The active presence of evil

There is a risk that this post will give the impression that Fiontan Writes is nothing more than another ‘grumpy old man’ forum, with a catalogue of rants about aspects of modern life. Let me dispel that idea now. My subject is simply an opinion based on observations seen and experienced over a thirty-year period.

Theists, atheists, agnostics and humanists all have their points of view; and no, that’s not supposed to be some all-inclusive list classifying the whole of the earth’s population. They can all have faith in their beliefs. Good luck to them all.

My contention is that there is clear evidence of an active presence of evil in the world. What’s that, Fiontan? Are you saying that Satan, the Prince of Darkness, is real?

No, I’m not giving it, her or him a name. Whether I am experiencing the work of Satan or one of his demonic minions is beyond the scope of my research. I simply know that it is real, it is active, and very, very malevolent.

Take the small cardboard juice container, available in supermarkets, snack bars, and newsagents all over the country; a handy little cardboard box, with a plastic straw attached, that can be easily poked into the small hole on top of the box, allowing access to the drink inside with minimal risk of spillage. It’s so convenient.

So there you are on the way to see Aunty Philomena and Uncle Dermot, with your young children in their best clothes, safely strapped into their seats in the back of the car. It’s a long enough journey, so they’ll need a drink at some point on the way. Your journey starts well, and then after following a mud-flinging tractor down a country road for two miles, your progress comes to a halt while a thousand sheep slowly cross the road.

“Daddy, please can we have a drink now?”

“Of course you can, my little angels. Mind you don’t spill any on your nice clean clothes.”

The cartons are passed to the back seat, the last sheep disappears, and you continue. The children, perhaps from counting the sheep, fall asleep soon after. You arrive to see a smiling Aunty Philomena waving from inside the front room window. You open one of the rear doors of the car and gently wake the children, as the force of evil prepares to strike.

“Did you finish your drinks, darlings?”

“Yes, thank you, Daddy.”

You need to remove the cartons in order to get to the buckles of their seat belts. Fully aware of the lurking danger, you take the utmost care in picking up the first carton, applying the least possible pressure to the sides of the box.

“Good journey?” shouts Uncle Dermot, close behind you.

He has caught you by surprise. You turn your head to reply, and catch your elbow on the front seat, which makes your grip tighten on the carton. Your daughter may have thought she had sucked out every last drop, but no; there is just enough blackcurrant juice left inside to be propelled up the length of straw, and make its way onto the front of that pretty pink and white T-shirt.

You curse silently, as you lift your daughter down onto the pavement.

“Well now, we can all see what you’ve been drinking”, says Uncle Dermot. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

You curse again, as you try and do better with your son. He is still unimpressed at having been woken up. When you lift his carton with finger and thumb, he raises his hands to rub his eyes, catching your own hand on the way. The carton lands upside down on his chest, and falls into his lap. The juice that was still somehow inside the straw has left a trail down his shirt and trousers.

You deposit the boy, stained, upon the pavement. You gaze inside the car. Both cartons are still there, on the back seat, daring you to try and remove them. You know that the chances of getting them to a bin inside the house, without any of the juice ending up on your own clothes or the car seats, are minimal.

You know all this was likely to happen, and yet you are powerless against such evil. In the past, you have tried removing the straw before lifting the carton, but it has made the situation worse; you are simply left holding two objects which are likely to drip, instead of one, and you no longer have a free hand to fend off other dangers.

The same presence is at work inside cans of drink. However high you tip the can, and however long you think it has been empty, there is always a little left inside. I swear, seriously, that I could find an empty can of cola in somewhere like Death Valley in the USA, one of the driest places on earth, that might have been lying there by the road for years, and that when yours truly picked it up to take it to a bin, there would still be a dribble of liquid inside which would find its way onto my otherwise clean shirt or trousers (being Death Valley I have assumed I wouldn’t be wearing a coat).

And don’t get me started on the tops of yoghurt pots. However long the pot has been stored upright, there is always some yoghurt on the inside of the foil lid. How does that happen? You hold the tab and you pull, very carefully. You reach the tense moment where the lid is attached to the pot by an insignificant two millimetre strip. At this point you may even lick as much as you can off the lid, to lessen the risk. Nevertheless, the force necessary to complete the removal is just enough to flick the lid in such a way that the yoghurt, which inevitably flies through the air, travels a distance which defies the laws of physics. It might land on you, the child, the cat, the dog, or more likely, your mother-in-law, who just happens to be trying on the dress she’s bought for a wedding next week, in order to show it to your wife.

I could go on. I could describe soft-scoop ice creams, nachos with dips, clementines with pips, and a whole host of other infernal devices, but I don’t have to. My case is clear enough.