I’d love to have a go on the mosque-top PA system. You can hear it for miles. I think cracking a few jokes would be a step too far, but perhaps breaking out a hard-hitting but respectful rooftop beatbox might be fun. Actually what I’d really like to do is get up in the topmost tower of the mosque, grab the microphone and perform an alternative Humanist call to prayer. Not as early, obviously. The Muslims do their first call at about five in the morning and I can’t see atheists going for that. I’d do it at about 11 a.m., perhaps 11.30. After Bargain Hunt, but before Cash in the Attic. That’s when most atheists are thinking about getting out of bed. I’d just pop up in the top of the mosque and in my best piercing nasal voice I’d half-sing the words: ‘Good morning, everyone. Have you considered doing a decent thing for another human being today? Not for any eternal reward but just because people are fundamentally worthwhile. And remember, women’s faces look nice.’
I have a bit of cheek around religion. I enjoy a bit of sauciness, some sass and perhaps just enough trivial stupidity to get myself killed. But this doesn’t come from a personal desire for vengeance and retribution. It doesn’t even come from a position of total disrespect for the faithful. It is just how I respond to things that confuse or exclude me. I mind very much what the faiths have done to people I know and to a great many I have read about, but my own experience with religion has been pleasingly simple. I think my desire to introduce elements of anarchy and rebellion to the sanctity of worship stems from finding the whole bloody thing so irritatingly stiff and unmovable. Come on, you pious, blinkered sods, get cross with me about the Berocca, the sandals and the farting about, then perhaps once we’re engaged in a proper dialogue we can talk about the stuff that really matters.
5
Believe in us … Oh the humanity
I’D LOVE TO BE ABLE TO STAND ALONGSIDE MANY OF MY atheist friends and say I don’t believe in God and it’s fine. I’m fine. I’m Godless and content. I don’t believe in unicorns, spaghetti monsters, giant mystical teapots orbiting the earth and I don’t believe in God. Who cares? I don’t need God. I’m not interested in meeting Him, impressing Him, bowing and scraping before Him or telling Him whether or not I’ve recently felt inclined to touch my own penis. I have the same level of interest in God as I have in Kerry Katona. Which is to say, very very little. In fairness, if God did the adverts for frozen prawn rings from Iceland in a state of hysterical inebriation, I’d probably buy one. I love a prawn. Just one of the many reasons I could never be a Jew.
But this isn’t me. I am interested in God, to an almost obsessional extent given how unlikely I think His existence. I’ve never stalked anyone before but if God had bins I’d definitely rifle through them.
Many people seem to be able to say with confidence they don’t believe in God. Some say it with so much confidence I’m left suspecting that perhaps they do a little bit. They strike me as much the same as people who shriek ‘bums against the wall’ when they think there’s a gay about. If you don’t believe in God, what do you believe in? I’m not suggesting that while you’re in the mood to make stuff up you simply replace your faith in God with something equally far-fetched. ‘I don’t believe in God but I’ve decided that worms – the pink slithery lords of the undergrowth – are now the focus of my devotion.’ Worshipping the lowly earthworm is no more illogical than claiming the God of Abraham as the most important figure in your life. I’ll grant you the earthworm lacks a certain mystical allure, though the continued wiggling of either end after dissection with a spade fascinated me as a youngster. Also, they reproduce asexually, so at the very least they have that in common with God.
So what should I put my faith in then? I have some faith to spare, I think, or at least a desire to invest emotionally in something comforting. Pillows, alcohol and large-breasted women can be paid for with cold hard cash and they will all comfort for a while – if you get all three in one night then I suspect comfort is pretty much guaranteed – but a truly comforting return on an honest emotional investment is harder to come by. The idea of believing in something has an irritatingly persistent appeal for me. But what? Not earthworms …
I could be Humanist, I suppose. But to what extent? Join the Humanist Association? I’m not hugely inclined to. I take membership of humanity as a given, with the possible exception of some bankers. I don’t see dissenting from being human as an option. I could actively seek to generate a sense of belief in humanity as a force for good. A safe and constant place from which to gain strength, serenity and inspiration. I could try to make humanity, humanism or the human being itself my God.
