My morning had been different. On the day I died I arrived in heaven around noon, so far as I could make out - I remember being taken down to the theatre at around eleven, so it all depended on how long it had taken the surgeon to butcher me to death and how much time the trip to heaven had taken up. My guess was more or less immediately after I’d died; there was the journey through the tunnel to be taken into consideration but that had taken next to no time.
So in the morning, and at a loose end, I needed to find something to do to fill in my time before the delights of the afternoon, evening and night to follow. The first hour had been easy. A leisurely full English breakfast provided by the Midland Hotel’s excellent kitchens. Fruit juice, cornflakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, beans, fried bread, toast, coffee. Served at the table, silver service - the Midland apparently having no time for this help yourself from the buffet nonsense. The hotel was excellent in every way and I certainly wouldn’t be busting a gut to find a place of my own, not as long as they served such tasty breakfasts every morning and Kristin Scott Thomas was in Room 242’s four-poster every night.
After breakfast it was on to King Street for a little more shopping. Shirts, trousers, underwear from Armani (I had wondered at Kristin’s preference in men’s underpants and, unsure, had got half-a-dozen each of slips, boxers and Y-fronts); a lovely Nappa leather jacket (I’d always wanted a nice leather jacket) from Wrapped in Leather, another pair of shoes, loafers, this time from Hobbs; and a diamond necklace from Ernest Jones for Kristin.
The following day I did exactly the same again except that in the morning, instead of shopping, I visited Manchester’s Central Library to see if they’d acquired any new publications that might be of interest to me since my last visit. They hadn’t, so I spent an hour or so re-reading a couple of books I’d read before, Where Have All the Flowers Gone? an account of life and death in Auschwitz, and Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf, yet again. Whilst leafing through the latter it occurred to me that I might well have been doing exactly the same thing if I’d still been on earth - or at least I might have been before the later stages of my cancer had confined me to bed. I had spent many hours at the library during the last two years of my life; being unemployed had its compensations as well as its disadvantages.
The difference was that when I’d spent my mornings in the earth version of the Central Library I wouldn’t have breakfasted at the Midland, Manchester United wouldn’t be hammering Liverpool five-nil that afternoon, I wouldn’t be dining at Michael Caines Abode that evening, and I most certainly wouldn’t be making love to Kristin Scott Thomas that night, and for a good half of it if last night is anything to go by.
The library was exactly the same as it was the last time I’d paid it a visit. It was just as though I was still alive. Over the years I’d got to know a few of the regulars, some to speak to and pass the time of day with, maybe have a coffee with in the basement cafe, others just nodding acquaintances. And they were all still there, just like before. Miss Jennings, one of the assistant librarians, a particularly friendly lady who occasionally helped me find a book I wished to refer to; Mr Galbraith, who knew almost as much about the Second World War as I did; Mr Bottomley, who shared my interest in Adolf Hitler’s rise to power; and Herman the German, actually Klaus, Mr Streiger, with his strangulated half English/ half German way of speaking, and with whom I got on with as well as anyone despite him being on the other side. And they all treated me as though things were completely normal, as though it was just another day, as though nothing had happened. (It dawned on me only after I’d been in heaven a week or so, and back to the library a couple of times, that as far as they were concerned nothing had happened.)
“Good morning, Mr Smith. What may I help you with today?”
“Here Norman, did you know Winston Churchill had a big dick? Says here he did. I never knew that.”
“They’ve got the name of Hitler’s birthplace wrong. It was Braunau am Inn.”
“Norman mein friend, kommen sie shit mit me and sprechen a vile.”
But where everything at the library had been exactly the same, later, at The Old Goat Inn, nothing had been the same.
