HEAVEN IS A PLACE ON EARTH

 

An alternative tongue in cheek take on the afterlife.

“You can please some of the people all of the time, you can please all of the people some of the time, but you can’t please all of the people all of the time” is a quote by John Lydgate, a 14^th century monk and poet. St Peter had met him on a couple of occasions, both times asking him if he was sure he’d written it before he was dead, or if not, had he had some sort of premonition as to what heaven was really like. Either way if ever there was a phrase that summed up what St Peter faced on a daily basis, this was it. In the main this was because every one of the 1.8 million souls who arrived here every day had his or her own preconceived ideas as to what their version of heaven should be.

Take the weather for example, most, but not all, imagined endless days of sunshine, which was fine for the first 50 years or so, then they started to crave rain, or a full-blown storm to break the monotony of an unrelenting sun. Conversely there were those who felt at home in a wetter climate, only some, such as the Scandinavians, liked it wet and cold and others, such as the South Americans, wet and hot. Then there were the Eskimo’s whose idea of perfection involved a land of snow and ice. Fortunately for St Peter and his overstretched staff the Eskimo’s only accounted for a small percentage of daily arrivals and were in the main quite happy with the icy wasteland provided for them at the outermost extremities, which given that heaven is infinite with neither beginning nor end, is a bloody long way away.

As for the rest a compromise had to be made and they found themselves in a land where one day the sun shone and on the next it rained, on some days it was hot, and on others it was cold. Yes, that’s right, as far as the weather is concerned Heaven is 1960’s Britain, which most (albeit begrudgingly) accepted, apart from the British that is, who’d hoped to find themselves in Ibiza or Tenerife. St Peter justified this by telling those who deigned to query his logic that when they were mortal the British liked nothing better than to moan about the weather, so in someways this was their idea of heaven. Not everyone agreed with this point of view, but as John Lydgate said...

Saint Peter shook his head, everything, including him was a misnomer as far as heaven was concerned. There were no pearly gates, just as there wasn’t a saintly figure with a long flowing beard and robes to match waiting to greet any new arrivals. How could there be when the current admission rate was 1200 souls per minute, a figure which could easily double or treble when despots such as Vlad the mad condemned increasing numbers of his fellow countrymen to the slaughterhouse that was Ukraine. There was no way on earth, or in heaven for that matter, that one man could check in every new arrival and instead of being greeted by a romanticised figure with a book of names and a saintly smile they found themselves being processed through one of 4129 ultra-modern admission suites by a team of over stressed angels whose patience was often on the ragged edge.

Needless to say, it wasn’t easy being the “gatekeeper” who held the so-called keys to heaven and he’d long since lost count of the amount of blood, sweat and tears he’d shed in order to maintain a steady flow of souls through the admission suites into the acclimatisation zones where the recently deceased were given time to come to terms with the fact they were dead. Modern technology had helped with computers and touch screens allowing the A.O. A’s (Angels of Admission) to make a quicker, more informed decision as to whether an individual should be allowed to pass or be condemned to eternal damnation down below.

At any one time there were sixteen thousand A.O. A’s and Saint Peter made a point of getting to know every one of them during their 100-year terms. Being an A.O.A was one, if not the most stressful jobs known to man, both in heaven and on earth. Saint Peter often wondered why any sane person would want to put themselves through it, but they did, although many would fall by the wayside long before the one hundred years was up. It wasn’t surprising really, given that only a certain mind set could look a person in the eye and knowingly send them to hell, something that caused Saint Peter many a sleepless night.

It was a subject that had been debated by theologians throughout the realm, all of whom came to the same conclusion; they needed it, there was no place for evil in heaven and the balance had to be maintained. Not all of the A.O. A’s had this mind set, some acquired it, and others dealt with it as best they could. There were those however, who just weren’t suited and should have never passed the selection process, but owing to the fact the training manual was both written and taught by those who only saw the good in people there were undoubtably those amongst the two thousand, seven hundred and fifty-three fresh faces currently occupying the Joan of Arc auditorium that shouldn’t be there.

