The Glasgow Resurrection
by Kevin McCallum
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: Surprisingly few.
Description: A humourous look at the futility of Glasgow’s religious divide. With the Celtic v Rangers game only a couple of hours away, Sean and Archie are in Glasgow’s Necropolis, hurriedly attempting to move the boulder in front of Jesus’s Scottish tomb.
_____________________________________________________________________
Easter Sunday: a day to celebrate the resurrection of our Lord. Christians everywhere across the globe come together as one big happy family, sharing a common bond of love and faith for the Messiah and Son of God. Everywhere that is, except Glasgow.
Archie looked over his shoulder to make sure there was no police about. Out on licence, he’d be heading straight back to the pokey if caught grave robbing. Not that he was grave robbing. Today he was on a mission from God: a personal crusade that would help put Protestantism as the one and only true Christian faith. “Come on, Sean, put your back intae it. We huvnae got aw day. The game starts in two hours.”
Sean huffed. He hadn’t worked a full shift since Ravenscraig closed down. His ageing body wasn’t used to this sort of physical labour. He too glanced over his shoulder just in case anyone from the Social was snooping on him. “It’s you who’s no pulling their weight. Put yir scarf doon for a start and use baith hauns, then we might get somewhere. Ah don’t want ma money getting stopped. Ah’ve got a bad back, ye know.”
“Sake!” said Archie. “You lot are nothing but a drain on this country. The sooner you aw go hame the better.”
“Tiocfaidh ár lá, Archie. Tiocfaidh ár lá. And th-day’s the day. Ah don’t even know whit yir dane here. Yir wasting yir time. The big man’s goany laugh at you and yir kind when he gets here.”
“Look at ye. You cannae even speak English. Is that because it’s the Queen’s English? You’re British, Sean. Get over it.”
“Just put yir scarf doon and let’s get this thing shifted, then we’ll see who we belong tae.”
Archie let his red, white and blue scarf roll out to its full length before lovingly folding it back up and laying it on the grass. Together they tried once more to move the massive boulder blocking their way into the crypt. Both men gave it their all but the rock wouldn’t budge. Ten seconds later Sean almost broke sweat and had to stop pushing before his pulse rate raised enough to be measured.
“Sake! Whit’s up with you noo?”
“Ah think Ah need tae sit doon, Archie. Ah’m feeling a bit dizzy.”
“Sake! Nothing but soap-dodging, work-shy layabouts the lot of you. If I could do this myself I’d tell you where to go, no mistake.”
Sean tutted as he sat on the grass, which was strangely dry for this time of year. “Look. There’s somebody coming up the hill. We’ll suss them oot first and, if they don’t look like a grass, we’ll ask them tae gie us a haun.” He signalled towards Archie’s bag. “Get a bottle of wine oot and we’ll have a quick swally while we’re having a wee rest.”
“Open one of your own bottles, ya stingy roaster. I’m keeping these for me and the big man. Or have you just brought holy water, hoping to get it turned intae a cheap bottle of wine?”
“Gerrit up ye,” said Sean, pulling a bottle of Jacob’s Creek Sparkling Chardonnay from his Asda bag like a rabbit from a hat. “Touch of class, son. Touch of class.”
“No way could you afford that. You must’ve stole it while you were stealing Trevelyan’s corn to feed your forty weans.”
Ignoring Archie’s last remark Sean pulled out a set of crystal champagne flutes from his other Asda bag. He’d originally planned to celebrate the Lord’s resurrection with a bottle of champagne but Asda had a deal on the sparkling wine. “Well, dae ye want a gless then, or are ye goany swally oot yir poly bag as usual?”
“Aye, go on.” Archie was impressed by Sean’s choice of beverage, and surprised at the production of flutes, albeit not the kind he would’ve brought had he remembered, but managed to hide it well. He peeked in his own bag and still felt staunchly proud of his own holy selection from the Co-op.
By the time the flutes were filled the other morning visitor to Glasgow’s Necropolis was almost upon them. An elderly man dressed in black suit with a dark grey shirt and white dog collar.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Good to see you up early on this fine day and paying your respects to lost friends. May God bless the both of you.”
“Good morning, Father,” said Sean, raising his glass in a toast. “And may God bless you too…and the Pope John Paul.”
The old priest chuckled to himself before correcting Sean. “I think you mean Pope Francis.”