No disrespect to humanity … certainly no disrespect to anyone curious enough to have bought this book (I’ll assume you’re mostly human), but have you looked around? I find it immensely difficult to put my faith in humanity. I don’t mean to be too disparaging but … be honest, have you seen ‘humanity’? Have you met many of them? Have a look now, peer out of a window … Did you do it? Ghastly, aren’t they? There’s a lot of humanity out there. A good percentage of the people who make up the collective ‘humanity’ fall squarely under the heading of gits. I should know, I often am one. In the big Venn diagram of the human species with gits in area (a) and decent people in area (b), most of us live in the shaded middle area (c) of Fig 1. We try not to be gits but our innate selfishness, greed and fear prevent us from making the bold step into area (b) and away from githood. There are plenty who occupy area (a) pretty much all the time and who seem perfectly content to stay there … You know who you are, and so do I. If you’re wearing braces with matching socks – you’re a git. If you moved billions of dollars from one place to another on a screen and thought it was hard enough work to justify a bonus of over a hundred thousand pounds – you’re a git. If you wrote something where fear and selfishness were the main drivers for your thoughts – you’re a git. If you steal stuff or waste stuff that others need – you’re a git. If you watched your dog shit on a pavement and then walked away from the steaming offence – you’re a git … If you’ve ever bought one of Jeremy Clarkson’s books for yourself … you know who you are.
I’m above none of this. I’m every bit as capable of being a selfish tosser as most people. I try not to. Most people try not to, but most people fall short. I say this as a humanitarian. I am, in a very real sense, a fan of the species. As a comedian I stand on the touchline of life roaring support, screaming derision and trying to work out if there’s a referee somewhere in the rabble with an exhausted, whistle-red face giving it all some direction. Fan or not – as any true supporter of a team event knows, it’s important to be honest about weaknesses in the squad. For two seasons the ‘top of the league’ team who play in Stars and Stripes opted for an incurious, spoiled chimp to lead their dangerously violent and extraordinarily patriotic rabble in the big game of life. They chose an incurious and dangerous man to be their coach and lots of people got hurt. Stupidity is frustrating. Ignorance is pitiable and can usually be fixed with a little education. But incuriousness offends me and makes me angry. Incuriousness is steeped in immaturity, laziness and arrogance – a lethal combination for anyone unlucky enough to come into contact with the person who lives and breathes these qualities. Make someone incurious President of the USA and pretty much all of the world comes ‘into contact’ – particularly if they have facial hair and live above fuel. Folksy, Christian ‘ya could have a beer with him’ Bush Jr was incurious. I’m sure he still is. Say what you like about incuriosity, its practitioners are unlikely to care and it’s self-sustaining by its very nature. Incurious George, the dull, pious, simian brother to the hairy star of the Man in the Yellow Hat books. A devout and narrow-focused Christian with a massive army. Jesus Christ, I despise that man.
If you care for humanity, as I do, it’s likely that much of it will frustrate, confuse and anger you. I’ve been to an Argos. For those who haven’t, Argos is like a shop only much more complicated and time-consuming. It’s a way of purchasing things you are unlikely to need, w
hich if you saw in reality (instead of in a glossy brochure) you’d scorn or scoff at. And all this in a shopping environment based on a total lack of trust. In many ways it represents the epitome of consumerist society’s descent into nihilistic despair, but with betting slips and little pens instead of aisles and trolleys. You look into the Argos catalogue (comedian Bill Bailey brilliantly described it as ‘the laminated book of dreams’) and then fill out a scrap of paper to give to a person behind the counter. I’ve seen buttons sewn on to the face of a bear that had more life in them than the eyes of an Argos counter clerk. The clerk disappears into the back of the shop and, lo and behold, just three unsalvageable lifetimes later, returns to tell you there’s been a stock error and you can’t have the thing that you hadn’t yet realized you didn’t want anyway.
