Beware of the God

Beware of the God! by Chris Green

‘They’re basically killing each other over who has the better imaginary friend,’ the man in the L’Estrange Mac says. ‘Just let that sink in if you will.’

It is a powerful statement. Those thirteen words carry a lot of weight. It’s not what you expect to come out of a casual conversation with a stranger in Oh My Dog on a Tuesday morning. But he has a point. Whether or not we are believers, it might be more helpful to look at the current conflict, if that is what he is referring to. Or indeed. most any conflict, in these terms. Imaginary friend backed by real-life despot. Imaginary friend might stay imaginary were it not for the superannuated tyrant forcing the issue. The bully boy and his bully boys making sure that the imaginary friend gets a good solid hearing. It’s not all one way.

He moves the conversation seamlessly onto dogs. A safe bet perhaps in Oh My Dog. I have a collie retriever cross called Murphy and L’Estrange has a Weimaraner called Otto. Otto has been under the weather lately, after an accident with the MP, but is well on the road to recovery. Diet is so important to dogs, we agree. They need a balanced diet of fibre and antioxidants to boost their immunity, ensure good digestion, and manage weight, not like some people seem to think, just a few tins of meaty chunks and the scraps off their plate on a Sunday. Dogs need proper exercise too. Not just a shit in the back garden twice a day. They need a good run with other dogs. He takes Otto out onto the common most days. I tell him I don’t get up there enough. Murphy, after all, is a ten-mile-a-day dog. He says I should. He will keep an eye out for me. Early morning is the best time. Although he has not introduced himself and I do not believe in all that mystical stuff, I gather from somewhere that I am utterly unable to explain, that his name is Max.

Max gathers up his bags of James Wellbeloved Grain-Free Turkey and Vegetable Kibble and his sack of Arkwights Complete, and he leaves. I watch him get into his Ineos Grenadier. Good choice, according to Autocar, a serious utility with toughness built-in or something along those lines. A capable off-road tool from a new brand. If I ever get around to replacing the Volvo, it’s the kind of vehicle I think I might go for, but I’d better wait for things to pick up at Kaleidoscope World first. We’ve been going through a rough patch lately. People don’t seem to be buying so many kaleidoscopes. Commentators in the media are even suggesting the kaleidoscope might have had its day. I blame it on the surfeit of reality TV. Exposure to all that rubbish is clinically proven to dull your senses, I remember my existential therapist Elizabeth telling me. In advertising, they say that reality is for those who can’t handle drugs. Katy is forever coming home with stories of her colleagues at AdVentures going into rehab. Creatives are the worst, Chet, she says. In the mediaverse burnout is regarded as part of the plan.

If things don’t pick up at Kaleidoscope World, I will have to sell up, which would be a great shame. Kaleidoscope World has been in the family for generations. But Katy keeps telling me she wants a proper holiday. Vanuatu or Alpha Centauri or wherever it is her hairdresser goes. I don’t see what’s wrong with a week in Weston as a stopgap. It’s within easy reach and Murphy loves a run on Berrow Beach. And there are plenty of shopping opportunities for Katy just up the road in Bristol. I suppose she’s right though. I ought to be looking for another gig. Economic forecasts are not good, so it’s likely to be a while before folk get around to thinking about replacing their kaleidoscope, even if it is an old one and there are plenty of sophisticated models on the market to choose from these days.

Perhaps they might become more aware of art and beauty and the wonders of colour and pattern if they weren’t constantly being asked by the big fellow in the sky to take sides in every skirmish that springs up around the globe. And be prepared to fight to the death for the cause. To get back to where Max was coming from, there would be fewer fights breaking out around the globe if the imaginary friends they were fighting for had more in common. If these omniscient beings didn’t squabble the whole time, and call on their followers to fight the good fight. But then it hits me, they do. They have everything in common. Expanding on what Max is saying they seem to have nothing except commonality. Why don’t they make more effort to get along?

I’m thinking perhaps I need to take Murphy out onto the common now and again to check Max out. Perhaps there is something more to what he is saying. Something profound to develop his glib statement. First thing in the morning is best. Tomorrow, then. Karla will be able to open up Kaleidoscope World for me. She hasn’t had a lot to occupy her since the downturn, but I feel obliged to keep her on. Some days I have to send her out on a forty-minute drive to get marshmallow melts to give her something to do.

‘There are no rules regarding saints.’ Max says by way of a greeting. ‘You can come across them anywhere. They are simply people behaving honourably in a dishonourable society. Sainthood has nothing to do with fighting the good fight for an invisible friend and winning. Or by sleight of hand or otherwise, completing some masochistic self-denial or pointless feat of endurance that no sane person would entertain. ….. For all I know, you might be a saint.’

It’s an unusual opening for a conversation, but then, Max is an unusual guy. This is in essence why I’m up on the common at this unearthly hour when I could be enjoying a full English breakfast in the comfort of home catching up with the latest developments in contemporary abstract art and listening to cool music on the radio. I tell him so.