Archie rolled his eyes and whispered to Sean. “Call yourself a Catholic? Even I knew that. You’re nothing but a thick-as-mince tattie-muncher. I blame the schools.”
“And Pope Benedict, Father… of course…and all the other popes too…right back to Peter,” said Sean before turning to the side and whispering to Archie. “And you call yourself a Christian? Where are yir manners in front ay a man ay the cloth?”
“Papists…men of the cloth? Don’t get me started. Just ask him to give us a hand moving this before he has to head off and do a ten hour mass and defrock the altar boys.”
“Aye, awright. Eh, Ah don’t suppose ye could gie us a wee hand for a minute, Father. If yir no too busy that is, on this fine Easter morn.”
Moving closer Father Malone spied the Asda flutes glistening in the sun. “Of course, brother. Of course. Is that a spare glass you have there? It’s a fair hot morning and my throat’s a little dry, if you know what I mean.”
‘Typical,’ thought Archie. ‘Nothing for nothing with this lot.’
Winking at Archie, Sean fetched a flute. “It would be a pleasure tae share a wee glass of refreshment wae ye, Father.” By the time he reached for the Chardonnay in the bag Father Malone was already standing beside him looking like he’d discovered the second coming.
They all clinked glasses and sat watching one solitary fluffy cloud ambling its way over the city. At times it seemed to stop and change direction before regaining its bearings and heading north to the hills and mountains in the distance.
With thirsts quenched and spirits lifted the three men tried once again to move the huge rock blocking their way. They huffed and puffed, grunted and groaned, and Archie even spat the Lord’s name in vain just the once, all to no avail. The rock stood solid, all powerful over the efforts of men united in effort but still divided by thought.
Once again Sean called a halt to proceedings. His pulse rate was now higher than it had been since his last Benefits Appeal in front of the fascist panel at Cadogan Street. Archie was also feeling the pace but in light of the company couldn’t display any weakness in his work ethic.
“Dae ye fancy another wee glass, Father? It’s thirsty work aw this pushing, is it not?”
Father Malone gave his watch a cursory glance before holding his glass up for a refill. Archie watched as the last few drops of sparkling chardonnay half-filled the priest’s glass, then shook his head as Father Malone drank that half while Sean opened another bottle to top him up.
They settled down again, not saying much but enjoying the heat of the Spring sun on their faces and the refreshing gentle breeze floating through the Necropolis. Taking in the city panorama the three of them drifted into their thoughts until a voice startled them.
“Hello there! I must say. Isn’t this just a wonderful day?”
Archie turned around first. Before him stood a middle-aged gentleman wearing a straw boater hat, dressed in grey suit, light blue shirt and white dog collar. “Hello there yourself, Reverend. It’s always good to see one of God’s people, especially on a day as beautiful as this.”
Sean shrunk a little and half-attempted to hide his glass before acknowledging the newcomer. “Awright, mate? Lovely day right enough.”
“Pleased to meet you, Reverend,” said Father Malone, offering a friendly hand. “I’m Father Jim Malone.”
“Likewise I’m sure. I’m Bernard Smythe-Graham: Church of Scotland Chaplain for the Royal Infirmary.”
“Can Ah get ye a wee refreshment there, Reverend?” asked Sean, trying to sound enthusiastic about sharing his rapidly depleting carry-out but keen to show his Christian values in reply to Archie’s earlier contempt for Father Malone. “Ah hate tae see a man ay the cloth looking thirsty…no matter whit his particular persuasion.”
“If you have a spare glass I’d be delighted to join you for a quick one and perhaps some friendly banter. What brings you all here on this fine Easter Sunday anyway? By your attire I’d have thought you would be going to the big game today.”
While Sean poured a glass for Reverend Smythe-Graham, Father Maloney drained his own glass in time for a top-up. Seeing that, Archie shook his head, finished his drink and also held his glass out for a refill. Sean acknowledged Archie’s greed with a raised eyebrow but cracked open the third anyway, which by then was warming-up a tad in the late morning heat.
Once all glasses were filled Sean proposed a toast: “Tae the most beautiful city in the world – Glasgow.”
“Glasgow,” they said as one before the sound of gulping was heard above the lone blackbird singing from a safe distance.
“So,” said Reverend Smythe-Graham, settling down on the grass with his legs crossed in the Lotus position. “Why do you all look as if you’ve been exercising?”
