There probably is no God

Back in my favourite ale house, a full year since my last visit and several years since I last witnessed The Son of an Irish Prince working his magic. Sadly he's not here today. Scribbling in my pad, I sip Victorian Ruby Mild, a strong darkish ale that is simply perfect, and thank God for it, these little pleasures are His gift, His provision.

There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.

The above is the product of the Athiest Bus Campaign. You what? What pertinacious old poodle dreamt that poster up? If I am not careful it will spoil my pint. On the other hand, Lord Kitchener is staring at me from the front of the Sussex Drinker, a fine distraction from my thoughts. I need you, he says.

We used to see The Son of an Irish Prince every time we were here. The first time was with my mate Dan. Released by our respective ladies for a few hours we were catching up over a couple of pints. Suddenly the shadow of a largish oldish man loomed over us. James Duncan Lynch, he said. Son of an Irish Prince, he said, thrusting out his hand, and joining us at our table. Mr Lynch never showed any regard for pub etiquette.

Why does the poster bug me? I think it is the implication that believing in God, or at least suspecting his existence, results in abstemious old blighters stomping about moaning about the weather. It also implies the reverse, that atheists fly through life with all the abandon of an elastic band pinged across the classroom by a snotty schoolboy.

In my experience, those of my friends and acquaintances that are self-professed atheists are by far the most miserable. I'd rather be masticated by a ravenous nipple hamster than attend an atheist convention. And hey, if you're an atheist I'm not having a go at you, or saying that you're unhappy. Unless you're the one behind that poster.

We had a debate on religion with Mr Lynch once. There were five us sitting round a table when Mr Lynch arrived at our table uninvited, and invited himself. He introduced himself to the others.

James Duncan Lynch, Son of a...

Mr Lynch dragged the conversation over to religion, and then got himself all worked up.

Why are you so cross?, Pete asked.

I'm not cross, he said, smashing his chubby fists down on the table. We never found out what was angering him, but we found out an awful lot about Greek myths and poetry, which he spouted at every opportunity.

The statement itself is nonsensical, you can't really speak of the probability of God, I mean he either is or he isn't. It is not as if we have ten instances to compare (note, I cannot define "instance" without rupturing my cerebellum, so I'm not going to attempt to), four of which contain a God and a universe, and six of which just contain a universe. If that was the case then sure, you can say there probably isn't a God. But blah blah drone drone I'm not really getting anywhere this and besides, Lord Kitchener is freakin' me out.

No sign of the impious Irish Prince, or his son for that matter, and my pint is getting low - I'll probably finish it within the next few minutes. Time to go home to my lovely wife, and my beautiful, beautiful little baby daughter, who grins at me as I leave the flat each morning, bringing such joy to my soul, an indefinable joy and a wonderful blessing. I thank God for them every day.

Oh, and I've thought of a new bus poster.

The atheists are whinging again, ignore them or it will spoil your day.