Cleaned myself: 0
Monkey see, monkey do: I refuse to give evidence on the grounds that I may incriminate myself
Tics: Please God forgive me
Believe in God? For convenience only.
YTLH: I promise and swear to God, that I will stop soon.
And as they come into the final furlough, Dickie White breaks down and is shot. Yes, Roger has conveyed the news that should a second wave take hold, there will be no furlough, and as I’m not actually employed, no redundancy to go with it. Just the end. He’s seen the adverts, which ironically, have gone viral locally. You know, the adverts that I’d roughed out for him so that he could judge them, in which he took no interest, and so ended up going out like that, with me starring – and which, by the way, I’ve paid for. There must be a good proverb for that, like he’s blown himself up by his own fart, or he’s dissolved in his own piss. I’ll have a look at epigram.com and see what Oscar made of it, or the French; isn’t a petard like a farty bomb or something?
Big Tooth won’t engage on the subject, saying only that we should wait and see, but she does segué nicely to her new idea for the pageant. She wants God to appear at the start of the third act, in the Covid sketch. And he’s to say, ‘Actually, I put bacteria, viruses and animal life out there with an equal chance to see who’d win, in an experiment I’m undertaking for my next project.’ She nods to encourage me along, ‘Honestly,’ he says, ‘I was sure that viruses would have won a couple of centuries ago.’
I interrupt to say, ‘no, a couple of millenia ago,’ that way we can get in a good joke about God complaining about his son being a (special) flannel dodger, who spread disease and almost destroyed mankind just after he’d saved it. That way we can have him slagging off Jesus, saying that he always goes too far, and spoils his good work by doing stupid lazy things that ‘aren’t becoming.’ The idea doesn’t seem as funny to her as it does me, so I drop the part about Jesus smoking in the background making wanker signs at God.
‘So,’ she goes on, ‘God then says, don’t be too hard on yourselves, any species that can reach the point where they’re airing Strictly Come Dancing, I’m a Celebrity and the X-Factor at the same time, without eating each other, is doing quite well really – you should be good for another fifty years or so yet.’
She wants God to be on stage singing all the linking bits, in that terrible, talking, tuneless thing that they do in operas, and she gives me an example. I laugh, and I get a horrible feeling about myself, that I’ve only done it to ingratiate myself, to have her help me avoid the no-furlough. I am a scamp/disgrace. But then she takes it too far and suggests Big Eggo for God. I put my foot down and insist on Mrs Lindsay, not least because Covid restrictions have seen her changing for tennis in our rehearsal space, and the other day I saw her pulling up her leggings under her short skirt. That’s the sort of attitude that can cure apostacy in the most hopeless of cases – even those where it is as deep set as mine.
Dickie White's Diary 
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