Can you imagine a couple of thousand years happy conversational fellowship passing between Rev Ian Paisley and another redeemed soul inside the Pearly Gates, when Paisley asks: “And how did you serve the Lord on earth?” And the reply coming sweetly: “I was a nun!”

It takes me back to the report of Rev Ian Paisley’s death.

When he arrived at the Pearly Gates, St Peter was so surprised that he slipped a couple of millenia: “Oi Vey! I should live so long! And could it be that I could have a holiday already?”

“What do you mean?” asked Paisley.

“You can draw on your experience and supervise admissions to this paradise. All I do is ask people a question about the bible. If they get it right, I let them in. If they get it wrong, weeellll, we’ve made other arrangements… Thank you and Le Chaim!”

St Peter has disappeared, and Paisely’s fantasies are all coming true.

His reverie is disturbed by a nervous-looking lady approaching.

“What were you?” he inquires.

“I was a Baptist,” she replies.

Hmmmm, thinks Paisley. She won’t know very much (for he is aware that Baptist is an anagram of ‘TAB tips’)

“Tell me, madam, the bible has two parts: the Old Testament and …….?”

She pauses for almost an eternity and suddenly exclaims: “The New Testament!”

“Sure and it is that you’re right! Come on in, madam!”

In no time (well it is eternity, after all) he is confronted by a grim-faced elderly man.

“What were you?” asks Paisley.

“I, sir, am a Presbyterian (note the present tense, suggesting that this one is a continuing Presbyterian!)

Paisley knows he is the big league now, since Presbyterian is an anagram of Best in prayer! So he fires out his question: “Can you tell me how old was Methuselah when he died?”

“Nine hundred and sixty nine years!” came the answer, flashing straight back at him.

“Sir, you are welcome to step inside, and could I be wishin’ you a wonderful forever.”

Paisley looks back to the line, to see it headed by an old man in a fancy robe, with red slippers on his feet and on his head a tall hat with three grooves across the top. He reeks of incense, and he is leaning on a long crook.

Paisley’s eyes widen and he asks: “Pray tell me sir, what were you?”

The tired reply comes: “I was the Pope.”

“Hmmmmmmm,” sighs Paisley, seeking to build the suspense. “Tell me, Your Holiness, do you know the story of the feeding of the five thousand people at Galilee?”

“Yes,” says the Pope, “I know it well.”

“Well tell me, Your Holiness, what were their names and addresses?”

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