I AM ENIGMATIC & DIAPHANOUS

 GOD AND UNNAMED ASSISTANT FIGURE  OUT WHERE IN YOUR FAVOURITE PARK TO PUT THE DOG SHIT

Hello, God here. Yes. Again. You all know I like to keep these personal appearances to a minimum, but people keep calling. And yes I am omniscient so I should know better but the thing is I have no spam filter and when five fifteen yr old girls on the beach start screaming omigod omigod into their iPhones I immediately think they're having some sort of deep spiritual crisis which demands my presence or at least some sort of a sign and then I find that no, it's merely that One Direction are in town and have added a second concert or that Justin Bieber has discovered a third pubic hair and named it Ulysses. None of which has anything to do with me. You can trust me on that one. I'm not one to point the finger but that stuff is pretty much the work of the Horned One.

 I am far too busy being enigmatic and diaphanous. Except on Tuesday afternoons when I make a special effort to be perpendicular and evanescent. And of course I keep at least two days a week clear for being ineffable. Never try to explain me on a Thursday or Friday. And speaking of inexplicable, why has that nice boy Stephen Fry started saying all those horrid things about me ?  Honestly. After all I've done for him. And there I was about to ask him to fill in for me for a couple of weeks while I went trout-fishing in New Zealand. He would've been great, but after everything he said, well, fuck him. I may take up smiting again.

Now I'm reminded it's usual on these occasions for me to leave you with some thoughts, guidelines, rules, commandments even, although I've eased off on the commandments a bit. Makes me sound a bit messianic. So here's a couple of suggestions you might want to take on board.

If you name your children Sherwood or d'Ártagnan or Transubstantiation or anything else daft you have only yourselves to blame. Not just for rooting up their lives but also for the continuing unrest in the Middle East. Don't be bothering to ask me to explain the connection, just remember that I move in a mysterious way, and I can assure you that as a result of a recent ferocious enthusiasm for New Zealand Zinfandel, I have begun to move in ways which are positively baffling. Don't fuck with me people. I've got Christopher Hitchens up with with me. I've got him dressed up in a really dorky angel costume and every day I make him sing "Jesus Wants Me For a Sunbeam" for hours. Can't wait to see the look on Richard's face when he arrives.

And the hitting thing. You have to stop hitting each other with sticks and rocks and automatic weapons. I thought I'd made myself clear on this one. Lift your game people.

I have to be off now, I'm having lunch with Satan. We try to get together at least once a week, grab a bite and play backgammon. He cheats, and you'd think he'd know that I know, because well I know everything but there you go. What he doesn't know is that I cheat too. I think he just thinks I would never do anything like that. Putz.

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