Indiana Jones and The Intelligent Design.

Science cannot stop trying to prove the How of things, and that blinds these scientists to the awesome intelligence that lies behind the design

A room full of slightly intoxicated men, high on having witnessed Nazi immolation, gasped and started to grumble.

After all, Intelligent Design should not come up at a screening of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

*

When I was seven a friend of my fathers had a pirate copy of a movie we had never heard of. He clunked it into the top loader VCR and smiled at us. It’s a bit scary but you’ll be ok right?

Pirate videos were cool, they had playground kudos. The cassette was black and unmarked. Anything could be on there. The VCR whirred and the screen flickered and we watched Indiana Jones stride into South America and redefine excitement.

A few weeks later Raiders came out at the cinema and I saw it again and it was just as thrilling, if not more so. I’ve watched Raiders at least once a year since, on VHS, on DVD, on Blu Ray, sober, alone, with a room full of blokes all quoting lines, and finally at a special screening with one of the cast in attendance.

In the years since the pirate vhs I had kids. My son (Bear) came first and I resolved to show him various films – Ghostbusters, Raiders, The Good The Bad & The Ugly and Jaws. I guess there’s misogyny in this, but I grew up a boy so when I had a boy I knew what he would want to see. To balance things out the other night my wife showed our daughter (Toes) Anne of Green Gables and I was very confused.

Bear saw Raiders when he was 5, I told him it was scary and that he wouldn’t be allowed to see the end. He pulled up his blanket and we watched spiders, traps and Indy swinging towards a seaplane.

And then God came into it.

The Ten Commandments - Yes, the actual Ten Commandments. The original stone tablets that Moses brought down out of Mount Horeb and smashed.

Bear was confused so I sketched the commandments (delighted that he had no idea what they were). I explained at the time the movie was set everyone believed in God, and when the movie came out most people believed. God was in schools, movies and books so when I first saw Raiders I had no doubt God existed,

Towards the end of the film I flicked it off, assuring Bear that Indy won but that what happened next was too scary for him. This made him obsessed and he asked for the movie all the time. One day I inevitably forgot to flick it off before the face melting and Bear ran through to us delighted he had seen the ending. His sister, then 4, had seen it as well and found it hysterically funny.

Raiders was still great, the God aspect was manageable and life was red wine and cheap cheese.

Then the special screening.

John Rhys Davis (Indy’s sidekick Sallah) was attending for a Q&A after the movie and it was lovely to see him walk on stage, older, fuller, but unmistakably Sallah. He settled down and stated talking -  I last saw the three Indiana Jones movies on the big screen years ago with an audience in Thailand, it was a wonderful night watching the three...... wait, there is a fourth film now isn’t there? But I don’t ever want to see that film again.

The audience cheered and I wondered if I am the only person who likes the 4^th movie. He took questions and had us hooked. Then he was asked where the acting ability comes from and things went awry –

Trying to distill such a thing….well it reminds me of the problem with Science. The problem being the one question Science cannot ever answer, but claims every day that it could, is - why does life exist?

The audience (geeks) flinched as the bubble we’d been in popped. It was like to the moment in a nightclub where the lights are raised, the music switched off and you realise everyone looks sweaty.  

Science simply cannot show why life exists. He continued, clutching the microphone. Science strives to show what there was at the moment of this Big Bang but not the time before. And we must look before it. We must consider what there was. If we do we see a wonderful theology, a beauty of metaphysics, of mystery. Science cannot stop trying to prove the How of things, and that blinds these scientists to the awesome intelligence that lies behind the design

Seats shifted, people coughed and mumbled. I swigged the last of my wine, chewed the last of my biltong and stood up to leave. Sallah smiled at us from the stage and continued down the Intelligent Design rabbit hole.

I can do the side stepping around God when watching the movies with my kids. It’s no different to explaining the presence of dragons in How to Train Your Dragon – it’s just a story, in this one dragon’s exist.

It’s just a story; in this one you can catch ghosts with vacuum cleaners on your back,

It’s just a story; in this one a man wearing human skin mask hacks up hippies.

It’s just a story; in this one people believe God exists.

