Are You Sitting Comfortably?

"He's coming!" Cried Peter, rushing through the giant golden gate and out to the edge of the gate. "He's coming to talk to us!"
"Why would he want to?" Asked Peter's apprentice. "We're just the human liaison."
Peter leant back against the giant pearl gate behind him and said, "I think that's the point."

Elsewhere, Trevor McDonald was walking down the street. Not the Trevor McDonald, I imagine ITV have copyright on his likeness, but in fact another man who shared the name. This Trevor certainly wasn't as impressive, and neither was his job. Working at KFC had been ok until they'd discovered his second name and the less intelligent ranks of staff, which he was the self nominated leader of, presumed him a spay sent by a certain clown. Nonetheless, Trevor was happy as he crossed the road that fateful day, Simon and Garfunkel loud in his ears through white Apple Earphones. I guess that's a good thing, because you shouldn't be upset when you're hit by a bus.
Instead of waking up in the 80's as certain television shows would suggest, Trevor woke up in a chair in the middle of a freezing cold expanse of whiteness. A man who looked nothing like Morgan Freeman strolled towards him and smiled, "Hello Trevor."
He gulped. "Hello. Who are you?" He paused a second. "Where am I?"
The man smiled back, "You know where you are and who I am."
In a way nothing like that of Sherlock Holmes in that modern programme, Trevor observed two of the details presented. The White Fluffy Beard and the heavenly whiteness could only mean one thing.
"This is the North Pole, and you're Santa!" Trevor exclaimed.
If the man hadn't been as majestic as he was, he might have face palmed.
"Tell me, where did you deliver my bike in 1987, because it never got to me."
"I'm not Santa, Trevor." The man replied, before suddenly realising something. "You are Trevor McDonald, World Respected News Broadcaster?"
"No." Trevor bobbed. "I'm Trevor McDonald, head of Customer Service at KFC."
"They got me the wrong person, again! I asked them for Fiona Bruce and they gave me an Australian drag queen. This is so typical. I need to warn my humans about how the world is going to end quite soon, and my incompetent staff can't abduct me a newsreader. Look, whilst you're hear, you may as well ask me a question."
"Who are you?"
He sighed. "I'm God, Trevor."
Trevor felt a sudden responsibility wash over him. On half of the human race should he ask fir an end to world hunger, or to end war, or to unite everyone in love and harmony?
Speaking of love and harmony, Trevor thought, "Can you put Simon and Garfunkel back together?"
"Sure." God said, and clicked his fingers.
The moral of this story is: You should never cross the road, unless you're a journalist.