“Oh, I’m just giving the lads a hand,” said Father Malone. “I go where God points me. And today he has pointed me in the direction of these fine gentlemen. And when God’s work is done here I will probably go and have a lie down.”
“You haven’t even done anything,” Archie mumbled under his breath.
“Ah had a vision last night, Reverend,” said Sean, sitting upright, trying to look purposeful.
“Don’t listen to him,” said Archie. “It was I who had the vision. He’s just trying to stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“Oh, what a coincidence,” said Reverend Smythe-Graham. “And what kind of visions were they?”
“Well,” said Sean, topping everyone’s glasses. “An angel appeared tae me and telt me tae get ma arse up the Necropolis first this morning, and that everything would become clear once Ah got here.”
“Sake! That’s my story you’re stealing,” said Archie. “Here’s what really happened, Reverend. An angel appeared to me last night and told me I had to get here before they did.”
“Oh, really,” said Reverend Smythe-Graham, swirling his wine in the glass before making the top half disappear in one gulp. “And who are…they?”
Archie gave a subtle nod in the direction of Sean and Father Malone. “Them. Papes. Idolaters.”
Father Malone emptied his glass down his throat. “I think I’m going to need another top-up before I give my measured response to that sort of ludicrous accusation.”
Sean leaned over and poured the last few drops into Father Malone’s glass. “Looks like we’re aw oot ay the good stuff.”
“Tut! said Archie before getting up to retrieve his Co-op bag from the shade. “Here, this is a wine suitable for God himself, made by monks in an Abbey.”
The others hid their disappointment well when Archie pulled out the Buckfast.
Once all glasses were refilled the conversation took a theological twist way above Sean and Archie’s heads. Father Malone and Reverend Smythe debated the nuances of each faith in a calm, respectful manner befitting of highly-educated men whose main purpose in life was to spread the love of Jesus.
Time passed slowly for Sean and Archie as the men of the cloth discussed the authority of the scriptures and traditions, transubstantiation, the Five Solas, the role of the Pope in Rome, Purgatory, praying to saints, worshipping the Virgin Mary and on and on and on.
Sean and Archie tried to take in as much as possible but with the drink kicking in and no mention of football they were close to dozing off.
Only once the second bottle of Buckfast ran out did both priest and minister turn their attention back to Sean and Archie and their original quest.
“Now then, lads,” said Reverend Smythe-Graham, picking himself up after stumbling over a vase of flowers on his way back from a pee behind one of the smaller mausoleums. “How did you both manage to end up at the same spot here in the Necropolis?”
Archie pointed to the inscription on the tomb:
Here lies Jesus McChrist for eternity or until his resurrection heralds a new age of religious tolerance among the poor misguided souls.
Reverend Smythe-Graham screwed his eyes and moved forward for a closer look but fell over Father Malone who was sprawled out on the grass; waking and stirring him into a mumbled ramble in the process that at first sounded like Latin but turned out to be a case of his false teeth falling out.
“Right,” said Sean, picking himself up and offering a hand to the groggy and dishevelled Father Malone. “Let’s get this show on the road, Father. Once we get the big man oot we’ll find oot wance and for aw whose side he’s on. Let’s gie it wan last final push for oor Holy Father John Paul in Rome.”
“Francis.”
“Aye, him as well.”
“Aw no you don’t,” said Archie, looking at Sean and dragging Reverend Smythe-Graham up by the scruff of the neck. “C’mon Smythey. We cannae let these Fenian layabouts do it without us. We’re representing Calvin…and Knox…and…Walter Smith.”
The four men took up their positions and pushed and shoved the rock with all their might. Sean and Archie’s faces were beetroot. Sweat rushed from every pore as they heaved for the cause. Hundreds of years of wondering who’s right and who’s wrong would be answered if only they could budge that rock and free the entrance to Jesus McChrist’s tomb. They knew that if they could get it to move a single inch it would roll down the hill and help usher in the Second Coming and a new golden age for at least two of them. Working so hard together for so long felt like an eternity in hell but, even though they were almost sober when the point of exhaustion approached, there was no way they were giving up now having come so far.
Sean and Father Malone saw their toil as earning Grace and forgiveness of sins, while Archie and Smythe-Graham felt their Protestant work ethic would soon be rewarded with not only the riches of eternal life in Heaven but also a chance to gloat about being the true people of God.