Saint Peter had spent the last thirty or forty minutes studying them from the edge of the stage whilst his good friend the angel Gabriel welcomed them to the halls of admission from a raised dais behind which a huge screen alternated between shots of the king of angels, and the rapt audience that hung on his every word. All of those present had been here long enough now to know that heaven, and those who inhabited it were nothing like they were portrayed on earth, there would be still those amongst them however, who were expecting a saintly halo and flowing robes when Saint Peter walked on stage. They were probably the same ones who believed that angels had wings which they didn’t’ and as Gabriel ably demonstrated there were no feathery impediments preventing him from wearing his smart Versace Jacket over a tight, roll neck sweater.

Gabriel was reaching the end of his speech, whipping up a heightened level of expectation, something saint Peter sincerely wished he wouldn’t do. ‘And so, without further ado I give you the man himself, the gate keeper, the man with the keys, Saint Peter…’ There was a theatrical flourish of expensively clad arms as the lights went out and a single beam of light shone down from the rafters highlighting a scruffy individual wearing an Iron Maiden T shirt complimented by a pair of ripped jeans and scuffed Doc Martin boots. There was a slight delay during which the assembled masses realised that the janitor hadn’t inadvertently wandered on to the stage and that the renegade from a 1980’s Monsters of Rock concert walking toward the Dias was once the prodigal sons right hand man. A round of applause rang out, picking up momentum as the audience got to its feet.

‘Okay, okay, thank you,’ he said quelling the annoying whoops and whistles which were one of his personal pet hates. The clapping gradually subsided as the A.O.A’s regained their seats, their faces beaming expectantly up at him whilst he shuffled his notes and inhaled a long deep breath prior to delivering his speech.

‘Right folks, first of all I’d like to thank my good friend and colleague Gabriel for his eloquent words of wisdom which much like his dress sense will be a world away from mine.’ He paused, allowing a ripple of nervous laughter to dissipate before continuing. ‘As you will have realised nothing here is how you expected it to be, there’s no fluffy white clouds, there’s no angels with wings,’ he said gesturing toward Gabriel who acquiesced with a brighter than bright smile. ‘I would say there are no saintly figures, but there are one or two, which is something we will get to in a minute. In truth there is very little that conforms to the popularist images of the afterlife that has been projected by various religious leaders over the last two millennia. You only have to look at me to see that.’ He paused again allowing his words to sink.

‘Seriously though, no one more than you need to be aware of this. In an hour or so you are going to be on the front line defending good from evil, which may sound dramatic, but it’s the truth. When you take up your positions in the admission suites you are the ones who make the decisions as to who passes through, and who gets sent below. There is no room for error, the balance between heaven and hell must be maintained at all costs, which brings me to the next thing.’ He glanced across at Gabriel who closed his eyes, his brow furrowing with concentration as every door lock in the auditorium snapped shut. If he didn’t have the newly fledged A.O.A’s full attention before, he had it now.

‘During your time on earth you will have had situations where what you were taught, either at school or in the workplace, was one thing, whilst the reality of putting them into practice was another.’ He paused whilst a large section of the audience sagely nodded their heads in agreement. ‘Well, it’s no different here, and what I am about to tell you is how things really work, which isn’t quite the same as what your instructors taught you in class. Before I get into it though, there is something I need to address, something which should have been made abundantly clear to you right from the from the start, but for reasons which I can’t explain hasn’t.

‘Very shortly, and it may happen to some of you today, you will find yourself having to make decisions no one should ever have to make when the screen on your so-called God consoles turns red. The problem is, evil comes in all shapes and sizes, and contrary to what some of the bleeding hearts preach on earth there are those who are born with the devil’s blood in their veins. The question is do you have it in you to send a young child to hell, no matter how angelic they might look?’ A sea of aghast faces paled in front of him as the true ramifications of what being an A.O.A hit home, ramifications which as Saint Peter said, had not been made clear to them during their time in Angel Admissions school.