But Intelligent Design?

Listening to a conversation on Intelligent Design is like being told to wear jam instead of deodorant. Or suggesting we should replace thumbs with inflatable sheep. It just makes no sense.

So we left John to his intelligent design and stumbled down the steps of the cinema. Beautiful women ran over to each disgruntled geek and slipped their arms through ours. Mine was called Tiffany.

Tiffany:            Hey, what happened? You don't look very happy.

Me:                  Fool. Religious fool!

Tiffany:            What'd he say?

Me:                  An audience of geeks, he had no idea what he had in there.

Tiffany:            Well, I know what I've got out here. Come on. I'll buy you a drink.

We walked into the night, arm in arm, leaving Intelligent Design chattering away to a dwindling cinema audience of science fans.

Me:                  Hey Tiff

Tiffany:            Yes?

Me:                  I think we’re alone now

Tiffany:            True, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around

*

Postlude –

So the upshot was that I needed to know more about the history of the universe.

So I read Big Bang – The Origin of the Universe by Simon Singh and am now well versed in red shift galaxies, CMB radiation, pulsars and the Steady State / Expanding Universe debate.

Thanks to the book I also discovered this - A Ukrainian born scientist, George Gamow, one of the pioneers of the Big Bang hypothesis, was renowned for his occasionally off beat physics. He once argued that God lived 9.5 light years from Earth. This was based on the outbreak of the Russo Japanese war in 1904 causing churches across Russia to offer prayers for the destruction of Japan. 19 years later the Kanto Earthquake struck Japan, causing the prayed for devastation.

Gamow suggested God’s wrath was impacted by the speed of light and that the delay between prayer and the earthquake could be used to determine the distance to God’s home – 9.5 light years away.

The last time I prayed I was 12 years old so my last prayer should have landed with God when I was 21 with my return due when I was roughly 32.

My final prayer, which I do remember quite well, was for Patsy Kensit to move in next door and need me to hold a ladder while she changed light globes.

Thus far, she’s a no show but just in case I have a ladder and some light globes and if she turns up I shall smile, doff my hat and say “Let there be light.”

Twatted

It was a mystery and there were 4 of us under suspicion. I was the main suspect due to the managers overwhelming dislike of me. The other 3 suspects sat with me in the office behind the shop surrounded by beer and wine while the mid-twenties manager stared us all down. I was twenty-two and working two jobs so as to fund pay my Cornish Pastie habit.

“Ten pounds is missing from the safe.”

She had the accounts book open showing the last 3 days. Each day tallied with the till roll but the money, which had been due to be banked today thanks to ridiculously poor practice in the store, was ten pounds short.

“Would anyone care to come clean?” She looked from one to other of us and held her gaze on me for the longest time.

*

Her dislike for me started the week before on her first day.

I arrived, wheeled my bike through the shop and parked it in the back. She was sat at the desk and introduced herself and I shook her hand. As I slipped my bag off I knocked a bottle of Rolling Rock from the shelf and it shattered on the floor. I apologised and grabbed a cloth to clean up as my co-worker, Becca arrived and looked curious.

“I tawtted a bottle by accident” I said to Becca and the manager suddenly screamed. 

“You will not use language like that in this shop.”

I replayed things quickly and tried to work out what I’d said. “Twatted?” I asked and she scowled. “I meant as in I hit a bottle of beer. Sorry.”

She stood, hands balled into fists at her side. “That word” she hissed “means VAGINA as well you know.”

I stepped back, as most Englishmen will when presented with the word vagina (especially in upper case).

“I didn’t mean it that way. I hit the bottle by accident. I didn’t mean to imply I had…well…vagina’d the bottle?”

The door chime sounded and I retreated to the shop and sold some beer, coming back through to find the manager closing her bag and Becca sat at the desk.

“We’ll speak more on this later” she said and left. I sat down, blasphemed and exhaled as my co-worker pulled a joint out of her bag.

“She really doesn’t like you.” She lit and inhaled before offering it to me.  

“Is this entrapment?” I asked and she shook her head. I didn’t know her well but she liked The Prodigy so I figured she was ok.

