posit the existence of a God solves nothing, because it leaves us with the question, "Who created God?" And it is pointless to search for proof of the existence of God because the whole strength and force of religion lies in faith, and you cannot have faith without ignorance. So . . .'
'Nice arrows!'
'What?'
'That bloke just got a ton.'
'Ah!'
I wasn't upset by her interruption. I was relieved. I decided that at last it was time to put the advice I'd been given in that correspondence course to good use. I would ask her questions, which would be so much less stressful than answering them.
'What . . . er . . . what is a ton?'
'Bleedin' 'ell. A ton's a hundred. That's why Tons Thomas is known as Tons, because he gets lots of tons. Tons of tons.'
She laughed at her little joke. I didn't feel up to laughing, but I had to say something.
'Yes,' I said. 'Yes.'
It's a habit I have, I know, to say 'Yes' when there is nothing else to say, or when there is a silence that unnerves me. She didn't let it go.
'When I make a joke, you say "Yes",' she said.
'Yes. Yes. Yes, I suppose I'm saying, "Yes. I recognise that as a joke." '
'It'd be a pretty poor look-out for Peter Kay if every time he made a joke the whole audience just shouted out, "Yes, I recognise that as a joke." '
'Yes. Sorry.'
That's another word I use too much. People bump into me in the street because they aren't looking where they're going, and I say 'Sorry'. I think that if I had been able to speak when I was born I would have looked up at my mother and said, 'Sorry.'
'I reckon you're all screwed up.'
'Yes. Sorry.'
I was feeling more than somewhat discomfited because I had felt that unwelcome stab of jealousy again at her mention of Tons Thomas. I hated the feeling. It was so petty, so mean, so demeaning. I realise now, on reflection, that I should have welcomed it. It was, after all, a sign that I was not entirely emotionally dead, as I had feared I was, but at the time, stuck in a corner of the pub, at the little table nearest to the toilets (yes, there were some constants in my life), I found it horrible. I wished she wouldn't talk about Tons Thomas – but I also feared that, if she stopped, it would only be to talk about Shanghai Sorensen, the much too dashing Dane.
'Sorry,' she said. 'I shouldn't have interrupted, but, you know, I can't help getting excited when I see good darts thrown. Sorry, I was listening about God and that stuff. Go on about philosophy and that, cos I think I must be missing something if you're trying to find out something which the whole point of it is you can't find it out.'
'Well, I was saying to you that philosophy is to a very large extent a question of . . . a question of asking questions, a question of asking ourselves what sort of questions we should be asking ourselves, a question of . . .'
'Nice finish!'
'Sorry?'
'Sorry, but that bloke just made a three-dart finish. I'm sorry, Alan, I was listening, but I mean, in a pub, an ordinary pub, you don't expect to see a three dart finish, cos, believe me, there are some really crappy darts players around, and he needed ninety-nine and he got them, treble nineteen, two, double top, that's what we call a three-dart finish, see? Hey, do you want a game?'
I wanted a game less than almost anything I could think of, but I didn't have the energy to say this to her, and she took my silence as assent.
'Hey, you guys,' she called out. 'Can we challenge you to a game?'
This shook me to the roots. These people were good. The last time I had played darts, more than twenty years ago, the college bursar had beaten me.
The three darts players looked at her, and then they looked at me, and then they looked at each other, and one of them said, 'Nah. We've finished. You and your dad have a game.'
I closed my eyes and wished that I was anywhere but there. I heard, as if from far away, Ange saying, 'He's not my dad. I wouldn't play tiddlywinks with that tosser.'
I felt her take my hand and
'Nice arrows!'
'What?'
'That bloke just got a ton.'
'Ah!'
I wasn't upset by her interruption. I was relieved. I decided that at last it was time to put the advice I'd been given in that correspondence course to good use. I would ask her questions, which would be so much less stressful than answering them.
'What . . . er . . . what is a ton?'
'Bleedin' 'ell. A ton's a hundred. That's why Tons Thomas is known as Tons, because he gets lots of tons. Tons of tons.'
She laughed at her little joke. I didn't feel up to laughing, but I had to say something.
'Yes,' I said. 'Yes.'
It's a habit I have, I know, to say 'Yes' when there is nothing else to say, or when there is a silence that unnerves me. She didn't let it go.
'When I make a joke, you say "Yes",' she said.
'Yes. Yes. Yes, I suppose I'm saying, "Yes. I recognise that as a joke." '
'It'd be a pretty poor look-out for Peter Kay if every time he made a joke the whole audience just shouted out, "Yes, I recognise that as a joke." '
'Yes. Sorry.'
That's another word I use too much. People bump into me in the street because they aren't looking where they're going, and I say 'Sorry'. I think that if I had been able to speak when I was born I would have looked up at my mother and said, 'Sorry.'
'I reckon you're all screwed up.'
'Yes. Sorry.'
I was feeling more than somewhat discomfited because I had felt that unwelcome stab of jealousy again at her mention of Tons Thomas. I hated the feeling. It was so petty, so mean, so demeaning. I realise now, on reflection, that I should have welcomed it. It was, after all, a sign that I was not entirely emotionally dead, as I had feared I was, but at the time, stuck in a corner of the pub, at the little table nearest to the toilets (yes, there were some constants in my life), I found it horrible. I wished she wouldn't talk about Tons Thomas – but I also feared that, if she stopped, it would only be to talk about Shanghai Sorensen, the much too dashing Dane.
'Sorry,' she said. 'I shouldn't have interrupted, but, you know, I can't help getting excited when I see good darts thrown. Sorry, I was listening about God and that stuff. Go on about philosophy and that, cos I think I must be missing something if you're trying to find out something which the whole point of it is you can't find it out.'
'Well, I was saying to you that philosophy is to a very large extent a question of . . . a question of asking questions, a question of asking ourselves what sort of questions we should be asking ourselves, a question of . . .'
'Nice finish!'
'Sorry?'
'Sorry, but that bloke just made a three-dart finish. I'm sorry, Alan, I was listening, but I mean, in a pub, an ordinary pub, you don't expect to see a three dart finish, cos, believe me, there are some really crappy darts players around, and he needed ninety-nine and he got them, treble nineteen, two, double top, that's what we call a three-dart finish, see? Hey, do you want a game?'
I wanted a game less than almost anything I could think of, but I didn't have the energy to say this to her, and she took my silence as assent.
'Hey, you guys,' she called out. 'Can we challenge you to a game?'
This shook me to the roots. These people were good. The last time I had played darts, more than twenty years ago, the college bursar had beaten me.
The three darts players looked at her, and then they looked at me, and then they looked at each other, and one of them said, 'Nah. We've finished. You and your dad have a game.'
I closed my eyes and wished that I was anywhere but there. I heard, as if from far away, Ange saying, 'He's not my dad. I wouldn't play tiddlywinks with that tosser.'
I felt her take my hand and
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