I am three hours ahead of you, as I am reliably informed by my computer’s ‘world clock’. This means my mornings are earlier than yours, as is everything else that follows it. So, compared to you in the U.K. I am indeed the early bird that not only catches the worm, I can also relax as my competition is still safely tucked up in bed. They are fast asleep, having wild or foreboding dreams about being on safari while still in their pyjamas, winning the lottery, or the world coming to an end as a meteor crashes into Rochdale obliterating the few remaining survivors of Covid who were reduced to eating each other due to the shortage of imported food from the EU.

The worms around me, however, have been caught on the hop, unaware that my day starts three hours before they were expecting it. Half of them are fuming because they were promised that time differences would make no impact if they just watched English clocks. The other half are just happy that they have taken control of English time, just as I bite their heads off.

The third half stay deep underground saying “I told you so”.

Being ahead in time means I can make some predictions, as I know the future. Well, ok, I know the future three hours before you do.

The first that I can make with a very high degree of certainty is that the sun will rise. I can even give you almost an exact time it will do so. The darkness envelops you while still asleep in bed, but for me the early light creeps over the blue horizon to burst into an orange yellow ball low in the sky. As it does so it’s rays touches the skin giving an immediate and gentle warmth. A glass tower block opposite me suddenly sparkles white and orange as the sun catches its myriad windows. Swifts take this as their cue to fly at very low level screaming for their breakfast feast of low flying insects.

So yes, the sun will rise. I’ll bet my sanity on it.

I predict that the muezzin at the three local mosques, at about 5 am and then at four more occasions throughout the day, will sing the call to prayer. This will cut across the hotel’s music at various times throughout the day so that we will be treated to a curious mix of ancient prayer and modern pap. It is fair to say that the call to prayer has more musicality than the combined output forced upon us as we eat breakfast, lunch and dinner. The call of course informs us that God is great and that there is no God but Allah, and then helpfully reminds us that prayer is better than sleep.

Better than sleep? I really hope that my pilot was not so busy praying that he is dog tired as he tries to land us in Jeddah. Some might believe in the power of prayer, but when it comes to aviation I rather put my trust in science, technology and a pilot who stays awake long enough to realise his engine’s on fire, the wheels are down for landing or that he actually has enough fuel to arrive at the destination without doing an explosive belly flop in the desert. Perhaps 9/11 was after all a tragic accident as a result of the Muslim pilots praying all night and thus not spotting their trajectory into the two, soon to be, towering infernos. I predict that explanation will have no traction with the bosses of the US military-industrial complex who prefer to think that bombs are better than sleep because God actually blesses America.

This prayer call has been going on for 700 years, five times day. I think by now that the local populace has got the message. I have.

Denzil Penberthy, and ‘Boy’Trevaskis (who was 80 if he was a day), once visited a mosque in search of 70 virgins he heard were on offer to any pilgrim that the Imam thought was sufficiently pious. How could they possibly have 70 virgins? The last time he had heard of virgins was that Camborne had run out of them in 1973. The same had happened to Bodmin in 1959 so the men had had to resort to goats. I predict a riot when Denzil finds out the virgin promise is for the afterlife.

What else can I see?

Well, the current respite from Trumpian insanity will be short lived. Joe Biden has been given the keys to the asylum but has probably already forgotten where he has put them or which doors need to stay locked. Those who should be inside behind locked doors are outside, while many of those locked inside should be outside enjoying the fresh air. It’s an inverted world in which reward often goes to the greedy, the powerful, the lucky and the criminally insane. Money not only talks, it is its own reward, and the only aim. Jesus didn’t want much to do with it, Buddha saw it gave him no lasting peace, I’ve no idea what the myriad Hindu Gods thought about it and the Prophet was too busy eating dates in the shade of a palm tree and spitting the stones out at the dung beetles scurrying around in the clumps of camel poo to care.

Had he known it, the prophet had right there the germ of an idea for the sport of clay pigeon shooting, he just lacked shotguns. And clay pigeons. And the English gentleman’s penchant for shooting anything that flew, swam or stood on four legs. He could have made some money out of that idea. Instead, the heat got to his head so that he fell asleep dreaming of virgins. Come to think of it, followers of Jesus were also focused on virginity? What’s that about then? What is so special about wanting access to a clam so tight that you can’t get a credit card into it. What makes it so appealing to old men whose memories of the embarrassing sex they enjoyed many moons ago is tainted by nostalgia and exaggeration?

I can also see that Brexit will be a rip roaring success, that we will green the economy, that the social damage done by the financial crisis will be healed and that coronavirus will evaporate like a stream of piss in the heat of an equatorial midday sun. All of these good things will be followed by the ushering in a new utopia, characterised by sugar and spice, all things nice and rainbows and roses. Traffic lights will turn green upon approach, toast will land butter side up and Boris Johnson will utter a complete sentence that will not only make sense but will omit pauses, harrumphs and Latin. Katie Hopkins will acknowledge her sins and throw herself upon the mercy of the Church and stay indoors while never appearing in print ever again save to advertise her collection of own brand and well worn dildos for sale. Her large selection of exotic butt plugs will be free – collection only. Devon will admit the errors of its ways and will adopt the jam first method of afternoon tea. Trains will stop at Camborne on a Wednesday.

All of this I can see because I’m ahead of by three hours.

Now, I’m away for another long toke on the Shisha pipe with its interesting vapour.

Published by Lance Goodman

Freelance writer, bon vivant and all-round good oeuf.

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