Ariane Sherine - The Atheist’s Guide to Christmas

Damn. Lost the lead role. Oh well, I will still be a pretty angel!

‘Cathy!’ the teacher said, and proceeded to make my best friend an angel.

I grew ever more excited though: I couldn’t wait to try on the tutu!

‘Fiona!’ the teacher barked, and my friend went off to get her tutu fitted.

It would be me soon! Tutu, here I come!

‘Helena!’ shouted the teacher, and yet another friend was sent to the angel queue.

This went on for a while, until there were a dozen angels, as well as a few wise men, and only a couple of us left standing in the queue.

I think I knew, at that point, that my hopes of having a starring role were about to be severely dashed. But—ever the (noneternal, reincarnation-cynical) optimist—I thought that perhaps I would be made a Special Angel: a lead angel who was in charge of all the other angels and who got to boss them around and stuff. Maybe I could wear a black tutu instead, like in Swan Lake ?

My name was finally called: I was back of the line; there were few costumes left; I was the last pupil to be given a role.

‘You’re going to be a villager in the choir,’ my teacher informed me.

I stared at her, gobsmacked.

‘Tell your mum that you will need to bring a scarf, gloves and hat with you to wear to all the rehearsals.’

Oh great, I don’t even get a costume. My dreams of stardom vanished in a second.

‘And,’ my teacher continued, ‘you get to hold this lantern: isn’t it nice?!’

I think, even back then, I knew she was being sarcastic.

My teacher handed me a long wooden stick, with a pretend lantern dangling on one end.

And it was at this point that I had a stroke of genius: a way for me to decline this minor, irrelevant role, and be promoted into a proper acting part.

‘I can’t hold that,’ I said.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m allergic to wood.’

I don’t know if she was more surprised by the absurdity of what I had said, or the fact that it had been said by a smart-alec, upstart six-year-old, but whichever it was, she wasn’t pleased: she wrote me a huffy note, which I gave to my mother later, that said I had been offered a role but was now making up lies to get out of it.

My mum sat me down that night and asked me what I wanted to do (whilst sniggering about my wood-allergy comment, I should add). My only options, it seemed, were either not be in the school play at all, or accept the role of an ‘extra’ and perform in the choir. With all my friends already practising their lines, and not wanting to be left out, I chose the latter.

Photographs taken of the play, when it was performed some weeks later, just before Christmas time, show a very cheery Mary and Joseph; some happy wise men; many elegant, joyous angels; and, standing in the back of the villagers’ choir, one extremely pissed off, scowling six-year-old, holding her lantern fully askew. Let’s just say I was not at all happy.

Years later, when I look back on that event, it seems clear to me that that was the defining moment when I realised I could not believe in God. Sure, as an adult, surrounded by science and reason, it’s obvious to me that God doesn’t exist. But, as a starry-eyed six-year-old, my disbelief in religion came down to three simple facts:

1. I never got to eat a strawberry cream, because being last in line all the time meant everyone else had already nabbed them. (God can’t be that cruel, surely?)

2. I did not achieve international stardom from my role as a ‘villager’. (God can’t be that mean, surely?)

3. Anyone that would allow a child to be forced to sing ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!’ is a sadist, not a deity. (I am assuming God is not into S&M.)

Although, I suppose it could be argued that God might exist, for the world at large was prevented from being exposed to my performing at a professional level. Given my singing voice, that really is something to rejoice and say ‘Hallelujah!’ over.

Even as an atheist, it’s cool to celebrate Christmas. I like Jesus and think that there’s a lot of sense in the stuff that he might have said or that has at least been ascribed to him. For my money his philosophy and his sacrifice mean very little if he was actually a god. Who cares about him being crucified then?

He knew he was all powerful and that he’d rise again and get his revenge on those pesky Romans or Jews (delete depending on your own prejudices). But if he was a man, then the stuff he said and the fact that he actually properly died for it (not just for thirty-six hours—that’s a hangover, not a death) is much more impressive.

Anyway, I’m not having a go. I’m a Christite. Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged. Bang on!

One particular Christmas, I was staying at my sister’s house in Cheddar. It is a house packed with people: my sister, her husband, their three practically totally grown-up children, with various boyfriends or girlfriends in tow. But there’s also a menagerie of cats and dogs and who knows what other pets hidden round every corner.

They woke me up early for Christmas breakfast, which wasn’t totally appreciated, as I’d had a late Christmas Eve in the pub with my old school friends and was feeling a little delicate. But I managed to rouse myself for another day of drinking and gorging and then drinking and gorging some more—it’s what Jesus would have wanted.

That night I was pretty glad to excuse myself from my parents’ house and head round the corner to my sister’s for an early night. The rest of the family stayed where they were to eat and drink some more.

I went into the bathroom to rid myself of waste and was surprised to see one of the family cats sitting in the bath tub. I couldn’t be bothered to chase it out into the house. If it wanted to watch me have a poo then that was up to it. Neither of us, I am sure, was remotely turned on by the idea of a cat watching a man defecate. And anyone who says that I am turned on by a cat watching me defecate is lying.

The cat seemed to be trying to drink some water out of the tap and was licking at it hopefully, but there was hardly any moisture there at all. So in an act of generosity which I am sure would have made Jesus happy if he was watching, I leant over from my seat and gently turned the cold tap in the hope of making more of a dribble of water come out to quench the thirst of this destitute Christmas cat. I could already see the children’s book being written about this act of charity. It was a beautiful scene and for me summed up the whole festival.

But the tap moved quite a bit without any more water coming out and I was concerned that if I turned the dial too far, too fast then a deluge would occur, soaking the cat below, sending it into a tornado of wet cat rage, which would ruin the story. How would kids respond to the sight of a fat naked man on a toilet being bitten in the face by a drenched moggy? Badly. Book sales would plummet.

The taps gurgled and a small stream of water started coming out. The cat licked away at the tap with all its might, sucking on the tap for what seemed like ages. It got its fur slightly wet, but it didn’t seem to care. It must have been really thirsty. I am not saying that my sister is not looking after her animals and is failing to give them drink. You must draw your own conclusions on this and only phone the RSPCA if you are sure she is guilty.

I have to say that from where I was sitting this was one of the funniest sights I have seen all year. To appreciate the humour, you might have to find a thirsty cat and put it in a bath and then get it under a drizzle of water, but I laughed as much at this as I have at anything in ages. It seemed to me the cat was laughing too. But then I suppose he had quite a funny view as well.