Annunciation

There was, as might be imagined, considerable consternation when the
angel appeared and declared that henceforth Birmingham would be the
religious capital of the entire world. However, the angel managed to
appear simultaneously to every religious leader of significance
worldwide and spoke in a rather firm manner towards those who (when
they had picked themselves up from the floor) might be predisposed to
contest the issue. Jerusalem, city of peace, had proved to be
singularly peaceless for generations. Likewise Srinagar. And Mecca -
well, it wasn't exactly accessible to non-Muslims, was it? There'd been
some imaginative bids from Lourdes, Varanasi and somewhere in Ethiopia,
but the celestial judges had surprisingly chosen Brum. No, he didn't
know the full details but the fact that adherents of several major
faiths managed to (mostly) live together in Birmingham without tearing
each others' heads off or blowing up rival places of worship was
probably a factor, he supposed. And then there were the conference
centres, and the motorways. Good communications always count for
something. No, he didn't actually need to drive on the M6; he could of
course fly. Then he disappeared in a blaze of glory leaving everyone
collapsed on the floor again. But, being human, they soon recovered and
began to work out some of the implications.

Pradip Gupta, functionary at the Indian High Commission in Hockley,
was beside himself with gleeful anticipation. Now he would surely
obtain parity with his opposite number in the embassy in London, for
the Hindu pilgrims would flood in from the sub-continent and make his
adopted city a place of real eminence. True, the waters of the
Birmingham canal network did not flow so impressively as the holy river
Ganges, but neither were they full of floating dead bodies, except
perhaps when Birmingham City were playing Aston Villa or West Brom.
There would be documents, parties, stamps, functions, visas,
receptions, receipts, passports, permits and two test matches at
Edgbaston every year! He took an extra-long lunch break and went
window-shopping in the Jewellery Quarter for such ornamentation as
would befit a man of newfound seniority.

Asif Malik was also filled with anticipation, so much so that he had
just taken out a bank loan to refurbish his restaurant, the Tandoori
Tavern, Birmingham's leading real ale curry house. It was bound to be
good for business, he reckoned, although maybe he would soon have to
discourage the white customers by turning the bar into a stall selling
holy mementoes for the Hajj. He would have to wait and see how things
went. One thing for sure, it would be one in the eye for those Saudis
who had treated him like dirt when he had made his own pilgrimage to
Mecca some years back! He surreptitiously pulled himself a pint of mild
into a large beaker labelled "Pepsi" and sipped it whilst he waited for
custom.

Reverend Meredith Mayhew stared sadly at the master copy of his
latest theological masterpiece, "The Last Days Are Here At Last!" and
slowly slid it into the waste-paper basket. Just when one's got all the
prophecies dovetailing neatly together, he thought, something like this
comes out of the blue and scuppers it all! Unaccountably the angel had
chosen to appear to the Archbishop of Canterbury rather than himself,
which made it slightly suspect in his opinion, but the overwhelming
view in the church at large was that the whole thing was kosher.
Apparently a leading Protestant firebrand from Northern Ireland had
boldly denounced the angelic visitation as popish fakery, just before
the flaming chariot had swooped down on Belfast and carried him off to
heaven - at least, everyone hoped it was heaven - which had chastened
the rest of the cynics. A flash of inspiration zipped along Rev.
Mayhew's anointed neural network, and he scribbled down on a large
piece of paper: "Birmingham - Mystic Mecca Of The Midlands!" He didn't
really like the connotations of the words "mystic" or "Mecca", but he
did like alliteration; it was his best title yet! The pen began to
scuttle through the introductory paragraph as though it had a life of
its own.

It was several hectic months before the angel returned, and those
few who could refrain from averting their eyes at the radiance of his
countenance were astonished to detect a hint of, well, almost
embarrassment. Apparently there had been a slight mistake pertaining to
terrestrial geography; after all, faultless perfection only came so far
down the line, so to speak. To put it bluntly, nowhere in Britain had
come near to warranting the coveted mantle of holiest city in the world
and the honour was in fact due to Birmingham, Alabama. Yes, he knew it
hardly seemed fair and the Yanks were bound to turn the whole place
into a sort of sacred theme park, but there it was. No, his name wasn't
Moroni and he'd never been to Salt Lake City. Now if there were no more
questions, he'd be off. And ? er? sorry for the confusion - committees,
you know.

