If We’re All Going To Die, Let’s Have A Beer

I can’t write much this week, because I’ve got a few places to go today.  You see, according to a collection of the usual wild-eyed former estate agents, prison guards and manure spreaders all turned evangelical preachers (and all of them Americans, naturally), if you add up all the dates in the Bible, making a few adjustments for things like daylight saving and inflation, Judgement Day – when we’re all to be weighed and many found wanting – is scheduled for Saturday this week, at about 2pm.

Quite how these people have got the time down to such an exact moment is not clear (and I’m not happy with the lack of accounting for the move from the Julian to Gregorian calendar, which could mean the day has in fact come and gone already and some of us are in fact already in hell – which, thinking about it, would certainly go some way to explaining the state of our bathroom).  But enough of them are agreed that it’s definitely this Saturday when things are going to kick off, so I’m not taking any chances and I’m off to church to make my peace with the Creator.

And, because I’m also not taking any chances on exactly which Creator will be judging us, I’ll be hedging my bets and heading to all the local branches of the main Christian denominations, and to the synagogue and mosque, the Hindu, Buddhist, Shinto and Bahá’í temples, the library, the betting shop, the off licence and the carwash.  I may even call in at the Co-op (might as well use my loyalty points).  And the reason I have to get a move on in doing this is because, after all that devotion, confession, penance, self-flagellation and great-value shopping, I’ll be off to the pub.

Yes, I know I’m always going on about the pub, saying blah-blah it’s the place all men always want to go, talking about why and how much we all love it blah-blah, but I think I can guarantee you something: whatever other things any man would want to do if he knew Saturday would be his last day on Earth – wing-walking, picnicking with his family, finally getting round to watching Gone With the Wind – he’ll also want to fit in a trip to the boozer.  It could just be for a swift half, but he’ll definitely have it in mind.  And why is that?

Well, maybe it’s because, more than any conventionally defined place of worship, the pub is where men really go to make their devotions.  Think about it: there’s the element of worship and adoration (of beer); singing of praises (admittedly, this is more prevalent in Irish pubs); the breaking of bread (peanuts with your beer); confession for those who want it (tell it all to the barman); absolution (well, sometimes you can run a tab if you’ve forgotten your wallet).  All the necessary components of a religion are there, fulfilling all the often-cited psychological needs that religions are supposed to satisfy: comfort, ritual, community, order, purpose — even the promise of a reward in the afterlife (or, as it’s more usually know, the after-hours ‘lock-in’).

And I think that’s a part of why men like pubs so much, and why they would always think of trying to get there in a crisis like the one predicted for Saturday.  It’s not because we put getting drunk with our boozing cronies before our families, or because we’re just selfish and self-gratifying solipsists.  We just want to make our devotions, pay our respects, and comfort ourselves.  We won’t be there all afternoon — we’ll just pop in to say goodbye.  And think about it: they’re probably giving the stuff away for free.  After all — you can’t take it with you.

Contact the author here: thewhy@morningquickie.com