hard Rain’s Going to Fall? What’s not to like? But rap? Rap is a double whammy. There isn’t any sound in it that can remotely be called music, nor can you understand any of the words, save for the occasional one or two, and those are more likely to be ‘Fuck yo bitch’ than ‘Michelle, my belle’. Words you can’t hear properly, no music. What’s to like?

  Of course no one has to listen to rap music. But sometimes you have no option, it’s with you before you know it; in films, on television, on the radio, in pubs, blaring out at about a hundred and twenty decibels from passing cars with their windows wound down, and all chanted by ‘artists’ who hide behind aliases such as Ice Cube and probably others with names like something you keep in the fridge, Lo Fat Spread and Mole D Cheese, for all I know.

  I banished almost all present day musical offerings. Music may not have died when Don Maclean sang that it did in American Pie, with the death of Buddy Holly, but it was in the musical equivalent of the cancer ward by the time the 1980s arrived. So all boy bands had gone. Along with all girl bands. Coldplay, obviously. All male singers who sang in high voices. Plus everyone who has won X-Factor. And Bono again, just to make absolutely sure that I’d never again be subjected to the pontificating prat’s views on global warming or whatever other of the planet’s maladies he was currently going on about instead of just getting on with the singing.

  Nowadays, if I was accidentally exposed to music from a passing car or a hotel bar, it was always by something I liked to listen to, the aforementioned Beatles, Stones and Dylan, The Eagles, The Kinks. Heaven.

  *

  Now, failing to find any Whitney Houston to expose me to, Kristin exposed me to The Arcade Fire, one of the few modern day bands, along with The Killers, to avoid my axe. It put a smile on my face.

  So did the West of Scotland . It was exactly as I imagined it would be. But then it couldn’t be anything else; I wanted it to be wonderful so it was wonderful: Even Middlesbrough or Rotherham would be wonderful if that was what I wanted, although I had no intention of visiting either to confirm it. Death is too short.

  After a lovely week in Scotland we flew to America. Quite frankly I was a bit disappointed with it. Nothing wrong with the country, I expected a lot from it and it was everything I expected. But that was the problem; for having seen its skyscrapered cities, it’s drive-in movies, its diners and its motels in countless Hollywood movies, along with its small-town life and endless countryside and deserts, it felt as if I’d already been there, as though I were making a return visit, not visiting it for the first time.

  We started the trip in New York but after two days in the Big Apple I gave it the Big E. Too big, too busy, people in too much of a hurry, no time for anyone, just like I found London to be the only time I visited it.

  Driving up through New York State to the Niagara Falls was much more to my liking. Much of it is Red Indian country, or had been when Red Indians populated it a century earlier. Many of the towns have Indian names; Ithaca, Susquehanna, Cayuga. I made Kristin laugh by suggesting it might not have been a bad idea if the Indians had called their settlements name s like Fuckoffwhiteman or Pissoffcuster, names which might have discouraged the people who eventually drove them from their homelands.

  Hundreds and hundreds of square miles of the state is heavily wooded. Happily it now stands every chance of remaining heavily wooded, inasmuch as the world’s need for wood pulp is concerned, thanks to my purge on books.

  *

  I love books but hate padding in books, whole passages put there by the author with no more ambition than a desire to bolster the word count; sentences, paragraphs, sometimes whole chapters that could easily be discarded without losing one iota of the story. All works of fiction in my heaven now contain no padding whatsoever. Every vestige of it has been removed. All that remains in a book is the story. The average novel has been reduced from three hundred and fifty pages to a hundred and ten. Books previously up to three inches thick are now three quarters of an inch thick at the very most. A book as thick as a brick would now need to have a brick in it. Several of Stephen King’s novels (Stephen King of Padding), are now less than half an inch thick, all but one of them less than a hundred pages. All books are much better for it.

  A week later I removed all smut. Having already had the padding removed from them every book ever written by Jackie Collins all but disappeared. As did Jackie Collins, along with Joan Collins, when I turned my attention away from books and onto all people who had undergone cosmetic surgery.

  *

  Kristin had seen the Niagara Falls before; she’d once appeared in a film that had been shot nearby. On the way there she said that the Niagara Falls is something else. I made her laugh again by asking her what was it then, the Victoria Falls? When I saw the Falls I had to agree with her, it is something else, something special. Before my purge on padding there would now be a long paragraph, probably three pages long, describing in great detail millions of gallons of the majestic Niagara River crashing, tumbling, cascading downwards before crashing on the stark, jagged rocks two hundred feet or more below. But not now.

  We thoroughly enjoyed our visit to Niagara. We would have enjoyed it even more if the whole area hadn’t been populated by Americans dressed in Bermuda shorts the size of Bermuda.

  “Americans aren’t like this in the films,” I said. “They’re all slim and good-looking with about twice as many teeth as anyone else. I don’t see many of those around.”

  “I think it was Daniel Day Lewis who said that they must keep them all in a big warehouse in Hollywood and bring them out only when they have a film to make.”

  “Daniel Day Lewis could well be right.” I have a lot of respect for the star of The Last of the Mohicans and many other classy films. In addition to being a splendid actor Daniel Day Lewis is the male equivalent of an English Rose. Especially as he has three names.

  We had skipped breakfast and feeling hungry after our visit to the Falls we called in at nearby branch of Friendly’s. I remembered Friendly’s diners from one of the many road movies I’ve seen over the years. Kevin Bacon was in it as I recall. He ordered bacon and I remember wondering at the time if it had been put in the script especially, maybe for a joke because he was called Bacon, and if in the original script his order had been for eggs, Americans seemingly always ordering eggs for breakfast.

  Our waitress had the customary American politeness and gave us a big welcoming smile
, displaying the usual quota of brilliant white teeth. (I have always felt that Americans have more teeth than other human beings. Being exposed to them over the last few days confirmed this. Maybe they need the extra teeth to bite their way through all the food they have to consume in order to eat themselves into the gross state many of them are in?) When I ordered breakfast and the waitress asked how we’d like our eggs I returned her smile, though not with as many teeth, and displaying my knowledge of American road movies and breakfast habits said, “Sunny side up.”

  “You got it,” replied the waitress, in the way all Americans tell people they’ve got it before they’ve got it.

  Our intention was to stay in the area one more day, doing the usual touristy things, driving around, stopping off here to see a waterfall here, a picturesque ravine there, whatever took our fancy. The following day, before our planned drive back to New York, and having enjoyed our breakfast at Friendly’s, we returned for another. We sat in the same place so we got the same waitress. She put on the teeth show again, and pencil poised over notebook asked if she could take our order. Kristin asked for scrambled eggs. I went for bacon and eggs.

  The waitress refreshed her smile, and obviously remembering me from the day before said brightly, “Sunny side up?”

  “Over easy,” I said, once again displaying my knowledge of how Americans have their fried eggs.

  “You got it.”

  She was about to go and get it when I had an idea. I said to her, “Do you work every day?”

  “ ‘cepting Friday. Every day from opening through ‘til two, for my sins.”

  It was Wednesday so she’d be on tomorrow. “We have to stay another day,” I said to Kristin immediately the waitress had left with our order.

  “What about New York?”

  “No we’ve got to stay.”

  “But we’re due to fly back from Kennedy early Thursday morning. I thought you wanted to see New Jersey, where The Sopranos was filmed?”