I can scarcely be bothered to pick up where we last left off but here goes. I’d fainted in front of the blue whale (which as one of our BTL commenters has so kindly pointed out is NOT in fact a real whale. Yeah thanks for that chum, any other illusions you care to shatter while you’re in the mood?)
The dastardly young Zac and a kindly member of the museum staff had escorted me to a table in the café just behind the main hall, where Zac sat with me, glugging tea and stuffing his impish face with ginger cake, whilst the embalmed corpse of Chi Chi the Panda covertly observed us from behind its glass case. I sat in silence enduring Zac as he gloated over my damp squib recruitment day and lavished scorn upon our website. “I can’t believe what you wrote about the dinosaurs,” he chortled, spitting cake crumbs across the table, “the dinosaur bones are black because they’re plaster casts, they aren’t real but there’s no secret about it.” I didn’t say anything to this. (But don’t you think it’s a teensy-weensy bit convenient that they have to lock the “real” skeletons away from scrutinising eyes and substitute them with plaster ones?)
On the tube on the way home I flicked through the ‘God Is Not Great’ book that Zac had given me. I must say I was a little shocked. The author Mr Hitchens has always seemed to me (from his various Question Time appearances and Mail on Sunday columns) to be a pious and principled man, a committed Christian (albeit an Anglican) bracingly intolerant of gays and liberals, yet here he was denouncing religion and all its works for being, (guess what?) intolerant and illiberal! Well, this really set my head reeling! Was he yet another Anne Widdecombe, a media hypocrite indulging in secularism behind closed doors? T’would seem so, alas.
When I got home that day Dan was still out, at ‘The Garage’ with Joel, and I still felt a little poorly so I went and had a lie down. Bad idea! I had a very disturbing nightmare involving Aaron Johnson (in his ‘Kick-Ass’ costume) Andrew Garfield (in his Spiderman outfit) Rory from Doctor Who (in his Roman Centurion get-up), Ron Weaselly (naked) and David Miliband (with his banana).
Above; boyishly handsome Blairite MP David Miliband. (You don’t know want to know where he was putting that fruit!)
I woke up with a start, the ghastly images still cavorting in my brain and I quickly gathered up my pyjamas and bed-sheets and hastened to the washing machine in our kitchen but to my horror Dan was sat in there waiting (he had arrived home whilst I was sleeping) and was sternly skim-reading the Hitchens book (I had foolishly left it on the table). He wrestled my bed-sheets off me and gave them a cursory inspection. Well, I just wanted to die right there and then! I shrank to the floor, my head in my hands as Dan stood over me. “Shall we take a little trip to The Garage, Matthew?” he asked. “No, no,” I pleaded pathetically, tears streaming down my face as I cowered at his feet, “please, Dan, don’t take me to The Garage!” “But Matthew, it looks to me like you might need a little ‘M.O.T’?” “No! No!” I shrieked, quaking with terror “please, no, anything but that!” (Golly, it really does shame me to think of my behaviour now!) Thankfully Dan was merciful and merely sat me down and we both prayed for my soul. “And how about Zac?” asked Dan, as he switched on the washing machine.
“What about him?” I asked, as I began to make us some supper.
“Well, if he’s so troublesome, perhaps he needs to join Joel in The Garage?”
“Oh no,” I said, “Zac’s not worth bothering about.”
Dan stared at me suspiciously through narrowed eyes.
“You’re not protecting him are you?” he spat.
“Of course not,” I protested, (quite truthfully, he can go to hell as far I’m concerned- and he will of course, LOL!)
“Good,” said Dan, and he lit a candle and thrust the Hitchens book into the flame whilst we both held hands and watched it burn.