‘It’s not easy, believe me, I know,’ he continued. ‘Which is why when we’re faced with multiple family members, we split them up and send them to separate gates. You’ve got to remember evil doesn’t always reveal itself and mum may not know her loving husband of twenty years was hiding the darkest of secrets. Consequently, those of you who are working the reception desks in the acclimatisation zones will find yourselves having to explain why a much-loved spouse or child didn’t make the cut. Can you do it? Can you send a child to hell, can you look a mother in the eye and tell her, her beautiful four-year-old daughter was the personification of evil? If the answer is no, please raise your hand now.' There was another pause during which Saint Peter scanned the auditorium before the first hesitant hands were tentatively raised. ‘Thank you for your honesty,’ he said, prompting a dozen more. ‘If you could please leave the auditorium via the main doors where you will be met by members of the mentoring programme who will assess you for a more sympathetic role.’ There was a brief delay whilst those who raised their hands removed themselves from the auditorium before St Peter continued.

‘Right, now we get to the part they didn’t teach you about in admissions school,’ he said running his eye over the front row for a suitable victim. ‘Tell me what you do when the screen goes red,’ he said pointing to an olive-skinned woman with shiny, jet-black hair.

‘Who me?’ she stammered having been caught completely off guard.

‘Yes you…Jenny Ramirez,’ he said reading the identity badge pinned to her blouse.

‘Oh, well, first of all if I’m the one operating the console I make sure my assistant is clear of the circle of truth, then I red button them.’

‘That’s right miss Ramirez, you red button them, but what do you do if the subject doesn’t disappear?’

Ramirez looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you do if the red button doesn’t work?’

‘I.. I don’t know, during all of our simulations that situation never arose.’

‘No, it wouldn’t do, but unfortunately in reality it will.’  He paused, nodding his head in thanks to Ramirez for her contribution before turning his attention back to the audience. ‘So, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to introduce you to a group of characters known as the OJ’s. This is the collective name given to those individuals who even though they were as guilty as sin escaped justice on earth. Naturally, you would expect divine justice to be served when they turn up knocking on the doors of our heavenly realm. Unfortunately, we have a glitch in the system which means the God console won’t recognise an OJ, or it will, but for whatever reason it won’t send them to hell. If this happens you need to summon help and summon it quick. On the side of your console there are three buttons, a yellow one which will summon me, a white one which will summon Saint Francis of Assisi and a blue one which will summon Saint Paul. If you are faced with an OJ, or any problem press the yellow first then if I don’t appear press the white. On no account does anyone press the blue. The last thing we need is that pious pric Paul getting involved, that's how we ended up with Genghis Kahn. So, Miss Ramirez what do we do when confronted by an OJ?’

‘Press the Yellow or white button.’

‘That’s right, and ether myself or Frankie will come to your aid. Frankie’s alright by the way, he knows how we roll so don’t be frightened to ask his advice. So, with that in mind that just leaves a bit of general housekeeping. As you are no doubt aware there is a war in Ukraine which means we often get flooded by large numbers of Ukrainian and Russian service personnel. Obviously, it is imperative we keep these apart and the Russians go to gates 50 to 125 and the Ukrainians to Gates 1100 to 1189. Along with the Russians and Ukrainian’s we have the recent addition of the North Koreans who don’t want to be near either, these go to gates 2450 to 2460. Can those in charge of the acclimatisation zones make sure the Russians have a steady supply of Vodka and that the Ukrainians are fed plentiful supplies of Borcsht.’

‘What about the Koreans, what do we give them? Ramirez asked.

‘I don’t know, ask them, and give them whatever they want. Apart from dog, if any of them wants to eat dog red button them faster than you used to red button that annoying coworker who wouldn’t stop pestering you after you gave him that ill-advised hand shandy at the office Christmas party.’ He knew from the way Ramirez’s face fell that he shouldn’t have added that last bit and made a mental note to apologise when things drew to a close. ‘On another note, I’d just like to give a heads up to those working the American zone. I have been reliably informed that things are going to go horribly wrong at a serial killer themed fancy dress party in New York. Fyi, Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and Charles Manson are already here, or should I say down below. Either way don’t start pressing panic buttons without good reason as I won’t be a happy bunny when I find out Lucrezia Borgia is really fat Brenda from HR.’

Another bought of laughter rippled around the auditorium, one that was markedly more nervous than those that preceded it as those arrayed in front of him came to terms with the responsibility they were committing to. A hundred years might seem an infinitesimally short period of time when faced with eternity, but when all was said and done hundred years was still a hundred year and St Peter couldn’t help wondering if Jenny Ramirez’s eyes would be shinning as brightly as they were now when her term was up.