An Atheist in Heaven



Just in case you’ve missed it, the Catholic Church have confirmed that atheists are still going to Hell. Phew. Thanks for clearing that one up. You had me going there.

This came after Pope Francis I said that the gates of Heaven are open up to atheists who are good people. Aw, in’t that nice.

However, the Church later confirmed that we atheists are still going to face fire and brimstone, regardless if we are good people or not. That’s a…erm…minor detail.

This led me to think: do I actually want to go to Heaven?

Mark Twain once praised Heaven for its climate, but preferred Hell for its company.

Who would I rather spend eternity with? Cliff Richard or Keith Moon? Hmm… Cliff Richard of “Our Father who art in heaven” fame or Keith Moon of “People try to put us down/Talking about my generation” fame? Tricky one, that.


And the whole worshipping God thing would be rather boring. Christopher Hitchens once compared the idea of heaven to a celestial North Korea. Sure, the Devil will be putting hot pokers up my bottom, but at least I’ll get a tan.

An afterlife of torture awaits me, according to the Church. To be fair, I have listened to One Direction songs before so my punishment in Hell will be a relatively easy ride compared to that.

This was a chance for the Catholics to live up to their name. The literal meaning of the word catholic is universal. Which I think is false advertising. “Yep, you are all welcome! Except you, you, you, you and you…and you…oh, and you.”

I used to be a Catholic once…I got better. I used to go to Church…I got wiser. I actually used to be an altar boy…I got counselling.

I was brought up in an Irish Catholic household and brought back a girl for dinner with the parents once. It was all fine and dandy until my dad asked her what she did. She said she was a prostitute. Well, all Hell broke loose. There was shouting and arguing, food was thrown everywhere; the mother was sobbing her wee heart out. And then my dad calmed down and asked her again. She said she was a prostitute. My dad sighed and said, “Oh thank God for that, I thought you said you were a Protestant.”

I shall finish on an old Irish blessing: “May you all be in Heaven a half hour before the Devil knows you’re dead.”


Don’t Have Nightmares: Living in Nick Ross’ Dreamland


  Crime Scene

And in the news this week…

Former Crimewatch presenter Nick Ross announced to the world that he is a stupid, bloody idiot.

Nick Ross – who is famous for his “Don’t have nightmares” catchphrase – seems to be living in a dreamland.

In his new book with the most original title since My Booky Wook called Crime, he says that sometimes rape is not rape. What?!

Ross is living in his own coo-coo land, resembling a hallucination after a bad trip. The words he uses are not necessarily words, but are representing dog faeces. The poo, in fact, is not necessarily poo, but it is a metaphor for the crap coming out of his mouth. The poo spells out the word ‘rubbish’. But this rubbish is not rubbish. It is actually an allegory for the amount of unsold copies of his new book stored in the cavernous warehouse of broken dreams.

This ex-BBC presenter looks like a smug Bill Clinton, but most evidentially without the perks of Monica Lewinsky.

His book, which is bound for the charity shops next to the bric a brac aisle and the video collection of Friends, uses a survey from 2005 saying that women who dress provocatively are partly responsible if they are raped.

This is like saying cows deserve to be shot because they are black and white in a green field or wildebeests deserve to be eaten by lions because they have tasty legs.

Mr Ross needs to acquire a dictionary to find out the real definition of rape. The victims are not writing big placards with the order to “HAVE KINKY DOWN TIME WITH ME”. That, my dear boy, is consent.

Whilst he has the dictionary in his hand, he can do one of two things. Either save us all the hassle and continually whack his head with it, or look up the synonyms for idiot. These include: imbecile, simpleton, moron, stupid…and Nick Ross.

No Spoilers, Please. We’re British.


I own a hit list of people whose existence I would like to cease in a safe deposit box in an unknown location. I shall divulge some of its contents to you, dear reader. Number one: Justin Bieber for his disservice to music. Number two: Nick Griffin for his work to raise the awareness of idiots in politics. Number three: 40-year-old single men who still live with their mothers and play with action figures of famous sci-fi series characters in their room who, since they merely exist and not live, try to fill the void of happiness in their lives and take to the Internet to ruin everyone else’s fun.

 I am what they call a ‘spoilerphobe’.

 The red squiggly line of doom on Microsoft Word is telling me that this is a senseless word, and dictionaries worldwide are bullyboys and snide at it: “You’re not welcome here! Join a club of rejected lexis, which includes the likes of ‘ee by gum, ecky thump’ and ‘Dalek’.” They surely are correct, as they exit my vocal chords on a number of occasions.

A spoilerphobe is a person who shrieks in horror when their now former friend chooses to destroy all form of affection by revealing details, plot and twists of any literature or broadcast.

I’ll explain why I am a spoilerphobe, and I shall take on the guise of the hyperbole. A wonderful word! One would decree it is the most important lexis in our etymology. Did you see what I did there? Using hyperbole to describe hyperbole. I am a clever sod, me.


Picture the scene, if you will. A prophetic and surprisingly accurate soothsayer in an otherwise fake world full of charlatans…and Sally Morgan. They offer their services to you for free; a rarity in an industry of preying vultures. They tell you the exact time, date and method of your death. Do you think “mmm, okay…that day will come when it comes…dum-de-dum…SQUIRREL!”? Or do you either slump into depression or start enjoying the intricacies of life (and probably avoid aeroplanes)?

That, my dear reader, is a spoiler. Admittedly, it is in a different league than somebody ruining the plot twist of Fight Club, but a spoiler nonetheless.

Foresight is not particularly advantageous, really. You may think less of me after this personal example. In fact, I may replace Michael Gove in your own hit list…actually, no…that is nigh on impossible. By the use of ingenuity, logic and Google, I managed to acquire the mock exam paper for my A Level Medieval History. With this preparation, I received a B. In the actual A Level exam, I received an E, thus leading to confused expressions from my tutors and all around embarrassment on my part.

And what is the fun of ruining it all for everyone, anyway? Do these – no doubt – sexually inexperienced ‘people’ take a certain glee out of removing suspense from the fans? “If I cannot have a good time in my loneliness, no-one can!” they wail whilst violently masturbating to George Takei in Star Trek.


As a Whovian, i try to source reaction to episodes of Doctor Who to see if everyone enjoyed it as much as I did. Fandom is a community and we are prone to gossip and the occasional fanboy squeal. Once, in my naivety, I stumbled across a forum where one poor excuse for a homosapien posted the entire plot of the series four finale a week before broadcast. I really enjoyed the creativity and the cleverness of Russell T Davies’ writing but I left the viewing a little cold as I did not fully immerse myself into the narrative.

A similar bitter taste was left in my mouth (behave) when an reviewer decided to go into great detail about the technicalities behind Derren Brown’s conjuring and fornication with the mind. I felt cheated and envisaged the rather puncable face of GAZZA56.

The only justifiable time for spoilers is when your ex-girlfriend decided that her idea of a romantic night-in is to watch horror films. To save myself the indignity of appearing as an epileptic with Tourette’s, I may have Wikipedia’d the plot beforehand.

So why have I centred my rare but fun rant on spoilers? This week, those intelligent chaps from BBC America decided, in their wisdom, to accidentally distribute pre-ordered copies of Doctor Who Series 7 Part 2 DVDs. These will include the series finale, which will be broadcast this Saturday.

I ask of thee not to be an idiot, a fool, a moron, an eejit, a lonely and pathetic gobshite, and not spoil the enjoyment of others.



(You can follow me on that new-fangled Twitter thing via @JudasMcLaughlin. Cheers, m’dears!)