Meanwhile, down the path two twelve year old girls wearing Barcelona and Real Madrid tops dribbled their way through the Necropolis. Playing one-twos with gravestones and commentating on their progress, they worked as a team and made swift progress towards the group sweating in the sun.
“Oh marvellous pass by James Buchanan to young Tracy McKenzie. He might have been dead since 1836 but he’s never lost that silky touch that made him one of the greats. Oh and that’s another magnificent piece of vision by that old stalwart of the Boer War, Colonel Stevenson. Who would’ve thought that after losing both his legs he would still be a valuable asset to any team? Just shows you what can be achieved if you put your mind to it.”
“McKenzie threads a wonderful through ball to Boyle, it must be…”
Their concentration and flowing football was broken by the sight of four old men screaming at each other about who was not doing their fair share of the pushing. When they stopped to look more closely they noticed a priest, minister, Rangers top and Celtic top. Both the priest and the Celtic top were at one side of a huge boulder and the minister and Rangers top were at the other side. One pair pushed in one direction and the other pair pushed in the opposite direction, blind to the fact they were locked in a never-ending futile battle with themselves.
The young girls giggled as they watched the old dinosaurs make a fool of themselves in the midday sun.
“Why don’t they get together and aw push fae the wan side?” asked young Tracy McKenzie.
“Only God knows,” said her friend Jackie picking the ball up and checking the time on her mobile phone. The game kicked off half an hour ago. Ah’d have thought they’d be watching it in a pub instead of fannying aboot up here.”
“Surely it’s obvious they’re never goany get anywhere like that. Are they mental or whit?”
“They’re mer than mental. They’re deranged.”
“Come tae think of it, is that no your Da up there, Jackie?”
Having spotted him right away Jackie had hoped Tracy wouldn’t recognise him. “Mon, let’s get oot a here.”
“He looks steaming. Mind you, he always looked steaming. Is that why yir maw threw him oot?”
“Naw. She threw him oot coz he’s a dick. Mon, let’s go afore he sees me and asks fur a haun.”
Swearwords: Surprisingly few.
Description: A humourous look at the futility of Glasgow’s religious divide. With the Celtic v Rangers game only a couple of hours away, Sean and Archie are in Glasgow’s Necropolis, hurriedly attempting to move the boulder in front of Jesus’s Scottish tomb.
_____________________________________________________________________
Easter Sunday: a day to celebrate the resurrection of our Lord. Christians everywhere across the globe come together as one big happy family, sharing a common bond of love and faith for the Messiah and Son of God. Everywhere that is, except Glasgow.
Archie looked over his shoulder to make sure there was no police about. Out on licence, he’d be heading straight back to the pokey if caught grave robbing. Not that he was grave robbing. Today he was on a mission from God: a personal crusade that would help put Protestantism as the one and only true Christian faith. “Come on, Sean, put your back intae it. We huvnae got aw day. The game starts in two hours.”
Sean huffed. He hadn’t worked a full shift since Ravenscraig closed down. His ageing body wasn’t used to this sort of physical labour. He too glanced over his shoulder just in case anyone from the Social was snooping on him. “It’s you who’s no pulling their weight. Put yir scarf doon for a start and use baith hauns, then we might get somewhere. Ah don’t want ma money getting stopped. Ah’ve got a bad back, ye know.”
“Sake!” said Archie. “You lot are nothing but a drain on this country. The sooner you aw go hame the better.”
“Tiocfaidh ár lá, Archie. Tiocfaidh ár lá. And th-day’s the day. Ah don’t even know whit yir dane here. Yir wasting yir time. The big man’s goany laugh at you and yir kind when he gets here.”
“Look at ye. You cannae even speak English. Is that because it’s the Queen’s English? You’re British, Sean. Get over it.”
“Just put yir scarf doon and let’s get this thing shifted, then we’ll see who we belong tae.”
Archie let his red, white and blue scarf roll out to its full length before lovingly folding it back up and laying it on the grass. Together they tried once more to move the massive boulder blocking their way into the crypt. Both men gave it their all but the rock wouldn’t budge. Ten seconds later Sean almost broke sweat and had to stop pushing before his pulse rate raised enough to be measured.
“Sake! Whit’s up with you noo?”
“Ah think Ah need tae sit doon, Archie. Ah’m feeling a bit dizzy.”
“Sake! Nothing but soap-dodging, work-shy layabouts the lot of you. If I could do this myself I’d tell you where to go, no mistake.”