“She told me I was to tell her if you sexually threatened me”

I coughed out smoke as the door chimed and she went to serve the customer. She came back and I passed her the joint.

“Seriously?”

She nodded.

“Because I twatted a bottle of beer?”

She exhaled and passed it back. “No, because you vagina’d a bottle of beer. You sexually harassed a bottle and it suicided.”

We both started giggling and she turned up the stereo. We sold beer to dance music and did the takings at the end of the night. I said goodbye after checking I hadn’t sexually threatened her.

“As if” she said.

*

I was on shift again the next night. I was good at selling beer so I was rostered on most evenings and was working with a girl I’d known since I started called Sue. Sue always had her passport and £200 in cash in her bag “just in case” though I never found what just in case might be.

“So” she said.

“So?”

“So you didn’t start well with the new manageress?”

I slumped in my chair. “Have you been warned about my sexual harassment?”

“She called last night and told me she was concerned about you. I told her I thought that sounded ridiculous.”

I explained what had happened and she nodded.

“Well twat can mean vagina.”

“I’ve never used it that way. And surely past tense – twatted – cannot mean vagina’d?”

Sue looked thoughtful as she ran through the past tense possibilities of vagina.

“And how the hell could I vagina a bottle of beer off the shelf? Twatted means hit, or it means to be in no fit state to function. Twat can maybe mean vagina but I did not say twat. I said twatted.”

Sue nodded. “He rests his case your honour. Judgement, he may be a bit of a twat.”

We went and sold beer, sold wine, talked about movies and cashed up at the end of the night.

*

The following night I was rostered on with Angela, the youngest of the team. She was the deputy managers’ daughter and was only just old enough to buy beer. Her large car mechanic boyfriend was sat in the office as I rolled my bike in. The manager scowled at me.

“I’ve given Angela permission to have Lee in the office tonight” she said as I said hi to Lee.

“Mate” he replied and went back to his magazine, flipping from a picture of a bike with a girl in the bikini on it to a picture of a car with two girls in smaller swimwear. The manager left, giving me a toxic stare as she did so.

I sat down and sighed.

“What did you do?” asked Angela and I ran through it again, Lee laughing as I explained about vagina’ing a bottle off the shelf.

“So that’s it? You just twatted the bottle” he said comfortably.

“I did”

“And she thought you were talking about vagina’s?” he closed the magazine and Angela swiped at his leg. “’The fuck is her problem?”

“Lee, don’t say vagina” Evidently fuck was fine.

I nodded. “And now she thinks I am a predator, which I’m guessing is why she has given you permission to be here.”

He frowned at me in a smoke there’s fire way. “I asked Angela about you being sexually threatening and she laughed so I guess there’s no worry. I guess.”

I blushed as Lee stood up and kissed Angela goodbye. He nodded at me and said “Later mate.”

Angela and I chatted as normal that night but there was an awkward feeling in the air. I sold beer, clearing out all of the on special Stella in one evening and wondering why I was bothering. End of the night we cashed up and I cycled home.

*

“Would anyone like to offer an explanation?” She looked from one to other of us, holding her gaze on me for the longest time. None of us said a word and she stood up to leave. “I think some of us need to seriously consider their future with this company. Theft will not be tolerated.”

Sue shook her head. “I don’t believe any of us have stolen any money.”

The manager scowled. “Well I’m afraid I do believe someone has stolen the money” adding with Agatha Christie panache “Someone in this room.”

Angela gasped and held her hand to her mouth. Becca, brilliantly, was touching up her lip gloss. Sue looked simply livid and I guess I looked guilty. The manager stormed out and we sat in awkward silence.

Angela left with Lee shortly after, Lee slapping me on the back and saying “Mate.” Sue stayed and shook her head while Becca rolled up.

“Man she hates you” Becca said, passing me the joint.

“Well he did vagina a bottle to death.” Sue took the joint from me.

“I will never use the word twat again. I’m done with the word.” I thought for a moment and added “But I may blog about it in 2014.” They looked at me confused as this was 1998 and blogging wasn’t really a thing.