In a branch of Argos in Birmingham, I overheard two elderly Midlands women in headscarves talking in broad Brummie accents (warm, rhythmic and yet always underscored with a strong hint of despair).
Headscarf 1 (blue & beige with nautical/anchor theme): ‘This queuing system makes no sense at all.’
Headscarf 2 (polythene with bluish-rinse hair beneath): ‘Hmmm, a bit like life really.’
Headscarf 1: ‘Oh shit, I’ve lost my ticket.’
Headscarf 2: ‘See.’
That about sums it up for me. The entire human condition explained in a few words by two mysterious, headscarfed philosophers out shopping for a foot-spa and some hair-rollers.
Humanity is exciting, but it can drive me into a funk so deep that even James Brown wouldn’t wish to come down there with me. I’ve taken an international flight and passed through an airport. I have no faith in humanity. I’ve been in a Wetherspoon pub on a match day. I can’t generate any faith in humanity. I’ve read a newspaper. I’m no longer certain humanity exists.
I appeared very briefly in a scene in Richard Curtis’s film Love Actually (a pivotal moment set in a radio station). It was a sweet, uplifting movie that hilariously paid tribute to many aspects of humanity of which we should be justly proud. One of the central ideas revolved around the joy that can be taken from watching people meet in airport arrival halls. The flash of recognition, the smile, shriek, run and embrace. No bashfulness, no reserve in front of strangers – an open-armed place of joy, celebration and reunion. It’s shot beautifully and even the hardest heart would struggle not to see that this idea of human connection and of Love … Actually is a treasure and should brighten us all …
However …
I know, because I’ve witnessed it first hand, that just before that happy soul strides through the arrival hall doors with a trolley full of sombreros, suitcases and duty-free fags towards a hug and a face full of kisses, the same person has very recently had to deal with baggage reclaim! If you ever wanted proof that humans basically hate each other and don’t care who knows it, go and watch them at baggage reclaim in an airport. That’s why it’s kept on the other side of the officials at customs, not because of smuggling, but because if we watched how we choose to behave at reclaim there would be mass suicides as the true horror of human nature reveals itself around a slow-moving carousel with bags on.
There is a yellow line around the reclaim belt. This yellow line is there for a good reason. If everyone stays behind it you can see the belt. You can see when your bag is coming, there is space then to step forward, grab the bag and move it away from the belt and on to a trolley. It’s simple, it works and it’s obvious. However, in real life the yellow line serves quite the opposite purpose. The yellow line is painted around the reclaim as a challenge to all travellers. Can you get you, your wife, your sunburnt children, Auntie Doris and three or four trolleys between the yellow line and the reclaim belt? Can you use shoulders, metal trolleys and swinging bags to knock the weak aside? Can you get needlessly aggressive and angry with people striving towards exactly the same aim as yourself and behaving in exactly the same way? Can you fail to see how easily we could work together if fear wasn’t the driver of how we act? If you can do all of that, you win a prize. The prize is that within seconds of either arriving for a relaxing holiday or returning from one, you confirm to yourself and everyone else that the world is chock-full of gits and that it’s every man for himself. ‘Fuck you, Granny, I’m getting my bag. Come on, kids, squeeze in there and keep pushing, don’t let anyone else in. Where’s the other trolley? That’s it, get that in as well. There, perfect, now no one can see, no one can move and no one can get a bag off the belt. Job done. Would someone either claim this concussed pensioner or put her back on the revolving belt, she’s still in my way. Bitch!’ I really enjoyed Love Actually, but it required a filtering of airport-based experience I couldn’t quite relate to. Airports, and for that matter anywhere we are forced together with strangers, are for the most part monstrous, depressing and make me wish there was a God.
When you really get down to it, humanity does only one thing consistently well … it gets bigger, and that is all. We live lives coloured by pain, love, happiness, loss, confusion, grief, fear, satisfaction, foot-spas and hair-rollers, but the one and only thing we remain absolutely biologically and intellectually certain of is that the world needs more of us. As luck, God or evolution would have it the expansion of humanity happens to involve a process that’s delightful and squishy and fun. So on we go, fucking ourselves out of air, food and space. More and more of us, rutting, bumping, breeding and whining. You’d think the evidence that the planet is getting overcrowded might make us pause to reconsider this idea, but the more people there are the greater your chance of getting laid and making still more of us. Statistically speaking, there are now enough people about that even John Merrick the Elephant Man could probably get a shag if he happened to be in Cardiff on a Saturday night.