Sean tutted as he sat on the grass, which was strangely dry for this time of year. “Look. There’s somebody coming up the hill. We’ll suss them oot first and, if they don’t look like a grass, we’ll ask them tae gie us a haun.” He signalled towards Archie’s bag. “Get a bottle of wine oot and we’ll have a quick swally while we’re having a wee rest.”
“Open one of your own bottles, ya stingy roaster. I’m keeping these for me and the big man. Or have you just brought holy water, hoping to get it turned intae a cheap bottle of wine?”
“Gerrit up ye,” said Sean, pulling a bottle of Jacob’s Creek Sparkling Chardonnay from his Asda bag like a rabbit from a hat. “Touch of class, son. Touch of class.”
“No way could you afford that. You must’ve stole it while you were stealing Trevelyan’s corn to feed your forty weans.”
Ignoring Archie’s last remark Sean pulled out a set of crystal champagne flutes from his other Asda bag. He’d originally planned to celebrate the Lord’s resurrection with a bottle of champagne but Asda had a deal on the sparkling wine. “Well, dae ye want a gless then, or are ye goany swally oot yir poly bag as usual?”
“Aye, go on.” Archie was impressed by Sean’s choice of beverage, and surprised at the production of flutes, albeit not the kind he would’ve brought had he remembered, but managed to hide it well. He peeked in his own bag and still felt staunchly proud of his own holy selection from the Co-op.
By the time the flutes were filled the other morning visitor to Glasgow’s Necropolis was almost upon them. An elderly man dressed in black suit with a dark grey shirt and white dog collar.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Good to see you up early on this fine day and paying your respects to lost friends. May God bless the both of you.”
“Good morning, Father,” said Sean, raising his glass in a toast. “And may God bless you too…and the Pope John Paul.”
The old priest chuckled to himself before correcting Sean. “I think you mean Pope Francis.”
Archie rolled his eyes and whispered to Sean. “Call yourself a Catholic? Even I knew that. You’re nothing but a thick-as-mince tattie-muncher. I blame the schools.”
“And Pope Benedict, Father… of course…and all the other popes too…right back to Peter,” said Sean before turning to the side and whispering to Archie. “And you call yourself a Christian? Where are yir manners in front ay a man ay the cloth?”
“Papists…men of the cloth? Don’t get me started. Just ask him to give us a hand moving this before he has to head off and do a ten hour mass and defrock the altar boys.”
“Aye, awright. Eh, Ah don’t suppose ye could gie us a wee hand for a minute, Father. If yir no too busy that is, on this fine Easter morn.”
Moving closer Father Malone spied the Asda flutes glistening in the sun. “Of course, brother. Of course. Is that a spare glass you have there? It’s a fair hot morning and my throat’s a little dry, if you know what I mean.”
‘Typical,’ thought Archie. ‘Nothing for nothing with this lot.’
Winking at Archie, Sean fetched a flute. “It would be a pleasure tae share a wee glass of refreshment wae ye, Father.” By the time he reached for the Chardonnay in the bag Father Malone was already standing beside him looking like he’d discovered the second coming.
They all clinked glasses and sat watching one solitary fluffy cloud ambling its way over the city. At times it seemed to stop and change direction before regaining its bearings and heading north to the hills and mountains in the distance.
With thirsts quenched and spirits lifted the three men tried once again to move the huge rock blocking their way. They huffed and puffed, grunted and groaned, and Archie even spat the Lord’s name in vain just the once, all to no avail. The rock stood solid, all powerful over the efforts of men united in effort but still divided by thought.
Once again Sean called a halt to proceedings. His pulse rate was now higher than it had been since his last Benefits Appeal in front of the fascist panel at Cadogan Street. Archie was also feeling the pace but in light of the company couldn’t display any weakness in his work ethic.
“Dae ye fancy another wee glass, Father? It’s thirsty work aw this pushing, is it not?”
Father Malone gave his watch a cursory glance before holding his glass up for a refill. Archie watched as the last few drops of sparkling chardonnay half-filled the priest’s glass, then shook his head as Father Malone drank that half while Sean opened another bottle to top him up.
They settled down again, not saying much but enjoying the heat of the Spring sun on their faces and the refreshing gentle breeze floating through the Necropolis. Taking in the city panorama the three of them drifted into their thoughts until a voice startled them.
“Hello there! I must say. Isn’t this just a wonderful day?”