After Sue left Becca and I got happily stoned. I sold a stack of Guinness and, after a challenge by Becca, I convinced a customer to buy a bottle of Advocaat. The guy left with his bottle of lurid yellow goop and a smile on his face and Becca shook her head.

“Can you sell anything?” she asked and I said no, I could only sell alcohol. I believed at the time that everyone, deep down, wanted to be drunk. Now I realise it is more likely just me.

As we cashed up I noticed something sticking out from under the wine racks. “Is that what I think it is?” I asked and she looked down.

“Yeah mon” she said in an awful imitation of a Caribbean accent, pulling out a crumpled £10 note.

“Fuck” I said, suddenly furious. “She dropped it?” Becca nodded and collapsed into more giggles as I put the note on the desk.

“Take it” she said and I shook my head.

“I’m not a theif.”

“If you hand it in, she’ll think you did it. If I hand it in, she’ll think you did it. If she finds it on the floor, she’ll think you put it there for her to find. So fuck it, take it.”

“Is this entrapment?” I asked and she stubbed out her joint. “Nah mon” she said, sweeping the butts into a plastic bag she had with her. She pulled her purse from her bag and yanked out a £5 and handed it to me, putting the £10 in her purse.

“Partners” she said and we locked up for the night £5 richer.

This was 1998. £5 could buy a Cornish Pastie and a bag of Nic Nacs (with change) from the 24 hour service station.

And it did.

*

Epilogue - The manager left soon after as was replaced by a new lady who on her first day told me she knew Farley Jack Master Funk and modelled for him. She showed me a photo of herself wearing a fox fur scarf from a shoot for the cover of a single that Mr Jack Master Funk had coming out soon.

“Don’t look at my eyes” she said. “I was twatted that day.”

*

Epilogue II - for the first time ever I have realised I have lied in this story. I am frequently accused of lying in these but can honestly say I never have. This time I have, but I didn’t mean to. I’m too amused by the slip up to correct it though. 

A Christmas Miracle

Once upon a time, for reasons I’m not going into, a man was paid to beat me up. I lived in Bedford, a town of hangovers and accidents, and would catch sight of my would be assailant driving his 3 wheel car as he followed me around.

After work each day I had an evening job in a bottle shop. I spent my nights playing Leonard Cohen and The Prodigy while convincing people to buy more alcohol than they needed. I ate very little, smoked in the office and stole past sell by date beer, returning the empties as evidence that I had poured the beer down the sink as per policy.

This pre-Christmas night a man came in with a PlayStation bundled loosely with wires and asked to exchange it for 4 cans of Guinness.

“I can’t mate,” I said and he immediately started to cry. 

“Please?” He was clutching the PlayStation with shaking hands.

“Sorry, I really can’t.”

The year before he'd come home from work to find his mother dead in the armchair, remote in hand and the TV blaring static. He’d spent several days at home with her body drinking everything in the house and had stayed drunk ever since.

Seeing my refusal was categorical he became belligerent. He kicked the counter and swore as he had done before when he had tried to exchange Steven Segal DVD’s for Gin. He spun on his heels and stared at the cruel sight of the alcohol that filled the shop, the back of his neck beading with sweat. I knew he was thinking of lashing out, knocking things over and sending cheap wine flooding towards the door. As he tensed up I let my fingers drop to the police alarm under the desk.

Before he could do anything the door chimed and two giggling girls came in stumbling on high heels and throwing cigarettes back out of the door. He stamped away and I sold yet another bottle of Lambrusco as I saw him pick up a lipstick stained cigarette end and suck it back to life. He scowled through the window at me as I was wished a Merry Christmas in a chorus of perfume.

Later I pulled down the security shutters and wheeled my bicycle towards the road. I heard a cough and thought the angry alcoholic had returned and figured I would give him some of the stolen beer in my bag. I turned to see two headlights flare, pinched close like pigs eyes, and I recognised the unmistakable grill of a Robin Reliant 3 wheeler.

