“As a kid we’re told about God and how He made the world, which was nice of Him, considering. I mean, He probably had other things He could’ve been getting on with. Kitchen shelves to put up, or something. But instead He makes the Earth and the little pink blobs that inhabit it.”
Samuel stopped to take a sip of his pint. It was the only reason he ever stopped talking.
“And we’re told about Santa Claus. This fat, bearded bloke who climbs down your chimney, even if you haven’t got one, and leaves presents. We’re told about some woman who considers teeth to be legal tender. We’re told about a giant rabbit who craps chocolate eggs, or whatever.”
He had an audience now. The pub had never seen Samuel stick to one subject for this long.
“And then we get older,” he said, “And we’re told that the fat guy, the fairy and the rabbit aren’t real. But that other guy? That God fella? He’s definitely real. Honest. And we believe it.”
He downed his pint and ordered another. “Bunch of fucking brain surgeons, we are.”