Archie turned around first. Before him stood a middle-aged gentleman wearing a straw boater hat, dressed in grey suit, light blue shirt and white dog collar. “Hello there yourself, Reverend. It’s always good to see one of God’s people, especially on a day as beautiful as this.”
Sean shrunk a little and half-attempted to hide his glass before acknowledging the newcomer. “Awright, mate? Lovely day right enough.”
“Pleased to meet you, Reverend,” said Father Malone, offering a friendly hand. “I’m Father Jim Malone.”
“Likewise I’m sure. I’m Bernard Smythe-Graham: Church of Scotland Chaplain for the Royal Infirmary.”
“Can Ah get ye a wee refreshment there, Reverend?” asked Sean, trying to sound enthusiastic about sharing his rapidly depleting carry-out but keen to show his Christian values in reply to Archie’s earlier contempt for Father Malone. “Ah hate tae see a man ay the cloth looking thirsty…no matter whit his particular persuasion.”
“If you have a spare glass I’d be delighted to join you for a quick one and perhaps some friendly banter. What brings you all here on this fine Easter Sunday anyway? By your attire I’d have thought you would be going to the big game today.”
While Sean poured a glass for Reverend Smythe-Graham, Father Maloney drained his own glass in time for a top-up. Seeing that, Archie shook his head, finished his drink and also held his glass out for a refill. Sean acknowledged Archie’s greed with a raised eyebrow but cracked open the third anyway, which by then was warming-up a tad in the late morning heat.
Once all glasses were filled Sean proposed a toast: “Tae the most beautiful city in the world – Glasgow.”
“Glasgow,” they said as one before the sound of gulping was heard above the lone blackbird singing from a safe distance.
“So,” said Reverend Smythe-Graham, settling down on the grass with his legs crossed in the Lotus position. “Why do you all look as if you’ve been exercising?”
“Oh, I’m just giving the lads a hand,” said Father Malone. “I go where God points me. And today he has pointed me in the direction of these fine gentlemen. And when God’s work is done here I will probably go and have a lie down.”
“You haven’t even done anything,” Archie mumbled under his breath.
“Ah had a vision last night, Reverend,” said Sean, sitting upright, trying to look purposeful.
“Don’t listen to him,” said Archie. “It was I who had the vision. He’s just trying to stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“Oh, what a coincidence,” said Reverend Smythe-Graham. “And what kind of visions were they?”
“Well,” said Sean, topping everyone’s glasses. “An angel appeared tae me and telt me tae get ma arse up the Necropolis first this morning, and that everything would become clear once Ah got here.”
“Sake! That’s my story you’re stealing,” said Archie. “Here’s what really happened, Reverend. An angel appeared to me last night and told me I had to get here before they did.”
“Oh, really,” said Reverend Smythe-Graham, swirling his wine in the glass before making the top half disappear in one gulp. “And who are…they?”
Archie gave a subtle nod in the direction of Sean and Father Malone. “Them. Papes. Idolaters.”
Father Malone emptied his glass down his throat. “I think I’m going to need another top-up before I give my measured response to that sort of ludicrous accusation.”
Sean leaned over and poured the last few drops into Father Malone’s glass. “Looks like we’re aw oot ay the good stuff.”
“Tut! said Archie before getting up to retrieve his Co-op bag from the shade. “Here, this is a wine suitable for God himself, made by monks in an Abbey.”
The others hid their disappointment well when Archie pulled out the Buckfast.
Once all glasses were refilled the conversation took a theological twist way above Sean and Archie’s heads. Father Malone and Reverend Smythe debated the nuances of each faith in a calm, respectful manner befitting of highly-educated men whose main purpose in life was to spread the love of Jesus.
Time passed slowly for Sean and Archie as the men of the cloth discussed the authority of the scriptures and traditions, transubstantiation, the Five Solas, the role of the Pope in Rome, Purgatory, praying to saints, worshipping the Virgin Mary and on and on and on.
Sean and Archie tried to take in as much as possible but with the drink kicking in and no mention of football they were close to dozing off.
Only once the second bottle of Buckfast ran out did both priest and minister turn their attention back to Sean and Archie and their original quest.
“Now then, lads,” said Reverend Smythe-Graham, picking himself up after stumbling over a vase of flowers on his way back from a pee behind one of the smaller mausoleums. “How did you both manage to end up at the same spot here in the Necropolis?”