Pradip Gupta was, if anything, rather relieved. He'd soon realised
that the power and authority of the Indian Consulate in Britain was
only relevant to those wishing to travel to India, not from it. His
wife had ensnared him into buying her several new saris for functions
which as yet had never arisen on the strength of a non-existent
promotion, and his duties as regards visitors from India had largely
consisted of being called out by the police to the railway carriage
sidings in Wolverhampton in the middle of the night; there had been
several groups of illiterate pilgrims from backwater villages who'd
failed to alight at New Street station and simply sat on the stationery
train until the cleaners found them. Real holy cities, in his opinion,
had to have naked sadhus running around and vultures which flapped
across the street with bits of dead bodies in their beaks, neither of
which Birmingham City Council would allow, even if the vultures were
specially flown in from Calcutta. He suspected the Americans would
prove to be even more intransigent when they began to receive pilgrim
visitors, but that wasn't his problem any more. He sipped his tea
slowly and smiled.

Asif Malik was also remarkably sanguine about the whole thing; his
restaurant had not received the hoped-for increase in custom, largely
because poor Muslims ate the cheapest halal fast food they could find
and slept in parks whilst rich Muslims tended to stay at the Belfry or
the Hilton and get room service to rustle something up, or order
takeaways by taxi; none of them seemed to find their way to the
Tandoori Shrine, as his establishment was now called. And the hassle in
the mosques had to be seen to be believed; even the dimmest Muslim had
known that Mecca was east of ?well, everywhere, but whilst it was
business as usual in West Bromwich, his brother in Coventry now had to
remember to pray facing west, but at least they had only had to turn
the carpet round. But his cousin's mosque in Derby was converted from
an old school hall, so when they turned south to face Birmingham they
were now looking at some nasty old radiators on the side wall. With the
new regime in place they would soon all be bowing towards the west,
which was somewhat appropriate because every Muslim he knew would be on
the next plane Stateside if he could get a Green Card. Furthermore the
Saudis, not to mention certain other truculent Islamic countries'
residents, now had to be very, very nice if they wanted the requisite
visa to visit America whereas Asif, as a British citizen, could do hajj
again and take his family to Disneyland on a fly-drive package all in
the same holiday. Yes, on the whole it had worked out quite well. Asif
also sipped and smiled, though it still wasn't tea he was drinking.

Reverend Meredith Mayhew's wastebasket was now bulging with no less
than two unpublished tomes; "Mystic Mecca Of The Midlands" had started
with a flourish but had proved abnormally difficult to complete; he
suspected that he was much better at denunciation that annunciation.
And now those Christian publishing houses in the States with budgets
rivalling Microsoft would be commissioning books on angels left, right
and centre. He decided that he needed to refocus on his areas of
strength and not follow mass fashion; he had recently been watching
cricket and realised that the stumps formed the number 111, and each
bowler had six attempts per over to hit them with the ball. Multiply
111 by 6 and you get 666, the Number Of The Beast! The players' white
garments, the umpire with his fateful finger, the lone batsman
surrounded by crouching foes ? a rich as-yet untapped mine of Christian
symbolism began to reveal itself. The title "There's No Second Innings
Unless You Follow On!" imprinted itself on his brain - whilst America
went angel-crazy, he would address the spiritual perils facing the Old
World in terms they could understand. It would sell like hot cakes in
cricket-mad India, or was that hot chapattis? He wrote long into the
night.

Aloysius Patrick, one-time native of the West Indies, was chuckling
softly to himself as he made unsteady progress along the familiar walk
between his favourite public house and his home in Handsworth. His
faith was very broadly Christian - he loved Jesus, but he also loved
strong women and strong Jamaican rum, and he had not yet found a
denomination which would accommodate so much love. He had enjoyed
everything to do with the angelic announcement, especially the
correction, for he had relatives in Alabama and none of them ever
forgot that their pagan ancestors had been transported in slaving boats
from their homes in West Africa to a life of suffering and exploitation
in the land of the brave and the free. These ancestors had then taken
the Christ whom their abusive white masters had profaned and dragged
through the dirt and had made Him their own in simple purity. Now
surely there had to be something holy about that? He took a last look
at the myriad stars in the night sky, or at least those few shining
brightly through the sodium haze, cried "Hosanna in the highest!" to
no-one in particular and began to search his pockets for his front door
key.