I’m not a total cynic. I love people. Unless I haven’t met them, in which case, like most of the rest of you, I suspect they are almost certainly hostile and will prevent me from doing what I want. I’d like to believe in humanity and remove my desire for a deity but I can’t do it. Not yet. Not while semi-finalists on X Factor inspire more people to vote than the general election does.
I try to generate enthusiasm for humanity all the time, and there are of course many acts of love carried out by individuals and groups every day, which give encouragement. There is great art, music and culture, there is Pink Floyd, there is the Natural History Museum, there is snowboarding, there are pasties. These are all great reasons to swell with pride at what a marvel the human being is… but I can’t sustain that enthusiasm. The things that set me off can be as trivial and inevitable as war, cruelty and wilfully inflicted poverty all the way through to the really serious stuff like chewing gum on a seat, dog shit on a pram wheel or almost anything involving more than one person operating a motorized vehicle in the same place at the same time.
I think it’s particularly hard to have a great deal of faith in humanity if you live in London. Which I do. London is a fascinating and exciting place, filled with a great many different people representing cultures, beliefs, languages, foods, clothing and vehicles of seemingly infinite variety. It’s a pretty modern place and it has a Starbucks. For a city of its size and diversity, we Londoners get along pretty well. Multiculturalism is as near to a success story in London as it’s likely to be anywhere in the world. The credit for that belongs more to lady luck than to the efforts of most people who live here. It’s not as if Londoners are regularly inviting first-generation Bangladeshi families over to have dinner along with the delightful Polish couple who’ve moved in next door so that they can all learn each other’s languages and discover exactly what takes place in the mysterious and fast-breeding ‘Polski sklep’. People don’t try to make it work, it just does. Perhaps white Anglo-Saxon Brits are aware on a deep level that there is very little of the world we didn’t once visit, dominate and then improve or ruin (depending on which historians you read), and so we are now predisposed to expect ‘them’ to come and visit us. I can imagine the moment where decoru
m demanded that as the last plummy Englishman left India he turned to his hosts and with a stiff awkward handshake mumbled, ‘Well, you simply must come and visit us in Blighty. Any time you please. Just give us a tinkle and I’ll see that Mrs Pierce puts the kettle on and irons the croquet lawn.’
You can tell that multiculturalism basically works because despite the best efforts of the right-wing press it almost never kicks off in London. Not along racial lines anyway. Obviously it can get a bit nasty at football games but that’s because football’s not very interesting so the fans have to keep themselves entertained. I believe they also get very cross if very expensive foreign player A turns out to be slightly better at football than eye-wateringly expensive foreign player B. Either way there’s pleasingly little racial tension in London. It may boil or seethe underneath but the odds are that Mr Patel from Pakistan will sell butter from Holland to Mrs Chin from China who will bake a cake to serve to Mr Smith from Woking who will offer some to Mr Kovacs from Hungary after the meeting to discuss the Slovakian builders putting up Mrs Larson’s conservatory. No one’s sure where Mrs Larson’s from but she has the most extraordinary way of pronouncing the word ‘curtains’. Most people assume she’s either Scandinavian or a very heavy drinker.
There are many journalists who would love to see us tear lumps out of each other but mostly we don’t. Thus far, London and most of the rest of the UK refuses to oblige. That said, Londoners are very often within a step or two of leaping off the cliff of irrationality and going postal. It’s no Marseille, which is permanently about half a degree below full boiling riot status. Even by French standards (les Français, ils adorent les riotes), Marseille is pretty bloody tense. I think it’s fair to say that in London we do make an effort to make life as unpleasant for those of us who live here as we possibly can and for those who come to visit too.
God Collar Page 8