I started peddling as I heard the car swing onto the road. I figured there was no way he was going to run me over so he would have to block my way. I also knew he had terrible acceleration and that the first sprint was up hill so I was in with a chance of out pacing him. In my head I heard soft rock anthems and I started peddling with feet of fury, clicking through the gears as parked cars started flashing past. I heard his engine whine and saw the splash of his headlights on the tarmac around me and as I pushed harder the light fell back. The crest of the hill was approaching as the sound of his engine grew smaller and I knew if I could crest the hill well ahead I might be able to jog onto the path by the river bridge without him seeing me. By the time I hit the peak I was in a high gear and with the change to downhill I was on a highway to …well away from… the danger zone.

I did the one and only bunny hop of my life up the kerb and sped to the dark of the path, leaving the road behind. I pulled to a halt and glanced back, seeing the 3 wheeler come over the rise. Moments later it sped around the corner and I knew I’d lost him.

Mentally high fiving myself for living the Dukes of Hazard dream I started peddling towards the river. Approaching the footbridge I stopped suddenly as a colossal dark skinned man with dreadlocks leapt in front of me.

“Stop man” he shouted and having no choice I swung into a bush and slipped from the bike. He was fast approaching so as I struggled upright I put the bike between us.

“What?” I asked, concerned that I’d dodged a three wheel marauder only to be mugged by a huge Rastafarian.

“Ya can’t go on” he told me and waved me back with his palms open. His eyes were wide and red rimmed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked and he suddenly dropped to the wet path and hung his head.

“I killed ‘im” he said and gestured to the path. I looked towards the shadows and tried to see who it was he had killed.

“I didn’t mean to, dancing to tunes, I stamp ‘pon ‘im.”

I stepped forward and saw a frog, legs splayed wide and body squashed.

“He a dead frog” he said and lit a huge joint before starting to gently cry.

I said I was sorry and when he held the joint out to me I had a puff or two to be polite.

“Can’t you do anything?” he asked me and I wondered what he meant. I looked back at the frog and heard the man sob.

“You know what?” He looked up, accepting his joint back. “Frogs are like mice, they have flexible rib cages. Like concertinas. They pop back into shape. It’s more than likely just in shock and in a while it’ll hop off. I wouldn’t worry.”

By the light of the glowing cherry he stared at me. “F’real?” I nodded and we both looked at the frog. Above us the stars of Christmas peered through the Bedford cloud cover. The wind died down and the only sound we could hear was the river shushing along as it raced to leave town.

“C’mon froggy” he said and accepting another hit from his joint I agreed, “C’mon Frog.” For half a minute we repeated the chant and suddenly the frog inflated, chest rising and head shaking. It rolled back onto its feet and without a glance at us it hopped away. 

I laughed and turned to say goodbye to the man but he was now staring at me. He dropped the joint and it hissed on the wet wood.

“You witch” he shouted, pointing at me with a long wide finger.

I swung onto my bike and he jumped forward, stopping inches from me.

“How you do that? What powers you have man?”

“None mate, the frog was just in shock. Look I gotta go now.”

“HOW YOU DO THAT?” I flinched back. I could see his teeth biting the words.

“I gotta go mate, the frogs ok.”

He stared at me and stepped back a pace. “You witch” he whispered and I rolled forward saying nothing. His eyes stayed on me as I retreated and after a few seconds I started peddling. By the time I reached the footbridge I was weaving badly. I heard the thunder of steps behind me and groaned, picking up my pace as much as I could.

“Witch” he shouted from the start of the bridge, “Witch man!”

I glanced back and saw him waving. “Happy fucking Christmas witch” he shouted and pumped his fist, turning away and running back to the darkness.

At home I pulled some stolen beer from my backpack and settled on the sofa.  There was a new pornographic magazine from my housemate on the carpet and a pool of cat vomit by the television. I considered both before finishing several beers and passing out in my clothes.

Somewhere else a Robin Reliant sat silent, unwilling to be bargained with or reasoned with. It didn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely would not stop, ever, it caught up with me. It never did.

Somewhere else a fantastically stoned Rastafarian sat staring at nothing as he worried about the Christmas Witch from the River Ooze.

As for the frog, he lives now, only in my memories.

Happy Christmas.