‘I am in need of some more unusual,’ I say. ‘We all are, don’t you think? The world has become too predictable. Where is the wonder? I blame the internet. At first, it offered you an abundance of ideas, a veritable cornucopia of possibilities. It gave you the illusion of a limitless choice and a promise of forever, but bit by bit narrowed this down until there are just a handful of narratives.’

‘And managed to do so without people noticing it.’ Max says. ‘That’s the clever part. ….. They’re getting along nicely, aren’t they, Otto and Murphy? You see, a good run around in the open is all they need for a happy life. Simplicity. We could learn a lot from them.’

Max has again out of the blue changed the subject. I’m noticing a distinct pattern here. We are no longer talking about the shortcomings of doctrinal discourse, we are back onto dogs. He has turned the topic on its head. He has flipped God. God, Dog. I mention this. He says it’s not something he’s been conscious of, but in any case, dogs and angels are not very far apart. He sees I am puzzled by the aphorism and tells me not to try to read too much into what he says, he could just as easily have been talking about cricket or Bela Lugosi. Or both. Did I know for instance that Bela Lugosi was a talented spin bowler and useful late-order batsman who could bowl both off spin and leg spin and deliver flippers and gliders with equal effect or that he had a trial for Kent along with the surrealist painter Rene Magritte?

‘As it happens,’ he says. ‘neither of them got to play for the county because of xenophobic opposition from the board, even though Kent were desperately short on spinners at the time. This is a pity because Magritte could bowl a deadly wrong’ un, which would have seen off most top-order batsmen of the time, Hobbs, Sutcliffe, Wooley, Hammond, all of them.’

While I am puzzling as to whether this unlikely duo’s chronology stacks up and matches the career spans of the batting greats, Max moves on.

‘What matters most is how well you walk through the fire,’ he says, which seems something of a random leap until he explains that when the fire is out, you are left with the ashes. Australia, he says, are the current holders and have won The Ashes thirty-four times to England’s thirty-two.’

We seemed to have settled on Cricket. While cricket is probably my favourite sport, I did not forgo my Full English with lashings of ketchup to enter into a debate on the relative merits of Bradman, Hutton, Botham and Glenn McGrath, so I am anxious to get the discussion about the human condition and the search for meaning back on track.

‘Some people have more than one imaginary friend, don’t they?’ I say. ‘Geoffrey Boycott for example. And am I right in thinking Colin Cowdrey may have had three or four, and they wouldn’t stop squabbling? I suppose that deities’ spats can be a problem, and not just for cricketers. If they were to cool it down then wouldn’t the world become a more harmonious place?’

‘Ah, back on that, are we?’ Max says, perceptively. ‘I believe that’s a line of thought, yes. ……. Hey! Isn’t that a rabbit that Murphy’s got hold of? Oh no. it’s just a stick. Anyway, good to see you up here, but I’ve got to be going. My name’s Max, by the way.’

‘I’m Chet.’

‘Perhaps see you here again soon, Chet.’

I take Murphy up onto the common bright and early for the next few mornings. Max is not always there with Otto, but each time he is, we appear to have the same exchange. He will come out with a serious revelation about the human condition or a heavenly conundrum, it’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see, all history is the history of unintended consequences, if you’re losing your soul and you know it, then you still have a soul left to lose, or something similarly erudite that appears to invite discussion, but as soon as it looks likely to develop into a two-way conversation, he turns it on its head and starts talking about dogs. Like most dog owners, I like talking about dogs. It’s an easy exchange, indeed I sometimes use doggy chat as an icebreaker. But when you are in the middle of an important conversation on a weighty matter with decision-making consequences, bringing up Murphy’s pursuit of a rabbit or Otto’s complicated feeding regime (Weimaraners are notoriously picky eaters) doesn’t do it for me. Max’s ramblings continue each time we meet, making it difficult to work out a coherent narrative thread or if what he is saying is meaningless. Amidst his enthusiasm for long-forgotten Eastern European actors and vintage cricket, prog rock album covers and Cornish sea shanties, as much as there is a common theme to his perspective, the gist of it seems to be beware of the God. Max, it seems, is losing his religion. That’s him in the corner. ……… But arguably it doesn’t matter anymore. I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that Max is barking.

There again, some of the most important people in history were a little crazy. It goes with the territory. Being famous, after all, is not normal. But should you ever come across a dude like Max wearing a stylish raincoat and talking the talk when you are purchasing your doggie comestibles, my advice is to not to encourage him. Pretend to be in a hurry to get to an appointment or fake an incoming call on your phone. You can try to out-manoeuvre him if you wish, but trust me, he will gradually wear you down. To save time and energy, you might want to start using another pet food retailer or perhaps think about getting your best friend’s James Wellbeloved or Turkey and Vegetable Kibble delivered.

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