I had dropped in at The Old Goat Inn quite a few times over the years. It used to be my kind of pub, traditional, beer from hand pumps, a dartboard, a domino table, cribbage, a decent pork pie to eat with your pint if you felt a bit peckish, spot on, what else would you want? Six months ago all that had changed. It had been ‘modernised’, been subjected to a ‘makeover’. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw what they’d done to it. Out on the pavement there’d been a notice: ‘Real Ale Inside’. The ale might have been real but everything else inside was artificial; the plywood oak beams, the plastic topped ‘wood effect’ tables, the polystyrene stone walls, the smile on the barmaid’s face. In short it was everything I don’t like in a pub; pool tables, muzak, slot machines, games with mind-numbing sound effects played by numb-minded youths that involved much zapping of enemy spaceships and deafening explosions; you name it The Old Goat Inn had it, and all in open-plan horror so that there was no escape from the nightmare.
The real ale they advertised may well have been real but it was also the only ale, the
remainder of the bar’s six pumps being taken up by five different brands of lager, all of which probably tasted the same - a lager’s individual popularity apparently being measured in depth of advertising coverage rather than depth of flavour.
The facsimile of a large, fat green grub, standing on the bar holding a menu, wittily, or so its creator must have imagined, informed the clientele that The Old Goat Inn did pub grub. The pub grub itself, which the menu proclaimed was ‘clasically british’ (sic) consisted of scampi, beef and ale pie (whether it was real ale wasn’t indicated), moussaka, pizza, and three different curries. The vegetarian option was a vegetarian curry, which I wouldn’t mind betting was any of the three different curries with the meat taken out.
Now, in heaven, I had only gone into the pub because I wanted to go the toilet and couldn’t find one, Manchester, as is the case with most British city centres, boasting about as many public conveniences as the planet Saturn.
Inside the pub it had been a revelation. Gone were the pool tables, the muzak, the games, and all things artificial. Instead was everything I want in a pub; real oak beams, open coal fires, horse brasses and copper knick-knacks adorning the walls, sepia photographs of scenes of long ago, little alcoves where a man could enjoy a quiet pint and hear himself speak and be spoken to if he wanted to chat with a fellow drinker, and a barmaid who had been employed for her cheery but efficient manner rather than the size and visibility of her breasts. What was once a white ceiling was now brown, stained by the nicotine from all the cigarette smoking that was still allowed. Five of the bar’s six pumps were used for real ale with the remaining one for lager, and the green grub holding the menu of ‘clasical british food’ had been replaced by a simple menu of good old-fashioned favourites, including ploughman’s lunch.
As I ordered the Blue Stilton version of the Ploughman’s and a pint of Theakston’s Old Peculier to wash it down with (free, although everyone else paid) I made a mental note to question The Archangel Phil about the changes at The Old Goat Inn. How could it be? How could the pub have been totally transformed from what it had been, into what it was now, in the space of a month? If it had been taken over by another brewery and given a makeover they’d been sharp about it, and besides when that happened it was usually to install slot machines and juke boxes and plastic in various manifestations, not take them out.
I would also require my mentor to throw some light on the strange occurrence the previous evening at Michael Caines Abode.
As with the two previous evenings the food was excellent. The restaurant was full and two minor ‘celebrities’ had been present; an actor from Coronation Street and a topless glamour model, although thankfully she wasn’t topless at the moment, and even more thankfully the Coronation Street actor
wasn’t acting. Being a fan neither of soap operas nor topless models I didn’t recognise either of the celebrities, and still wouldn’t if the woman at the next table hadn’t pointed them out to her husband. “You see him. He’s Gail’s new feller. Yes, another one, she never learns does she. Another murderer by the look of him. And the girl with him was Page Three in the Sport last week.”
Not present at Michael Caine’s Abode again was Michael Caine, but then I hadn’t expected he would be. In fact I would have foregone the attendance of quite a few topless models and the entire cast of Coronation Street for an appearance by the famous actor, as he has always been one of my very favourite film stars.
