And so, Easter is upon us, the time the Bible tells us "Jesus so loved the disciples that he bought each of them a chocolate egg." And I think it a highly appropriate time for us to ponder the inevitable question, does God exist? After confronting such issues as "Are all intelligent people ugly?" and "In any organised toe-to-toe scrum would Ashington smash Blyth's face in?", our thoughts now turn to God. Does he exist? Is he omnipotent, or a bit more understated than that? Thinking it through, there's no easy answer. Which is why there are now more Life Coaches than there are Church Goers. Life Coaches - what the hell is that about? A series of consultations to explore your life, and fully understand the exciting options available to you. Attended by people who should pull themselves together. People who could benefit from a well-meaning, though harshly delivered slap. And why do Life Coaches look so spectacularly odd themselves? Why aren't they in proper paid employment? All given the heave ho, if you ask me. When was being a Life Coach ever an option for the rest of us? Can't remember it being offered by the Careers Master. Mind, looking back, if anyone needed a Life Coach, it was him. And a Dress Coach. And a comb. Life Coaches are one step ahead of Gypsy Rose Lee. They can just afford a suit in a sale. One bad year, and they're in caravans reading palms for £2. (Friend to the stars, "I recommend Rose," says beaming Freddie `Parrotface' Davies). When I was a kid, do you know who I thought was the smartest man in the world? The man who exuded wealth and charm? The Man From The Pru. Mam saved with the Pru. I think it was because a Peter Wyngarde look-a-like came to collect the premiums every week. He was the only man who wore a suit, and looked comfortable in it. My dad, a plumber, always looked as though he was being forcibly restrained by a suit. The Man From The Pru was born in a suit. And he had a car. I remember thinking, "One day, I'll be the Man From The Pru." I've recently had my annual appraisal, and I can officially confirm it remains a very live option. I wonder what The Man From The Pru is doing now? I do hope it all went badly for him. I really do. Anyway The Man From The Pru looked as though he worked for a fine employer. They fed him well, they clothed him beautifully, and I would imagine it was clean vest and underpants every day. You know the people who say that God exists? The ones in the know. The ones who shout at you in the street. The ones waving placards, "You're all going to hell! One way ticket to paradise here!" They're not like The Man From The Pru. They're different. I don't want what they're selling. And it's God. "I was talking to God yesterday, and he told me that he loved you." Didn't he tell you to have a wash as well? Put a pair of shoes on, and leave the slippers at home? Obviously the Christian Church is a broad one, so let's look at the Store Managers. Vicars and priests. These surely are in the know. They know that there is an after-life. The Shouters don't know there is an after shave. "God's watching you, you know - whatever you're doing." Surely he's got bigger fish to fry? The Store Managers know that they are up for eternal life. That seems a win-win situation to me. Not being frightened to die. This might be why they drink so much - bring it on, if you will. I don't know about you, but I have Death under the heading Bad Things. B is Bellamy. Discuss. Death is top of the Bad Things List. If I could cross it off, I would be a very happy chappie. So why aren't the Store Managers happy? Why aren't they the life and the eternal soul of any party? Perhaps they're worried about us. Perhaps a never ending dull life isn't all it's cracked up to be. When, for instance, did you ever meet a cheery accountant? Imagine how they'd feel if told that there was going to be no end to their accountancy? So, surprisingly, we cannot deal with the subject in just one week. Does God exist? If so, how do we know? ********** Fingering the shredder Last week we started the list of toys that would entertain any man, specifically torches, beer fridges and, most magnificently of all, the jet wash. I'm running out of things to jet wash. I'm starting to panic. I'm paying neighbours to let me jet wash their cars. I almost jet washed a beautiful little robin the other day, unfortunately he spotted me as I was just taking aim. A marvellous suggestion has been added to the list - shredders. Shredders are, quite clearly, for men only. They're highly dangerous, and not appropriate for the easily-distracted female. They have sharp teeth, and can cause a great deal of damage. Likewise the shredder. Shredding confidential documentation is a highly satisfactory way of spending time. Likewise shredding anything else you can fit in. The paper goes in. You wait, just for a couple of seconds - this is what we call The Pre-Shredding Zone. Pure excitement. Then you press the button, and the shredding begins. The paper goes down, the shredder noisily destroying it. You win. And then, silence. The Post Shredding Glow. If I smoked, I'd light a cigar at this point. The warning on the box is absolutely clear. "DO NOT PUT YOUR FINGERS IN THE SHREDDER." I wonder why they felt the need to spell it out? If anything, it only serves to arouse the curiosity. How bad could it be? And that's why I'd like someone out there to tell me - someone very brave. Any other boys toys we should consider? | 
