I had a dream last night. I think it was a dream. Maybe it really happened.
I died and went up to the Pearly Gates.
“Howya Grandad” said Peter.
“Howya Pete” says I.
“Now what makes you think you are entitled to come in here?”
“I don’t know. I’m a nice bloke and can be the life and soul [if you’ll pardon the expression] of a party?”
“We need more than that” says he. “Have you done any good works?”
“Have you donated your entire income to the Third World?”
“Have you laid down your life to save another?”
“Have you contributed anything to life to make the world a better place?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Aw come on” says he, “you must have done something good?”
“Listen” says I, “I am, or rather was, just an ordinary bloke. I lived my life. I kept my head down. I’m a nonentity in the grand scheme of things. I’m just an ordinary Joe Soap.”
Just then he cocked his head to one side, and I realised he had one of those earpiece thingies.
“Himself wants to know if you are the bloke behind HeadRambles?” says Pete.
“Yeah. Sorry about that. I suppose that means the Big Trip Downstairs for me?”
“No” says Pete. “Himself is a great fan. He reads it every day. He says your campaign against the Devil is remarkable. He says you’re in!”
“Great” says I, “but I never wrote about the Devil.”
“You were always on about him. Himself upstairs loved it. He nearly granted you another hundred years of life so He could go on reading it.”
“But I never wrote about the Devil” I repeated.
“Yes you did” says Pete, “but you always referred to him as ‘George W'”