I’d first seen the him - in fact it was the first time anyone had seen him on screen - in his debut film Zulu, and I’d been a huge fan ever since. The Ipcress File? Loved it. Alfie? Brilliant. While I was sipping my wine between courses I thought how nice it would be if he were to put in an appearance, how it would put the icing on the cake of my dining experience if he were to suddenly step through from the kitchens to greet his guests, and for some unexplained reason notice me amongst the diners and came over to say hello. “Hi there. Norman, isn’t it?” he would say, and casually sit down at my table, drink a glass of wine with me and pass the time of day chatting about this and that. No sooner had the thought entered my head than Michael Caine did just that. Even down to calling me by name. It was all quite wonderful. He even related an amusing anecdote and at the end of it said: “Not a lot of people know that.”
When he said it I thought I couldn’t have been happier if Michael, acting the part of Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead, had suddenly stood up and shouted “Front rank fire! Second rank fire! Rear rank fire!” as he had done to telling and magnificent effect in Zulu. And in a flash, and to my great delight, what happened next in the film - wave upon wave of Zulu warriors throwing themselves on the guns of the beleaguered British outpost - happened in Michael Caine’s Abode, and in about ten seconds flat the restaurant was knee deep in dead Africans, half the diners, two waiters, the sommelier, the Coronation Street actor and the topless glamour model.
CHAPTER NINE
On the following day I was in heaven. Both literally and metaphorically. As happy as a dog with two dicks. Following my meeting with the Archangel Phil I began to grow a third. The opportunity to live in a house once lived in by one of my all time favourite Manchester United footballers was the ultimate in dreams come true. It wasn’t a golden ticket I’d been handed; this was the platinum ticket, with knobs on.
“And this is the master bedroom,” The Archangel Phil had said.
David Beckham’s old flat in Alderley Edge was the second of ex-Manchester United footballer’s houses my mentor had taken me to view. Or rather I had taken my mentor to view, as I’d decided to give my new Mercedes SL Convertible 500 a run out to get the feel of it. It had felt very nice indeed.
Purchased at The Archangel Phil’s suggestion earlier that morning at the Mercedes Manchester main dealership it had once again been acquired with the minimum of fuss and the absence of money.
I was sold on the car from the moment I visualised myself behind it’s padded leather steering wheel, speeding along a country road, Kristin at my side, the wind in her hair. I would have been sold on a twenty-year-old Ford Fiesta with Kristin by my side with knits in her hair but it was icing on the cake time again; I was quickly learning that the words ‘icing’ and ‘cake’ were constant companions in this wonderful place called heaven.
“It’s the bedroom that Becks and Posh would have slept in,” continued The Archangel Phil. “They would have made love in here often, I would imagine,” he added temptingly.
Far from tempting me the thought of coupling Beckhams was more likely to put me off. Although still a huge fan of David, despite him turning his back on United when he stopped becoming a footballer and became a fashion icon, I have no time at all for his wife. I once saw her described in a newspaper as an English Rose. I’d shaken my head in disbelief. Whoever said it had obviously confused lissom with gristle. Nor did English Roses have bottom lips that jutted out farther than the roof of one of the cantilever stands at Old Trafford. However The Archangel Phil’s mentioning of Posh and Becks making love in the bedroom reminded me that I could soon be making love to Kristin in it, which immediately put it back on my wish list.
“What do you think to it then?” asked The Archangel Phil.
“I’m not sure.” Making love to Kristin apart, I very much liked the spacious modern flat and the idea of living in Alderley Edge. Although the village is deep in the Cheshire countryside it is handy for town and only an hour away from the Derbyshire Dales, probably less in the new Merc. But I’d also been quite impressed by George Best’s old house in nearby Bramhall. On entering George’s bedroom The Archangel Phil had made the same remark he had when he entered David Beckham’s bedroom, that George would very often have made love there with one of his girlfriends, maybe a Miss World or two, although he had left off the ‘I would imagine’, probably because around two thousand women and the whole of the football world had known it for a racing certainty.