Archie pointed to the inscription on the tomb:
Here lies Jesus McChrist for eternity or until his resurrection heralds a new age of religious tolerance among the poor misguided souls.
Reverend Smythe-Graham screwed his eyes and moved forward for a closer look but fell over Father Malone who was sprawled out on the grass; waking and stirring him into a mumbled ramble in the process that at first sounded like Latin but turned out to be a case of his false teeth falling out.
“Right,” said Sean, picking himself up and offering a hand to the groggy and dishevelled Father Malone. “Let’s get this show on the road, Father. Once we get the big man oot we’ll find oot wance and for aw whose side he’s on. Let’s gie it wan last final push for oor Holy Father John Paul in Rome.”
“Francis.”
“Aye, him as well.”
“Aw no you don’t,” said Archie, looking at Sean and dragging Reverend Smythe-Graham up by the scruff of the neck. “C’mon Smythey. We cannae let these Fenian layabouts do it without us. We’re representing Calvin…and Knox…and…Walter Smith.”
The four men took up their positions and pushed and shoved the rock with all their might. Sean and Archie’s faces were beetroot. Sweat rushed from every pore as they heaved for the cause. Hundreds of years of wondering who’s right and who’s wrong would be answered if only they could budge that rock and free the entrance to Jesus McChrist’s tomb. They knew that if they could get it to move a single inch it would roll down the hill and help usher in the Second Coming and a new golden age for at least two of them. Working so hard together for so long felt like an eternity in hell but, even though they were almost sober when the point of exhaustion approached, there was no way they were giving up now having come so far.
Sean and Father Malone saw their toil as earning Grace and forgiveness of sins, while Archie and Smythe-Graham felt their Protestant work ethic would soon be rewarded with not only the riches of eternal life in Heaven but also a chance to gloat about being the true people of God.
Meanwhile, down the path two twelve year old girls wearing Barcelona and Real Madrid tops dribbled their way through the Necropolis. Playing one-twos with gravestones and commentating on their progress, they worked as a team and made swift progress towards the group sweating in the sun.
“Oh marvellous pass by James Buchanan to young Tracy McKenzie. He might have been dead since 1836 but he’s never lost that silky touch that made him one of the greats. Oh and that’s another magnificent piece of vision by that old stalwart of the Boer War, Colonel Stevenson. Who would’ve thought that after losing both his legs he would still be a valuable asset to any team? Just shows you what can be achieved if you put your mind to it.”
“McKenzie threads a wonderful through ball to Boyle, it must be…”
Their concentration and flowing football was broken by the sight of four old men screaming at each other about who was not doing their fair share of the pushing. When they stopped to look more closely they noticed a priest, minister, Rangers top and Celtic top. Both the priest and the Celtic top were at one side of a huge boulder and the minister and Rangers top were at the other side. One pair pushed in one direction and the other pair pushed in the opposite direction, blind to the fact they were locked in a never-ending futile battle with themselves.
The young girls giggled as they watched the old dinosaurs make a fool of themselves in the midday sun.
“Why don’t they get together and aw push fae the wan side?” asked young Tracy McKenzie.
“Only God knows,” said her friend Jackie picking the ball up and checking the time on her mobile phone. The game kicked off half an hour ago. Ah’d have thought they’d be watching it in a pub instead of fannying aboot up here.”
“Surely it’s obvious they’re never goany get anywhere like that. Are they mental or whit?”
“They’re mer than mental. They’re deranged.”
“Come tae think of it, is that no your Da up there, Jackie?”
Having spotted him right away Jackie had hoped Tracy wouldn’t recognise him. “Mon, let’s get oot a here.”
“He looks steaming. Mind you, he always looked steaming. Is that why yir maw threw him oot?”
“Naw. She threw him oot coz he’s a dick. Mon, let’s go afore he sees me and asks fur a haun.”
About the Author
Born in Dumbarton, Kevin McCallum has spent most of his life in The Vale, where he gets his daily fix of Ben Lomond. He only began writing in recent years, quickly became addicted and is now a hopeless case. He writes mostly short stories with the odd poem thrown in for light entertainment. He has started a longer project, but there's a long way to go on that.
Examples of Kevin’s work can be found at http://www.abctales.com/user/oldpesky. He also has a blog at http://oldpesky.blogspot.com.
Examples of Kevin’s work can be found at http://www.abctales.com/user/oldpesky. He also has a blog at http://oldpesky.blogspot.com.