here 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. < P> < CENTER> * * * * * < /CENTER> 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.