A moment’s thought brought me to a decision. “I’d like a look at Bobby Charlton’s place.”
“No problem.”
An hour later found us entering Sir Bobby Charlton’s master bedroom in Lymm, yet another pretty, unspoilt, Cheshire village. The Archangel Phil didn’t mention it was the bedroom where Sir Bobby and his wife had often made love, for which I was grateful; George Best is long dead and David Beckham long gone but Sir Bobby is still very much alive and the thought of the seventy-four year old United legend getting his oats is not the dignified image I like to keep of my hero.
“So what do you think?” said the archangel, after I’d had a good look round.
Something puzzled me. “I know David Beckham doesn’t live in Alderley Edge anymore.” I said. “And Georgie Best doesn’t live in Wilmslow. But Bobby Charlton still lives here; what will he do if I move in?”
“Bobby Charlton lives here on earth,” said The Archangel Phil. “This is heaven.”
I thought I understood. “So he won’t still be living in it?”
The Archangel Phil affirmed this with a nod and said, “Bobby Charlton’s house then? It’s obvious you’re very much taken by it.”
I couldn’t make up my mind. “I like the others too.”
“Then why not have all three?”
Was he having me on? “All three?”
“You’re in heaven.”
If we hadn’t had a chat before setting out I would have thought my mentor was joking. Not now though. I was quickly learning that just about anything was possible in heaven. Earlier I had asked about The Old Goat Inn.
“Think back to the time just before you went in,” The Archangel Phil said. “What were you thinking?”
“That I was in need of a pee.”
“Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“You mentioned before that you were familiar with the pub. Is it possible you imagined how nice it would be if instead of being the pub from hell it was exactly the sort of pub you like?”
I thought about this for a moment. “I don’t remember. I could have; it used to be that sort of pub.”
“So you wanted it to be the sort of pub you like?”
“I suppose.”
“Well there you are then?”
“What do you mean, there I am?”
“The assistants at the shops where you bought your new clothes - love the yellow waistcoat by the way - they treated you how you wanted to be treated?”
“Yes. Yes they did.”
“They were like you wanted them to be?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you’d had that thought before you entered the shop?”
“Probably. I can’t be doing with the ones who can’t be arsed to serve you. Or when they’re all over you - ‘Suits you, sir’ - they’re worse if anything.�
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“But they were neither dilatory nor overbearing?”
“No, they were spot on.”
“And did Manchester United beat Liverpool five-nil?”
“Three times. Every day.”
“And you’ve already mentioned your liaison with a certain Miss Scott Thomas.”
It was beginning to make sense. “You mean I just want something to happen and it happens?”
“Exactly that.”
We were sat on the bench in Piccadilly Gardens where we’d first met. Nearby a man was trying to sell passers-by copies of the Big Issue. As usual he would probably have had more success if he’d been trying to sell them AIDS. I picked up on this.
“What’s all that about then? A Big Issue seller in heaven?”
“He’s not in heaven. Well not his heaven. He’s in your heaven.”
“How do you mean?”
“Everyone’s heaven is different. Everyone who dies has a heaven of their own.”
“Their own heaven?”
“It only makes sense when you think about; no two people are alike, none of us enjoy exactly the same things. You are in the heaven that is ‘heaven’ to you, your very own heaven.”
“With Big Issue sellers in it?” I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Why would I want Big Issue sellers in my heaven? I feel sorry for the poor buggers.”
The Archangel Phil frowned. “Maybe I could have explained it better.” He took a moment before carrying on, then said, “As with all new arrivals I started you off in the world you left behind. A world in which you are completely familiar, so that the shock isn’t too great. There were Big Issue sellers in your life on earth so there are Big Issue sellers in your life in heaven. That’s how things were and how they are at this moment. But once you’ve had time to settle in, once you’ve had a good look round, you’ll be able to change things so that your heaven is just how you want it to be; how things will be in your heaven from now on and for evermore. Do you see?”
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